In Greece, a long time ago, an old couple opened their door
to two strangers who were, it soon appeared, no men at all,
but gods. It is my favorite story— how the old couple had almost nothing to give
but their willingness to be attentive— and for this alone the gods loved them.
- Mary Oliver, “Mockingbirds”

Eleven years ago, my husband and I started writing a family mission, vision and values statement. What is our family’s purpose; why do we exist? (mission) Where are we headed; what should we look like ten years from now? (vision) What shared core beliefs should we live out in pursuit of that mission and vision? (values) Every few years, as our family changed, we would take a day or afternoon away—a trip to the beach or a coffee shop—and rewrite it. The part that took the longest was coming up with our set of values; almost always this involved debating what he versus I thought most important while accounting for situational and cultural challenges.

To be honest, the whole exercise was more about process than product; I don’t know that any of us have more than glanced at the words where they sit framed on our wall. But the other day, as I lay in my chemo-induced stupor, it occurred to me that something very interesting was happening. I was rather unintentionally living into some of the values that have hung on our wall over the years: attention. Presence. Rest, which we defined as “releasing our sense of self-sufficiency and control.” And the only value which has been picked twice: simplicity, defined one year as “creating and maintaining space and margin in our time, energy and possessions,” another year as “being fully present and content.”

These values are an implicit acknowledgement of the harried pace, the mindless treadmill of achievement, in the world we live in. What was that line from Where’d You Go, Bernadette? “Let me rock it straight: the first stop on this crazy train is Kindergarten Junction, and nobody gets off until it pulls into Harvard Station.” I remember remarking to my husband the first year our kids joined the local swim club, “I can’t believe the Olympic trials are on the list of meets for the year!” You have to be intentional to be mediocre around here, and those words on the wall were a reminder of that.

Still, despite our iterative attempts to strike the right individualized and collective balance between “stewarding our kids’ gifts and fostering life skills through extracurriculars” and “getting sucked into doing too much under too much pressure,” we remain unavoidably busy. It was easier when the kids were younger to stick them all in the same things or drag the youngers along to whatever the olders were doing, but now they’ve branched out, and many times our house feels like a revolving door of activities that makes those values more aspirational than realistic.

But then cancer came along. Nowadays, I’m working less. I’m not writing papers or volunteering. I’m not socializing or strategizing or scoping anything out for my kids. What I can do is accompany them, driving them around or making them food when I feel up for it. The rest of the time, I’m lying on the bed or couch, watching because I have nowhere else to go, listening because it takes too much energy to speak. I’m the embodiment of presence. I’ve been forced to drastically simplify my life.

And rather than this being framed as a loss, I’m starting to see (at least on my good days) that it is a gift. It is a gift that I have nothing to offer but my attention. Watching the kids, it seems more obvious when I should hold my tongue and offer a hug instead of a lecture about something they lost or messed up. It seems more obvious when something mentioned in passing is bothering them more than they let on. When someone needs to be pushed to try something but not told how to do it. When letting them buy something would mean a lot at a particular time. When I should refrain from joining the emotional roller coaster of the moment because what seems to be blowing up is not really a big deal.

Fact is, the kids haven’t changed any of their activities; they’re doing all the same things as before. But watching them, it seems more obvious that it’s less about what they are doing than who they are becoming through how they do it. Less about what I or popular opinion deems the “right” school or activity than what is right for them, or maybe not what is right at all, but how they face whatever comes. As I’ve been less quick to judge myself or my body, as I’ve been forced to let go of the ability to control my life, as I’ve faced the truth that I am loved for who I am rather than what I’m capable of doing, I find myself turning in those ways to the kids too. Judge less, control less, notice more, love more. How I live my life, how I see myself, I’m finding, shapes how I see and what I want for them.

One of our boys wrote in a note, I LOVE cuddling with you! Before you had cancer, I don’t think we cuddled much. And I realized, he’s right. Before, if I wasn’t actively getting something done around the house, I was sitting in my office studying or writing. Now, well, be the day good or bad, I’m always around for cuddling. Last night, one of the boys came and found me in bed. He was upset to have lost his wet bag (and the hundreds of dollars’ worth of training equipment it contains) at swim practice. I was too tired to chastise him or do anything but open my arms for a hug. Did anything unusual happen to make you forget it? I asked. I was thinking about my friend, he admitted. One of his teammates had told him that night that his mom had just died after going to the hospital. We sat in the terribleness of this for a while. Are you afraid I’m going to die when I go to the hospital? I asked. No, he said. But we talked about it and about his friend. Suddenly, losing a wet bag seemed like a small thing compared to losing a mom. And maybe that’s what this is about: perspective. Having the capacity for perspective. Having the space and margin to see what matters and what does not, to close the divide between what we believe and how we live.