The other day I opened the door to the ladies’ room at work to find a young gal facing me. She was about to open it from the other side. We spent a few seconds with the prerequisite looks of surprise, before she smiled sheepishly and said, “Sorry.” I ushered her out as I walked in, my mind buzzing in thought. Had I been quicker on the draw, which I am not these days, I would have said, “For what?” She did nothing wrong; I did nothing wrong; what did either of us have to be sorry about?
If I let my mind wander I can find a place where I might wonder if I should have apologized for whatever unknown, potentially perceived wrong I might have committed for taking up that bit of space at exactly that time, or for opening the door when maybe she wanted to open it on her own. Then again, it is also possible that I just might have reached a point in my life where I am emotionally stable enough that it doesn’t make sense to me. Even if she frowned, scolded or glared, apologizing still would not make sense to me. I did nothing wrong; she did nothing wrong. Neither of us has anything to be sorry about.
I am fascinated by this new-found sense of self that has taken up residence within me. For the first time in my life, I feel sure of who I am. It has also made me much more accepting of who everyone else is. I am no longer driven to fix anyone or anything, preferring to let them walk their own path (okay, maybe I offer guidance here and there). I am no longer defined by my work, but rather accept it as one of multiple layers of who I am. I no longer strive for perfection, but rather excellence. I put more effort in being kind than being right, and believe that no matter what your belief system, be it in an after life, reincarnation or that this is all there is, there is no reason not to make it count. Long after we have turned to dust, we can live on in the hearts and minds of those we touch, to live on through the legacy of our deeds and actions.
Crazy, right?! It took breast cancer to screw my head on straight. I really do think that chemo gave me a complete emotional reset of sorts. I don’t know how or why, but somehow as I lost the sharpness and lightening-fast thinking ability that I had let define me, something else broke free. It’s as if as the analytical side of my brain became more and more muddled, the creative side, well, got creative, and muscled in and staked a stronger claim for itself. As the chemo worked its way out (helped along by lots and lots of good quality fish oil), the two sides seemed to settle in and work together quite nicely. One steps forward where the other is lacking, the other tempers its mate when it gets to clinical. They are operating as they were always meant to, in harmony as two halves of a whole.
And so it makes sense why, when I was lazing in the pool last weekend and I cast an inquiring eye toward the sky, I found a flotilla of clouds making its way ever-so-slowly across my backyard. A glance to the west revealed the profile of a serious young hipster, his lips puckered in a thoughtful frown, his eyebrows knitted in thought with a fop of cloud-hair shagging over his eyes. To the east, a lioness stared me down, her large velvet nose testing the air to confirm what her eyes had seen. So different these two, the hipster and the lioness, yet so alike. One no nonsense, steeped in tradition and responsibility, the other, bucking authority at every opportunity to live a life driven by creative passion and emotion, yet each limited by the small box they have created for themselves. Separated by a sea of sky, it is my work to ensure that the serious analytical me and the creative, nurturing me never face such a wide divide again.