Still, Still, Still

Still, Still, Still

Early this morning, I went for a walk. These cold wintry days I usually wait until the afternoon to don scarf and walking boots, but by then I’m exhausted and need a nap. My disappointed dog, Carey, sleeps on the floor during naps, sighing, waiting for me to wake up. When I finally drag myself out, the walk is more obligation than joy.

This morning the temperature is in the teens, but without wind, the world outside my door looks crystal clear, gentle and still. Carey whines excitedly as I pull on my boots. Getting outside to salute the sun seems a fitting way to celebrate the winter solstice. I head for the neighboring retirement village to walk the path around the pond. As I circle the parking lot looking for a space, I’m awed by the beauty of early morning mist rising from still pond waters and the pale blue sky above.

Parked, and with Carey leashed, I walk heavily in snow pants, boots, llama hair jacket. Carey prances easily beside me totally unencumbered by her winter coat. It is a different world here, all white, pure and crystalline.  My soul rests and my breath deepens. Each moment flows into another. I flow along. Eternity seems touchable. There are no edges, no constraints, no holiday rushing, no candles or carols, no stressful crowds, no piles of cookies to resist or bake, no shoulds. There is only stillness in white and blue, white snow, white rays of sun, white swans floating on a mirror still pond, water reflecting the blue sky. Every tree branch, twig, fence line and dried weed is kissed with white frost. Clear crystals cling to each shape with indescribably beauty, like hope clinging to a dreary soul.

The scene reminds me of the song: “Still, Still, Still” sung by the Ephrata Cloister Choir on their Christmas at the Cloister CD. The choir sings in German; I have to look up what the words mean.

Still, Still, Still while Jesus sleeps, be still.
His mother o’er him bends, adoring,
All her love in song outpouring.
Still, still, still, while Jesus sleeps, be still.

I’ve played this song over and over this season. It comforts me. I feel needy, my body is extra tired and I miss mom.  She is so close, just on the other side of the pond living in an Altzheimer’s unit, yet the disease has taken her far away. Mom would love this German song.  She no longer responds to music, but in her day, music was love. In our Swiss German culture there isn't much hugging, or expressions of affection, but we sing. Ah, how we sing!  In this silent morning, I think of Mary singing to Jesus. I think of my mother, Mary, and how often she sang to her babies. “All her love in song outpouring” … a truth fitting both Mary’s.

When I get home, I’ll listen to the song again. And, I'll allow the acapella harmonies to pour over me like the love of a thousand singing mothers.

Joyfully,
Sharon

                                                     Merry Christmas!

Waiting to Exhale

I lay on the floor beside 2yr old granddaughter, Avery, watching her breathe. She is asleep, tucked into a little makeshift bed beside Nana’s big bed. She is unaware of the changes happening in her life at this very moment. No matter how much doting parents prepare the way for a new baby’s arrival, there are always surprising adjustments for the older sibling. As I mull these thoughts around, Avery sleeps with trusting abandonment. I pray for momma and babe, for my son who will surely be feeling moments of helplessness this night. The phone lies between Avery and me; the little one sighs in slumber. I smile in response, waiting for the call so I can exhale fully.

Only two years old and this little sweetheart’s world is about to be turned upside down. Ah, one never grows old enough to escape life’s sudden twists and turns. I’m glad I don’t have the power to protect my loved ones from this truth as I’m sure my interference would mess life up more than letting it be.

I confess I thought life would be easier, or at least more figured out, by the time I aged to Nana status, but the older I get the less I know. My own life feels full of birthing and death. There are things wanting to be born in me, things needing to go fallow, things needing to die. I sit by candle light in these dark nights and am grateful for the pull to rest, to hibernate, to embrace darkness. Like a babe in the womb, dark, enfolded, I sometimes need a season of nurturing. The gentle dark quiet helps prepare me for spurts of growth, change and of course, for life’s surprises.

Happy birthing day, new little one. I’m so sorry your tidy little world is contracting too. Thank God, loving arms are waiting. And, thank God for hellos, for siblings, for rest after labor, and for light that comes after darkness.

Joyfully anticipating,
Sharon

Living Fully into Hope

I left for the weekend, my garden bursting with summer's cardinal flowers, impatiens, and geraniums. Autumn colors of gold and rust mixed with delicate red and pink Mandeville buds. I returned home to find a slaughtering frost had transformed masses of colorful flowering plants into wilted piles of dull green.

Today, I decide to say goodbye to summer's fecundity by ceremoniously unwinding the Mandeville vines instead of cutting and pulling them off the trellis. As I work, I notice each wilted bud, thankful for their beauty, their hope in the future.

Leaves and vines curl everywhere, some still alive and viable, reaching far from their trellis home into the potted willow tree nearby filling autumn-bare corkscrew branches with leaf cover. As I uncurl each green finger, I smile at the barren willow's leafy disguise. I wonder how often I attempt to cover my unfruitfulness by standing near someone in full bloom.

I tried saying hello to winter's dark days, to slowing down and holing up, but with sunshine on my back and warm weather predictions, I'm just not ready. This goodbye gesture is enough; it reveals my desire for deeper authenticity, for asking what wants to bloom in me. Like the Mandeville, perhaps many of my buds will die before reaching fulfillment. I want to respond as gracefully as the vine, believing life is not about forcing blossoms, but living fully into hope and promise.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Autumn Joy

Autumn brings to mind cornfields, street fairs, sheep shows, leaf piles, apple crisp and golden sugar maples. And, it’s the name of my favorite autumn plant – Sedum Autumn Joy. I bought the plant on name alone, but soon fell in love with the flowers of this sedum especially the slow, gorgeous transformation from pink, to crimson, to deep rust as summer transitions into autumn. As I enjoy my garden sedum, I contemplate my own transitions.

Last year, at this time, I was baffled by odd health symptoms. This season, after lymphoma diagnosis and four months of immuno-chemotherapy, I’m well into recovery. The last appointment with the oncologist went well despite being nervous about meeting a new doctor. I changed oncologists in honor of a gift to myself on my 50th birthday. I decided since I’ve had male doctors for my first 50years, I’d like to have female doctors for the next fifty. I’m delighted to have good rapport with the new doctor, to hear my recent PET/CT scan shows continued decreasing activity in all ‘watched areas’ and to have scheduled an appointment for removal of my port since maintenance doses of Rituxan and chemo are not necessary. What lovely validations of health and healing! My white cell counts are slowly improving, but still low, so I won’t discard my copious supply of hand sanitizer.

A few weeks ago, during a bout of melancholy and needing some autumn joy, I took a walk, then sat on my favorite bench on a hill overlooking a creek, a pond, and a retirement village nestled among trees ablaze in red, orange and gold.

The sun feels so good after days of rain. I feel blue, yet alive and alert. My mind skips around from thought to thought then relaxes deeply into spacious appreciation of earth’s sights, sounds, and smells. Moments later, as thoughts return, I’m momentarily confused –is this spring or autumn? I see signs of spring: a swollen creek, curving like a ribbon over deep moss and cress colored fabric, water spilling over banks as if fed by spring rains, green grass carpeting the ground before and around me. I look up, reassured by golds and reds; yes, it’s autumn, even if fields of yellow ripened corn are bordered by emerald strips of vigorously growing alfalfa, even if rows of brilliant red burning bushes arise from lush lawns.

Like two eyes that see double when relaxed and single one when focusing together, I almost saw two seasons blending into one! Similarly, my melancholy blurred with deeper joy, until my thoughts and feelings became one with the pulse of life, the green earth, brilliant red leaves, golden corn, flowing waters. I want to savor, while holding all lightly so I don’t become too focused on one thing.

I dread the port removal procedure, unpleasant emotions, difficult life situations, endings, and anticipate a grandchild’s smile, beginnings, and the bite of a crisp apple, but these simple ups and downs symbolize the ebb and flow of change.

Life has seasons to be noticed and enjoyed, and holding everything lightly may help ease the transitions. It’s a comfort knowing I’m not defined by my thoughts or emotions, by what happens in my life. My true self is deeper, wider, more connected to something bigger than myself. In joy or in disappointment, I can focus own my own state, or I can open to the pulse of humanity, of earth and sea and sky, Spirit too. One focus without the other tends to keep me stuck in clinging, or wishing for some other emotion, situation, state or season. Like when I’m lying awake, but numbed, on the surgeon’s table for the port removal, I pray to see a bigger picture than my dread! I like Elizabeth’s advice: visualize the port covered in slippery butter so it pops right out!

I raise my buttered bread this morning to ‘toast’ autumn, loving support, and finding bits of joy in dreadful moments….

Joyfully,
Sharon

Turning the Blues to Joy

I’m under the weather; it’s raining, and I’m sick. My friends have gone on a ‘women’s day out’ without me. I’m tempted to feel blue, so I’m dedicating this whole day to loving kindness.

First, I shower my sick and disappointed self with compassion, in the form of hot tea and reflection. If I give my emotions some genuine attention, they often release quickly. Second, I sit in meditation, dedicating my prayer to all the friends I love, my family, my church community, girls and women who are not yet free, the sick, wounded, elderly, those caught in poverty. Soon I’m sending love to my dog, everyone’s pets, my plants, all creation and humanity, the earth, the universe. Then I sink into God, rest in Divine Love. After Centering Prayer, I rise slowly, embrace the day.

