THE FOUR A’S

I learned St. Julian of Norwich’s Body Prayer in March, right before Ed got every parent’s worst nightmare of a phone call from our son in law, telling him that Sigrid, Ed’s daughter and my stepdaughter, had been diagnosed with brain cancer. Two days later, we drove to our family in California, where we stayed in the casita next door to their house till early July, held by the seriousness of Sigrid’s condition, the family’s need, and fear of traveling during Covid.

“Surreal”, I told people when they asked how I was doing. “It’s all surreal and then it’s too real and then it’s surreal again.” I said that because it was true and because it was easier than talking about the fears and feelings that collected and competed inside me, so that I could be, at any given moment, heartsick and exhausted and confused and pissed off and grateful and ungrateful and aghast at myself for being such a mess.

I needed grounding. Something to keep me from going over an edge I imagined would not exactly benefit our kids, our two teenaged grandkids, nor each other. So I tried the Body Prayer. I practiced it in the mornings, standing at the window of my tiny new home looking out at the bottle brush tree with its bristly red blooms in the yard instead of out at my beloved river. I’d bow my head and say the first A, “Await,” my hands cupped, waiting.

After a minute or a few when I’d settled into the Awaiting place, I’d raise my arms to the ceiling or the sky and say the next A, “Allow,” and then let it flow into me–Sigrid’s debilitating cancer, Ed’s excruciating pain, the latest Covid statistics, this frightening administration, and the dangers of the deep divide in our country. I’d allow it and allow it some more, and then I’d breathe and allow God’s strength and power to flow down into me too.

I’d press my hands over my heart, then, and bow my head and say, “Accept,” and try to stay open to it all till I felt ready for the final A.

Arms down then, palms out, head up, open eyes. “Attend,” I’d say, and I could feel it, more calm, a sense of purpose, and some faith in my bandwidth and my ability to keep on keeping on. And then I’d do the next right thing.

I’d cook dinner for six, envisioning my grandson gobbling it with the gusto of a fourteen-year-old climber. I’d clean up, do laundry, walk in the California sunshine, oohing and aahing at the orange and yellow and red and purple foliage and the gorgeous, green succulents. I’d talk to friends about how much help is help and how much is interference when you’re a grandparent. Ed and I would shop for furniture and appliances for the uncomfortable, inefficient, 375 square foot casita, making it comfortable, efficient, and downright cute.

I’d watch an episode of Encore with my granddaughter, blown away at her knowledge of Broadway musicals. I’d talk books and movies with my son in law, Todd. I’d cook some more. And some more. I’d hold Ed in my arms when he broke down. I’d cry a little myself. Or a lot. I’d tell my new online therapist that we were all traumatized and she’d say, “Absolutely. Yes.” I’d practice the Four A Prayer.

We’ve been back home for three precious months. Next week, we’ll be driving back to California to care for our family for three more months, and we expect that time to be precious too. I don’t want to go, and I’m so glad I get to be there, and it’s too much, and it’s not enough, and I’ll keep practicing the Four A Body Prayer.

No wonder people have used this prayer for centuries. Await. Allow. Accept. Attend.  It helps.

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