"Sing for Your Supper" is now in part deux. It will still contain my random musings but they will be more rooted in my own experiments with urban homesteading and partnering with nature. That sounds odd typing it on a laptop connected wirelessly to some electronic superhighway that allows information to do this somehow. I don't understand it and don't want to try. That is my new philosophy. In the words of singer/songwriter Iris Dement, "I think I'll just let the mystery be."
My husband recently decided to abduct our televisions. I was surprised that this made me angry. I've never considered myself a television person. We've had cable twice in our 16 years of togetherness. Both times for a period of about six months. Each time, it felt like a guest who stayed too long, even though I encouraged it by giving it attention, pretending to adore it, feeding it electricity. It tried to make me love it. I think I was minorly addicted to it. I couldn't help turning on CNN at several points during the day just to see what was going on in the world. As the economy has worsened, the news has been relentlessly reminding us of every worsening aspect over and over and over and over - like a stuck record. I started feeling like I was in dire straights just from watching the news and I'm not. It seemed to be rewiring my brain.
It was doing worse things to my children. They had Disney piping in intravenously and frankly, it was an easier way to parent. My youngest child is still detoxing.
I realized what a gift the abduction of the televisions and the Dear John letter (or phone call, but letter sounded more homesteady) to the cable company was two evenings ago. The house was filled with beautiful silence. Detoxing from Disney daughter was sleeping. My husband, older daughter and myself sat in our TV-less living room and read in silence but in the presence of one another for an hour. It was bliss.
Where the TV once sat now sits and incubator regulating its temperature and preparing for my daughters to carefully (I hope) place 24 fertile chicken eggs, five different breeds, in its womb when they awake this morning. So, instead of watching Disney, we will all watch the eggs.
I have entered a period where I have an intense desire to farm. I live on a small city lot but I'm still going to try (I am also participating in a gardening internship at a local farm - more about that later). I have three hens now. They give us the gift of three beautiful eggs each day. I sing to them. I think I'll start singing to my plants too. I am literally singing for my supper.
We had hens one other time but then we adopted a chocolate lab mix and she killed them. People said that she couldn't be taught to cohabitate with chickens. I took it as a dare and bought more baby chicks last spring. I won. Rather, the chickens won. They dominate the dog. They chase her around the yard like annoying younger siblings, when our dog, a teenager, just wants to find a cozy corner to sleep in and chew her bone. They steal her food. She let's them. I wish I had film footage of them taking the left-over waffles we gave her out of her mouth. Yes! The hens stole the waffles from her mouth. I swear I saw her just shrug her shoulders and walk away.
I am currently reading some essays by Wendell Berry from "Life Is A Miracle." Isn't that the truth! He is a farmer and a writer. Two of my favorite vocations! He says:
"For quite a while it has been possible for a free and thoughtful person to see that to treat life as mechanical or predictable or understandable is to reduce it. Now, almost suddenly, it is becoming clear that to reduce life to the scope of our understanding (whatever "model" we use) is inevitably to enslave it, make property of it, and put it up for sale."
I need to stop trying to reduce life to the scope of my understanding. That is what I am going to try to do through my farming efforts. Not understand, just enjoy, embrace, accept what is. I will close with more wisdome from Iris Dement.
"Everybody's wonderin' what and where they all came from. Everybody's worryin' 'bout where they're gonna go when the whole thing's done. But no one knows for certain and so it's all the same to me. I think I'll just let the mystery be.
Some say once you're gone you're gone forever, and some say you're gonna come back. Some say you rest in the arms of the Saviour if in sinful ways you lack. Some say that they're comin' back in a garden, bunch of carrots and little sweet peas. I think I'll just let the mystery be."
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Hands
In loving memory of my father-in-law
For my husbands 33rd birthday
His hands held you, awestruck, as you took your first breaths. You cradled his hand with love immeasurable as he took his final breath. Together at your entrance to this world and his exit to the next. Energy. Love. Transferring between hands as life-giving water flows from the roots of a tree to its limbs. Limbs of a family tree. Hands that take in as much as the eyes and feel as much as the heart.
Hands that embraced and disciplined in hopes of a bright future. Pats on backs. “High fives.” “Thumbs up.” Assurance concentrated in the momentum of each act.
Hands that earned, prepared and served the food that nourished. Hands serving as vessels for music that transcended all.
