Outside my window, the wisteria is in full bloom. The plump, purple blossoms hang like clumps of magnificent fruit from the arbor. It is the place in the garden for bees these days. They just can’t get enough of it. Each year at about this time, I think about how wonderful it would be to head up there and spread out a lovely picnic, enjoying the cascade of purple and the scent of sweet perfume. But I don’t.
There was another wisteria. It grew at the back door of our house on Preston Drive, the door that led to the basement. It was full of lush, purple blossoms too, and bees. One day, when I was about 10, I got too close to one of them and it stung me. I’m quite sure it was not the only time in my life that a bee got the better of me, but for some reason, this one sticks in my mind. And from that moment on, I’ve kept my distance.
There comes a time when you realize that time is marching on. A glimpse in the mirror reminds you that you are no longer a little kid or a precocious teen or even Dorothy with the yellow brick road stretched out in front of you. At some point you realize that the road has gotten just a bit shorter and rather than running forward at break neck speed, you might want to slow down just a little bit and walk, one step at a time, paying attention to each part of the path because maybe, just maybe, you’re not going to pass this way again.
For years I have wanted to participate in the Avon Breast Cancer Walk. That’s the way it goes with me sometimes. I want to do things. I think about doing things. I intend to do things, but I don’t. I stay away for fear of getting stung. No excuses really. Oh sure, I could tell you about those other things, those things that get in the way of the things I intend to do, but they would sound like excuses, which is what they are, sad, pitiful excuses that have kept me from doing the things that I’ve always wanted to do but didn’t.
The road is getting shorter.
I moved to California in 1984, a young, enthusiastic, if not just a wee bit naïve woman of 24, fresh off a stint as a Jesuit Volunteer and a couple of years working with kids on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation. After a few years of wandering, I finally had an idea of what I wanted to do “when I grew up’ and so I loaded all of my worldly possessions into my silver Honda Accord hatchback and along with my dog Luke, began the long trip to the Golden State.
It was one of those forks in the road. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but my friend Lynn, a
fellow JV in Montana was there and it seemed as good a place as any to start on the next chapter of life. Her parents welcomed me with open arms; me, my dog and tbat silver Honda hatchback for as long as we wanted to stay.
Each morning we’d sit and talk, over coffee, toast and the morning newspaper. Mrs. McKenna, then retired, had been a school counselor and social worker, working for years in the local school system. Even after retirement she continued to volunteer as a crisis counselor. She was my Sacagawea, and those conversations shaped the course I would take as I wandered gingerly down this newfound path that would lead to my career. In the evenings after dinner, we would sit at the table, lingering well beyond the last bite, talking about life and family and dreams. She was a good listener, a kind, gentle, generous soul that made me feel like part of the family even though I wasn’t.
Years later, she got sick. I remember going to visit her. Lynn and I sat on her bed and talked as we had done so many times before. We did most of the talking as I recall; she mostly listened. She was always so good at listening. The cancer by then had ravaged her body and although she must have been in great pain, she didn’t let on. I remember walking out of her room, feeling the sudden urge to go outside, to get some air, the sadness welling up inside of me. I felt as though I might explode with grief and so, in the quiet of the sunlight of the day, I wept.
Every three minutes a woman is diagnosed with breast cancer. Every three minutes. And breast cancer is hereditary. The risk of developing breast cancer increases for women whose parent, sibling or child have had the disease. Her daughters live with that knowledge every day.
Life has a way of teaching you what you need to know. The past year has taught me that the road does not go on forever. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. It is time. This year I will walk for two days and 39 miles, as I have always wanted to do, to raise money to battle this deadly disease.
Outside the window, the wisteria is in bloom. It is a brief display, lasting only for a week or so before the blossoms drop and the vine becomes covered with chartreuse leaves. There is still time to sit under the blossoms and drink in the sweet, sweet smell.
What is it you want to do? What do you stay away from for fear of getting stung? The road is getting shorter. Don’t wait. Do it now.
The walk in San Francisco is July 12-13. Will you join me? My goal is to raise $1800.00. If you want to donate, you can do so here. If you want to walk, sign up here. We can walk together!