Listening

Today is World Cancer Day. Glad to be here.

Glad to be wrestling with so much change and transition, the push and pull of Life as it continues to flip things on end and inside out, reminding me to return, always, to my heart. Glad to be in that precarious spot, that in-between, with forward motion temporarily arrested, and a tangle of suspended, possible destinations ahead, just beyond the giant leap across the abyss. Glad to be readying this jump, even if I can't see what's next. I'm pretty good at walking around in the dark. What's difficult is the going alone. It's what I've always done, of course, but I'm tired of it, and wouldn't mind some company. But glad, still, to be strong enough to go it alone for as long as I need to.

I suppose, too, I am missing my dog, whom we had to put down just before Thanksgiving. But I can't even begin to write about her, or I'll come completely unhinged and cry and have to seek solace in my cat, who has no use for crybabies. Gah.

It's strange how everything feels different when your dog dies. The cat looks for her everywhere, her low, drawn-out, plaintive, pathetic yowls echoing from all over the house, which feels by turn achingly empty and painstakingly filled with her spirit. Outside, the squirrels have multiplied. And the birds have started calling to me, but I, with my blindside in full swing, have taken little notice, save for the ridiculous amounts of birdseed they seem to go through every week.

Today is different. Today, I listen.

Circling around the house and back again, bringing armloads of wood to the deck, to fill both the wood box and the pockets of anxious cold that have opened up just below my heart, I hear them, from branches high and bare, letting me know.

As I fill the feeders, a fat gray squirrel hops onto the top of the picnic table to grab and nibble a rice cake, just one stale snack of many I had left in a pile atop this altar of sorts this morning. Rotting, falling apart piece by piece to herald our decay, the table, much like a fallen tree, is slowly being reclaimed by the earth. A feast for decomposers, its green, mossy, scarred veneer peels off in layers to reveal the raw materials at its core, a veritable city of industriousness ensuring the inevitability of constant change.  Everyday, a tiny little change, or a big one: an entire board peels off, the edges soften, the table sinks ever so slowly into the earth below. We're coming for you.

Tracks scurry and scatter across snow to our winter compost pile, a mix of Christmas greens, egg shells, and citrus peels and skins. I dump a bucket of ash from the woodstove atop bounding rabbit tracks, and the delicate, careful steps of our cat, which belie her copious fluff and fat.

The birds have discovered the fresh seed, and slowly return to the feeders. Male cardinals pop red against backdrops of pine and snow, while their mates, made ever more beautiful by the understated humility of their display, beg a little more effort from the watcher: harder to see, but so much more rewarding once they're found. Glad for the chance to watch them hide, then reveal themselves--nothing to prove. The chickadees fear not; unassuming, bold, friendly, they regard me with a tilt to the head as I lug past with the empty bucket.

Even after last night's frosting, the trees reach out, limbs bared, ready to catch tonight's snow. More, more. Skies gray and muted, a quiet hush has descended over the awakening trees, the fields of stubby cornstalks, even the birds, who know, as they always know, to move deliberately, and above all else, when things get squirrelly, to listen.

Heavy Boots

"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than those you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the wind in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." ~ Mark Twain

Strange energy afloat the last few days, leaving me unable to sleep, melancholic, restless.  Sails luffing.  Must be getting ready to come about.  Hard-a-lee!

Night arrives earlier and earlier each day as fall continues to pull the curtain on summer's light show, and with each pressing, lovely shade of darkness, it's all I can do to stop myself from climbing out of my own skin, head outside for some night-swimming, leave it all behind. But there's no lake here, just endless fields of corn and barley, and I walk the long roads looking for something to lighten these boots, fill these sails...

Or perhaps, it's the opposite: the need to climb back into my skin, trust in my body again, spend a little less time in my head, and more time surrendering to the sentience of living aflush, here, and now, nerve-endings awake and alive and electric with connection, a little passion, flow.  Please?  I don't think I can wait another day, another night.

I walk until I find some moonlight, and fill my hollows with the stillness and the shimmer of the stars above.  And yet, it is not ever enough.

Sleep seems intangible, something of an other world, something that no longer belongs to me.  As if my days cannot end, as if those missing pieces are indeed starting to talk to me, demanding that they be dealt with, polished and examined, loved, again.  Don't you forget about me.  

What will it take?  Why is it so hard to make a change?  To trust that it will be okay?  Why can't I break free, gather the winds from the skies above to power my own sails and passage through stormy seas?  This is, after all, no longer a safe harbor.  It's time to throw off the bowlines.  Have an adventure.

"I am not afraid of storms for I am learning to sail my ship."  ~ Louisa May Alcott

Sometimes I think I want the big storm to roll in, as if I will respond only to the catastrophic with a force equal in thunder and verve, to take action, my fight or flight instinct taking over, and harvest the glad tidings and joy that wash in with the tide.  But things remain puddle-stuck, unchanging, stat-quo, blue gloom, in this little spit-spot, and I don't intend to languish here for too much longer.  That there are still things and people here that get me through, that feed me, that I love, is not lost on me, and I am grateful: just this morning, walking through this wind-swept day, noticing that change is all around me, in the burnished tops of grass and corn stalks catching the light, the periodic dance of flocking birds, the sudden shifts in light and air and even the way the earth-smell has deepened with a richness of a slowly rotting, forever cycling world, I was reminded that change is what makes us, keeps us, alive, echoing the force, the beauty, the necessity of unbridled, seasonal tack that lies deep within us, and without.

And this, too: walking through a shiver of Saturday morning comings and goings, happy for a few serendipitous face-to-face connections and real conversations with friends, and starkly aware of the absence of others, I am, by turns, encouraged and disheartened, the ache deep and palpable, the swell and tilt of emotion rising to the surface to find release in this gently blustery day.  I hear you.  I know you're there.  There is a sharpness to the emptiness, an expansiveness to the loneliness that fills the space, and I don't trust it fully; my breath restarts again, and I am transported back to the slow burn of fear and dread, where my mind takes me to all the worst possible conclusions, and then back again, to the searing, soaring hope, above all else, for something better.

Something better.  I've imagined it, letting the possibility roll on my tongue, the kernel of promise split into an anticipation huge and luminous and a-shimmer with the dance of heartache.

Heavy boots.  Pulling in the sails.  Just going to luff it out for awhile, sit with the tears spilling salt on my cheeks, listen to the wind moving through the trees, whispers of my heart, my hollows.

We fill those hollows as best we can, with star dust and sunflowers and sweet, unexpected kindnesses that smooth out the rough edges, and it's all we can do, over and over again.   Fill it up again, restock the shelves, prepare for stormy seas, and then, when we're ready, when we can't stand it another day, trust that our strength and light will see us through, and go.  Go.

Katie Daisy original

"What I love is near at hand, Always, in earth and air." ~ Theodore Roethke

One night not too long ago, we got out the sparklers and Dominick painted light scapes onto the pitch black canvas of the night sky. This time of year, when the dark arrives to snuff out the sun earlier and earlier each afternoon, we have to work harder to catch the sunshine before it dips below the hills in a fiery exit. The change is so dramatic and quick that you can almost feel the earth spinning and drumming through space on its autumnal orbit of shifting spheres of light and dark as the tilt pulls us farther away from the sun and leaves only traces of the endless stretch of summer days in our northern skies.

The sun, with all those plants revolving around it and dependent upon it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do. ~ Galileo













We've been walking in the afternoons, trying to store up on colors and warmth before winter leaves the pantry bare. We take the dog, who strains on the leash until we release her into the wilds of burdock and asters and milkweed, where she can aid in the seasonal task of seed dispersal and tick-gathering. She rushes through the tall grasses to feel the tickle on her belly, bounds and bounces with tail high and ears flying to search for something, anything, could someone please throw me something?

We've been walking these roads for a long time now, but long gone are the strollers and the simultaneous naps and sweet Zephyr, who walked on a leash with much more dignity than our current 4-legged love Daisy, who was clearly born to run, catch the ticks on her belly, and sneak a swim in the old beaver pond no matter how cold the water might be.

The fields and hills of Gill are lovely this time of year, and yet, like so many other things, the familiarity of place is at once comforting and repelling, and the beauty alarmingly ephemeral in how quickly it changes from day to day. Sit out a day, and you just might miss it.













I long for the unexpected delight at discovering an unexplored back roads or wooded trail not yet taken, a chance to step off the beaten path and go a different way. And it's the promise of this in every day that keeps me going, that makes me wake with the sun and listen for the hidden discoveries waiting to be found. It's a strange kind of wanderlust, arriving every so often to lift me off the track, blow the dust out of my wheels, and put me back on going a different direction. And the wonderful thing is that I don't necessarily have to go anywhere at all to expand my sense of this moment in time; it's the process of changing pace, direction, passengers, cargo that opens up a new perspective, a broader horizon, a more interesting itinerary, even if I make it up as I go along. It's not the speed, it's the velocity, the rudderless ride, the search for serendipity.