Hands that carried. Hands that gave. Hands that received. Hands that lifted from the crib and to the wheelchair. Hands that kept from getting lost. Hands that guided the way. Hands that wiped away tears. Hands that warmly greeted “hello” after a long absence and finally…waved “goodbye.”
Aren’t we God’s hands. God’s eyes? God’s heart? A reflection of nothing less than Divine Love. In occasional need of some windex and paper towels.
God’s hands. Hands that will embrace the next generation with the same fervent hope that your’s were held in. Hands that will hold those still in this world – whether bound by blood or a love as thick as blood, or thicker. Hands that will help a friend a or a stranger, discerning no difference. The same love flowing. Life-giving love.
All of the hopes he had for you are still a part of the fiber of the universe. All of his love still flows through your veins, nourishing, giving life to God’s hands.
Wave “goodbye,” – only for now. Let the hands of others embrace you and wipe your tears. What choice is there but to keep singing?
Memories will mix with the sadness and hopefully dilute it enough to make it tolerable. Perhaps the sadness will make life’s joys more intense.
God’s hands. Music will still flow through your hands transcending others above trials. Your hands will guide your children and if you are fortunate – your grandchildren.
Your fingernails are the same shape as his. Molded from the same potter – the same clay. Did you know that she has your fingernails? Same potter. Same clay.
Do hands have memories? Can the layers of skin, muscles, cells and bones remember the firmness of grip, the warmth, the transfer of energy, the purity of Divine Love.
Wave “goodbye,” – only for now. Live united with those who live and those who live on. Beyond. Each held together in the palm of God’s hand.
For my husbands 33rd birthday
His hands held you, awestruck, as you took your first breaths. You cradled his hand with love immeasurable as he took his final breath. Together at your entrance to this world and his exit to the next. Energy. Love. Transferring between hands as life-giving water flows from the roots of a tree to its limbs. Limbs of a family tree. Hands that take in as much as the eyes and feel as much as the heart.
Hands that embraced and disciplined in hopes of a bright future. Pats on backs. “High fives.” “Thumbs up.” Assurance concentrated in the momentum of each act.
Hands that earned, prepared and served the food that nourished. Hands serving as vessels for music that transcended all.
Hands that carried. Hands that gave. Hands that received. Hands that lifted from the crib and to the wheelchair. Hands that kept from getting lost. Hands that guided the way. Hands that wiped away tears. Hands that warmly greeted “hello” after a long absence and finally…waved “goodbye.”
Aren’t we God’s hands. God’s eyes? God’s heart? A reflection of nothing less than Divine Love. In occasional need of some windex and paper towels.
God’s hands. Hands that will embrace the next generation with the same fervent hope that your’s were held in. Hands that will hold those still in this world – whether bound by blood or a love as thick as blood, or thicker. Hands that will help a friend a or a stranger, discerning no difference. The same love flowing. Life-giving love.
All of the hopes he had for you are still a part of the fiber of the universe. All of his love still flows through your veins, nourishing, giving life to God’s hands.
Wave “goodbye,” – only for now. Let the hands of others embrace you and wipe your tears. What choice is there but to keep singing?
Memories will mix with the sadness and hopefully dilute it enough to make it tolerable. Perhaps the sadness will make life’s joys more intense.
God’s hands. Music will still flow through your hands transcending others above trials. Your hands will guide your children and if you are fortunate – your grandchildren.
Your fingernails are the same shape as his. Molded from the same potter – the same clay. Did you know that she has your fingernails? Same potter. Same clay.
Do hands have memories? Can the layers of skin, muscles, cells and bones remember the firmness of grip, the warmth, the transfer of energy, the purity of Divine Love.
Wave “goodbye,” – only for now. Live united with those who live and those who live on. Beyond. Each held together in the palm of God’s hand.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Memo to the Media and a Short Note to Brittany
Memo to The Media:
I shant mince words. Please stop printing stories about what a horrible parent Brittany Spears is. First of all, aren't there bigger stories in the world needing your attention? Secondly, give her a break. You are going to destroy any confidence this young mother might have left. She has made some unwise choices but you are unfairly scrutinizing her. One example are the reports given of her near fall today. There isn't a parent who hasn't almost fallen with their children. Just today, I accidentally elbowed my two year old and gave her a black eye. She cried. I consoled. She's fine. I felt terrible. We moved on with our day. The local paper didn't write about it and social services didn't come knocking. I can't even count the number of times I've accidentally bonked my children's heads while getting them in and out of car seats. Oh, and yes, there are time when I lose my patience and handle a situation with a little more yelling or a firmer gripping of a little arm than should occur. How many parents have had a child fall of the bed? This is the toughest job I have known. I'm not an expert at it but I'm doing the best I can. Don't beat her down any more. She'll do plenty of that to herself. Mother's guilt is a very strong consequence of simply being a mother. The dosage is extremely high when accidents happen or bad choices are made. Please just leave her alone. Let her make her mistakes, learn her lessons, love her son, and relish the joys of parenting without your presence. Let's all wish her the best of luck in raising a kind, productive human being and a joyful journey on the road of motherhood. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.
