FINDING A PLACE TO STAND

August 16th

When I sit down to write for This is the Moment, I include the date, and it’s a shock every time. Partly because the summer is entering its last month and I haven’t really experienced it. It escaped my grasp. I’ve been tied to this new house and its needs, and also lost within its walls, away from the oppressive heat, while part of me has been floating, hovering above my life like a lost spirit.

It’s a strange feeling to be made so captive by reality—separation, relocation and cancer—that there seems to be nothing to settle upon, nowhere to gain purchase. I won’t be restarting my teaching contracts, or zipping around in my shiny green Mazda 2 nearly as much as is usual for me. I’ll mostly be shuttling by train and metro between islands named CHUM CLINICS, CHEMOTHERAPY and CLSC. Those spaces on the calendar will be marked with the biggest X’s and dominate the landscape.

But most of my living can’t happen there. I haven’t quite figured out what my time there will be and what life elements I’ll find. For the most part, the CHUM is a state-of-the-art space that climbs up into Montreal’s skyline and offers almost everyone within its windowed areas the joy of looking out at the bright, beautiful city and the great river that’s wrapped around it. But it’s also the space where medicine is practiced with ferocious intensity and intention.

The view from a waiting room at the CHUM (Centre Hospitalier de l’université de Montréal)

When I begin chemo—which should happen on August 22nd—I’ll be in untested waters, for me that is. I’ve accompanied both my father and mother through theirs (events that occurred 25 years apart), and it has left its imprint, a shadow on me. As I watched the stellar nurses puncture my parents’ veins at each session, sending the poisons with inhuman names into their veins (the word Carboplatin still makes me shudder), I felt revulsion, for sure: I think that it’s the first, overwhelming and sensible reaction to have. But as I watched them and the other patients in their own recliners lean into the experience, the stakes became more easily visible. These were areas where sick but healthy people (the dichotomy that cancer creates, in which the medical teams treating you refer to you as both healthy and cancerous is one of the most perplexing to patients—it certainly was for my mum and has been so far, for me) have learned to live with their fear of needles, of pain, of indignity, of losing their hair, of losing their vitality, of losing their ability to eat, taste, walk, laugh, experience pleasure and engage with the world; of losing all of their beauty, and their grip on life as they’ve previously known it, and of ever having a carefree moment again…and yet resolutely accept what lies ahead.

There’s such strength in resignation and forbearance. Cancer isn’t all, or only, about fighting. I think it’s also about making peace.

 You can beat this!

Fight like hell!

Kick the crap out of it!

A positive attitude is so important!

Go at it with guns a-blazing!

 I’ve been cheered on already by so many people (again, thank you, thank you) with chants like these. I understand them. I do. But I don’t know if I’m capable of manufacturing this state of mind.

When I think of what’s happening insidiously inside me, I feel compassion for my body. Poor thing. It’s struggling with this tumour that has sent emissaries out into my bloodstream and has been doing so very quietly for a long time, exacting very little from me so far. Fighting this cancer, waging war on it, fills me with images of damage and destruction; of laying waste to parts of me that are my body. This isn’t where my mind wants to go.

Just in time, my sister Marie arrived in town 4 days ago (she’s on a flight home to Vancouver as I write) supercharged with encouraging energy and bearing gifts from her very recent trip to Morocco.

I felt shy opening them because we’ve agreed not to exchange presents any more. But she knew what she was doing.

Gifts from my sister Marie

Everything I opened was made in Morocco, and was a beautiful bright pink. Among the bounty, there was a necklace and leather bracelet which carry the symbol of the Hamsa or Hand of Fatima, a multicultural, multi-faith symbol of protection, and several other fuscia gifts. Marie explained to me that in Morocco, pink is a symbol of healing.

I immediately put on the Hand of Fatima necklace and bracelet, placed the cushion on my bed, and set the scarf and pens right next to it, in the hope, I think, that the message they carried would linger in my room, and settle in a quiet place in my psyche.

