11.12.0914 November 2009
09 October 2009
I choose life
I live on an island.
I came to this island to write.
I came to this island to die.
In the back of my mind, I've wondered when the terminal illness I have not yet discovered will reveal itself. Did You bring me here to die?
Why else would You give me the keys to the kingdom with outstretched arms when I asked for them? Why else would You swing these doors wide open and invite me to come? Why else would our journey south take this miraculous and unexpected turn northwest and within, then bring us back to Whidbey?
Back, "...bring us back." I sense I have lived here once before.
Perhaps, but I haven't written, and I'm still alive.
Sort of.
I didn't think it through. It all happened so quickly. There was no time to analyze, to examine, to obsess, to weigh, to measure and to count all the costs. I think it was by design.
Now, I am beginning to see and to understand that in order to grasp a thing, to truly master and perfect it, we must poke and prod, unglue and undo at the expense of life. Absolution, completion, knowledge and rebirth are only possible by way of death.
"This year, 2009, is the year of the Lord's favor for my family and for me. It marks a turning point, a new beginning... "
I had no idea what it would mean for me to write these words down and to speak them aloud. How could I have known how much it would cost to take these keys from You?
With the great reward of freedom and change comes a great price.
I asked to go deeper. I asked for more. I purged and pruned, and the path became clear. As it unfolded, I followed you to this peaceful place, where the air is gravid and grey. I am home in a way like no where before. I am where I've been aching to be. It is overwhelming.
Yet in the shadows has come terrifying darkness. In the black of early morning, I can no longer see the road beneath my feet or my hand before my face. As fires that raged have burned out, I have grown cold and unsure. The sharp tools I once used have grown dull and obsolete. The clothes I donned are incongruous and ill-fitting, and yesterday's order wears the mask of a stranger.
With my words and my request, with the light from my lamp, with the shuffle of my steps, with the jingle of these keys, with the creak of this door and the timbre of my "Yes," I have roused a resting giant and stirred this sleeping cancer. She bears the name Fear. She bears the name Obsession. She bears the name Compulsion. She bears the name Deception. She also bears my name.
I came to this island to die.
In the thick of these clouds, You have helped me to see what I couldn't and wouldn't day after day in perpetual sunshine. My eyes are adjusting, and the walls of this prison I've erected have come into focus. Brick by rigid brick, I have fortified myself in this shell that no longer suits me.
Abimbola. Abi, come.
In the shade of tall trees, you have wiped my brow, rubbed my back, and given me time and space to rest. You've revealed the salve of Sudoku and crossword puzzles, and You have strengthened me with bread, wine, and fresh oil for my lamp. With neither fanfare nor guarantees, You have called me by name and bid me once again to come.
I only see the doorway in the faint flicker from my lamp, but that which lies on the other side of this wall is dim. I have tasted the wine you turned, then shed, and I know You have traveled this road before. I needn't walk it alone.
This week, through my mother, my father, my soul sister, my children, a medicine woman, my pen pal and my partner, You have opened my eyes. You have restored my hope and graced me with courage to face my own death.
So tonight, in the earliest hours of my 70th day on this island, I lay myself to rest. With gratitude, I reclaim my joy, my hope and my name, and I sprinkle these ashes atop the rubble at the trail head of this less-traveled road. I look forward to the day when words will rise as the dust from these ashes.
And with the morning sun, I too will rise again.
I came to this island to write.
I came to this island to die.
In the back of my mind, I've wondered when the terminal illness I have not yet discovered will reveal itself. Did You bring me here to die?
Why else would You give me the keys to the kingdom with outstretched arms when I asked for them? Why else would You swing these doors wide open and invite me to come? Why else would our journey south take this miraculous and unexpected turn northwest and within, then bring us back to Whidbey?
Back, "...bring us back." I sense I have lived here once before.
Perhaps, but I haven't written, and I'm still alive.
Sort of.
I didn't think it through. It all happened so quickly. There was no time to analyze, to examine, to obsess, to weigh, to measure and to count all the costs. I think it was by design.
Now, I am beginning to see and to understand that in order to grasp a thing, to truly master and perfect it, we must poke and prod, unglue and undo at the expense of life. Absolution, completion, knowledge and rebirth are only possible by way of death.
"This year, 2009, is the year of the Lord's favor for my family and for me. It marks a turning point, a new beginning... "
I had no idea what it would mean for me to write these words down and to speak them aloud. How could I have known how much it would cost to take these keys from You?