Note to Brittany
Brit,
I think my letter above describes my sentiments well. Do your best to make smart choices. You are a young mother in a bright spotlight. Don't let it burn you out. I know how hard this job can be. I know how joyful it can be as well. If you are ever having a bad day, and there will be many, feel free to stop by. I have a pantry full of good teas and I'll make time to chat. We should probably avoid the topic of music though, for I fear our tastes are quite different. All the same, sometimes it helps just to talk to another mother so you know you aren't alone. Do the best you can for your son everyday. The time goes by way too quickly. I wish you the best of luck. May you find peace on your journey and discover a deep sense of purpose in your role as "mom", away from the media spotlight, perhaps on a blanket by a lake making mud pies and counting bugs with your beautiful, baby boy.
Best wishes,
Vashti
I shant mince words. Please stop printing stories about what a horrible parent Brittany Spears is. First of all, aren't there bigger stories in the world needing your attention? Secondly, give her a break. You are going to destroy any confidence this young mother might have left. She has made some unwise choices but you are unfairly scrutinizing her. One example are the reports given of her near fall today. There isn't a parent who hasn't almost fallen with their children. Just today, I accidentally elbowed my two year old and gave her a black eye. She cried. I consoled. She's fine. I felt terrible. We moved on with our day. The local paper didn't write about it and social services didn't come knocking. I can't even count the number of times I've accidentally bonked my children's heads while getting them in and out of car seats. Oh, and yes, there are time when I lose my patience and handle a situation with a little more yelling or a firmer gripping of a little arm than should occur. How many parents have had a child fall of the bed? This is the toughest job I have known. I'm not an expert at it but I'm doing the best I can. Don't beat her down any more. She'll do plenty of that to herself. Mother's guilt is a very strong consequence of simply being a mother. The dosage is extremely high when accidents happen or bad choices are made. Please just leave her alone. Let her make her mistakes, learn her lessons, love her son, and relish the joys of parenting without your presence. Let's all wish her the best of luck in raising a kind, productive human being and a joyful journey on the road of motherhood. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.
Note to Brittany
Brit,
I think my letter above describes my sentiments well. Do your best to make smart choices. You are a young mother in a bright spotlight. Don't let it burn you out. I know how hard this job can be. I know how joyful it can be as well. If you are ever having a bad day, and there will be many, feel free to stop by. I have a pantry full of good teas and I'll make time to chat. We should probably avoid the topic of music though, for I fear our tastes are quite different. All the same, sometimes it helps just to talk to another mother so you know you aren't alone. Do the best you can for your son everyday. The time goes by way too quickly. I wish you the best of luck. May you find peace on your journey and discover a deep sense of purpose in your role as "mom", away from the media spotlight, perhaps on a blanket by a lake making mud pies and counting bugs with your beautiful, baby boy.
Best wishes,
Vashti
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Happy Thoughts
Here are the mornings quotable quotes from my offspring:
My two year old asked for an extra shake of cinnamon on her oatmeal and I obliged. She smiled BIG, looked up, hugged me sideways from her chair and said "You're nice. I love you." I'll give her cinnamon anytime just for that.
The same child asked for "piggy tales like Cinderella (huh?)" and to wear her "Cinderella Dress" this morning. I obliged. She looked in the mirror, looked at me, and said "You're my best friend!" Better than being the wicked step-mom.
I took a bath with my six year old this morning. Mornings move slow and it is very hard to get her bathed, dressed, fed, and out the door for school. Part of the difficulty is that her little brain never stops. She is constantly trying to figure out the world. I have a sister who is expecting a baby any day. My daughter asked how big the babies head is now and I showed her the approximate circumference with my hands. She then asked if my sister's water broke (didn't know she knew about breaking water) if the baby would have to come today. I said this is generally the case. I explained to her that sometimes a woman's water breaks then labor starts and sometimes it happens during labor. I told her that when I was pregnant with her, my water broke first. When I was pregnant with her sister, it did not. She seems very blessed with a keen ability to articulate her thoughts. She replied "Hmmm. Then you got to have both experiences."
