The Whole Sky

We often mark our time here on earth with the words before and after:
before I met you...
after we were married...
after graduation...
before we had children...
before he died...
2013 did not begin in an auspicious way for me.  In fact, on the last day of 2012 I received news that swirled me up into an eddy of doctors’ visits and medical tests and procedures from which I am still quite literally recovering.

Just over a month ago I was diagnosed with a very early stage breast cancer in my right breast.  Something that no one mentioned about being diagnosed with cancer is that the first suspicion is just the beginning.  From there, you’ll be asked to run a gamut of tests that confirm or deny other suspicions.  You will be given lots or little information, and then be asked to make huge decisions.  Three weeks after my first cancer diagnosis, it was revealed that the same cancer was also lurking in my other breast, simply missed by at least two other doctors.  And on February 15th, my mother’s 76th birthday, I underwent bilateral mastectomy.  All of the cancer was removed and the sentinel lymph nodes of both sides were also free of cancer.  I am well on the road to recovery, but it will be a long process.

And so now I find that I can demarcate my life as before cancer and so very gratefully as after cancer.  There are certain aspects of my life which are irrevocably changed, altered permanently.  But not all of this change is bad.

Before, I saw the world as full of potential, for adventure, for travel, for knowledge.  But it’s not until you hear certain words spoken in reference to yourself or a loved one, words like cancer, that you really feel the presence of other potentials.  Abruptly, possibilities like pain, suffering, and death - your own and that of your loved ones - loom darkly on your own horizon.

Hearing a doctor say that you have cancer is like being thrust under water.  Quite suddenly, there is no longer enough air in the room.  And the world, as you once viewed it, no longer has the clarity it had before.  The word cancer attaches itself to nearly every thought, obscuring most of them.  I can only speak of my own experience, my own diagnoses, which are highly curable.  I can only imagine that these feelings are multiplied exponentially if your prognosis is more grave than mine.

If this can happen to me, my wild brain laments during the long dark nights, then what else is possible?  What horrors are equally likely to be visited upon my husband, my daughters, my loved ones?  These potential dangers ambushed me at night.  I’ve known for quite some time that I’ve lived a life relatively free from loss and tragedy.  I know that I was grateful for that.  It was as if, with my diagnoses, for the first time, my eyes were open, able to see things that have always been there.  These potential dangers lurk under shadow but are keenly visible with my new-found vision.  There is no way to unsee this.

But something else became discernible as well.  I truly never realized how much I am loved.  I never consciously felt love swaddling me, as a friend put it she wanted me to be cocooned with love.  I had never sensed love’s full capacity to buoy me up in spite of feeling tethered to a heavy darkness.  A string I could follow to lead myself out of the cave.

So many people have expressed admiration for my courage, remarking on how brave I am.  I don’t really know what they mean by that.  I once defined courage as being aware of the dangers that exist and carrying on anyway.  I still believe that.  But the instinct for self-preservation is pretty high, whether you are on a risky mission in Afghanistan or making decisions about cancer treatment.  I only did what I had to do in order to ensure that my life could go on pretty much as it had before.  Anyone would find the same reserve of intentions if and when you are faced with challenges.  It is not until you look that challenge in the eye, though, that you will know how strong you are.

My brother John, a cancer survivor himself who is married to a cancer survivor as well, said to me early on that cancer would test me in ways I couldn’t imagine.  This has been absolutely true.  He also said that he wouldn’t give his cancer back because it made him a better person.  I know exactly what he means.  My entire world has come sharply into focus since I resurfaced from my initial plunge underwater.  Some things that seemed important have faded to irrelevance.  Others, which seemed intangible are now palpable.  The greatest of these, of course, is love.  Hafiz, the 14th Century mystic said,

Even
after
all this time
the sun never
says to the earth,
"You owe me."

Look
what happens
with a love like that.

It lights the
whole
sky.

Please know that your kindnesses through deeds and words do have an impact.  Do not be afraid to love, for it is the only way to extinguish darkness. 

 

 

Surge

You awake in the fog of after
which obscures all that was before.
It’s palpable, like sheets

binding you to a nightmare.

