It was good, today, to talk with the friends who'd moved away, to share in the time of transition they're in, to hear their voices, to know that while much is very, very different, some things are the same.
It was good, today, to meet with a small group of my peers, to share ideas for business success, to support and encourage one another, to share the load.
It was good, today, to share time with a friend who needed support and encouragement to make some personal shopping decisions. "This is just what I needed, someone to help me decide." It was good to see confidence blossom.
It was good, today, to pray for a friend struggling with a mystery illness, and to pray for his family struggling in their own way with this scary unknown. Praying is many things, but it certainly a tool of connection, a way of sharing with others the joys and sorrows of life's journey.
It was good, today, to share.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
moonlight and memory
With the rain of the last several days, I've missed seeing the moon. Tonight she is bright in the sky, a gently gilded milky moon. I always take a bit of comfort from the fact that this same moon shone down over my faraway friends and family to the east this very night, and will continue on her course until she's embraced the whole of the planet. It makes the world feel a more comprehensible size. It puts to mind all that we share here on this big, blue marble. I love that moonlight belongs to no one and everyone. It's a beautiful thing.
I love the timelessness of moonlight, I love the 'sameness' of this moon. She is every bit the same moon tonight as she was thirty years ago when my mother and I gave in to her invitation to bask in the moonlight, when we exchanged pyjamas for swimming suits late one hot summer's night. What an invitation that can be, all silent and silver, when she spills her abundance of light over the midnight waters of the St. Lawrence! She crafts a shimmering, shifting mosaic, a band of light puckered and rippled and cut like diamonds by the velvet black of the waves. What a glorious feeling it is, to pull one's arms through the water and the light. Yes. It's a beautiful thing.
I love the timelessness of moonlight, I love the 'sameness' of this moon. She is every bit the same moon tonight as she was thirty years ago when my mother and I gave in to her invitation to bask in the moonlight, when we exchanged pyjamas for swimming suits late one hot summer's night. What an invitation that can be, all silent and silver, when she spills her abundance of light over the midnight waters of the St. Lawrence! She crafts a shimmering, shifting mosaic, a band of light puckered and rippled and cut like diamonds by the velvet black of the waves. What a glorious feeling it is, to pull one's arms through the water and the light. Yes. It's a beautiful thing.
Monday, July 23, 2007
false positive
I had the last test today to confirm that the positive mammogram result I got last month was a false positive. The ultrasound technician was very reassuring and there will be a good report from the radiologist in a day or two.
We put together our tests for breast cancer in order to detect the disease at its most treatable, early stages. It's valuable information, so women subject themselves to the painful poking and prodding, hoping to find relief from the terrifying "what if" of breast cancer. There's a high rate of false positives in the basic screening, so every positive result is examined carefully, scrutinized from every angle, subjected to analysis beside other, more sophisticated tests. The doctors and radiologists and technicians are obliged to assume the worst and seek the best-- this is the motivation for the investigation. "We must be very, very sure," they say.
I looked at the statistics and told myself it was likely a false positive. I couldn't entirely shake off the possibility, but it loomed fairly distantly most of the time. The morning of that first "we must be very, very sure" test, it occured to me in a BIG way that I might not be on the lucky side of the statistics. The "what if" of cancer took on a lot of very scary implications. Some weeks and four tests later, everyone is satisfied that the mass they suspected is not a mass at all. I do not have breast cancer. They're sure that it's now time for good news.
Thinking about the "false positive" thing tonight, I found myself wishing there were a test for the other falsely assumed facts in my life. What if it were possible to nip in the bud every hurtful lie that ever entered my mind, dismissing it before it takes hold and feels like fact, like "the way it is"? How grand it would be if I could identify every unfounded pseudo-fact that ever felt like truth, if I could plainly see-- like a dark shadow on an x-ray-- every lie that has ever undermined my health or confidence. What if I could name it, expose it, and then boldly declare, "This is a false positive! You were so damn sure that this was true, but it's NOT!"? How many false assumptions would crumble to dust?
May I have the diligence and wisdom to ferret out the truth, to scrutinize and chuck the lies. May I be very, very sure.
We put together our tests for breast cancer in order to detect the disease at its most treatable, early stages. It's valuable information, so women subject themselves to the painful poking and prodding, hoping to find relief from the terrifying "what if" of breast cancer. There's a high rate of false positives in the basic screening, so every positive result is examined carefully, scrutinized from every angle, subjected to analysis beside other, more sophisticated tests. The doctors and radiologists and technicians are obliged to assume the worst and seek the best-- this is the motivation for the investigation. "We must be very, very sure," they say.
I looked at the statistics and told myself it was likely a false positive. I couldn't entirely shake off the possibility, but it loomed fairly distantly most of the time. The morning of that first "we must be very, very sure" test, it occured to me in a BIG way that I might not be on the lucky side of the statistics. The "what if" of cancer took on a lot of very scary implications. Some weeks and four tests later, everyone is satisfied that the mass they suspected is not a mass at all. I do not have breast cancer. They're sure that it's now time for good news.