There are unexpected delights in each and every day, and thank god for that because if there weren't, I'm not sure how I would get out of bed each day. Some days, I don't get out enough, and I feel numb and disengaged in my slumber. All it takes, sometimes, is going outside, feeling the breath of air on my cheek, the rise and fall of lungs, the thump of my own heartbeat in time with the pulse of life around me. I am reminded to take the time to simply be in this world, to take notice of the Canada geese honking and flying overhead, listen to the squirrels crashing through leaf litter, busily storing nuts, then hightailing it up the long, bowed tree limbs, bear witness to the woolly bear caterpillars' silent, patient crawl into hibernation, seek out the crush and smell of apples, taste the sweetness of the last fall raspberries, and feel the crunch of the leaves underfoot. This is my sanctuary, my respite, the food that sustains my spirit.

I walk out to the gardens, drawn in by a snapping sound that bounces off the tall stalks of decorative grass and floats out intermittently to find me on the lawn. Where is it coming from? I edge closer and the sound intensifies, snap, snap, snap. There is no real rhythm to it, though, just a random release of spontaneous sound that is positively filling my ears with wonderment. Standing on a boulder that marks the spot where our two cats Kitty and Chubby were buried long ago, I am suddenly surrounded by a flurry of snaps that sound a bit like those little white nuggets of gunpowder that provided hours of amusement when I was a kid, and I would throw them hard on the pavement to crackle and snap at my feet. Dominick joins me on the rock, and we scan the dried perennials for the source of the snap, and finally find, in the masses of phlox that surround us, the progenitor of this odd, unexpected concert. Dominick recreates the cheerful chorus, pinching the dried pods of the phlox so they burst open to send their seeds flying, the resultant snap! echoing over and over again throughout the garden.

Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. ~ Rachel Carson

We fill our shirts with pears that have fallen from our scattered trees, vowing to once again prune the long-neglected trees in the spring so that the fruit might swell and grow with more sugar and less grit. For now, the ground beneath each tree is covered with what's been an enticing breakfast for the deer that call the wetlands behind our house their home. Some mornings, if we've happened upon the quiet of dawn, the deer will be at the tree, nibbling the pears, slowly, with big dark wet eyes staying alert for that noisy black dog who loves to crash through the bramble in hot pursuit of a thrown pear, or a skittish deer.


We've enjoyed cold weather crops from our garden throughout the fall: kale, chard, green beans, eggplant, peppers, winter squash, raspberries. But the deep freeze has come to put an end to the growing season and drain the color out of the hills, and the garden sits lifeless, save for the kale that seems to thrive in this frosty air. We've put up jam, frozen berries, corn, pesto and beans, stocked up on potatoes, carrots, apples, and squash. And yet there's always more I wish I had done, could do. Most days, I'm happy that I've had the energy to simply bring in more wood for the fire. But it is these daily and seasonal rituals that sustain me: making applesauce, sweeping the porch, building a fire, putting the gardens to bed, filling our shirts with pears. I take comfort, too, in observing the work of those around me, the farmers clearing the fields of cow corn, hauling in the last of the pumpkins and squash, picking apples, pressing cider, making preparations.






Some keep the Sabbath going to Church, I keep it staying at Home - With a bobolink for a Chorister, And an Orchard, for a Dome.
~ Emily Dickinson

Sometimes, when we let our hearts, rather than our habitual feet, lead us, we stumble upon unforeseen delights that bring light into our day, awaken our senses, and embolden our consciousness with something that is merely and wondrously new and different, an offering to enliven the old, the tired, the dull. Dominick and I happen upon a such a delight in Dummerston, Vermont one recent afternoon. After following Kipling Road from the School for International Training, where Luke is playing soccer, past Rudyard Kipling's Naulakha, the engaging old house where he wrote the Jungle Books and which he called a "jewel beyond price," and into colorful views of the hills and mountains beyond that pepper our journey down this meandering dirt road with stunningly gorgeous slices of fall beauty, we find Scott Farm, the 600-acre Landmark Trust-owned largest producer of heirloom apples in New England where portions of The Cider House Rules were filmed. We are treated to samples of the heirloom apple varieties that they have preserved and safeguarded from centuries ago, including Thomas Jefferson's favorite apple (the Esopus Spitzenburg), the oldest variety brought to the New World in the early 1600's, and Julia Child's favorite baking apple. With names like Ananas Reinette, Roxbury Russett, the Winesap, it's hard not to want to fill our bags with some of each, so we do. We buy some cider, too, in the largest Mason jar I've ever seen, and as soon as we are in the car, we unscrew the lid to taste the smooth, sweet cider that is easily the absolute best cider we have ever tasted. Later, we'll head to the Brattleboro Food Coop and see Scott Farm's apples for sale there, but it isn't just about having the apples and cider to enjoy, but having had the experience of going there, filling our memory with that first enchanted view of the inside of the barn, where all the different varieties are lovingly boxed and labeled according to type, in various and surprising colors and textures and sizes, some burnished red, some honey yellow brown, and one, the color of the purple Berkshire hills; some smooth, some mottled, some thick and thorny; some fat and round, others nearly fairy-sized in their diminutiveness, and one with a protuberance that earned it the name of Sheep's Nose. It's about being able to read about each variety, and learn about the history and sheer serendipity of growing apples from Ezekiel Goodband, or Zeke, as he likes to be called, the kind, long-bearded man who serves as keeper of the apple trees, who offers us slices of several different apples, talks about the ancient grafting technique he uses, and the often-haphazard results gained from the very first seeds that were planted so long ago, which he likens to "monkey typing...you might get a Hamlet, if you're lucky, or..." It's about smelling the cider being pressed, tasting the cider right out of the jar, and having the friendly (is there any other kind?) black lab gently steal my apple core out of my hand.

When we understand that man is the only animal who must create meaning, who must open a wedge into neutral nature, we already understand the essence of love. Love is the problem of an animal who must find life, create a dialogue with nature in order to experience his own being. ~ Ernest Becker

One morning last week, I stepped out into a world of silence. The night had cast an eerie white frost over everything: leaves, grass, car windows, fallen pears, sentinel pumpkins, cobwebs. The pointed limbs on the bare trees suddenly looked like a Tim Burton-esque study of frozen finger tips, milky white and admonitory. As the sun struggled to rise in the sky, the shadows moved throughout the yard, releasing patches of land to warm in the sunshine. If I listened closely enough, I could hear the quiet, subtle thaw breaking and melting the tiny ice crystals, recolorizing the world in reds and greens and oranges and yellows, and restoring life to the fields and trees and thickets for one more day, at least. But after a deep freeze, there is life that hides away unseen, remains suspended until the spring, or does not return, and today, despite the warming sun that broke my sleep with the promise of blue sky early this morning, there is, amidst the fluttering of leaves, the intermittent thudding of the pears that still fall, ripe and heavy to the ground, and the occasional splash and brush of wing on water as the geese and ducks navigate their departure for softer climes, a silence that catches my ear, a silence reflecting the absence of the constant buzz and hum and song of the crickets and bees and songbirds that offered up palpable, vibrational echoes of the life that quietly surrounds us in the warmer months. The leaves have been swept away by the bluster of the fall winds, opening up the view beyond our stone wall, and bringing in thoughts of winter. I know now that winter is coming, with its long stretches of quiet and cold and absolute stillness, and I fill with dread at the thought of spending another winter unable to take part in the unexpected festival of snow and ice, in the rush and swoosh of skiing fast, and the serenity of a mid-winter woods walk. And as I mourn the crickets and the loss of light, I must also celebrate these changes, find the stirrings of life in my own seasonal shifts and tides, and stay open to the possibilities, even as I steel myself against the phantoms that have blown in with the chill to pester me with shadows of last winter’s gloom.

I must trust that this winter will be different, that I'll be able to stay connected to the pulse of nature, listen with an open heart, deepen my healing, continue to grow and feel strong and healthy, feel the spin of earth beneath my feet, close my eyes, and enjoy the ride, wherever I go, whatever comes my way, whatever I find, whatever I learn. Perhaps the colors and warmth and jam we've stocked up on will brighten even the bleakest winter days. And perhaps Winter will surprise us, and bring about a new lustre of hope and festivity that will line our days with gold: wherever I go, here I am.

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you... while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. ~ John Muir

Tasting the Fruit

“Live in each season
as it passes;
breathe the air,
drink the drink,
taste the fruit,
and resign yourself to
the influences of each.”

~ Henry David Thoreau

There’s a certain mournful indolence to these waning days of summer. I just don’t want it to end, so I purposely slog along, wallowing in all the lovely sunshine and breathing in the crisp morning air that has graced our days, storing up, shoring up, down to my bones, for the long cold winter that’s coming. Dressing these last August days in the slower summer shuffle of intentional spontaneity is a desperate, futile attempt to somehow avert the incoming tide of the post-Labor Day routine, that is at once both welcome and wretched, spinning our time into neat little boxes to be filled with art classes and soccer practices and ever-orchestrated play dates. The discombobulated, every-which-way rhythms of summer are about to give way to a more refined, orderly routine, and I’m simply not done. There’s much creativity and freedom to be found in discombobulating. Oh, if only summer would last a little longer! I’d like to discombobulate a little longer.

