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.
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.
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 |
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