Author: Brett Ann Stanciu

The Essentialness of Beauty.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 25 Comments

A numberless day in my hospital stay…. I’ve noted the passing days by the perennial garden below my window. Each of these gauzy rainy days, the greenery brushes out further. The crabapples bloom. On the hillside, emerald stretches over branches, a multifaceted palette of leaves.

As for me — survived this surgery (hurray, yes) — and I’m now cared for by family who cycle in and out, messages and emails and gifts from friends, kind and competent hospital staff. My great thanks to readers to have reached out to me, or simply read my words. Surgery, indeed, for a laywomen like myself, is an oddity. Scalpel to flesh cannot be an everyday occurrence in a life. I relied on the surgeon’s precision. Grateful, grateful, I am for these skills. Soon, I’ll be home again, in the everyday world of my bright kitchen, our cozy front porch, garden. The lilacs will bloom.

One of our house’s great gems is the lilac bushes that span three sides, in varying lengths. The first spring we lived here, I invited friends for dinner. They got out of their car and stood in the driveway, reveling in the lilacs’ perfume.

While here, I picked up a copy of Loving Frank, Nancy Horan’s fictionalized love story of Frank Lloyd Wright and Mameh Borthwick, which ended in a horrific tragedy. Here’s a line from the incomparable Wright worth thinking over: “The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes. If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished. But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with you all the days of your life.”

Don’t these greens taste good…

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 21 Comments

My oldest daughter attended preschool for a year on the second floor of a Unitarian Church in a little village on a pristine glacial lake. The village is heavy on the white clapboard quaintness. To get to the town, we drove through acres of farm fields. In May, the fields gleamed with dandelion gold. The merry month of May: bumblebees and blossoms. Revel on…

My daughters visited me yesterday at Dartmouth, a repeat that’s become bizarrely routine — a repeated I’m determined to break. They came bearing gifts of peonies and good cheer. Sunday, we wandered through the wide and mostly empty halls. The hospital is designed to pour natural light into the building, and the sunny afternoon showed its success. We admired the blooming crabapples and wandered through garden courtyards. I gathered more reading material.

I rarely post photos of myself, but here’s me, in my daughter’s sweatshirt, in a photo snapped in an elevator. Dandelion from the youngest tucked into my zipper.

The First Green of Spring

Out walking in the swamp picking cowslip, marsh marigold,
this sweet first green of spring. Now sautéed in a pan melting
to a deeper green than ever they were alive, this green, this life,

harbinger of things to come. Now we sit at the table munching
on this message from the dawn which says we and the world
are alive again today, and this is the world’s birthday. And

even though we know we are growing old, we are dying, we
will never be young again, we also know we’re still right here
now, today, and, my oh my! don’t these greens taste good.

~ David Budbill

And another turn in the plot…

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 40 Comments

My body falls apart again, and my daughter drives me to Dartmouth. “My car only goes to this ER,” she tells me when I hint at negotiating a closer ER. She asks her blunt and even-toned questions, “What are you afraid of?”

Among other things, I’m afraid of waiting, in pain, which is what happens, and I survive that, of course. The hours in the ER waiting room introduce us to an intimate slice of others’ lives. The man who drove a screwdriver into his hand and didn’t seek antibiotics (not a good choice), another who crammed his hand between his two fighting dogs (the hand lost), a woman with a damaged foot who phones her mother on speakerphone. Across the large room, listening, I wince at the painful distance in that relationship.

Eventually, I’m given a bed in what’s labeled Hall 3. Shift change, a kind nurse hustles to give me meds. In the hallway, we are yet in the swirling mix of others’ lives. A hall mate (not a roommate) who I never see but who’s recently widowed; his companion struggles to figure out his meds. Later, my daughter steps outside and sees a prisoner who’s a patient run through the parking lot, high drama. She leaves after midnight. “Drive safely,” I say, “text me when you’re home.”

In the night, the surgeons stop in, and again the next morning, when the surgeons and the Good Doctor my oncologist meet in my room. Like a rushing train, surgery is coming rapidly and unavoidably towards me. Much as I’d rather not, really rather not, I begin to accept this. I think: get my tools together to survive this. Print out my manuscript, collect books and a knitting project. In all these countless hours in varying hospital rooms and hallways, I’ve never been bored. Frustrated and weeping, laughing and curious, but never dull. Another thing to be grateful for.

I’d rather not, but here’s another bend in my story, as with my hall mate and waiting room companions…

Spring, in all her variations.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 14 Comments

In the dark, the robins chirp, their language weaving night to dawn to daylight. Imagine, a whole season of birdsongs ahead. Or, I remind myself, quit stretching into the future. Simply listen.

