The human mind always makes progress, but it is a progress in spirals. ~ Madame De Stael
The indefatigable springtime bustle continues, though the passing of Memorial Day just yesterday--with its ceremonial, marathon yard sales, graduations, picnics, and parades heralding the unofficial start of summer--may have popped the bubble, ushering in the promise (and we all know that promises are meant to be broken) of a more languid pace amidst blank canvas days and the intentional cultivation of leisure. We Americans seem to like the idea of things more than the thing itself (case in point: waiting for hours to "enjoy" a mediocre sugarhouse breakfast that we could have gotten for half the price in half the time and actually enjoyed at our favorite local drive-through); the concept of Leisure is no exception. We talk a big game, wasting zillions on securing toys and games and trumped up diversions that echo someone else's idea of fun, only to end up with a dearth of unused vacation days and a mountain of neglected croquet sets and boogie boards in the basement. We seem to need a crash course in Leisure Studies, and learn properly, once and for all, how to take it easy every now and then. I'd be the first to sign up.
It's the Tuesday after the long holiday weekend, which proved to be a welcome respite from the to-and-fro methodical weekday grind. I was lucky enough to spend some time this weekend with family, immediate and extended, and be reminded of the importance of not only place in our lives, but the circles and scatterings of people that inhabit and breathe life into those spaces as well.
On Saturday morning, I slipped out of the house for the Farmer's Market in nearby Greenfield (the largest metropolis in Franklin County), where I was hoping to find some winter squash vegetable starts and heirloom tomato plants. Characteristically, I ran into dozens of familiar faces, bought some lovely pottery and four budding astilbe plants, snatched up the last loaf of delicious whole spelt, flax, sunflower bread (score!), communed with a sweet chocolate lab named Noodle, and fell headlong into deep, comfortable trenches of conversation with friends old and new--but did not find exactly what I was looking for. It didn't matter. Looping about the market, I was happy for the chance to be out and about, create my own pace, visit with good-hearted people, and participate in the age-old ritual of Market day, when people head out to buy what they need for the week from neighbors who grow and raise their own food close by and gather together with their goods for sale and barter so people don't have to drive forever or pay unsightly prices for food to be shipped from Chile, Argentina, California, China, all those millions of miles away. Low-carbon diet aside, it is pretty close to wonderful to know exactly where one's food comes from.
It's been good to get away from the usual entrapment of the Saturday domestic slog that threatens at times to undermine my more earnest attempts at extricating myself from this midlife rubble and live a little. A little, and a little more every day. One step at a time. In a few months, I may be ready to jump out of an airplane. But unearthing takes a while. For now, I'm content to find a bit more space and light to, ah, air out my tendrils, limbs, and locks, feel the wind start to fill my sails, and ready my rudder.
Saturday afternoon brought us to the Durfee Conservatory and Gardens, a curious and lovely spot of secluded calm on the otherwise frat house-raddled University of Massachusetts campus in Amherst, which on this day was riddled with cars and foot traffic and campus cops parading as city blue. We had come to see my brother Will graduate from the University's landscape architecture undergraduate program--and to see the rest of the Gardner family--my other two brothers, Sam and Eli, my father and his new wife, Mimi, and my step-mother, Martha. After a morning of marketing, badminton and basketball, we had all polished up for the occasion. Luke and Dominick had washed their faces, combed their hair, and put on those sprightly button-down collared shirts that they used to have to wear every day to school, but that have now been relegated to the dark side of the closet in favor of the more comfortable, and decidedly more ratty, t-shirts. (No dress code in H.S. 385)
I tried to look presentable, though Luke informed me that I wasn't looking "very fancy." (I took that as a good thing). Fanciness aside, I have realized that what I am most self-conscious of these days are, you guessed it!, my girls, particularly when I am seeing people who have known me forever, are well-versed in what my girls usually look like, and who might balk at seeing the obvious ample-ness of my over-expanded girl-in-progress (I'd call her Gip but I do believe that no matter how eager I am to trade her in, she'll prove herself worthy in the end).