I’m eager, no longer focusing on what I’m missing, but what joy lies before me: sealing my painted, cement sand-cast leaves, blogging, rewriting Kairos curriculum, cleaning my dining room, yoga, reading, and mindfully tasting a new chocolate bar with ginkgo called “Unforgettables”.

I can use all the help I can get in memory improvement. Chemo-brain is gone, thanks to diligence in eating enough protein for recovery, and God’s grace. Mindfulness practice is helping me overcome a lifelong tendency toward absent-mindededness. But, I confess, the joy of finding a delicious dark chocolate bar with only 140 calories that ‘supports memory, concentration, and recall’ is a bit of heaven on earth!

Go forth and enjoy your day! Join me in being present for a moment, mindful for a moment, remembering to love yourself so you know how to love others and receive Grace.

Joyfully,

Sharon

Quotes:

"I'm hopelessly in love with God!" ~ SL, RP, and others Iknow. :)

"What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves? This is the most important of all voyages of discovery, and without it all the rest are not only useless but disastrous."

~ Thomas Merton

Waiting to Bloom

The Morning Glory vine is blooming! I've waited all summer for this glorious display. The smaller vine growing down the fence erupted in blossom soon after planting, while this first plant became all leaf and curly tendril. I'm grateful for the smaller plant's eager blossoms, but this huge, heavy vine blooming now, in late September, deeply touches me.

Through out the summer, I trimmed the exhuberant foliage back as it grew over the walk and into my flower pots. As I trimmed, I resisted impatience or thoughts of this non-blooming plant being a waste. Instead, I found joy in the abundance of green, the vine's wild abandon, and my own contentment in the hope of blossom.

This month I saw the first tight spirals of developing buds. Today, blooms sprinkle the hearty vines, and I'm thrilled with the delayed blessing. I curiously notice my happy response; rather than sadness in the lateness of the season, or fear of frost,I simply enjoy what is on display right now. Perhaps life experience has taught me clinging and fearing steals joy from the present. Perhaps I'm more gracious in my own life stage, believing it's never too late to bloom. No matter how imminent death seems, blooming is always timely and beautiful.

The morning glories invite me to reflect: what in me is waiting to bloom? What in me is ready to bloom but can't break through my resistance? Am I patient with whatever growth is presenting, in myself, in life, in others? Am I content with the promise of bloom? Am I forcing anything because I fear time is running out? Do I struggle with my own importance, needing to see the blossoms, or can I prune and fertilize and let go, simply waiting, or entrusting others to tend whether or not I witness the grand unfolding? Do I celebrate my own blossoming? Do I let go with abandon when 'the buds' can no longer be contained?

Hope, whether in promise or in reality, is beautiful. And, beauty is always worth the wait.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Idle and Blessed

Idle and Blessed

The phrase “idle and blessed’ from Mary Oliver’s poem The Summer Day keeps popping into my mind, perhaps because I’m living to a different rhythm these days. I’m savoring each day’s gifts: the sprinkling of goose bumps when I sense a small miracle happening, the twirl of joy when Jay comes down the walk, the pungent odor of sparring goat bucks, the curl of my granddaughter’s eyelashes, the grainy texture of a wooden broom handle and the way dirt swirls ahead of each sweep. How delicious is the grounded feel of earth under my feet, the sweet smell of hay or lavender-scented bed sheets, breathing through an achy yoga pose, laughing with God as I lay on the grass imagining looking down into the sky instead of up!

While I usually move through life more mindful than rushed, recovery from chemotherapy brought extra challenges in stillness and gratefulness. Stillness is a calm resting in Divine Love, despite outer or inner turmoil, regardless of mobility of body. Gratitude insists I treat my body as friend rather than frustration, even while forced to be physically still. While I easily savor the earth and its creatures, I sometimes forget my body is also worthy of celebration and savoring. Recovery asks for deeper listening to my body, being gentle with myself as I wait, hear, and discover what my body needs.

I have learned to be gracious toward my slower, quieter, more reflective nature, yet I can pressure myself in times of physical weakness. In those times, I’m easily discouraged by Western culture’s love of achievement, success, and independence. Growing up in a large rural family, with gardens, orchards, animals, a large household and siblings to care for, hard work was expected and encouraged. Having a strong work ethic serves me well, but when vulnerable, I can revert to an old mode of unfavorable comparisons.

In the vulnerability of recovery, of nursing two sprained ankles, trying to make sense of erratic blood sugar levels, enduring periods of mental/physical exhaustion and depression, I sometimes found myself clutching a ‘measuring up stick’ again, eyeballing my health, spirituality, recovery, body image, emotions, and especially my fear of laziness against illusions of strength, spirituality, and wholeness. When vulnerable it’s easy to confuse physical needs for lack of motivation and character weakness. When I listen to my body, and dialogue with those who support me, I can see what is: during recovery my body needs more protein, more sleep, and more gentle acceptance of the lingering effects of illness and chemo on all of me: brain, body cells, psyche, emotions, soul.

I processed my illness and treatment phase well, I thought, so after chemotherapy was finished and everyone else went back to life as usual, I expected my own life to drift towards normalcy. Turns out, I had more thinking, praying, listening, and healing left to do.

Recovery is a process. Recovery, like everything else in life, can be a mirror of my subconscious inner thoughts and beliefs. During recovery, beautiful discoveries emerge of self, love, God, cosmos and community. Unsettling things come too, such as anger, depression, impatience and disappointment; it’s so tempting to express the pleasant and repress or judge the rest as negative, especially when western culture, even Christianity, loves the victorious, the positive, the strong. All emotions and thoughts need acknowledgement in recovery. Blessed are the dear souls who companioned me in my darker moments without needing to fix, chastise or spiritualize my condition. Their loving presence helped me open to what life was presenting, so I could hear my body’s needs, choose ways to live well, and find the power to let go of comparisons and expectations.

I am blessed when I take time to be idle, in times of energy and vitality as well as illness and recovery. I give and receive love and wisdom when I slow down and listen to the Sacred within and around me. In stillness, I exist beautifully with the rhythm of the earth, skies, and creatures, the Divine stirrings within myself, my family, my community. Idle hands are not always the devil’s workshop and disciplined idle minds are a welcome break from the constant rush and pressure of society. Blessed is the mind that pauses from thought and finds quiet Stillness within. Blessed is the body that participates in a slow sunset, climbs rocks and surfs waves, hears wisdom from within, feels the beat of cicada song. Blessed is the soul that rests in God’s Heart.

Joyfully,
Sharon

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver: http://www.panhala.net/Archive/The_Summer_Day.html

A fresh summer day. Time renewed. In the silence of the morning, time is not relevant. My soul blooms along with lemon lilies, and deep red Mandeville flowers. God dawns with the sun, floats above earth in white cloudy puffs, experiences life through me, through you, through upright lupines, nodding petunias and glowing fireflies. Creation explodes anew every day. I abide in Joy and Joy abides in me.

In case anyone is still reading this blog, I’m doing well. Walking on both feet again. Physical therapy and supplements from the nutritionist are really helping my ankles. The neuropathy is mostly gone. How lovely it is to feel the ground beneath my feet instead of odd stinging or numb sensations. I’m mostly holing up, taking life easy, doing what I have to do to keep the house and gardens intact. Not really feeling chatty or productive and that is good. I have a lot of inner stuff going on; healing, sorting, discerning, longing, asking life and the Spirit to lead me. I’m not feeling drawn to writing, or even much journaling.

I met with my spiritual director today. Our times together are such a blessing, so holy and so real, so ordinary. I wonder how anyone lives out faith and life without such a companion on the journey.

I stopped going to the “Healing Together” group at Lancaster Cancer Center. Although I really like the group, and the leader, attending makes me identify with cancer. I realize my need for support wasn't as much about cancer as it was about the need to mourn the loss of my close spiritual community when I finished five years of study at Kairos School of Spiritual Formation. I will always wonder how the folks in the support group are doing though; it’s amazing how quickly I bonded to these dear, courageous people. And, it was such a blessing to be reassured that post-chemo fatigue is normal, weak ankles from neuropathy too....but overall, I don't want to focus on cancer. Part of me would love continuing to attend because this group is similar to what I seek in a spiritual community- willingness to be open, vulnerable and real. Yet, I feel more called to find or start an intentional spiritually group that doesn't spring from one illness or issue. Perhaps my 'calling' and my longing will eventually blend into some group or community that gives me this kind of depth and life. I am willing anyway, should God and life lead.


