Wonder in Flight

Wonder arrived on striped yellow wings just when I needed it.

After weeks of tests, I finally underwent my first surgery for melanoma. It was followed by more waiting, which seems to be the treatment protocol for contemporary medicine.

My doctors issued a long list of temporary restrictions: exercise, sun, sweating, caffeine, alcohol, smiling, and vigorous chewing. All off-limits. To amplify my isolation, I needed to stay in a hotel near the hospital for several days.

I had no desire to venture out in public. My cheek and black eye bore witness to the surgery. I felt disfigured.

With one eye nearly closed, reading was difficult. I was in no mood to play cards or games. I was so hoarse from intubation my voice sounded like Don Corleone. And I had already finished “Succession.”

My world closed in.  My sadness lay on me as heavy as the hotel comforter.

My husband, always my best cheerleader, had an idea.

“Let’s go for a drive.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I replied. “I look like Wolverine after a superhero battle.”

“Come on,” he urged. “You’ll be fine.”

After heavy sighs and an eye roll, I reluctantly donned my new medically approved sun-safe uniform: a wide umbrella-sized hat, a gallon of sunscreen, and SPF-infused long-sleeved shirt.

We drove to a nearby county park. We stopped by a river and drifted towards its banks.

Turbulent water rushed past, gurgling and gushing, carrying broken branches and musky leaves. I took a deep breath. It felt cool and fresh near the river.

As my sneakers sunk into wet sand, a yellow flash zipped past my face. Startled, I followed its path.

Gathered on the riverbank’s dense mud were dozens of zebra swallowtails. Flitting, fluttering, antennae testing the wind, feet poised over the wet earth. They were fascinating. And beautiful. And wondrous.

We spent many minutes pondering their arrival. So many? Did they just emerge from a long sleep? What were they finding in the river mud? Where were they going?

As we marveled at these miniature displays of winged freedom, I could feel the heaviness lift from my heart. Wonder took flight with these tiny yellow messengers and settled on my soul.

And I remembered awe.

Walking back to the car, I realized I had been simply enduring. I was in survival mode. However, I wasn’t actively living. I was ignoring the ordinary moments which constantly surrounded me.

Maybe that’s what being present really is: a dash of wonder, a sprinkle of awe.

The feel of a soft pillow under my head, the pattern a leaf takes when falling from an outstretched branch, the aroma of climbing jasmine in spring. The feel of a loved one’s hand atop mine.

And the moment my husband tossed me a lifeline laced to butterfly wings.

For lessons in courage, check out Courage At 0.5 MPH

Needing more resilience, read Pits and Grit