And, finally, at the risk of offending some tender ears, I will share one more antidote. My oldest daughter and her friends like to mentor my younger daughter. They like to teach her new words and phrases. They enjoy hearing new things roll of her young tongue. We use the correct anatomical terms in our house. Are you getting scared yet? I am trying to follow the example of two of my closest friends and simply be scientific about many things. I am hoping to be the one that my children come to with questions. I want them to feel safe asking me any question. The older kids have convinced my two year old DAUGHTER that she does indeed have a penis. I am trying to convince her that indeed, she does not. This is a fine conversation to have within our home but I shudder at the thought of what might come out at a dinner party at someone else's home, the grocery store, the airport, church! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
My two year old asked for an extra shake of cinnamon on her oatmeal and I obliged. She smiled BIG, looked up, hugged me sideways from her chair and said "You're nice. I love you." I'll give her cinnamon anytime just for that.
The same child asked for "piggy tales like Cinderella (huh?)" and to wear her "Cinderella Dress" this morning. I obliged. She looked in the mirror, looked at me, and said "You're my best friend!" Better than being the wicked step-mom.
I took a bath with my six year old this morning. Mornings move slow and it is very hard to get her bathed, dressed, fed, and out the door for school. Part of the difficulty is that her little brain never stops. She is constantly trying to figure out the world. I have a sister who is expecting a baby any day. My daughter asked how big the babies head is now and I showed her the approximate circumference with my hands. She then asked if my sister's water broke (didn't know she knew about breaking water) if the baby would have to come today. I said this is generally the case. I explained to her that sometimes a woman's water breaks then labor starts and sometimes it happens during labor. I told her that when I was pregnant with her, my water broke first. When I was pregnant with her sister, it did not. She seems very blessed with a keen ability to articulate her thoughts. She replied "Hmmm. Then you got to have both experiences."
And, finally, at the risk of offending some tender ears, I will share one more antidote. My oldest daughter and her friends like to mentor my younger daughter. They like to teach her new words and phrases. They enjoy hearing new things roll of her young tongue. We use the correct anatomical terms in our house. Are you getting scared yet? I am trying to follow the example of two of my closest friends and simply be scientific about many things. I am hoping to be the one that my children come to with questions. I want them to feel safe asking me any question. The older kids have convinced my two year old DAUGHTER that she does indeed have a penis. I am trying to convince her that indeed, she does not. This is a fine conversation to have within our home but I shudder at the thought of what might come out at a dinner party at someone else's home, the grocery store, the airport, church! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Facing the Dragon
What an opportunity I have been given to live life from a different perspective! As I continue my post-surgery journey I am being selective about the paths I walk down. The amount of choices that I have, that each of us have, are abundant. The amount of wisdom I gain from this experience is completely up to me. I am exploring paths that I didn't know existed for me. I am being careful not to just scoot along my old path, although not a bad one, of running at 100 mph to cross things off my to do list. I am presently redefining "accomplishment" for myself.
I am a resourceful and inquisitive person. I gather a lot of information. I mull things over. I seek second, third and fourth opinions. This trait is serving me well in my current health challenge (thyroid cancer + thyroidectomy). I am learning that while we have access to an abundance of healthcare in this country, each one of us is responsible for being our own advocate. I and I alone know my body and spirit. Each "specialist" approaches my problem from their specialty. The answers vary. I have to get quiet and listen to what my body and spirit are telling me.
My "lump" spoke to me. I found it. Some of my friends and family thought it was "nothing." Feeling it from the inside out, it felt like something. When I allowed myself to listen to my body earnestly, I had a feeling, fathoms below the surface, that something wasn't right. When I touched my lump, which was about grape size, it felt negative. I struggled with the decision of whether or not to have surgery. I didn't understand why a surgeon was the next logical consultant when my biopsy came back inconclusive. Someone quoted the following to me: "When your only tool is a hammer, all problems look like nails." This is how I viewed my surgeon. Of course he's going to want to cut me open. That is his job. That is how he gets paid! The turning point in my decision came when a friend, who admits she debated on whether or not to do this, forwarded an article from our local paper about one of our university basketball star's surgery and treatment for thyroid cancer. As I read this article, a faint voice said to me "This is exactly what you have." I dismissed it as my dramatic self. Intellectually, I didn't think I had cancer. However, the article was the tipping point. Although I dismissed the voice, I made the appointment for surgery. This was 10 long months after first discovering the lump. In this case, the advice my surgeon probably gives all his patients was right. His brilliance isn't the miracle here, although I thank him for his gift and skill. The miracle is that my higher power put me "in-tune" enough to listen to my voice. My intuition was right.