The usual, intrusive back-to-school marketing blitz and media assault, from the damn catalogs that stuff my mail box with fall colors and apple picking images to the store displays of school supplies and Halloween candy, jumpstarted the fall season back in early August, threatening to snuff all the fun out of the remaining days of summer. Just when the weather turned from dismally damp and grey to brilliantly bright and blue, and the air suddenly snapped out of the tropical humidity stranglehold and washed through with a refreshing, cleansing energy, the push towards the end of summer began. I've never appreciated this premature drive to discard the finer days of summer and rush into someone's idea of the perfect New England fall--and this year it was even more pronounced, this feeling that someone was yanking my summer right out from under me, and so, I yanked back, and ran the other way, to soak up every last ray of unfettered sunshine and latch on to each and every moment of unhurried bliss.

And it’s been absolutely beautiful. Despite the fact that the herald won’t officially usher in fall for another three weeks, there’s still plenty of summer to be squeezed out of this season. These days, when summer’s growth starts to slow amidst mounting signs of death and decay— fat spiders bathing their yellow bellies in the sun amidst the crinkly browning of the leaves, the light, earthy smell creeping out of the woods, the overgrowth of garden rot and neglect tumbling its wildness over lawn and meadow—there are other signs that this late summer season, of luscious, ripening fruit, of bountiful harvest, of shifting, glorious weather, is just beginning. Get carried away by the rush to abandon summer and embrace this falsely contrived back-to-school fall, and it’s easy to miss the subtleties of summer’s last gasp.

The other morning, while a friend and I sat on a curb in a park, talking about all the twists and loops and spirals of life, a perfectly yellowed leaf, its edges jagged with teeth, suddenly appeared before us, alighting on the ground as if to join our conversation. Change, it seemed to say for both of us, is on the horizon. And it’s true; despite my denial, fall is coming, and with it, change. It whispers in the winds that have started to spiral down these first yellow and red leaves, now appearing in isolated patches along the edges of our wetlands, and soon, in flaming salutes to the sun at the tops of the trees. It shows its face in the sun, too, shifting lower and lower in the sky each day to cast longer, deeper, cooler shadows across the day. And it beckons and teases, in the cool, dewy mornings and chilly evenings, in the bright return to the yellows and russets of early spring, in the snap and tartness of the first fall apples.

The stripeys are back, too, bright green caterpillars that arrive each summer at our potted parsley plants to beef up in preparation for their long, arduous overwintering, before emerging in the spring as black swallowtail butterflies. The milkweed still stands tall in the garden, its leaves well-sampled by visiting monarch caterpillars, and its purses of seed pods full and ripe and green, ready to dry and burst and spread parachutes of milkweed seed across the land. Fields and meadows blaze yellow with goldenrod, where the dog has taken up her part-time job as a seed disperser, returning from her forays into the edge of the woods to retrieve Frisbees and tennis balls full of burrs.

We’ve had a string of sunny days, giving us the sense that it’ll last forever, but it won’t, because, alas, it never does.

As life tries to push me back into the frenzied pace that left me temporarily derailed this past year, I go about my days acutely aware of my mission:

To spend this day in each moment, and each moment in this day, slowing down and refocusing my attention on the simple beauty around me, noticing the details, the delicate orange pronged horns that suddenly appear atop the caterpillars’ bulbous heads when touched, the tickle of grass beneath bared feet, the changing colors and landscape of the sky; feeling the lightness of gratitude as we bring in our first harvest of peaches and apples from our small, ungainly trees, taste the first fall raspberries, plump with flavor, and make a meal from our garden crop; immersing myself in the sounds of the evening orchestra—katydids, cicadas, crickets, owls, coyotes, frogs; and taking the time to find a few favorite constellations in the night sky with the boys, and feel the threads and connections that tie and tether and ground us amidst our haste to spiral out of this world. To have a Mary Oliver Summer Day before they are all gone, that is what I wish for today. Small measures of exaltation, all.

Everyone has enough weeding to do in their own garden ~ Flemish proverb

Wednesday ~

A buck visited Dominick in the tent early this morning, when the dog stirred, waking Dominick in time to see the stately antlers silhouetted in the crepuscular light and the smudge of his wet nose on the outside flap of the tent.

Later in the morning, my mother and I drive Dominick to his At Home in the Woods camp, where he’ll make a medicine wheel, carve a throwing stick (just in case he wants to take out a few rabbits in the yard), and start to build a shelter with his clan, the Poison Ivies. Luke is already off to his basketball camp at NMH, where he’ll spend the morning enjoying the height he’s gained this summer and the full recovery he’s managed to orchestrate for his ruptured tendon, before heading to the golf course to prepare for tomorrow’s tournament.

My mother drives out to Wellesley with me for my summer fun: a midday appointment with Dr. Pitts. Despite the nearly four hours spent driving there and back, the appointment is brief. Standing in the paper johnnie, I try to relax my shoulders as she examines her work. One week out, and despite a few residual traces of the usual surgical trauma—some swelling on the left side, a bright red blood blister under my arm from being wrapped so tight, and three small cuts, the beginning of an incision, perhaps, around the nipple on the right side (did Dr. Pitts change her mind about the lift at the last minute?)—everything looks good. Dr. Pitts is pleased with the positioning. She smiles. I thank her for leaving my right girl as is. She’s done the right thing, and I am grateful. Clearly, she has listened well and gotten to know me. Not all docs do that.

I ask her about the strange feeling of concavity that I’ve noticed under the implant, which suddenly appears when I lie flat, and the implant moves a bit with gravity, as it's supposed to, revealing a ridge that my fingers find and follow, a sunken cavity, or hidden atoll. She explains how the implant is supposed to move as real breast tissue does, but that underneath, there will always be the outline of the pocket that the expander created, and that the implant is doing its best to fill, while still being able to move about. I realize that my new girl has big shoes to fill! And that I will always carry with me this feeling of having been scraped out, hollowed—the loss of the breast unbidden and memorialized by its absence, and by the presence of this new, earnest girl.

She leaves me with final instructions: continue to take it easy, protect the implant site, don’t stretch either arm overhead for another week, refrain from lifting with either side or partaking of summer fun for another three weeks, and soon, soon! the risk of bleeding or repositioning will be gone and I’ll be able to live life a little more fully again. As well versed as I am about my current restrictions, I’ve been curious about whether having an implant will restrict any future activities…jumping out of airplanes, playing rugby, breathing fire…but Dr. Pitts assuages my fears. After all, think of all the women out there with implants. Do anything you want to do.

Thursday ~

It’s been one of those mornings. I shudder to think of how much gas I’ve already blown, caravanning the boys and myself to camp, tournament, and PT appointment, respectively. Now, I’m home again, home again, jiggety jig, watching my mother take on the daunting task of weeding the gardens, bless her heart. A little common yellowthroat, its beak open in pathetic little panting breaths, its eyes starting to glaze over, has fallen into the straw mulch, wing injured, able only to hop for a bit and make intermittent, pitiful chirps. We decide there’s nothing for us to do, so for now, I tell Daisy, quite emphatically, that he’s a baby, that he’s got a boo-boo, and that she’s got to be gentle and leave it. She gets it. Her eyes widen in empathy as she backs away from the little bugger and retreats to the softer grass, where she awaits a rock, patch of crabgrass, or something, anything but the little baby bird with the boo-boo, that she can catch in her mouth and chew and use to whip up her usual frenzy of spit and froth.

I’ve noticed—despite the strawberries, or maybe because of—there seems to be a lull in the action, this final week of June. The riotous display of just a few weeks ago—wonderfully jarring in its relative intensity—when Life itself burst through the dull dead ache of winter and blanketed the earth with greens and the colors of spiraling hope and vigor, seems to have exhausted itself. After cycling through the inaugural blossoms of spring, from the earliest, shy, solitary dew drops and trout lilies, to the more recent explosive clusters of all-out revelry, new growth now seems suspended. The Korean lilacs have dropped their pinkish purple festoons, and stand now in need of a good pruning, while the creeping phlox appear bare and overgrown without their earlier display of sprightly pink flowers. The irises stand upright—for now—their seed heads bald and bare, stripped of their crowns of purple jewels. And the ephemerally bold beauty of the peonies has faded, their straggly heads, once held high in pink pompous splendor, now bow abashedly low to the ground, petals browned and torn. Like party girls at the end of a long night, make up smudged into dark under eye circles and hair disheveled, they’ve quite lost their grandeur, and are, quite simply, in need of a swift dead heading. I’m reminded of that Jayhawks song, Save it for a Rainy Day:

Pretty little hairdo
Don't do what it used to
Can't disguise the living
All the miles that you've been through…

Soon the gardens will again be boisterous with color, the phlox and bee balm and lilies will burst forth in pinks and purples and oranges, a floral fireworks display just in time for the 4th. But for now, as the quiet, lovely flowers of the astilbe start to take their place in shade and sun, and the lilies strain with their flash-in-the-pan promise, the bees, butterflies, dragonflies and hummingbirds must be content to visit the blossoms cascading over the whiskey barrel planter, the hanging basket, and other potted annuals for their nectar—and the stand of milkweed that has suddenly flowered in spheres of delicate, light pink petals in the center of the otherwise quiet perennial garden.

