We’re all only fragile threads, but what a tapestry we make. ~Jerry Ellis
I
didn’t intend to go silent, back in July.
And here I am all these weeks later, hesitating, not sure how to start again. Writing anything after a long time away is a bit like trying to reconnect with an old friend who hasn’t been part of your every-days for a while. Where to begin?
Perhaps just here, now. On 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’s 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 and any 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.
It’s time to sit, to be still, to gather up at least a few thoughts here 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.
Since the day – 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’t have imagined.
What I remember about that sultry July afternoon was that I’d just finished writing when I took a break, picked up my phone and saw the screen was full of missed texts and calls – several from a dear friend’s 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.
This is how life turns, right? You are chugging along, doing whatever it is you do, your mind full of plans and intentions – 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.
The words “inoperable brain tumor” are life changers.
Your beloved, strong friend of twenty years, your sons’ adored kindergarten teacher, your playmate and advisor and confidante, who was 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 “I can’t believe this is happening,” are the ones your father-in-law’s 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: “No one gets out of here alive.”
It is a little easier, I realize, to write about this by slipping into the third person, as if I’m telling a story rather than struggling to articulate feelings that are painful and raw and complicated. But perhaps I don’t even need to say much more. We’ve all received some version of that phone call. We’ve all planned for one future and suddenly found ourselves confronted with another. And hasn’t 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 and 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.
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?
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; the 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 – or, rather, growing up — means realizing that there will always be charmed moments, even in the bleakest of times, if we’re attuned to notice them, and that there is simply no such thing as a charmed life. Not for me, or for you, or for anyone.)
So it is that I’ve 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 laughter 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 or worry. For me, perhaps the greatest surprise of the last couple of months has been discovering how much gratitude and sadness it’s possible for one heart to hold at once.
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. Nothing is easy, nothing is as it was before, and yet she is wholly, unmistakably herself — engaged, curious, calm, and kind. By her own quiet example she inspires the rest of us to live in the moment, right here, rather than worrying about the unknowable future. She 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. And 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 lovely, precious times together — good visits and long talks and outdoor lunches and movies that make us laugh. Even our rides to radiation are times to cherish, and every candlelit dinner on the porch with our husbands is a special pleasure. To be a part of this network of love and concern is to participate gratefully, joyfully, in the true work of being human – each of us doing our best to be present, both for Lisa and for one another, gently offering comfort and connection where we can.
Even so, finding meaning in a situation that seems utterly meaningless, random, and unfair is hard, slow work. The “new normal” keeps changing. It’s human nature to want answers and plans and promises. And instead we have only the present moment, mystery, and hope. (Of course, we’re kidding ourselves if we think any life is predictable, any outcome assured, any promise a guarantee.) But slowly, bit by bit, the incomprehensible becomes more manageable.
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’s path today. Meaning goes hand in hand with connection. And the one thing I know for sure is that we become our best, 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?
As Buddhist teacher Sylvia Boorstein writes in Happiness is an Inside Job, the small, deeply wise, deeply consoling book that has lived in my purse and that has nourished my soul all summer: “Perhaps [this is] the clue about the happiness inherent in caring connections. The frightened ‘I’ who struggles is replaced by the ‘we’ who do this difficult life together, looking after one another. Holding hands.” Yes. Oh, yes.
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 – so much goodness and beauty, so much unwarranted suffering, so many fragile hearts beating as one.
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. Later, drinking coffee on the porch and reading the Sunday New York Times, I came across some lines excerpted from a letter by Steven Sottloff, the second American journalist slain by ISIS.
Reading these words, words written in captivity and smuggled out by a former cellmate of Sottloff’s, 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.
“Live your life to the fullest and fight to be happy,” Steven urged his family. And then this: “Everyone has two lives. The second one begins when you realize you have only one.”
I have been thinking of you and your dear friend for weeks now, knowing that you are doing the hard work of digging in and trying to make any semblance of sense of this. Together. All my love.