My journey to healing and wholeness is leading me to new places. Finding wholeness when I am missing an organ is proving to be challenging. I am changed. As curable as this is, I am changed. I will not go back to life as it was. I will return to a better life. Of this I am convinced. I am meeting new people. For example, I met with an oncologist turned medical counselor today. I liked her business card. It said "Turning the crisis of change into the opportunity of a lifetime." Each resource is a new piece of information for me to consider. A new place to explore. No one has the answer for me though. There is no book, therapist, doctor, religion, nothing that can solve this for me. All of the answers are already within. It is a matter, and no small one, of getting quiet enough to tap my life force to figure out where I am to travel next. Not only with my treatments but with how I choose to live my life. How I use my life.
A dear friend gave me a wonderful tape about one man's journey to healing that I have been listening to. It is wonderful. He talks about facing the dragon. Not running away from the dragon, not trying to kill the dragon, but facing it. That ultimately, the dragon is me. I have to face my own fears, my own mortalilty, all of my life's issues, all of my unlearned lessons, all of the mystery that is my life, and make peace and find joy. Make peace and find joy in all circumstances. That is where I always have choice. I cannot change many things. I cannot change the fact that I had a cancer in my body and that perhaps that cancer was caused by radiation in our atmosphere from nuclear testing or other environmental poisons or simply (ha!) from genetics. I can choose to live in peace and joy. I can choose peace of mind. The dragon and I can become buddies. (Become one with your dragon...sounds like a bumper sticker, huh?)
Raw. That is an adjective that I would use to describe my state of mind the past couple weeks. Fragile is another. I cry easily. I don't feel invincible as perhaps I once naively did. I have to look mortality straight in the eyes and embrace the fleetingness of this existence and look forward to what is next. Tears are healthy. One must know sadness to know joy. Tears are a wonderfully healing outlet too. I cry not only because I feel sadness (not pity) for my own situation, but I also feel things for other people more deeply. I have an even deeper sense of empathy. A deeper sense for other's pain and for the fragility of all of us. I think I am loving more deeply. Wow! Imagine if my disease was really serious. What metamorphosis would happen then? There's one way to spin a bad diagnosis.
Many things that I worried about just four weeks ago, frankly, seem stupid. I am missing the point in so many ways. Why is it so hard to get it? I feel like I'm on a balance beam. On my left is my old way of living, on my right is a chance for a new experience. It is so easy to fall back into old habits. Intuitively, I know what is important. We all have bright spirits waiting to live in joy and peace of mind. There is so much noise in our world that it is hard let this surface. I don't understand the mystery and perhaps I'm not supposed to but I believe on some level I know the key to peace of mind, living in joy, and experiencing the richness that this life is offering. As Einstein said, "We are spiritual beings having a human experience."
The dragon scares me sometimes. I'm trying to invite it in for chocolates, tea, and coffee, in hopes of taming it. In hopes of understanding myself and my present life more fully. In hopes of being at peace with the mysteries I might not be meant to understand presently. Perhaps just letting myself be embraced by the mysteries, not scared of them. There is joy in living in awe. I have been given the gift of an opportunity to change my perspective and begin the very tough work of living in spirit while residing in a material world. The irony in all of this is that it took losing an organ for me to begin finding the path to wholeness. I pray that I don't lose my way.
I am a resourceful and inquisitive person. I gather a lot of information. I mull things over. I seek second, third and fourth opinions. This trait is serving me well in my current health challenge (thyroid cancer + thyroidectomy). I am learning that while we have access to an abundance of healthcare in this country, each one of us is responsible for being our own advocate. I and I alone know my body and spirit. Each "specialist" approaches my problem from their specialty. The answers vary. I have to get quiet and listen to what my body and spirit are telling me.