By an eerie coincidence, and not at all in character, the colour I chose for my bedroom in our new home is unapologetic pink. Not a speck of pink had ever graced a single space in any of my previous homes.

Love, protection and healing.

It’s among these that I choose to stand.

My room in Hudson

I’d never used the word destiny before. What is it? A coagulation of your hunger to find a path, to find a place, to set one foot after another. To come inside out: to show your guts, everything you are made of.

            If this was true about destiny, cancer was my ally on that course. It pushed me out beyond any boundary I had known. It threw me right into the pool of fear, stripped me down to animal survival. Could I face that polarity of life and death and find another place to stand?”

This is one of my favourite passages from a book by Natalie Goldberg, Let the Whole Thundering World Come Home, A Memoir. Also given to me very recently by my wonderful friend Gail.

 

 

A GOLDEN, FLUID, PERFECT PLACE TO BE

July 28th, 2018

Yesterday was an uneven day, and not the first one I’ve experience of late. As my emotional energy waxes and wanes unpredictably, so does my morale. We’re not talking about dramatic mood swings, but of something more interior. One minute, I’m all there, fully in the moment, and the next, I’m inside the bubble of darkness that is my cancer.

That’s how things are right now, and though it seems obvious that it should be so, it has also ambushed me.

Perhaps the darkness is always there for all of us —even the most Zen; even the most spiritually enlightened; even the most insouciant. No amount of meditation and yoga can eliminate the fear, the sadness, the pain that also make us who we are.

Johnstone, John; Entering an Innocent Room; Arts Council Collection; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/entering-an-innocent-room-63670

Recently though, the bubbles of despondency have caught me unprepared because up to now (I’m so fortunate) into almost every day, so many seeds of love, presence and joy have been sown, expertly, by my sons and many others who care about me and whom I love, that I was blinded. My two best friends in the world came to visit last Wednesday, arriving at 2 pm and staying till 10 pm (I’d forgotten just how easy it is for us to lose ourselves in companionship); Thursday, my husband came to spend the middle part of the day exploring my new neighbourhood with me; and Friday, Christian organized a fourth D&D quest with Simon and their (and now my) friends—a day that began just after lunch and ended well past 10:30 pm.

And yet still, pressed into each of those days were moments of concentrated anguish that brought me to tears and to the edge of something vast and inconsolable. So far, I’ve rescued myself from that fall.

There’s a kind of weeping that demands all of the body’s energy: it hits without warning and quickly swells, and there you are, your heart pounding, your throat choked and your chest under such a terrible pressure that it’s all you can do not to surrender to its anchor-like pull and just gasp and heave and sob and let the snot run and clog your breathing.

A few times, I’ve let some tears slide down my cheeks, let them flow just a little, in private and as quietly as possible. They often come at day’s end, at bedtime, and to me, they’re a little like the flares that sinking ships send up into the sky. They’re an acknowledgement of a vast and terrible peril, and of the sense of isolation that is so often its concomitant. They’re the expression of fact—a reluctant S.O.S.

The last time we were at the surgeon’s office, my son Simon asked her if she could perhaps prescribe a sedative for me; something to ward off the stress hormones that make everything worse; something that would help me to sleep. His presence of mind has given me the reassurance of a good night’s sleep, no matter the shadow of what lies ahead.

I haven’t let myself cry for very long yet because of its ill effects on me: my wobbly heart, my flagging hope, the lowering of my clenched fists. Right now, crying makes me feel fragile. Shaken. Despondent. It amplifies the wrong things. It makes nothing better. It releases little.

It’s too soon for crying. There’s so much to do, so much ahead. There’s living as long as possible. There’s trying to survive as long as possible. Learning and accepting the difference between the two is what’s been sending me into the darkness of the cancer bubble.

