It’s a curious thing...
This business of “feeling safe.”
It’s something that’s been rattling around inside my brain
pot for years, decades actually. I’ve
heard women tell me there was only one man who truly made them “feel safe” (no,
they were never referring to me). I’ve
had friends ask me: “Aren’t you afraid?” (of where I live, where I go, of the
motorcycles/bicycles I ride, of the desolate trails I’ve run or hiked, of the
thousands of miles I’ve traveled alone, etc., etc.).
Do I always “feel safe”?
No. I’m not an idiot. The truth of the matter is that I’ve been
hurt plenty by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve been beaten. I’ve been battered. I’ve found myself in perilous situations that
made my hair stand on end.
Life’s full of perils.
Even so. Despite all
that.
I’ve generally felt, and continue to feel “safe.”
I credit my Mother for that.
It’s not that she, herself, felt safe. Quite the opposite. My Mother saw peril everywhere, in every
situation and every endeavor. I’m
thinking she wasn’t always that way. In
fact, she was quite the intrepid, independent young woman, breaking through
cultural barriers and conventions with aplomb.
I think the War changed her.
I suppose War would change my worldview, too, had I been
strafed by enemy planes, witnessed my home destroyed, been torn from family and
thrust, without mercy, into an altogether different life of misery and
want.
I’ve never faced challenges such as that, but I’ve no doubt those
terrors and privations on that scale might, indeed, lead one to believe they’re
“not safe.”
My Mother feared for me and my safety constantly.
By doing so, she made me feel safe. So much so, in fact, that I gave her great
reason to fear for my safety constantly.
It’s a curious thing...
This business of “feeling safe.”
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