My "lump" spoke to me. I found it. Some of my friends and family thought it was "nothing." Feeling it from the inside out, it felt like something. When I allowed myself to listen to my body earnestly, I had a feeling, fathoms below the surface, that something wasn't right. When I touched my lump, which was about grape size, it felt negative. I struggled with the decision of whether or not to have surgery. I didn't understand why a surgeon was the next logical consultant when my biopsy came back inconclusive. Someone quoted the following to me: "When your only tool is a hammer, all problems look like nails." This is how I viewed my surgeon. Of course he's going to want to cut me open. That is his job. That is how he gets paid! The turning point in my decision came when a friend, who admits she debated on whether or not to do this, forwarded an article from our local paper about one of our university basketball star's surgery and treatment for thyroid cancer. As I read this article, a faint voice said to me "This is exactly what you have." I dismissed it as my dramatic self. Intellectually, I didn't think I had cancer. However, the article was the tipping point. Although I dismissed the voice, I made the appointment for surgery. This was 10 long months after first discovering the lump. In this case, the advice my surgeon probably gives all his patients was right. His brilliance isn't the miracle here, although I thank him for his gift and skill. The miracle is that my higher power put me "in-tune" enough to listen to my voice. My intuition was right.
My journey to healing and wholeness is leading me to new places. Finding wholeness when I am missing an organ is proving to be challenging. I am changed. As curable as this is, I am changed. I will not go back to life as it was. I will return to a better life. Of this I am convinced. I am meeting new people. For example, I met with an oncologist turned medical counselor today. I liked her business card. It said "Turning the crisis of change into the opportunity of a lifetime." Each resource is a new piece of information for me to consider. A new place to explore. No one has the answer for me though. There is no book, therapist, doctor, religion, nothing that can solve this for me. All of the answers are already within. It is a matter, and no small one, of getting quiet enough to tap my life force to figure out where I am to travel next. Not only with my treatments but with how I choose to live my life. How I use my life.
A dear friend gave me a wonderful tape about one man's journey to healing that I have been listening to. It is wonderful. He talks about facing the dragon. Not running away from the dragon, not trying to kill the dragon, but facing it. That ultimately, the dragon is me. I have to face my own fears, my own mortalilty, all of my life's issues, all of my unlearned lessons, all of the mystery that is my life, and make peace and find joy. Make peace and find joy in all circumstances. That is where I always have choice. I cannot change many things. I cannot change the fact that I had a cancer in my body and that perhaps that cancer was caused by radiation in our atmosphere from nuclear testing or other environmental poisons or simply (ha!) from genetics. I can choose to live in peace and joy. I can choose peace of mind. The dragon and I can become buddies. (Become one with your dragon...sounds like a bumper sticker, huh?)
Raw. That is an adjective that I would use to describe my state of mind the past couple weeks. Fragile is another. I cry easily. I don't feel invincible as perhaps I once naively did. I have to look mortality straight in the eyes and embrace the fleetingness of this existence and look forward to what is next. Tears are healthy. One must know sadness to know joy. Tears are a wonderfully healing outlet too. I cry not only because I feel sadness (not pity) for my own situation, but I also feel things for other people more deeply. I have an even deeper sense of empathy. A deeper sense for other's pain and for the fragility of all of us. I think I am loving more deeply. Wow! Imagine if my disease was really serious. What metamorphosis would happen then? There's one way to spin a bad diagnosis.
Many things that I worried about just four weeks ago, frankly, seem stupid. I am missing the point in so many ways. Why is it so hard to get it? I feel like I'm on a balance beam. On my left is my old way of living, on my right is a chance for a new experience. It is so easy to fall back into old habits. Intuitively, I know what is important. We all have bright spirits waiting to live in joy and peace of mind. There is so much noise in our world that it is hard let this surface. I don't understand the mystery and perhaps I'm not supposed to but I believe on some level I know the key to peace of mind, living in joy, and experiencing the richness that this life is offering. As Einstein said, "We are spiritual beings having a human experience."
The dragon scares me sometimes. I'm trying to invite it in for chocolates, tea, and coffee, in hopes of taming it. In hopes of understanding myself and my present life more fully. In hopes of being at peace with the mysteries I might not be meant to understand presently. Perhaps just letting myself be embraced by the mysteries, not scared of them. There is joy in living in awe. I have been given the gift of an opportunity to change my perspective and begin the very tough work of living in spirit while residing in a material world. The irony in all of this is that it took losing an organ for me to begin finding the path to wholeness. I pray that I don't lose my way.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Observations
1) Cancer is a terrifying word.
2) It is scary to have it in your body yet....
3) Is it really that scary. So, I had (optimistically hoping all the bad cells were cut out) cancer. I still feel basically like the same person I was prior to this knowledge.