Word around northern Vermont is that the spring is stuck. Days with thin ribbons of chilly sunlight. Drizzle and damp. In my wool hat and sweater, leather boots, I pull out the broken branches beneath the mock orange. Last winter’s heavy snow slid from the roof and snapped the brittle branches that should have been trimmed, anyway, last year. Against the house’s southern foundation, a cluster of white violets blooms. Every morning, the green pushes forth. The Japanese lilac I planted last April brushes out. Red stalks of peonies emerge. The tulips hold their plump buds closed, teasing, tomorrow, tomorrow.

But in the realm of today, today, each day I feel the chemo less in my body. Yesterday afternoon, in my fifteen-minute house tidying, I suddenly realized that my body has been cycling through chemo for six months. Before that, I’d been (ignorantly) filled with rapidly growing cancer. Now, walking barefoot around the house, the cats lazily watching me from their perches on couch backs, I realized what was different was that my body felt like mine again, me, the way I’d forgotten as familiar.

In alignment with that strand of my good news (apparently in opposition to what’s happening with arts funding on the national level), here’s a line from Dostoyevsky’s Prince Myshkin I read this morning: “Do you know I don’t know how one can walk by a tree and not be happy at the sight of it?”

“…the strange idea of continuous living…”

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 14 Comments

A knock at my kitchen door wakes me. Midafternoon, home from a long morning at Dartmouth for routine things, nothing major, but a day that began in the dark after scant sleep. The week before, I’d left a message for a man who painted three sides of my house a few years ago to ask about an estimate for my barn and that fourth side that somehow I’d never painted. Last fall, sick and not knowing the (cancer) reason why, I’d managed to get out my sander, but that was about as far as that plan went.

The painter is a person my daughter and I know in our overlapping circles, so I’m not surprised when he says he’d heard of my illness. We talk for a bit in my kitchen. Then I grab my sweater, and we walk around the barn. A stunning sunlight makes me blink. Our conversation winds around primer and caulking and ladders. In the back, where the woodchucks claim domain, the painter turns the conversation towards politics and the word that’s so commonly used now — cutting. We talk about cancer research (which saved my life) and the bitch of enduring chemotherapy. A house finch perches in the honeysuckle in the wild tangles below my house. The honeysuckle’s bent branches are dotted with tiny fans of new leaves.

It’s been a day for me. I once had unbounded energy that I spent so easily with my garden shovel, my paintbrush, laptop, trowel, my two hands. I lean back against the barn’s peeling clapboards, beside last summer’s clematis vine that appears shriveled, used-up, no good. I have complete faith this beauty will bloom again this year. Listening to the painter, I wonder, why make any guesses about anyone or anything, really? What will happen will happen. Yet, I can’t help myself. I’m betting on the clematis and its purple flowers. The painter offers me his good will, and I take that, too.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

~ Ada Limón

Bare soil.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 18 Comments

Midnight, I’m sitting outside the local hospital in the balmy night, a few mosquitoes drifting in the streetlights. There’s no one around, save for the young woman in reception poking her phone, the peepers chattering in the wetland down the road. The night is so warm I’m reminded of summer’s open-ended days and nights, the pleasure I’ve taken these last few years sitting outside in the dark, listening to the nightsounds of rustlings and callings, human and wild.

The person who drew my blood just a few hours ago told my sister and me about the local library in nearby Johnson, Vermont. This evening, the library will be moved from where it was built and recently flooded to safer and higher ground near the elementary school. The town will shut down as the brick building is wheeled down Main Street and over a bridge spanning the Lamoille River. In the velvety darkness, I imagine the scene: the floodlights, the crews, the townspeople who will come out to admire and cheer. A small but certainly mighty miracle.

Around the building, I hear the rattle of my Subaru’s loosening heat shield. Then my sister appears in the driver’s seat. Along empty roads, she drives us home. In Wolcott village, I spy a fox rushing across the road. The animal pauses at the weedy edge, head turned towards us, perhaps wondering what we’re up to, too, this creature, like us, in no rush at all. Home again, the cats press against the kitchen glass doors, as if expecting a reckoning from me, an accounting of my absence.

What can I say to these tabbies? When a nurse apologized for dropping a plastic cap on my shoulder, I mused aloud that it wasn’t heavy — and isn’t that a line from Phish? Things are falling down on me, Heavy things I could not see… The nurse knew these lines, too. The heavy falling things are taking a pause, perhaps, in spring, as the earth reorients herself, through peeper song, unfurling leaf, the heady scent of rain on bare soil.