It was a somber, quiet day in our office. There was work to be got on with, and we got on with it, but the usual jokes and goofing around were absent. It was a poor welcome-home for Becky.
In the afternoon, I got an e-mail from him explaining what had happened. (When he came to the game on Saturday, he'd thought the cat would be able to pull through.) Except for a brief eulogy to Viber, I've summed up what he said, so there's no need to publicly post his pain here.
I actually want to discuss the very first part of his mail, though, the part where he said, "I'm not good at speaking words, so I figured I'd write down what happened. It's easier for me to explain things this way."
I knew what he meant. I've been keeping this journal for over a year, and a lot of the stories and anecdotes I tell here are also told to friends verbally. Some of them are much better stories when I can include facial expressions and body language. I've omitted stories from this journal because they had no impact, written down.
But some things are easier to convey through the written word. Especially dark or hurtful things. When I was laid off from 3GI, feeling betrayed and hurt just at the very moment I'd begun to rediscover enjoyment in my job after months of dissatisfaction - I couldn't have spoken anything as eloquent as the open letter I sent to my notification list. It's a trifle melodramatic, but still, I think, very good. (If you're not a member of the list, you'll have to join before you read it. Now that I have a journal again, it's a very low-volume list.)
Today's year ago link is another good example. I couldn't have told Matt that it bothered me that we watched a lot of television. It would have come across as whiny nagging. But written, I was able to explore the vague feeling of frustration I felt without letting my emotions get carried away and over-exaggerating.
That's what the written word does for us: It allows us to lessen the intensity of our emotions and therefore keep digging beyond the point where the spoken word has dried up in our throats. As a result, the written word is both more distant and more intimate than the spoken word, at the same time.
My brother is coming to Williamsburg today. He'll have lunch with my dad and me, then run some errands during the afternoon, and then come and have dinner with Matt and me this evening. (With gas prices the way they are, I'd suggested that he make just one trip to Williamsburg instead of two.)
It's funny. I'd thought that by the time I was this close to thirty (and my brother into the second half of his twenties) we'd be independant adults. And we are - John's been on his own for a couple of years, living on his own and scraping together a living as a teacher. I just bought a house, for petesake.
But we all still treat each other like my brother and I are still in college. My dad tells me that Mom fusses at him to take me out to lunch more often. When John comes to town for a visit, we all leap to take him out to lunch or dinner.
Do we ever stop feeling the need to take care of our siblings? Will there ever be a point at which I meet with my brother and can listen to his troubles sympathetically without trying to help him out?
Guess I'm just feeling introspective today.
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