when everyone had come to the table, plates full from the bountiful buffet at the U.S. Hotel in Hollidaysburg, PA, where I grew up, where my parents live, all twelve of us--Mom, Dad, Sabba, Julie, Gal, Ben, Jake, Max, Fred, George, June and me--Gal raised his glass and everyone put their forks down and stopped talking and Gal said we are thankful to God for everyone's health and for everyone being here and Aunt Gabby is my hero. She has been through a hard time this year and they way she went through it makes her my hero.
Tears came to my eyes and to Gal's when our eyes met; I was incredibly moved by his sincere expression and his acknowledgement of what my year has been and how I've experienced it. I don't know if I take in the idea of "hero" which seems kind of exaggerrated to me, but I would say to Gal, maybe I am a model? and I will accept that
because I think I can tell you what it is that I've been trying to write about all of these months and what I've learned and what I'm living:
that God is with us in suffereing; that life is a mystery; that challenging stuff comes at us, it's just the nature of the world that we live in. That being present to the suffering, not running or escaping from it is powerful. That being present to the suffering alleviates the suffering.
That here I am, a 38-year-old woman who fills blessed, full of hope, energy and optimism, even as I say that my life is full of daily challenges: managing Type 1 diabetes, working to remediate my son's autism, which goes through phases where things are working well and then phases where things just aren't. That I made it through cancer and cancer treatment and now have a stronger commitment to build a life of physical, emotional and spiritual health and that I have discovered to do so, I need to not run from subconsious thoughts or fears but let them surface and acknowledge them.
and that a sense of inner happiness can be there, even when the outside of my life is complicated, hard and messy. Which is how it feels some days, it how it feels today, in fact, with George being off his gluten-free diet and not sleeping well for two nights now. Which is how it feels now, sitting inmy pajamas, needing to shower, pay bills and straighten up the house. Today I'm sitting with the frustration of George not sleeping and even though we've been here before, where George's behavior and regulation goes off when his diet is off, it still feels like it's going to be a lot of work to get him on track and I desparately want to be on the other side, where's he's sleeping and functioning well again.
And yet, that being said, I feel so totally different from how I might have felt a year ago. I am still feeling what is happiness and well-being, knowing that the frustration is just a feeling, even writing that now, it is leaving me.
I'm going to shower now and go take a walk. It's cloudy out, overcast, around 50 degrees. While I walk, I am going to try and focus on my breath and meditate on peace and see what thoughts and feelings come up and out of my mind and then I'll try to return to my breath,
it's a process, I haven't become a monk or something or a spiritual superhero for goodness sake, but I have gotten closer to living the life that I want to live and I am going to keep writing because I don't think that I expressed it exactly today as I'm feeling it.
Happiness is inner and my life doesn't need to be perfect or fill anyone else's longings. I am responsible for my happiness. The place where I am empty out and breath is where I feel God entering me, supporting me on cold, cloudy days.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
This time of year I have often become mildly depressed,
sometimes with consciousness of it and sometimes not, and right now I can feel my body shift into a kind of slow, hibernational mode, but I'm not depressed at all. I feel very close to God and very grateful. I feel very clear. I feel like my practice of being present is taking hold in a very powerful way, my practice of noticing. It's been 5 weeks now that my life has been out of any regular order, first the lice, then George's surgery, then George's recovery, then this week June's been sick. All of my plans stop and start; adjustments have to be made. Frustration and exhaustion has welled up in me. And then I've noticed those feelings of frustration or exhaustion, and I've emptied them from my body. I've breathed in and felt myself surrounded by God's presence, held, open to receiving blessings in the midst of what's going on. Just really, after cancer, the imperfections of life are just imperfections of life.
And actually I want to stop saying after cancer, referring to my experiences now as "after cancer," because it's more than that I am a survivor, it's actually about the process, the way that I survived. Which is that I went through cancer allowing myself to be vulnerable and in that place, I opened to God with a faith and trust that I hadn't gone to before. I'm ready to own that now, thank you very much.
And I know that surrender maybe sounds like letting go of control and I know that you may be reading this thinking sure she feels close to God, who doesn't call out for God in those liminal moments, when the border between death and life are so unclear and
to that I want to say I don't think that I could have understood this experience before it happened and to that I say that I have felt God's presence with me since I was a child and never knew how to articulate it exactly and to that I say I have always been a seeker and to that I say I am finally able to write and talk about God with no self consciousness, even if maybe here, now, struggling to write what I've been feeling I'm not making much sense?
Am I? Maybe I can come back to this feeling and maybe I can make more sense of it or write in images, write a poem. Now I just want to capture it, to say that in late October and early November 2009, as the days started getting darker and as my son went under anesthesia, twice, and then back to the hospital again, that during that time, I felt held up by God and surrounded by love and the purpose of my life became clearer.