I've noticed that when I run into people who have heard about my breast cancer, their eyes invariably begin a Death Scan to see if I'm truly still alive--checking on my color (gray would be the pallor of the cancer survivor, right? wrong!), my posture, my aura, and then, once they've realized that I'm not scary-cancer-looking, their eyes travel right to my breasts. I can only imagine what kinds of misconceptions they might have about what's happening under my sweater--what the scar looks like, what an over-expanded, nippleless girl-in-progress looks like, and all the other reconstruction queries--and I can't say that I blame them. It is a curiosity, after all, and breast cancer--and all of its unimaginables--is something that most women wonder about while at the same time holding close to them in absolute terror. I know I did. But now, well, it's still frightening, of course, but not as, and given how familiar it is to me now, it has lost its edge, and loosened its malevolent grip of that unknown terror of which many of us don't dare to speak. Breast cancer is a bit like Lord Voldemort: we go about our days averting our eyes and speaking in hushed tones about "cancer," sometimes not daring to even articulate the actual word itself, as if the Breast Cancer Beast had become a She-who-must-not-be-named Dark Villianess trying to resurrect an evil resurgence with estrogen-fueled Death Eaters spreading their contemptible, predatory, prejudiced charm amongst unsuspecting Muggles like myself. I'd like to think that swirling about my inner warrior are shards of the ever-impressive Harry-Ron-Hermione trio that have enabled me to slay the BC Beast, but I know I've had a helluva lot of help--and I am grateful. Echoes of Dumbledore's Army, I suppose.
But here I am, talking about my breast cancer, dishing the scoop on my girls, and sharing things that might make some people uncomfortable (and still others simply nauseated), simply because I couldn't not talk about it, nor do it any other way. It is my hope, too, that by being candid about my experience I will engender a better understanding of a disease with which so many women have had to grab horns and do battle. Plus, it's been and continues to be a powerful way for me to demystify and disempower the cancer in my life, to deflate and defuse the terror while empowering myself instead, freeing my identity from the breast cancer victim/survivor stigma, and infusing the experience with a deeper acceptance of the ongoing, restless, willful fight for life--and the freedom to live without the constant fear that oft darkens the great caverns of soul and spirit.
Since I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable around me, because, after all, they'll just make me feel uncomfortable around me, I try to reassure them instantly that I am fine, that despite everything, I'm doing okay, really, that yes, my left girl is quite a bit bigger than my right, see, here she is, a bit unwieldy these days, but doing just fine. I make reference to my left girl at the start of the conversation, so they can gawk all they want, because, after all, here I am, inviting them to look and see and be okay with it all, as I point and grab and introduce my girls, This is Pamela Anderson, here on the left, and this one, this is Liz Gardner. Pamela leaves on the 17th. And I can hear the audible sigh...
I didn't have to worry, really, about how my family would take me in. I knew that they'd hug me, all of me, and not be overly delicate about it, and I was glad for it. But I had other things to think about. Here was my youngest brother, Will, graduating from college. How was that possible? Will was a baby when I graduated from college, entertaining us all with the kind of hilarious slapstick comedy routine that would land an eighteen-month old on youtube these days. This could only mean one thing: I am old. Shit.
It was great to see everyone--my brother Sam in from Boston, Eli in from San Fransisco, Will's girlfriend Ariel, and Dad, Mimi and Martha all in from Marblehead--though there wasn't nearly enough time to talk and get caught up properly. And we were all proud of Will, who looked ever the graduate in his black gown and perfectly visible tan line that his cap--and the morning's sun--had left on his forehead. (And Will had, just a few days before, jumped out of an airplane, inspiring me to actually think more seriously about doing it). We joked that it was too bad my mother hadn't been able to make it; what fun it would have been for Will to line everyone up and introduce his family to his friends and professors: "This is my father, his first wife, his second wife, and his third wife." (for those of you not familiar with our particular brand of family, my mother was my father's first wife, Will's, Sam's, and Eli's mother, Martha, was my father's second wife, and Mimi is his third wife. Sam, Eli and Will are my half-brothers, though my love for them is quite whole.)
