I spent the morning fixing things – hemming pants, ironing shirts, organizing. I love to fix things. I love to check things off my list. But there are things I cannot fix, my sons broken heart, my Dad’s failing mind. So I must learn to sit with the frustration and sorrow and pain and emptiness and hold it all gently. I must learn to hold myself gently in the inability to fix any of it. I must learn to rest in grace and trust that it will be enough.
Does it really matter that we play the game by the rules? Does it really matter that I do know how to drive and get from place to place? Does it matter that Dad wants to carry grape jelly in his pocket and carry toast to put in the glove compartment in the car? Sometimes I scream “Yes!!!” but really it doesn’t matter in the least and if I can let go a little bit it matters to him.
I think my ego has been warn a little thinner over these past several years. I don’t have to “know” as much, be “right” as much, but then the opportunity comes again to let go, to breathe, to learn about what truly matters and what doesn’t.
Yesterday I tied my father’s shoes. “That was really nice, thank you. I should do something for you.” he said. “You’ve been a wonderful father, you’ve done plenty” I replied.
This morning I helped him shave. “Oh, that’s nice.” I tied his tie. “Do you know who taught me how to do this?” I asked. “You did.” He chuckled. We went to church. On the way he said, “I have to tell you something really bad…I don’t remember your name.” We sat in a pew together as we did years ago, this time I held the hymnal and found the page. Tender, tender moments. A gift really. Love is a circle, a spiral, giving and taking, forgetting and remembering.
Brian Andreas, one of my favorite artist/writers wrote this:
“There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other’s cooking & say it was good.”
The real reason we are here is to feed a loved one jello while she recovers from surgery, to share a cup of coffee with the lonely, to wipe the nose of a baby, to hold the hand and heart of the grieving, to be present to this moment, to every moment, even the smallest.
Yesterday we waited and watched. Today we still have power but we don’t have school. Today we begin to get back to normal life.
It is a week out from my surgery and I’m beginning to get back to normal life. I still have to wear things that make me feel a bit uncomfortable, I’m still taking antibiotics, I still can’t be too strenuous, but otherwise, I’m done. My brother said “You’re going to have to close this book.” Today we close the book on Sandy and surgery and get on with life, ordinary life.
School is cancelled, town offices are closed, and now we wait… The weather channel is all excited about the storm, there are photos from space that show big it is. And we wait…. Maybe we will lose power, maybe we will have damage. For now we wait. There is nothing more we can do. There is nothing more but wait and see what happens and clean up afterwards. The hardest part is always the waiting.
I’m not quite a week out from surgery but I feel pretty good. I put the heavy meds away but I’m still taking it easy(ish). Yesterday I looked at my body but the first time since the surgery, since the bandages came off. I look a bit battered and bruised but I look like me, like the new me, not new and improved but new and alive. I am ready to adjust to whatever this body holds for me. I am ready to find clothes that will suit it/me. I am ready to find a life that suits it/me. I am ready to walk gently into this gift of life given to me moment by moment, day by day.
I look out at the lawn covered with leaves. It is beautiful and also tempting. It is tempting to rake and enjoy the sunshine and remember my childhood joy at jumping into piles of leaves. I look out and think and plot but I restrain myself. I’m just a few days out of surgery. I’m not supposed to do anything strenous for a month. I think raking leaves counts.
I do come from a family of people who tough things out. When my grandfather had his hip replaced he thought a lawn mower was just as good as a walker. I understand the longing, the longing to get things done, to be productive. For today I’ll be productive reading from the piles of books that fill my house. That will have to be enough.
So, it is done, my last surgery. This morning we took off the bandages, in a bit I’ll get to take a shower. However I end up looking, this is it and I’ll begin to settle into my new/old body. I’ve been metaphorically holding my breath for the last year waiting to be “finished.” I’ve been waiting to see how everything shakes out. Now that it’s done I’m ready to ease into whatever life may hold. I have some thoughts, some plans, but mostly this year will be finishing my program in spiritual direction and taking care of my family. Then we’ll see what the future holds. It is a precious life, one precious life, that I’ve been given. I am ever thankful.
Yesterday I had my last surgery, the end of this part of the journey. It has been a very long road. Yesterday was lighter in preparation, this surgery was just cleaning up, fixing up, it wasn’t about loss, it was about new beginnings. Now I have to heal. My insight from Ghost Ranch applies.
My last morning I got up in the dark to get ready for the day. I wanted my usual walk but I didn’t want to wait for the sunrise so I walked under the stars on the path I’d walked so many times before. I didn’t walk as fast, I didn’t jog, but I knew the path, so I walked. My insight ~ when you know the path you can walk it in the dark.
This long, two year journey has been a walk in the dark. I didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I couldn’t go very fast. I couldn’t jog. What I could do was walk carefully and glance at the stars. It was my faith that carried me, the path I know, the path I have walked my whole life. That path I could walk, even in the dark.