***
A blessing that I want to record: Sandra, Fred's sister, has been around and helping us with child care quite a lot. It has been the hugest blessing. Sandra told me something June said the other day that made me feel like I am being the mother that I want to be: Sandra had trouble working the VCR and said she was sorry to the kids that she couldn't get their movie on. June said to her, "That's okay, Aunt San, my mommy says it's okay to make mistakes."
Because so much of what is happening in me now is about forgiveness, I just felt so elated to hear June internalizing and applying this idea that we all make mistakes.
For me, I see that one of my biggest mistakes has been constantly pushing myself to do, to achieve, to act, which has taken me out of being fully present in my life. I am saying now that I have been complicit in that mistake and in noticing this tendency, I have been able to catch myself. And forgive myself when I go of course, which I do almost daily.
June, I should say, is just becoming so totally herself; so magical and imaginative, so loving and outgoing and spunky. I want to give her so much, I want to protect her. I want her never to hide her voice or feel away from God. And I know I can only do so much and that she's at the beginning of her own, wild ride.
But I hope her seeing my happiness in my imperfect life will inspire her to keep at it, keep at her joy and bliss which seem to rise up and meet her wherever she goes.
And actually I want to stop saying after cancer, referring to my experiences now as "after cancer," because it's more than that I am a survivor, it's actually about the process, the way that I survived. Which is that I went through cancer allowing myself to be vulnerable and in that place, I opened to God with a faith and trust that I hadn't gone to before. I'm ready to own that now, thank you very much.
And I know that surrender maybe sounds like letting go of control and I know that you may be reading this thinking sure she feels close to God, who doesn't call out for God in those liminal moments, when the border between death and life are so unclear and
to that I want to say I don't think that I could have understood this experience before it happened and to that I say that I have felt God's presence with me since I was a child and never knew how to articulate it exactly and to that I say I have always been a seeker and to that I say I am finally able to write and talk about God with no self consciousness, even if maybe here, now, struggling to write what I've been feeling I'm not making much sense?
Am I? Maybe I can come back to this feeling and maybe I can make more sense of it or write in images, write a poem. Now I just want to capture it, to say that in late October and early November 2009, as the days started getting darker and as my son went under anesthesia, twice, and then back to the hospital again, that during that time, I felt held up by God and surrounded by love and the purpose of my life became clearer.
***
A blessing that I want to record: Sandra, Fred's sister, has been around and helping us with child care quite a lot. It has been the hugest blessing. Sandra told me something June said the other day that made me feel like I am being the mother that I want to be: Sandra had trouble working the VCR and said she was sorry to the kids that she couldn't get their movie on. June said to her, "That's okay, Aunt San, my mommy says it's okay to make mistakes."
Because so much of what is happening in me now is about forgiveness, I just felt so elated to hear June internalizing and applying this idea that we all make mistakes.
For me, I see that one of my biggest mistakes has been constantly pushing myself to do, to achieve, to act, which has taken me out of being fully present in my life. I am saying now that I have been complicit in that mistake and in noticing this tendency, I have been able to catch myself. And forgive myself when I go of course, which I do almost daily.
June, I should say, is just becoming so totally herself; so magical and imaginative, so loving and outgoing and spunky. I want to give her so much, I want to protect her. I want her never to hide her voice or feel away from God. And I know I can only do so much and that she's at the beginning of her own, wild ride.
But I hope her seeing my happiness in my imperfect life will inspire her to keep at it, keep at her joy and bliss which seem to rise up and meet her wherever she goes.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
George's surgery is behind us;
it was a slow two weeks, we were at CHOP more than we would have liked, but he's healing now, ready to get back to school on Monday. What a blessing that Sandra, Fred's sister, has been around and able to help out with the kids a lot. We could be at the hospital with George, knowing completely that June was in great hands with Sandra. And the people at CHOP, every one of them, every nurse, doctor, food service person, custodian, they are just friendly and kind and courteous and made being there as easy as it could be.
And I let myself be very present for George while we were there and while he recovered. We watched a lot of Food network TV together and cuddled. I mostly did well at not worrying about all of the projects that I need to organize in the house and about my work that I wasn't doing. After going through cancer treatment, I know now that I don't have to expect perfection of myself and I know that the world goes on even when I fuck up a little here and there...
and I know maybe that sounds a little bit obvious and trite but for me, it's been revolutionary. Allowing myself to make mistakes, allowing myself to be patient when things take a long time, doctors with their discharge papers, for example, I know now that I have some control in how I react and how I react can impact my reality. I can be in CHOP, waiting from 6:30AM to 11:30AM waiting for the nurse practitioner to sign off with George's discharge instructions that Dr. Tom gave me orally at 6:30AM, and I can be grateful for George's healing--or I can just be pissed off that it's taking so long. I meditated consciously on being grateful and I felt so much happier as a result even when feelings of being pissed off surfaced; I could look at them and say "I'm pissed off" and watch that feeling float away...