You are flung into a stifling, scratchy
grey, suffocating from a lack

of space, an abrupt knowledge

of finite.  It is too much.  You form the words 
but they emerge like sounds on a slow

reel, heavy bubbles popping

under their own mass.  Disoriented, tossed
about, you are throttled again

again again toward fear’s maw

from each crest and trough.  You flail,
turning, driven below and forced

to the surface where you gasp.

But then you hear other words, another
voice that is within but isn’t either.

You cannot float if you are struggling.

And so you release, you give
yourself up, not down, and you let yourself
be carried.  It is then that you begin

to focus, to see the hint of light that
did not yet exist in that moment before night
ends and something else begins.

You watch, in awe, as dawn streaks

the sky with color, a steady warp from east to west
and you realize you are no longer adrift

or alone, but buoyed by a love that

surges like a wave, carrying you back to shore, no
longer ensnared.  Your feet touch

soft sand, terra firma, and you step

forward to greet the day with the quiet
hope that only dawn can bring.

Go Further

Yesterday morning, even though the temperature was just above freezing and there was a heavy dusting of snow, I set off on a hike through the forest at the end of my street.  There’s a trail there, and a gate, for which I can thank some enterprising neighbors.  I’ve hiked this trail often.  

All summer I was here, sometimes hiking, sometimes running.  There’s a web of trails and it’s possible to go quite a long way.  I spent most of my time in those warm months, though, on a loop trail that goes up to a saddle (from where, on a clear day, you can see all the way to the San Francisco Peaks) and continues above a small valley, then heads steeply south, crossing a usually dry creek twice before heading back uphill and connecting with itself.  It’s a nice trail through piñon and juniper, manzanita and scrub oak, and it’s rare to encounter anyone else on the three-mile loop, except perhaps one of my neighbors.

This morning, though, I was in a bad mood because of some distressing news.  It’s been cold here and I’ve had a touch of cabin fever this winter break, as storm after storm has moved across northern Arizona.  I knew that a key to my feeling better would be to get outdoors, in spite of the weather, or maybe because of it.  I wanted to be alone, not to have to bother making nice conversation with anyone.    And so I was a little disappointed to notice footprints in the snow - one of my neighbors, perhaps, already heading out on the trail.  The prints only led in one direction, so I knew that he was still out there.  I wondered and worried a bit that we’d each infringe upon the other’s solitude.  At any rate, I followed these footprints through the gate, through the night’s snowfall.  Here and there other tracks - rabbit, deer, maybe skunk - crossed or briefly followed the trail.  It was so quiet, the way it only is when snow muffles all.

When I arrived at the first junction, where the trail heads south, I paused.  My neighbor’s prints followed my usual route.  I scanned that trail but couldn’t see any other sign of someone on that path.  Straight ahead of me, to the west, another trail stretched far, covered in a thin layer of snow unmarred and pristine.  A voice beckoned, “Go further,” and so I did, lines of Frost tumbling in my mind.  I reached another gate, and still the voice urged me to go on.  I rattled the slightly frozen latch and opened it, crested another saddle and felt my breath catch as I caught a glimpse of the view to the northwest.  Granite Mountain was shrouded in heavy grey clouds and snow.  Briefly the clouds lifted, and then a shaft of light broke through and lit up an area at the base of the mountain.  It is a beautiful mountain, even under the most ordinary of circumstances.  But on that morning, with the light striking it just so, with the clouds surrounding it, the mountain was extraordinary. 

I hiked on a while before turning back, having found the peace and solitude I was seeking, along with something else that I couldn’t quite name.  In some places the snow had melted on the trail, obliterating my neighbor’s footprints and my own.  I thought of how, if I’d waited until later, I wouldn’t have seen the other set of footprints, and I wouldn’t have ventured down the other path.  I wouldn’t have even known that I’d missed something unmistakably significant in the reward of going further, down the path less traveled.  And I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a message there for me, on the last day of the old year, about what rewards might be revealed in the new year, simply by going further.

 

Muzo's Chimney

Smoke rose from the chimney, but the trees surrounding the little cottage obscured nearly all of the building.  Only the top of the white-washed chimney was visible from the winding path, and only when the cold wind blew just so, blowing the tips of the trees in such a way.  With her free hand, Tansa adjusted her scarf as best she could so that it completely covered her blonde hair.  The basket hanging on her other arm was growing heavy, laden as it was, but she continued down the path.  She was nearly there, to the cottage, and it was nearly Christmas.  She wanted her trip to end and to share her surprise and warm herself by the fire.

