Recombobulating

Yes, this is a real sign at the Milwaukee Airport.

Thea Milwaukee Airport has a large terminal sign pointing passengers to the "Recombobulation Area."

I totally get that.

I am recombobulating. And my recent trip to the Emerald City (Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN) added to that feeling.

As I discuss my post-2022 life changes with friends, I continue to realize that I am still working to find the rhythms of the day and the week. I find myself struggling with writing. 

Seriously. 

I do not struggle with writing at least 15 minutes a day. That has become a valued routine. With the exception of this past Wednesday, which was a hard travel day back home (I can't write in a moving car), I have written for at least 15 minutes every day since January 2.

So where do I struggle? In recognizing writing as a valid use of my time. I am still struggling with honoring myself and my need and desire to write.

This is my own internal challenge. Warren is tremendously supportive and encouraging. My friends are supportive. My son Ben is pleased. And while I have not shared my writing regimen with Ramona, I know exactly what she would say if I did. "So what took you so long to finally write, Grandma?" And then roll her eyes for good measure.

One writer I follow, Kaki Okumura, recently wrote about how Japanese culture focuses on imperfection, citing kintsugi, the art of repairing broken ceramic pieces with gold, which both beautifies and emphasizes the cracks. Look at our lives through the lens of continuous progress, she wrote: anything we accomplish is progress.

Maybe I need to look at my writing as repairing the cracks with gold, and give myself the grace to do so.

While Warren and I drove the miles from home to Mayo (about 660 miles), we used some of that time to talk about personal matters that don't always get discussed in the rush of any given week. One topic, no surprise, was time. Even without a progressive, incurable cancer, I would be shortsighted to pretend that at almost 67, I have decades of life left. With an incurable, progressive cancer, and having far outstripped even the most generous post-diagnosis life expectancy, any time I have is pure gravy. (Thank you, Raymond Carver.)

I started this particular post in Rochester, on Monday evening after we arrived. In longhand, in my writing notebook. By midday Wednesday, we started our drive back home with some very positive results on the one hand (the myeloma continuing to be incredibly stable; my oncologist called it "surprisingly stable"), and a new (additional) diagnosis on the other (in the "we need to keep an eye on this" stage).

OTOH, OTOH indeed!

So now as I sit at home finishing this post tonight, I circle back to the writing struggle as I consider this new factor. After spending yesterday recuperating (this was a rocket trip of less than 72 hours from walking out the front door to walking back in, at 12:30 a.m. to boot), I got nine hours of sleep last night and could view my life with far more balance. (Truth be told, I felt a lot like George Bailey after realizing he had a wonderful life after all.) 

When my older brother died in 2015, I was one of his eulogists. I speculated in my talk about what lasting advice he would want us to take from his life. After making a couple of proposals, I said, "Life goes on."

And it does.

Raymond Carver was right: this is pure gravy.