Weathering the storm

If life made sense, 39 wouldn't hurt so much.  Somehow, as I walked into the morning air of July 6, I felt the vulnerability of the ticking clock wash over me and it continues to this day.  A washing that didn't caress my skin or purify my position, but instead, it exposed me further to the changing winds of time as I stood bare and naked in the hushed light.  The tenor that has painted my days of the past decade no longer works here.  The passion, resilience, and intentionality with which I approached those days seems oddly disconnected from these feelings.  In their place is a deep and hallowed hush- much like the silence that shrouds the landscape during a break in a storm.  The storm will continue - that is for certain - so we sit and wait knowing that a finger - not ours - will hit the play button and deny the pause its silence once again. (Photo: Andre Kertesz - The Boat Returns Home - Central Park, 1944.  Mediatheque, Paris.)

My mind traces the potential meaning of the "3" and the "9" and the precipice upon which I find myself as I gaze into what will be my fifth decade.  I sort through the web of feelings that has been weaving over these days as I have watched one, not two, but several people within my sphere suffer great losses of those they love - robbed of their vitality and youth way too soon.  Of course there is Dennis, of whom I wrote in an earlier post.  While his memorial service was underway, my coordinator Jane's 26 y/o dear friend - a new law school grad studying for the bar - was murdered in the most gruesome way in her own apartment and detectives still are trying to locate pieces of her dismembered body.  A tall, beautiful blond  with the world at her feet, or at least she thought.  Or, at least we all think that - I'm not sure we can live sanely otherwise.  The sharp, gripping fear of these realities can overtake and rob us of any beauty that life has to offer.  That doesn't seem the answer either. 

All of these thoughts march through my mind as I sit in Thom's office and hear him recount the loss of his daughter's dear friend last week - a 35 y/o woman and running partner - who suddenly experienced a viral heart infection and died surrounded by eight doctors in the one of the best heart hospitals in the country.  She left two children and a loving husband - a man that cannot be comforted.  I want to reach out to Thom and to Jane and say - it's going to be OK.  But, we all know that these words fall like empty kisses that never are felt on the cheeks of those to whom they are intended. 

I find myself wanting to scream - enough, enough, enough - as I write a card to my friend Judy yesterday - a mother of two, who just emerged from weeks of chemo and now surgery for breast cancer.  She is suppose to be looking forward to the cooling temperatures, the falling of the golden crusty leaves in the autumn twilight but instead she braces herself for several rounds of radiation that will make her hair the autumn colors and textures she should enjoy as she embraces her children and kisses their ruddy, windblown cheeks.

So, here I am.  At night I lay in bed staring at the shadows of the ceiling fan and tracing the contours of the blades as they whirl overhead.  I spend the moments in the murky quiet seeking boxes with lids - lids that fit well - and within the confines of which I can place these unknowns, these questions and store them away for another day and time.  The boxes I find have gaping holes, and watersoaked sagging edges that clearly have marks of storm damage.  Their integrity is compromised as the contents seep out and cover me once again.     

Giving into the fear and the emotions that these events evoke isn't of my character.  The reality is, there aren't answers.  The image of the rainbow from earlier writings rises to the surface to bring comfort.  I sip into the dark liquid of my coffee cup as I ask myself this question now,

How might I see the beautiful reds, purples, greens, and yellows of the rainbow in the midst of the storm clouds? 

Do searching for these colors, finding them, and clasping them close as long as they are there - is that the key to living life well? 

We can't control the storm, the clouds, or even the rainbows, but as I search for the answers I'm finding that what we can control is what we choose to see and then hold tightly in our grasp.  For that to which we hold tightly is what we become.  The choice is ours.