Advent III: Joy

Hope sustains me in the darkness.

Peace calms my soul.

It's not so hard for me to claim these gifts; they ground and steady my feet for the journey.

Joy?

It is effervescent, fleeting, airy. It doesn't seek to help me ground and center myself, rather, it irrationally launches my heart into the heights. There, at the apex of the leap, my inner camera takes a quick snapshot of the beauty, which I then store deep within, tucked away with other treasured memories. Stumbling across these moments, even years later, often brings a wistful tear or two to my eye. I suppose it's because I'm greedy - I so would love to stay in the moments; to not let life carry me on past them. 

The pink candle in the wreath symbolizes the joy of anticipation. The end of this season of waiting for the child to be born, waiting for the days to begin to grow longer, waiting for the cycle of the seasons to begin anew, is near. That's a good thing, eh?

I'm not feeling it this year. Which frustrates me.

But I lit the taper anyways and watched it burn for a while, reflecting on the concept of Joy, since the reality was clearly not within my grasp. As I sat, the echoes of Joys past started bubbling up, just in case I had begun to forget how it feels to be joyful, and needed a reminder.

And then, maybe, just maybe, a new, tentative, bubble appeared.

This, too, shall pass.

All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Yes.

Advent II: Peace

"Yeah, uh-huh," says my cynical side. "Peace? In this day and age?"

Hmmm...

As I watched the light of the candle, I decided the Peace of Advent is probably not the kind where one is at Peace because everything is hunky-dory, with smiles all around, at the Happy Unicorn Rainbow Farm up on the hill. 

As I watched the flame flicker, backed by the light of Hope, I figured it's more likely to be the sort of Peace where you are still for a moment; at Peace despite all the things.

It's the kind of Peace I find when I relinquish my efforts to control what's outside of me, and instead turn my attention to controlling my reaction to what's happening in my world. As Viktor Frankl taught me so well, it's the only thing I can control anyways. 

(This is not because of any lack of effort on my part, I assure you. Some part of me is still convinced that if I can just round up all the ducks and get them in the right order, I'll definitely be able to bend the will of the world to my hand. I have not been successful thus far, but there's always tomorrow.)

When I am able to accept those things I cannot change, when I am able to take one more step in the direction of changing those things I can, I, despite all the things, find a measure of Peace.

This is never as easy for me as I think it should be and I've been actively working on it for several decades. I've had to let go of dreams aplenty, say goodbye to too many of the people I love. It's been hard!

Time and again, I find myself focused on clinging, eyes squinched and laser-focused, to my vision of what I want to happen as I travel along life's river. Then, when whatever-it-was I was busy clutching slips from my grasp anyhow, I look up to find I've missed part of my precious journey. There's no going back to claim it.

No, I don't get what I want any more often when I give up my efforts to control the flow of events, but when I let go and allow the water to carry me along, I sure swallow a lot less of it. When I'm not busy fighting the current, I can relax a bit, open my eyes, widen my field of vision, and catch more of the Beauty of my journey. 

I'll keep working on it - if only because those moments of Peace are so comforting.

Advent I: Hope

Poof! It's December!

This year, I knew I would need the Advent Candle tradition to anchor my soul, and so made a point of buying the appropriate tapers ahead of time. (Score one for self-care.)

Last night I tidied up my dining room table (which, despite my best efforts, generally has a collection of whatsit strewn across its surface), dimmed the lights, and put on some quiet music. I brewed myself a cup of tea, lit the first of the Advent candles, and settled in to watch the flame.

Hope. Such a small light. So much darkness.

As I sat and watched, a few tears escaped and trickled down my cheeks. This has been a hard year. Hope feels risky. If I dare to hope, I might hope in vain. And it hurts when a flame of hope gets snuffed out. 

I am afraid. There are so many dark portents whirling in the world's winds - both the larger world, and the world of my life. I was tempted to sink down and let the darkness take over.

But that's the thing about light. Even a small light dispels the dark. Fear wants me to believe the darkness is greater, but it's not. Emily Dickinson's words came to me:

Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all

I took a deep breath. "I can choose," I told myself. 

I can both acknowledge the Fear and know it is not the only Power.

I opened the door to my heart, listened to the song of Hope. 
I watched the darkness wither down, losing much of its power in the light of the candle.