On the day that I had my first and only colonoscopy, just as the procedure was to begin, the gastroenterologist said to me that in a few seconds, I would feel the effects of a sedative the nurse was preparing to inject into my I.V. catheter and sure enough, almost instantly, it felt like a warm, liquid blanket was slowly covering me, and I was completely at peace, despite what my eyes could see on the monitor as the endoscope entered my body.

It was the most extraordinary sensation. Not in the least euphoric but more like being drawn into your mother’s arms as a small child and held there in the warmth, with the feeling that no harm can ever come to you. A golden, fluid, perfect place to be. I remember noting somewhere in the paperwork I was given after the procedure, along with the results, that I had just experienced my first dose of fentanyl (its dangers are now very clear to me).

It’s been a tough week. Facing my new reality is proving to be harsher than I thought. But in the midst of this confusion, on a shaky day, I experienced a moment of grace that began with the appearance of a letter in the mailbox, in the form of a striking, square envelope, with edges striped red and white—the telltale markings of air mail (such a rare occurrence). It sits propped up next to me as I write: it doesn’t feel like those thin blue air mail envelopes we used when I was a young. Instead, its paper is thick.

Leslie and Sue’s card

When I first handled it, I could also feel the thickness of the card inside. With no return address anywhere on its surface, and my address written in bold, block letters on the front, I hesitated, but eventually decided that this must be from Leslie Stuart Tate, a man I’ve never met in person, but who is most certainly one of the kindest human beings I know, and my very dear friend.

As soon as I’d opened it, I knew that I was right. Greeting me was the wonderful, whimsical image of an ailing pug on the front of the card (his wee face still speaks to me), but really, the magic was inside. There was the marvellous personality and expressivity of the handwriting of a man with whom I’ve only ever corresponded on line, explaining to me that he had waited to write to me till he was sure I was at my new house (there is so much of him in his handwriting, I’ve found myself running my fingers gently over the straggly and bold cursive letters).

In the hand of my friend Leslie

And there was the matter-of-fact way in which, right from the first sentence, he fell into an account of Mr. Trump’s recent visit to England, some much happier news concerning his wife Sue’s family, and a recent film he much enjoyed.

Also inside the envelope was a very small book made of thick, unbleached paper, and featuring a most arresting cover image by artist Stanley Donwood. At only 34 pages, in a generous font, it’s actually a beautifully packaged essay by Robert Macfarlane—it is a melding of form and substance—titled The Gifts of Reading.

 This lovely piece of writing, by an author that I did not know, cast a spell over me. Leslie’s choice was so deliberate and so perfect that holding it in my hands and reading its first few lines transformed the moment and, I think, the afternoon. The Gifts of Writing is a meditation on the meaning of life and the ways we choose to give. It’s about the wonder and mystery of books, and what it can mean when they are shared, over and over. It’s about how books are repositories not only of wisdom and creativity, but also of a way of life, a way of being in the world, a way of loving and a way of leaving the world.

Leslie’s gift helped me to feel that he understood what my days of battling the darkness might be like, and he reminded me of the vastness of riches that surround me: a happy home, beloved sons, a beautiful extended family, friends from everywhere I’ve walked in life, the writing I do and share, the reading…the giving and receiving.

The warmest of feelings spread through me, amplified by the fact that both he and his wife Sue had signed the card, right after the words: We love you.

I see now that a different sort of bubble had formed around me: a golden, perfect place to be, pushing out the darkness.

I realized as I sat quietly, holding the book in my hands as one would a talisman, that I felt this same glow the day I received my scan results from the colorectal surgeon at the CHUM: “On a eu des surprises, et ce ne sont pas de bonnes surprises.” (translated : « There were surprises, and they’re not good surprises”).

I don’t expect to ever receive worse news in my life (please, may it be so for the sake of all those I love so much), and yet that day, with Simon and Jeremy and Christian and his love, Vickie, beside me at the hospital, at the coffee shop where we met afterwards, on the train in which we travelled home together (Jeremy getting off just a few stops later), and for the rest of that evening, the force of their love, the glow of it, the warmth of it, the effect of pure saturation that it had on me…it’s what pulled me back from the awfulness of that day. From the shadow.

