{"id":10841,"date":"2014-09-07T15:47:42","date_gmt":"2014-09-07T19:47:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.katrinakenison.com\/?p=10841"},"modified":"2014-09-07T15:47:42","modified_gmt":"2014-09-07T19:47:42","slug":"life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/life\/","title":{"rendered":"this life"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"SeptWe’re all only fragile threads, but what a tapestry we make.<\/em> ~Jerry Ellis<\/strong><\/p>\n

I<\/span>
\ndidn\u2019t intend to go silent, back in July.<\/p>\n

And here I am all these weeks later, hesitating, not sure how to start\u00a0again. Writing anything after a long time away is a bit like trying to reconnect with an old friend who hasn\u2019t been part of your every-days for a while. Where to begin?<\/p>\n

Perhaps just\u00a0here<\/em>, now.<\/em>\u00a0On this quiet Sunday afternoon, the house is empty. The low, constant thrum of crickets signals the change in season even as the nasturtiums sprawl exuberantly across the stone wall, the sunflowers stretch ever skyward (no blooms to speak of, but that\u2019s what I get for allowing the spilled seed from the bird feeder to go wild in my garden), and the temperature hovers in the seventies. My bathing suit and towel are still in the backseat of the car; driving past the pond earlier, I was tempted to swing in for a swim, knowing that cooler days are just around the corner\u00a0and\u00a0any plunge I take now may well be the last. Instead, I came home, cleaned the kitchen, and carried my notebook and laptop out onto the porch.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s time to sit, to be still, to gather up at least a few thoughts\u00a0here and put them into some kind of order. The slant of the sun and the already-deepening shadows tell the story: summer has ended, as it always does, too soon. Time marches on and the only constant is change itself.<\/p>\n

Since the day \u2013 it feels like a lifetime ago — when I last sat on this screened porch writing a blog post about a youthful trip to Paris and a lovely new cookbook, life has unfurled in ways I couldn\u2019t have imagined.<\/p>\n

What I remember about that sultry July afternoon was that I\u2019d just finished writing when I took a break, picked up my phone and saw the screen was full of missed texts and calls \u2013 several from a dear friend\u2019s husband and several more from my own. I called Steve back first, gazing out at the mountains, hands trembling a bit, already sensing something was amiss.<\/p>\n

This is how life turns, right? You are chugging along, doing whatever it is you do, your mind full of plans and intentions \u2013 the work at your fingertips, the grocery list, the to-do list, some petty annoyance, the eye you must keep on the clock, the dinner you have to make, the movie you want to see — and then news arrives that shatters one reality and, in an instant, constructs another.<\/p>\n

The words \u201cinoperable brain tumor\u201d are life changers.<\/p>\n

Your beloved, strong friend of twenty years, your\u00a0sons’ \u00a0adored kindergarten teacher, your playmate and advisor and confidante, who\u00a0was fine when you saw her for dinner just a couple of weeks ago, has been rushed to the hospital. And with that, everything that seemed important five minutes ago fades to insignificance. The world tilts, grows sharper and, for an eerie breathless second, utterly silent. Your hands shake harder. For some reason, the words that come first to mind, right after \u201cI can\u2019t believe this is happening,\u201d are the ones your father-in-law\u2019s best friend, gone now for over twenty years, used to keep above his desk, to remind him that life is short and precious and finite: \u201cNo one gets out of here alive.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I<\/span>t is a little easier, I realize, to write about this by slipping into the third person, as if I\u2019m telling a story rather than struggling to articulate feelings that are painful and raw and complicated. But perhaps I don\u2019t even need to say much more. We\u2019ve all received some version of that phone call. We\u2019ve all planned for one future and suddenly found ourselves confronted with another. And hasn\u2019t sadness been a theme for most of us this summer? Who can read the newspaper or watch the evening news without despair? There is distress and devastation, violence and illness, suffering\u00a0and grief everywhere. Heartbreak may be part of the human condition, but this has been, in nearly every corner of the earth, a particularly sorrowful season.<\/p>\n

We wish so desperately for our loved ones to be healthy and happy, safe and at ease. Of course, to think about that yearning for even five minutes is to realize we wish such well-being not only for our nearest and dearest, but for everyone, everywhere, always. How could we not?<\/p>\n

And yet, what life hands us, again and again, is not the simple ease we ask for, but something different: challenge, loss, pain. What choice do we have, but to figure out how to accept all of it — the care-free afternoons;\u00a0the charmed moments; the ordinary days; and, too, the unexpected blows that bring us to our knees, the news that makes us want to curl into a ball on the floor and weep. (Maybe growing old \u2013 or, rather, growing up\u00a0—<\/em>\u00a0means realizing that there will always be charmed moments, even in the bleakest of times, if we\u2019re attuned to notice them, and that there is simply no such thing as a charmed life.\u00a0Not for me, or for you, or for anyone.)<\/p>\n

So it is that I\u2019ve spent this lovely, mild, gone-too-soon summer finding my way in territory that is at once brand new and profoundly familiar. I know from past experience that grief and grace are two sides of the same coin. That healing is always possible and that it happens in the most unexpected ways. That\u00a0laughter and tears can share the same moment, the same breath. That there is light even in the darkest night. That faith and mystery are inextricably intertwined, bound by wonder. And I know that showing up and quietly doing what needs to be done in the moment is a more helpful response than either dramatic rescue attempts\u00a0or worry. For me, perhaps the greatest surprise of the last couple of months has been discovering how much gratitude and sadness it\u2019s possible for one heart to hold at once.<\/p>\n