Hope, anyways. 
Yes.

Attitude of Gratitude

 

I once thought the whole "attitude of gratitude" concept was malarkey. But then, in one of my down times, I decided to try noticing things in my day for which I was (or could be, if I was so inclined) grateful. To my surprise, the exercise helped. A lot. 

Noticing the good parts of my day showed the all-of-life-is-black part of me it was wrong. As I kept up the practice, the black lake slowly receded, shrank to where I could easily see it was just a part of life - not all of it; not at all.

I am grateful Kate has been able to apply the lessons she learned in cancer round one to cancer round two. I am grateful she is in a time place of life where she can afford to step back and take care of herself; to help her body to heal as best it can.

She has finished 12 of the 25 scheduled rounds of radiation. (Almost halfway there! Go, Kate!) She tells me she ends each session feeling like someone punched her in the sore spot on her chest; the tissue in the entire area tightens up. She then goes home and spends the next several hours stretching and rolling and repeating until she's regained her range of motion. She then does the whole thing again the next day. (Stretching the scar tissue like this, as it forms, means she will hopefully come out the other end of this wringer still able to breathe freely; able to move her shoulder. Fingers crossed, candles lit.) 

I am grateful morning comes. Every day. So far, at least. Morning comes and I get another chance to have a good day. 

I am grateful Sylvester is here with me. Over the past few years, I've grown to like our 20 minute, morning walk and sniff session. His presence assures I get up and at 'em, then outside to greet the day. Every day. Like it or not. (It's good for me.)

As winter's cold settles in, I am grateful for a reliable furnace. For the delivery of electricity and gas I can (usually) take for granted. I don't have to wonder if today is an electricity-on day, because barring a big storm, all the days are.

I am grateful for you - the You who is reading my words, bringing them to life. Your presence lets me know I'm not alone - not in my struggles, not in my joys. I feel seen. I feel heard. Since Covid, I know how important these things are.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Hot Yoga Lesson

When Kate came into town earlier this year, she asked me if I would help her find a place to do hot yoga while she was here - the discipline is one of the best ways she knows to help her troubled back loosen up. I was happy to help, asked around a bit, found her a place to go, and worked with her to sign up for a class or three.

I had tried hot yoga once a decade or two ago and swore I'd never go back, but when she came home from her class with her back clearly feeling better, I decided to give it one more try. I like to do things with Kate when I can, and perhaps I had changed. Perhaps a different style of class would be better.

So, off we went to class together.

I am not a great fan of hot and sweaty; my goal was simply to stay in the hot room for the entire ninety minutes, to do what poses I could do. I made it. I stayed.

At the end, I laid down for savasana and was pleasantly surprised to find every inch of my skin awake with a pleasant tingle. I am alive, it told me. I did a hard thing, it feels good to have done it.

*sigh* Just like that, I was hooked. I started going to class most Saturday mornings.

I took a break from yoga while I was in California. Still, when I came back to class two weeks ago, I expected to pick up where I'd left off.

Wrong. I barely made it through class. I spent over half my time sitting on the floor, trying to convince my lungs they could relax and take in a full breath. SO frustrating! During savasana, I was discouraged, sad, asking myself why I was there putting myself through this torture. If the magic tingle happened, I wasn't in a place to notice it.

This past weekend, class was a hard sell. WHY did I want to do that again?????

I convinced myself to go to class anyways, and as class got moving, was amazed to find I'd brought a whole new me. Yes, I was hot and dripping sweat, but when we got to the spot where my breathing had locked up the week before, nothing happened. I was able to continue moving and breathing, stretching and loosening all the parts. The magic part at the end returned!

??????

I've been pondering these disparate experiences all weekend. How can so much change from one week to the next?

I'm taking this as a lesson in the importance of showing up. A Notice from the Universe to me that life is not static; from week to week, it changes at levels I can't sense. A Reminder to not let failure yesterday stop me from taking a chance on succeeding today.

Take one more step.

Election Blues (Act II)

Man, oh Man!

Turns out over half the voters of this country don't care if their choice for president creeps me out, and has since the moment he stalked Hilary Clinton during their second debate, eight years ago. (Granted, most of those people don't know me from Adam (Eve?), and thus couldn't have meant to upset my apple cart with their choice, but that's not germane to the issue.)