One truth eclipsing another:

You will die far too soon…

You are among the luckiest people in the world for having so many gifts showered upon you.

McGinn, Martin; Well; Rugby Art Gallery and Museum Art Collections; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/well-54817

 

NOTE: Robert Macfarlane’s essay is also available online, in the Paris Review, with a slightly different title: “The Gifts of Reading Are Many- Robert Macfarlane reflects on what you give when you give a book”.

THINGS TO CONSIDER WHEN YOU’VE RECENTLY LEARNED WHAT I’VE LEARNED…

With my son Simon, at the CHUM (Centre Hospitalier Universitaire de Montréal)

1. Looking at your face close up in a mirror, like when you’re putting on makeup, you expect to see something in your eyes, or maybe a change in your skin, but really all you see is the unadulterated, adulterated you. The eyes that look back are knowing. And that makes you feel estranged from yourself, and maybe also sad.

2. You are as fetching and as fully You as you were on any preceding day.

3. Remember that no one else can tell. Cancer has no smell (to humans), no sound. Cancer is part of the person you’ve always been.

4. Your life HAS changed its track. Your relationship with time, your lifespan, is no longer conceptual—not just something “out there” that eventually runs out on everyone. Your horizon is different than everyone else’s (or at least, that’s how you feel, because you know nothing of most other people’s lives but you’ve just learned a lot more about your own). You think of them as looking far ahead, believing, as they should, that they will not die of the cancer that multiplies inside you, but of something else. They believe they’ll be spared, and why not? You did. You hoped. But cancer has torn a whole bunch of pages off your life’s calendar, and you don’t know how many years, or months or even days…

With my dear friend Mario, at my recent birthday party

5. You shouldn’t hide your illness from the world. Cancer, like most profoundly life-altering experiences—losing your job, separating or divorcing, the death of a child, parent, spouse, or friend—is an extraordinary filter. You fear the effects of sharing, and you’re wrong. Your suffering is meaningful not just to yourself, but to others. Cancer gives those who love you, who care about you, who just simply like you—even strangers whose empathy response cannot be helped—an opportunity to show love, to give reassurance, to nurture, to feel close to you, to feel the most truthful emotions of life: fear, sadness, insecurity, vulnerability, need, gratitude, intimacy, loneliness and most of all connection.

Walking back to our new home at dusk, with Christian

6. Don’t walk around feeling sick because you’ve learned that you’re sick. You’ve likely been this way for a while (in my case, probably for years). Shake off this self-conditioning. Remember the insane, hectic, busy, active life you led just weeks ago? Well, you’re the same person who did all that. You have lots of vital energy and if you’re not in any kind of significant pain or distress, then the only thing that has changed is your awareness.

7. Don’t deny a single feeling you might have. I’m pretty sure that will only hurt more, and I’m convinced that each is appropriate. You’ll find yourself ambushed by sadness especially—a tight throat full of tears and pain that catches you in a manner that seems random, but which is often linked to flashes of true insight. Like when you hear people speak of travel plans and sense that this may now be forever beyond your reach; or when a discussion’s taking place about which quality of paint to use in the bedrooms of your new house and you realize that you will perhaps be gone long before the paint loses its glow, so who cares, and what does it matter? ; or when at day’s end, or maybe in the quiet of the house in the morning before anyone has awoken, you live intensely alone with the painful knowledge of your cancer, and resist it just a split second, wanting to disappear into the magical thinking that could make the fearful, difficult future go away and turn everything back to what it was.

8. Train your mind to smile, precisely at such moments. Train your mouth to turn its corners up. Think warm thoughts. Think about gratitude. Think about everything, everyone you have NOW.

 To give to the future the weight of NOW is to be lost over and over.

 

 

 

THE WEIGHT OF NOW

June 28th 2018

As I move through the weeks and months leading me away from the configuration of the life that has been mine, more or less, for almost forty years, here are some of the things I’m learning:

To give to the future the weight of NOW is to be lost over and over.

