Harvest

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Pulling out a bunch of multi-colored carrots from the small corner patch planted late last spring, in our garden in the Owen’s Valley, something hits me.  It’s a golden mid-October morning, the kind of day that opens your soul to the beauty of all that is exquisitely alive and heart-wrenchingly impermanent – so basically everything….

Delighting in the orange, white and red carrots in my hand, some long and slender, some thick and stubby, some tiny and some very sizable, and the lush tangle of green leafy stems that grew them, I am struck by the paradoxical nature of this moment :  that I can only harvest these carrots by taking their life.  That I can only steep in the simple miracle of their beauty and sweetness after having pulled them out of the ground.  Maybe death is always like that, for all of us.  Maybe death is just the moment when we get harvested.  Each of us in our own time.  Some of us well after our prime and others prematurely.  Who knows why?   What if death is simply harvest time? And while we cling to the soil of our living like the next plant, it is our destiny to come out into the light of a fine day that we will not know until we get there.

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Something in me is softening.  Thinking of death as a harvest I feel my breath deepen and my body relax.  All is well.  In life and in death.  I needed to remember that.  No matter how many ways I have already known it, no matter how many more times it will reveal itself to me.  I need to remember it over and over again.  Because I always forget.

Truth is, the privilege of a life ‘on the edge of my seat’ (as I call my new life post-cancer-treatment) is not always as glorious as I’d like it to be.  I often say cancer saved my life and in many ways this is very true.  It allowed me to take an in-depth inventory of my life before it was my time to leave this world.   An early death lodge if you will.  It granted me the opportunity to make radical changes in areas of my life that begged for alignment.  It gave me the courage to quit a job that was killing me (quite literally, as it turned out!) and expand and transform my limited notion of what it means to be a fiercely loving, responsible and committed parent.  Ultimately, it gifted me with the freedom, and the need, to heal this one precious life forward, whatever that meant for me.

At the time, I was flabbergasted.  I had made it through the maze.  No more medical interventions, no more surgeries, poisoning or radiating.  No more doctors visits for a while.  My new life was extending before me in brand-new colors.  I wouldn’t have wanted to return to my old life if I could have!  I felt blessed living on the edge, with all the unknown that recovery from cancer holds.  I knew that it would be this very edge that would help me turn into my new life wholeheartedly.  I knew it would help me let go of old knee jerks, and worn out patterns which were not supporting a healing life.  It would set me free to take risk and stay true and current in my relationship to myself, my family and my work in the world, keenly aware that all I had was the present moment.  Actually, I felt quite blessed for no longer being able to take my life for granted.  Instead, I got to steward it forward for what it really was (and is): one wild and precious opportunity to come ever fully alive.

And yet.  And yet.  Some days, living at the edge of my seat feels overrated.  It is many things but the one thing it is not is comfortable.  I’m two and a half years into it now and the truth is, it isn’t getting any easier.  The same special rawness of this life, that calls me out and into my truth, day after day, is simultaneously wearing me down.  The healing movement that was born in response to cancer continues to spiral out into more and more areas of my life, asking me to become more and more aware and present on so many levels.  This is a good thing.  But in reality it’s not so easy.  Like in any true healing, a surprising amount of suffering comes forward in the process, wanting to be held, seen and witnessed in order to be released.  Core childhood fears, rudimentary survival responses  and post traumatic anxieties surface unannounced and at random times and they are not easy dance partners.  That’s the part I don’t share as readily with others, the shadow of my journey.  But, if you will, it is also the part that makes it real.

In many ways the realization of our impermanence is what countless spiritual practices work so hard to attain.  As people touched by cancer, we get a life long free pass.  A perk, by all means!  The only hitch is that we can’t get off the ride when we’re dizzy or nauseous or simply feel we’ve had enough.  Unlike other people who commit to a regular meditation practice, we can’t get up from our pillow or decide to skip a day of practice.  Having lost the ability to negate our own death we are in this for life – in the advanced course of living AND dying.

