perched atop a feather

Once she left, and we were alone on the street, I folded myself inside of Chris’ embrace and let my head fall all the way back and sobbed big belly sobs that flooded my face and and neck.

A few days before Halloween, I cast on a sweater for myself. I had deliberated over the yarn for the better part of the summer, going with a bold orangey-red in an old-school Norwegian wool that is the perfect mix of squish and scratch. The stuff of dreams. I even bought myself a fancy new needle for the project. Made from driftwood. I really set myself up for an experience. And, honestly, it has been perfect. All I want to do is sit with that knit on my lap and give myself to the rows. Have my hands in the squishy wool, and my eyes bathing in its bright, bright hue. It is its own sort of color and light therapy, and the perfect distraction from almost anything else. We are midway through November and only yesterday did I manage to get the garden tucked away for winter. I haven’t considered Holiday cards or gifting ideas at all yet this year. I do not want to think of much other than the project on my lap.

Lord knows there is plenty to think about. I find myself slowly picking up one piece at a time. Turning it around and around, trying to see it from all of its angles, before setting it down again in favor of the soft rhythm of knitting and breathing. A little while later I pick up another. And so on and so forth. Through this disappointing, predictable, moment in history. This big pause before what is next. I have prepared myself for trouble before. Haven’t we all? This time I find myself holding back and second-guessing every plan or dream I have ever cast in just the same way I always have when the ground is shakey. It is a depressing familiarity and I am disappointed in my tendencies in such a situation. The anxiety is so accessible. Lurking right there. Under everything that feels authentic and expansive. All of the same ‘ol mortal dread ramping itself up easy peasy just in time.

Last weekend we went to visit Maple in Portland for Parent’s Weekend at her school. She thought it would just be Chris and I, per the description, but she was feeling homesick and missing her brothers; and Tuti too but that’s a different story. Anyway, the boys were missing her just as much and couldn’t really understand why they didn’t get to come along to see her. So, in the end, we reshaped the weekend in what I can now see as the most obvious path to begin with, and brought the boys along as a surprise for their big sis. She was delighted. As were we all. To have even 36 hours in which we feel whole, with no missing parts, is something that I am realizing more and more is the ultimate occurrence. The one which much of my desire, and certainly my strongest sense of self, orbits around. How strange for a unit that begins, and then sustains such proximity for so many years, to then scatter and disperse in this way. It is the great trick of family and one which I refuse to ever get over. We are just at the start of all that, but you know I feel it. All the way. Before it even began. But I digress. Another tendency.

Despite bringing the boys, it wasn’t until our final moments, when Chris and I alone walked Maple back across town, from our Airbnb to her dorm, that we got the real goods of our girl. The deep dive conversation that she is so good for and that we drink up in big breathless gulps. She dished it all and we received with full hearts and open arms. Afterward, it was funny to think about how badly she wanted her brothers there with us and then it wasn’t until the three of us were on our own that we sunk into the deeper terrain. To be together just with her is different than when we are alone with one of the boys. She started us out; there was once a time, over three whole years, when the three of us really were the whole world. It is a specialness unique to the firstborn and is lovely to tap into when given the opportunity.

In that cold walk across her coastal city and in the half-hour following that we stood outside her building, not ready yet for goodbyes; she shared with us some of her discoveries, her hopes, her dreams. We recalled some of the grief and suffering of her senior year, by any measure a miserable one. Any one of the weights that she carried would have been enough but she had so many stacked. Alienation and homophobic harassment, papa’s cancer diagnosis, the residue of the previous year’s back injury, and the mental health struggles that come along with a high school experience that never quite clicks. It was a lot in every way. At every turn. Now that she is not in it she can let herself see it with clear eyes and a whole lot of compassion. She can look more closely. Time and distance are so good like that. She fretted over the upcoming election, as we each did in turn, and then with earnest and tender resolve she said that she would continue to serve her values of kindness, and love, and family. This young person, I swear. What a profound blessing she is to this life.

Once she left, and we were alone on the street, I folded myself inside of Chris’ embrace and let my head fall all the way back and sobbed big belly sobs that flooded my face and and neck. I howled and shook. He held on so tight. A smile on his lips and tears in his eyes. Thank god for him. Thank god for this shared knowing. I cannot imagine not holding this love with someone who knows it like I do. All the way. From back before the very beginning and all the way through to now. All of it.

This morning was his nine-month oncology appointment. I missed his six month because of a scheduling oversight so I made sure not to miss today. Even though he reviews his blood panels beforehand and knows that things are looking good, still all of his nerves are stirred up. The existential trigger of it is both predictable and not. You can see it coming and still be taken off guard at its arrival. I was glad to be with him. By all accounts, he is doing incredibly well and is responding wonderfully to his course of treatment. At nine months, he has reached what is considered a major molecular response, the number that is targeted for within the first year. So he is well on his way toward the next target, deep molecular response. Undetectable on all but a genetic test. This is great and also additional information is becoming clear the longer that he lives into this disease and its treatment. For example, his doctor revealed today that less than half of folks with CML get their levels to where Chris’ are now, despite being told in the beginning that most do. Because at the outset, hope and a positive outlook are so essential for not just compliance, but also possibly the efficacy of treatment. And while there is still big hope for Chris that he will be able stop treatment after two years of deep response, it is also more and more stark how lifelong this diagnosis, and its potentially indefinite treatment, actually are. Not all is revealed at the outset. I understand why. In fact, it is profoundly relatable as both a parent and an educator, some information is best revealed once prior concepts are introduced and integrated, before we introduce nuance or exceptions to the rule.

I think about this in terms of life of practice as well as excellence, all the time. In Bob Dylan’s words: “To live outside the law, we must be honest” and this holds true in almost every skill or craft or depth of understanding that is able to develop any level of nuance or artistry. We must know what the rules are, and abide them to the very depths of our being if we are to ever even consider the bending or breaking of them. I both love and hate this; the both/and reality that continues to permeate all areas of life. Chris holds in one hand the infinite gratitude of having such a treatable type of cancer and to be responding so well to the first course of treatment attempted. It is hard to face a life of dependency on the efficacy, as well as the availability, of a particular medication. He is tethered in a way that many are. In a way that feels incredibly fragile in today’s America. And perhaps that is where I want to leave it for today. That I am acutely aware of all there is to be profoundly thankful for in this life, but also of the precariousness of the structures upon which most of our lives and livelihoods are built. It feels unbelievably delicate, like something perched atop a feather on the threshold of a great abyss.

…

In the intervening hours since I originally sat down to write, I have decided to tear out the bright orange sweater. It is too loose and will make more sense knit on a size smaller needles. It is depressing, many hours of work will be lost, but I will be happier with the result and in that way my time and my resources will be of even greater value. The garmet is intended to be worn and enjoyed and above all, used. It is meant to function and have purpose and there is a path forward in which that outcome is far more likely than if I were to ignore it’s disfuntion and plod ahead anyway. But in this moment, as I grapple with the discomfort of getting ready to do the very physical task of tearing it all out, it is tempting to talk myself into a game of make believe. In which I try to trick myself into believing I do not actually know my own mind. Funny bit of business really. And yet, another perfect example of what devotion to the path of practice represents in all aspects of life. Maybe its a curse but I haven’t believed that yet. And today is not the day. Onward. With compassion and care dearhearts.