Migration: Return (Offering 14)
Coming home to ordinary magic—and the cycle beginning again.
We enter the final phase—and the final offering—Return.
(If you’re new to Eclosion: An Artist’s Path to Power and Peace, start at the beginning. Or visit my Memoir Hub for a full table of contents with links.)
Return
“We are the center. The now. The change.”
~Jennifer Johnson, from the Climate Justice Mural Project
“Ok,” I said, grabbing a scrap of paper and a pen. “Give me some ideas.”
“Sledding!”
“Hot chocolate!”
“Puzzles!”
“Art making!”
“Ice skating!”
“Soup!”
“Cozying up around the fire!”
“Dinners with friends!”
“Dance parties in the living room!”
Seren, Shon, and I were sitting around the table after our fancy Saturday morning breakfast, making our Best Winter Ever! list—a ritual we started during the pandemic. Before each new season, we make a list of the things we most want out of the upcoming months. Best Summer Ever! or Best Fall Ever! tops our list. Then we toss out ideas, writing them all down. That first summer of the pandemic, we were determined to live our lives to their fullest, within the confines of that moment. For us it meant hiking and swimming, backpacking and eating outside with friends. Two years later, with Shon’s treatment in full swing, Best Summer Ever! included comfy lawn chairs next to the baby pool instead of big hikes. I can’t say it was the best summer ever, but it was the best summer the moment allowed—and was magical in its own way.
I looked down at our list and smiled. Shon still had a lot of rebuilding to do, but our list wasn’t defined by cancer.
This ritual reminded me of another. In early sobriety, when Shon and I lived at Delphinia, the path to our cabin wound through the woods, filled with native plants and animals. Roads and pathways often invite invasive species, and this one was no different. The edge of the path was filled with Herb Robert, AKA ‘stinky Bob’, an annual non-indigenous geranium that, like its namesake, smells awful. I spent hours pulling out this plant as a meditation. As I pulled each one, I imagined I was making space for the native plants, the ones intended to be there. Simultaneously, I imagined gently removing the weeds that had grown in my mind, making room for the flowers to bloom.
Ten years later, living on different land, I still drop into this meditation. A few months after making our Best Winter Ever! list, I looked at my work calendar for the upcoming year. My old scarcity complex caught, and I felt panic begin to rise. This time I wasn’t afraid of too little work, but of too much. How would I get it all done and still have time for my child? Before my mind could spiral too far, I set down my calendar and went to the garden. I kneeled—knees instantly soaked from the wet ground—and focused on just the spot in front of me. I took a breath to center myself and began pulling weeds, making space for peas and calendula. Seren was older now, I reminded myself. Shon was there too. As I pulled weed after weed, I remembered another garden scene from the year before.
One day while we were in Seattle for one of Shon’s treatments, Jen stayed with Seren. In the garden, Seren picked kale flowers, handing them to Jen and saying, “I’m picking these for papa. You know kale flowers cure cancer, right?”
Jen responded, “No, I didn’t. That’s amazing!”
We came home late at night to find a small bouquet of kale flowers on the kitchen table—Seren’s faith in kale flowers curing cancer a tiny beacon of hope.
I shook the dirt off a deep-rooted weed and imagined planting the garden with Shon and Seren come spring, imagined calling Jen for her garden wisdom. I took another breath and stood up, brushing the dirt from my fingers.
We were going to be alright.
Shon’s cancer journey was terrifying, a constant reminder of life’s fragility. Yet it brought us closer in ways we hadn’t experienced in a long time—perhaps ever. Cancer forced us to realize how close our own mortality is, reminding us that today really might be all we have, helping us to see the beauty of the moment. It’s hard to hold onto this in day-to-day life, and we don’t always manage to. When we do, it grounds us in the beauty of ordinary moments.
The miracle of this time was that instead of losing a parent, Seren gained better versions of both parents. We got through this in part because we had access to incredible medical care. Partly because we got lucky. And partly because we chose not to go through it alone—Shon’s cancer journey deepened our connections within our community in ways we never expected.
We celebrated Shon’s 50th birthday just a few short months after learning he was in remission. Lounging in the grass, surrounded by friends, the March sun glinting off the tears in our eyes, Shon and I did our best to express the gratitude we felt for everyone there—how held we were during that precarious journey, how our child was held.
Friends shared their own experiences of that time. Jen recalled me telling her about the time Shon had asked me over lunch with Seren, what I would do if he wasn’t there anymore. How she couldn’t believe I could answer him calmly and not freak out. Our kid was right there! Of how sobering it was when I responded, “Jen, this is our life right now. We’re having these conversations all the time.”
In many ways, Shon and I were both on our own recovery journeys. Even though Shon was in remission, the cancer damaged his lung. He did breathing exercises daily and took medications to clear his lungs. He worked hard to rebuild his energy and immune system. There was always the risk of him getting an infection that his lungs couldn’t clear. He tended to his health daily, just as I tended to my sobriety. Sometimes the vigilance wore on us, but we did our best to support one another.
To honor the milestone of my 10-year sobriety anniversary, I pulled out the same 1,000-piece puzzle I put together when newly sober. This time, I was determined not to work alone. Instead, I made a giant pot of Carrie’s Curried Coconut Calabaza stew and hosted a puzzle party to celebrate. Friends gathered—those in recovery and those who simply walked through life beside me—filling our home with easy laughter. People stopped by throughout the day to fill their bellies and help put the puzzle together, sharing stories while we searched for pieces that fit. With so many hands, the puzzle progressed much faster than when I did it on my own.
A few weeks later, Seren cuddled on my lap, Shon sitting across from us, we worked on the puzzle—it was almost done. I met Shon’s eyes, then handed each of them one of the final puzzle pieces. We slid them into place simultaneously, completing the picture. Shon slid over to our side and put his arm around us. We gazed at the puzzle, finally able to see all of the hidden images inside of the greater whole.
I settled into the moment—the three of us, the completed puzzle, the hidden images finally visible. A place of rest before the cycle began again.
The End
What does return look like for you—and what hidden images are only now coming into focus?