George woke up at 5AM (not because of Christmas just because that's when he's been waking), Fred got up with him and I slept until 7AM when June got up and then Fred went back to sleep for a couple of hours and now we're all up and Fred is downstairs with the kids eating his omelette while they play "Cariboo" and I sneak off to write a bit.
I feel openhearted. I haven't sent cards or even an email message out but I am sending loving energy to all of my friends who are celebrating today, to all of the soldiers who are away and not with their families, to children and families who are struggling today, to people in the hospital, to people in my life who have helped me and whom I have lost touch with and are maybe disappointed in me.
I am more able to watch my mind this Christmas morning than I ever was in years past and notice when I am stuck in racing thoughts. I am more able to quiet my mind and meditate on qualities like love. I am better able to notice changes in my body as I change my mind.
Some days, that is. Yesterday was a long day for me; it was the kids' first day of winter break and we had no plans. It is too cold and snowy here to be outside much. George was really rammy, his energy just never settled no matter what activity I tried. Being inside with an overactive child felt annoying and draining.
Noticing that, I didn't take myself to a place of judgement. I just acknowledged that's how my day was going and that's how I was feeling. Fred came home from work early (at 5PM) to support me and when the kids went to bed we watched "The Wrestler" which I had been wanting to see for a year.
I am feeling so open and shifted today, maybe because of the support, the self-care, the sleep, knowing Fred is here with me today and tomorrow we have plans to go see my sister and family. I think it is more, though; I think being in that annoyed, crappy state of mind yesterday without judging it is what's created the shift.
I am incredibly grateful that I am becoming more mindful of my funny mind and the thoughts that churn through it.
When I came downstairs this morning, George was still full of that excess energy. We sat on the couch together and did a lot of physical play--clapping, rocking back and forth singing "Row, Row, Your Boat." His eyes were sparkling and he engaged with me for a long time and sang a lot. I imagine his soul saying to me Mommy, this is what I needed. Thank you for tuning in and giving it to me.
I can see that in the past few years. having a child with autism has been a great motivator for me to turn inward and turn to my energy and intuition more, especially because so often George can't express to me what he needs or how he is feeling.
But I also recognize that this past year of facing my cancer and getting rid of it has lead me to know that tuning into my energy and working on living mindfully is neccessary not just for George's sake, but for my own.
I want to live a happy life. Being present and open is allowing that to happen. I see now just how much I wanted to control my happiness before, to make the happiness happen. And how devastating it was when suffering happened, like George's autism being diagnosed.
And now I get that the hard, challenging things that happen in our life are part of the nature of life and that every human being suffers and feels fear. And that my response to what manifests in my life is the gateway to happiness; not a fake response, not "be positive." No. My response is now "be present." Notice what I am feeling. Notice what I am thinking. Notice conflicts that I create in my mind. Notice that I am feeling annoyed as hell.
Notice the beauty of being with my husband and children this Christmas morning, notice how it feels to be here with an open heart.
Notice my prayers. Notice the gifts in my life, the incredible community of friends, the work that keeps opening up for me, the synchronicity, the doctors who helped me to get well, Rabbi Yael and Rabbi Linda.
One moment at a time is what I need to show up for. That's all.
***
Last weekend there was a huge snowstorm here and everything closed down including my work so I actually get three weekends off in a row instead of two. What a GIFT! It was snowing when we woke up Saturday morning and it never stopped all day, it snowed into Saturday night and Sunday morning.
I loved the hush of everything. I loved looking into the sky. I thought of other snowstorms in my life, especially of the snowy January and February that followed George's birth and how I wrapped him in layers of onesies and sweaters and snowsuits and put him in the baby bjorn so I could take him out with me just for a little fresh air and how a walk around the block was an incredible adventure and how I could feel his breath and gurgles against my chest and how I wrapped my arms around the baby bjorn and pressed him close against me. And how I remember and savor that delicious moment now because there I was, totally present, feeling the wind, the cold, and the love for my child.