God of my heart, you whisper my name as the breeze whispers among the willows. I throw open my arms and embrace the skies, the earth, the sea. Sweet Spirit, together we weep in glee as waves wet sandy cheeks; we leap in abandon with deer bounding through lush cornfields, we sleep with stars in our eyes. Beloved Immanuel, you experience life with me; I see your eyes when I look into my innocent grand daughter’s face or when I see a woman struggling with repression, a homeless child’s hunger, a spider proudly sitting in the midst of an intricately designed web, a man driven by work, or a dog gazing devotedly into the face of a beloved master. Dear One, are those your eyes peering out through theirs, or mine? Are our eyes all one? God, of my heart, you sing to me through robin song, touch me with human fingers , you color me in luscious shades of earth green, astound me with stars and galaxies, wrap me in healing blue skies and twining morning glory vines, laugh in flashes of cardinal red and comfort me in darkness with the glow of citronella candle and fireflies. May I always long for You, for love, for earth, sea, and sky, for community and wholeness.

Joyfully,
Sharon

No Good Leg to Stand On

Yesterday, I stepped off the porch and my good ankle gave out. Who expects to be striding confidently one moment and collapsing in a heap in the next? I went down gasping and bewildered, neither my fall nor my thoughts were graceful. Limping, I headed inside for the recliner, grabbing an ice bag and arnica cream along the way.

What kind of klutzy fool sprains an ankle walking off a porch? How could I sprain two ankles in 10weeks? I don’t have a good leg to stand on! It’s humiliating. Poor Jay; I don’t want him waiting on me again. I feel so stupid and can’t blame that on cancer. Am I getting so out of shape that I can’t even walk? I should stop being a wimp and push myself more. No, I’ve got to slow down; stop acting as though things are normal again. Stop expecting so much!

My contorted thoughts raged for a few moments. How quickly I can go from positive thinking and acceptance to blaming, berating, pushing myself! Alone with my ice bag and swelling ankle, I moved from humiliation and disgust to wallowing in self pity. Guess it doesn’t take much these days. On the other hand, numb feet, two sprained ankles, fatigue, intermittent melancholy, headaches, and joint pain when I thought I’d bounce back quickly feels like a lot.

After 48 hours of ice, ace bandages and ibuprofen, I can walk upright today, cautiously, but without cane or crutches. I spent time researching neuropathy, other lingering after effects of chemo, and reading message boards of other recent survivors. What a relief to know neuropathy (nerve damage from chemo) causes weak muscles (esp. ankles!) as well as numb, burning feet. Nerves in the legs take longer to heal too. I discovered some of my other odd symptoms are common in this stage of recovery: aching joints, headaches, melancholy, brain and body fatigue. I’m glad I’m not alone in this, but unsettled knowing I have more recovering to do. Chemo is the gift that keeps on giving.

I reluctantly go to the ‘Healing Together’ group at the Lancaster Cancer Center. I want to believe I can bounce back easily because of faith, nutrition, and attitude. Yet, I need to hear the stories of others so I know how to be gracious with my recovery. A survivor stated, “When a "crisis" appears over, there is an expectation to be "over" the whole thing.” I agree, knowing my own expectations exceed what I sense coming from others.

Another survivor speaks: “I would be a liar if I didn't say that surviving cancer is a daily rollercoaster of emotions, physical and mental challenges and a soul searching journey that often leaves me exhausted. I am looking for answers about my joint pain, my fatigue, my memory inconsistencies, my feelings of melancholy, my hormonal imbalance, my weight fluctuation and a host of other seemingly normal and related but annoying symptoms of post cancer treatment. There are certain things I intrinsically feel/know would help some of these symptoms such as exercise, caffeine withdrawal, nonconsumption of any alcohol, a better green-leafy diet, vitamin intake, yoga, therapy, a good cry now and then, more stress free moments in a day, meditation and more joyful experiences, but I have found it difficult to either manifest or maintain these seemingly simple acts of well being for any real length of time. It is a journey. I guess I am reaching out in this little baby-steps-cyber way in hopes of finding some answers or validation that I am indeed "normal" or at the very least finding some listening ears who know first hand what I am experiencing.”

Like this person, I’m still processing the events of the last 12 months. I’m baffled with this ongoing processing, as I felt very present through each moment of treatment. But, reflection is always good, and the deeper truth is the journey. Don’t we all struggle with what we intuitively know, what we need help to know, and what we don’t want to face. I keep asking for the grace to live fully each day, to reflect on what comes up, to let go of what I can’t change. I want to flow like the water in a brook, moving around rocks and sticks, not fighting or resisting too much, but accepting, letting go, bending through life’s circumstances. I wish for moving effortlessly over smooth, polished stone, but want to be prepared for sharp obstacles and churning rapids too. So I come back to practicing kindness to myself and others, trusting, mindfulness, gratitude, prayer and meditation.

Joyfully,
Sharon

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. --Reinhold Niebuhr

I have lost my smile,
But don’t worry,
The dandelion has it.

If you have lost your smile, but are still capable of seeing that a dandelion is keeping it for you, the situation isn’t too bad. You still have enough mindfulness to see that the smile is there. --Thich Nhat Hanh

Bird Song and Sunrise

I’m well on the road to recovery, feeling good, growing hair, loving life. I love sitting outside in the early morning, feeling grateful the winter is over and so is the time of sitting inside looking out, recovering from chemo. The spring seemed so far away back then! In honor of spring and hope, I wrote this earlier today:

“This morning is soft and silky, with the sun muted behind kitten gray clouds. My red-feathered friend primps on the wire above me; his whit-whit-whit call competes with the chatter of sparrows, the whir of dove wings, and the cheery song of father finch perched on the edge of his nest before stuffing ‘bird milk’ down the outstretched throats of his babies. Spring is deliciously heavy, so full and ripe it must soon give way to summer. Voluptuous lettuce in my garden, misted with the glow of sunrise and dew, bursts its boundaries, pushing against spinach, marigolds, beets, while the yearling redbud tree across the yard stretches youthful branches up to the gentle morning light. Deep green heart leaves shimmer beside the aged dogwood nearby, both trees moving in rhythm with the gentle morning breeze. “

Last Friday I attended my first Relay for Life. It was quite an experience. Lancaster, PA holds the third largest relay for the fight against cancer in the country. It is shocking –the cancer statistics - how many walked the survivor's lap and how many luminaries lined the track honoring or in memory of cancer patients. With a still swollen ankle, I limped through the whole survivor's lap. On the track I saw my oncologist; I think he was wearing a survivor's gold medal. I had no idea. The night was filled with mixed emotions.

The luminary service was touching, hope-filled and beautiful. The word HOPE was illuminated on the bleachers as bagpipers played Amazing Grace. During the songs and ceremony, I remembered everyone I could think of in my life, who fought cancer, including my dad, my sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. I thought of Alice, the rescuer of my dog, Hutch. Alice died from cancer when Hutch was a year old; Hutch died a few months ago. Of course all this remembering brought out the tears and tissues.

I'm resting now, with foot propped up and on ice as I write this blog. Minding my ankle is hard, being free of chemo and so wanting to get on with life. Then I think of Jim, walking the survivor’s lap, enrolled in his last chance clinical trial for advanced lung cancer, and feel chagrined over my impatience with my ankle.

So friends, I challenge you to go out and enjoy life today; whatever the difficulty, walk the survivor’s lap, in spirit if not on foot. And by all means, listen for the red bird!

Joyfully, Sharon

A wise story: The disciples were full of questions about God. Said the master, “God is the Unknown and the Unknowable. Every statement about God, every answer to your questions, is a distortion of the truth.”

The disciples were bewildered. “Then why do you speak about God at all?”
“Why does the bird sing?” said the master.

THE BIRD SINGS NOT BECAUSE IT HAS A STATEMENT BUT BECAUSE IT HAS A SONG - from Song of the Bird by Anthony De Mello

Simple Pleasures; Gratitudes

5-25-09


Last Sunday, family and friends surprised me with a party celebrating my cancer remission status and my graduation from Kairos School of Spiritual Formation in May, despite going through chemo. I am humbled and overwhelmed by the love and support of so many dear people in my life. I am so blessed by all the cards, gifts, weeping cherry tree and red twig dogwood I received. I had wanted a red twig dogwood to plant in memory of Hutch, so this surprise gift is especially touching. The shrub will be a reminder of Hutch’s fiery devotion to me, and the rich love of my family. I'm quite aware this particular pleasure is not in the 'simple' category, so my deepest gratitude goes to all who planned.

I plucked some stray hairs from my face today. While chin and raggedy eyebrow hair smacks of aging rather than glowing health, I can't help grinning over these fine hair specimens.


Speaking of hair, my head is not covered red, curly fuzz. All along I’ve told God I deserve strawberry blonde curls after surviving a chemical nicknamed the ‘red devil’. It is nice to be comforted by God’s laughter. I’ve given up on red, but I’m still holding out for curls.

Carey, my 10yr old cattle dog, plays with a long-legged stuffed monkey, a toy she hasn’t had since puppyhood. The same puppyish enthusiasm fills her as she lays cat-like, belly up, dangling the monkey between her paws and high over her head. She grins, tongue lolling, teeth snapping at the skinny legs dangling above her face.


