Walking Lightly on this Earth

"My eyes are not raised too high. I do not occupy myself with things too grand for me. I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with it's mother. My soul is like a weaned child within me."   Psalm 131:1,2 




Me sledding with El Camino kids and
families in February 2011

  Dear friends and family, you haven't heard from me for a while. It is not because I have been too sick to write. It's because I did not know how to talk about the new thing that is happening in me. Strangely, despite of all that is, I find myself in a place of something almost like contentment.  I'm still not sure if it is real or if it will last. I hope so.



It helps that the new chemo isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, at least not yet. From the first-hand accounts that I read on line, I thought I would be horribly sick, sore and numb in my hands and feet (Taxol tends to attack the nervous system). None of that has happened to me so far. I can hardly believe how fine I feel. I am starting to make plans and get out again. Three down and nine to go with this new stuff. 

So I walk lightly on this earth, feeling my way forward, daring myself to relax and enjoy my life right here, right now, come what may. Contentment and "shy joy unbidden" are new to me. For the longest time, I have lived a life fueled by a high octane mix of fear, frustration and self determination. My old motto was "die trying". I almost did.



What would life look like if I learned to relax? Here I am, stuck in neutral in the parking lot of my own life--and I'm actually starting to be OK with it. All the revving that I've done in the past, that is, all of my elaborate plans to "get somewhere" and escape my present circumstances have gotten me no where. And even if I could have grabbed traction and sped off on a second master's degree, or whatever else I thought would prove my worth, I'm pretty sure I would have had the same outcome; stuck and no closer to anything like real peace. Even though my engine often burns hot, maybe, just maybe, I could turn the engine off  for a while, roll the windows down and feel the breeze on my face. I didn't learn it the first time with the brain tumor experience. Maybe this time I will.

A crucial turning point for me has been an exploration of the way of mindfulness. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I have embarked on an 8 week course of meditation. I would have preferred to attend a class in person, but since I can't drive very much, that is not an option. The old me used to literally drive 70 miles a day on narrow, winding roads with brain tumor induced tunnel vision.  The new me lays down on a yoga mat at home, listening to a set of CD's that tell me to slow down, breathe, and let go. The way of mindfulness calls me to become more awake, aware and alive to what is true of me and the world around me. The way of mindfulness calls for a kind of "radical acceptance" of what actually is.

Radical is right. Who can accept becoming a middle aged infant with no hair, no breasts and overly focused on "in take" and "out put"? For that matter, who can accept what we humans are doing to ourselves, each other and our world? Just relax and breathe? That's ridiculous!


This is where we need to take a moment to redefine "radical acceptance". What it does not mean is a passive, resigned or defeated approach to that which is out of whack in our lives. What it does mean is becoming more aware and engaged with what is true of ourselves, our circumstances and our world. If I am scared or sad or angry or frustrated, knowing that and accepting it helps me to be able to choose how to respond. Penetrating the fog of pain, shame, denial (or whatever keeps me from fully present to myself and my circumstances) allows me to stop being so reactive and start becoming an engaged and active agent of healing. This real-ization of what is true can be painful and overwhelming at times. That's why I need to relax and breathe, opening to true self and to Spirit as a source of power and peace bigger than anything I could pretend to conjure up on my own. Radical acceptance does not mean that I am always happy about everything that happens. It just helps me to understand and let go.

Unexpectedly, I think the poem/prayer that I wrote just after my diagnosis of breast cancer in late October is being answered in a way I had never imagined. This is my prayer:

Breathe on me breath of God...

Empty me of angry judgements,

aching disappointments and anxious striving.

Breathe on me breath of God...

awaken in me something like quietness,

confidence and real rest.

Breathe on me breath of God...

let the lion and the lamb in me lay down together.

Help me to hear your soft voice calling me by my true name.

Take me by the hand and lead me forward with the the trust of a well loved child.

Surprise me with shy joy unbidden

that rises in me now

to sustain me for the coming then.  Amen.

I am so glad that I am finally starting to wake up. Even though I'm still kind of sleepy and not so sure of this new way of being, I have a good feeling about this. There is such abundance in the present. I don't want to miss any of it.

Thanks, dear friends, for walking with me on this strange and wonderful wilderness road. See you around the bend!

-Mary