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