Like the last time he was elected, my gut knew this was going to happen, which is why I intentionally didn't peek at the results Tuesday night. I wanted one more night of peaceful sleep. (Not Yet!)

I've been grappling with depression all week. Good thing I have an impressive array of tools in my coping chest; I've needed every last one of them.

I've looked for, and found, beauty each day as I take the puppy out for his morning stroll.

I've been using my yoga breathing exercises to still my mind when it wakes racing in the night. They help ground me in the here and now, so I can drift back to sleep.

I've been reminding myself I survived, we survived, last time he was elected; we will most likely survive again.

I never did stop giving to my resistance charities of choice - The ACLU, Planned Parenthood, Gabby Giffords' anti-gun group, and Harvesters, my local food bank.

But, since the morning of the election, I can't bring myself to read any news stories touching on politics. This is exactly opposite to my reaction last time, when I began devouring the news, all the news. I'm back to reading just the style section, the advice columns, the comics. The good news part is that I now have an extra hour and more each day to pursue other activities, any other activities. (I've been trying to wean myself from the news-rabbit-hole habit for quite some time - I guess there's a silver lining to this cloud, too.)

I don't know if ignorance is bliss, but for now, I do know a lot less knowledge of what's going on in Washington D.C. will mean a lot less pain in my soul.

So, I am working to focus on the here and the now.

Today, Kate had her first dose of radiation. (So hard!!)

Today, the November sun is shining, the leaves on the trees outside my window are working to outdo one another with their brilliant displays of yellows, reds and oranges.

Today, I went to yoga, and it was warm enough on my way home to drive with the top down.

Today, I'm getting pizza for dinner. (Life is short. Eat pizza.)

Tomorrow, I will work on making it through tomorrow. Today, I just need to make it through today.

One step at a time.

Resetting

While I know my presence in California has been most welcome for Kate and her family as she embarked on this latest detour in life, this past week it was time to come on home.

I need to vote! 

And, as Kate began to feel better, her energy returning and her pain (mostly) under control, I felt the tug of my life back in Kansas City. I missed the dog, my people at the gym, my own bed.

All the same, it's been a bit of a shock to my system. I left town in late summer, then stayed in late summer weather for the month I was in California, thus lulling my body into thinking time had taken a short break. 

Then, on my return to town, I stepped off the plane into a cool and rainy autumn day. Instead of the vista I'd become accustomed to, one of blue sky over brown grass, peppered by the green of the magically resilient trees of southern California, I was greeted by gray skies highlighting the yellow to orange of the turning leaves on the trees. 

Time had moved on after all.

I've been home almost a week, and still, when I wake in the night, it takes a minute to orient myself, to figure out where I am. I'm guessing parts of me decided to take a later flight; they'll arrive any day now. Probably.

My heart is divided. Part of it is back in California, tracking Kate's healing, doing what I can to support her on this difficult path. The other part is here, rediscovering the parts I love about the structure of life I've been working to build since I retired.

The past few days have been a blur of catching up on the tasks left undone while I traveled. Thanks to global warming (silver linings exist), I've had a bit of time to clean up the yard. I've started back at the gym, my body welcoming the return to the stretchiness of the yoga classes. 

One step at a time.

Working to Breathe

Kate has been working on breathing. Both in the literal sense as she retrains her system to work around the missing sections of rib and muscle to breathe in and out, and in the yogic sense of using breath to center and ground one's spirit.

Her oncologist has been doing a hard sell on starting the hormone treatments, like, NOW! Since this is metastatic cancer, she was telling Kate that there are most probably micro-tumors hidden throughout her system and the best way to keep them at the micro level is to start hormone therapy as soon as possible.

Kate was slated to start this week, but then took a deep breath and a step back. No question the doc is right about those little buggers hiding out. And yes - the 'run smack into a brick wall' method of entering menopause is her best bet at surviving, and she will start taking the drugs. But.

The histology report showed her cancer to be both likely to spread (we'd figured that much out...) and slow growing (which means !!no chemo!! Yay!!). Will waiting a few weeks to begin treatment really make a difference in her long term survival? After mulling it over this weekend, she decided the answer is 'probably not'.