4) I am grateful for modern medicine and for my doctors, however...
5) They have much to learn about treating the soul. How about a follow-up call after major surgery and delivering the news that cancer was detected? Believe me, they will get some feedback on this from me.
6) Doctors don't know it all and they certainly don't know my body...
7) Yet, I feel this strange, intimate connection with this mysterious man who cut my throat open. It is hard not to imagine what that two hours was like for my body. Strange to think about all that was done to it while I went on a little drug induced vacation.
8) I am not ready for life as "normal." I began to fill up my calendar and launch into full operating speed and then stopped. Doing this only aids me in running away from my thoughts. Perhaps all of these thoughts are like a rich compost that needs to be worked into my life's soil. Deep growth must be possible through processing this major event in my life.
9) People are wonderful. The loving energy of my community, both friends and family, has propped me and breathed new life into me. I thank all of you.
10) My gifts and worth are so separate from my physical being.
11) Besides cancer, I think that I grieve the loss of an organ. Strange. I wonder where my butterfly shaped thyroid that was with me in partnership for 33 years resides now? In a medical dump? Hmmmm. Dear thyroid, I thank you for your service. I am sorry for our violent parting and the end of your existence.
12) Even in my darkest moments my kids make me smile. I sat in my family doctor's office hoping he could answer some questions and offer solace. I was sorely disappointed by him but was offered a bit of comfort from my accompaning toddler. My doctor's nurse came to take my blood pressure, etc. She is pretty but perhaps not someone who would be considered classically beautiful. Her hair was pulled up to the the tip-top of her head with ringlet curls in piles, their highlights glistening in the fluorescent office light. She finished taking my vitals and made her exit. "The doctor will be with you in a moment." My daughter looked up, breaking her intense concentration on a drawing she was working on and said with pure sincerity "Momma, where did Cinderella go?"
"The flower sheds its petals and finds its fruit" Author Unknown
2) It is scary to have it in your body yet....
3) Is it really that scary. So, I had (optimistically hoping all the bad cells were cut out) cancer. I still feel basically like the same person I was prior to this knowledge.
4) I am grateful for modern medicine and for my doctors, however...
5) They have much to learn about treating the soul. How about a follow-up call after major surgery and delivering the news that cancer was detected? Believe me, they will get some feedback on this from me.
6) Doctors don't know it all and they certainly don't know my body...
7) Yet, I feel this strange, intimate connection with this mysterious man who cut my throat open. It is hard not to imagine what that two hours was like for my body. Strange to think about all that was done to it while I went on a little drug induced vacation.
8) I am not ready for life as "normal." I began to fill up my calendar and launch into full operating speed and then stopped. Doing this only aids me in running away from my thoughts. Perhaps all of these thoughts are like a rich compost that needs to be worked into my life's soil. Deep growth must be possible through processing this major event in my life.
9) People are wonderful. The loving energy of my community, both friends and family, has propped me and breathed new life into me. I thank all of you.
10) My gifts and worth are so separate from my physical being.
11) Besides cancer, I think that I grieve the loss of an organ. Strange. I wonder where my butterfly shaped thyroid that was with me in partnership for 33 years resides now? In a medical dump? Hmmmm. Dear thyroid, I thank you for your service. I am sorry for our violent parting and the end of your existence.
12) Even in my darkest moments my kids make me smile. I sat in my family doctor's office hoping he could answer some questions and offer solace. I was sorely disappointed by him but was offered a bit of comfort from my accompaning toddler. My doctor's nurse came to take my blood pressure, etc. She is pretty but perhaps not someone who would be considered classically beautiful. Her hair was pulled up to the the tip-top of her head with ringlet curls in piles, their highlights glistening in the fluorescent office light. She finished taking my vitals and made her exit. "The doctor will be with you in a moment." My daughter looked up, breaking her intense concentration on a drawing she was working on and said with pure sincerity "Momma, where did Cinderella go?"
"The flower sheds its petals and finds its fruit" Author Unknown
Sunday, April 23, 2006
A Bad Day
I am having a very bad day today. I don’t want to let myself have a bad day. I keep telling myself I should be stronger than this. It is no big deal. I should be able to pick-up and move on from exactly where I was three days ago. I can’t. I find myself repeating things to people over and over. Things like “If you are going to get a type of cancer this is the way to go! Virtually 100% curable.” I’m not sure if I am saying that out loud to make myself feel better or to make the person I’m with feel better. I don’t feel so good though.