My perennial garden looks fantastic from a distance. It shows off a riot of emerald, jade and golden green, with sprays of periwinkle phlox, spikes of regal purple lupine, dots of daisy yellow, delicate splashes of sea foam pink and bold geranium red. Unfortunately, up close reveals lots of weeds. When I get down on my knees, grateful for earth and sky and sun, even the weeds are lovely. Last summer’s Queen Anne’s lace, and the fatigue that prevented me from nipping the flowering seed heads, brings a spring carpet of lacy, fern-like aromatic seedlings. As I weed, I celebrate the plants’ fecundity, their subtle carroty fragrance, and the memories of beautiful white lacy flowers bundled in blue glass jars and old tin buckets decorating my son’s wedding two autumns ago.


Last Wednesday, my oncologist, Dr DeGreen, entered the exam room – baaing. Laughing, I told him he sounded like a sheep, not a goat. After discussing scan results (they are still clear enough to be called ‘in remission’) he told me my immune system may take two years to recover from lymphoma and chemo. I listened, knowing he was saying ‘please no’ to my ongoing question of drinking raw goat milk again. Then he grinned, pretended to stifle a shudder, and added, “but if you really want to, you have my permission’. Regardless of what I do about milk, I was touched. I’m grateful he respects my choices, and my understanding of health and healing.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Transitions

A cardinal sings every day. His song follows me around where ever I am, inside or outside. Red birds are a strong symbol of God’s presence for me. This one is special since we seldom have cardinals come to our bird feeders. A cardinal coming and staying is a miracle! I’m so grateful for this precious gift, this scarlet show of Love and Presence.

I’m in the midst of many transitions. Chemo is over; school is over. How will I now live? Tuesday, I celebrated not having to go to the cancer center. I’m utterly thrilled to be on this side of cancer treatment, while holding tenderly in my heart and prayers all those who struggle on with chemo.

The PET scan is behind me, as of noon today, and a CT scan follows on Monday. I smile wondering if being slightly radio active will ruin the laptop I’m using, and remembering my shock and disgust at having to do these scans again. I smile knowing how I felt so peaceful this morning, so loved by God that being surrounded by the circular scanner seemed like a Divine hug, the humming sound of the machine, a heavenly lullaby. I felt so relaxed I feared falling asleep and twitching or jerking and messing up the scan, so I stayed awake and still by doing Centering Prayer. I love this prayer, this blessed way of being in God’s presence! When I got home, I slipped my copy of the scan disc into my computer and marveled at all the lovely colors in my body. Hopefully, none of the colors represent cancer, but if they do, then I will share with God my full range of emotions and thoughts. And with God’s help, I will discover again the meaning of Julian of Norwich’s words: “all will be well, and all shall be well, all manner of things will be well.”

As my drug basket gets empty, life decisions pile up. I popped the last Protonix (for reflux), took the last Allopurinol (kidney support), and shelved the laxatives and sleeping pills. I wish I could discern what life direction to take just as easily and with as much excitement as I discard old pill bottles. I have enough sensations in my feet to make driving less risky. Driving makes me feel incredibly independent and free! Though my sprained ankle still keeps me off my feet at times, I am beginning to see my life stretching out before me again. For five months I concentrated on survival; now I concentrate on how to live.

My concepts of myself, of God, of life have changed during my year of ill health, especially during the last four months. I want to integrate what I’ve learned, but I haven’t lived much on this side of chemo to know how the changes will look or feel. Now that I’ve recovered, I realize my old patterns didn’t go away, including all the old pressures and demands I put on myself, the over ‘doing’ out of idealism, obligation or religious and cultural conditioning. I see them more clearly though, as I stand in the doorway to a more whole life, a life of greater freedom. Freedom comes with more risk, and the willingness to embrace a greater ‘unknowing’. I stand here with uncertainty coupled with a strong desire to trust.

New opportunities arrive on this doorstep where I am; there are so many opportunities and possibilities that my mind wants to stir up confusion and indecisiveness. With guidance from my spiritual director, with meditation, prayer and stillness, and gratitude for the timely, passionate song of the red bird, my awareness shifts from the logical and rational, to an inner calm, a place of trust, a knowing that life will unfold as I begin walking. I know I’ll always have everything I need. There is a deep well within me, within all who believe, and it flows with the living water of joy, love, confidence, vitality, creativity and peace. When I am thirsty, all I have to do is shift my awareness and drink deeply. As I walk, God walks with me on the journey.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Endings and Beginnings

I graduated from Kairos School of Spiritual Formation last weekend!! Since the weekend came during my time of lowered white cell counts, and with flu going around, I decided to forgo all the congratulatory hugging and kissing after class. Instead, I presented my friends with pens and they decorated my head. Enjoy the photos!



Instant bangs!

Yes, I’m in the midst of endings: end to five years as a student at Kairos, end of chemotherapy for lymphoma. I feel lost, though the feeling is more celebratory than confused or sad, as I wander around in the strange space between closure and new adventures.

While my body requires rest and continued healing, my mind is active with ideas, questions and decisions for the future. Two big goals reached feels exciting, wonderful and a tad unsettling.

me with certificate!

I’m doing well this week and my sprained ankle is improving. Last week I experienced very odd sensations in my feet, slightly painful, and somewhat like when your foot ‘falls asleep’ from poor circulation and the blood rushes back into the area. I cut back on the vitamin B 6 supplements, which I read could help in healing the nervous system, and this week the odd sensations have stopped. The numbness in my fingers is lessening, and while the soles of my feet are still numb, there is less burning and tingling in my feet. All authorities say it takes six months to a year for this to happen, yet, I am experiencing it now. The affirmations continue to assist my body in regaining balanced health. Thanks be to God the healing abilities of the mind and body!

This is my 'good week'. How wonderful to know my good week will simply move into another good week and another, God willing, until they all blend into the rest of my life. What will I focus on now, how fast will I bounce back from chemo, what life lessons will I take with me? Will I continue my education, focus on writing, building my spiritual direction practise, or find a healthy balance of all? As Macrina Wiederkehr so eloquently says: "I stand before what is, and dwell in possibilities!"

Joyfully,

Sharon

...and it ends with a braid.

Did the Affirmations Work? And Other Answers

My foot is not stress fractured and I am overjoyed! It is a pleasure to walk with two feet, however gingerly.

Yes, the affirmations did make a difference. Most side effects have lessened except for neuropathy (nerve damage) in my fingers and toes, causing numbness, tingling, burning.

Otherwise, I have good energy, especially when I pace myself and really listen to my body. Fatigue has not worsened as Dr. DeGreen predicted. I fall asleep faster, don’t always stay asleep, but sleep deep enough that I wake up rested and even skip naps some days.

I do have times of complete ‘brain sludge’ and moments of foggy headedness that feels quite different than absent-mindedness or senior moments, but much less of both this round. Over all, I’ve been able to study, write, teach, be with clients and function much better than I ever thought possible.

My white counts have remained stable and though I’ve caught viruses with the last three rounds of chemo, I’ve never had to delay treatment due to illness or low counts. My throat is much less sore this round and my voice is not as hoarse either. I have no asthma or sinus symptoms this round and am not doing the daily sinus irrigating as before.

I’m aware all of the above could be helped by the other things I’m doing for healing and support, but the real surprise and success of the affirmations is...

…my hair is growing!!

Since I already lost my hair, I did the hair affirmations with much humor. Last week my head itched and felt tender again. I assumed skin and hair follicle damage from Adriamycin, ‘the red devil’, as the nurses and pharmacists call it. The chemical is colorful but my head is not; it’s pale white. Imagine my delight when someone noticed the pale isn’t from pasty-colored scalp skin, but from snow white peach fuzz! The white hairs on my head are definitely growing. Even during chemo! I lost a patch on each eyebrow too, so I quickly checked my face. Sure enough,I see eyebrow stubble. Time will tell how soon my brown/blonde hairs regrow, but this is a fun surprise!

Joyfully, Sharon

Bold, Bald, and Pondering

This morning, I get my foot x-rayed again. Pulling a T-shirt over my head wipes off the smear of sweat already glistening on my bald head. It feels like 70 degrees in my bedroom, yet stuffy weather is nothing compared to prednisone withdrawal hot sweats I’ve been tossing in bed with all night. My mirrored reflection shows joy, not irritation; this is the last prednisone sweat I’ll be enduring! I rumple through my Tupperware hat bin; none of my ‘summer’ hats appeal to me, and I shudder at wearing a crocheted one.

“Sassy”, the wig on my dresser, catches my eye. Sassy is lovely. Sassy eased me into baldness and makes me look good under her locks, so why am I staring at the un-sassy, death-white Styrofoam wig head? I feel alive, not a lifeless bald head that needs covering. I want to be comfortable more than acceptable.

I scamper down the steps as fast as hobbling on one crutch allows me to scamper, bald, ear-ringed, feeling powerful. Jay’s mom is driving me to Crossroads Imaging. Before I go out the door, she hovers, asks if I want a hat or my wig. I hesitate, mumbling I’m too hot for a hat, my head itches, and I’m only seeing a technician who already knows I have lymphoma. Jay notices the awkwardness and says “If you want to leave the house bald, go for it!” His kindness ends my hesitation and propels me out the door. Mother smiles and jumps in the car, I have no idea what she really thinks but her silence feels like a gift.