Now, a week away from leaving daily life with my husband in this house that has been ours for decades, I find myself looking back at the years that brought us here. Were we meant to arrive at this point inevitably? If so, is this cause for sadness?

No, that would be wrong. Ours is a long and winding narrative that, gathered up in my memory and in my very bones, is a whole universe. By some strange miracle of quantum mechanics perhaps, each and every decision we made, separately and together, each and every action and reaction, brought us to now.

If you believe in fate, then I am, we are, where we were meant to be; and if you don’t, then it was all so much bigger and incalculable than we are—my husband, my children and every human network sprouting from us or connected to us—that we were only ever meant to do our best and keep moving forward.

When I turn my gaze toward the days to come, I’m more aware now than I’ve ever been that any future I project myself into—in a new house, with a new version of my family, with new traditions and patterns, in a new town—is not my future, but rather a cinematic narrative fashioned in my mind, my predictive brain doing what it does best: imagining what might be in the simplest, most familiar images.

Most of me lives for this imminent future—the island of a life that’s there for me if I can only reach it— but a smaller, hardened part still grapples with the reality of it. In seven days, I shall have left my house on Laurelwood. So much has happened to bring me to the brink of this new life and yet, so much stands before me, casting shadow, that even this small patch of future still feels unreal.

Illness clears the road.

What’s real is my illness. It’s now.

And the network of people—family, friends, all my loved ones, who are here, now.

Their presence has been a constant in my life, not subject to hours and seasons in the way that most things are.

Their love thrums steadily and more and more loudly these days.

I’m so grateful to them for it.

In a message to a friend the other day, I likened the feeling of connection their love creates to the network of roots that link the trees, hidden away underground, hundreds, thousands of ramifications that bind them, allowing them to communicate and to nurture each other.

Illness clears the calendar of imagined, possible things. What’s left is the inevitability of medical appointments and treatments…and spaces in between. There’s no need, yet, to try to fill those spaces.

For now, I fill boxes and clear rooms. I staged my house for sale, and now I wait for my cancer to be staged. Who could have predicted it?

Syed, Shaan; The Future Stage 5; Goldsmiths, University of London; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/the-future-stage-5-224662

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN THE BODY SAYS NO

A few minutes from home, on a gorgeous June day

This blog is one of my favourite places to come to, but you wouldn’t know it in recent months, would you? I’m sorry about that.

I find myself in a corner—not of my making and certainly not of yours. Your presence out there creates a vast space. It’s a place where so many things seem possible.

But I’m so blocked, it’s awful. In BREAKING OPEN THE SKY, I told you parts of the story, but I know now that I have to tell some of the rest of it, or forsake coming to REEF, because I find myself unable to write anything else to you until I do. Because I’m all of a piece.

There’s an elephant in this room I share with you that sits alongside everything you know about me so far and about how I see the world. Elephant really is the right metaphor, because once in your life, it overwhelms everything else—at least at first.

What you need to know—in as few details as possible—which is coincident with my moving away to a new place and separating from my husband, is the fact that I have cancer, officially diagnosed only a few weeks ago, though of course, I’ve felt that something was wrong with my body far longer than that. Two weeks isn’t much time, and yet still, I feel that I’ve travelled a great distance since then.

Today. A perfect day (taken June 21st, on my doorstep)

The diagnosis is very serious. There can be no pretence that my very life isn’t at stake. And at the same time, there’s an abundance of hope. The nuts and bolts of my situation are that in a few days, I’ll be scanned and MRI’d and checked out in every way possible; that once my cancer has been “staged” (once we know how advanced it is), I’ll start weeks of radiation treatment; then I’ll be operated on and then, perhaps, receive chemo, although that’s still only a possibility (one that I won’t even think about until I have to).

