finally...

These past three months have taken their toll. Grief and anxiety will do that even if you don't fully recognize the signs. I certainly didn't after Di was first diagnosed with CAD and chronic hemolytic leukemia. That news did not come to us gently, but rather in an anonymous announcement on her patient portal. To say that a wave of terror washed over us both, albeit in different ways, would be a gross understatement. It was more like an emotional tsunami of bleak and relentless despair. I'm a person of prayer - and immediately called upon the Lord - but still awoke at 3 pm every night for nearly a month, totally disoriented, and close to a panic attack. It wasn't a crisis of faith. St. Paul notes that "we do not grieve as others do who have no hope," but that doesn't mean we don't grieve. Or weep. Or feel as if the ground beneath our feet has shifted. (For those unfamiliar with CAD, see the chart below.)

I've only recently regained my inner equilibrium - and a bit of my energy, too. I wasn't really aware of how unsettled and periodically unfocused I'd become. But grief and anxiety are exhausting - for the one physically afflicted, for sure - but also for their loved ones and caregivers, too. Thank God for my church community! They have been patient, tender, supportive, and oh so loving. My bandmates, too. And our children and grandchildren! All down-to-earth angels of compassion and encouragement.

Earlier in May, after about one week of physical pain and loss of hearing in my right ear due to a double ear infection and another two weeks of slow recovery, Di and I took our bi-annual retreat around the time of our anniversary. I immediately came down with a wicked head cold (which I lovingly shared) and found myself sleeping for 10 or 12 hours all week. Then, maybe five days ago, I woke up, and I felt focused. Not energized, mind you, but without the fog of weariness dragging me down. I had a measure of perspective on work, life, family, church, music, and love again that I hadn't realized had been buried for three months. I had energy for more than just going to church, doing music rehearsal, and then collapsing into bed for an all-too-short night's sleep. We're not out of the woods yet; there's a follow-up visit to the hematologist on Friday, but finally, there is perspective. Dare I even say hope that we have more life and love to share together? More time to care for those most dear to our hearts? More songs to sing? More prayers to craft? More compassion, too?

As I looked around my study, where about 75 books sit on the floor awaiting shelving, my eyes went to this, and I laughed out loud.

It's one of my interfaith home altars made up of a few of my late father's Buddhas, my favorite menorah and kippa, Shiva, a few dozen crosses from around the world, the Virgin of Guadalupe, an Islamic prayer I bought in London, an Eastern Orthodox icon of Jesus, some "healing soil" from the shrine at Chimayo, NM, stones from my granddaughter Anna, and some dried cactus from Tucson. My laughter - and energy - impelled me back to our deck for this photo of our garden and the surrounding wetlands.

Today, I rejoice that we got this year's crop of herbs planted on the deck. We finally eradicated the sickening smell of some dead animal that had died somewhere in the house, too. The sun was out. My hands and heart felt alive after digging in the dirt. My back ached from digging and planting. And after finishing this Sunday's homily, I had the chance to get our outdoor lights lit. Lots more to be done in the time we've been given - and I am so grateful.