But, starting the treatment now, when she is still recovering from surgery and slated to start radiation shortly, could and probably would complicate her recovery. It's hard enough to heal when you've been hit from two different angles. Add in a third simultaneous blow? Ouch. 

So the current plan is to start the hormone treatments near or just after the end of radiation. In the meantime, her chest will have had a chance to heal from the surgery so it should no longer cause pain to take each breath. 

Life is easier when breathing doesn't hurt. No question there.

One step at a time.

Healing Steps

I never thought I'd be grateful Kate found a lump indicating her cancer had returned, but here I am, grateful, because it was only because they were doing all the scans to determine how best to treat the lump that they found the larger spiky blob. 

I never thought I'd be grateful to know Kate might have to undergo another trial of fire via chemo, but here I am, grateful, because the possibility chemo might happen means this bout of cancer can be treated, and either vanquished or banished underground for another length of time. (The alternative would mean it was diffused through her system, and growth could only be slowed down, not halted for any length of time.)

Once the final surgery reports came in we received the wonderful news they'd been able to get clear margins after all. **!!whew!!** Game-changing news. 

With the removal of the last drainage tube last Friday, her energy has come bouncing back. It will still be quite some time before the roughly cookie-shaped hole in her chest will be healed; she is missing two 2-3" chunks of rib, along with the corresponding muscles in the intercostal region of her chest (the part of your body between the ribs and lungs - these muscles help you breathe freely). But. Her pain, while still never gone, is now manageable without the help of heavy duty painkillers and she is doing all she can to facilitate the healing process.

She won't know exactly what followup treatments will be recommended until the oncotype testing of the excised tumor is complete, which will be another week or two. She does know she has radiation and hormone therapy in the offing. The medical teams are still saying 'treatable' - no small blessing.

Treatable or not, this is scary stuff to contemplate, too scary. So for now, when we talk, we focus on the best steps to take to begin to heal her current set of bodily traumas. 

One step at a time.

Today, we are here. 

Goodbye, Duane

Duane is - *sigh* - was - my cousin. Three or four years younger than I, I can't recall I'd ever had a real conversation with him until we met up at a family reunion in Virginia a couple of decades ago. 

He opened the conversation by telling me how much he'd LOVED my green Schwinn ten-speed, which I'd saved up to buy when I was a teenager. I was surprised he'd remembered the bike; as we talked it quickly became clear he'd paid a lot more attention to me as we grew than I'd paid to him. (sorry, Duane)

Since then, I've talked to him a lot more. When I took off in my camper van, I stayed for a few nights with him and his wife, Tracey. One fine Saturday, they took me to Wisconsin and introduced me to the sport of Watercross. (For the uninitiated, this is where you wait until summer, find a good shallow pond somewhere, and see if you can drive a snowmobile across it. You just know the sport started with a couple of guys saying, "Here! Hold my beer and watch this!") I still chuckle when I think about that day.

I admired how Duane had worked to do well in life. He once told me he was a slacker in high school, went to college just because he was supposed to; had no idea how to succeed there. But once he got there, he took a look around, figured out how to study, kept working, and ended up as a chiropractor. Not an easy trick to pull off. 

He married young. Somehow, he and Tracey managed to work through all the things they needed to work through to stay and grow together all these years. Again, not easy to do. They had three boys; raised a group of fine young men.

I last saw him just a few weeks ago at yet another family reunion. There were quite a few people there, and though I said hello, I didn't get a chance to catch up with him. I texted him after I got home, telling him I was sorry I'd missed him. He texted back, said he felt the same, and he'd catch me on the next go-around.

The next go-around won't happen - he died from a sudden heart attack earlier this week.

Damn margarita truck!

I am in shock. Regretting my lost chance to talk with him, to find out how life was treating him. It's not like I think the conversation would have been consequential. I just hate it when I don't get a chance to say goodbye to those I hold in my heart.

So, goodbye, Duane. 

I hope you are where the fishing is good and the mosquitoes (mostly) leave you alone. When winter comes, I hope you and whichever buddies you have there (you'll probably add some new ones to the crew, knowing you and your charismatic ways), will be able to ride free on your sleds, flying though the snow, out in the wilderness you loved so deeply.

Peace.