It all started when I found a lump in my neck last summer. It’s not symmetrical. There isn’t one on the other side. Hmmmm. This does seem peculiar. I waited a few days. My neighbor, the doctor, felt it and said “That is a thyroid nodule. You need to get it checked-out.” So, I did. I had an ultrasound. I had a fine needle biopsy. I got opinion after opinion. I got scared. I called myself dramatic. I talked myself into believe that it was just my dramatic self that allowed me to think of the worst case scenario. I comforted myself by saying “Hey, if it is one of those small 15% of thyroid nodules that is cancerous, it is very curable.” I don’t think I really believed that it would ever be cancer. Here I am, 10 months after discovering this lump, lying in my bed, crying, not even sure why, overtired, and with a bandage across my neck. Two days ago I went in for surgery, assuming that I was just doing the prudent thing. I was following recommendations to have the right lobe of my thyroid removed. It was conservative. The chances of it being anything were slim. I wake up from my first time of ever being under anesthesia to learn that the whole thing is gone. While my body had this experience that my mind seemed to be completely vacant from, some lab person down the hall was able to tell that my nodule was full of cancer cells and get the word back to my surgeon in seconds so that he could remove the other half while I was still “out.” I’m in a little pain. More discomfort than pain really. I am surrounded by flowers and food. So many wonderful people. I still feel really bad. I’ve tried to not let myself feel bad but I do. Intellectually, I know that my prognosis is good but it is still an awful feeling to have the word “cancer” associated with my body. I had/have cancer cells in MY body. This bothers me.
I’ve been a very unfocused mother this week as I try to recover from surgery and wrap my mind around this. I didn’t ever envision having a future conversation that included the phrase “Oh, yeah, that was in 2006, the year Mommy had thyroid cancer.” Then I feel really awful for having any type of self-pity or fear because it could be so much worse and it is NOTHING compared to other people’s cancers. Like my father-in-law’s current situation. During the past 36 hours I have spent lots of time letting people know that I am okay and that this is no big deal. Maybe it is a bigger deal than I think. I am going to have to sift through this for a while. I’m going to have to let this wound on my neck heal and some of these drugs wear off before I’ll be able to center on how I really feel about all of this.
It all started when I found a lump in my neck last summer. It’s not symmetrical. There isn’t one on the other side. Hmmmm. This does seem peculiar. I waited a few days. My neighbor, the doctor, felt it and said “That is a thyroid nodule. You need to get it checked-out.” So, I did. I had an ultrasound. I had a fine needle biopsy. I got opinion after opinion. I got scared. I called myself dramatic. I talked myself into believe that it was just my dramatic self that allowed me to think of the worst case scenario. I comforted myself by saying “Hey, if it is one of those small 15% of thyroid nodules that is cancerous, it is very curable.” I don’t think I really believed that it would ever be cancer. Here I am, 10 months after discovering this lump, lying in my bed, crying, not even sure why, overtired, and with a bandage across my neck. Two days ago I went in for surgery, assuming that I was just doing the prudent thing. I was following recommendations to have the right lobe of my thyroid removed. It was conservative. The chances of it being anything were slim. I wake up from my first time of ever being under anesthesia to learn that the whole thing is gone. While my body had this experience that my mind seemed to be completely vacant from, some lab person down the hall was able to tell that my nodule was full of cancer cells and get the word back to my surgeon in seconds so that he could remove the other half while I was still “out.” I’m in a little pain. More discomfort than pain really. I am surrounded by flowers and food. So many wonderful people. I still feel really bad. I’ve tried to not let myself feel bad but I do. Intellectually, I know that my prognosis is good but it is still an awful feeling to have the word “cancer” associated with my body. I had/have cancer cells in MY body. This bothers me.
I’ve been a very unfocused mother this week as I try to recover from surgery and wrap my mind around this. I didn’t ever envision having a future conversation that included the phrase “Oh, yeah, that was in 2006, the year Mommy had thyroid cancer.” Then I feel really awful for having any type of self-pity or fear because it could be so much worse and it is NOTHING compared to other people’s cancers. Like my father-in-law’s current situation. During the past 36 hours I have spent lots of time letting people know that I am okay and that this is no big deal. Maybe it is a bigger deal than I think. I am going to have to sift through this for a while. I’m going to have to let this wound on my neck heal and some of these drugs wear off before I’ll be able to center on how I really feel about all of this.
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