She thought of the last time she’d been here - nearly two years ago, when she was only fourteen years old.  Now she was nearly sixteen, practically an adult, she felt, and this trip was necessary because of that.  Now, for many reasons, she could - and had to - make her own decisions.  That much was a necessity.  Her life had changed irrevocably since then.  Perhaps by returning to this cottage, to Muzo’s cottage, she could begin again.

On her previous journey, she’d set out to gather gura nuts that fell from the trees in late fall.  She hadn’t ventured that far from home, just over the mountain and into the next valley.  Without warning, the sky had filled with low, white clouds.  Before long, snow was densely falling, and what had once seemed familiar no longer was.  She’d become cold and disoriented in the snow, and found herself drawn to the sound of an axe chopping wood.  She’d nearly stumbled into the bentwood fence, startling a large man who was chopping kindling inside a nearby shed. 

Approaching the gate of the cottage now, she thought of that man, Muzo, and how he’d noticed her, mid-swing.  He had brought his axe down gracefully, skillfully, and hurried to this very gate.  As she unlatched it and continued to the tiny cottage, she thought of his grey eyes, his handsome face surrounded by dark curls of hair.  He’d led her into the house, stoking the small fire and making tea from dried roots that he powdered in a small ceramic bowl.  The tea had warmed her, and then made her so sleepy that she hadn’t been able to stay awake.  The last image she could recall before her slumber was his eyes as he carried her to the small bed in the corner of the cottage.

The dreams she’d had!  They’d been so vivid, so colorful, so bright!  That was why she had returned.  In the dream, she’d watched herself, as if from above.  She went about the cottage, through the forest, as she always had, but rather than the drab greens and greys of the woods, everything was garish and multi-colored.  Muzo was there, too, and he wore not the tan tunic he’d worn chopping wood, but instead one of a lively violet and green that shimmered in the light.  In the dream, he’d kissed her.  His mouth was warm and sweet, melting into hers.

Tansa’s hand trembled as it rose to jingle the string of small bells that hung near the door of the cottage.  First, though, from under a blanket that covered the basket, a whimper arose and then settled.  She peered beneath the blanket, and a child smiled at her, his grey eyes twinkling.  She gently pushed back the bonnet that covered most of his fine black curls and gave his tiny nose a tender tap.  He giggled and grabbed her finger in his chubby hand.  The wind whipped up and rang the string of bells violently, and Tansa could hear someone approaching from inside.

The door opened, and Muzo stood in the doorway, his curls brushing the top of the frame.  His eyes widened at Tansa, but he said nothing.  Tansa wasn’t deterred.  She held the basket up, to show Muzo the baby within, just over a year old.  The child blinked his grey eyes expectantly at Muzo, who stepped back to permit the pair entrance.

A small fire crackled within the hearth.  In the back of the one room cottage, a shivering girl gripped a steaming mug at the table.  She looked exactly like Tansa, right down to her apron, a small tear separating the strap from the bib.  Tansa looked at apron she herself wore - and yes, there was the same rip, the one she’d repaired with fine stitches after she’d returned home from Muzo’s house.

Tansa and the girl at the table looked at one another, blinking, trying to make sense of who was whom and what was happening.  No one said a word.  Tansa set the heavy basket on the floor.

After a few moments, the girl at the table put her mug down, hard, on the table.  Her eyes closed, and then her head nodded once, twice, and fell forward into her arms.  Muzo held up a finger, signaling to Tansa that she should wait.  Then, he went to the table and took the girl into his arms and carried her to the small bed in the corner.  Easily, he arranged her on it and removed her shoes.  Then he covered her with a multi-colored quilt, only item with color in the drab cottage, and kissed her on the lips.

Tansa watched the scene, all the while remembering her multi-colored dream.  She felt as if she were watching herself, the girl on the bed.  It was all so familiar.  The baby squirmed in its basket and then babbled happily.

Muzo turned to Tansa, shaking his hair from his eyes.  He smiled.  Muzo took the baby from the basket and they looked at one another intently.  The baby grabbed a lock of Muzo’s hair and laughed as Muzo danced with him.  He set the baby on the floor, and the baby took a tentative first step, and then another.  And as it walked toward Tansa, it grew.  With each step he grew taller and older, his clothes stretching to fit his body.  He was now nearly as tall as Tansa.    