Milkweed is not something most people have in their perennial gardens, I know, but there it began to grow, and I left it, knowing that while it might not be what most people want growing in their gardens, it may be just what we need. After all, this oft-overlooked weed provides the elegant monarch butterfly with everything it needs to survive and complete their remarkable migration to Mexico, from serving as a host site for its eggs and food for its developing larvae, to being responsible for the awesome system of self-defense (obtained from the toxins in the milkweed leaves) that renders the caterpillars, and therefore the butterflies, poisonous to eat, and thus safe from predators. In the fall, after the flowers have developed into seed pods, the milkweed begins to dry, opening up its clutch purse to release the perfectly layered parachutes of downy fluff into the wind currents of seed dispersal. I’ve always loved to collect the pods and watch the tiny brown seeds jump into the wind like paratroopers, white silky chutes trailing behind them. The seeds have been collected by Native Americans, who insulated their moccasins with the soft fuzz, as well as school children during WWII for use in military life jackets. More recently, milkweed has been used as an indicator of ground-level ozone air pollution (sounds like a homeschool project to me).

Like the milkweed, with its hidden talents and unexpected, unconventional beauty this time of year, my new girl—scarred, nipple-less, swollen—might not compare to the bodacious ta-tas out there, but she might be just what I need. And like the gardens that spiral through cycles of life, death, renewal, and rebirth, she too awaits her next bloom. A new nipple in another two months. And two months after that, a tattoo of color to restore the pink to nipple and areola. Soon, I’ll be able to wear a bra again, but for now, it’s just me and my girls, bared in all our flat-chested glory, and ironically, more symmetrical now than we were before my mastectomy, when my left breast, long ago declared the favorite side by both my boys, carried a little more heft and bounce than the right.

One is tempted to say that the most human plants, after all, are the weeds. ~John Burroughs, Pepacton, 1881

What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, Fortune of the Republic, 1878

A weed is but an unloved flower. ~ Ella Wilcox, 1855 - 1919

Friday ~

River fog envelopes our little pocket of land this morning, making it hard for the sun to burn through. I head down to the vegetable garden, and find what I am looking for: the little yellowthroat, stiff on its side, eyes pecked out, tiny legs sticking out of the straw mulch. Alas. I scoop him up and toss him into the edge of the woods, where someone will make a meal out of him.

I notice that there’s a trail of disruption (not quite destruction) running along one side of the garden, where the straw has been displaced, and sent to lay scattered atop the edge of the lawn. It looks as if something large has sped through, its hooves or paws or feet skidding through the straw before dashing into the more forgiving grass. Daisy chasing a ball? Dominick’s buck?

The first tomatoes are coming in, along with broccoli, summer squash and zucchini. We’ve been enjoying salad greens and herbs, and soon there will be beans, peppers, eggplant, cucumbers, watermelon, and later, pumpkins, winter squash, sunflowers, and a bounty of pesto to make. The swiss chard, which only a week ago was looking chewed up and hideous next to the stately, reliable kale, appears to be making a comeback, its jewel-toned stems nearly luminescent in the pale streams of sunshine that have just started to spill into our leafy vale.

And the weeds? Well, the weeds are doing quite well, thank you. Don’t they always? Because just when the garden starts to really produce, with all that good growing energy infusing everything within the confines of the garden, the crabgrass, clover and jewel weed, as well as the plants that are there through intention, with light and warmth and nutrients, that’s the time when the weeds come out with a vengeance. It’s a ridiculous and futile task to try to beat them down and assert any kind of control over them, but we take it on nonetheless, because it’s what we do, and we lose the battle, each and every time, but somehow, we feel better for the effort.

Much like the piles of clutter inside my house and head that I still need to get to after this half-year of crawling (and weeding, and everything else) at half-speed, the weeds taunt me ceaselessly, and I slip back into my sense of overwhelm, and wonder when I’ll ever get things straightened out.

We can in fact only define a weed, mutatis mutandis, in terms of the well-known definition of dirt - as matter out of place. What we call a weed is in fact merely a plant growing where we do not want it. ~E.J. Salisbury, The Living Garden, 1935

But the first lily came out today, unfolding its speckled orange flower to the gradual appearance of the morning sun. And I know that everything takes time, and sometimes things move too fast, and sometimes they move too slowly, and all we’re left with is this moment, this here and now, to appreciate and enjoy and live in. The lily will be dead by morning, another in its place. Those day lilies may not have staying power, but they sure do know how to pack a lot of punch into their short little lives.

"This outward spring and garden are a reflection of the inward garden." ~ Rumi

Friday ~

It's hard to believe that the temperature reached to over 70 degrees yesterday, when I sat out on the deck and took in the sun without nary a thought or concern about being chilled, and today is as different as if I had traveled many hours on a jet airplane to another continent and climate. But this is spring in New England, when things change so rapidly, and the transformation from filth to splendor is majestic and swift.

"The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak,a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March."- Robert Frost


Today, April's rain have come, because April come she will, and she has, with a quiet chill that has all but silenced the peepers and wood frogs that have filled our wetlands with truly deafening vibrations of song. I suspect that all the rain we are destined to receive over the next four days will green things up mightily, flood the small streams, and bring out the earliest buds on the tops of the trees. Deservedly called the "cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain," (that's TS Eliot) April bemuses and delights.

But it is to these natural rhythms, however predictably off-kilter, to which I try to align myself. Rather than let myself be overhwhelmed and toppled over by my sons' sport schedules, or by the endless to-do lists constantly forming in my head, I try, try, try to lose myself instead in the slower-paced rhythms of the natural world. This is my new task: to reconstruct my self, my time, and my space in ways that keeps me connected to and replenished with that which nourishes the trio of primal spirit, body and mind, constituting well-being, manifesting joy, and grounding peace. There are small victories out there amidst the rubble of defeat; it's my challenge to notice them, and turn my appreciation forward, one step at a time. Hearing from my oncologist that I will most likely not have to do battle with chemo is a victory of sorts, to be certain, and one I hope to fully appreciate and enjoy once the oncotype test is back. But my joy is muted by news of other kind, that loved ones are suddenly facing cancers of their own and other treacherous terrain, and with that comes the opportunity for me to help them, to keep the Juju circulating, to open wide the collective spirit and infuse the circle with the small victories that make living in this precarious world tenable. That the world continues to spin astounds me.

I take my cues from April. And I send you all LOVE.

It’s never too late to become what you might have been. ~ George Eliot

Thursday
The boys head off to their wilderness program first thing in the morning. The sun is out, quite happily, promising a warm, dry day, and predictably so, given that it was wintry yesterday, and since a pattern has been established this spring, with spring and winter taking turns (one day off, one day on), today is spring's turn to rise and shine and melt some snow. The boys will spend the day with their clans on a lovely spot (more like a vast array of unbelievably beautiful woodlands, meadows, and enchanted forests on many, many unspoiled acres, rather than an actual, ah, spot) by a roaring river in Dummerston, Vermont. They will track wild animals (much more fun than domesticated ones) in the snow, work on their shelters (all very environmentally friendly, green-chic, no-VOC), make fires (not yet pyros but getting close), and commune with the quiet, their friends, and the wintry spirit that still resides there, in the achingly tall white pines, the rush of river ice, and the thick snow that still blankets the forest floor.

My mother arrives to help me with my day--she helps me change the sheets on the boys' beds, drives me to my hair appointment (after which I feel about 5 pounds lighter, hurrah!), treats me to a delicious lunch--and my first real outing since the surgery--at one of our favorite stops, Gill's own Wagon Wheel, and takes me food shopping at our local food coop, where she pushes the cart around for me and carries my bags out to the car. It feels strange, not being able to do these things for myself. I know it's only temporary, but it is amazingly frustrating. And contained in the frustration is a good lesson for me: to surrender my stoicism and self-sufficiency, which has served me well over the years, and instead open myself up to receive this kind of help. Later, we return home for my second visit from the occupational therapist; she's been awaiting instructions and approval from my plastic surgeon, but has not yet heard back, and when she calls, the secretary (previously mentioned in past post as the woman who seems to spend all her time chatting on the phone with friends and talking to her work-buddy about how she made herself sick the previous weekend after drinking too much, nice) tells her that no, Dr. Pitts does not want me to stretch (this much, we know) and that anything else she wants to do will have to await approval. So, appointment cancelled. The OT is frustrated, to say the least, and so am I. I could really use the OT, given the soreness and immobility on my left side, and this means that this part of my follow-up care and treatment will be delayed. It seems neither she nor Sara, the visiting nurse, has had any luck with the secretary actually returning phone calls or faxes or passing on information from them to Dr. Pitts and vice-versa. It seems that perhaps Dr. Pitts should know about this, don't you think? Oh gee, this is beginning to sound like something I will have to talk to her about. She's such a good surgeon, and such a nice person, and she should have a secretary that better reflects her professionalism and warmth. And really, she should know about this disconnect: Yep, sorry to break it to you, but it's time to get a new secretary.

