One day during chemo, I hit “the wall” — that dark moment people describe as the one they thought they couldn’t possibly climb. To describe it, I wrote about a sojourner on a gravel path at daybreak. As often happens, writing released something I couldn’t find any other way. In this case, it wasn’t so much about something as it was about someone.
Here it is:
At daybreak, a sojourner’s footsteps crunches a graveled pathway in the woodlands.
She sighs, long and hard as the sun and fog play tug of war on the horizon. The clash for dominance reminds her of the war waging inside her body against the monster disease that she hates so much.
Weary, she finds an empty wooden bench, sits, and slumps.
Like the planks beneath her, she feels worn, splintered, and faded.
She remembers her dancing days. Dancers never forget what it feels like to dance.
Small and healthy, she would don her ballet leotard, dash for the backyard, and dance for hours, choreographing whatever her eight-year-old imagination could create.
She taps her toes and sits up. The sun spritzes warm light across her cheeks. Despite the foggy gloom demanding her attention, she manages to smile. The little ballerina inside her pleads with her to stand and dance in the field.
“I can’t do that,” she argues. “Besides, I haven’t danced for years.”
But, as children tend to do, the little voice says, “Pleeeeeze. Just try.”
So the sojourner stands and draws a small Rond de Jambe in the gravel, and it feels almost wonderful.
But then she ruins the moment, “This is silly. What do I have to dance about today?”
Undaunted, a third time, the earnest little ballerina whispers, “Listen!
There’s music from the woodlands.
Soon the daisies will bend to the sound…and so can you.”
The sojourner squeezes her eyes
and kneels in the midst of the daisies
just as the sun overcomes the fog.
A silvery shimmer dresses the valley garden for the day.
The sojourner listens.
All the woodland seems to bow and wait as a single Wood Thrush commands the stage among the shrubs and saplings.
Dapper in his bright cinnamon cape, he chirps with gusto to greet the emerging sun,
as though joining forces with a familiar comrade.
With masterful ease, he crafts a new melody
launching low, soft notes to nudge the misty air.
A middle chorus of ee-oh-lay bursts forth
gliding high-pitched trills to a robust finale.
The sojourner begins to sway.
She doesn’t mean to.
But how can she not?
How can she resist the song of the Wood Thrush?
She opens her eyes and smiles at the daisy field waving in long flowing streams.
Rising and raising her arms, she joins the clusters of yellow and white in their wind-swept dance.
When cancer wears on us,
splinters our souls,
and all joy has faded,
it’s time to shut our eyes,
kneel in the valley,
wait for the gentle breeze,
and listen hard.
For the music will come on cue.
The music will embrace the clouds.
The music will clear the fog in the light of the sun.
And someday…
We will dance again,
Even if we don’t mean to.
— by Marianne McDonough
Copyright © 2016 Marianne McDonough
(Photo by Paul Reeves Photography | Thinkstock
