Days of Change

I guess all days, by their very nature, are days of change. After all, one cannot step into the same river twice.

Still, most of us live our lives in very predictable patterns for long periods of time. Day after day one might wake up at six in the morning, take a shower, have a piece of toast and a cup of coffee, then drive to work. At four thirty in the afternoon, frequently spent and depleted, one makes the journey back home. And so it goes.

Then something happens, a change happens, sometimes good, sometimes painful, often both, and what seemed inevitable a day ago, disappears forever with delicate brittleness of shattered glass.

And one wonders – how do we ever forget that all is change? But we do. I know I do.

I fall into habits, routines and templates that seem permanent and inevitable.

Six years ago, during these same dark, sunless months, I was going through treatments for breast cancer. I was frightened and worried about what this illness would do to me and to my family, but most of all it was the sense of fragility and impermanence that jolted me like a hit of a steel hammer.

I thought I was a rock.

I guess I didn’t think, but rather instinctively believed that my place in this world is as permanent as that of a lifeless, smooth rock on the shore of Lake Michigan. And it took time and doctor’s visits, and pain and nausea, and humility and infinite patience to convince me otherwise.

I remember sitting on my couch day after day that frozen winter, looking though the window at our snowy deserted street, my dog Silver at my feet, Branka and Nana keeping me company, and I had nothing to do. I had no routine. I had no plan. I had no job. I had nothing to  help me hide from life. Or thoughts of death.

I spent hours doing nothing but crying.

Now, when I think back on those days, I remember them with a sheltering, jealously protective love. Although I have no desire to relive them, never for a second do I wish that they didn’t happen. Those days woke me from an innocent, childlike dream and made me realize that I am not a rock.

I am as fleeting and as temporary as any seagull flying over the shimmering Lake Michigan waves.

And as full of joy and life.

Is there a better way to spend the day?

Tagged as: death, illness, perspective, what is important in life