While the gift of having lost my ‘insulation’ for good is an amazing opportunity for me to live an awakened life, it is also one of the biggest blows for my ego.  There isn’t a day that it isn’t fighting this truth, one way or another, to the bone and back.  To the bone and back.  To the bone – and back.

The illusion of control and the sense of ownership of our life is no longer available after having encountered cancer.  It’s just not on the menu.  We know better.  And in case we forget, invariably, we have close friends from old support groups doing well for many years only to then die suddenly and unexpectedly of recurrences.  We buddy and coach newly diagnosed comrades through the highs and lows of their treatments, with varying outcome.  We have prayer lists for those with terminal diagnosis.  We are ALWAYS the first ones to call and consult if anyone in our family, or community gets cancer.  Or one of our 466 Facebook friends.  Sometimes it feels like the whole world has cancer.  Like it or not, death is always on our watch list.

Don’t get me wrong, there are amazing and transcendent moments in this new, light and lean life, and when they happen I wouldn’t trade places with anyone.  Just the other day, doing yoga outside, in midst of the luminous colors of a crisp fall morning in the Owen’s Valley, I was graced with one of them.  I fell into a sense of connectedness with the beauty all around, a sense of presence, beauty and blessed awe that words will only fail to convey.  Lets simply say that I realized that all is well.  That sounds so little compared to how it felt.  ALL is WELL! Nothing excluded.  ALL is well.  Just now.  Just here.  Nothing to run from and nothing to run to.  Just this breeze that rustles the leaves.  For a brief moment, only presence, a precious, timeless presence, humming in the middle of my chest, and gently radiating outward.

In presence fear falls away.  Separation falls away.  Sickness falls away.  And birth and death are simply swinging doors.  In presence we are connected to our true being, our essence, the awakened and connected one that lives deep within each of us.  We sense what some call ‘the great beauty’, or the ‘divine design’ and our belonging to it.  We realize that everything but love is just a misunderstanding.

And yet.  And yet.  What do we do when the nights are dark, when something hurts, when recurrence hits?  When a friend dies from chemo induced treatment resistant leukemia years into their so called survivorship?  Where do we turn when fear rises from deep within our gut?  When our mind goes around and around in circles in the middle of the night, adding up frightening, and, we are sure, pretty conclusive symptoms of one kind or another, already calculating percentages and likelihoods of conditions yet to be diagnosed?

Most of us rally during treatment.  Faced with the unthinkable, we turn into our becoming with amazing resolve and unparalleled courage.  Each in our own way, we find our warrior stance.  But how to turn into what hasn’t happened yet but we are afraid might happen is another story.  Although I hate to admit it, anxiety, and post traumatic stress are real factors in my life now.  “Is this the way life is going to be for me now?”, I hear myself despair at times, when my neurons misfire, triggered by some random event, rendering me into a nervous wreck for weeks or months at a time.  And I have to remind myself softly to lean into what is as best I can in the present moment, and trust healing to reach for me, even here.

Resistance to what is, is futile, so much I know.  Surrender, on the other hand, is gold.  Gold!  In health and in sickness, when we surrender all that hurts or hinders our healing, we are free.  I call it the big ’S’.  Surrender is like dying for beginners.  Every time we let go we practice for that one fine day of our crossing, when we can’t take anything with us but the healing that we have brought home during our lives.  It is letting things be, just as they are, and holding them with love, without exceptions.  Used in this way, surrender is the gateway into a happiness that is both our original birthright and our natural state.   The place where all is well.  Even that which isn’t well, if that makes any sense.

Cancer is a rite of passage.  And as any rite of passage guide would tell you, what turns out to be the hardest part of the ceremony is not the actual time out on the mountain, when you’re in the middle of the ordeal, hungry, tired and weary from the wind, but when you’re coming back to the world and to your community, having been irrevocably changed.  The mono myth of the ‘hero’s journey’ is widely used in the cancer community today, but just like in the old hollywood movies we fancy the illusion of an ongoing ’happy ending’ after all is said and done.  Truth is, there is no ending.  Yes, there is happiness, and many of us experience a particular sense of acute aliveness that affords us to live a little looser in our skins, grateful for the small and big gifts in our everyday living and prone to focus on what really matters to our heart.  But there is also darkness, right alongside with the gift.  There is the continual relentless call to confront, reconcile, and make good with our worst fears and deepest grief.  Life with or after cancer is more intense both ways, lighter and more amazing and darker and more challenging.