With the great reward of freedom and change comes a great price.
I asked to go deeper. I asked for more. I purged and pruned, and the path became clear. As it unfolded, I followed you to this peaceful place, where the air is gravid and grey. I am home in a way like no where before. I am where I've been aching to be. It is overwhelming.
Yet in the shadows has come terrifying darkness. In the black of early morning, I can no longer see the road beneath my feet or my hand before my face. As fires that raged have burned out, I have grown cold and unsure. The sharp tools I once used have grown dull and obsolete. The clothes I donned are incongruous and ill-fitting, and yesterday's order wears the mask of a stranger.
With my words and my request, with the light from my lamp, with the shuffle of my steps, with the jingle of these keys, with the creak of this door and the timbre of my "Yes," I have roused a resting giant and stirred this sleeping cancer. She bears the name Fear. She bears the name Obsession. She bears the name Compulsion. She bears the name Deception. She also bears my name.
I came to this island to die.
In the thick of these clouds, You have helped me to see what I couldn't and wouldn't day after day in perpetual sunshine. My eyes are adjusting, and the walls of this prison I've erected have come into focus. Brick by rigid brick, I have fortified myself in this shell that no longer suits me.
Abimbola. Abi, come.
In the shade of tall trees, you have wiped my brow, rubbed my back, and given me time and space to rest. You've revealed the salve of Sudoku and crossword puzzles, and You have strengthened me with bread, wine, and fresh oil for my lamp. With neither fanfare nor guarantees, You have called me by name and bid me once again to come.
I only see the doorway in the faint flicker from my lamp, but that which lies on the other side of this wall is dim. I have tasted the wine you turned, then shed, and I know You have traveled this road before. I needn't walk it alone.
This week, through my mother, my father, my soul sister, my children, a medicine woman, my pen pal and my partner, You have opened my eyes. You have restored my hope and graced me with courage to face my own death.
So tonight, in the earliest hours of my 70th day on this island, I lay myself to rest. With gratitude, I reclaim my joy, my hope and my name, and I sprinkle these ashes atop the rubble at the trail head of this less-traveled road. I look forward to the day when words will rise as the dust from these ashes.
And with the morning sun, I too will rise again.
Abi: a Yoruba prefix meaning birthed; born
10 August 2009
06 August 2009
blackberries
It's late. It's been a week. I live in Washington.
Paul's grandma is passing, and coincidentally... amazingly... thankfully, we are here.
We saw her today. Her mouth was open, her breathing was labored and her room smelled strong and familiar - like childbirth. She was a shell of the woman we saw just a few weeks ago. Today, she was there, but she wasn't, but she was. I get that. She was beautiful. I wonder if she is still here.
I'm on a hill, on an island, in Washington. Now I live on this island. I live up on this hill.
Yesterday after dinner, we went down to the beach. There were smooth stones and empty shells - remnants of lives once lived - everywhere. This is nothing like I've ever known or seen before. It's hard to describe what it feels like to be 32 years old and to experience the wonders and treasures of the sea for the first time.
Along the road and our beach and our town are bushes and bushes of blackberries. When we arrived last week, they were crimson and firm. Yet by yesterday, many had turned. They were plump and juicy and rich with color -- tart and so very sweet. Paul, the kids and I picked blackberries for nearly an hour. We reached past prickly bushes and collected three quarts of fresh fruit. I've never experienced this either.
Tonight we danced and cried and ate lasagna and blackberries with cousins and siblings. It's all new and beautiful and difficult and wonderful at once. I'm still marveling at the magical journey that brought us to this place and this moment.
I miss my family and my friends.
Just a few weeks ago, my kiddos visited and snuggled with their great grandma for the first time in four years. They, nor we, had no idea what this day would bring. Tonight, Violet is laboring out, surrounded by her children. She is wrapped in a quilt her mother made. The empty shells of mussels, clams, crabs and all sorts of other creatures rest on the beach down the hill from my new home.
The blackberries are turning. Transitioning. We will collect a few of the thousands and thousands and savor in their sweetness as long as we can... blackberry jam, blackberry dressing, blackberry smoothies, blackberries and yogurt, blackberry muffins... Many will fall to the ground. They will leave beautifully rich marks -- violet -- and then they will be gone. But today, Today, they are here. I am here - in Washington. And at least for today, I savored.
Paul's grandma is passing, and coincidentally... amazingly... thankfully, we are here.