And I thought about snowstorms when I was a child and how everything stopped in the big open of our backyard, set out in the mountains and how I would make snow angels and look into the sky and in the quiet there, I lost myself into the sky, into the falling snow. That quiet, that consciousness, is the place I ran away from, not knowing what to call it, not knowing that others felt it, too. It is the place that
am returning to in all weather, my life as part of an ongoing consciousness, part of the sky, the falling snow, the disappointments and suffering of all people and the release of all disappointments and suffering. Here I am, letting tears come and fall onto my keyboard, here I am writing it down.
Here I am, Christmas morning ( I need to get the kids dressed now and we're going out to the movies soon), wide awake.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
A week and a half ago it was 60 degrees out
and sunny; it was Thursday, the day I keep June home from preschool so that we can have June-Mommy time. We walked to the Elkins Park library and stopped at Elkins Perk for bagels with cream cheese on the way home. Being with June on a sunny day in December filled me with joy and when we arrived back home it was about 1PM and we still had a couple of hours until it was time to get George from school so we planted tulip bulbs that I had been meaning to plant for about a month and a half. I dug the wholes and June plopped in the bulbs and covered them with dirt
and I remembered how one of my first blog entries last march right after my surgery was about taking a walk George and noticing tulips and daffodils sprouting up in my yard and not remembering having planted the bulbs the previous fall. And there I was, with my garden gloves on, digging in the dirt with June, the sun shining on our backs and shoulders, laughing with her as she dangled worms between her fingers, thinking
I've arrived. I'm here right now, I'm in my life, breathing and laughing and being with June...whereas a year ago in this kind of moment, I know that my mind would have not only been circling around my to-do list but also be reminding me of all the things that I hadn't done right or well or thinking about people whom I "owed" a phone call to or ruminating about some mistake I'd made at work.
And now, the blessing that is coming out of my contemplative practice is noticing how my mind works, so that I can turn it off or at least be aware of it so that racing thoughts can't stop me from soaking in the sun and dirt and the joy of being with my daughter
who marvels at worms and how they squirm and how one can become two worms.
Having survived cancer, I am sure as hell not willing to let my anxieties or perfectionism rob me from living my life.
****
For the last two weeks or so, I've bundled up the kids in hats and coats at 5PM and taken them out for a brisk walk before dinner. George really needs physical activity to settle his sensory system and the fresh air does us all good. Entering the winter making a conscious effort to move my body is one of the ways that I'm hoping to fend off the usual seasonal depression that sets in for me about this time of year.
We look at our neighbors' Christmas lights. George gets fascinated by blinking lights and stops to gaze at them and jumps up and down. I wish he could describe to me how he's seeing it because I can tell that it is very magical for him.
June wants to celebrate Christmas this year, even though I've explained that Chanukah is our tradition. Sending her to a Jewish preschool can only do so much, Christmas is everywhere. It makes perfect developmental sense to me that it's hard for her to distinguish between "ours" and "theirs" and I'm trying to be low-key about it and not make a big deal about the distinction and focus on making warm Chanukah memories that will become part of her foundation.
There is one house we walk by that is the best: it's got a yard full of dancing santas, trees wrapped like candy canes and a glowing creche scene, complete with camels and the three wise men on their way to see Baby Jesus.
The first day we saw it, June asked me if she could sing a chanukah song to Santa(s). I said sure and she launched into a very dramatic rendition of "S'vivon, Sov, Sov" ("Spin Drydel") at the top of her lungs. We said good-night to the santas and walked over towards the creche scene. June asked me who the baby was and I said baby Jesus and that Christmas is his birthday and June said who is the Mommy and Daddy and I said Mary and Joseph and they are so happy that there baby is with them just how I was so happy when I got to hold baby George and baby June because you both were my dreams and then God brought you both to me.
And Georgie, who hadn't said anything for at least an hour and was jumping up and down as if his body was receiving electrical charge from the lights, started singing the song from Barney I love you, You love me, We're a happy family...
and it's not like he watches Barney or anything and we probably hadn't sang that song for a year maybe and he pulled it out, there in front of baby Jesus and he sang it beautifully, the whole thing.
And I don't know if his singing was the miracle of the moment or that June stayed quiet and let him sing or that I was alive and well holding my two babies mittened hands or that God had brought us all together, the four of us, our happy family
but I did thank God for my expanding heart, for all of my blessings, and for the beautiful story
of that baby, which evokes love and hope in my heart.
