MANY THINGS
My heartbeat plays like a violin most of the time. Not quite sorrowful. Not quite serene. There is this longing for something hoped for or remembered. Like big dogs running down the hillside. Like little boys wrestling on the lawn.
Today, the nine of us will walk through fresh fallen snow and mention more than once how cold we are, as if the repeating will somehow make us warmer.
Despite freezing toes and faces, our laughter will fill the air and we will make memories without a single thought of being anything but fully and completely there.
“I may or may not have used the cancer card,” one of us whispers when sharing how she managed to convince the photographer to spend an afternoon of her busiest season with us.
When she tells me this, my lips smile but my eyes tear—Both tell the same story but from a different point of view. Like strings on a violin. Like notes of the same song.
There is the picking out outfits. Me laying sideways across the bed while one jacket and then the other is modeled. I nod in approval but all I really notice is the extraordinary beauty that lies beneath choices considered and tossed aside.
She was my son’s choice, but I would have chosen her too.
While her boy naps quietly in another room, we giggle over nothing.
She is unaware that this moment, for me, is everything.
In a little while, in the sparkle of winter sunlight, I will, for the first time, see the diamond perched on the hand of another son’s beloved and I will add this to a collection of cherished moments as breathtaking and fleeting as blankets of melting snow.
We will, even our littlest one, give the best of ourselves to this moment. A family gathered to make memories and to be reminded what we treasure most.
But the story of our assembly will not be as uncomplicated as this…
I will ask, “What is in your hearts and minds in this space and time?" And this is what I hear them reply—
We are, all of us, many things:
We are the magic of snow falling,
the hope of sun rising,
the sorrow of dark night.
We are the longing of the harvest moon,
the mystery of the quiet lake,
the peace of winter’s silent repose.
We are the deer and wolf, on the hunt for sustenance.
What sustains is the knowledge that those around us make us who we are and better than we imagined.
Today, we will wander into this sacred space of loving one another just as we are. We will feel the hush falling over and through us and we will tremble. Not from the chill of it. But from the warmth.
There is no effort in being thankful for what is, what surrounds, what cradles, and tests. This is the majesty of life unrehearsed—A little boy dancing through snow drifts. A future husband holding his world in the palm of his hand.
We are a compilation of moments, a succession of breaths condensed and suspended. We are many things. And we are miraculous.
Our beautiful family with one little heart for our little man whose face we guard from social media.
NOTES:You may read this and think, “She is sentimental,” but I would tell you this is not some seasonal affectation but the woman I’ve been my entire life.This is the third Thanksgiving I have lived with a diagnosis I never expected. Can I tell you the blessings tumbling down like snowdrifts are unexpected too.There is something about the snow. It quiets the earth and stills the heart until moments stretch out in slow motion giving time to be a little more aware and grateful in the midst.Over the last four weeks I have gone from days bathed in endless sunshine to darkness by 4pm.Whether Cancun or Coeur d’alene, I find the truest version of myself in the space between each written line, so that what is enjoyed…and endured…is not discovered in one thing, or another, but in the beautiful, endless collection of many things.