Words: How's It Going?
If you're a regular reader, you know that, rather than making a list of resolutions, I chose a word to guide me through this year. I encouraged you to do the same, and was thrilled that some of you did the same. As 2019 comes to a close, I thought I'd check in.
Did you choose a word? What was it? Did it play a part in your year, either in the decisions you made or the things you did?
Have you started thinking about next year's word yet? Or is that kind of long-term obsessing over things unique to my brain?
My 2019 word is "living". And I feel confident in saying that I have achieved a year of LIVING. You don't want to sit here and read a list of the things I've done this year (although you can read about pretty much all of them if you scroll through my HereCast blog!), but I am happy to say, that, in spite of what they call a "terminal illness", I am, in fact, STILL LIVING.
I do think about not-living (also known as dying) a lot. Maybe more than I should. But there have been some pretty miserable moments in the last couple of weeks where things just feel like they've gone off the rails. It feels like I'm standing in an Oz-style tornado and there is nothing to hold onto. I'm the cow that flies by Dorothy's window.
But then I go places where I'm known, and my people throw me a rope.
Ruth comes over to vacuum and brings her 20-year-old son, who I taught in confirmation class forever ago, and who happily cleans out my (pretty gross) microwave. Her husband puts WD40 on my car doors when they are frozen open. Joe P, usually my chauffeur for chemo days, answers my call and drives me to church because my car doors are frozen open. Kathy, Donna, and Kier take turns doing my dishes. Lisa folds my laundry and makes my bed. Kathy comes over to take my temperature on a day when I feel particularly terrible (and runs down to Rite Aid to buy me a new thermometer when we discover that mine is dead). As I'm sitting in Joe's truck, reflecting with him on the sermon we just heard, we watch as Bob drives up to my house to pick up the wreath that he ordered from the Project Grad fundraiser, but, finding that my walk is snowy, pulls a shovel out of the back of his truck and shovels his way to my porch. Marv meets me at Boston Dreams and, while Karen makes my chai and refuses to let me pay for it, tells me to write about it . Sometimes, that writing takes the form of texts to the Three Teachers, and they always respond with the perfect blend of compassion, sarcasm, and diversion.
I've been waiting for just the right post for this perfect picture of Marv.
When I send out the bat-signal, Nikki, Laura, and Kat, or Jen and Heather, or Lisa meet me at The Station to toast with me: HERE'S TO LIVING (I'm so happy that I still am, and I couldn't do it without you all.)