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11 November 2007

It feels far later than the clock is telling. Sunday evening, Remembrance Day, and with the weather cooling it seems only natural to curl up inside with deep thoughts. A quiet day. Peter has something on his mind, I suspect it's about work and what to do and the time that's going too quickly. I think he's having a hard time with the two sides at war in him.... wanting to stay, wanting to work, where to be and what to do. But I guess these are the headaches that come with being a grown-up and this time I can’t help.

Already this week to come will be the middle of November. We're going south on the 22nd for a little cross-border shopping. We're going with another couple and leaving the babies at home. It will be the second time Ava's gone for the weekend, but the first time I've not been able to "pop in" and say hello, getting my snuggles.What's even more startling and indicative of time is the fact that my brand new baby girl was 2 months old yesterday, 9 weeks tomorrow. And it just seems like every demand on me is so inconsequential compared to just sitting and staring at her, watching her grown and smile and chat. But then there's that little something that says just get it done Andrea... she needs you to finish... she knows you're there...knows you love her. So I keep plugging away and getting it finished.

On other fronts, I'm still waiting to hear from the hospital and when my biopsy will be. I can only hope it's neither too near exams or christmas. But I suppose that's just me being selfish again. We went to the doctor again to get the big words broken down, see if we can find some understanding in all the muck and mire. And we found out that it's not a light switch that gets turned on for cancer and off for feelin' fine. It's more like a dimmer switch he said... like when it's only slightly turned on it's so much easier to turn off, just a little flick, a proverbial bump on the road. But this time I'm getting near a full rotation and that means there are less shadows to hide in and the further it's on, the harder it is to return. So he said that I need to be prepared to have some conversations, make some decision, or atleast be halfway ready to think about things. Things like possible treatment options or maybe have babies sooner than later. My fundamental baptist upbringing threatens to want to believe God is punishing me for a list that is too lengthy to remember all the inappropriate details of. But then I have to remember that the things I am to think about are the very things that offer hope and bring smiles. Peter doesn't like to talk about it because he doesn't know what to do with it so he slams cupboard doors and refuses to sometimes look me in the eye when I bring it up. So I take a deep breath and tell him it will be ok, that we'll be ok, and he's still going to be stuck marrying me and he had better like it cause it was too late to turn back. And I smile and he wraps his arms around me and we both know that for now we will be. We'll be ok. And he smiles and asks me if he's really stuck with me and wonders aloud what he ever did to deserve this. And then he kisses me and lets me know that his surrendering question is the most wonderful answer and gift he had never asked for but had always hoped for. So I will tell you, as I tell Peter and me... because there are moments where I have to encourage my own silly self, that we'll be ok. That we won't worry or lose sleep until there's a reason to worry or lose sleep and we'll keep putting one foot in front of the other and enjoy the dance. And when in doubt, go to eBay because eBay makes me happy. In fact I just bought 600 yards of white tulling for fifty bucks, shipping included. It really is about the little things you know.

Ava is eating cereal. As I am certain that there are sharp inhalations over the consequence of semi solid slurry and such a young age and that's fine. But she's eating and pooping and sleeping through the night. She gets so excited when you hold up her bowl and spoon that she nearly dances herself out of her chair, singing and squealing and doing her million dollar lotto happy dance. And she does my heart so good because she loves to sit and talk. Just last night she and her great grampie, my grampie, had the most wonderful chat at the kitchen table, where she sat in his 89 year old hands that have held so many babies and healed so many hurts and told him all her secrets in quiet whispers. And as he always does, he listened intently and hid them away for safe keeping. And it's humbling in all the good ways to be humbled to know that so many times I thought I had been lost to the point of no finding me again. But here I am, found yet again.

To listen is to continually give up all expectation and to give our attention, completely and freshly, to what is before us, not really knowing what we will hear or what that will mean. In the practice of our days, to listen is to lean in, softly, with a willingness to be changed by what we hear.

Mark Nepo

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