On Sunday, we headed back Amherst way with my mother for a picnic at our cousins' place in Cushman, an annual get together that has become a much-anticipated day in our busy spring calendar. The house, like so many before it, with its lived in and loved charm, its palpable residue of spirited gatherings, good food, music, and fun, and its lovely gardens that evoke an industrious indolence in the best possible way, has become a place of comfort for me, where our Cousin Fay, husband Ed, and entire Kaynor family first welcomed us into the warm folds of their annual Memorial Day picnic several years ago, and reestablished Reed family bonds that have deepened over the years--and for which I am most grateful. Though Fay died a few years ago, I see her smile on the faces of her children and grandchildren, and feel her sweet, feisty, independent spirit and warmth all throughout the day, in the way they care for each other, for the house, and for their father Ed, who, at nearly 85, still amazes us with his own inspiring brand of moxie. But I miss her. And there's a touch of grandfather, too, my mother's father Carroll Reed, whose brother was Fay's father, in all of the Kaynor cousins--and when we are with them, I am reminded of everything I loved about him, and the way I felt when I was with him, that no matter what was going on, everything was going to be alright. I am reminded of the old family homes that once offered that sense of reassurance, and that now exist only in memory, with a bitter sense of loss jockeying for space with the resounding sense of history and family and good memories.
These days, I am acutely aware of when I am lucky enough to feel that everything is going to be alright, when the dark chill of fear and anxiety and uncertainty melts away and the day stretches before me, ripe and ready for the picking. Sunday was one such day. There was something about the way everything smelled, tasted, felt, sounded, and looked: the tickle of the tall grass against my shins, the upright rows of garlic, reaching their green scapes to the skies, the sizzle of the grill, the smell of the mint in my iced tea, the the grip of the frisbee and the whoosh as it left my hand, the flavors on my plate, on my tongue...(my childhood comfort zone is a full-fledged sensory experience). Any lingering troubles and a residual weariness from the week's woes, seemed to dissipate, and we could relax, fully, and enjoy the tidings of the day: brilliant sunshine, the perfect open field for frisbee and soccer (and cousins who are always game for such fun), delicious food (there's something about the sun-brewed iced tea in the ceramic pitchers with the fresh mint leaves bobbing about that takes me back), and the best part--the conversation and warmth that drew us in, encircled us and followed us back home, where that feeling of reassurance permeated the cantankerous corners and hung about for a time, smoothing over all the rough edges. I do wish it could be more often. It is a rare event to gather with family two days in a row--and two different families at that. It made me realize how little I've seen of family since my diagnosis, how much I miss them, and how thankful I am for all the families that dot my genetic landscape, and keep the cold at bay.
On Monday, while the boys played their endless games of badminton and basketball, alternating between the lush green of the lawn and the dry dust of the driveway, my mother and I drove about looking for flowers at a few of the local garden shops, and lost ourselves in the rows of salvia, bleeding hearts, and bee balm. Later, my mother helped me plant more lettuce, winter squash, and tomatoes in my garden (thank you, Mom!). With toes immersed in the soft earth of our vegetable garden, gently coaxing the weeds up and out of the beds, I filled a few more holes with heirloom tomato plants from our neighbor's venerable, verdant spot atop the hill across the street. By the afternoon, I was a sweaty tangle of sore muscles, my mother had fled to the quieter confines of her Williamstown home, Jim was nearly finished mowing the lawn, and the boys had collapsed on the couch in anticipation of the night's Celtics game.
And now, Tuesday has come and nearly gone. We had our first thunderstorms of the season today, and happily rushed about shutting windows, bringing in outdoor cushions, and making sure the dog, aquake (yes, I made up that word) with thunder-fear, was okay. I stepped out onto the deck to watch the storm roll in, with the wind and rain flipping and flattening the leaves, filling stray buckets, and soaking the grass and gardens in a sudden outpouring of boastful show. It didn't last nearly long enough, but had enough flash and dazzle for the sun to reappear like some powerful emperor of the sky and quickly dry the sodden, sparkling ground, and for the wind to whip in cooler, drier air that blew out the stuffy hot dredges of humidity that lurked and enveloped and threatened to spoil our sleep. There was something different about this day. It made me think of making Thundercake with the kids when they were younger, when we would race about as the skies darkened and try to make a chocolate cake before the lightning hit, listening to the thunder and counting, mixing in eggs and chocolate into the flour as the storm edged closer and closer. It made me long for the days when life, perhaps, was simpler, and when Thundercake could distract us from our worries and make everything alright, if but for an afternoon. Daisy could probably use a little thundercake these days...we all could.
A thunderstorm is God's way of saying you spend too much time in front of the computer. ~ anonymous.
Ok, I'm shutting down. Time for bed. (:-)) Sleep well.
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