Written out on paper, this looks bleak as hell. But it isn’t. Know this, because it matters. Know that I’m being treated in one of the best medical centres in the world for my illness. Know that the surgeon (a brilliant woman and extraordinary human being) I met just 10 days ago looked at me with the truest, most direct gaze and said that we would be heading toward curing my cancer. Know that she said this with genuine confidence and optimism. Know that the blood work that came back two days ago was very encouraging. Know that aside from the symptoms of my illness, I show no other signs of ill health, and look pretty great.

There. That’s the surface of this experience. It’s the generic.  But beneath it is the very personal narrative of living with illness—with this particular illness. I don’t propose to turn REEF into a cancer diary, but I can’t ignore it either as it has, in important ways, hijacked my life.

Version 2

During the first moments and days after the diagnosis was delivered by the gastroenterologist, each hour was about bouncing along waves: some of emotion, some of shock. Her face (yes, I’ve been treated by two female doctors so far) was so serious—deadly serious, really. I was with my son Simon and with my husband in her office, and she frightened us with her intensity—with the urgency of her directives.

My thoughts and feelings that overrode everything else at that time were of tremendous regret—at having neglected myself, foolishly, stupidly, for so long—and painful guilt, of the kind that comes from the implacable truth that what is hurting me is also already leaching into the lives of the people who love me most, and causing them suffering. These combined to create a deep sadness that threatened to erase every other consideration…for a while.

What was absent, what IS absent, is shame and embarrassment. Though I now carry the awareness of my cancer with me every second, I don’t feel tainted by it. This comes as a great surprise to me. I wrote to a dear friend earlier this week that it seems that whatever self-pity or squeamishness or revulsion I might have felt about being sick with cancer when I was a young woman, is gone. I don’t even think of the tumour, the illness, as something alien. These cells were produced by my body, and they are part of me for now. Just as my gall-bladder malfunctioned for years, so are these cells malfunctioning and wounding me now.

I’ve often seen people respond to their diagnosis of cancer with an immediate, overwhelming desire to get it out of their body as soon as possible, as though the very thought of it makes their skin crawl. But I’m surprised to realize that I don’t feel quite this way. I will be happy when the mechanics of my digestion are able to resume more normal functioning, but I don’t feel that I’m living with an invader (though I fully understand the meaning of metastasis). I’m not sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing, but I feel less anxious, which helps.

The diagnosis of this cancer swept all of the scribbles off my agenda. I will not be able to work for a year. This is a certainty. Having to cancel classes, knowing that I will not have the richness of adult education and the joy of daily contact with my students in my life for at least a year, is a loss that I will feel deeply. I do already. There will only be targeted, fixed dates in my agenda during the next few months: the dates of treatments and tests, and of course the date of our move, July 5th. After that, all of the radiation treatment dates will be blocked. And then the date of surgery. These are the new signposts of my life. These are the brass tacks.

But already, so much has filled these agenda hours, each symbolic rectangle of time has been coloured in hues of green, blue, red, white and everything in between. These are the shades of love that have illuminated the past weeks. I have been at the receiving end of an outpouring of love and support—from my sons, husband, family, friends, students and neighbours— such as I never thought possible. Understand that, as always, this is everything. Know that love and support provide the alchemy that changes pain and fear and pessimism into acceptance and hope. Know that it matters. And know that right here, right now, it’s why I feel happy. Apprehensive, concerned, shaken, fragile, but genuinely happy to be alive, and fortunate, despite recent events.

 

About this video: Shot this morning, such a singularly gorgeous morning: even the sun feels upstaged.
The leaves speak and the birds answer.
(yes, that’s the sun pushing up off the horizon, flickering)

*********

I’ve reminded myself and others that the “diagnosed” me is the same person who packed 250 boxes (with help!) and got this house ready for sale at super-speed just a few months ago while teaching full-time, and did all of those other things that have made up my life for years…while sick with cancer. As my surgeon said to me: cancer and I have likely been roommates for 5-10 years. It’s good to remember this. We walk with shadow every day: we’re simply made to look towards the light.