Tansa rubbed her eyes and pinched her arm.  This was all so strange.  She looked again, and the baby was now as tall as Muzo.  They stood with arms folded, huge, identical grins revealing their perfect teeth.  Tansa took a step backward, toward the door.  Muzo stepped forward so that he was even with this creature that resembled himself exactly; this creature that moments ago was a baby in a basket, one that Tansa had carried in her arms over the mountain just this morning.

Both of their eyes locked on Tansa’s and she found that she couldn’t move.  Her feet seemed attached to the floor.

“Tea?” they asked, and Tansa nodded helplessly, even as she felt herself swirling into a colorful dream.

Home's Hearth

On Friday morning, we were all just learning of the horrors in Connecticut that were eclipsing the similar horrors reported earlier this week from Oregon.  I was at school, of course, and found out about Sandy Hook when I checked the news at lunch.  A few hours later, my own school was in lockdown due to a threat.  This threat turned out to be a hoax, but that can’t be known until there’s an investigation.  Reactions must be immediate and they were.  It was eerie, knowing what had happened earlier in the day.  It was stressful because the energy level of the students had been high all day due to the coming weekend and the impending storm.  They didn’t want to be cooped up any longer than necessary. 

During a lockdown, the police essentially take over the school.  There are procedures we follow to ensure safety and order.  There are regular drills so we all know what to do.  But still, even when it’s a drill, it’s a huge inconvenience for everyone.  Students miss appointments; those with after-school jobs are late to work, and of course, the lessons of the day are interrupted.  Parents coming to school to pick up their kids are turned away by members of the SWAT team armed with assault weapons.  No one leaves or enters the school for the time being.  It’s incredibly inconvenient and disruptive.  Every threat has to be taken seriously.  Every procedure has to be followed.  There is far too much precedence for horror to do otherwise.

After we were released, I managed to make some preparations for the coming week’s final exams before I left school.  I raced home and we had a quick dinner before taking off for my younger daughter’s performance in a play with her classmates.  The play was adorable and silly, as only an elementary school play can be.  And as I chuckled and applauded, I choked down guilt that such joy was mine.

Later that night we were in Sedona, a trip that had been planned ahead of the winter storm and long before any of us had ever heard of Newtown, Connecticut.  The sandstone rock formations were dusted with snow and shrouded in clouds and fog.  In the morning, I hiked with my family in the cold drizzle and sleet, seeking solace and beauty.  I implored those red rocks and ominous clouds to allow me to find some peace.  I was in a place of unparalleled beauty, but my thoughts kept returning to unspeakable horrors.  I noticed that the rain had a magical capacity to draw out colorful patterns on the normally dull, matte wood of the juniper. Beauty was all around me, in the grandeur of the vistas and the rivulets of water racing down the rocks. 

The rain and sleet were constant, never letting up.  The wind whipped and became still, then rose again.  The trail wound through trees and red muck and onto the sandstone and back again.  It was cold and miserable and lovely, hiking just below the elevation where the snow was sticking.  As I comforted my shivering children after we’d returned to the car, I could only think of their counterparts at Sandy Hook, and wonder what words adults might be whispering to them.  And while I know I am feeling only a fraction of the grief they must be enduring, I was overwhelmed by the sadness and pointlessness of it all.

Chilled by the rain and my thoughts, I could not get warm again, even after I was in dry clothes.  I spent the rest of the day sipping coffee and reading and writing as close to the gas fireplace as I dared in the condominium where we were staying.  Still, I was cold.  To my very core, I was cold and no amount of heat brought comfort.

This afternoon, at home again, as I rinsed red mud from boots and pant legs, I was grateful.  As I folded my family’s laundry, I found comfort in routine.  I stoked the fire, adding wood my family had cut and carried, and finally felt the warmth that only rises from home’s hearth.  We are all finding comfort in the routine of a typical Sunday evening.  We are the lucky ones.  The lucky ones who still have routine to cling to.  The lucky ones whose lives haven’t been inexplicably, irrevocably wrenched into unspeakable darkness. 

This evening, though, I asked my daughters if they had any questions about what happened in Connecticut. I found that my voice caught and it was a long moment before I admitted to them that I couldn’t answer the only question they asked:  Why?