My sister and her family were at home when a man broke into their house this weekend. The incident was over quickly — he took a car and drove off right away, and thankfully no one was hurt — but the aftermath has been a surreal experience with the police in their house, the neighbors coming by to provide their statements to the investigators, and the local media waiting across the street for hours in order to break the story during the evening broadcast.
Our families are badly shaken by the event; with hundreds of miles between us, I feel pretty useless right about now. Since my many conversations with my sister this evening, I’ve been left mulling over this awful reminder of how even the protective places we call home aren’t ever truly, completely safe from the outside world. I would think that the energy of a house or apartment would change for most of us after something like this happens… does the sacred, inviolate feeling of ‘home’ as a place of safety and refuge ever fully return?
I’ve spent the past few weeks thinking about my posting frequency and why I write here, and I have concluded that I want to commit to writing more often for the exercise and experience; trust me when I say that this is not the post I was expecting to draft tonight.
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Update (02.05.07): Local authorities found the guy, while the awful reality of how very, very wrong the entire situation could have become has weighed heavily on me all day.
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