spirograph

A daily ritual of my childhood was playing with my brother at the kitchen table. So simple, so fond. Sometimes this looked like our tiny hands rummaging through a mound of LEGOs, Justin was the builder, I was the finder.

“Red 1x4, 2 wheels, tiny green circle, grey smooth top bar that looks like this, look, this one.”

When I found them all and pushed the pile of loot towards him, he would offer me an approving smile that was fuel enough to take on the next hunt.

Other kitchen table activities: pogs, sand art, potholder looms, creating our own recipes (mandarin oranges + sautéed chicken ≠ orange chicken), on the most delightful of days, Barbie (to the opposition, I hear you, I see you, and I understand your resistance, but I am all nostalgia for Barbie, full stop).

Entirely unrelated to this post, I need to tell you a quick story. When I turned 6(ish) my parents purchased and trusted me with this dreamy slice of heaven:

So this is what I did with my first car. I powered that pink baby all the way down Shirley Circle at a tornadic 3.5mph. My heart felt so free on the one block of roadway. I could drive myself to fetch the mail, check on neighborhood dogs, put out some snacks for them (a regular occurrence), I picked up and collected all of the adorable miniature neon flags left along ditches and stored them in the glovebox (grand apologies to hardworking Entergy & utility employees from 1989-1993), I waved to onlookers like the one woman parade I was. Until. A friend from a few houses down stepped out into the street. This is where memory and fact blur a bit, all I know for sure is he 👏 was 👏 in 👏 front 👏 of 👏 my 👏 car 👏. He would not move. He may have been asking me a question, complimenting my wheels, or just saying hello. I ran him over. Pushed my tiny ballet flat topped by ruffled white sock with intent and kept on going. My parents forced me to walk (on foot, leave car at home, humiliating) down and apologize and it felt like rocks in my mouth and only fell out into words because I feared loosing the keys to my new murder mobile. The end.

I truly don’t even know how to find an on ramp back, so I will take a generous reach into my TAAS Standardized Test bank of transition words.

Nevertheless, with all of the toys and activities we had access to, nothing compared to the excitement and anticipation of a fresh, crisp, blank sheet of white paper. An untouched canvas, a pond of possibility waiting to be brought to the surface. This clean slate was not a problem to be solved, it was a world of wonder. Anything could happen, and that thought played notes of joy on the strings of my imagination. I did not break out measurement tools for this project. Nothing needed to be quantified, calculated, or figured out. No ruler, no protractor, no formulas. My instrument of choice was the Spirograph. Super hypnotic swirls of bright, random color that looped together to form a refrigerator masterpiece. I was mesmerized at how it seemed haphazard, moving forward in a way, turning back on itself senselessly, until something beautiful emerged.

A recent tweet from KS Prior sparked this connection for me and resonated so deeply:

Aware of it or not, many of us may view healing as formulary, quantifiable, linear.

Put in: [Green Juice, Essential Oils, Prayer, Diet, Counseling, Medical Intervention, Coffee Enema, “this book that you have to read that changed my life forever”] + Character trait of choice [Tenacity, Grit, Resilience, Belief, Stick-To-It-Ness] = Successful Desired Outcome.

We want a hard, solid, measurable transition from A to B. You were sick, now you are well. Your heart was broken, now it is mended. A relationship fractured, now it has been fixed. You experienced a loss, time tidied it up. When you suffer, everyone, with beautiful intent, wants you to be better. We all want a finish line for each other, and it hurts to imagine the possibility of a perpetual pain.

I haven’t yet experienced an equation to crank this out assembly line style, so all I know is that, for me, healing is a loop of a thing. Like a Spirograph weaving its way into and out of, forward and back again, healing has moved me into spaces of better, and pain, and recovery, and resurgence. I have held healing and hurt in a simultaneous, disorienting wave, and don’t fully take up residence in either one, but still live in them both all at once. I am writing now from the curve of a loop.