I see Dr. Pitts next Wednesday. I'll break it to her then. And I'd like to ask her why the expander seems so big, so big that it's digging into my rib cage, so big that it seems as if it is preparing me for a much larger breast than I had before. Is someone not telling me something? Did I sign my life away while in a narcotic haze at the hospital, and tell her I wanted bigger boobs after all? Just what happened after they put that twilight in the IV in pre-op? Hmmmmm...

I dare say I think I'd fall down with bigger boobs. No balance. Boom. I'd be pitching about all day long.

She did mention that I could have a lift on the right side to better match my new fake boobie on the left. A lift? A lift? I was insulted. I may have nursed my boys for six years but I don't need a damn lift. Do I? Ah, see, boob insecurities never die, they just sag a little.

Friday
It's a cold, soggy day. Winter's turn. We wake up to about an inch of wet snow on the ground. Luke opens his curtains and screams. We're all sick of this.

The boys and I make our way through the morning. We're all feeling a little glum, with no sun to warm our table. We wind our way through math, emotional outbursts, grammar, sibling rivalry, spelling, stomach grumbling, word roots, and lunch. When we're not watching March Madness, or Animal Planet (can you say Chimp Eden?), we've been watching a lot of cooking shows lately; Luke, in particular, has taken a real interest in the gourmet techniques he's watched, and it's sparked a willingness to cook, play with seasonings and sauces, roll out the chef lingo, and "plate" his food. Lunch, these days, has taken on new meanings. In fact, it's entered into our curriculum with a new flavor of competition and ambition, a Top Chef for the homeschooling set. And to great effect: lunches have been amazingly delicious and interesting. Much better than the usual leftovers.

Bellies full, we dig into our Inherited Traits project, using filters to explore connections between different traits within family sets. If your ring finger is longer than your pointer finger, does that mean you are more athletic? Do Damons really have thicker, crazier eyebrows? (yes) What does it really mean to be a ghost whisperer?

The nurse comes at 2. I like her so much. I will miss her when I'm healed up and my visits are done. And then, I'll have to go visit her, take her vitals, bring her chocolate. She's made a huge difference in my recovery. I am grateful.

Outside, in the afternoon, it's so soggy it feels like I'm in Scotland, or Wales, or England somewhere, and I've got my Wellies on and I'm taking the dog (a setter cross who happens to listen with much more attentiveness when I speak to her in a Scottish accent) over the moor to fetch tennis balls out of the woods. Daisy McMayhem! Stop yer barkin'! I threaten to write to the Dog Whisperer, with the same just-kidding tone that I use with the boys when I threaten them with Super Nanny. It works. The afternoon rain has washed away the morning's snow, and the ground sinks in and sprays wet with each step. I pocket two balls that I find amidst last fall's rotten, moldy, indistinguishable pears, and then, something red appears in the distance and catches my eye. At first I think that perhaps it is Daisy's Kong (or Bong, as my mother lovingly calls it), but then I see it has a long red handle and I do a little skip. The chuckit!! I've found the chuckit!! Hurrah, hurrah! We lost the chuckit in the fall, right before the first snow buried it and kept it hidden from us all winter long. The chuckit is a great invention; it's basically a really good arm--you tuck the tennis ball in its grip, wind up and heave-ho. The ball can go for miles. And when you've got a crazy Daisy girl like we do, and rotator cuffs like mine (shot to heck), and oh yes, a left side that's a bit compromised, it's a real savior. I spend the next twenty minutes tossing the ball all over the place; Daisy is ecstatic, and so am I: it's effortless, and doesn't put any strain on my sore left side, and finally, finally, I'm throwing like a girl no more. (actually, I don't know why I say that; I've still got a pretty good arm, mastectomy-induced girly sissy throw aside, and I am a girl, a girl under construction, but a girl nonetheless)

I do love how the snow melts and unearths all these treasures from the fall. Dead leaves and rotten pears aside. Tennis balls, golf balls, chuckits, dog toys, kid toys, and as ever, the lush bidding of life just pushing up through the surface--the crocuses, the buds and blossoms and beginnings of green, a return to energy, a plea for the surety of spring's healing warmth.

Tonight, I am feeling particularly grateful for the choices I've made since my diagnosis, and for the help I've had in making them. I know there will be more ahead, but I feel better equipped to deal with them than I ever imagined I would. Tomorrow, more cold raw wet is expected. Blimey. But for now, my blue light calls to me. Time to rest. I am so tired at the end of these days. My spirit waning, I am eager to fall into the depths of sleep, if it will have me. G'night.

Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live ~ Dorothy Thompson

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. ~ Anne Bradstreet

Tuesday

The day unfolded in spirals of billowing hope. The anticipatory, strangling fear that has weighed on me melted away like Monday’s wet snow, and ushered in a rapturous feeling of calm contentment in its place. Something opened up, released, and there it was: a lovely burgeoning buzz. And so much was contained in the moment, of being able to simply take in the moment, and receive what was being offered, that the day required a different pace altogether, a slowing down, so as to not miss a single gift.

It started with a telephone call. Dr. Specht, my breast surgeon, cheerfully spoke on the other end. It’s always good to hear from her; she is upbeat, warm, and informative. She had spoken with the pathologist, she had spoken with the oncologist, and everything looked “great.” These are things one needs to hear. She relayed specifics: the grade of the tumor was a 1, slow growing, an “80-year old’s tumor,” they called it, a good thing, clearly; the size was small, 1.7 cm, plus an additional 2 mm of residual invasive cancer in the margins that the mastectomy took away, cleared, obliterated, so margins are clear, clean, free of cancer, no need for radiation, yahoo!; nodes negative, even after special staining and pathology tricks, an especially great thing; and while Tamoxifen has been discussed as a clear inevitable focus of treatment, chemotherapy was not. “You‘re in the grey area as far as chemotherapy goes.” We talked about oncotype testing--more on that later. Dr. Paula Ryan, who came recommended by several people, is the medical oncologist I‘ll be working with. Though I have not yet met with her, I like her very much already; the fact that she is not absolutely pushing the chemo, and is open to the possibility that it may be more of a choice than I expected, thrills me. The prospect of pumping poison into my body has been a gnawing fear and constant worry on my mind; I felt immediately released. I have choices. I have choices. I have choices. I can do this.

I’ll meet with Dr. Specht and Dr. Paula Ryan, the medical oncologist, next Monday at Mass General. I’ll get the full pathology report, the dirt on my options, on what’s next: my medical map updated. On Wednesday, I’ll see Dr. Pitts, the plastic surgeon. I figure she’ll check me over, make sure everything is healing well, and fill up the expander with a little more saline. I don’t think it will take much longer before my left matches my right. It’s strange: when I lie down, I can feel the outline of the expander pressing into my chest., and can run my finger along its edges. On the inside edge, my ribs, which have always stuck out, seem to be digging into the expander, or vice versa. It is sore, and some fluid has collected there. I felt it acutely this morning at about 5, when the Advil had long ago worn off, and the pain has settled in after a long night in one position. My visiting nurse says to slow down, give myself more time to heal, stop trying to empty the dishwasher and fold laundry and do all the other upper-body intensive domestic stuff a home schooling mom of two has to do. And ice--must remember to sit every now and then and ice the sore, swollen spots. And as much as I’d like to get off the Advil altogether, she wants me to up my intake, back to one in the morning, and one in the evening. So much of this takes much getting used to--the letting go, the trust that someone will pick up the slack, the patience in dealing with resuming activity and feeling out a new normalcy in my routine and energy level. But slowly, surely, I feel more comfortable with the new terrain along my left chest that seems to change day by day, in color, shape, and texture. The purples have softened, the swelling in my pectoral muscle, while still inflamed and tight, has gone down a bit, and the tightness in my chest has lightened.

I’ve had help, some wonderful help. Every couple of days, delicious dinners arrive at our front door, courtesy of friends and neighbors. Thank you Danny, Gina, Kim, and Sarah and Jim. You have lightened my evening load so that I can tap into the healing of the day, blessings all. As well, beautiful flowers fill our house, thoughtfully chosen books and cards arrive daily, and my in-box has been stuffed with cyber hugs and greetings from friends and family all over. And yesterday morning, soon after the phone call from Dr. Specht, my friend Dan gave me a deeply relaxing Reiki session. At one point, I could feel a heaviness move from my shoulder into my arm and finally into my hand, where it rested for a few seconds before dissipating, leaving behind a wonderful lightness in my left side. Later in the afternoon, my friend Meg arrived to work her matrix repatterning magic on me, which brought about welcome respite and release. Surgery is a violent thing--life-saving, of course, and necessary, and wonderful in that way--but my body has felt so carved up, scarred, beaten up, and vulnerable to more attacks since the surgery that to actually get hands-on healing and reassurance to start the rebuilding process was amazing. Thank you Dan and Meg and Nancy and Sara for the reminding me that I am still whole, and for restoring some trust and comfort back to my left side.