***
And that I'll figure out how to say to June that religion is a metaphor and that Judaism is our culture, a beautiful and complicated civilization with a language, food, ethics, traditions, etc. that we can draw strength and wisdom from.
But God, I offer to both of my kids, is the consciousness inside of us, around us, connecting us. God is our breath, our awareness. You don't have to know anything to access God; God is there, God is holding us.
I am so much more gentle and loving to myself now. I can see myself more clearly because I am not afraid to see my life clearly, its deep challenges and its blessings.
I am thankful to light my little Chanukah candles this December, this Hebrew month of Kislev, and watch them rather quickly melt. I may only have a moment or two to notice them because someone is whining to open presents now or needs their special holiday kiddush cup filled with more apple juice, but that moment is enough right now. To have one moment and really experience the candle's light allows it to stay with me when it is dark and gone.
and I remembered how one of my first blog entries last march right after my surgery was about taking a walk George and noticing tulips and daffodils sprouting up in my yard and not remembering having planted the bulbs the previous fall. And there I was, with my garden gloves on, digging in the dirt with June, the sun shining on our backs and shoulders, laughing with her as she dangled worms between her fingers, thinking
I've arrived. I'm here right now, I'm in my life, breathing and laughing and being with June...whereas a year ago in this kind of moment, I know that my mind would have not only been circling around my to-do list but also be reminding me of all the things that I hadn't done right or well or thinking about people whom I "owed" a phone call to or ruminating about some mistake I'd made at work.
And now, the blessing that is coming out of my contemplative practice is noticing how my mind works, so that I can turn it off or at least be aware of it so that racing thoughts can't stop me from soaking in the sun and dirt and the joy of being with my daughter
who marvels at worms and how they squirm and how one can become two worms.
Having survived cancer, I am sure as hell not willing to let my anxieties or perfectionism rob me from living my life.
****
For the last two weeks or so, I've bundled up the kids in hats and coats at 5PM and taken them out for a brisk walk before dinner. George really needs physical activity to settle his sensory system and the fresh air does us all good. Entering the winter making a conscious effort to move my body is one of the ways that I'm hoping to fend off the usual seasonal depression that sets in for me about this time of year.
We look at our neighbors' Christmas lights. George gets fascinated by blinking lights and stops to gaze at them and jumps up and down. I wish he could describe to me how he's seeing it because I can tell that it is very magical for him.
June wants to celebrate Christmas this year, even though I've explained that Chanukah is our tradition. Sending her to a Jewish preschool can only do so much, Christmas is everywhere. It makes perfect developmental sense to me that it's hard for her to distinguish between "ours" and "theirs" and I'm trying to be low-key about it and not make a big deal about the distinction and focus on making warm Chanukah memories that will become part of her foundation.
There is one house we walk by that is the best: it's got a yard full of dancing santas, trees wrapped like candy canes and a glowing creche scene, complete with camels and the three wise men on their way to see Baby Jesus.
The first day we saw it, June asked me if she could sing a chanukah song to Santa(s). I said sure and she launched into a very dramatic rendition of "S'vivon, Sov, Sov" ("Spin Drydel") at the top of her lungs. We said good-night to the santas and walked over towards the creche scene. June asked me who the baby was and I said baby Jesus and that Christmas is his birthday and June said who is the Mommy and Daddy and I said Mary and Joseph and they are so happy that there baby is with them just how I was so happy when I got to hold baby George and baby June because you both were my dreams and then God brought you both to me.
And Georgie, who hadn't said anything for at least an hour and was jumping up and down as if his body was receiving electrical charge from the lights, started singing the song from Barney I love you, You love me, We're a happy family...
and it's not like he watches Barney or anything and we probably hadn't sang that song for a year maybe and he pulled it out, there in front of baby Jesus and he sang it beautifully, the whole thing.
And I don't know if his singing was the miracle of the moment or that June stayed quiet and let him sing or that I was alive and well holding my two babies mittened hands or that God had brought us all together, the four of us, our happy family
but I did thank God for my expanding heart, for all of my blessings, and for the beautiful story
of that baby, which evokes love and hope in my heart.
