Thursday, April 3, 2008

further on lock downs

I grew up in Southern Ontario, Hamilton. I remember, now, how when we were kids there would be air raid sirens and we were taught to get under our desks. This was the early sixties, some fifteen or so years "after the war" (read in John Cleese accent).

So there we were, dozens of little kids in various hand me down clothes (before the days of Gap for Kids and double incomes) and home hair cuts, crouching under our desks, some terrorized, some grinning. But all safe, for of course, our desks protected us from the possible A Bomb that might fall. Having been given this kind of education, I now regularly enact forlorn practices to protect myself and those I love.

When a wild storm is blowing I stay inside ... often peering out of the glass window that could actually implode and be the death of me. When I am afraid I am being followed by a potential rapist murder I walk purposefully and carry my car keys in my hand, which, on second thought being a Prius owner would only be able to make blunt red marks on his skin. And in some way I actually believe the security process at airports will keep the assassins off my plane.

The truth is, I think, safety is an illusion. There is no safe place ... there is only a feeling of safety, which is not to be underestimated in value. We make each other feel secure by making and keeping promises. By staying close by. By being predictable at least to the point of trustworthyness.

I tell Steve (husband) that when things are going badly, all I need is for him to smile at me. If he can smile I have the courage to go bravely into the future whatever it is we are facing.

1 comment:

Sarah said...

But if you could cut the time to get the valet key out of the smart key down to about 2 seconds, you could still manage a flesh wound, methinks...