Sitting here in the same NH sun, contemplating life, end of summer, trying to restore myself and fill up my spirit ; your post arrives. My day is complete! I feel like you were here with me and discussed everything I was thinking about all day! How DO you do that? Your posts are a gift. Thank you, and I wish you and your friend strength and happy moments.
Yet again Katrina…a dear friend facing the unimaginable. The world too. Thank you again for sharing your heartfelt words, musings, wisdom. You are truly a gift to our ordinary and not so ordinary days! Wishing you peace, love, and many more special memories with Lisa. Namaste! XO
I have been awaiting your return. I’m sorry to hear your news but so glad to read your thoughts again. Sending love your way.
Prayers go out to you and your friend Lisa, as well as those who know and love her. Our family, too, just received a similar call involving my cousin. I keep hearing the late Gilda Radner saying “It’s always something” – for while she used that phrase in her comedy routine, it IS always something. Your words brought me comfort as I try to make sense of the latest “something” that has been laid at our feet. What a wonderful reminder that we have others to lean on and help us in our time of need. Blessings.
While I’m glad to “heart from you” in this blog post, I am so sorry for the news you impart, sorry for your friend, and for you, knowing you have already suffered the loss of a dear friend not so very long ago and well know the kind of pain that ensues.
We learn so much from each other’s struggles, and the sorrows of one are felt by all. Your words put my own small miseries in perspective and stir my compassionate heart.
Oh, my, Katrina, as always, as ever, more and more, you touch something deep inside me and make me cry. Mystery and faith, intertwined, inextricable: yes. Gratitude and sorrow, together: yes. This is so beautiful and I am so sorry for Lisa’s news and for you to be walking this particular road, now. xox
Katrina, I want you to know how much your words mean to me right now. A summer if sadness, yes, here too. August brought a life changing injury to my 14 year kid son, and while he will recover physically, the repercussions are large and painful. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your reminder to live. Right now. And to be happy.
Good Morning, Katrina-
What a blessed way to start the day, the week, by reading your words of encouragement and wisdom. I am so sorry for your dear friend, while she teaches us all much about accepting what life brings us. I have often marveled at the strength God gives to those suffering such that they are able to comfort the bystanders!
Before my dad passed he left these words of wisdom when asked why do we have so many trials here in life? “If this was such a wonderful place and everything went so well,” he added, “We would never long for Heaven.”
Wishing you a blessed week, and strength for your dear friend and her family.
“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 laughter 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.”
These wise, gentle words shimmer with truth and beauty. Thank you for sharing them here.
Be assured of my love, of my thoughts and prayers. Peace~
“. . . the grace that comes in falling from grace.”
I have to think that you are born to this immeasureable task, this immense honor, to stand watch and serve in the smallest ways, which are the only ways. Everything falls away but love. Love to you, my friend and guide.
Thank you for taking time today to write this. It resonates with me and helps to ease a small but scary burden of my own I’ve been heaving around with me today, all day. Your writing is a gift to me every time I read it, and I feel a little wiser and more ready to have a better day tomorrow. I am grateful for you.
I am so happy to read your words again, and saddened by their content. Life hands us so many contrasts that it can take our breath away. Summer leaving just as it becomes most beautiful. Children leaving as we learn how much we love them. Friends and family making the final journey before us, without us, and reminding us of how fragile we all are. May you find peace in these days, Katrina, and accept with joy rather than bitterness the losses we must face in order to know how full our lives are.
I have missed hearing your thoughtful words of wisdom. I am sorry to learn about your dear friend. I will say a prayer for her. Life is so fragile. One minute you’re floating on a cloud, and the next minute you’re engulfed in a storm. All we can do is persevere. Thank you for giving me that moment to pause, to take the time to be grateful for the small things, and to breathe. Even when the things in our lives can weigh us down. And it helps us to be there for one and other, it helps us to feel better knowing we are helping someone else. I have a friend who has cancer, I need to call her today to see if I can do anything for her.
