It's my favorite Monster in the Closet! Deb is opening our journey here with a tale of bloggers, friends, and passing connections that strengthen with every passing.
Welcome to the Sonder Files.
I met Rara in early 2014, just days before I met my second son.
I'd read and savored some of her words before the meet-up, but missed most. I was focused on the little one I knew would be coming soon.
If I'd "met" Matt online before, I couldn't recall the meeting. I left our gathering intent on following Matt's blog, which I did just about the moment I got home.
I grew up in poverty. Poverty itself was exhausting; the predation that came with being poor and relatively defenseless, downright terrifying.
I'd written about one or two of the predators who marred my childhood before February 2015. I'd been careful to show how those experiences of predation made me a stronger and fiercer me.
In February 2015, sick of people saying things like "oh, he couldn't do that!" or "not in my neighborhood!" I decided it was time to write about all the predators I remembered. I posted " A Tale of Nine Predators " on my blog.
It didn't feel right. I'd meant to be informative, the better to help people understand there are predators in even the most genteel of neighborhoods, but I'd left myself feeling spooked and off kilter. Having the post on my blog felt like a new violation, so that I contemplated deleting it.
Someone suggested transferring it to Rara, Matt, et al's blog Stories That Must Not Die. Because I'd met Matt already and could remember his kindness, that seemed like a good idea.
I emailed him asking if I could move it over, and explaining why. He promptly encouraged me to send it over so I could make my blog a safe space again,
and did so with such gentle words that I'm weeping reading them again.
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In early May 2015, Matt emailed to let me know Rara's husband, Dave, had died. Matt needed to find someone to watch Rara's cats.
I felt gut-punched. When I met Rara a year earlier, I'd meant to mail her all the time, even with a new addition to my household! And there it was: An entire year had passed without my writing a single word, no matter how often I thought I should send Rara a note.
I could not fix her grief. Heck, I couldn't even write her a single freakin' letter in a whole freakin' year. But I could and did, with my husband's help, try to find someone to watch her cats for the remainder of her prison stay.
We searched, but we didn't find anyone.
I'd failed again.
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When Matt made details about Dave's service available, I debated whether to go.
If I went, wouldn't that make me an impostor? I'd failed thus far: to write, to keep track of where Rara was at, to find a home for Rara's cats.
I decided I'd go. A lot of people are unnerved by grief. I'm not. So, prior shortcomings be damned, I wanted there to be no more. I went. My boys came, too, not because I dragged them but because that's who they are ... even Li'l D, at not-then-six.
I knew Matt would be there, and that I could stand quietly in his shadow regardless of anything I'd done or not done.
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Matt greeted me and mine as if we'd known each other forever. It felt like we had.
We stood outside before the service, with Rara-still Rara then, not yet Ra to me-huddled over Li'l D, who'd spend the ride over trying to make sense of why she was in prison.
Li'l D didn't want to enter the church for the service, so my husband waited outside with him. I carried Littler J inside, where I promptly realized I had not a single toy to keep him occupied. He soon started fussing, leaving me digging through my purse for anything that would entertain him. Results? Nada.
But Matt had something: a tube of chapstick so old that the label'd fallen off. He offered it to Littler J, who examined it, shook it, gnawed on it, and dropped it at least a dozen times.
Matt collected it and returned it each time, not only helping keep Littler J contentedly occupied but me feel much less like an impostor.
By the time I stepped out the doors, I felt I'd found not only a friendly acquaintance but a friend in Matt.
From bigger things, sure, but also from an unmarked tube of chapstick.
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Rara is Ra to me now.
I see her more frequently than Matt, in part because she and I live down the street from each other.
(She seemed a whole lot less bothered by my failures than I was, so I let them go. It's good, too, because letting go left room for other, better things than regret to grow.)
Though Matt lives further away and we've only seen each other once in person since we met for the second time last May, he and his hold a place of especially warm regard in my heart.
His written words remind me why, sure ... but what really reminds me, as I break into a smile, is when I see a worn tube of chapstick and remember Matt and Littler J wrapped up in the most unexpected play.
Each tube is an uplifting reminder: That's right! There's a Matticus DJ in this world, and the world is better for it!
I've written about Deb and her loving family before, but in case you didn't already pop over to follow her then, here's another chance. {One of the greatest things about life, is all those extra chances we get.} But before you run off to her place, leave her a little comment here to let her know you're thankful she sondered. It's these types of messages that remind us how the little things we do and the quiet things we are, make all the difference.
http://deborah-bryan.com/