Thinking about the "false positive" thing tonight, I found myself wishing there were a test for the other falsely assumed facts in my life. What if it were possible to nip in the bud every hurtful lie that ever entered my mind, dismissing it before it takes hold and feels like fact, like "the way it is"? How grand it would be if I could identify every unfounded pseudo-fact that ever felt like truth, if I could plainly see-- like a dark shadow on an x-ray-- every lie that has ever undermined my health or confidence. What if I could name it, expose it, and then boldly declare, "This is a false positive! You were so damn sure that this was true, but it's NOT!"? How many false assumptions would crumble to dust?
May I have the diligence and wisdom to ferret out the truth, to scrutinize and chuck the lies. May I be very, very sure.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
thrive
Many months ago, I embraced the word "thrive" as my watch word, my theme for the year. If anyone asked me to sum up my life's desire in one word, right now that would be the word.
I've spent more time striving than thriving lately-- striving against the grief and depression that undermine even the slimmest sense of thriving. The thing is, there's no other way to move toward thriving except by effort. It just may be that striving and thriving are one in the same thing. It might be that the surest sign of a thriving life is the very presence of striving.
Thriving doesn't mean resting on your laurels or snoozing in the lap of abundance. Thriving is active, dynamic, vivid, energetic. It's about aiming high and moving forward. And who's to say that the underground, covered-in-muck, broken and cracked efforts of the tiniest seed, sprouting forth and seeking light isn't every bit as strong an indication of a vigourous existence than the later, showier signs of leaves, blossoms, or fruit.
So, I'm going to make an effort to reframe my "striving", to think of it a foundational thriving. I'm going to try to give myself more credit for my dimly lit, underground efforts to break through the muck. I'm not basking in the sunshine yet, but I'm heading in the right direction.
I've spent more time striving than thriving lately-- striving against the grief and depression that undermine even the slimmest sense of thriving. The thing is, there's no other way to move toward thriving except by effort. It just may be that striving and thriving are one in the same thing. It might be that the surest sign of a thriving life is the very presence of striving.
Thriving doesn't mean resting on your laurels or snoozing in the lap of abundance. Thriving is active, dynamic, vivid, energetic. It's about aiming high and moving forward. And who's to say that the underground, covered-in-muck, broken and cracked efforts of the tiniest seed, sprouting forth and seeking light isn't every bit as strong an indication of a vigourous existence than the later, showier signs of leaves, blossoms, or fruit.
So, I'm going to make an effort to reframe my "striving", to think of it a foundational thriving. I'm going to try to give myself more credit for my dimly lit, underground efforts to break through the muck. I'm not basking in the sunshine yet, but I'm heading in the right direction.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
eleven things
Things I appreciated today:
1. Cotton sheets.
2. Strong coffee, homemade muffins.
3. Clean guinea pig cage, happy guinea pig.
4. The comfort of friendship, honest conversation, shared wonder at opportunities, shared fear of the unknown.
5. Knowing I'm not the only one who's scared and lonely sometimes.
6. Customer Service that doesn't frustrate or infuriate, but which actually serves.
7. Rio Grande lasagne, lovingly made, lovingly shared, joyously consumed.
9. Having choices.
10. Tears.
Why tears? Because sometimes the best option is just to let the tears fall. Better yet if you have enough presence of mind to dare to hope that with the tears falls a measure of the sorrow.
11. Daring to hope.
1. Cotton sheets.
2. Strong coffee, homemade muffins.
3. Clean guinea pig cage, happy guinea pig.
4. The comfort of friendship, honest conversation, shared wonder at opportunities, shared fear of the unknown.
5. Knowing I'm not the only one who's scared and lonely sometimes.
6. Customer Service that doesn't frustrate or infuriate, but which actually serves.
7. Rio Grande lasagne, lovingly made, lovingly shared, joyously consumed.
9. Having choices.
10. Tears.
Why tears? Because sometimes the best option is just to let the tears fall. Better yet if you have enough presence of mind to dare to hope that with the tears falls a measure of the sorrow.
