Heart Happy (cathy_edgett) wrote,
Heart Happy
cathy_edgett

Another peaceful day -

Today was restful, and I did get out for a walk. I continue to be amazed though at how weak I have become, and so, it is. I am trying to sit with acceptance today, knowing that suffering is wanting things to be different than they are.

I consider again today on the caterpillar as it changes to a butterfly. I read in Deepak Chopra's "The Book of Secrets" that "The caterpillar's organs and tissues dissolve into an amorphous, souplike state, only to reconstitute to the structure of a butterfly's body that bears no resemblance to a caterpillar at all."

I think what I have been struggling with the last two days is this incredible discomfort and what it means to my health. If I can view it this way, as a transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, then, perhaps, I will be okay. I find myself resistant to going to chemo again. It makes sense in light of what happens, and, so, I am trying to feel my way through this, knowing that my attitude is key. I think having everyone here shows me how weak I have become, and that is upsetting to me, but, again, if I can view it as that I am dissolving in "an amorphous souplike state," perhaps, I can feel okay about it. I like those words for some reason, "an amorphous souplike state." They are helpful to me.

I hope everyone's holiday continues to fulfill.

For some reason this poem by Ted Kooser is appealing to me today.


Old Cemetery by Ted Kooser

Somebody has been here this morning
to cut the grass, coming and going unseen
but leaving tracks, probably driving a pickup
with a low mower trailer that bent down
the weeds in the lane from the highway,
somebody paid by the job, not paid enough,
and mean and peevish, too hurried
to pull the bindweed that weaves up
into the filligreed iron crosses
or to trim the tall red prairie grass
too close to the markers to mow
without risking the blade. Careless
and reckless, too, leaving green paint
scraped from the deck of a mower
on the cracked concrete base of a marker.
The dead must have been overjoyed
to have their world back to themselves,
to hear the creak of trailer springs
under the weight of the cooling mower
and to hear the pickup turn over and over
and start at last, and drive away,
and then to hear the soft ticking of weeds
springing back, undeterred, in the lane
that leads nowhere the dead want to go.



I think what I identify with in this poem is that, in some way, I am like the dead as represented by Ted Kooser. I am here, noticing detail, and loving and appreciating quiet, and I do not currently have a lane I need to follow. I have nowhere to go. Despite all my complaining, I am in some place of acceptance, some cocoon as to my path. I am content in waiting to see what unfolds.
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