I could tell you what I do when the going gets tough.  I have my bag of tricks.  We all do.  Practices, mantras, medications, meditations and more.  And maybe I will, another time.  But today I just want to say that I don’t have the answer.  That there is no quick fix and no failsafe cure.  The simple truth is, that sometimes it’s just damn hard.  Sometimes the best we can do is hunker down, hold on and let the storm blow over.  No matter how bad, eventually the weather will change.  Night will give way to dawn.  Yes, this too shall pass.  But to muster the courage to be here now.  Simply being present where we are.  Right in the heart of the pain.  Letting go into it.  Surrendering to what is.  Turning into the skid.  One breath at a time.  Again and again.  Trusting the heart of the darkness, to peel off another layer of our suffering, before returning us to the light.  It always does.  Because suffering has no other purpose then to lead to healing.

I heard that when Japanese mend broken objects they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold.  They believe that when something has suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful.  If this is so, then may we too shine golden through our cracked open selves, less perfect but more beautiful; courageous, edgy, and wildly alive.  Until that one fine day of our harvest.  And on that day, may we bring a big old smile to creation’s face when she is inspecting us with loving curiosity, size, shape, scars and all, before tasting the sweetness of what we have done with our lives.

Coming Back

Radiation is a weird animal.  Easier, by far, then chemo.  Mysterious and invisible, the x-rays penetrate my right breast quadrant every day, while I lay very still and with my arm above my head to ensure correct line up as the precision machine is moving around me, carefully avoiding, so we hope, exposure and damage to any of my vital organs.

With the business of Monday through Friday treatment, and tagging on restorative Yoga, Qi Gong and Pilates classes, my life once again has a bit of a regular schedule.  Outwardly, things feel like they are beginning to resemble a somewhat “normal” rhythm.  Even if the majority of my daily appointments and chores are medical, there is once again a distinction between weekdays and weekends.

My hair takes its sweet time to cover my head once again, regardless of how ready I am for it.  Every day my hand goes over my bald head, longing for signs of stubble, or growth.  Will it really come back?  It reminds me of the end of winter,  when you know that spring is in the air,  but the land still looks barren and desolate all the same.  Until that special day, when the seeds finally push through the surface and into the light of day, for all to see.  Plain and clear:  life is coming back.  And so it is with my hair.  One fine morning a hue of gray on the sides of my head is reflected back to me from my bathroom mirror.  So slight, the difference, I wonder if the morning light is just playing tricks on me.  But slowly and surely, over the next few weeks, hair begins indeed to once again populate the various areas of my head, growing in all sorts of different tones and oddly shaped patches, soft like the first grass to cover the gray hillsides after the snow melt.  It takes quite a bit of time until the first half inch length covers most of my head.

And for how long I have waited and hoped for it, it takes me by surprise when I decide to shave it off once more.  I buzz it down to a bare sand paper stubble and love it! There is something magical about feeling the prickliness of my scalp – as supposed to the soft baldness under the chemo.   It feels powerful to choose my own bareness now, instead of being simply subject to it, as I was during the chemo.  It is my decision now, to go without, to carry my nakedness proudly, to stay honest and open at this time of great vulnerability for the many blessings that this surrender has called forth.  To walk from here on out,  into this new life that is just beginning.

Choosing to stay visible as a cancer initiate, many up close and personal encounters  with other human beings and their stories of love, healing and dying find their way to me.  Wherever I go now, in my nakedness I am invited to look under the skirt of our shared humanness, into the heart of the true nature of our interconnectedness.  And I find myself continuously amazed at the willingness of those touched by cancer to share their story, reach out and connect across race, age or class barriers, with an intimacy that is unthinkable in the ’normal’ world.

