What's Cooking?

Something happened in my kitchen yesterday.  Granted, it wasn't as pretty as the meal I'd made a few months ago (see photo), but it was pretty beautiful, nonetheless.  With the low angle of mid-afternoon sunlight coming through the window, I was watching the cardinals at the feeder while peeling potatoes over the sink. Neat piles of diced onions, sliced carrots and slivered celery awaited their starchy cousin.    

It was a small, quiet moment and I was overcome by the feeling that I'd been there before.  In this place, with these things, happy in my prep work.  

I don't know much French, but I know that I love mis en place--putting everything in its place.   And everything felt like it was in its place, myself included. 

I've made hundreds of weekend meals over the years, working alone in the kitchen with some good music playing and Finn watching from his corner.  It is an easy, well-loved routine of mine.  And that routine found me again, on a bone-chilling Saturday in a brand-new year.

Swimming in the familiar, I somehow couldn't remember the last time I'd made potato soup.  The last time I'd stood at the sink on a Saturday or a Sunday and assembled a meal.  The last time I'd been awash in a beloved routine.  

It made no sense, this feeling.  I make meals all the time.  I'm in my kitchen, at the sink, opening the fridge, looking out the window several times a day.  But there I was, putting on the familiar feeling of deep contentment, wondering how it'd fit as I slipped it over my shoulders.  

The whole weekend, really, has been like that.  Feeling an old, happy groove,  finding a rhythm I'd been missing, synching up with my old self.  The last few months have been like watching a television show where the speaker's lips don't match the words.  I'd been off just a little and then, yesterday, with cardinals fluttering at the feeder, I caught up with me again.  

It was a mis en place moment I hadn't realize I'd been waiting for. And it was delicious.

My Prepositional Phase

This morning, around 6 a.m., I took a little white pill, the first of eighteen hundred and twenty five that I will ingest in the next five years.   In the past few months, I'd heard all kinds of adjectives about this pill's effects.  How it'd make me mean.  Hairy.  Hot.  Fat.  Achy.  Dry.   Not exactly rave reviews.

On Thursday, I talked to my doctor about these words, and my concerns about them.  I also told him about the three-month journey I'd taken since the last time I'd seen him.  How I'd gotten such great care from my medical team, such love from friends and family.  How my mother had died just a week and a half after my surgery.

I talked with him about the intense, microscopic perspective I'd adopted--out of necessity, really--since early August.  How I had spent three months looking closely at things, my own health as well as my mother's demise.  And how odd this past month has been--post surgery, post death, post radiation--a quiet, untethered time in which I wasn't being asked to do anything but heal.

And then he told me that I didn't have to take the pills, even though he thought I should.  That my odds, without them, were pretty darned good. He also disentangled myth from truth, concerning the pills, telling me what might happen to me, but also letting me know what they can do for me.  It was an important shift in prepositions and I paid close attention.

Really, I had never considered skipping this third chapter of my recovery.  But those words--those tough, unpleasant words--did dampen my enthusiasm to begin this phase.  For awhile, I couldn't get over the notion of Jane-plus-25.  But the one word that has haunted me most is the one I spoke most adamantly about when I sat in the doctor's office.  Mean.  I don't want to be mean.    Not for five years, more or less for a day or two.

Still.  

And as we talked through it all, there was a moment when I felt a swell of emotion, when, with a little nudge, I could imagine a flood of tears burbling up.

"Well, I made a promise to my children that I would be a good patient.  That I would do everything I could so that I would not get cancer again."

It was a great appointment.  I really like this doctor, trust his long view and appreciate his quirky humor.  And I felt good about my decision.  Which, really, was a non-decision after all.  I just needed a new preposition.

Two hours into this five-year journey and I haven't grown a beard.  My jeans fit the same and I've been really nice to Finn.

So far, so good.

This Accordian Life

 I used to have a thing with accordions.  And not a good thing.  Our relationship soured in elementary school, when I was taking catechism classes at St. Teresa's.  One day, for some reason, one of my catechism classmates--an odd, leggy, pale boy--brought his accordion and played it for us.  His gangly arms worked feverishly while the instrument wheezed and belched through some unrecognizable tune.  The incident (and, honestly, I really did view it as an incident) kind of scarred me.

I wouldn't look favorably upon accordions until college, when bands like Brave Combo and They Might Be Giants made them suddenly cool to me.  And now?  Now, both Mark and I are suckers for the way the instrument can capture a feeling and break our hearts so well.

