Uninvited

Beholding, Deep Run Park: January 25, 2024

Dear Ones,

Monday was scan day.

Wednesday our neuro-oncologist said the targeted tumor had responded well to the radiation.

Wednesday the neuro-oncololgist said there is new growth in a nearby area. The new growth is small, but it’s not what we wanted. It’s near the corpus callosum, which I guess is the bridge between the left and right hemispheres. The oncologist indicates that surgery is unlikely and we may be looking at a new round of radiation. We expect to hear from the tumor board today, and perhaps things will be clearer. Perhaps things will not be clearer.

We are still processing. Of course we were hoping for good news, and only good news. Or course we know neat and tidy are exceptional. But we hoped for neat and tidy. Maybe, and it really doesn’t seem like so much to ask for, just this once. And then we were reminded that no matter how hard we wish for things to fit neatly into a good box or an evil box, things rarely do. Things don’t fit. Things happen. That’s all they ever do. They just happen. (Thanks for that, Dawes.)

Sometimes I wonder if my biggest challenge is letting go of the expectation that, against all evidence, things might act in a decidedly un-thing-like manner. Without ambiguity. I am always, always disappointed when they do not. Perhaps it would be better to marvel when things fit neatly (and sometimes they do), rather than to lament when they do not. Just thinking out loud.

I feel a little silly writing that, except I was reminded on my walk yesterday morning that literally every single thing I write on these pages has been written already, and written more times than any of us can imagine. That was liberating to me. As threadbare as the thought might be, I think I needed to remember that expectations, like comparisons, sneak into the flat where our joy lives, and smash the art to bits and burn the poetry books and pull the petals from the peonies and scatter them among the ashes. Expectations and comparisons are that violent. Yes. I really do think so, and I think it might be time to evict expectations and comparisons. Just pack up their stuff and change the locks.

Can we do that?

---

That wasn’t the only thing I heard on yesterday’s walk. No. I heard a letter, and I thought it was to someone I love, and perhaps it is. But it was also to me, I realize now, and perhaps it was meant for you as well:

O Beloved,

What would it take for you to accept this gift of crisis;
To cherish and respect her. To befriend her. To hear what she is saying to you and 
even to love her with care and compassion?
It’s a big ask, I know. She is hard to look at and she is cruel sometimes.
So if not for always, can you accept just for today?
We can begin tomorrow.
Tomorrow.

What would it take for you to release the grains of sand that you know, deep in the deep, simply do not matter? 
To let them slip through the cracks between your fingers and to accept the gems that remain behind and to allow yourself to marvel at the beauty of love and the beauty of this moment?
To allow me to oil the sandy  blisters that have wrecked your hands for far too long?

What would it take to let go of the questions that sneak into your dreams? You know the questions:

Am I safe?
Am I loved?
Do I have purpose?

How might I convince you that your security was assured 
and your belovedness settled before you ever wondered these wonders?, 
That your purpose is being written on every page of your life,.
That your very existence is my evidence? 

How could it be otherwise? 

I understand you want to believe with all your heart.  
And I, too, have lived in a world of fear and rejection and wise cynics. 
I know how hard it is to hold your belief as loosely as a sparrow, 
carefully and without crushing it. 

In the deep where I call to you,
Where I cling to you,
Where I sing to you, 
I also weep with you.
Always with you.

Someday, and someday soon, I will show you eternity 
and I will read to you the book of love, (volumes one and two, and three when you’re ready), 
I will sing you the song  of complete healing, 
and we will dance the dance of all the infinities 
and dance them together and all at once.
 
No. 

Someday, and someday soon, you will recognize 
how we have been reading and singing together all along.
That we have been dancing the dance of all of the infinities 
And we have been dancing them together 
from the very beginning.
Before that, even.

What would it take for you to accept this gift today?
To trust the voice calling to you from the deep?
How I wish you could float into the depths of my yes,
For my yes is the deep calling to deep.

Behold.

Song of the robin. Yes. 
Red-tailed hawk soaring beneath you at Mary’s Rock. Yes.
Scent of lilies as you watch TV with your beloved. Yes.
Lightning on the nighttime flight from Oregon. Yes.
Bumble bees in hibiscus blooms. Yes. 
Buck in the backyard. Yes.
Single-serving friend who arrives just in time. Yes
The Perseids. Oh, yes.
Laughter of your child. Yes.
Birthday parties and first steps. Yes and Yes.
The sound of the stream at Deep Run Park. Yes.
Full solar eclipse at the beach with Abi.
Slot canyons. 
Trees. 
Hope. 
Yes. Yes. Yes.Yes. 

Today, I can only give you glimpses, 
Mere hints of my yes.
And fear and rejection and wounded hearts might 
cloud your vision. And if they do, 
It’s not your fault, beloved. 
It’s not your fault.
The world has told you it’s about
your faithfulness. 
But it is not and
It never has been. 
It’s about mine.
Always has been.
And I am faithful.

Can you accept this gift?
And if not for always, then just for today?

We can begin tomorrow.
Tomorrow. 

I wish I had more than that today. But I do not. I’m tired and think it’s time to quit resisting and to befriend this uninvited guest. Drink coffee and eat raspberry scones with her and take deep breaths and count to ten when she starts saying cruel things.

Maybe you and I will run into each other at the cafe and maybe we can introduce our new friends to one another.

I can’t decide if I hope we do or I hope we do not. It’s that kind of day.

Oremus,

Chris