Halibut Point State Park

Journal Entry: April 21, 2007 2:40pm

Lost J. for 30-40 minutes. It was at Halibut Point, a deep quarry with high, sheer granite walls; the quarry abuts the ocean with rocks at the bottom with relatively calm surf, but powerful nonetheless.

It was increasingly harrowing, each passing minute, finishing the whole loop, expecting to see him just around the corner, but each time: not there. Not finding him at the car. Going back to the loop. No one was staffing the Visitor's Center, I carried no watch and had little sense of how much time had realistically passed. Asking passers-by if they had seen a boy with bleached hair and green t-shirt (all=no). Asking the last set with my heart in my throat, tears springing out despite my attempt all along to temper my fears, which M. took as my not caring that we couldn't find him and took me to task. Trying to remember that M. is just a little girl, with her own worries about her lost big brother while I was struggling with my own fears.

What had been beautiful felt all of a sudden dangerous. What had seemed a reasonable response to his angry sculking off became incrementally a neglectful, passive-aggressive reaction.

I was not sure how I would respond when we found him: angry acrimony or relief at his safety, empathy for his own fright that must be happening simultaneously. I feared the former, wished for the latter. I pretty much expected I'd be yelling at him, embarrasing myself and alienating him.

I practiced breathing. Tried a meditative stance: towards M's anxious prattle that increased as time went on and upped my stress level; towards the apocolyptic visions growing in my head of a drown boy or pedofile stranger whisking him away; towards what seemed like the only two options upon our (hopefully) eventual reunion.

Why do we fill Uncertainty with frightful ideas? Such poor design.

When I saw him -- thank God -- from afar, called out his sweet name, he came running. I jogged toward him, hugged him, buried my face in his dirty hair, started bawling. I said something about my relief at his being safe, kept sobbing. Then I sat on a rock nearby, sobbing, sobbing. He said something, I can't remember what it was now, and I replied, "I'm not the one who walked away in anger."

This, of course, triggered his guilt -- "Why do you always blame me!?!" -- and resulted in his spending the next half hour trying to bait me into arguments. It's so much easier to feel indignant than to feel badly. Especially if you are turning 13 next week.

So far, I've resisted. With admirable equinimity, I might add. Today I think I might have matured a bit: I know, deep in my heart of hearts, better than any artificial consequence I could create to soothe my wound at having been scared or to try to teach him about exercising better judgement when he takes space, the best teacher he got from this experience was seeing his mother sob uncontrollably without the distraction of anger.

I hope that vision is a worthy teacher for both of us for the rest of our lives.