My last post was about telling the truth—my truth—how I really feel, how recovery from transplant is progressing, how the timeline is not what I expected it to be.
The adage, “the truth will set you free”, is, well, true.
Once I had committed my truth to paper, once I had shared it—I felt a tremendous sense of relief, like I could breathe again. The weight on my shoulders was a bit lighter.
It—how I felt—wasn’t a secret anymore.
I didn’t have to pretend that everything was wonderful or even okay.
Perhaps the most surprising change is that telling the truth created space in my heart. The space isn’t a hole. My heart isn’t empty or missing something. There’s just more room in it for feelings other than fear and defeat. It’s only been a week, but I’ve decided to redecorate that space with beautiful moments and images.
Among those images, is the view from our front door.
Our house is surrounded, on two sides, by thick cedar hedges. A few deciduous trees have tried to grow amidst the cedar, stretching taller and taller to reach the sun’s warm rays. Wild grape vines cling to the cedars for support.
The only clear view we have is out the front door and windows, which face the road and an unmown field beyond it. To me, there’s something magical about fields. I could probably attribute this affinity to the French-Canadian habitant in my bones and in my ancestry. The field’s grass is tall now, shining golden at mid-day (this photo doesn’t do it justice). Milkweed is interspersed, attracting butterflies of all colors and varieties. I smile whenever I see a winged pair fluttering between the wildflowers.
Bambi, and his friends, would say that they’re “twitterpated”.
This attempt to redecorate my heart with beautiful moments reminds me of a song that I used to listen to when I was younger. In fact, after my last chemotherapy infusion (the first time that I had cancer), I blasted the song on my brother’s stereo. Even back then, my brother, a talented musician, had plenty of speakers; I put them to good use that afternoon.
The song that this view, that this moment in my life, evokes is entitled, “Beauty from Pain”. It’s by the Christian rock band, Superchick. Some of the lyrics are as thus:
After all this has passed
I still will remain.
After I’ve cried my last,
There’ll be beauty from pain.
Though it won’t be today
Someday I’ll hope again.
And there’ll be beauty from pain.
You will bring beauty from my pain.
Although the song makes me tear up, I also find it to be empowering. Hopeful. In many ways, it’s a reminder that I can keep going…that God will use this experience for good, and that my current health situation will not be my situation forever. My transformation as a person isn’t complete yet.
As the proverb on my home page reads, “just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly”. I’m still in the process of becoming a butterfly.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your continued prayers, love, and light. They are so very appreciated. We’re Boston-bound later this week for a transplant check-up and a breathing test (it’s standard procedure; I am not worried about my lungs, nor are my doctors). Please continue to send positive thoughts, though; as some of you know, Massachusetts’ traffic can be daunting. Thank you, thank you, thank you.