Thank you so much for sharing your heartache and salve with us. In every way this is so beautiful. Much gratitude and wishing you peace.
You help us see clearly, feel clearly what we could not without you. In today’s world, where quick is demanded, you teach us to take time, to feel what’s in our hearts. It is ok, to take this time, to feel, to love…it’s more than ok, it’s necessary. The small things, which are indeed the biggest things, do matter to us all. You help us to remember all of this in your own way, with grace. Thank you.
Katrina – As always, I Love your words and wisdom. I am equally touched by the thoughtful comments of so many readers. They always sound like people I would love to know.
Such a blessed friendship! The tribe or the community comes together with love and healing and hope. Sending you love and many prayers, and to Lisa as well.
Katrina, as has always been the case, your words resonate with me and in me. Your heartache is palpable here on the page. Your gift of soulful writing is so very precious to me and I feel so connected to you. Thank you for your willingness to share your deepest feelings with us, all of us, who like you, are searching for ways to be more compassionate, more accepting and more loving.
You have been so much in my heart lately. These words illustrate how brave you are:
Maybe growing old – or, rather, growing up – means realizing that there will always be charmed moments, even in the bleakest of times.
I am not sure I am there yet and am grateful for your wise heart for showing me the way.
Dear Katrina,
I never fail to find comfort and solace in your words. Thank you for sharing them. I hope it’s okay to pass them around.
May the pieces of your heart grow together like a patchwork quilt, sewn with love.
(((Katrina))) I’ve lost too many friends in the last years. You are blessed to be able to spend so much time with your dear friend. I wish so much that I’d had the same opportunity with my own dear departed friends. Your words, “To live fully is to allow ourselves to be broken open, time after time” so perfectly says what I have tried to say myself. Others have looked at me oddly when I say I consider myself lucky to have felt so much pain upon the loss of friends. Because if there was not much pain it would mean that there was not much love. I’ll live through the pain to have been able to have lived with the love. Take care and please continue to express yourself in the words that I wish I could have used myself. And undoubtedly will now that you have said them for me.
Thank you Katrina for helping us transform the most difficult situation of life into graceful expression. In prayer and faith.
This summer has brought sadness to me and my family also. We lost our patriarch, my father, in July, just weeks before his 89th birthday and my parents’ 70th wedding anniversary. Then, just about the time we would have been celebrating the anniversary, we learned that my sister, who’s been the caregiver for Mom and Dad for several years, has endometrial cancer, stage 4, and she has begun chemotherapy. I’m so sad and scared that I don’t know the right things to say and do. I live 700 miles away, so can’t be there daily. I have been grateful to see the friends and support she has. Your column is beautiful, helps me feel less alone. Thank you for sharing the reality of life so beautifully.
“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?”
My daily prayer. So well rewritten.
Another beautifully written piece that touched me deeply. Thank You Katrina…
Welcome back, Katrina, and thanks for sharing your experience and your wonderful way of making sense of it all for yourself and, though your writing, for us. Yes, grief and grace are two sides of the same coin — grace seems to be waiting inside every moment if we can let it find us. Thanks for this.
Katrina,
I so related to your recent blog …funny you’ve been in my thoughts so much lately and I keep telling myself It’s time to connect again. My thoughts and prayers go out to your friend. Thank you for your uplifting words and sharing so much of yourself.
I love reading your words. It’s like I have a friend to share such wonderful thoughts with. If I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s that we never know what will happen next and believe me, something always does. I’ve had many transitions in my own life, some wonderful and some very sad. But I know I will see all the loved ones I’ve lost again someday. We need all the God Love we can get. God Bless.
Miss Lisa is blessed to have you for a friend, Miss Katrina. Thank you for sharing your sorrows as well as your happiness. It reminds me that we’re all human and we’re all struggling, in our own ways, to get through it all together….and we are, in fact….together.