I'd be hard pressed to find a musical instrument that does a better job of summing up this squeezebox life of mine.  As a 54-year-old accordion, I regularly vacillate between compressed focus and expansive views, sometimes more than once in a single day.  Facing breast cancer, there were times this fall when I felt like I had no more air left in my lungs.  But always--always--something or someone came along and nudged my shoulders back and filled me up again.  This magical in-and-out quality of my accordion life is why--despite my health, despite the loss of my mother, despite the divisiveness of the election--I still hear music every day.  It is why I have such confidence in the future, even if today feels a bit heavy or scary.

So, I suppose I still have a thing with accordions.  A very good thing.  And I should probably admit that my catechism classmate was way ahead of his time.  Goofy looking as he was, he knew then what it took me another 40 years to finally understand--that there is beauty and awe and music in a thing that is capable of both hugging me and letting me go.

Just Do It

I had a good conversation with a friend Friday about a person who was facing a challenge.  My friend wondered what she should do for that person.  She'd actually answered her own question with one of the words inside of it--do.

It matters not a whit what she decides to do.

The point is, as Nike reminded us, to Just Do It.

"Do" can be a meal.
"Do" can be a hug.
"Do" can be a note.
"Do" can be a phone call.
"Do" can be a look.
"Do" can be a word.
"Do" can be a walk.
"Do" can be shared silence.
"Do" can be a story about herself.
"Do" can be a corny pun.
"Do" can be listening.
"Do" can be a pair of socks.
Heck.  "Do" can even be a Venus Fly Trap terrarium. Maybe most of all.

In this age of Pintrest, when clever crafters publish eye-popping pictures of personalized pap, we middling folk can feel nearly paralyzed by paroxysms of paranoia.  How on earth, we think, can I make something like that?  Better to do nothing at all than to face comparisons. . . . 

Wrong!

(Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. . . . )

If I have learned anything in the past two years, it is to lean in.  To try, especially when I doubt.  And to trust that my own imperfect version of doing is good enough.

Diving In

I loved this painting the first time I laid eyes on it.  Hanging on a kitchen wall in my mom's last house, it reminded me of the endless, joyful hours I spent at East Hills swimming pool, jumping off of its diving board.  This morning, while listening to researcher Brene Brown talk about vulnerability with radio host Krista Tippett, I found myself looking at this painting in a new way.

Arms and legs stretched wide, his body spilling outside of the frame, this young boy suddenly seemed to me to be the perfect model of what it means to be vulnerable, to trust that something will be there to catch him.

Looking back over these past 2 months, I realize I, too, have been a model for vulnerability.  Not a perfect model, to be sure, but I have had so many moments since August 1st when it was clear that I was not in charge, that I would have to lean into trust more than rely upon my own wiles.

Brown's research also looked at courage and she found a surprisingly consistent thread that ran through those moments when courage emerged.  To a person, in everyone that she interviewed, their courage was born of vulnerability.  I don't know how courageous it was of me to buy my first sports bra last week (doctor's orders) or how brave I was, there in the Kohl's dressing room, trying to figure out how to get out of a spandex-laced tank top (another doctor's orders), but I do know that I have been asked to do things in the past two months for which I have had no training.

I also know that my family and I had to find courage last weekend, when the most private of emotions--grief--was played out in the most public of places--a funeral home. And I know that I was scared for a time earlier this week, laying on a table with machinery and technicians hovering over me, people marking me up, machines taking photos of my body, invisible light pouring into it.  There, on that table, staring up into a camera that was staring back down at me, I imagined my mom--in some new place or form that I cannot name--looking down at her daughter who has cancer.  I certainly felt vulnerable at that moment.

But through all of this--from my mom's last weeks leading up to her death to my own health issues--I have also felt something else.  I've felt--with utmost certainty--that I would be okay.  No matter what.  I have felt loved, cared for, looked after, prayed over.   I have felt my oneness with this world, this beautiful place brimming with wonder, these awesome beings shimmering with strength.  I have, in these myriad moments of vulnerability, felt my feet firmly upon this earth and been at peace with it.

. . . more times than I can count, I have felt like I was jumping off the diving board at East Hills pool, arms flailing, laughter burbling from my lips, certain the water would hold me.

