breaking the silence

I like to think that I often have things figured out in the world. I'm pretty secure in my own identity. My intuition about people and situations are generally on point. I know, more or less, where I stand, and sometimes I even have a faint idea as to where I want to go next. I learn from my experiences and mistakes and try not to repeat them (though it doesn't always work out that way). In my circle of friends, I'm often regarded as the one who's got the most common sense perspective and I'm often asked for advice in areas I have little personal experience with but a whole heap of observation.

In short, I feel like I just understand it on some level.

And then, every once in a while, something comes along that exposes me as the fraud I am. This past week, my family suffered a great tragedy. One of my cousins and her husband drowned on Monday.

She was part of the family but not familiar to me, a fact I'm loath to admit. I still don't know if she was a second or third cousin, or if she was removed at any point -- but she was family. I, like many others in my branch of the family, had absolutely no idea what to say... so, for quite some time, I said nothing.

I felt like anything I put out there would ultimately be disingenuous. I was (and still am) ashamed of my own ignorance, and in a matter of seconds it was fully exposed in my own head. I'd met her on a handful of occasions but only particularly remembered one. Her sister (another cousin of indeterminate times and removal) and I bonded over a 4th of July gathering at the lake house some ten years ago. I saw her again at my grandmother's funeral in 2000, and... well, that was it.

But it occurs to me... no one ever knows what to say. For all our artful conversation and witty banter, when the spectre of death and tragedy appears, our seemingly endless basins of vernacular dry up, and we're left blathering fools -- standing unprepared and exposed. I lived in New York on September 11th, and witnessed the death of nearly 3,000 out the window of my apartment. You would think that some manner of perspective might be gained by that, some script might be able to generate, but it doesn't. And I'm cast into a stony, unwilling silence I wait a week to break.

So here I am, wholly unprepared, and here it is.

Events like this remind us that not everything is going to make sense. Life can't be understood, no matter how hard we try to force it. We can only live simply, and simply live. The second and third hand stories I've heard about Mark and Beverly are testaments to remarkable people who not only touched, but gave life to those around them.

I didn't know them, but for those of you who did, my deepest condolences. I wish I knew something better to say.