Under the Knife

As my ten hour surgery looms closer, my world collapses into an unfocused gaze at the huge blank wall before me. Several essays have been started and disappear, my yellow pads mysteriously vanishing in the clutter of my apartment. Even to write this short paragraph, my head drops and pen lays still between sentences.

I had goals set for myself to accomplish so that I could be productive in this healthy phase and then recuperate with peace of mind. I planned to have first chapters submitted to agents, taxes done, bills paid and a full schedule of gigs to anticipate. My Dad wanted me to have a job waiting for me on the other side.

Instead, I languor in a mental abyss of uncertainty. After going under, I have no idea what comes next. All questions seem unanswerable until I get this behind me. There is an amazing sense of calm within me right now, a deep trust that I am supported. I am looking at my needs and learning to ask for help.

I have a friend who will be with me in my vigil the night before and hold my hand in recovery. Another will bring me home to Vermont a week later, My daughter will come from Oregon to play cards with me in that first week back at home. I bought some comfortable, but nicer, clothes for lounging another month or two on the couch. Taking such care of myself is new to me, a man who stoically defers to the wants and needs of others.

My sister Lane sent me a link to an article that showed how not alone I am in all of this. In her own life, their home is in a turmoil of transition and all is out of place. Her new computer is full of glitches and she too is finding it difficult to write.

The article says the planets are aligned to help with this. We are so many in the midst of significant transformation, raising our own spiritual energies and combining as a species to elevate the pulse of the Earth. The end of May through early July (my time of surgery and recovery) in particular is a perfect state of limbo, an opportunity to shed old skins and habits before embracing a new way of being.

To a straight and close-minded person, this could seem like just so much “woo-woo” gobblty-gook, but I am fascinated by the community of soulful friends who not only believe it, but begin to celebrate openly their certainty that the Universe conspires to deliver us from evil to a utopia of love.

If this were my own tale and I felt so isolated, I might bury my head and blame my mood on depression and the prescribed medications, but Vermont and the Internet connect me to a broad spectrum of individuals growing ever more comfortable to speak this language. I am not alone and the vocabulary is not of my own weird invention.

It is not coincidental that my life collapsed with that scaffold in October on the very day I was writing a dis-orienting essay on the role of my father in my life. Nor is it a surprise that the injury would be to my groin, the very core of my being and sexuality. As I danced with the concept that life should be more sensual than rational, my body found the means to resist my heart’s impulse.

So soon I face the very real knife of a surgeon, no matter how microscopic, and the unknown of anesthesia. It seems, however, that the choice of how much I want to heal myself is really in my own hands and heart. To my friend I answer that my biggest fear is of the unconscious, the letting go and floating while they work on my body. I want her to hold my hand to help me stay grounded, a part of this blessed Earth, this great mystery of life. There is much I still have and want to learn.

And if it should be time to shed this ultimate skin and move on to something else, I pray these words and my few humble songs have some sort of value, some faint residue that inspires hope that we can each face our looming unknowns with dignity, strength, courage and determination, but mostly with honesty that even in fear, we can still move forward.

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