My thoughts and prayers are with you, your family, your friend Lisa and her family and friends.
I was just thinking yesterday I haven’t gotten a message from Katrina for some time
I wonder if she stopped writing, then today you appear as usual my dear computer friend
I lost my best friend in December to that dreadful brain cancer, but what I do treasure
is the time I was able to spend with her in the end, such a gift to have those special
talks, and private time together, thats what you now have with Lisa, savor them!!!
Thank you for showing up in my life today I am always in a better space after I read
your words.
I have missed you this summer….
I just returned from the funeral of our long time wonderful, gracious, classy neighbor of 36 years and found you were back.
She was 85 and made the most of every minute of those years with activities that would fill a book: mother of 4, grandmother of 8, world traveler, librarian, lover of books, lifetime learner, opera lover, and in the last 5 years, a cancer survivor who never gave in, and finally, when there was nothing more to be done, gathered family by her side and quietly passed. And on the program today,along with a lovely picture, were these words:” Care deeply, think kindly, and gently, and be at peace with the world, Thank you for being a part of my life and making it a very happy one.”
Your friend is very lucky to have you in her circle. And was she possibly the same teacher who took your little son at age 5 and spent 2 hours with him showing him the school, and then reassured you that he would do absolutely fine there?
Yes, she is the very one. A blessing and a huge presence in all our lives. And she continues to be, as she embraces her life, and carries on with treatment, and moves forward without fear or complaint. I’m lucky to be in HER circle!
I had just read Steven’s words aloud to my husband yesterday. Thank you for reminding me ~ and also for reminding us about the blessings of grace in times of grief. Must be partly my advancing age (although not quite 70) but over the last couple of years ~ many losses, much grieving ~ and yes, moments of grace, and especially gratitude for ‘the gift of an ordinary day.’
As always, Katrina, there is an inexplicable beauty in your words, even the sad ones. I missed reading your posts and seeing your take on life that I have come to admire, appreciate and love so much over the past few years.
I am sorry that your friend is suffering and that she has to go through this, but I am grateful that she has you for support and for being able to name what it is that is happening in the most beaufiful way and to help her make the most of whatever time she has left. What a gift you are giving to her (and to you). My prayers are with you, my friend.
God Bless you and your friend Lisa, Katrina and your families. It sounds like you are squeezing joy out of all the moments you have with her.
Love-Pam
Dear Katrina,
Thank you. On a day when I was thinking that my life isn’t what I had hoped it would be, your words remind me that whatever life gives us, it is that which God knows we can handle. What a wonderful gift to be able to be present with the suffering of a loved one. My prayers go to you and your friend, Lisa and her family. Namaste.
so extraordinarily beautiful. i feel so blessed to have you as trail guide, laying grace notes of words so the journey we all must take, do take, dive into, isn’t nearly so lonely.
i chiseled these words on my heart: “the true work of being human”
as you write, are we not our best when we are applying the deepest vigor to the muscle that is our heart?
and then i got to your very last line, sottloff’s line, and i felt the deep sigh that comes when you read something that will hold you forever: “Everyone has two lives. The second one begins when you realize you have only one.”
thank you…..
Oh oh oh. This is the stuff of life–the things that, for better or worse, remind us to live this precious life to its fullest. Thank you for sharing, and thank you for that quote about the second life, the one that begins when we realize we’re only granted one go-around. I hadn’t heard that quote before, but every time we head up route 16 to Jackson NH and pass the exit for Rochester, my heart grieves for the family and friends of the first ISIS journalist victim, whose parents spoke so graciously of his desire to shed some light on subjects so many of us look away from, if we look at all.
I’ve had my share of those phone calls in the past few years, and yes–once you’re done catching your breath, you find a way to move on, to laugh and to love, even when the news is scary and sad. This eloquent post is a primer for how to find your way.
56 and counting here too; my youngest now a senior in college. Whole new world.