you have to be connected to be able to let go

Did we even get around to naming the storm that shook us by the scruff of the neck a few weeks ago? Around here we just call it "the storm." It was the most dramatic weather event I have experienced. The night of the storm, I was staying with Ting and Dave in Northampton. We lost power in the middle of stir-frying, and ate the half-cooked meal in the flicker of candlelight. Afterwards we stood by the window as the night darkened, listening, watching the heavy snow fall. We were captivated by one old oak tree: moving in the snow and the strong wind, the tree looked almost liquid, like seaweed moving under the ebb and flow of waves. Watching something so solid transformed into a fluid state was pretty trippy, like a dream. Nature had shifted into some unknown gear, and its usual laws didn't seem to apply.

Then, too, there were the sounds of the storm. How often do we, as adults, hear a truly new sound? None too often, my friend. A new ringtone, maybe. But not a new sound from the world itself. The creaks, then pops of tearing, breaking, exploding trees were all new and frightening. Trying to sleep that night, I felt like a deer must feel during hunting season -- unable to relax for a moment, alert to every sound. A heavy branch would hit the house with a new sound -- a blow from a roof-troll's sledgehammer -- and my heart raced for long minutes afterwards. In my mind, I knew we were likely safe. My body somehow thought differently.

Along with most people in our area, following that night we were nine days without power. Though I was glad for the eventual return of light, heat, and refrigerator, the truth is that I enjoyed the enforced pace of being without electricity. Laura was less chipper about the whole thing, and I can't blame her; for one thing, she had to evacuate the house while I saw clients in front of the roaring fire. She'd go off to West Hartford in search of a place to plug in and warm herself up. Meanwhile I heated water over the fire and stared at the dancing flames with my clients. Though chilly when two steps away from the fire, I was not unhappy. I liked feeling awake. It was like riding a bicycle on an unlit road on a moonless night. I was paying attention.

We are still navigating around the piles of fallen branches that line the streets. Wounded trees are everywhere. But here is the thing, now three weeks later, that captures my mind: once a branch has been broken, it stops receiving signals from its source. It doesn't know that it is time to let go of its leaves.
So I think of cancer, of course, when I see those dangling branches with their full loads of leaves that don't know how to let go. I think of how cancer cells don't know that it is time to stop. I think of how life, being connected to the Source, means being able to die. Cancer cells aren't connected enough to the Source to know that they should die. Those cells that are connected know enough to eventually bring us all to a natural death, by letting go when it is time. Somehow there is Grace in there, even though my mind wants to find a way to a cheerier conclusion.

This is one of the ways cancer changes you. I look at this broken branch and see veins, mammary ducts -- and a mirror of life.

peekaboo

What. What.

You thought I was ending taotechu? Guess I fooled, well, us -- all 54 of us, or the 5 that are still listening.

Which reminds me of a story. Last week, Laura was trying to figure out how big a turkey you need to get in order to feed the crowd we are hosting on Thanksgiving. She found her way to a website that had a little trivia quiz. "How many Pilgrims were at the first Thanksgiving?" it asks. She reads the question to me at the breakfast table. "Hey, let's guess," she says. We each take a few seconds. "Gee, I dunno," I say. "Could be like 100. Or maybe 12."

I'm breaking walnuts and sprinkling them over my Grape Nuts. She is staring at the screen. "How about 43?" I say between bites. "43," she types in.
"What's the real answer?" I ask.
"Huh. It doesn't say," she says, searching the site. "Oh, here it is. 43! Oh. That's us. Huh."

It turns out she was on a page asking for an expert answer to someone's sincere question. Some kid typed in her homework question, waited for the answer, and then put our stab-in-the-dark response into her little essay. It's somewhere out on the web, and other kids in other Novembers will no doubt have the same question asked of them: "How many Pilgrims were at the first Thanksgiving?" They'll be pleased to so easily find our definitive, authoritative-sounding "43." They'll write that down and hand it in.

This is how history is formed and recorded.

Mind you, it is only now, as I take a picture of our pronouncement, that I see that the question is about "pilgrams." I like to think that would have tipped me off.

Now I can't figure out how to segue back to the entry I intended to make about all the broken trees the storm left behind.

I will post this and see if anyone is still here with me. Then, I want to say something about broken trees.
And about cancer, too.