God be with the mother. As she carried her child may she carry her soul. As her child was born, may she give birth and life and form to her own, higher truth. As she nourished and protected her child, may she nourish and protect her inner life and her independence. For her soul shall be her most painful birth, her most difficult child and the dearest sister to her other children. Amen. ~Michael Leunig
A friend sent that prayer to me (thank you, Katherine). I’ve let it run through my fingers, over and over again, and brought it close to my heart to listen a little more closely. This reshaping and giving birthing to my own “higher truth”, uncorking those deep wells of wisdom that have always been there, but had been neglected, dismissed, silenced, has been paramount to my regaining my spiritual and physical strength, building stamina, and learning to trust my body again. I’ve had to keep raising the bar for myself, in little ways that have helped inch me along--longer bike rides, more strenuous hikes, a first yoga class. This summer has been a lot about replenishing those wells and stores with wisdom and strength and sunshine gathered and borrowed from kith and kin, sprung from the rhythms of the natural world, and ignited from my own resolve to make changes, clear space and energy, and get my houses in order.
I’ve spent these warm summer months tending gardens, pulling weeds, and relearning the vast, complicated lessons of motherhood; playing, remembering how to dance, and releasing the innermost spirited, soulful joy from within; reconnecting with the lush landscape of family and friends; reclaiming myself from the bottom of the pile and the negative patterns that put me there; and redefining myself, from cancer patient to cancer survivor. In many ways, the months since my diagnosis and in particular, these weeks since my last surgery, have brought me face to face with the opportunity for reflection and rebirth, creating, seeking, living more in that rare silence that allows us to relax the mind, and listen instead to our wisest selves. Rediscovering one’s inner life and reestablishing one’s independence, especially in the face of homeschooling and the stranglehold of domestic demands, seems to require a lot of work, a true balancing act, but I am determined…
Throughout it all, as I’ve stripped off the layers and voices and obligatory frocks of role-playing, baring the rawest, basest materials of soul construction, I’ve discovered that my inner workings--those strings and pulleys and levers and gears that process our daily life and deepest secrets--are in serious need of some tuning. My sights must be reset on a new focus, and rhythms must be reconfigured around who I am, what I want, what brings me joy, balance, peace, and good health, rather than solely on what others expect of me.
But there are days when I feel like I'm fighting against all these things that push me back into that dark hole of self-doubt and despair--and I don't want to go there. My task is to feel light and clear and strong despite what's going on around me, in this bigger world of ours, and in my oft voice-riddled head.
Just how do I live my life continuing to move forward, building on all I’ve learned about myself, and continuing to shed the unsightly bits and pieces that simply aren’t working any longer, that simply don’t fit any longer, that simply no longer feel right or good? I start with the material, moving boxes, clearing clutter, spending hours and hours cleaning out nasty old condiments in the back of the fridge, an infestation of pantry moths in our, what else, pantry, colonies of spiders and crusty piles of dead Asian ladybugs from every corner of our house, an exercise in excising demons, dust bunnies, and uninvited guests, and putting to rest those months when I was out of commission, and just couldn’t keep up.
Battling the lady bugs proved to be an important early part of my recovery. Soon after my mastectomy, I would shuffle about the house in my pajamas with hand-held vacuum in tow, and suck up as many of the noxious pests as I could find. It seemed that the more I vanquished, the more would appear. I was determined to best them. Slowly, I was able to raise both arms to reach the upper corners, and then, once I had received the surgeon’s okay, I would push up the windows to reach inside, where the dry carcasses and hibernating shells had collected to hide out the last of the cold days, waiting for the sun to warm the glass and beckon them out of hiding, to flutter in desperate futility against the window to begin again, begin again.
With the ladybugs and the pantry moths taken care of, I skirt the edges of the spiritual, and start to shine light on those dark patches that would rather stay hidden and closed up, those boxes of fear and shame, the unaired grief, the unannounced anger. This is the real work, tackling this inner infestation, and where my cancer has brought me, and maybe, just maybe, this is where its beauty lies, this chance to turn myself inside out and finally realize that I’m okay, that I can live with myself, and even love myself, dark patches and all.
It seems that all those things in life that are unexpected and difficult and bring you to a new place whether by choice or not serve to inform us about the workings of not just the universe but of ourselves as well--all the inner springs and gears and grindstones that either process the gunk in our life into finer particles of free-flowing life dust and distant memories or spits them out again through some complex process of obdurate rejection for us to revisit over and over again until we realize that what we are made of, and resolution takes hold during some moment of profound release. And maybe, just maybe this breast cancer beast has shown me that life is an endless process of self-discovery, that there is always light that lurks in the dark, and dark that lurks in the light, and that in our barest selves, in blended hues of light and dark, we find the strength to carry on, mount our campaigns, and rise to reach the next summit. It’s the Little Miss Sunshine creed--our suffering makes us who we are—though Pema Chodron says it best:
“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us." (thank you, Petra)
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