I went to Zion and the Grand Canyon with a mission. The
desert feels like a good place to face the facts of life. Learn about survival. I was going to a land that was unknown to me
to learn what it had to teach. I guess
it is something a terminal illness calls one to do.
I had recently finished a class at the meditation center on
“befriending death.” At the end of the
class, we tied red string on our wrist to carry what we had learned
forward. On the day I put the red string
on, I tied a knot in the string. The
knot was a reminder to me that my own story, my own truth, was what I had to
learn and to teach from. Just before my
trip, after wearing the string for a couple weeks, I felt done with it. I knew that I would find a time and place on
my trip to release the bracelet. I
believed that something that the desert had to teach would give way to letting
go of what this bracelet held.
As soon as I got out in nature, I started to take in the
earth and learn the metaphors I felt with my senses. While hiking in the Virgin River between two
canyon walls, I spoke out loud, “Rocks are allies.” A few minutes later, “Rocks
that look like allies can be unstable and slippery.” I learned that deeper water is easier to move
in. While everyone else avoided the deep
spots, my travel companion and I headed right for them. Water is a refuge and gives relief. Yet the power of this water, this same river
I was walking in, cut through the stone and made these canyon walls.
I learned from the canyons.
The dry water-thirsty life finds the only place possible to plant roots
and figures out how to survive, despite all odds against it. It’s not just one tree, one bush, one
plant. Life is sparse in the desert, but
it is everywhere. There is much living happening
in the land of impossible. I saw the
layers of earth that form the canyons and was mesmerized by the millions of years
that they each represented—I was reminded, we have been figuring out how to live
when the odds are against us for a long, long, time.
I learned that a tiny flower is just as breathtaking to me
as a massive cliff. I learned that a big
chunk of quality time with a beloved adds up to more than the same number of
hours in small spurts. My travel
companion was also my teacher. I told
her how I wanted to live as fully present to my body as possible. At one point during a particularly
challenging hike, she pointed out, “If this isn’t being fully present in your
body, I don’t know what is!”
One night, I couldn’t sleep.
I stayed up thinking about my son and how his life might change if I am
not in it. It was a painful sleepless
night. A few days later I lost my shit
trying to negotiate with my son’s other parent about something so simple as how
often to bathe him. It felt essential. A place I had to make my mark. Almost like a last chance to have voice in this
precious life that I was helping to foster and grow. It hurt to care so much. It hurt more to let go and give in.
The canyons and water taught me about living. I learned lessons about being on earth. It was the battle over the bathtub that taught
me about how death is impacting my life.
Despite my grief over the potential of not being present to parent my
son, I don’t want to be so attached to my story that I fight for it. I don’t want to fight.
I got off the phone with Finn’s mom and I started to
cry. Really cry. I was crying for the grief and fear. I was crying for the way that it came out
sideways. I was crying for my attachment to the story—a story that does not have
to be true. It was then that I knew that
it was time to let go of the red string on my hand. Often the rituals that I create are far more glamorous
and picture perfect in my mind than the way they play out. I sat at the end of my bed, crying. No beautiful nature for this one. I tried to pull the string and break it off
my hand. Because it was wrapped around
several times, it just dug into my skin and did not break. The metaphors started to come. Attachment to your story is what causes you
pain. Your life is not going away, even
if you die. You are etched in
people. Your story cannot be broken or
taken away. It is time to let this
go.
Carefully, I slipped my hand out of the string preserving
the circle. With it, I took a step
toward letting go of attachment. Separating
my body from my story. I’m not going to
lie, it was not a good feeling. It was
sad, lonely, and painful. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to lose my
string.
That day was rainy. I
cried while we drove across the desert back to Vegas. I have not had the emotion of sadness (except
in very small spurts) since my diagnosis.
What I have to learn from those tears is still simmering. I believe that drive in the desert will play
into many future realizations, but for now, I will let those marinate.
This trip taught me a lot.
I am going to remember the flowers and the single trees living in spite
of everything. I see beauty in
smallness. I am going to stay open to
allies and wary of slippery rocks. I am
going to continue to say yes to opportunities of being fully present in my
body. I am going to continue to do the
painful work of culling attachment and separating my body from my story. I am going to learn from my grief. And for now, the string will be a reminder of
the work I am doing. Holding my story,
learning, teaching, and letting go. This
is the work of living and dying.