Everything is personal now.  Before my eyes, a world that has so often felt cold and un-relational has opened up to me now to share its deepest secrets, simply because I belong to this special “cancer club” that none of us wanted to belong to in the first place.  Like the woman rounding the corner in the Safeway aisle, who breaks out in this wide smile when she sees me,  and calls out:  “Good for you!  You wear your head high!  I never wore any of them damn wigs either, God they itch like crazy!”  Survivor of 17 years.  Wow!  Make my day.  May I get to pay it forward one fine day and make someone else laugh, some 17 years down the road…  Or the cashier at Trader Joe’s who tells me his mom just started treatment, and he’s afraid how she’s going to cope because she lives alone and he’s not close.  Or the fine old man who stops me at a department store, between the checkout stand and the special sales counter, putting his hand lightly on my shoulder and gently saying “I wish you well”.  His eyes full of tears, it turns out that his wife of 50 years has passed away only a few weeks earlier after a long battle with breast cancer and now his youngest daughter had just been diagnosed.  Damn!  And there we are, in a long, intimate and tearful hug, two complete strangers, in the middle of Target, in a territory that words just can’t reach, somehow managing to celebrate the blessing of love, even if it opens us up to the worst losses possible.

In my better moments, I feel such lightness, grace and gratitude for this new life.  By truly claiming my belonging in this threshold life, between birth and death, my life has become an offering for all beings.  For now, cropping my hair close to the scalp helps me keep remembering.  It keeps me honest.  I am sure that this too will shift one day.  The only constant is change.  There is nothing to hang on to.  All I know is that for now, it’s too early to go back to looking ‘normal’.  Instead, I am taking the liberty to turn into what is truly true for me, moment by moment, edgy and outrageous as that may be.  Normal is overrated anyway.

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Originally written in March, 2012, edited in Nov 2014

Walking the One Year Plank

Waiting for the results of my first mammogram post treatment.  Why are the taking so long?  The longest 20 minutes of my life.  Tears streaming quietly over my face, as I remember the last time I was in that room, when the discovered my cancer, the last time that they squeezed my breast into the imaging machine.  How the impossible had become possible, how life could turn without warning or notice, on it’s head, how the ceremony of being mortally wounded began.

Sitting here, in the space of not knowing how the story will evolve and also not knowing how I will hold the story that will evolve.  Hoping for something bigger than the desperate prayer that I will be “okay”, that the scan may be clean.  Hoping for an opening to say YES to whatever appears on the trail for me next, surrendering my judgment of what it may mean.  Can I entertain the possibility that everything I need to heal forward, to evolve, to live out my destiny, is right here, presented to  me – alive in the good or the bad news that the doctor may bring?  And to exercise what they call “the last of the human freedoms”, the freedom to interact with whatever is on my path, in my unique way, to weave it into the healing that I am more deeply committed to than anything else in my life now.

And yet, here I sit, in agony, facing the terror of possibly more medical intervention and the nightmare of cancer recurrence, feeling the sharp pain of my own ego survival instincts, suffering my humanness.

Then the door opens, and the technician returns, with a “release” paper.  All looked normal, she said, almost taken aback by my catatonic expression.  It takes me a few minutes to let it in, to allow it, to feel it enter my being, my body jumping up and hugging her first, unbeknownst to me, then my mind, reading again and again the two words on the paper in the doctor’s handwriting “Looks great!”.  That’s it?  I say.  That’s it, the technician says.

As I leave the hallway, I see another woman, gown on, moving with distraught body posture, between the bathroom and one of the examination rooms.  Is she okay?  Someone today, will sit in the same chair as I sat in last year and hear their worst fear come true, that there is an area that looks suspicious….  Who am I  to be healthy?

I walk outside into the waiting area where my man sits in the companion version of the land with no name, that I have just left behind, the in between, the waiting, being suspended mid-air.  WE ARE OKAY, I say to him, WE ARE ACTUALLY OKAY!  And we hold each other in our moment of glory, lost now, in the relief of this new territory, not quite knowing where to turn next.  I take a picture with my release paper in front of my chest, much like a prisoner with her number, only that my paper sets me free, to cross the threshold of the building that I entered a year ago, and that like bookends has spanned the journey of this past year through the seasons of my treatment.