And then there was the weather. No sun, but a soft, gentle, mild day that beckoned us outside. Just before dinner, we headed out for a walk. The evaporating winter chill hovered above the remaining snow in clouds of vaporous fog. We walked the familiar dirt road, soft underfoot, the melt-off rushing by in vernal streams flowing roadside that would soon be flush with frogs. We spied a few newly hatched bugs, and caught sight of skunk cabbage’s red cups of new growth. Robins hopped atop the muddied strawberry fields, yanking worms out of their winter naps. For some reason, the dog didn’t bark at her usual spot, where an old beaver pond opens up for swimming and splashing after rocks thrown from the road. Perhaps she was being respectful of the cat, who followed behind us slowly, paws gingerly padding around the muddy puddles and scattered pebbles, and every now and then, sprinting ahead to catch up.

Back at home, our lower lawn appears scarred by the engineering work of moles, who seemed to have spent the last few weeks digging tunnels through the upper most layer of soil, leaving behind tracks and trails and big splotchy mounds that sometimes form letters. We look for words amongst the scattered H’s and D’s, and wonder what the moles are trying to tell us. We guess, “Don’t send the cat out just yet. We’re having far too much fun.”

Wednesday

Today, the sun, and its pernicious pal, the whipping wind have returned, to bring in a howling, colder air and slow the stretch of spring. Amidst the rubble of the garden, the crocuses open mouths wide with purple tongues drinking in the sunshine . Everywhere, there are messy remnants of winter’s wrath: the lawn is littered with brightly colored chewed off bits of plastic Frisbee from Daisy’s incessant ice-bound boredom, tumbleweeds of sticks, dead leaves, and assorted oddities, like dog fur, wood shavings, string, the contents of a boy’s pocket, and the early spring uglies--dead, squashed down, sick-o looking grass, snow-crushed shrubs, and the unsightly remains of my own late November laziness, when I opted not to clip out all the dead iris greens, and left them, instead, to slowly rot out the winter days. Somewhere, far south of here, "April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers," as Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, but not here, not in New England. April in New England is a constant reminder that yesterday’s optimism, like yesterday’s quiet warmth, can turn on a dime, that wet spring snow often follows warm melting days, andn vice versa, that you can't count on anything, and that given the circumstances, given my circumstances, my expectations are better left clipped, stunted, and swaddled in the usual cautionary tales and fables of possible destruction. It is true: my mobility has increased, the fear has lifted, I feel stronger, lighter, braver. And yet, this all takes time, this spring cleansing: the detox, the healing, the transformation. The old must go before the new can grow. There is much work to be done: raking the garden beds, clearing the canvas, redesigning the palette; carefully picking up the discarded pieces of old and dead strewn on the lawn, and doing away with; sweeping out winter‘s sediment and somberness to make room for new growth; planning and planting seeds of change and renewal; tending, reconstructing beauty, restoring love, balance, trust. And it will take time. Two steps forward, one step back.

And in the meantime, I’m thinking about coming up with a new name for my chest/breast, since there is no breast actually there, but an in-between work of art (that might be a stretch) in progress, that seems to change each and every day and will only be a temporary, transient part of me, given that the final product won’t be masterminded for a while. My friend Karen and I laughed about this for awhile today, and decided that it might get a bit out of hand. Suffice it to say that my left breast is no more, and was wrested away, my chest messed with, to say the least, lest the cancer got out of hand, but in so many ways, too, it’s been blessed. So…Wrest? Mest? Lest? Blest? Maybe just calling it little Mojo would be easier.

BTW, The 40-year old Virgin didn't go over so well the other night; after the first couple of F bombs were dropped (what was I expecting?), we switched over to The Holiday, a Jack Black, Cameron Diaz, Kate Winslet, Jude Law romantic comedy. Lovely, light, faintly funny escapism. Perfect, really. But it is time to reorder my Netflix queue. Time to dig out the heavy hitters: Mel Brooks, Monty Python, Will Ferrell, Freaks and Geeks. Send all suggestions for truly side-splitting funny flicks my way. And as always, thanks for listening.

It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power.

~ Alan Cohen

Sun, Sun, Sun Here it Comes!

If I took you darling
To the caverns of my heart
Would you light the lamp dear?
Would you light the lamp dear?
And see fish without eyes
Bats with their heads
Hanging down towards the ground
Would you still come around
Come around?
~ Laura Veirs, Spelunking

Happy Sunday, sunny afternoon to all. I've decided to focus on the best parts of the day, and leave out the rest (two words: crying jags). The sun figured pretty big in the best parts of the day, and I am, as ever, a devoted sun freak. The bright lovely sun made it possible to take a walk with Dominick on the Mount Hermon campus, a long loop that brought us above the rim of campus for beautiful mountain views and to a perch above the melting snowfields below. Upon our return, I sat on our deck and did nothing but let the glorious sun warm the inner pockets of fear that have had an icy grip on me of late. Life, spurred on by the ache of promise in the spiraling sunshine, spilled its sounds all around me: the red-winged blackbirds chirped noisily in the evergreens, the squirrel made mad dashes down the tree to steal birdseed, each time releasing cones and melting snow from the branches that cascaded down the trunk to hit the ground with a soft stuttering clatter, and Daisy snoozed quietly next to me, every so often releasing a barely audible bark-chirp, or a tongue-suck, before sinking deeper into the soft snow. Later, Luke and I took in the afternoon sun, playing a couple of hands of Rummy, and laughing at Daisy, who happily paraded about with her new pink-lipped frisbee folded in her mouth, looking like Ronald McDonald. It felt like a real treat. The sun warmed our seats and the table that sat between us, and the wind cooperated--usually when we try to play outside, the wind blasts our cards all over the place. But not today--not even a ripple. Thank you sun.

Speaking of Ronald McDonald...and hamburgers, and eating far too many of them when I was growing up...I've copied an email my friend Nancy sent to me below. It's very interesting, and offers much to think about, especially as I head into the treatment phase of my breast cancer. I figured early on that it's not very useful to try to figure out why, after all these years of trying to eat as well as I can, of trying to keep my body healthy, why I suddenly got breast cancer--but I have thought deeply about the layers of lessons wrapped up in my diagnosis, and know that there are ways I have not taken good care of myself, and not honored my self. The beauty is that there are now, as there are always, opportunities for making changes in my life that will allow me to better take care of myself, fulfill my needs, and open my spirit; balancing the many different areas of my life while nourishing and nurturing my spirit, body, and mind will be a challenge, indeed, but I do believe it is the key to wellness and a full recovery. I'll be exploring all treatment options, and making some tough choices. And I welcome your guidance and wisdom! What follows is just a start. With LOVE.


AFTER YEARS OF TELLING PEOPLE CHEMOTHERAPY IS THE ONLY WAY TO TRY ('TRY'
IS THE KEY WORD) AND ELIMINATE CANCER, JOHN HOPKINS IS FINALLY STARTING TO TELL YOU THERE IS AN ALTERNATIVE WAY .


Cancer Update from John Hopkins


1. Every person has cancer cells in the body. These cancer cells do not show up in the standard tests until they have multiplied to a few billion.
When doctors tell cancer patients that there are no more cancer cells in their bodies after treatment, it just means the tests are unable to detect the cancer cells because they have not reached the detectable size.

2. Cancer cells occur between 6 to more than 10 times in a person's lifetime

3. When the person's immune system is strong the cancer cells will be destroyed and prevented from multiplying and forming tumors

4. When a person has cancer it indicates the person has multiple nutritional deficiencies. These could be due to genetic, environmental, food and lifestyle factors.

5. To overcome the multiple nutritional deficiencies, changing diet and including supplements will strengthen the immune system

6. Chemotherapy involves poisoning the rapidly-growing cancer cells and also destroys rapidly-growing healthy cells in the bone marrow, gastro-intestinal tract etc, and can cause organ damage, like liver, kidneys, heart, lungs etc.

7. Radiation while destroying cancer cells also burns, scars and damages healthy cells, tissues and organs.

8. Initial treatment with chemotherapy and radiation will often reduce tumor size. However prolonged use of chemotherapy and radiation do not result in more tumor destruction.

9 When the body has too much toxic burden from chemotherapy and radiation the immune system is either compromised or destroyed, hence the person can succumb to various kinds of infections and complications.

10. Chemotherapy and radiation can cause cancer cells to mutate and become resistant and difficult to destroy. Surgery can also cause cancer cells to spread to other sites.

11. An effective way to battle cancer is to starve the cancer cells by not feeding it with the foods it needs to multiply.

