To know the dark

To go into the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. --Wendell Berry.

It took me aback to see that I had not posted for about six weeks, but I can tell you that the reason why is the dark of which Wendell Berry speaks. There are days when I can share the sweetest sentences of five-year olds, the comfort of a dear friend's words, or even the joy of regaining strength and aptitude in my body, which I have, as the treatment continues to fight my cancer.

But I have been sitting with grief of late, and it is hard and it is uncomfortable and it won't leave me alone. Every morning I wake up and for one split second I think I am in my old life and then I remember: I have cancer. And this tremendous weight falls right back into me, like a dark heavy shadow that has been hovering over me as I sleep, waiting to be invited back in by my awakened self. And I want to run away from my own truths, that I have cancer, and that I'm in grieving for the life I thought would be.

We got an email from the school letting us know that Asher had shared with circle that he was sad his mom has cancer. Yesterday we met with a therapist for Asher; next week we meet with another one for Elijah. The therapists share a hall, and sometimes during their sessions, the boys may visit each other and play together. They will go once a week because the therapist says that with children that young, they lose too much if you let more than a week go by and it's like starting over. When she says that, I think, what will they remember of me a week after I die? a month?

I talk with my older children about their plans--should they come home? what about next year? will there be a year after that? Ironically, I feel better than I have in a long time. I am taking a medicine for anxiety that is allowing me to sleep through the night--the whole night--for the first time in, ever. Possibly ever. I am a terrible sleeper. This is so strange, this sleeping through the night. I miss the time to read and think, but I am rested, blessed rested.

I don't think I am feeling sorry for myself--or maybe I am. Maybe I am feeling sorry for my old self, the woman who didn't know a thing about mutations and Tarceva and hematoma and blood thinner. I envy her, and I want to be her again. I could weep thinking about the time she wasted, and I do, I do weep.

Wendell Berry said more. He said: Go without sight and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

I need your company and your words more than ever--it's terrifically frightening to be in the dark trying to make something beautiful of it, aspiring to be free of fear, trying to have compassion for myself at the same time as I take advantage of this time of relative health and strength. Forgive me for my silence--I've been here all along, and really have been thinking so highly of you, my dear dear family and dearest friends. One of the lessons in cancer for me is learning to accept and ask for help, and I am asking for your words. I know I don't always respond quickly, but I would love to hear your stories--of your children, of your work, to read your poems, to hear of your favorite movies, to hear about the ridiculous blind date or the long run you took. It's been so strange to go from days filled with people at my office door, my email inbox flooded, my phone ringing, to this quiet time out here in the woods, learning to be with myself, learning to go into the dark to try and hear its songs and find its flowers.