I have only recently been freed from silence’s surlier bonds. Paradoxically, it’s left me a bit tongue-tied.
It’s hard to know where to begin, so I’ll start with a sunrise.
One that I doubt I’d otherwise have seen.
My son had taken me to what I’m told is one of the most photographed lighthouses in lighthouse-rich New England. Walking gingerly towards it, steadying myself on the arm of a son who’s grown to be almost his dad’s height, no other humans were in sight.
The light that began weaving through predawn dark was extraordinary. Bright orange began threading itself along the horizon. Magenta and lavender sprouted in patches on indigo sky. Then it turned to the most extraordinary pink display I’ve ever seen, before disappearing into an ordinary blue sky. No one who passed by after those suspended moments would have been any wiser to the magic.
The picture I’m sharing wasn’t of sunrise that year, or that day, or the surrounding ones. That deep blue-green camera had ended up shattered in the wreckage of my car, which I mercifully never saw again. The photographs of the damage were more than disturbing enough for me.
I was hit so ferociously hard and at such high speed that morning that my driver’s side door handle broke off and my car spun more than a full rotation, the driver’s side crushed in at the point of first impact, the rear bumper detaching at a second impact as I spun. I felt something spattering and thought it must be my blood, and wondered who would tell my children and look out for them. I was later told it was a mercy I’d been hit at just the angle at which my driver’s side airbag didn’t deploy, because it likely would have snapped my neck given my (not hefty) size.
Since that day I’ve felt like a shadow.
Fears I’d been so proud of leaving behind returned and magnified. I’ve been in intractable pain from spinal injuries, and a traumatic brain injury has taken away so much more. I’m not the same person. I’m not the mother I’ve needed to be. I lost the ability to do the job I loved nearly as well as victims deserve. I’m not even the writer I was. I’m tentative in a way that doesn’t feel anything like me.
And while overwhelmingly the people in my life have been beyond helpful and supportive and kind, I’ve also been dropped cold by two people I’d been a loyal friend to for years, revealed to be incapable of such bonds. That’s sometimes been a deeper blow than the physical pain.
But even in all this turmoil and pain, I’ve been blessed with the community here. In my rare appearances in the long interim when it was I who was a prospective witness and could not yet speak, I have been amazed and grateful at those of you who keep reading and giving me excuses to share my photos. I’ve even talked to some of you in real life (you know who you are, and thank you so much for checking in on me after I went silent).
I hope I’m back for a good long while.
Love in the Spaces 
My goodness… getting a glimpse into the horror of your ordeal is sobering. Grateful that you and your words are here.
My most faithful reader, thank you
Oh Steph, I’m so sorry that happened to you. I have recently freed myself from the bonds of my employer and am a new retiree, but with a full house (husband, “kids” 27 and 23, and one 12yo German Shepherd). My 1,380 sq ft house is, I believe, too small for 5 mammals and all the overflowing “stuff” in every room. I’m supposed to be taking care of this in my retirement, but it’s tough to do because it interferes with my couch time. I would so love to visit if you’re up to seeing your ghost friend. Let me know! Love you so much.
— The Barbara who sounds like Liz
My ghost friend! Must, must find a way to see you again xoxoxo
OMG Stephanie. How terrifying. So glad to see you here and sharing your fabulous photos with us.
Thank you. It’s been a continuing challenge and I keep hoping for better days.
Stephanie,
It’s Ellen Harris, formerly Knoblock. Many many years have passed since we’ve seen each other, and I’ve been reading Love in the Spaces since.
I am really sorry to hear about your accident and the feeling of fragility and loss of self. It sounds ‘life-changing’ and yet, you take these incredibly beautiful pictures that illustrate your feelings so carefully described.
I’m glad to be connected in at least this way, and of course, would love to see you if ever there is the chance. I am still in Belmont, and think of you as I have several items you made for Chris and Caroline when they were born.
I wish you a steady recovery physically, mentally, emotionally and hope your children are all doing well.
Sending love, Ellen
Ellen! I had no idea you were reading and am so glad to hear from you. I’ve been sorting through zillions of photos, which include when your then little ones visited the old yellow house (which is itself a major character in “The Company of Ghosts”), and we briefly lost track of the three-year-olds in Jim’s garden). I’d love to catch up though haven’t been in Belmont since before the crash, when cleaning out my parent’s home. So much changes and so much doesn’t. xoxo
The images are glorious as usual Stephanie, but the story is SO frightening. A reminder that it can happen to any of us at any time. As for your battles, we know your courage and tenacity and have no doubt you will get through this. Please know we are all with you as you climb yet another mountain with strength and grace.
Heartbreaking and yet there’s hope too. You might not be the writer you once were but you’re still a heck of a good one.