My cancer has reminded me of a book I read a few years ago, written by Gabor Maté, a palliative care specialist, psychotherapist, and caregiver for people who are living on the street, titled When the Body Says No. It came to mind almost the second I heard that I was seriously sick. It explores “the intimate connection between mind, body, and spirit through life stories and intimate interviews with dozens of people who have lived, died, and sometimes overcome chronic illnesses”. It speaks of “the cancer personality”.

There’s a deep lesson for me hinted at in the pages of Maté’s book. It’s a lesson I had already begun learning these last few years (a bit late) about self-love; about boundaries; about accepting one’s value as a human being; about the limits of what can be absorbed into a body; and finally, about the fact that receiving is the crucial concomitant of giving.

On June 6th, when we got home from the gastroenterologist’s, my son Christian sat with me right here at the dining room table, and, with the loveliest smile on his face, and looking right into my eyes said:

“Well, Mum, this is the moment.”

And when I said: “What moment?”

He replied: “The moment when every bit of love you’ve ever given; every kindness; every soothing kiss or hug; every act of patience and presence…this is when it all comes back to you tenfold.”

What a beautiful thing to say.

Simon, Christian, Jeremy, Sylvain, Anne, Mum,  Loulou, Lise, Cindy, Gail, Vickie, Marie, Danielle, Ann, Patricia F, Sari, Rana, Patty B, Karen, Madeleine, Céline A., Marie-Claude, Mario, Michel, Leslie, Cate, Mira, Mark, Armina, Ben, Fanny, Catherine, Louis-Marie, Luc, Denyse, Marie-Hélène, Sophie, Anne-Marie, Charles, Mary, Charlotte, Debbie, Judy, Michelle K, Julie, Donna…

THANK YOU.

MERCI.

Nothing but blue skies… June 21st, near my house

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BREAKING OPEN THE SKY

I’m back.

That’s the best I can do for an opener.

Until last Tuesday, I hadn’t written a word in two months; hadn’t posted anything here on REEF since February 10th. But the time has come. Except that I’m all jammed up, very much in I-don’t-know-where-to-begin territory.

In part, this is because REEF isn’t a diary. Though it’s deeply personal, I mean for it to be something that extends beyond me—always beyond. But these past months have been the culmination of a very personal odyssey.

Not everything written should be shared, and so I sit here feeling the push to write and the reflex to hold back. It doesn’t sit well with me.

Last fall, in a piece that appeared on author and friend Leslie Stuart Tate’s website, I wrote that:

I see myself as an emotional writer, and believe that my writing works best and reaches my reader more truthfully when I’m able to draw from the emotional climate of my life at any given moment to help me make sense of my thoughts and concerns—which seems like a huge contradiction given that I’ve been told many times that I’m too analytical (my osteopath constantly scolds me for being too much “up inside my head”!).

I’m happy I came up with this for Leslie, because I think it just may be true. It explains what happens when emotional reality overwhelms the space inside me and my ability to step back.  What happens is silence.

Here’s what I’m willing to share—what’s necessary, to make way for the rest.

In the last five months, my husband and I have accepted that we must separate, after thirty-seven years of marriage and our entire adult lives together. Is this irrevocable? We don’t know. Time will tell. There is still deep and abiding love between us.

This is an outcome that was years in the making, of course, and by late last fall, we could both see the fork in the road ahead. No matter what the future holds for us, this decision means a series of endings. Life as we’ve lived it for three and half decades has come to an end. Our time in this house—our first and only house—is almost over. Life as Michelle et Sylvain, which has been all we’ve known since I was seventeen and he, nineteen and a half, will soon cease.

And so, over the past five months, we’ve ridden an emotional roller coaster whose ups, downs, frights, lurches and dramas belong to us alone.

You don’t have to know the details of our life together and the places where we went wrong, the pain and anxiety that follows us into each new day, to understand that in our small lives, separation has set off a seismic shift.

