Hello, my little black-capped sparrow,
Last night I walked out on our new deck at the cabin to
watch staccato lines of clouds cross the Columbia River valley in front of me,
miles away, and their blue turned purple, and they grew and grew and sparked
and exploded. What a tremendous thunderstorm in the distance, the thunderhead
turning crimson and eggplant, its wake spread out yellow to green, and I
watched until the crimson turned lavender turned magenta turned midnight.
I know we can’t say that the storm missed us. You and John
have been sitting right in the middle of the swirl, the whip and bite of
lightning, the thunder, rocking everything about your lives. No question. But
the rest of us have been miles away, unable to do a damn thing about the
violence to your brain, the hail on your days.
None of us can know, at this point, what the future holds, but it’s
amazing how blue upon blue the sky can be after the thunderstorm goes. (Believe me, I know that skies for you are not all blue.)
What’s clearer for me after watching at this distance what
you’ve navigated:
--an irrevocable belief in something greater than ourselves
--an irrevocable belief in John
--a deeper understanding of medicine as art
--a deep respect for the power of humor and politeness
--a gratitude for life that is as sharp as a tripwire and
topples me when I think of you.
I’d say we probably don’t need this blog anymore. I’ll leave
it up so that you can read the lovely messages yourself. You have very good
friends, and our family is very good. I know that you’re overwhelmed by
so much kindness, and you have that Yankee discomfort with things said out
loud.
Well, too bad.
Read how others love you. Read how I love
you. And keep that will of yours thundering.
-Kate
No comments:
Post a Comment