My friend Lisa is much loved, and day by day the circle of support around her grows. Volunteers sign up to cook, and meals appear in the cooler by the front door. Family and friends share driving duties in the daily round trips to treatment. Notes and prayers and good wishes pour in from far and wide. \u00a0Nothing is easy, nothing is as it was before, and yet she is wholly, unmistakably herself —\u00a0engaged, curious, calm, and kind.\u00a0\u00a0By her own quiet example she\u00a0inspires the rest of us to live in the moment, right here<\/em>, rather than worrying about\u00a0the unknowable future. \u00a0She is more than half way through her treatment, feeling better, taking it one day at a time, choosing gratitude for what is good rather than worrying about what can’t be changed. \u00a0And because I’m lucky enough to live eight minutes away, and to not be bound by a regular schedule or by the demands of a “real” job, we are having\u00a0lovely, precious times together\u00a0— good visits\u00a0and long talks and outdoor lunches\u00a0and movies that make us laugh. Even our rides to radiation\u00a0are times to cherish, and\u00a0every candlelit dinner\u00a0on the porch with our husbands is a special pleasure. \u00a0 To be a part of this network of love and concern is to participate gratefully, joyfully, in the true work of being human \u2013 each of us doing our best to be present, both for Lisa and for one another, gently offering comfort and connection where we can.<\/p>\n

Even so, finding meaning in a situation that seems utterly meaningless, random, and unfair is hard, slow work. The \u201cnew normal\u201d keeps changing. It\u2019s human nature to want answers and plans and promises. And instead we have only the present moment, mystery, and hope. (Of course, we\u2019re kidding ourselves if we think any<\/em> life is predictable, any outcome assured, any promise a guarantee.) But slowly, bit by bit, the incomprehensible becomes more manageable.<\/p>\n

Surrendering to things as they are, we find a new way forward. Despair softens into acceptance. Fear of what might be in the future gives way to a desire to ease another\u2019s path\u00a0today. Meaning goes hand in hand with connection. And the one thing I know for sure is that we\u00a0become our\u00a0best, most compassionate, most resilient selves by stepping outside ourselves. I suspect we all do better when our hearts are fully engaged. And really, as we grow older, as things we love are taken away, one after another, what choice do we have, but to learn to give even more? To love even more? To bring more and more peace and more and more kindness into the world?<\/p>\n

As Buddhist teacher Sylvia Boorstein writes in Happiness is an Inside Job<\/strong><\/a>, the small, deeply wise, deeply consoling book that has lived in my purse and that has nourished my soul all summer: \u201cPerhaps [this is] the clue about the happiness inherent in caring connections. The frightened \u2018I\u2019 who struggles is replaced by the \u2018we\u2019 who do this difficult life together, looking after one another. Holding hands.\u201d Yes. Oh, yes.<\/p>\n

So, maybe it comes down to a simple fact: to live fully is to allow ourselves to be broken open time after time, even as we grow in awareness and appreciation of all the ways we are upheld and mended and supported by one another. This is life as it really is \u2013 so much goodness and beauty, so much unwarranted suffering, so many fragile hearts beating as one.<\/p>\n

This morning, I woke up early, while it was still dark, and lay in bed for a long while, listening as the birds began their song, one solo voice swelling and then, within moments, joined by a full-scale dawn chorus. Just after sunrise, Steve and I headed out for a walk with Tess, pausing to marvel at the layers of mist draped over the mountains, at the clear, golden light above and at the sun breaking through clouds.\u00a0\u00a0 Later, drinking coffee on the porch and reading the Sunday\u00a0New York Times<\/strong><\/strong>, I came across some lines excerpted from a letter by Steven Sottloff, the second American journalist slain by ISIS.<\/p>\n

Reading these words, words written in captivity and smuggled out by a former cellmate of Sottloff\u2019s, my heart broke for this innocent man, for his grieving family, for the suffering that yielded such urgent wisdom. And now, sharing them here, weaving this small connection between you and me and a young man whose life was violently taken, my heart heals just a little bit, too. We each awaken by degrees, our bruised hearts softening and growing more supple as we learn just how much is at stake, how much we need one another, how much we have to offer, what a beautiful tapestry we make.<\/p>\n

\u201cLive your life to the fullest and fight to be happy,\u201d Steven urged his family. And then this: \u201cEveryone has two lives. The second one begins when you realize you have only one.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We’re all only fragile threads, but what a tapestry we make. ~Jerry Ellis I didn\u2019t intend to go silent, back in July. And here I am all these weeks later, hesitating, not sure how to start\u00a0again. Writing anything after a long time away is a bit like trying to reconnect with an old friend who […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":15183,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[17,3,23,24,26,29,31,32,33,39,14],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-10841","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-acceptance","8":"category-aging-2","9":"category-compassion","10":"category-connection","11":"category-faith","12":"category-friendship","13":"category-grief","14":"category-healing","15":"category-impermanence-soul-work","16":"category-midlife","17":"category-soul-work","18":"entry"},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/10\/600x600.png?fit=600%2C600","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10841","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10841"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10841\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15183"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10841"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10841"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10841"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}