In some ways I classify Madeline L’Engle with the like of Umberto Eco in that the way they put ideas on paper not only fascinates me but inspires me to try my hand at the same.
However, I find myself in the precarious situation of having this inspiration under the effects of chemo. Chemo brain is so real, and not at all what I thought it would be.
It is so weird, living in my new brain space, that I am still marveling at just who strange it is. It feels normal, but at the same time I recognize that it just isn’t. I wish I could explain it, but it has pieces of black hole in a mid-century modern living space full of dark wood antiques. Things feel like they used to flow seamlessly together in the ol’ noggin, and now some are living in a continual state of being startled in headlights on a dark road. The crazy thing is that it still fucking works, most people who meet me might not know how much more separate I feel from my brain space as I am able to make coherent and thought out conversation… I recently had a conversation with a friend and their inner ‘effin asshole badger striked and this kind of accusatory finger-pointing conversation was completely frightening and new to me, and I am still trying to figure out what was different in the experience (other than they were so wrong in arguing Mexico has no real middle class and felt cornered by my opposition to their argument plus they had been drinking and that apparently makes them asshats, but really?).
The point is, I suppose, that the difference fully lies within me. My brain feels different.
I still look at the rough draft chapters of my “book”, hanging in the ethers and sitting and waiting for me to curl up with them like I would with my son after a spell of time apart. They weep.
This cancer business is the shit, but not in the good way one would say “the shit”.
So, the newest version of the movie A Wrinkle In Time is coming out in theaters this weekend. I am excited, but also scared. It is one of those reads that stuck with me. I am scared because the last version was just plain awful, and there are ideas in it that can be taken apart by people on both side of life (conservative v liberal; religious v atheist) and I hope that it tries to stay planted where it belongs ebbing and swaying through all those because (for me at least) this story inspired reflection, and I think those themes are at their most amazing when they are reflected on. Which brings me to the quote that inspired me to come back here with something more tangible than a reading list:
Oh my goodness, there is so much truth in this… but some scientists are as bad as staunch theologians and revelation is not as amazing to them. I recall once, thinking about something the priest had said at mass and I had asked my husband to ask him a question I had and the priest yelled at my husband and then I realized that the expectation was not to wonder but to accept and that coupled with a whole bunch of bullshit about rebirth (which is so closely intertwined with horrid awful experiences with preachy “born again” people, and that may be why I lost faith, not in faith (though for a while it felt that way) but in people of faith – because they can be real a$$holes. Lately, thank God, I have come across gentle people of faith, where questions are OK and who realize that “No, the devil did not put fossils on our earth as a means to temptation” and my own faith has felt some softening. Which is a good place to be, because my brain (and here is where I bring it all back together, right?) feels like pondering things of faith is a mental exercise worth tackling and which, ultimately, might be what helps me feel more normal in my brain space.