Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans – John Lennon
The first words out of my mouth when the surgeon told me I need a mastectomy were “But we have a trip to Disney World in two weeks!” As if my plans prevailed over this disease that was slogging its way into my body, as if I had some control over it all just by deciding I had other plans.
The surgeon reassured me I could definitely go to Disney with my family…there was plenty of time before I needed surgery. I happily agreed and then delayed the surgery an extra three weeks again, because I had other plans. I had to clean the house. I had to fill my freezer with meals. I had to purge my closet. I had to do ALL the things! I was a VERY IMPORTANT part of the world.
This was December 23. We filled the next two days with Christmas merriness, maybe with a tinge of worry and fear. Cookies and milk made its way to Santa, we ate food, presents unwrapped, all was well.
Enough with the Christmas cheer. Let’s move on to Disney!
The Engineer and I had a spreadsheet of our Disney plans. If you haven’t heard of The Disney Spreadsheet, let me tell you it is a beautiful sight to behold. All your plans for the week mapped out before you. We planned every minute of every day. Every fast pass, every meal, every parade to gaze upon in delight during the long wait till the actual trip. We were ready to go. We were ready to leave our worries behind because we had The Disney Spreadsheet. We had a plan.
Upon getting to Disney, we no longer had that magical written control of our plans. Luggage came later than expected, we couldn’t immediately charge our dinner to our room so there was a slight (45 minute) delay in our dinner, rides broke down, it rained on the stroller, kids cried, parents cried, and worst of all, we lost the spreadsheet.
But still the magic was there. The four-year-old danced with Pluto. The seven-year-old discovered the terror of Dinosaur. The older kids joked with Donald Duck and tried new foods. The Engineer relaxed with his mother and sister. The family experienced the magic of letting go.
And at Disney I could let go of the control. I got up before sunrise to race to the parks. I screamed on roller coasters, hugged characters, watched my children sparkle with joy, wandered down Main St. We slept in beds made up every day by someone other than myself. I ate food cooked by someone other than myself in a place I would not be doing dishes. I experienced every magical moment as another deep cleansing breath. Whatever came my way the following year, I could make it through. I could let other people do all the things. I could let life happen.
The Marvel of the Ordinary Life 