Black and White

If only a certain book and movie hadn’t ruined the expression ‘shades of grey’… that might have been my title. But ‘Black and White’ is just as useful. It’s top of my mind because it was a photo prompt for today. I took this picture of the hands of John and Mary.

#photoaday #fatmumslimphotoaday …these two have been married for 61 years 🙂

A photo posted by Rachel Cox (@rachelfaithcox) on

I know people who are very black and white. They think in polarities, have pretty fixed views and don’t mind sharing them. I’m more of a shades of grey girl. I see things in their complexity. I feel differently about them the more I think about them. My opinion is often strong, but it changes the more I know about something. I don’t mind admitting to being wrong (eventually!) which somewhat diminishes the victory for the hubster when we fight and I concede! Of course, it’s VERY rare (!) but you know, it happens.

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Most of the time I think in shades of grey. But I felt very black and white about a few things in 2015. I held them tightly, more tightly than most things because they offended my sense of justice greatly. I kept them in my fists until the pressure turned them into dark stones, those offences I felt. I don’t always deal well with conflict, especially when I am conflicting with men I find arrogant. My usually broad mind strobes itself into sharp contrasts. Painful flashes of black and white. But time is useful to the wounded sensibility. Time brings perspective and a different way of looking at things. Time ameliorates the damage until the harsh difference between black and white softens into grey. Another way of seeing things. A whiter shade of pale.

And there I am at last, in the rain and wind. Fighting the elements on the edge of Mercury Bay. Shouting into the gale because it whips my words away and I can let the last vestiges of anger out. Let it out in the freedom of knowing that the expression of it is all I really need. All I ever needed. The tide is pulling the beach from under my feet, dragging the last year under. And I am ready to see it go. I let the hot stones of anger tumble out of my fists and away with the tide. I fill my lungs with cold, salty air. Spinning round and round in the blustery chaos, arms wide. Hands open to the air.

Then, the wind quiets enough so I can hear my own voice again. My feet slap out a regular rhythm on the hard sand. Lace scallops of foam edge the tide’s retreat. I notice that I am humming. The remnants of a Christmas carol, a song for Mary… breath of heaven… hold me together… light up my darkness… it has a pretty melody. I hum the words I don’t know. I think about the rhythm of the waves being the breath of life itself. Inhaling, exhaling. I think about the water, crashing onto the shore, or falling in raindrops from the clouds, rendering the sand into a carpet. I notice that the lace edge of sea is beaded with shells and seaweed. It is beautiful.

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I turn away from the breaking surf, away from the grievances. I turn my face upward to the rain, to the skies clouded with grey.

Catharsis.

Calm.

Hello 2016. I think I like you already.

A Little Like Hope

There are patterns that shape you.  Experiences that make you who you are.

Being sick for the last six years has fundamentally shifted my expectations of life. After all this time, I’ve been in a pattern of expecting things to get worse. I expect things to be hard. I expect side-swipes and surprises and I expect to find ways to cope with all that. But I never expect things to get better. Being optimistic about my health is something I have avoided for so long. All the science, all the ways of being that my body has trained me to accept.  All of these things have shaped my thinking. Being positive about the future of my illness always felt like a redundant pastime. A fruitless and futile exercise in wishful thinking.

So instead I have been resolute. I have tackled my illness like a maze. I have tried to be systematic in my research; I have sought the counsel of wiser science brains than my own. I have searched and pushed and applied myself to finding solutions. And that has been a wonderful focus for my mental energies. It’s less of a dare to the universe than positive thinking or pollyanna prayers. It has seemed logical and appropriate.  Define the problem, seek a solution.

And despite my beliefs that only a logical solution could fix my problem, just recently, the problem has been evaporating. Like the puddles leftover from our long, wet winter. The sun is beating down and shrinking the periphery. Rendering hard clay from the mud and quagmire. Setting my feet on solid ground. I’m feeling well. I’m exercising. Last Thursday I did pilates and followed it up with a walk in the country with my girls, Bee and Lulu.  I walked along the road and back again!  If you have been following this blog, you will know how extraordinary that really is. Where before even one of those activities would have put me back in bed for a few days, I have backed it up with more activity.

I walked! With my girls Bee and Lulu. There,

This weekend I’m in town with my hubster.  The last time we did this was a year ago. And it was so very different. I have no cane. Instead of sitting at the table, wondering if I can stay upright in the seat for the duration of dinner, I sat comfortably and talked with him there for three hours!  We enjoyed a six course degustation menu and a conversation that spanned worlds and made us laugh like we used to. We celebrated. Ten years of marriage. Parenthood. And something we’ve been a bit worried about celebrating. We celebrated my wellness. We’ve been so afraid that to acknowledge how well I am doing would tempt fate. So we haven’t. But last night we talked about it. We exhaled. We let ourselves enjoy this beautiful, fragile thing.

Want to know what feeling well is like?

It feels a little like hope.

I walked! With my girls Bee and Lulu. There,(1)