100 Facts About My Mom

I was sitting with my mom the other evening, while she was doing the hard work of transitioning.  To pass the time, I began compiling a list of 100 facts about Sally Raglin Marshall, in no particular order.  It turned out to  be a nice activity for us to share, although she laid there silently while I spoke them to her.  My mom died last night, at the age of 89.  Below, is the list we shared.

100 Things About My Mom, in No Particular Order

1.  You have nice ears.  I hadn't realized that before.  They are big, but nice.

2.  Is it possible you have no grey hair?  I still don't know.

3.  You have nice teeth.

4.  Your smile is wonderful.

5.  So's your laugh.

6.  You love jazz, which means your kids love jazz.

7.  You did the crossword puzzles, when I thought it was dad who did.  You corrected me, finally, telling me he would simply swoop in at the end and write down an answer or two. In pen, for God's sake!

8.  You are a bad driver.  But you never killed anyone.  So maybe you aren't the worst.

9. You are statuesque.

10. You were a disinterested Catholic.

11. You weren't a great cook but you could stretch a meal admirably.

12. . . . I didn't have to feed 7 people, so maybe I should shut up.

13. You took us swimming, and stayed.

14. You picked me up when I got caught shoplifting and didn't yell at me.

15. You and dad were a really handsome couple.

16. So were you and Dick.

17. You have nice bone structure.

18. You became adorable to me this year.

19. You love a good joke.

20. You can tell good jokes, too.

21. You appreciate puns.

22. Apparently, you were a secret smoker.  I once saw you smoke at the Joliff's on the 4th of July and could not believe my eyes.

23. Your hair reminds me of Doris Day.

24. You know your jazz artists, inside and out.

25. You have a great younger brother, Burley.

26. Your sister, Weedie, was a spirited rascal who you ended up loving very much.

27. You made good kids.

28. You were proud of your grandchildren.

29. You had a daughter who died shortly after birth.

30.  . . . maybe her death made room for me, your youngest.  I do not take that lightly.

31. Your feet aren't your best feature but I never minded rubbing them.

32. You have incredible strength.

33. You once mentioned in passing that you'd had a heart attack the week before.

34. You seldom complained.

35. You had tinitus.

36. You had neuropathy.

37. You had breast cancer when I was a young kid.  I remember Dad pulling up in the station wagon and all of us waving to you from the car when you were in the hospital then.

38. You planned some great vacations and often made us learn some history before we went.

39. Jack once threw a firecracker in your direction.  It blew up underneath your skirt.

40. You hid Russell Stover candy on Easter, even when we were adults.

41. You were smart enough to hire a cleaning lady.

42. You're a great artist.

43. You've sketched our children's portraits.

44. You've sketched many other people's children, as well.  And some of the staff at Tabitha, too.

45. You sketched two men on trial for murder, including Starkweather.

46. You let us eat really awful sugar cereal.

47. You could eat half a package of Ruth's Oatmeal Cookies between the store and our house.

48. You once left your groceries at the grocery store.

49. You once forgot me at the grocery store. I had to jump in the back of the station wagon as you were passing. 

50. You were a docent at the Sheldon Art Gallery.

51. You let dad have loud, smoky poker parties at our house.  

52. You have great taste in jewelry.

53. You didn't get mad at me when I threw up in your bed that one time.

54. You let Steve get a pet skunk.

55. You would sometimes appear in my brothers' films. Your cameo in "Creature from Planet Zero" was Oscar-worthy.

56. You bought me an electric guitar.

57. You and dad served dinner to my friends and me, in my bedroom, on my 16th birthday.

58. You--perhaps foolishly--got me a room at the Holiday Inn for my 18th birthday.

59. You made Ann's wedding dress.  Which became my wedding dress.

60. You made all my bridesmaids' dresses, too.  For only $25 each!

61. You helped design our house.

62. You let me put Wacky Pack stickers all over my closet doors.

63. More than once, you tucked your skirt into your hose

64. You and Mark painted Dr. Seuss characters all over our bathroom walls.

65. When I announced that I was pregnant, you asked "Would anyone like more coffee?"

66. You grabbed my shirt when I opened the car door on the highway, heading to Colorado. I had to know if a locked car door kept people in.  It doesn't.  Thank you for grabbing me.

67. You aren't particularly sentimental.

68. You got out of the way so that we could find ourselves and make our own paths.

69. You once told me to eat with a little more "casual indifference."

70. Allison wears your clothes--she loves telling people they are her grandmother's.

71. Your hairstyle was classic.  It never changed and it always looked good.

72. You once washed my hair with mayo and made me put a baggie over it for an hour.  Something about swimmer's hair. .  .