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Now what?  Only in the weeks to follow, do I realize that there is an aspect of incorporation here, that I was unprepared for.  In many ways I still am in treatment and yes, still on Tamaxofin.  But something is concluded with that first clean scan, and I find myself now in new territory yet again.  Getting a clean bill of health has me question what it means for me to be “normal”.

What is my new normal? Is it still okay to take time for myself, for my healing practices, for qi gong, yoga, medicine walks, writing, voice recordings, support groups and the like?  Even if I am healthy now?   What is health?  In many ways true healing has only just begun.  What is this new life asking of me now?

July 2012

Mountain Lion Medicine

Personally, I have no idea how I would have made it through cancer treatment if it wasn’t for my relationship with the vision fast ceremony.  Throughout 9 months of various cancer therapies, I went for walks in an open space preserve just 15 minutes from my home.  Here, under old growth oak trees, I would go for what I call ‘medicine walks’ whenever I was able.  Basically, these walks are like ‘mini walk-abouts’, time out on the land, to look into the mirror of nature, reflecting back one’s inner truth, finding oneself, one’s voice and unique way.  I used them to explore some difficult questions about treatment decisions, to let go and ‘bury’ old patterns that stood in the way of my healing or simply to listen to the fast flowing river of what was moving inside me at any given time.  It struck me how readily available the spirit world was to me during that time, as if my body and mind were just ripe to take the depth and the grief onto the land, knowing that it would hold whatever I could not.

My first walk of this kind on my cancer journey was on the day before my surgery.  Just after marking my threshold, I came upon a woman runner, waving her hands up high in the air, gesturing ‘no, no’, telling me to turn back.  It turns out she had seen a big mountain lion right on the trail.  Well, wouldn’t you know it, deeply ingrained in my psyche from some scary almost encounters with them, I had a deeply rooted fear of mountain lions.  There I was, at the crossroads, do I give into the fear and abolish my walk?  Not an option!  As the other park visitors, who were alerted by the same woman, all headed back down toward the safety of their cars, I headed up the trail, now armed with a stick in each of my hands.

It seemed admittedly ironic that just a few minutes before I was worried to die an untimely death because of breast cancer.  And here I was now, my knees shaking, my pounding heart intently listening for every leaf rustle, clutching fiercely to what felt like terribly insufficient defense weapons while inching up the trail,  afraid I wouldn’t survive this very day, this very walk – what a change in perspective!

At the top of the park, crossing a patch of dark forest, I came to realize that there was truly no way for me to get off the trail.  Death was on my path.  One day, near or far, it would find me.  Masked as a predator, a disease, or an accident it would claim me.  Right then, when I allowed the unthinkable, instead of trying to protect myself from it, or find a way out of it, warm relief washed over my body.  I didn’t have to do anything or become anyone else.  “All” I had to do was surrender, surrender my fear and giving up any illusion of control that I thought I may have had over my life.  It was as simple as it was profound.  If I could die to my fear, I didn’t have to die from it.  I was ready.  Tossing away my sticks I came back down the mountain singing – and ready for the surgery that was awaiting me the very next day.

Don’t get me wrong.  Cancer is a hard disease and given the choice I’d never sign up for it.  And yet it gave me the gift of transforming the parts of my life that had been out of alignment for a long, long time.  Sometimes, I jokingly say:  ‘cancer has saved my life’ and there is truth to that.  What I have lost is the illusion of control over my life, of taking my body or my mind or any other part of my being for granted.  What I have lost is the illusion of impermanence.  What I was given instead is the understanding that the only thing that will remain long after I’m gone is the healing that I have brought home during my life.  Grounded in the practice of my living and my dying, I am now blessed to live this precious life forward with no guarantees, and on the edge of my seat.

I still walk up and down the park trails and I have yet to see the lion.  Nonetheless, I know it’s there, maybe minding his or her own business, maybe staring at me from the dark thicket along the winding path.   Most days I’m glad that he or she is here, helping me remember, and helping me continue to surrender.

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July, 2011