Eating Strawberries with Marcia

The pint of strawberries was on the kitchen counter, just out of site from where we sat on the porch. But the shiny perfect red of those spring berries was in both our minds as we talked about Marcia's illness. And her fear. "I can feel that the angel of death is near," she reflected.

The irises were in perfect bloom, not yet raggedy from wind or rain. Spikes and blooms drew my eyes across the well-tended back yard on the sunny Saturday that I visited. Her husband is the gardener, explained my dear friend. And he’s been taking good care of her too.

Marcia's diagnosis is a mouthful: mesothelioma. The cause is often asbestos exposure, years before illness. Why she landed in this spot is mostly a shoulder shrug. Fluid in the lungs got drained, biopsies confirmed the multiple lesions as cancer. It’s inoperable but maybe slow to grow.

"I want you to know I am meeting life on its terms, and there is goodness here," Marcia wrote in an email to friends.

I was honored to be on Marcia's list. Her yoga teacher for many years, I was well aware as I read that letter that Marcia was stepping up to be guru for me and many others as she navigated this challenge. She was allowing herself to become transparent with her fears, her yearnings, and her acceptance of an unknown ending.

I'd stood with Marcia in a charge toward fear before. Holding her hand, I walked with her out into the surf last fall to give her a ride on my longboard. In her late 60s, she'd never ridden a wave and it seemed like a good way to try something frightening and visceral and, well, potentially fun. So she had joined 11 other women for my surf/yoga retreat in Pacific City, Oregon. "I'm really scared," she admitted as we hopped through the waves, heading out. "But I trust you."

Marcia with Olga LaFayette in Pacific City last fall

As we moved into waist deep water, I wrapped my arms around Marcia so we both could get our hands onto my board to push its nose down and slide it through the two- to three-foot breakers. "Push and jump," I taught her. That turned out to be her favorite part of surfing. Joy and fear merged in Marcia's giggling smile that morning. "Push and jump. Wheeeee!"

I helped Marcia lie down on the board and spun her around, sighting for a good wave. We'd done a dry run on our yoga mats, and Marcia knew she was going to ride on her belly in a cobra position, chest up and legs straight back and tight together, using her arms to steer the board like a sled. We didn't have long to wait. A perfect three-footer stood up behind us and I cued Marcia to "get into your best cobra position. Go!" I pushed her down the line and watched her sandy blond head disappear behind the face of the wave. As the water cleared, I saw her cruising toward the beach in perfect form--all the way in. "Yippeeee!" I cheered and waved and sputtered from the water, a bobbing body without my ride. It was among the greatest moments I've experienced as a surfer.

And now, seven months later, this woman who had blown my mind with her courage and fun-seeking spirit at the sea, was telling me about a much scarier ride--one that she would never choose but one that she could face with that same indomitable spirit. "I've become very careful with my time and energy," she said that morning on the porch. Inconsequential projects had been packed away for good. Each choice felt rich with meaning. Yoga and swimming would get top billing. She would prioritize a prayer book for favorite poems, essays and cards. Her grandsons would be visiting that very afternoon. She wanted to watch them play and picnic in the yard.

We talked for a good while about choice and time. It had been the subject of many philosophy chats at yoga--shouldn't we always choose that which matters most? Certainly, but it's so much clearer when death comes knocking. Not long after our chat, Marcia wrote a beautiful essay about letting the Angel of Death in the door, asking for his patience.

“Oh, I wondered when you would arrive,” she wrote. “I am glad to know you are near, yet will you wait awhile? I have a nice chair on my porch so you can witness the life around you. I need some time to linger, to write and to appreciate. There are three little boys I would like to watch a little longer and receive their real hugs. We ask a few more trips. I need to thank more. I want to learn more.  I have been told that the time you are on the porch is a rich time for learning. So, rest here…it will take me awhile to pack.”  

Clearly, the taste of life is rich for Marcia. As we held our own seats on the porch that sunny Saturday, our minds turned at once back to that pint of strawberries I'd picked up at the farmer's market. "It makes me think of that old Zen story," she said, and I smiled. Exactly that. Running for his life from a hungry tiger, a man drops down a cliff wall and catches a vine—that a mouse then slowly begins to gnaw away. The gist is that he's trapped. No way out. But just within reach is a perfectly ripe strawberry. And so, he eats the strawberry.

The story melded with Marcia's to be my lesson in yoga classes that week. Ah, how we want a different ending to the story! We want to imagine that while he's enjoying that strawberry, the solution to his puzzle becomes clear and he escapes and lives happily ever after, right? RIGHT? Nope, it's just that the strawberry was perfect and ripe for the picking and he didn't waste the deliciousness because of his predicament and his fear.

My visit with Marcia that Saturday ended with her sharing a favorite poem: "Different Plans" by Brian Andreas:

"I don't know how long I can do this, he said.

I think the universe has different plans for me

& we sat there in silence & I thought to myself

that this is the thing we all come to & this is

the thing we all fight & if we are lucky enough

to lose, our lives become beautiful with mystery

again & I sat there silent because that is

not something that can be said."

Thank you, Marcia. I’m honored to eat strawberries with you.