Contrast

Contrast is a term used to define difference. Opposition. Strikingly dissimilar associated elements positioned against one another, inspiring a level of comparison that adds distinction to something.

In art, contrast is often considered one of the most fundamental principles in effective composition. It is a powerful tool that, when used appropriately, can create meaningful representations, drawing attention to a focal point, clarifying concepts, creating aesthetic power and beauty.

Wikipedia defines visual contrast as “the difference in luminance or colour that makes an object (or its representation in an image or display) distinguishable.

Lately, contrast is a word I’ve heard a lot. We’ve had 2 CT scans, and MIBG, an MRI and a PET scan all in one week. In each, an agent called a “contrast” is administrated into the body (for Violet, through her IV lines), that is used to improve the images produced in these radiology scans. She has literally become “radioactive” (says the bright warning sign taped to her ICU room door), filled with a dye that can provide more clarity surrounding her condition.

But contrast means to much more to me than this. So much more now than ever.

I love the fall. It is without question my favourite time of year. And the reason is the light. There is a quality to the sunlight, the angle at which is hits the earth, that enhances the colour and definition of things. It carries with it this energy of awareness. In fall, it is tough to ignore the scenery around you. The trees. The textures. The depth of blue in the sky.

Yesterday I “snuck away” for a few hours. Up until recently, Matt has been here to shoulder the time with V, hanging with her while I duck out to snuggle Lucy for a painfully limited amount of time before running back to Violet’s side. Violet doesn’t like it when Mommy’s gone (even though we have now moved into the “angry phase” where Mommy bears the brunt of extreme frustration and irritability). But with Matt running much needed errands and tying up loose ends - returning to work - I need to figure out how to manage the balance on my own.

So, as she dozed off during chemo, I ran for my life, taking Lucy in a stroller to Douglas Park near the Hospital. It is an absolutely magical place – an epic playground set among tall willow trees and big leaf maples that line the residential streets, complete with a treehouse, zip line, and in-ground trampoline. Lucy’s dream (and mine).

The walk to the park alone was monumental. The sun danced through the layers of leaves that create hues only seen in Vancouver foliage. Lucy has found her own passion for trees, something we can share together. We commented on each and every one along the way, appreciating their height, their colour, their texture. Everything felt ALIVE – breathing in and out the same air as we were, intermingling in our joy. There were flowers everywhere, tickling my ankles as we walked along the sidewalk, stems sticking out of fences with little buds of lavender exploding into little sprigs of purple, perfuming the air with earthy fragrance.

At the park, everyone was smiling. Everyone seemed like they were there together. The Lower Mainland got hit hard with COVID angst, and you could feel the utter sense of freedom and relief among the crowd of people. At the edge of the park, a woman was playing guitar, singing songs that I could only assume were from some unidentified Faith. The small audience waved us over, seeing Lucy’s interest in the rhythm. “This music is for everyone”, they said. So we joined, and Lucy clapped and danced. The words were in another language. And it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the feeling of being outside and alive.

In typical “Shawna-fashion”, I made it into a dramatic teaching moment for myself. As we walked back to the hospital, I let go of any anxiety that I needed to be back in a hurry, or that something may have happened while I was gone, or that Lucy might cry when having to say goodbye to Mommy again. I just settled into that feeling of appreciation. That feeling of being happy and present. That feeling that, in that moment, everything was ok.

I briefly had the thought, “if only my precious girl wasn’t in this horrifying mess, this would be a perfect moment.” And then I realized, it’s because of that mess that I am able to even have a moment like that. It’s the contrast – the positioning of two opposing ideas (beautiful, perfect world – unimaginably terrifying disease) – that creates the significance, clarity and meaning.

If we want the depth of the human experience, we must embrace it all. The full spectrum. I have always been a “full spectrum” kind of person. I seek extremes: opportunities to fully participate in this life and feel it to its fullest potential. It is the seeker in me, the adventurer, the philosopher. I want to get it. Why else are we here?

I wouldn’t wish this kind of “contrast” on anyone, and yet, I have never felt luckier in my life in so many ways. I get it now. I’m paying attention. The contrast is also clarity. You need seasons to appreciate that depth of light in the fall. You need excuses to focus your attention on things. God knows, I hope that I’ve “got” the lesson, and that this experience will be an opportunity for so many to refocus and appreciate. To go out into the sun and feel it. Maybe that is Violet’s sacrifice for us all. She’s given us all a gift – the greatest gift there is. And I have more gratitude for her then anything else on the planet.