The mindfulness practice that I've been cultivating is mostly about noticing what I'm feeling and I'm realizing how in any situation, I'm internalizing the practice--
yesterday afternoon I got George in his coat and out in the backyard for some air. I sat in a green folding lawn chair, clutching my hot green tea while the wind blew against me. I closed my eyes against the sun shining and everything was white and for the first time since his surgery I could hear George singing. I felt how present I was to that moment--to the sun, the wind, to George's singing--all of it against the backdrop of everything that I hadn't done or accomplished in the two weeks that I had been caring for George since his surgery. I knew that all of that "stuff" was there but I was able to ignore it and embrace where I was.
A very close, dear, old friend of mine is in rehab right now. I found out a week ago, I found out about her alcoholism a week ago, and she hasn't been out of my mind since. Memories surfacing of our girlhoods together; memories of her father getting ill and dying when we were in high school. I can still see and smell the church that Sunday in June where his mass was held, St. Mary's in Hollidaysburg, and everyone gathering back at the house after the service to eat and the two of us drinking wine from boxes in plastic cups.
I remember the emotions of that day and I remember my girlfriend holding back, holding it in, holding herself together. They're just feelings, I think, remembering her and remembering her dad
and remembering her mom, who passed too, about eight years after that, of what, of drinking, they're just feelings, I think to myself as the sun against my closed eyes makes everything white, in my backyard, in Elkins Park, with my son, nearing seven years old, singing something intangible, what?
Then my eyes open, stinging with tears, Georgie, what are you singing?
My eyes open, stinging with tears, George, I want to know. I want to know what you're singing, what you're thinking.
I miss my friend and I miss all that I've missed, the years of her drinking and suffering and me, not picking up the phone.
(Why do we suffer this way--alone? They're only feeling, feelings--)
They are just feelings I say out loud wiping tears in the cold wind, taking George in to get warm the sun going down, approaching evening, November, dinner to make, calls to return.
And I let myself be very present for George while we were there and while he recovered. We watched a lot of Food network TV together and cuddled. I mostly did well at not worrying about all of the projects that I need to organize in the house and about my work that I wasn't doing. After going through cancer treatment, I know now that I don't have to expect perfection of myself and I know that the world goes on even when I fuck up a little here and there...
and I know maybe that sounds a little bit obvious and trite but for me, it's been revolutionary. Allowing myself to make mistakes, allowing myself to be patient when things take a long time, doctors with their discharge papers, for example, I know now that I have some control in how I react and how I react can impact my reality. I can be in CHOP, waiting from 6:30AM to 11:30AM waiting for the nurse practitioner to sign off with George's discharge instructions that Dr. Tom gave me orally at 6:30AM, and I can be grateful for George's healing--or I can just be pissed off that it's taking so long. I meditated consciously on being grateful and I felt so much happier as a result even when feelings of being pissed off surfaced; I could look at them and say "I'm pissed off" and watch that feeling float away...
The mindfulness practice that I've been cultivating is mostly about noticing what I'm feeling and I'm realizing how in any situation, I'm internalizing the practice--
yesterday afternoon I got George in his coat and out in the backyard for some air. I sat in a green folding lawn chair, clutching my hot green tea while the wind blew against me. I closed my eyes against the sun shining and everything was white and for the first time since his surgery I could hear George singing. I felt how present I was to that moment--to the sun, the wind, to George's singing--all of it against the backdrop of everything that I hadn't done or accomplished in the two weeks that I had been caring for George since his surgery. I knew that all of that "stuff" was there but I was able to ignore it and embrace where I was.
A very close, dear, old friend of mine is in rehab right now. I found out a week ago, I found out about her alcoholism a week ago, and she hasn't been out of my mind since. Memories surfacing of our girlhoods together; memories of her father getting ill and dying when we were in high school. I can still see and smell the church that Sunday in June where his mass was held, St. Mary's in Hollidaysburg, and everyone gathering back at the house after the service to eat and the two of us drinking wine from boxes in plastic cups.
I remember the emotions of that day and I remember my girlfriend holding back, holding it in, holding herself together. They're just feelings, I think, remembering her and remembering her dad
and remembering her mom, who passed too, about eight years after that, of what, of drinking, they're just feelings, I think to myself as the sun against my closed eyes makes everything white, in my backyard, in Elkins Park, with my son, nearing seven years old, singing something intangible, what?
Then my eyes open, stinging with tears, Georgie, what are you singing?
My eyes open, stinging with tears, George, I want to know. I want to know what you're singing, what you're thinking.
I miss my friend and I miss all that I've missed, the years of her drinking and suffering and me, not picking up the phone.
(Why do we suffer this way--alone? They're only feeling, feelings--)
They are just feelings I say out loud wiping tears in the cold wind, taking George in to get warm the sun going down, approaching evening, November, dinner to make, calls to return.
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