Since I enjoy observing people, my outing becomes more than an exercise in personal freedom. Always curious about human behavior, my own included, I notice responses in me and in others. A man catches a glimpse of my shining white dome and quickly looks at the sidewalk. After he passes though, he looks back. My smiling eyes meet his; he sheepishly turns and hurries on.

Limping through the door of Imaging, I call out a cheery good morning to those inside. The receptionists smile and make eye contact while everyone in the waiting room immediately looks down. I stifle a compassionate grin, remembering how often I’ve done the same. I sit and wait for my turn, feeling everyone’s eyes checking out my head and foot, catching furtive glances when people think I’m not aware. I’m delighted with how little I care about their thoughts of me, not my typical attitude. I do care about them, their curiosity, and humanity. I’d love to laugh and say, stare if you want, ask me questions if you want, I don’t mind.

I’m not writing to make generalizations about human behavior, or to state my wish for greater boldness and less concern with what people think. I’ve never longed to be ‘bald and beautiful’ either. All are appropriate surely, but some other understanding wants to unfold. I’m intrigued knowing I’ve spent much of my life observing rather than participating. My fondness for observing requires blending in, so it’s counter intuitive making scenes or disrupting the status quo. Deeper than my personality quirks is the curious question - do I feel the need to protect people from discomfort, from my bald head, from cancer? In protecting others, am I also protecting myself?

Stepping outside today, bald, beautiful or not, may feel powerful and freeing for me, but it also forces everyone I meet to deal with what they see, to notice their comfort or discomfort, to decide: will I wear my polite mask, the mask that says ‘what you do, who you are, and how you are, doesn’t touch me or affect me’. Isn’t this what we protect ourselves from, really? We just want to get our errands done without interruption, without being affected by another because anything deeper slows us down. It’s a risk being open to self discovery, to another’s joy, sorrow, illness, impracticality, freedom, life or death. The truth is: my very being will always affect others, as will others always affect me. Am I brave enough to notice, to reflect, knowing what I discover may ask me to change, to grow, to love more?

I certainly don’t advocate walking around being open to all; this culture isn’t nearly rested and renewed enough. I don’t think one response can be judged against another. Usually, we are too hard on ourselves and critical of our responses. At the same time, I am sure this elusive quality of openness is highly attractive in our fast-paced, indifferent culture. Being aware helps me be gentle with myself. So, I honor my initial hesitation. And I honor yours if you run into me and my bald head out on the street.

Joyfully,
Sharon

No Mo Chemo!!

Woohoooo…six rounds of chemo are finished!

The nurses sang and showered me with confetti while unhooking my IV lines. They surprised me with their funny 'end of chemo' song. One nurse cried when I told her my next goal is to get in shape enough to climb a rock wall. (small rock wall...indoors :) Not sure if I inspired her to tears or if she thought, ‘yeah right’ at the sight of me on crutches, with an IV, and talking about wall climbing. I confess I feel like crap at the moment, with my sprained ankle/foot and headache from the chemo. I can't really fathom climbing a hill let alone a wall, but I need something to motivate me and get me through the final recovery.

I also confess to being discouraged yesterday, despite finishing chemo. I expected to be dismissed from the cancer center with a wave and a hug, leaving all doctors and procedures behind for at least six months, but I have to repeat all the scans in May, see the oncologist in four weeks, plus get another colonoscopy to check out the former tumor site. Boy, I was not prepared to hear all this so it felt like huge disappointment! Almost took the joy out of the last chemo. The procedures seem to never end. I feel like a hamster on a wheel, running on a medical merry-go-round not sure when I can get off.

The oncologist did take me off Vincristine, the drug that causes numb feet, since I fell. I went for x-rays on my foot and there might be two stress fractures. My foot will be re-x-rayed after the swelling/bruising goes down.

All these temporary handicaps remind me of the time I climbed a huge tree. There are two platforms on this tree, a low one and a high one. I’ve always been afraid of heights, but I was determined to climb the tree. The first time I climbed with my husband coaching. With lots of stops and starts I made it to the first platform, while doubting my abilities with every foot hold. I wondered if hubby was getting exasperated with my hesitation and fear.

On the second climb, I went myself. I decide to take snacks, journal, binoculars and heavy coats in case I end up stranded for days fearing to come down. The sheer weight of all my stuff makes the scramble to the first platform quite cumbersome. I sit there joyfully for a long time relishing in my accomplishment and looking at birds through the binoculars. Yet, the higher platform beckons. My soul longs to be up there, but I’m so afraid! I know I have to lighten my load to climb higher but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to risk leaving behind my securities. I hesitate forever, giving myself pep talks, searching for possible foot/hand holds. Suddenly, I see a clear way up. Pumped with new energy I quickly discard my stuff. I lean over the platform, grinning, and drop my extra coat, my hat, my shoes, the backpack of snacks, binoculars, camera and journal. Lighter and barefoot, I climb. There is no thrill like sitting high in a tree, stuff strewn below, wind blowing your hair and the branches under you, except the thrill of knowing you have to get down!

I didn’t last long in my high perch, it was too cold and I had to get down before I chickened out. Success is measured by small victories, so this memory tells me I could climb a small rock wall, just as I got through chemo and will get off the hamster wheel some day.

For now, I feel the disappointment and discouragement, while also finding joy in my supply of books, DVDs, and soup. I can hole up for awhile; the accumulating house dirt isn’t going to kill anyone. Jay brought me seeds from Agway and plants for our tiny garden. I anticipate hobbling out to the garden and planting. The weather reports are calling for the temperature to be in the 80's soon, so I will also sit in the yard and work on my tan.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Cheers!

I'm bored and need some good cheer, so I'm rereading my gratitude journal from last year. I found this entry from April 2008:

Today I'm grateful for flowering weeds, a gossamer cloud of delicate white flowers bursting from the brown earth on thread-thin stems, like lacy pins on a cushion. Tiny points of beauty, so breathtaking, so easy to miss.

I smile when stepping over goose, fox and deer droppings as I walk the field lane. How lovely to be reminded I share this space with living creatures fed and nourished by the abundance of this place!

I love God surprises! This morning, when rounding a curve in the field, I saw thousands of tall white flowers lined up along the path, waving as if anticipating my arrival! I waved back, loving them, blessed by their greeting and joy in being alive. I forget plants speak and move every day from dawn to dusk following the path of the sun. I'm grateful the breeze gave the flowers 'words' to shout so I could hear.

I'm intrigued with my husband's excited face as he beckons me out the door. "Hear that? I think it's a chipping sparrow! And, did you see the two new daffodils blooming in the garden?" For a delightful moment he was more 'little boy full of wonder' than grown man; how precious!

