Seeking Solace

This week has delivered two batches of bad, sad news. 

One left Jerry and me stunned:  The young father of the child I mentioned in an earlier post, died suddenly of massive cardiac arrest on Sunday morning. The little boy had just come home from a stay in the hospital, where he is being treated for a rare childhood cancer, Stage IV.  The news about his father seems unbelievable.  I had to read the Caring Bridge post several times to absorb it.  I'm still not sure I have.

The other sad news came from a friend in my quilt mini-group who's been diagnosed with an incurable illness.  In an eloquent e-mail, she informed her friends so gracefully, with such care and gratitude for a good life, that I was awed. I responded to her e-mail right away,  and I was so moved and saddened that words were not hard to find.  She's been on my mind a lot.



Quilt mini-group, banding together now to help our friend

Everyone, everything, seems vulnerable.  Jerry went off for routine blood work--would they find something when they drew blood?  No.  Preposterous.  I waved good-by to my friend Claudia M. after we took a walk this morning, and I worried about her getting over a lingering cold.  My sister, other friends.   Worry, worry, worry. 

Yesterday afternoon, tired of myself and my fears and my house, having done what I could to help or respond to the people involved, I wandered down to Fourth Street in Berkeley for a break. 

 

 

I went into Peet's, and there on the counter was a stack of  salted caramel milk-chocolate bars. 

Before I knew it, I had one in my hand.  Why not?  I'd had some bad news!   Chocolate has always been my go-to when I feel sad.   (Or glad.  When my sister's thyroid tumor turned out to be benign, we went straight to bags of peanut M&Ms).

I put the chocolate back on the counter, possibly for the first time in history.  I'm not sure why.

But what to do with all this sadness?   A glass of sherry?  Work on my bucket list?  Just sit with it, often the best option if I can get myself to do it?   Or--this came to me last night--read some poetry?

I opened Jane Kenyon's collection, Otherwise.  

I felt as though I'd entered an alternate universe,  a quiet, contemplative one, away from noisy distractions (Roku!), focusing on what I thought I wanted to escape.   My shoulders dropped, and I took a deep breath.

Here's one of my favorites, which  Kenyon wrote  before she was diagnosed with leukemia.

Otherwise

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise.  I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach.  It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
To the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate.  It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

Jane Kenyon, 1947-1995