"Yes" Revisited

I remember a post I wrote here on January 29th titled, "Saying Yes".  I didn't come up with that topic by myself.

My friend, Lesa, and I challenge ourselves to write on a different topic each month.  Then we share our writing with each other.  Every month is like Christmas.  I wait in anticipation of our deadline when I will get to open an email that will contain the gift of Lesa's voice in prose or poetry.  And every month, I get to stretch myself by delving into a subject that I might not have otherwise thought about.  In January, our topic was "Saying Yes".

My mind had been churning on that piece for a couple of weeks.  And, as usual, when conditions were right, it spilled out of me in no time at all.  It spilled out of me three days before Michael's lymph node biopsy, eleven days before we heard his diagnosis of Mantle Cell Lymphoma.  

How beautiful that a week and a half after proclaiming my exuberant yes-ness, I would be tested in such a way as I have been tested.  Did I really mean what I said?  Can I say "Yes" to Michael's cancer?  Can I say "Yes" to any treatment that he may undertake, no matter what?  Can I, as I wrote, truly say "Yes! to what comes next:"?

It hasn't been so easy.  Does it count that I haven't said, "No"?  I haven't railed at the gods and at the company that exposed Michael to toxic chemicals 25 year ago.  But there have been times that I have resisted this.  Fear has caused me to hesitate when asked if I want to see the PET scan photos. And I have closed down a couple of times out of fear of losing myself.  It's ironic that I ended up losing myself by the very act of closing down in order NOT to lose myself.

Good thing I gave myself an "out" in that poem, only saying that "there are days when it [Yes] swells in her heart and out through her pores".  It doesn't happen every moment.  I have seen the days when it wasn't so yessy around here, and they aren't real pretty.

I don't believe that saying "Yes" to this cancer will make it proliferate any more than I think that hating it will cure it.  But loving it will ensure that no part of Michael, no part of our life together, no part of me will be cut off from wholeness and love.

Even the least wise among us can have a tad of wisdom, although they often misplace it.  So, I tip my hat to one of the least wise men I have known about and I take his misplaced wisdom and put it where it belongs:  Dear Life, Bring it on!  I say Yes to what comes next!

For Diane

Another Blogging Transition???

The Bobs.  I remember a song of theirs from the 80s.  "First I was a hippie, then I was a stockbroker, now I am a hippie again."

Many times, I have identified with that song.  I was once a hippie mama.  When I got divorced, I got a job at a lending company.  Yearning to do work that reflected my values, I eventually quit that job and went to massage school, shedding my office attire and ways, and feeling my hippie mama aura return.  Now, the song comes to mind as I put this blog on hold while I begin again at another location.  For me, though, the lyrics would be, "First I was an activist, then I was a ?, now I am a lost, loving supporter.  There is no "again" for my song.  I'm not going back to the theme of my first blog.  I must have graduated to a higher, more challenging level.

The last two weeks have been beyond intense.  As if one moment, we were walking down the beach, noticing the beautiful waves, breathing in the marine air, feeling the hot sun, and then the next moment, the world turns upside down, out of control, with nothing to hold on to. 

I know that this experience of having the ground pulled out from beneath us is not an experience that is unique.  Every human gets to have it at some point.  I also know that I have never walked this particular upside down world before, and I'm working to navigate it.

If you want to follow the path that my sweet Mr. CFP (Michael) and I will be taking for now, you can visit my new blog, "Healing into Life". 







The Bobs- "Now I am a Hippie Again" from Introinexile on Vimeo.

Bowling for Freedom

It seems very common to have bowling pins all lined up.  They are our beliefs about how things are or how they "should be".  Some pins/beliefs are conscious, and some aren't.  If we are lucky, some big bowling god will come along and decide to do some bowling.  She will then knock down those beliefs, sometimes earning a strike, but usually only getting one or two pins at a time.  She is not the best bowler.  Or maybe, out of kindness, she chooses to only take one or two pins every turn, knowing that a strike - the erasure of all our illusions about life at once - can be much more than many can tolerate.

The point at which all or most of our pins/beliefs are knocked down can be called freedom.  Because at that point, all we are left with is "what is".  We are freed from our illusions, our stories, and we can finally be in this very precious moment. 

This very moment is pristine.  It has never existed before and it never will again.  Those bowling pins, if not knocked down, pollute the purity of the moment, because we think that we know how it is and how it should be.

We already know that this is an elm tree, so we don't see it.  Instead, we see our concept of an elm tree - maybe we only see an allergy-irritator.  And the saddest part is that we do the same with people.  We know that Aunt Whatsername is cantankerous when she gets up in the morning, so we begin to stay away from her, not seeing the sadness she carries - the sadness that is screaming for someone to acknowledge it.  Ultimately, we think we know that life is supposed to go a certain way, so when it doesn't go our way, we kick and scream, trying to change it.  While Life is calling for our attention, love, and kindness - even offering us those same things in return - we don't notice because we are too busy getting angry and trying to control it.

Why am I writing this?  There are no "shoulds".  There is no "Thinking about this, I should really start to appreciate that elm in the backyard.  I should slow down and listen to Aunt Whatsername."  The bowling god will take care of our pins in the right time.  And we may or may not notice that it's happening.  We may put up replacement pins, or we may gently let go of all pins, or we may start kicking and screaming.

It's all good.