I'm grateful for my body, for its ability to lament; I'm sorry it took so long for me to pay attention. Once again I stop and befriend this fragile shell in which my spirit dwells; I work on embracing, rather than wanting it to be less sensitive. I'm grateful for the acupressurist and chiropractor that have helped me this year and for the nutritionist and the medical doctor with whom I have coming appointments.

~~~

I’m surprised how things have changed. I'm glad to be on this side of lymphoma diagnosis and treatment. Yet, I dread Tuesday, the last round of chemo. I'm so close to the end, but impatient for it to be over already!

I want my life back. I'm tired of being on hold, traveling this detour. I don't even smell like myself, I smell like a science lab. No one tells you this in Cancer Patient 101, that the little details matter more than the big ones. Who notices their own smell, or feels
disoriented when it becomes unfamiliar? Books, magazines, cancer centers instruct on attractive ways to cover up a bald head or a medi-port, apply make-up, dress with color and jewelry, but who addresses whether your hubby finds your altered pheromones attractive? I've never doubted Jay's devotion, but I confess fearing my toddler grand daughter would be hesitant to be with me since I look and smell different.

I wonder what will change back and what will remain as is. I wonder if I will worry about cancer screenings in the future. I wonder if I'll be tired for a month after the last chemo. Could the tiredness go on longer? Do I still have fibromyalgia and mixed connective tissue disease, or did I move from illness to health in the last six months? What was healed? How will I be in all the questions? I'm no different than anyone else, healthy or ill. There just are no guarantees, no sure answers. There are only questions, and along with the questions, there is love. Love is the constant.

I have extra time to contemplate the meaning of life, and I'm not referring to cancer recovery. This morning (my good week, even!), I fell down the stairs and bent my foot backwards. I'm forced to sit here with my swollen left ankle elevated, ice-packed. I'm so mad at Vincristine, the chemo drug that causes numb fingers and toes. I'm mad at myself for concentrating so much on gripping the laundry basket that I forgot to be careful how I move my numb feet. I'm mad at Jay for being mad at me for trying to carry the basket downstairs. As I write, I laugh at all the madness.

I've had some wonderful visitors today; my sister dropped off groceries, my neighbors come to see me and we talked about their loved one's recent death from lung cancer. I feel so privileged to be loved, and to love in return, and to simply be present to others.

Cancer or not, swollen ankle or agile foot, good week or chemo week, nothing matters as much as love. Life's meaning is measured by how well I give and receive love.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Affirmations

I’m watching old M*A*S*H reruns, eating bowls of soup and rotating the heating pad where ever my bones most need some warmth. As I warm my achy bones, I hope the earth is warming too; the sugar pea seeds I planted still haven’t poked though the ground. While I wait for peas, it’s lovely to watch cherry tomatoes forming in our indoor AreoGarden. I shake the plants regularly to scatter pollen since there are no insects inside to do the work of pollinating.

Unlike the tomato plants needing shaking up, I’m glad my treatment has settled into a predictable routine. Today is day eight, after chemo cycle # 5. This day in past cycles had me laying around in misery, getting through the bone pain rather than enjoying movies and soup while resting. Why am I in less pain? Why was the prednisone withdrawal less intense this time?

I’m sure the joy from my cancer-free status and nearing end of treatment is powering me into new strength and healing. Plus, with each round I get better at knowing how to support myself though the side effects, how to ask for what I need. Yet, something feels new in me, a subtle shift here, a tender growth there, as if some small, precious insects have been pollinating the cherry tomato blossoms within me.

A month ago, Marcus, my supervisor at school, offered to lend me his books on healing from illness, especially cancer. Curious and eagerly, I said yes, but while browsing though the books, I felt much resistance. Why should I reflect on why I got cancer? Why should I make another recording of affirmations according to the authors’ directions when I already did one my own way? I’m so tired of working on my health, my self awareness; besides, cancer already comes with so many ‘shoulds’: should do what the doctor says, should be strong, should be faith-filled and optimistic, should juice veggies, should eat healthy, should take care of myself. I’d freed myself up from needless ‘shoulds’ and didn’t want to guilt myself there again.

Still, I’m intrigued by the importance of recording my own voice using precise, simple statements and listening while falling asleep at night. (As if I’ll fall asleep!) Marcus graciously sent me an email collection of affirmations he helped a friend write during cancer treatments. Using them as a guide, I rewrote, adding some of my own, some from other resources. It felt awkward writing the statements and anticipating the recording process; I’m glad the books say I don’t have to believe the statements I record. Even as I’m drawn to this, skepticism blooms.

Ready, but quite self conscious, I sequester myself in the living room with my tape recorder and script, making Jay promise not to peek in or listen. It takes two attempts to speak soothingly. Marcus cautioned me to speak slowly and soothingly so I’d fall asleep calmly listening rather than jazzed from a voice rushing to get this unpleasantness finished!

Thirty days later, I am smiling over the small changes I’m experiencing. For what it’s worth, I share my list of affirming statements. I share with no point to make, no theological arguments, only with curiosity, humor, doubt and openness. Like the baffling question of Jesus, “Do you want to be healed?” I’m sure one has to be ready for whatever healing work one is drawn toward. I apologize to my sister, Laverne, who told me about similar affirmations back in November, and I only resisted and argued through our conversations. I thought it was all hokey, un-Christian and self-deceptive. Now, I’m edging towards believing the authors when they assure the statements redirect the mind rather than deceive. I don’t care to define healing; I just know I’m ready to live fully whatever length of life is given me, without a need to control any outcomes. I’m also willing to notice the affirmations and statements I resist. My resistance tells me where my subconscious mind could use some redirecting. I notice without judgment, but with humor and self love. (The commentary in parenthesis is my first reactions to the statements while listening and was not part of the recording!)

~ I started the recording by reading a poem and one selection from Psalms for Praying…then on to the following statements~

I am relaxed and at rest
I sleep well (may I laugh?)
My sleep patterns are deep and relaxed (yeah right, I’ll believe when I’m
sleeping!)
My mind is clear (what, no usual absent-mindedness, no present chemo fog?)
I love and approve of myself (more and more, but there are times ….)
My immune system is strong (can I say this? What about autoimmune issues?)
I am strong and healthy (I’m sensitive, allergic, have cancer and autoimmune issues
for Pete’s sake)
My white blood count is strong (yay, this one I like)
I choose to live (yes!)
I think positive thoughts (uh…mostly)
Yes, Jesus, I want to be healed. (yes, I do!)
I do not need side effects. (where did I come up with this one?)
I am relaxed and at rest (wonder if too much repetition defeats the purpose)
My sleep patterns are deep and relaxed
I sleep well
The chemo therapy is my helper
My immune system is strong
The chemo therapy helps my body heal
My white blood count is strong
The chemo therapy attacks the weak and unhealthy cells in my body
My immune system washes out the weak and unhealthy cells in my body
My healthy cells are strong
I have good energy
My immune system protects my hair from the chemo (but, but, I’ve already lost it!)
My immune system protects my mouth and throat
I am relaxed and at rest
My sleep patterns are deep and relaxed
I sleep well
I love and approve of myself
I am beautiful
I love life
Yes, Jesus, I want to be healed.
I do not need side effects.
The breath of Life flows easily through me (hope I don’t get asthma this round)
I joyfully accept life (my middle name isn’t Joy for nothing!)
The world is safe and friendly. (even with war-abuse-earthquakes?)
My mucus membranes are healthy (I’d love not to hurt after chemo!)
My white blood count is strong
The chemo attacks the weak and unhealthy cells in my body
My while blood count is strong
My body is strong
My body is healthy
I release all allergies (I want to believe, God help my unbelief!)
I release fear and resentment.
I love and forgive.
I let others be themselves and I am free.
My whole body is blessed with love.
All parts are beautiful. (my lil old man bald head too?)
I love and approve of myself
I am in total balance. (but, what about prednisone withdrawal?)
My system is in order.
I love life and circulate freely. (I love this!)
The chemo is my helper.
The chemo kills my weak and confused cells
My white blood cells are intelligent and strong (yes, they are! Go whities, go!)
My white blood cells are not damaged by chemo (really?)
The macrophages send the weak and dead cells to my liver and kidneys
My liver and kidneys wash out my weak and dead cells (I love my liver and kidneys!)
My cancer cells are decreasing
My white blood cells are multiplying.
My immune system protects my body.
My immune system protects my digestive system
My appetite is good
Food tastes wonderful! (but after chemo it doesn’t!)
My mucus membranes are healthy
I see good everywhere.
I am fulfilled.
I release the old and welcome the new.
I sleep well at night
I have good energy
I love and approve of myself
I stand in Truth.
I have a deep spirit, love of God, the earth, humanity.
I sleep well at night.
~I ended with a Celtic Blessing and one selection from Psalms for Praying~ (I have yet to hear the end of the tape, so either this is working, or I’m boring myself to sleep! :)

Book Resources:
Getting Well Again, by O. Carl Simonton
The Cancer Conqueror, by Greg Anderson
Peace, Love and Healing, by Bernie S. Siegel
You Can Heal Your Life, by Louise Hay


Quotes:
“If I make such a tape, I’m adding: I am skinny.” my sisters
“Rats, wonder if I can add in the skinny part?” Sharon, thinking.

“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead.” Albert Einstein

“Illness and death are not failures. Illness and facing our own mortality can be the catalyst for the kind of profound inner change that allows us to love, often for the first time in our lives.” Dr. Bernie Siegel.

“Living, dying, physical healing, and no physical healing – are not the issue. The ultimate goal for me is to walk and live in the fullness of God’s love, in such a way that it may be a healing for all. To live and to love – nothing more and nothing less. I finally learned this.” Susan, quoted from Siegel’s book Peace, Love, Healing

Joyfully,
Sharon

Life!

I don’t know about your life, but mine gets more unpredictable as I get older. It must be part of some cosmic plan, life teaching us to let go of this demand or that attachment as we prepare to leave this earth. Not that I’m ready to leave this earth, but I’m more aware of how little it takes to make me content these days. It is quite a grace, a gift from God to be able to flow with life in the midst of unpredictability.

So much has happened since blogging last month! First, I lost my dog, Hutch – rescued from a rabbit hutch at 6months and afraid to walk on solid ground, he was my top working farm dog- an Australian Cattle Dog, and my personal service dog (he alerted me to blood sugar drops, and found my shoes, keys, when I lost them). During my period of grief over Hutch, my mother became unresponsive and seemed near death. She recovered, thank God. Last weekend, I traveled south with my daughters as navigators for a much longed for reconnection with old friends and their kids, both animal and human. How wonderful to share hugs and laughter, the smell of horses, mountains, oatmeal pie and baking chicken. I petted old dogs and new pups, saw tulips in bloom, red bud trees opening, relished the sound of voices: talking, laughing, singing with guitar, even loved the noise and melodies from violins the kids are learning to play. I enjoyed watching the kids exploding from their car screaming the delights of being in the country. And the last and most joyful event: my PET and CT scans from last week showed no cancer!

In the last few weeks, I found the space I needed to pull away from being a cancer patient. It took some effort not to lose my identity to cancer. Cancer tends to be all consuming. I experienced some very lonely moments, not only from the shock of being dropped into a whole new ‘cancer world’, from isolation during low cell counts, from having less energy to run errands or socialize, but also from doing the inner work it takes to be open and vulnerable in spirit, in writing, in processing the changes illness brings. No one can walk the illness journey for you; family and friends can walk with you, but if you are open and wanting healing on all levels, illness takes you to some bleak, lonely places, even if you are a person of deep faith, trust in God, Love, or the universe. That said, I don’t believe I’m a special person; I truly believe every one has the ability to be open, vulnerable, and teachable when difficulties come. Knowing how difficult the journey is, I have compassion and respect for those who choose a different response.

I’m grateful I never fully felt like a cancer victim, nor do I feel like a cancer survivor now that my scans said I’m cancer free. Mostly, I feel I’m the same person, just with a heightened sense of clarity, of calling, and more appreciation and awareness of my miraculous body that works so hard to keep me healthy and is the perfect home for my soul. I also have a more profound awareness of love and gratitude for the gift of life.

I’ll end with a short story honoring the life of my faithful canine companion:

Hutch learning to work steers in feed lot - Oct 2001
First time I went in the steer pen with Hutch we moved along the perimeter of the pen as my trainer instructed, and the steers did move away from us. I wasn’t sure if I was handling a dog or a manure scoop, as Hutch ate mouthfuls of manure to keep from excited barking and to keep his teeth occupied when he really wanted to bite some cattle heels.

When Jay found out I went in the pen by myself, he was not happy! He told me about the time his mom helped him sort steers and an ornery one came after her. She scrambled up the wall to get away from the charging steer, but the crazy beast climbed up and over, right after her. The steer crossed the road and ran, snorting and kicking, down the field. Jay got his dad, and they deliberately chased the crazed steer around the field until he was exhausted, then they got two tractors and surrounded him. They drove him back to the barn, keeping him between the two tractors. Jay never told me where his mom hid from the steer when he first jumped the fence.

His story put the ‘fear of steer’ back in me. I shakily decided to get right back in there before I drowned in fear. Hutch and I did okay the second time too, not really confident yet, but we quietly moved all the sleeping steers from the barn out into the barn yard. Then we moved them all back into the barn. Kim saw us and told Jay how calmly we worked. Now, Jay wants us to help him sort and load steers this week. Talk about a change of tune!
~~~~