11. Daring to hope.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
rain
After weeks of delicous, unrelenting sunshine, the last couple of days have been rainy. Yesterday, the sun broke through in the late afternoon, but today it was well and truly grey all day. I was so thankful for the rain. Under doctor's orders to rest, it was easier to do so on a grey, quiet day, with the sound of rainfall like a lullaby echoing through my day.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
rest
If you know, deep down, that the thing you need to do, the thing you most need to make a priority, is to rest, just do it. Rest. I've been giving my need to slow things down lip service lately, but my days are as full and I've not been getting any extra time with my feet up. Today, I was diagnosed with pneumonia. Now I HAVE to slow down. I think it would have been better to slow down without the pneumonia bonus.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
salmon love
I was embraced today. It was not an ordinary hug (though I'm all in favour of such embraces as well) this was a nurturing, caring, practical, yummy embrace of several meals and an abundance of treats. W&J showed up at my door tonight not only with a fabulous bbq salmon dinner for us to share, but also with burrito fixings, two meals of chili, cheese, prociutto, apricot-hazlenut bars, hobnob cookies, avocado-black bean dip, tortilla chips, and a big box of fresh vegetables. This is motherlove-- the sort of thing my mother would do for her worn out daughter if she had the chance. I guess it would be more aptly named "otherlove" in this case, and how deeply thankful I am for the top notch others in my life. Greater even than their culinary generosity is the assurance that these friends heard my grief, understood my depression, and knew how to undergird the friend who is far more comfortable on the other side of the giving equation. They are so good to me.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
sweet peas, grace and Jane Austen
While I do not feel much further along on the journey of recovery from loss, I must be making some progress as the impulse to blog feels stronger today. There are, after all, moments of truth and beauty that should not go unnoted.
I am staying in a spacious home, and there are gardens. Yesterday, I picked sweet peas and lavender and I made two darling pink and purple posies, for me. Tomorrow I may pick lettuce and raspberries.
This morning, I knelt at the healing alter in my church and a friend laid his hands firmly on my shoulders and prayed for grace. He used a lot of words, but I was a bit like the dog, Ginger, in the Far Side cartoon whose owner is talking to her eloquently but all the dog hears is, "Blah, blah, blah, Ginger... Blah, blah, blah, Ginger. There I knelt, dumbfounded by grief, and all I could hear was, "Blah, blah, blah, GRACE... Blah, blah, blah.... GRACE."
This afternoon, I read Jane Austen for four hours straight, stopping only for tea and crackers with mango and ginger stilton.
I am staying in a spacious home, and there are gardens. Yesterday, I picked sweet peas and lavender and I made two darling pink and purple posies, for me. Tomorrow I may pick lettuce and raspberries.
This morning, I knelt at the healing alter in my church and a friend laid his hands firmly on my shoulders and prayed for grace. He used a lot of words, but I was a bit like the dog, Ginger, in the Far Side cartoon whose owner is talking to her eloquently but all the dog hears is, "Blah, blah, blah, Ginger... Blah, blah, blah, Ginger. There I knelt, dumbfounded by grief, and all I could hear was, "Blah, blah, blah, GRACE... Blah, blah, blah.... GRACE."
This afternoon, I read Jane Austen for four hours straight, stopping only for tea and crackers with mango and ginger stilton.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
dis/place
I have been distinctly out of sorts for some time now. So much for daily entries on the "Truth and Beauty" front. There have been many, many tears. One of the more dominant feelings is that of displacement. I feel like I've lost an anchor, lost my moorings, and the seas are stormy.
It was a good day to get a love letter. It's from my Tante Geb, from Holland. Ironically, it was sent to my old address, so the person who most encouraged me today in the ways of love doesn't even know my current address. Some impulse (thanks be to God) led the tenant at my old apartment to see if I had another local address. She found me on the internet and called. I picked up the letter tonight. It's in Dutch and in the ever so tidy but not entirely legible handwriting of an eighty-five year old, so I can't decipher everything, but the gist of it is that she loved my contribution to her memory book (which she cannot read with dry eyes) and she loves me. More specifically, (rough translation) "Darling Sandra, I hope you know that there is always a place for you here." It felt so, so good to read that today. I may not know what I'm doing, who I am or where I'm going, but someone loves me anyway. And if I really need to get away from it all, I will be welcomed with open arms, by my magnificent great aunt, on the other side of the planet. I know there are other people who love me, people who'd take me in and care for me, but the out-of-the-blue-ness of my aunt's letter feels special somehow. I needed that kind of special today.
It was a good day to get a love letter. It's from my Tante Geb, from Holland. Ironically, it was sent to my old address, so the person who most encouraged me today in the ways of love doesn't even know my current address. Some impulse (thanks be to God) led the tenant at my old apartment to see if I had another local address. She found me on the internet and called. I picked up the letter tonight. It's in Dutch and in the ever so tidy but not entirely legible handwriting of an eighty-five year old, so I can't decipher everything, but the gist of it is that she loved my contribution to her memory book (which she cannot read with dry eyes) and she loves me. More specifically, (rough translation) "Darling Sandra, I hope you know that there is always a place for you here." It felt so, so good to read that today. I may not know what I'm doing, who I am or where I'm going, but someone loves me anyway. And if I really need to get away from it all, I will be welcomed with open arms, by my magnificent great aunt, on the other side of the planet. I know there are other people who love me, people who'd take me in and care for me, but the out-of-the-blue-ness of my aunt's letter feels special somehow. I needed that kind of special today.
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