73. You often played Boggle and Scrabble with me.

74. You are poised.

75. You shrunk this year so that I might, just once, be taller than you.

76. A pet toad once died in one of your shoes in your closet. It took me a long time to find it.

77. You were always nice to my friends, and called them by name.

78. You were a little obsessed with Publisher's Clearinghouse for awhile.  Okay, a lot obsessed.

79. You made good party signs.

80. You made mix tapes, a passion you shared with your children.

81. You were tolerant of my taste in clothes, mostly.

82. You once made Mark and me change before taking us to the Sheldon.

83. You let us sit on the roof to watch the fireworks at Holmes Lake.

84. You came to my parties!

85. You and Dick backed into Jennifer's van after one of my parties and just drove away. Molly saw it all happen.

86. You and dad always cleaned the kitchen after a party so it would look tidy in the morning.

87. You are aloof, but in a good, artistic way.

88. You aren't high drama.

89. You occasionally picked up Ann from the bars, even though she wasn't of age yet.

90. You once said "Damn it!" in front of Eric and Allison, after hitting another car in the McDonald's drive-through (see no. 8).  They couldn't quit talking about it.

91. My friends all liked you.

92. You once gave Mark a Happy 50th card, even though he wasn't 50.  You might have called him "Wayne" in it, too.

93. You have very nice friends who have always been nice to your kids.

94. You and dad liked to dance.

95. You and dad were in the dance group called "Gay Nighters."  They changed their name in the 2000s.

96. You illustrated a book that Dale wrote for Eric, called Eric's Little Alligator.

97. You are a sugar fiend. Pretty sure it's genetic.

98. You were cool headed.

99. You ran a red light a few years ago (48th and O!) in front of a cop, who let you go.

100. You were a swell mom, for a thousand different reasons.  

My Antebellum Cerebellum

The bulk of the human brain--the cerebrum--is divided into two hemispheres and four lobes, putting it somewhere between "tiny house" and "50s ranch."  My brain, though, is more stately, like a McMansion with a dozen and a half rooms and growing.

I'm not bragging.  I'm simply stating a fact.  

In the past year and a half, I've become quite handy with dry wall and putty knife, slapping together new brain rooms with ease, if not with an eye for detail.  The more dire the circumstances, the more walls I put up.  Sick friend?  Wall.  Another sick friend?  Another wall.  Dying step father, heart palpitations, hospice?  Wall, wall, wall!

But I don't discriminate.  I've also constructed rooms for good things--for work, for home, for family, for the out-of-doors (walling in nature--really!?).

From afar, all that slap-dash construction probably seems a bit unhealthy.  Yet, I would argue that those walls and rooms have kept me from losing myself this past year.  Indeed, they have grounded me when the ground beneath me has felt like it was slipping away.  Build a room for joy, after all, and I have. . . a room filled with joy. Which is why, despite all the loss of last school year, I also ended that year with a deep well of happiness.

So I started a new room last month, just after dinner on August 16.  By far the most expensive room I've ever built, and the one with the least-interesting name,  this has been a challenging room for me.  The experts call this room "invasive ductal carcinoma."  Better known by the name "breast cancer," the room--like a museum--is filled with priceless furnishings, not one of which is comfortable to sit on.

Here, in this room, I have been x-rayed and scanned, probed and prodded.  I haven't been in the room alone, though.  Here, too, are experts clothed in competence and compassion, loving friends who have known similar rooms, many good folks sitting on the bench, cheering me on.   On Sept. 9, I had surgery in this room.  And on Sept. 13, I got a call while I was resting in this place.  The call was a good one.  Very good, in fact.  The experts would tell you that my lymph nodes and my margins are clear.  I'd tell you that my journey from this point on is about prevention, and nothing more.

Turns out, I might be building my first window in this brain house of mine, a view to some place that is not here.  In fact, as I was driving to school this morning, awash in tears and gratitude, I started to re-think my brain house and all of its hodge-podgy rooms.  Maybe it's time to change things up.  Time to tear down the walls that have kept me safe and sane this past year, and let life--warts and all--come rushing in again.

This tiny house that is my life, it turns out, is as full and beautiful and as messy and mine as I could ever want it to be.  Walls be damned, I plan on living it.