|August 27, 2013|
It's a beautiful, sun soaked, morning here at the brown house with the green front door. Just finished hanging my first load of wash out on the line to dry. The pajama bottoms and button down shirts bend and bow in the morning breeze...Their own salutation to the sun. All feels so normal until I come back into the house to see my Addy napping at Ten Thirty in the morning. I pause on the threshold to gather a convoy of clothespins Ollie has left in his wake. And then I hear it. The sounds of children. A whole flock of them... laughing and running and lapping life up. I conclude that it must be recess. I put the clothespins back in their pail, close the back door and...ache. Ache from it all Jane. Every last bit of it.
We've spent the last few days in a briar patch it would seem. The prelude to Chemotherapy as well as its aftermath poking this way and that. We're scratched and scabbed...But, none more so than Adler. How weary he is of it all.
As I type, an image comes to mind. An image of childhood swimming. Really, it's more like "flipping" than swimming. Do you remember doing that as a child Jane? Climbing on your Dads submerged knees, perching there for a moment, waiting for the launch light to be lit. And then, much to your merriment, the countdown ensued. Three, Two, One....LIFTOFF!!! And, suddenly, you were one with Apollo. You'd have just enough time to break through the atmosphere, wave to your fans, and plug your nose before gravity got the best of you. And, if you were lucky, the Universe (namely your Dad), would hit the repeat button again and again and again.
I began to think of how fully committed I was to this endeavor. In my recollection, not once, do I remember getting half way through a aerial somersault only to suddenly take into consideration the perceivable dangers...yelling for my Dad to "Stop before someone gets hurt!" Or, as my Mom would often say: "Glenn, someone is going to end up crying." Nope. Didn't happen. I was committed to seeing my space odyssey through. Come what may.
Recently, or, perhaps not so recently at all, I have become painfully aware of "verbal gravity." There I am, securing myself to the anchor of friendships and relationships. I'm perched and ready. I'm feeling brave. I'm feeling committed. My toes are curled as if to outwit gravity. The countdown begins. Three, Two, One, LIFTOFF!!! I'm free, I'm raw, I'm vulnerable, I'm messy and unmatched. I'm unraveling at my very seams. And, it feels so damn great! So great in fact, that I try to take a mental polaroid. A fleeting emotional snapshot to remind me of this place. This wonderfully holy place. And, then, there is gravity. More specifically, verbal gravity. Even before I have rung out my swimsuit, it begins. The dread, the fear, the grasping at my hemline...searching for Two more inches of skirt to cover my exposed self. I'm raw. I'm real. I'm terrified.
September is Childhood cancer awareness month. Recently, a friend (and fellow cancer Mom), shared that she planned to give up something she found comfort in throughout the month of September as a way to honor and soulfully acknowledge the bravery of her child. Other moms took note and linked arms with her. Some shared they would give up chocolate. Others, coffee or Diet soda. As for me, I plan to shed my "safe" shadow. To live wholly and raw and un-edited. To let my mascara run and walk around the block in my house-coat if my heart so desires. And, if my emotional cap should happen to untwist itself...exposing an overly carbonated slew of pent up heart struggles...well, then, I'll just curl my toes all the tighter, take a deep breath and let the count down commence.
"Come take a trip on
Come sail away
to the stars."
Three, Two, One,