I’ve not been writing because each day, for so many months, has been weighed down by the implacable fact of ongoing deconstruction, and the fullness of it, that has kept me saturated in an anxious state of emotion, of watchfulness, and of wanting to salvage as much as possible.

And yet, on our families’ trees, my husband and I have helped grow new branches—three living sons and two grandchildren so far: new connections that will continue to grow together and also sprout outward. There’s no stopping this thing we started in adolescence.

I’ve not written because in addition to my full-time teaching, my husband and I, with the help of our sons, have put ourselves through the unforgiving, almost clinical undertaking of preparing our house for sale: what, in the business, is referred to as “staging” our house.

It’s a process that took us about six weeks (I don’t know if that’s a world record but it feels like it should be). Working together, we filled over two-hundred boxes with all of the stuff (books, mostly) that we want to bring into the next phase of our lives. They now sit in a storage unit. On hold. We threw out so much that we had to call the city to send a garbage truck over. My husband repainted rooms and fixed the small broken things that unhappiness had caused him, us, to neglect and let go for years.

We transformed our house into a series of clean, clear spaces from which we were as absent as possible. This process of staging, of excising yourself from your own home, is exhausting, demoralizing, cleansing and…therapeutic. With our sons’ help, my husband and I unburied ourselves.

And then our house went on the market. And sold almost overnight.

A young couple will soon make it theirs. They’ll say: It’s ours, but just like us, and the three families who lived here before us, they’re just passing through, their ownership of the property one of civilization’s most entrenched delusions.

They say they loved it from the moment they saw it. I learned that they came twice in one day to see it: once in the morning, then again in late afternoon. They wrote us a letter to say that it’s a house that they can grow into and grow old together in; that they love the natural light that fills it; that from the moment they walked through the front door, it felt like home to them. They say it will make them happy.

Our house in a snowstorm

Since then, I’ve found it easier to let go of this cozy house that, in truth, was filled with happiness too. I look outward, and so does my husband. Our sights are on the horizon. Like everything else in the Universe, we’re on a trajectory taking us away from where we are now.

We are not trapped or locked up in these bones. No, no. We are free to change. And love changes us. And if we can love one another, we can break open the sky.”
― Walter MosleyBlue Light

You’re always you, and that don’t change, and you’re always changing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
― Neil GaimanThe Graveyard Book

 

Rhapsody

Poet William Stanley Braithwaite (1878-1962)

From Poets.org, I receive in my email Inbox, every morning, a poem. It’s such a simple thing to subscribe to.

What I know of poets and poetry is scant, and the luxury of these daily deposits is a much greater pleasure than I expected . The poems I receive are sometimes all angles and sharp edges. Some are cryptic and impenetrable to me. Sometimes, they annoy me and I send them to a small, merciless death in my Trash. There are days when a concept or an emotion in one of these poems grabs me by the throat for reasons I cannot explain—perhaps on another day, it would have passed me by—and finds its way into me. Sometimes I know exactly why I do, or don’t, like the poem. In either case, the possibility of such a visceral, immediate response is bracing.

This is the one I was sent this morning. I can share it because it’s part of the public domain. It’s so short! How could it have lifted me so easily? Well, it did.

Perhaps it was the lovely trinity of “time and change and sorrow”: three words to define life itself.

Or the fact that one’s heart is “the entrance-place of wonders”…

It doesn’t matter. It moved me to post it here. Enjoy, and do visit the Poets.org website.

RHAPSODY

By William Stanley Braithwaite (1904)

I am glad daylong for the gift of song,
For time and change and sorrow;
For the sunset wings and the world-end things
Which hang on the edge of to-morrow.
I am glad for my heart whose gates apart
Are the entrance-place of wonders,
Where dreams come in from the rush and din
Like sheep from the rains and thunders.

unknown artist; The Gates of the Diogryth; Gilbert White’s House & The Oates Museum; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/the-gates-of-the-diogryth-25543