This was one of the good stories….there’s plenty of hilarious, awful stories of Hutch being as bullheaded as the cattle he worked, being a set of teeth on legs. He taught me so much about conquering my fears, and about living life to the fullest. He was one great dog!

Joyfully,
Sharon

Full

I am so full, God.

Full, like hands carrying elusive water,
cupping, holding, tickling
wetness, leaking through fingers.

Full, like an expanding balloon,
stretched taunt, holding…
holding, yet longing for explosion.

Full, like a sky filled with stars,
crystal glitter against lush darkness,
seeing can’t take it all in.

Full of depth, emotion, wonder,
embracing, resisting, inviting,
a soul longing for full expression.

I am so full, God.


~~
I'm ready for chemo tomorrow. Always a thread of fear exists that the day for chemo will come and my body and mind will not be ready. There is always a brief moment of panic at the start of the good days, will I get the house tidied and cleaned, the soups made and frozen, the dogs walked enough? Will I have time for laughter and fun? Then I settle in, let go, lean into trust. The good days are as full and rich as the not-so-good days. Love and trust blossom both times. I thank my body and soul for doing all this healing work. I thank the nurses and doctors, my family, my friends for also helping me heal. Mostly I thank God for my life, what is and what remains.

I’m grateful to be alive. The wind rips the rugs into my face as I struggle pinning them to the line, knocking my glasses off my face. Laughing, I delight in the power of the wind! The sun shines amazingly brilliant. I want to feel the intensity of the sun! My chia tea smells exotic. I brew it darker just to experience the aroma. I pet our old dachshund, Annie, and send loving-kindness to her through my fingers. I marvel at her soft coat, her marble eyes shining even through cataracts. I lay on the floor arms spread out; I can’t do this in the muddy grass yet, but I still feel the deep, wide earth awakening into spring. I want to be connected to the earth. I cherish the earth, and everything in it. I cherish my life. I am so full. Full of gratitude and of wanting more too. I want God more; I want more grace, more wisdom, more love and loving, more living fully.

I am ready for chemotherapy tomorrow. I’m taking Sophia with me, the mystery bear, Bob’s gift to me. I named her Sophia, God’s name for wisdom. I took off the hospital gown Sophia arrived wearing, and placed an earth stone necklace around her neck. I pinned an angel pin on her fur. The pin is another gift, from Jeanette, given so long ago she probably doesn’t remember. Sophia will hang on the IV pole to remind me of the earth I love, the provision of God, and that R-CHOP is my partner in healing. I go to chemo tomorrow, ready to thank Dr DeGreen, the delightful staff, all the wonderful nurses in the Gama Lab and in the Chemo room at the Lancaster Cancer Center for helping me heal.

I intend to take a break from blogging for awhile. I’m not sure how long, but I desire to be outdoors as much as possible to be more intentional about exercising, to boost my morale and aid in my healing. During my break from blogging, please feel free to call, email, and/or ask to stop in for a visit. In my experience, chemotherapy is isolating and lonely, surprising since I have always liked solitude and quiet.

Be well, and hug someone for me today! (even a tree :) Live fully alive!
Joyfully,
Sharon

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?" Mary Oliver

“God is voluptuous and delicious.” Meister Eckhart

God's gifts often come in strange packages

I love gifts. The earth is an incredible gift. I especially love birds, from colorful parrots to starlings fighting over suet. Yesterday, I enjoyed seeing ribbons of snow geese swirling and curling against the blue sky above our corn field, thousands of black-tipped white bodies moving with one mind. While it’s harder for me to find the gift in being stuck indoors, I can find treasures there also: one beautiful white flower bud rising above the foliage of my peace plant, the delighful taste of fennel in my veggie juice, two cactus blossoms, the photos of children and dogs on my walls, the fragrance of toast, Jay frying eggs or stirring soup, Rosey mopping my floor, colorful lint in my dryer, love shining in the eyes of those who take me to chemo, or agree to do something fun with me when I ask.

When I was down last week, I slipped into thinking chemo and side effects, and my reacting body was 'the enemy'. Now that I'm back to my normal self and feel positive again, I want to refocus my belief that chemo is healing and side effects are a sign something positive is happening. I want to keep loving myself, body and soul.

God’s gifts often come in strange packages. My experiences show me I am not really in control of the outcome of my life, of my illness, of even the chemo. It took much growing for me to see this truth as a gift. And, it will be a gift I will need to receive and accept many times as I continue this journey on earth. This gift liberates me to focus on what I can control: my attitude, what I give to my life and how I care for my body.

However, accepting this particular gift requires letting go of thinking cancer or illness and depression, or even depth of emotion is a failure. It has taken me a very long time to understand this, and even so, I still sometimes blame myself, think I’m doing something wrong or not trying hard enough. Each set back brings the temptation to wonder if I’ve skipped too many days of juicing, am not praying adequately, not thinking enough positive thoughts or shouldn't have eaten that cookie.

It is a special person who can offer hope to me when when I suffer rather than add to my sense of failure. Hope is vital when a sense of failure comes so easily. Life’s difficult times do offer teachable moments and often I discover a better way of living, or thinking, or being when I’m open to changing, one small reachable goal at a time. I can pray for a miracle, but I can’t make one happen. I am not a failure, nor am I doing anything wrong when miracles don't happen. I can ask for God's grace and seek peace of mind. I can choose to life my life fully, each moment. I can choose to love. All my efforts, my positive thoughts, my visualizing, praying, meditating and seeking God does not guarantee I will be free of side effects, pain, nights in the ER, or reoccurrences of cancer.

The mortality rate for life is 100 percent! My life’s final outcome is death, sooner or later. I need, as everyone needs: hope, encouragement, working for the best outcome while loving and accepting myself no matter what happens. I’m finding that when outcomes are not quite what I desired, loving myself is even more important. God will provide all that I need, not everything I want. When I don’t get what I want, I am not a failure; God is not forgetting me any more than I am forgetting something or doing something wrong.

Joyfully,
Sharon

“God, help me believe the truth about myself, no matter how beautiful it is!” ~Macrina Wiederkehr

The End of the ER Story

At midnight, the ER doc asks me if I’m ready to go home. I did not have neutropenic fever. With no infections found, white cell count good enough to fight whatever is causing my fever, and after consulting Dr. DeGreen Jr. the ER doctor says when my IV fluid bag is empty, I can go home. Jay and I glance at the half full bag and simultaneously stifle a groan, both instantly calculating the hours it took for the first half to go in. Then, Jack bounces back into my room to crank up the speed. We smile with relief as the slow whir turns into a staccato drill, like a determined woodpecker. Before long, I’m dragging my IV line down the hall to the bathroom.

By 2am, I’m gratefully home, in my own sweet bed. I spend the weekend recovering from whatever caused the fever, from lost sleep, and enduring yet more side effects from the antibiotic Levaquin; it’s powerful stuff!