We saw her today. Her mouth was open, her breathing was labored and her room smelled strong and familiar - like childbirth. She was a shell of the woman we saw just a few weeks ago. Today, she was there, but she wasn't, but she was. I get that. She was beautiful. I wonder if she is still here.
I'm on a hill, on an island, in Washington. Now I live on this island. I live up on this hill.
Yesterday after dinner, we went down to the beach. There were smooth stones and empty shells - remnants of lives once lived - everywhere. This is nothing like I've ever known or seen before. It's hard to describe what it feels like to be 32 years old and to experience the wonders and treasures of the sea for the first time.
Along the road and our beach and our town are bushes and bushes of blackberries. When we arrived last week, they were crimson and firm. Yet by yesterday, many had turned. They were plump and juicy and rich with color -- tart and so very sweet. Paul, the kids and I picked blackberries for nearly an hour. We reached past prickly bushes and collected three quarts of fresh fruit. I've never experienced this either.
Tonight we danced and cried and ate lasagna and blackberries with cousins and siblings. It's all new and beautiful and difficult and wonderful at once. I'm still marveling at the magical journey that brought us to this place and this moment.
I miss my family and my friends.
Just a few weeks ago, my kiddos visited and snuggled with their great grandma for the first time in four years. They, nor we, had no idea what this day would bring. Tonight, Violet is laboring out, surrounded by her children. She is wrapped in a quilt her mother made. The empty shells of mussels, clams, crabs and all sorts of other creatures rest on the beach down the hill from my new home.
The blackberries are turning. Transitioning. We will collect a few of the thousands and thousands and savor in their sweetness as long as we can... blackberry jam, blackberry dressing, blackberry smoothies, blackberries and yogurt, blackberry muffins... Many will fall to the ground. They will leave beautifully rich marks -- violet -- and then they will be gone. But today, Today, they are here. I am here - in Washington. And at least for today, I savored.
19 July 2009
sunday run
I just returned from my run.
It's the Sunday morning route I've run hundreds of times: down my street, across 108th, up through the office park, up and back down the killer hill, down to the trailhead, winding through the golf course, back across 108th, and a sprint back home.
I rose with the sun as I got out of bed this morning and realized that this old familiar run would be different. Today is my last Sunday in this house.
With strong, fast steps, as I ascended the killer Simms hill, quietly chanting my mantra of late - hills are my strength, hills are my strength, hills are my strength - I recalled the mid morning walks from my first summer here. Breathlessly, I once pushed the jog stroller in which my baby girl slept. There was a time when I could barely walk up this hill.
From its apex, I was warmed by the amber and gold cast by the rising sun. I saw, and I remembered. I see, and I remember.
I see the city, the mountains, the lake and my neighborhood. I see my home. I have logged many miles, laughed and cried many tears. I have dreamed dreams and prayed fervent prayers along this long, scenic route. I have lost myself and found myself again and again. My thirst has been quenched. My questions have been answered, and I have found peace in this place, with its valleys and its hills, its green grass, sprawling oak trees and colorful wildflowers. I am swifter and stronger than I once was. I am changed. I am thankful.
And now, I am back home. I sit in my old familiar chair - fortified and hidden by shrink-wrapped furniture and boxes. The walls are bare in this house that has become my home. It is familiar and unfamiliar at once. I think this is what they refer to as the beginning of the end. But it is no longer sadness that I feel. Rather, it is peace and pleasure and awe. It is time, and finally... finally, I feel ready.
It's the Sunday morning route I've run hundreds of times: down my street, across 108th, up through the office park, up and back down the killer hill, down to the trailhead, winding through the golf course, back across 108th, and a sprint back home.
I rose with the sun as I got out of bed this morning and realized that this old familiar run would be different. Today is my last Sunday in this house.
With strong, fast steps, as I ascended the killer Simms hill, quietly chanting my mantra of late - hills are my strength, hills are my strength, hills are my strength - I recalled the mid morning walks from my first summer here. Breathlessly, I once pushed the jog stroller in which my baby girl slept. There was a time when I could barely walk up this hill.
From its apex, I was warmed by the amber and gold cast by the rising sun. I saw, and I remembered. I see, and I remember.