A Peach Carol

Enough of this, I say! If it must be forever white and cold outside, it's gotta be warm and peachy inside. I'm dreaming of a sweet, sticky, peachy summer... In the meantime, I know where some of last year's peaches are sitting, all frozen and waiting to be thawed and tasted. Oh, drool....

How To Be Alone

I love being alone in my house.  I love being alone on retreat.  I love to take walks alone.  But I don't do as well being alone in social situations.  I have rarely eaten alone in a restaurant.  I have gone to one movie alone.  And I made a dumb decision on which movie to watch that one time.  I don't like scary movies.  At all.  But the one time I went to the movie alone, I watched Fatal Attraction. Scary movies are even scarier when watched alone - with no one beside us who can distract us, laugh at fear with us, or comfort us.  After the movie, I went home where I was alone.  Alone and scared.  I checked every room in the house to make sure that no one was hiding and waiting to attack me.  Alone is sweet, especially if potential company could be a whacked out, possessive "other woman" who may kill your pet rabbit!

Honorable Mentions

I have not mentioned that my dear Mr. CFP turned 50 three days ago.  Why did I not write this then?  Maybe the announcement needed space to percolate.  Maybe because when you're in the moment, it takes you out of the moment to put the moment into words.  Maybe because it was a somewhat busy day - not busy with the things that birthdays bring as much as busy with the things that Wednesdays bring.  If I were queen, birthdays would only fall on weekends.

I have no photos of Mr. CFP blowing out 50 candles on a cake decorated with words that declare him old.  I have no photos of hordes of people clapping at his amazing ability to extinguish a small fire with one giant breath.

Mr. CFP is a low-key kinda guy.

I have memories of laughing with a few friends over bowls of hummus and plates of kabobs and tabouli.    And that memory is sweet.  But not sweeter than the feeling of boundaryless love I experienced as Mr. CFP and I looked into each others eyes at one point during the day.  Each moment of life is so ripe and bursting with flavor and possibility, it is very hard to make a human-decided landmark any more special than any other moment.  At least for me.

I loved that Mr. CFP was covered in love and appreciation and warm birthday wishes, through cards and Facebook posts.  Say what you want about Facebook, it is an excellent vehicle for passing along "Happy Birthdays".

And I love that Mr. CFP received a meaningful quilt wall hanging, made by his mom.

And while I'm mentioning honorable mentions, I want to announce to any readers of The Sun Magazine that my cousin, Larry Blackwood, had one of his photographs published in the February issue.  Page 36, to be exact.  To see more of Larry's work, click on his name above.  How there got to be a famous artist in my family is beyond me.

Hooray for life that allows us to grow old so that we can still play like a child, but see with new wisdom! 
Hooray for life that comes with a mother's love!
Hooray for life that offers textured trees and the expression of the artist's eye!

The Stories Of Lines

I am sure that all of my grandparents were always old.  I never saw them any other way.  And my parents - I know that they were not always as old as they are now, but they have always been adults, receding hairline, some crow's feet.  So it's strange to watch this face-which-the-mirror-tells-me-I'm-wearing as it starts to look more and more like my dear grandmother's face.  Wasn't I the one that was meant to be forever youthful?

Although she's been gone for forty years, in my mind, I can clearly see my grandmother's soft, loose skin, the drab, gray hair, braided around her head, and the purple and green veins gnarling on the back of her hands.  Now, I am morphing into her.  And there are few other women who I would be as honored to embody.

This skin appears to be hanging on my cheek and brow bones, not tightly covering them like it used to.  And in order to not look as though I'm grouchy or unhappy, in order to compensate for the mouth's new downward look, I realize that I need to constantly smile.  What a beautiful task to be charged with - to find so much reason to smile that this face knows no other way of being!

I wonder if my grandmother always felt as young inside as I do now.  I wonder if, when thinking of her father's mother, her heart loved so much that it hurt.  And if she, too, realized that the-face-which-the-mirror-told-her-she-was-wearing was a precious gift from her beloved grandmother.

Home Is Where...

Yesterday I watched a big, fat, blue-gray pigeon fastidiously shop for home-building supplies, then carefully carry each piece up to a ledge on the side of a building.  So much care was taken to be sure that each piece was the proper something or other - size? strength? shape?

Tonight it is predicted that we will begin to receive a ferocious dumping of snow.  After days where I could feel the hint of spring brewing beneath the ground, snows and winds will come charging through this city.  If the forecasters are right.

Will Mr. or Mrs. Pigeon shake his/her fist at the skies, shouting vulgar words at a god who would one day pretend that spring wants to take hold while unleashing renewed winter fury the next? 

I have seen snow-covered mama owls sitting on percolating eggs.  How a feather-covered bird can sit in near-zero temperatures with a film of snow around and on her, I can't understand.  I am in my home, nice and dry, with central heat blowing at 66 degrees.  As I write this, I am wearing a jacket over my long-sleeved shirt.  Put me in a nest on a tree limb with only feathers and snow to keep me warm and I tell ya, it wouldn't be pretty.

Dear Pigeon (Sorry, I don't know if you are a Ms. or a Mr.), I will be back to view the progress of your construction project and to see if you'll be growing a family there.  

Why do I feel a certain dread that either weather or humans will undermine your efforts?  

And why do you appear to be at peace with all of the future possible calamities that are, right now, only taking place in my mind?

Love,

Carol