Today, I’m finally feeling more like myself. The fever is gone, and my energy is slowing improving. What is the grace in all this? I’m not sure, I’m still learning. I have an ongoing appreciation for the skill of doctors and nurses, for their kindness and compassion, for a deeper understanding of discouragement, depression and loneliness, and a developing trust in my own body wisdom. I am learning to what I know about my body, while also trusting the medical way of making sure. Perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps I have more to discover. I do know God graciously answered ‘yes’ to two prayers from last week. I asked to be well enough to celebrate my Dad’s 86th birthday with my family. And, I prayed to be able to teach Centering Prayer at my church on Sunday. Once again, an unwanted inconvenience sharpens my awareness of what truly gives me life.

Joyfully,
Sharon

...the rest of the story

The ER is bustling, as usual. After taking my info, I am asked to sit and wait until a bed is ready. I sit, wishing I brought a mask for germ protection, as I watch a man walk in and not make it through registry before suddenly throwing up into a waste can. The receptionist rushes to get him a pan. I find it incredibly ironic to be sent to a hospital emergency room because I might have a low white count and no immune system only to be exposed to violently sick people.

I bring my attention to God’s presence and feel calm even if breathing shallowly to avoid sucking in germs. I remain at the entrance; each time the door opens a fresh chill settles over me. I guess I prefer chilly over the other end of the room where sickness hangs out with cuts needing stitches. I’m compassionately aware of the river of humanity flowing before me: a woman grimaces with back pain, a young boy proudly holds a rag-wrapped cut finger, a belligerent elderly woman with high blood pressure demands her gentle hubby wheel her closer to the desk so no one gets ahead of her, a young man hovers in the lobby, two young men join him – cheers of ‘new dad’ follow with hugs, the dry heaving man lies down across chairs, a baby cries, an orderly explains why someone else is taken before me, nurses and doctors rush about, the receptionist registers those in line while keeping one eye on rows of security monitors. I hear Jay’s breathing beside me. I hold each soul with me in the Presence.

When my name is finally called, I try to keep up with the fast walking nurse leading me down a hallway littered with beds and equipment. She disappears. Light headed, I do my best to speed up. I find her in a room, motioning me to sit on the bed.

Thousands of questions, forms, exams, and an incredible number of tubes of blood later, an IV fluid line protrudes from my chest, via the medi-port. I thank God for Jack, a huge-but- gentle nurse, and for the medi-port, even though my arm got stuck for blood too. I usually have to lift my arm to get blood to flow from the medi-port, but Jack managed without any effort on my part, and without any needle pains either. His skill is much appreciated, though Jay and I couldn’t help exchanging an exasperated smile at the amount of blood drawn, knowing the cancer center would have simply pricked my finger, counted my white cells and sent me home. Maybe the ER was short of blood and I volunteered mine. I didn’t bother reading all the stuff I signed!

At one point, we amused ourselves by guessing what time we’d be home, and by comparing a finger prick to a chest x-ray, and IV line, a urine analysis and multiple blood tests. When our amusement began turning into disgruntlement, we turned on the TV. DeGreen was right about the torture part, torture to the wallet for sure.

Jay settles into watching TV; I listen to my IV line pump. The soft, steady sound transports me back to December’s hospital stay, and a time of being exquisitely held near the heart of God. As before, the pulsating sound becomes holy, as a living Presence, the very breath of God, Divine lungs breathing in and out, in and out, so near. I am connected to the Source of life, by a direct line, literally and spiritually. I am enfolded, sustained by grace, by tender power and humble strength. I feel completely nourished, needing nothing more.

The hours pass. I drift in and out of communion with God. Gratitude fills my heart: for each nurse, each doctor, each test, for my dear partner who loves me through every moody, awful cycle of prednisone withdrawal, for living in a country with good hospitals and medical professionals, for not having to wait all day to be examined, for our health insurance, for being wealthy enough to be where I am and not home dying of untreated cancer.

In this moment, surrounded by Love, I realize how I expected this cycle to be a happy celebration of passing the half-way-through-chemo-treatment milestone. Instead, I got worsening side effects and fever. Instead of happy, I feel angry. I have to go through the same amount as I’m come through. Lurking beneath my anger is fear. I’m afraid I won’t hold out. I’m starting to dread treatment, starting to want this to be over, starting to wish each moment held something different. These emotions catch me off guard. I thought I could count on my inner strength. This unsettles me further. If a simple emotion can upend me, how will I cope if cancer doesn’t go into remission? Upcoming CT scans will reveal the truth and I’m afraid to know.

I am here, sweetheart.

I hear the soft, rhythmic purring. God breathes with me in deep, loving breaths, in and out, in and out. I never bristle when God calls me sweetheart. I feel loved, completely at home in this moment. I have everything I need.

Joyfully,
Sharon


~~~~~
“Consider the lilies of the field. They neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own.” Jesus, in Matthew 6

Sharon’s response: “Well, then, help me dress like a lily! I desire God and love, and what gives me life, what really matters. I want to be clothed in ‘living true’, in ‘living with integrity’, in being ‘present to others in love’ rather than dwelling in worry, fear, anger. Is that what you mean by consider the lily?”

Once Again

Once again, I write. It’s been a long, tiring week, so if this blog ends abruptly I may have simply nodded off.

I feel cheated out of a few good days. I got used to ten good days each chemo cycle. My peevishness makes me want my regular life back. I’m torn by conflicting desires: accepting what I can’t change and needing to gripe. I can take my lumps, the crap that comes with chemo, but needless suffering infuriates me. The doctor keeps weaning me off prednisone fast when I need a slow taper! I spoke up last time, but I must have used my nice Lancaster county voice instead of the one I use to train my cattle dogs. The cattle dog voice is calm, but clear and direct: ‘if you nip the back of Jay’s boot ….if you bite that sheep…..you will deeply regret it!” That voice is spoken like it will be followed with action. When I speak to the doctor and am later disappointed my words weren’t heard or understood, I assume doctors know best and don’t act.

Why is it so hard for me to simply tell the doctor, ‘prescribe what you did the first cycle and STOP MESSING with my body or I’ll phone you all hours of the day and night’? I will learn to be calm and clearly direct with people as well as cow dogs. Talented and kind as Dr. DeGreen is, he can’t read my mind or know my body as I know my body.

Monday through Wednesday, I felt miserable: exhausted, prednisone crashing-sweating-mood swinging, Nuelasta-induced bone aching. Thursday I woke up with a fever. It made me mad at God too. I said to God, ‘what, I need more practice rolling over and playing dead?” Doctors may not get my directness, but God often does. I’m glad God is big enough. I’m not stupid though, I know God will show emotion in return. That’s the way it is with relationships. God may tell me to grow up. God may just listen and love me anyway. When I get over myself, I am profoundly grateful for God’s grace.

The cancer center has a policy that frustrates me completely. If a patient has a fever over 100.5, said patient must call the doctor immediately. Any one with body sense knows a fever is probably not going to reach 100 on a thermometer until 4pm. And, of course the center closes at 4pm. All a feverish patient needs is a simple blood test to rule out neutropenic fever (low white cell count w/fever - very dangerous), which the cancer center easily handles. After 4pm most business and labs are closed, so the patient begins dreading fevers and hospitals around 3pm.

My temperature hit 100.5 at precisely 4:10pm, Thursday. I argued with 'the policy' for 30 minutes which only raised my temp .2 points. Reflecting back, I remember my afternoon promise by phone to nurse sister, Laverne, that I would call the doctor if needed. I begin inventing clever lies to deceive Laverne, Jay, myself. At 4:15pm, I feel really sick, and waffle. By 4:17pm, I grab my cell phone, punch in Jay’s number. I’ll ask him what to do. Not taking responsibility seems smart, as I can always blame him if I end up in the hospital. I hear Jay’s phone ringing on his desk. Sigh. I call the doctor, telling myself I'm only reporting in. The medical bureau tells me to call back if the doctor doesn’t reach me in 20 minutes. Three hours pass; I relax into the evening. I did my part.

At 7:30pm the phone rings; Dr. DeGreen Jr. is on call. He hears my story and then gives me three options: go to the ER and suffer all the waiting and tests, be admitted directly to the hospital, be willing to take a strong antibiotic at home while promising to go to ER if my condition worsens. I leap for option three. He doesn’t like option three but, I persuade him. I feel direct and powerful for ten minutes. The phone rings, Dr Jr says he really thinks option 3 is too big a gamble and he really wants me to go to the ER immediately after first swinging by the drugstore and taking that antibiotic ASAP. He says he knows he’s torturing me by asking me to go to the ER. He calls me sweetheart. I deflate, noticing I haven’t bristled at the endearment. He is appealing to my better judgment, saying but not saying all. This time the doctor is being Lancaster County nice. I forgive both of us for our indirectness. He honors me by allowing me to make the final decision. I agree to go to the ER.

Jay comes in then, dusty, muddy, exhausted. I tell him what the doctor said, that I’m gathering stuff for the ER and he needs to go to CVS to pick up antibiotic awhile. I smell the fires of denial and frustration lighting in his belly. I know what it will take for him to get where I am. I pray as he takes his turn figuring out some principles aren’t worth dying for.

I’m too tired to finish the story. Perhaps, tomorrow…

Joyfully,
Sharon