CANCER CELLS FEED ON:
a. Sugar is a cancer-feeder. By cutting off sugar it cuts off one important food supply to the cancer cells. Sugar substitutes like NutraSweet, Equal,Spoonful, etc are made with Aspartame and it is harmful.
A better natural substitute would be Manuka honey or molasses but only in very small amounts. Table salt has a chemical added to make it white in color. Better alternative is Bragg's aminos or sea salt.

b. Milk causes the body to produce mucus, especially in the gastro-intestinal tract. Cancer feeds on mucus. By cutting off milk and substituting with unsweetened soya milk cancer cells are being starved.

c. Cancer cells thrive in an acid environment. A meat-based diet is acidic and it is best to eat fish, and a little chicken rather than beef or pork.
Meat also contains livestock antibiotics, growth hormones and parasites, which are all harmful, especially to people with cancer.

d. A diet made of 80% fresh vegetables and juice, whole grains,seeds, nuts and a little fruits help put the body into an alkaline environment.
About 20% can be from cooked food including beans. Fresh vegetable juices provide live enzymes that are easily absorbed and reach down to cellular levels within 15 minutes to nourish and enhance growth of healthy cells.
To obtain live enzymes for building healthy cells try and drink fresh vegetable juice (most vegetables including bean sprouts)and eat some raw vegetables 2 or 3 times a day. Enzymes are destroyed at temperatures of
104 degrees F (40 degrees C).

e. Avoid coffee, tea, and chocolate, which have high caffeine.Green tea is a better alternative and has cancer-fighting properties. Water-best to drink purified water, or filtered, to avoid known toxins and heavy metals in tap water. Distilled water is acidic, avoid it.

12. Meat protein is difficult to digest and requires a lot of digestive enzymes. Undigested meat remaining in the intestines become putrified and leads to more toxic buildup.

13. Cancer cell walls have a tough protein covering. By refraining from or eating less meat it frees more enzymes to attack the protein walls of cancer cells and allows the body's killer cells to destroy the cancer cells.

14. Some supplements build up the immune system (IP6, Flor-ssence,Essiac, anti-oxidants, vitamins, minerals, EFAs etc.) to enable the body's own killer cells to destroy cancer cells. Other supplements like vitamin E are known to cause apoptosis, or programmed cell death, the body's normal method of disposing of damaged, unwanted, or unneeded cells.

15. Cancer is a disease of the mind, body, and spirit. A proactive and positive spirit will help the cancer warrior be a survivor. Anger, unforgiveness and bitterness put the body into a stressful and acidic environment. Learn to have a loving and forgiving spirit. Learn to relax and enjoy life.


16. Cancer cells cannot thrive in an oxygenated environment. Exercising daily, and deep breathing help to get more oxygen down to the cellular level. Oxygen therapy is another means employed to destroy cancer cells.

CANCER UPDATE FROM JOHN HOPKINS HOSPITAL , U S - PLEASE READ
1. No plastic containers in micro.
2. No water bottles in freezer.
3. No plastic wrap in microwave.
Johns Hopkins has recently sent this out in its newsletters. This information is being circulated at Walter Reed Army Medical Center as well.
Dioxin chemicals causes cancer, especially breast cancer. Dioxins are highly poisonous to the cells of our bodies.Don't freeze your plastic bottles with water in them as this releases dioxins from the plastic.
Recently, Dr. Edward Fujimoto, Wellness Program Manager at Castle Hospital , was on a TV program to explain this health hazard. He talked about dioxins and how bad they are for us.. He said that we should not be heating our food in the microwave using plastic containers.

This especially applies to foods that contain fat. He said that the combination of fat, high heat, and plastics releases dioxin into the food and ultimately into the cells of the body. Instead, he recommends using glass, such as Corning Ware, Pyrex or ceramic containers for heating food.
You get the same results, only without the dioxin. So such things as TV dinners, instant ramen and soups, etc., should be removed from the container and heated in something else.
Paper isn't bad but you don't know what is in the paper. It's just safer to use tempered glass, Corning Ware, etc. He reminded us that a while ago some of the fast food restaurants moved away from the foam containers to paper. The dioxin problem is one of the reasons.
Also, he pointed out that plastic wrap, such as Saran, is just as dangerous when placed over foods to be cooked in the microwave. As the food is nuked, the high heat causes poisonous toxins to actually melt out of the plastic wrap and drip into the food. Cover food with a paper towel instead.


This is an article that should be sent to anyone important in your life.

Friday Evening Happy Hour

It’s Friday afternoon and I have some things to celebrate. Not in particular order, but here we go:

Luke survived his wilderness overnight. I was a bit worried—given that it began snowing last night and continued into the morning and I was feeling cold and wet for him and hoped, hoped that he was warm and dry but knew there was a big possibility that he wasn’t. I am proud of him for putting up with it all—and was awfully glad to have him home again, home again, jiggity jig, to climb into a hot tub, drink some chocolately cocoa, and unwind from what must have been a fairly intense night. He's growing up quickly, but I am still grateful for the times when I can scrub his back in the tub, put some marshmallows in his cocoa, and just be there to listen. And with all this other stuff going on, it was nice to just be a mom—instead of a patient—for a change.

My waning patience for being a patient aside, I am making strides towards being a survivor, and here’s why:

The drain is out. Hurrah! The damned drain is out. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t such a horrible drain. Not even a nasty drain, because it did its job, and really, when I imagine what post-op must have been like for so many people before the drain was invented, well, it must have been a bit of a nasty mess. I may just get a little nostalgic about my drain; after all, it was tethered to me for nearly a week, suctioning and draining the excess blood from inside the wound and delivering it to through thin plastic tubing to its resting place, a plastic squeezy bulb (hence, the turkey baster comparison) that I emptied, measured and recorded several times a day, reminiscent of keeping track of feedings after giving birth (which, of course, got so ridiculous after a while, given the inability of my babies to get on any kind of a schedule ever, and the sheer number and length of feedings that they required—making any kind of record-keeping impossible and silly). Despite its efficiency and importance to a smooth healing process, the drain really is a rather simple device, something a toddler might like to play with in the tub, for instance, or a makeshift way to demonstrate air pressure in a third grade classroom (or as part of a homeschool project! Damn! Opportunity missed!)—but because it plays such a critical in post-operative healing, it has earned a very distinguished name, the Jackson-Pratt Drain (otherwise known as the JP Drain; see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson-Pratt_drain), though I have no idea who Jackson or Pratt were (the lucky inventors? Beloved cats of the inventors?)

Dr. Pitts—the wonderful plastic surgeon—has been keeping an eye on the drain from afar. I’ve had to call her office every morning to let her know what my collection rates have been, and once they were under 30 ml in a 24 hour period, then the drain could come out. The visiting nurse, Sara, has been coming each and every day, to change my bandages, check on the drain, and make sure everything is healing up well. She’s been amazing. Her visits have been very reassuring to me—and this morning I realized that my last collection tally was at 18 ml, which put me under the magic mark, so when Sara came at noontime, I wanted her to verify that it was indeed time for the drain to come out. And she did. A quick call to Dr. Fox’s office in Greenfield, and it was scheduled to come out at 3:30 this afternoon. I am very grateful for Dr. Fox and his nurse Ruth—they welcomed me into their office with so much warmth and kindness, took the time to hear how I was doing, answer my questions, listen to my concerns, and offer their services—putting in a port before chemo treatment, being there for any kind of assistance I might need throughout this process—and took out the drain, with care and precision. It smarted, to be sure, and it’ll continue to drain a bit at the site for a couple of days, but it also feels really good to have it out, as if I’ve just taken a big step forward. Adios, JP Drain. Hasta la vista, baby.

The good news is that now that the drain is out, I can take a shower tomorrow. A shower! Sponge baths just don’t cut it. Tomorrow, I can take all the bandages off without having to worry about getting the drain tube snagged on something, I can feel the steamy heat open my pores and warm me up, I can let the water run down and actually soap up a bit. I still can’t wash my hair by myself, and I’ll be tender and sore (pat dry, pat dry) and you know, being with my new naked self in the shower is going to take some getting used to, and there are things that will feel scary and strange. But it’s progress, and I’ll bask, or bathe, or shower, actually, in that.

Afterwards, I only have to bandage up the old drain site. A simple gauze pad with bacitracin, or a big bandaid. Without the compression wrap around me, I’ll be able to fill my lungs a little more easily, and breathe in and out without feeling the pinch of the wrap and the soreness of my chest. Maybe my sore gimpy throat will finally heal up, and my voice will return back to normal. I don't really like sounding like a whiskey-drinking, cigarette-smoking broad. And without the drain, I can now ditch the Vicodin, which makes me constipated, loopy, and dopey, and switch to Advil, which I hope will be the next step in restoring my digestive system back to its usual balance. Of course, since I’m still on antibiotics, and it is my third consecutive course at that, I may have to wait a bit before things are entirely back in sync.

I also spoke with the pathologist at Mass General today, a super nice guy named Todd Abbott, and he gave me good news: after slicing and dicing and staining and doing all their magic tricks, the lymph nodes showed absolutely no signs of cancer. It’s reassuring to know that in addition to examining the frozen section of the nodes during surgery, they also re-examine that as well as every bit of tissue that is removed, using every test they’ve got. As well, he said that they found a small amount of residual invasive cancer around the original lumpectomy sample—so my decision to have a mastectomy was the right one, and the cancer is out, all out, the margins are clear, all clear, and that is good news, indeed. My doctors will get the report on Monday; lucky me that I got to talk to Dr. Abbott himself today, and did not have to wait to receive this good news. Progress.

