I’m donating it. It will be the end. It’s sad for me, but it’s necessary. Lightening up so I can fly in a new direction. And the one who receives it will be oh-so-happy. Tomorrow, they may be here to pick up everything….
Today the library had a free shred event. Instead of waiting for the one at the credit union in September, I gathered up what papers and files I could within a 2-hour time frame. Notes, receipts, doctor evaluations, prescription papers, cd’s of the brain, head, chest, kidneys, and more. Years of stuff are gone now.
I was reminded today that even writing a word or two per day makes me a writer.
There. That feels better. Seriously. It’s a start.
I was asked what I wanted. I said I wanted him to be comfortable and feel peaceful. Now I extend that wish to his soul in his death. Rest in peace, Hank. Love.
I really need rest.
On the other hand, the overwhelming pressure keeps me from noticing my heart pain so much.
I literally have a heavy heart now. It’s funny how reality brings understanding of an old cliche such as this.
Less than a month ago, before test results were complete, I didn’t know whether I had a death or a life sentence. “Is the last time I will bear witness to the autumn leaves?” “What if I have only two months to live?” “Oh dear! I’m not ready yet!” These were some of the thoughts racing through my head and heart. Three of my acquaintances had passed away in the last three years under similar circumstances. Then, after a time, I learned that my cancer hasn’t yet spread, and there’s a treatment which I will undergo. I have been given a new lease on life, and I take nothing for granted. I’m also putting my affairs in order. I’m very lucky. I’ll be there for others who are scared, too.
A new preface: I’ve been lately thinking about The Weaver. The Weaver, in my view, is more generally applicable to an epitaph than to a life lesson. Life is largely about choices. Though I don’t dispute the message when there’s nothing to be done about the direction and outcome of a situation, I actually don’t believe that such morose resignation is always justified. Indeed, the poem can be used (misused?) to excuse oneself from facing up to something deep. Nonetheless, here it is (after my remarks which precede it):
Years ago, when a precious cat named Doc died, I was inconsolable; before that great palliative called time could work its magic, I found the following writing. Since then, whenever pain and grief present themselves, like now, the words regain their poignancy. I thank the writer, whoever he or she was, for sharing this with us.
Correction!: I had thought the composition was written by “Unknown Weaver”; it has been brought to my attention (by a dear friend whose indefatigable curiosity propelled this quest for truth) that the writer was Grant Colfax Tullar (b. 1869 d. 1950).
My life is but a weaving,
Between my God and me;
I do not choose the colors,
He worketh steadily.
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent,
And shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas,
And explain the reason why…
The dark threads are as needful
In the skillful weaver’s hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
Grant Colfax Tullar
You were the love of my life.
I bought chimes for you.
I ring them and pay homage to you when I go in that room and do yoga.
I bow my head to you.
My heart aches for you.
Late this afternoon, having briefly succumbed to fatigue, my grief was huge. I questioned going on. I felt strong enough to join those who went before.
Now my feelings are a little more dulled and less acute, but the muffled sorrow is still there.