This June I had a major abdominal surgery in Nebraska. In operations past, I would approach with the equation mindset. Surgery + Determination = A Fixed Body. When symptoms and issues would re-emerge, these equations created defeat, like I did not hold up to my portion of the formula. After many collisions with a linear view of healing, I have loosened my grasp on this mathematical approach and found an alternate way of seeing. I now view things from where, and how, healing has left its warm fingerprints all over my life. After 34 years in my body, from this human address, I recognize that healing touches every minute, wraps around every day, I do not achieve healing or cross over to it as an alternate destination from where I am now, but it carries me instead. No magic wand, no finish line, no equation. This perspective has released me from trying to figure it out or arrive. I am free to ride its gracious waves.

These past few months healing has shown up in all forms.

Spontaneous Disney vacation with my favorite human on the planet, solid gold. The “Last Supper,” mashed potatoes and Pioneer Woman cappuccino, a feast for the books. A pre surgery LEGO session, sweetest Bubba in his full childhood glory. Quiet hospital chapel to reconnect. A recording of my papaw reading the 23rd Psalm, peace for the soul. Walking into the waiting room, surrounded by support. Confetti toenail polish, my own stealth O.R. party. Wrapped up under warm sheets. Zero nausea in the recovery room, pain well managed. Blue ceiling lights that looked like stars. Despite infection at the incision site, I did not run fever or require additional drainage tubes. A mercy. Surgeon, nurses, staff gracious and eager to bring relief. Tender husband who didn’t leave my side, offered so much comfort while he was there. Cozy, handmade blanket, a pillow from home, and bright Christmas lights strung up in that sterile room. Tiny oasis. Piles of cards, notes, surprises, text messages, friend visits, phone calls each attached to someone offering love, encouragement, support. I am rich beyond measure. Hallway walks. Papa, pure joyful diversion- rooftop gardens, free little library, medical center art exhibits, choice of three gift shops. Marathon episodes of The Office and laughing so much it physically hurt. Medicine. Cucumber Lime Gatorade. Chicken ramen broth. Firework show from the window. Mom, gentleness housed in a body, reminding me I don’t have to be “on,” let it roll to voicemail, or turn it off completely, and remember there is no race to see who can recover the fastest, slow and steady. Let go and rest. I breathed out heavy, closed my eyes, first time I slept through the entire night. Foot rubs, TLC, her kindness present in every way possible. Released from the hospital, and free to return home weeks earlier than expected. Floors swept and mopped, home cleaned by the hands of others. Puppy snuggles- soul restoring. Permission to be quiet and rest like it is my full time job. Food in the fridge when I feel I can eat. A tube for relief and intravenous nutrition for fuel when eating is not an option. Sitting in a service at church, soaking up a room full of collective praise and gratitude and trust that we can reach for a grace beyond ourselves. Fresh grocery store flowers on the table. First cup of post-op coffee. The precious shadow of a husband, mom, papa, brother, sister, family, friend following so close to me as I make each wobbly, weary, forwards, backwards step. Complete gift.

I fumble and lack a clear, quip of an answer for how I am doing right now. Things are layered, hard and good woven together inseparably. I have to continually release myself from the need to be understood, wanting to explain why the phone goes to voicemail, why it may take days to reply or respond, and why I am not yet able to show up for it all. Desire (I want to) and function (I can) have not yet aligned. There are flashes of progress, then times when body systems fail to hold up to their ideal textbook functions, when [eating, participating in the day, returning a call, leaving the house, running an errand] are not options that I have the energy or ability to check off and windows of time when they present as possibilities. Some portions of the day pain/nausea hold me hostage, others it releases grip enough for me to pass as a functioning member of society. Healing is nuanced and non-linear, but I know it is right here, making every advance, retreat, swirling circle and loop into a complicated masterpiece of a life, and for that I am so grateful.

Also, if you ask me if I purchased a Spirograph just for this blog post, I will deny it. Mom bought it for me.