It’s dinnertime, and my mother and I are about to sit down to a delicious dinner cooked by my friend Gina. Chicken, ginger carrots, mashed potatoes. It doesn’t get any better. Gina has graciously and generously offered to organize some community meals on wheels for us, and I appreciate it so much! Thank you, Gina. It’s hard to explain how much it means to me—to all of us—to have people thinking of me and actually taking the time out to cook us a meal, send flowers, write a sweet card, drop by for a visit, or take a second and send some good Juju my way. It’s made all the difference in the fact that I feel strong and positive today, and am making progress towards a full recovery.

Our trees were flooded with blackbirds today, red-winged mostly, hundreds of them, who flew in flocks from trees to feeders to ground to eat the seed we’d just put out and sing their songs of spring. Outside, walking to the car to head to the Aloha-Drain-Stop, their calls were deafening, and so awesome! It rivaled the spring peepers and wood frogs that will fill our wetlands in a few weeks—in volume and pitch and an expansive sonic beauty that filled the whole area with a fervent proclamation that spring is coming, despite the three inches of new wet snow on the ground, that it will be here, and soon, and with it, will bring change and growth and the promise of something better. That’s something that we can all look forward to.

A bird does not sing because he has an answer. He sings because he has a song.

~ Joan Walsh Anglund

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not. --Emerson

It’s my mother’s birthday today. I think she almost forgot, given where her head has been lately, and I just want to send a more public shout out to her that she has been an amazing help and source of support and strength for me and I am so grateful for her—for each and every one of her 68 years, since they’ve brought her to this time, this place, here with me. Thank you, Mom. Happy Birthday. I love you.

We’ve just come back from my first walk since surgery, and it felt good to be out breathing in fresh air, and seeing some real signs that spring will indeed share her colors and new life with us soon. The road was muddy underfoot, and water was draining everywhere, the beaver pond in our back woods overflowing with melting ice and stream water, filling the vernal pools and rushing through the culverts here and there. Flocks of little songbirds alighted on trees, still bare against soft skies, and filled the air with their choruses. The crocuses are busting through the old leaves and debris that has mulched and littered the garden since fall, and Daisy’s tennis balls and Luke’s golf balls are suddenly appearing in the cruddy mud-lawn, unearthed by the melting snow, their bright yellows and whites seeming stark and surprising against the dull blahs of the March palette. It seems old man winter may pay us a visit tonight, to make everything seem pretty again, with a dusting of snow, just in time for Luke’s overnight as part of his regular Thursday wilderness program in Dummerston, Vermont—I suppose sleeping on snow is more comfortable than mud? I imagine it’ll be quite lovely when they awake, all snuggled together in the shelter they’ve been building all winter, and the breakfast they cook over their camp stove will be even more delicious than anything they’ve ever tasted before. Luke learned the fine art of carving venison (against the grain, always go against the grain) a week ago, and they’ve been promised some for breakfast. Dominick has opted to come back home tonight after a long day romping through the woods, working on his carving, making cool forts with his friends, and expending an amount of energy that I can only dream of…

It’s day two for me at home. After a tumultuous afternoon and evening yesterday, I was happy for some peace in my belly today. There’s a good reason the nurses in the hospital always ask their post-op patients if they’ve peed or passed gas yet, or enjoyed their inaugural bowel movement (would you rather I say poop? caca? bm? #2?). The anesthesia drugs, as well as the pain meds, slow everything down—so that all systems relax and take a breather. And often times, it takes those same systems a while to get back in the full swing of things. Such was the case with me, and yesterday afternoon, after having taken a few Senecot-S meds, I was having the worst cramping of my life—it actually felt like labor pains, contractions that came every five minutes or so, and lasted ten or twenty seconds. Finally, though, it cleared me right out, but I wish I had taken a different route, and after talking to my plastic surgeon, Dr. Pitts, who graciously and kindly took the call herself, I realized I should have called her first (duh, Liz), rather than suffer the consequences of my impulsive intake of senna, an herb known for its troublesome cramping side effects. The trick is to be able to take the Vicodin, which bloats my belly and slows everything down but takes the pain away, away, and still be able to keep things moving. Hence the walk this afternoon. And maybe some Milk of Magnesia later tonight. Oy. This is just not like me. Too much information? Sorry!

The visiting nurse, Sarah, came back again this morning to change the bandages, which was a good thing, because I had bled through several near where the Jackson-Pratt drain inserts under my arm (the one place I have not yet looked) and the bandages had slipped down considerably, loosened by all my howling agony over the ridiculous cramping and rushing to the bathroom (outta my way! outta my way!). This time, I looked fairly square on at the wound, not yet in the mirror, but just from above, where just a few days ago there was the soft roundness of a breast, small, but curved, despite its recent run-in with the surgeon. Now, there is a small rounded stretch of skin, an incision that actually looks far better than I thought it would (and not nearly as long), and some swelling and bruising that hopefully, will improve each and every day. I looked down a second time, and saw that my pectoral muscle on the left side is very swollen and bruised, and is making little twitching motions, as if suffering from a bit of PTSD post-operatively. Since my pec is bugged, the muscles on the other side of my shoulder are bugged as well, and my range of motion is pretty shot right now, but I know that too will improve. The nurse has said she has ordered some PT and OT for me, at home, which will be very helpful. In the meantime, I keep smearing Arnica gel over the swollen area, with hopes that it will help. Sarah will be back tomorrow, at which time she’ll be training someone (my mother? Jim? me?) to change my bandages over the weekend. This will be interesting, maybe a little frightening, because I think I'll have to look a little longer, and maybe I will notice something else I didn't notice today. I think I can do most of it myself, but there’s much precision wrapping and laborious mummifying that has to be done, a bit like getting the Christmas lights around and around the branches of the tree just so, so I suspect I will need help. And then there’s the drain site. Do I really want to look at that? Since it’s open to infection, bacitracin has to be put on the gauze before covering it up. These are the things that typically make me faint dead away. Somehow, though, this is different. This is my new skin, my new shell. Time to get used to it. And I suppose I’ll have to look at the drain site, too, eventually. Maybe not today, maybe tomorrow. It won’t be there forever, so I’m not as intent on making its acquaintance. The new me, the transitioning me, is someone I have to get to know. But it was enough today to look down, not away, while Sarah took the bandages off, to take it in, to scan my left side, and to realize that I look, and feel, very different. More like a lizard, perhaps, than a human. Which is okay, I think. I like lizards, don’t you? I think it’s the absence of the nipple that is so alarming. And the lack of symmetry and balance, and the loss of the rounded softness there, makes me feel—and look—a little deformed, and well, mutilated. But there’s a happy side to it, too. I know this probably saved my life, and I am grateful for these scars. Though I’ve lost this part of me, perhaps, in letting it go, it has given me new life, and made me whole again.

It’s amazing how much better you can feel after you wash your hair. Sorry, can’t go out tonight, I’ve got to stay in and wash my hair! My mother helped me wash my hair this morning in the kitchen sink, and it felt so good to have it clean again, a bit bouncier in its usual springy wavy curl shape. There are more grays than ever poking through, especially on the top, where my darker winter roots provide a better contrast for those grays to be seen, spotted, and yanked. The last time I saw my hair dresser, she asked me if I had been under a lot of stress lately. “You’ve got a lot more grays than before.” Stress? Who, me? I figure I can accept the grays as part of my passage—and if they really start to bug me, I’ll highlight them the hell out of there. Right?

It’s also amazing how much better you can feel after a visit from a dear, old friend. My friend Dana Weeder, from Exeter and Williams, came to visit today, and it was so great to be able to sit and talk and get caught up and not feel like some freak in a hospital gown. And he brought flowers, too, lovely lilies that have filled the house with their beautiful springtime scent. And the best part was that he didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable with this new, different me, this mastectomied, misshapen, me. Maybe because he’s an architect, he’s used to things being under construction? Thank you, Dana! I do believe that these little pick-me-ups—a visit from the nurse, a re-bandaging, clean hair, a visit from an old friend, a walk in the woods with your mom and your dog—can and will make all the difference in the world, and will be critical to my recovery.

It’s dinnertime, and now, well, I’m missing my boys. I am eager to be strong enough to resume our homeschooling adventures. I miss our math sessions in front of the woodstove, talking about the finer points of Homer’s use of epithets (zilrendrag the mighty lizard-dragon queen slew her demon breast cancer in a heroic battle of wits), practicing Spanish together, discovering new ancestors, researching ancient civilizations and creating our own, collaborating on stories using our Boggle-licious words, making art, just being together. Heck! I even miss yelling at the boys to stop playing basketball upstairs while I’m trying to write on the ‘puter! It’s been a long haul of interruptions and doctor’s visits and emotional releases and stress of all sorts, and it will feel blessed and charmed when we can regain some surety in our footsteps, walking through each day with more spring and direction. We are nearly Skyped, and will look forward to making face to face contact with those of you who are afloat in the Skype-sphere.

And wanderlust, that restless, roving sister of mine, has sprinkled her magic dust over me, igniting a desire to shed some clothes and old travel routes for the roads less traveled, where I might discover a new richness to life where before was lacking, and maybe, just maybe, that left breast of mine will re-flower, opening to capture light and love and all that fills our cups. It’d be lovely to see you all in person. So, day by day, bit by bit. Thanks for being there with me.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods. --Byron

Indeed.