I see the city, the mountains, the lake and my neighborhood. I see my home. I have logged many miles, laughed and cried many tears. I have dreamed dreams and prayed fervent prayers along this long, scenic route. I have lost myself and found myself again and again. My thirst has been quenched. My questions have been answered, and I have found peace in this place, with its valleys and its hills, its green grass, sprawling oak trees and colorful wildflowers. I am swifter and stronger than I once was. I am changed. I am thankful.
And now, I am back home. I sit in my old familiar chair - fortified and hidden by shrink-wrapped furniture and boxes. The walls are bare in this house that has become my home. It is familiar and unfamiliar at once. I think this is what they refer to as the beginning of the end. But it is no longer sadness that I feel. Rather, it is peace and pleasure and awe. It is time, and finally... finally, I feel ready.
30 May 2009
to notice
Lauren, Lisa and Juli,
You are three of the unexpected gifts I was telling you about yesterday. I am blessed and humbled to have you in my life, and I am grateful for the fabric and thread that bind us in friendship. Thank you for sharing life and dinner and tea (and perhaps someday, cookies, paint and wine) with me. My life is warmer because of you. I thank you.
I wrote this back in January. I wasn't sure what it was for back then, but now I see that it was for the three of you and for today. Happy Birthday, Sister...
To Notice.
Cutting wind blows just outside my window. Although bricks and glass and drywall and paint stand between us – although I can’t see it – I am certain it is there. It needs and wants to be known, to be heard. It interrupts. It howls. It unearths groans and creaks. Even from the warmth of inside, I can feel it. Outside, a lone tree stripped of its leaves, its life and its color shutters in its wake and speaks of its presence. A distant chime sings of its existence. Just outside my window, the air is frigid and cold.
I just returned from its grip in a bitter, face-to-face exchange. I left the warmth of within and ventured outside on a trek from chair to mailbox back to chair. The wind pierced me, and quickly cut to my core - deeper and still deeper, with each step. Ordinarily, I would have been undone by now. But I am not.
I am back inside, and I feel warm.
Last week, my friend, Lisa made me a pillow. It is simple and lovely - covered in floral fabric and neatly stitched. I love this pillow. I really love it. I love it because my friend made it for me. She thought of me, and as far as I can tell, for no reason in particular, she made it for me.
My pillow is covered in flowers and filled with rice. It holds heat. Lisa instructed me to put my pillow in the microwave, to heat it for a few minutes and then to bring it with me to bed. “It will keep you warm,” she explained.
Like most people with whom I have spent more than a few minutes, Lisa knows that I often feel cold. Fair enough; Lisa has noted the obvious about me. But the truth is, she doesn’t know me all that well. We have only been friends for a short time. Nonetheless, Lisa made me a lovely pillow filled with rice. She made me a microwavable pillow that holds heat and smells good – like home-cookin’ and sweet spices. Lisa noted, and she notice. She noticed that I wear sweaters in the summer time. She noticed that sometimes I wear gloves inside. She noticed that I come alive when I am wrapped in a blanket or I am parked in front of a fire or a space heater, or when I am sipping a cup of tea. So she stitched two pieces of fabric together, filled the pocket with rice and the contents of a Good Earth teabag, she sealed it shut and for no reason in particular, she gave it to me. In the simplest of gestures, she moved me and schooled me on the substance of love.
To see. To notice. To care, and then to act; that is love.
What Lisa doesn’t know is that sometimes the cold is debilitating. There have been days in the last year – especially at this time of year – that I am unable to function or even to move because I feel so damn cold. I go to bed cold, and I wake up cold, but I have learned to adjust – I wear socks and sweaters. I take extra showers and sleep with extra blankets. I sip soup, and I sip tea. I cope.
Lisa couldn’t have known of the cold I would face last night and today, when she acted in love on the thought of me that came to her mind. She gave me more than she will ever realize in a simple, intentional act of kindness. She gave me my first night of absolutely contented sleep in the last year, last night. She brought sweetness to my sleep in the faint aroma of Good Earth tea – my absolute favorite – that emanates from my pillow. The warmth and beauty and peace of the pause that comes in sipping a cup of hot tea – the precious respite from the worry and noise and stress and chaos of life that comes with a cup of tea – she unknowingly brought that peace into my sleep last night.
And now, as I sit here – sweater-less and sockless – secure from the unforgiving wind that howls just outside my window, I feel warm. The pillow that now rests at my feet radiates warmth that penetrates every fiber in the fabric of my soul. It smells hearty and sweet. I am utterly and totally moved by fabric, rice, tea and thread.
My friend noticed, and I feel loved.
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