***
And that I'll figure out how to say to June that religion is a metaphor and that Judaism is our culture, a beautiful and complicated civilization with a language, food, ethics, traditions, etc. that we can draw strength and wisdom from.
But God, I offer to both of my kids, is the consciousness inside of us, around us, connecting us. God is our breath, our awareness. You don't have to know anything to access God; God is there, God is holding us.
I am so much more gentle and loving to myself now. I can see myself more clearly because I am not afraid to see my life clearly, its deep challenges and its blessings.
I am thankful to light my little Chanukah candles this December, this Hebrew month of Kislev, and watch them rather quickly melt. I may only have a moment or two to notice them because someone is whining to open presents now or needs their special holiday kiddush cup filled with more apple juice, but that moment is enough right now. To have one moment and really experience the candle's light allows it to stay with me when it is dark and gone.
Monday, November 30, 2009
At our Thanksgving dinner
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Holy Motherfucker,
June got sent home from preschool this week because of nits (that's baby lice eggs for you uninitiated) and Fred and I became psychotic. We've dealt with a lot recently, my cancer and its treatment; finding the right kindergarten for our autistic son. We've dealt pretty well and pretty calmly; we haven't let our fears take hold of us and squeeze us. We've gone on living and laughing and seizing the day.
But nits--Motherfucker! Scrubbing our four-year-old's hair with chemicals and combing through each strand with a finetooth comb and washing every single linen, pillow, pillow case, blanket, jacket, stuffed animal in hot water...ad nauseum because the treatment didn't work, she got sent home from school again and then we found them on George's scalp and then we took them and got them both haircuts as short as we could and then June decided she was a boy and we just kept washing every damn thing in the house and trying to work and using natural nit remedies like bathing the kids in vinegar.
Motherfucker. I'm sorry if this sounds facetious because I don't mean it to be at all but nits have been harder for us to deal with than cancer. And I'm just now, thinking they're gone, the nits, thinking they're gone, laughing at that. A little bit.
****
It's been a funny few weeks of post-cancerness. I've been receiving things--cards and presents--from people who weren't present for me during my cancer experience. First came a package from a mom of a boy who went to preschool with George for two years whom I had developed a close friendship with and then had stopped talking to me about a year ago because she was "going through things and couldn't deal." That was a strange, hard experience for me because if I can say one thing about myself, I'm a good friend. I'd never had someone do that to me before. I won't rehash it all except to say that it was very painful for me and I've let it go and then there comes a package from her a few weeks ago with jewelry for me and a video for the kids and a note.
And then a few days later a long heartfelt letter from a friend of a friend saying how sorry she was that she hadn't been there for me and wishing me well.
And then more jewelry, beautiful earrings and a necklace, from a congregant at the synagogue where I work who had been one of the few people who hadn't written me a note or email while I was going through surgery and treatment to say that I was in her prayers.
And then a brisket. From another congregant. Who saw my post-chemo haircut and apologized for not reading her emails from our "Acts of Caring" list and wanted to know what was going on while I was in the middle of an activity with a large group of students. When I said that I couldn't talk just then, she left the room looking flustered. I went back to my office after school and found a large brisket on my desk with a note from her.
Now this part has been comical. Because I didn't need any of these people to be with me during my cancer experience; I have people close to me, very close, who were incredibly present. So I am able sit back and watch these delayed reactions in an unattached way. And accept their gifts.
****
Monday morning George is having surgery. It's routine; ear tubes in, tonsils and adenoids out. We've been through the ear tubes before at CHOP and I am grateful that we discovered that he needs them again and also his tonsils and adenoids out. It won't be easy, the surgery and recovery for him, but he is my love and I am holding how good this will be for his health on the other side of recovery. If you pray, pray for him. Hold him in light and affirm that he will go through surgery with ease. George is my baby and this coming week will be another one that won't be easy for us.
But easier, I think, than the motherfucking nits.
But nits--Motherfucker! Scrubbing our four-year-old's hair with chemicals and combing through each strand with a finetooth comb and washing every single linen, pillow, pillow case, blanket, jacket, stuffed animal in hot water...ad nauseum because the treatment didn't work, she got sent home from school again and then we found them on George's scalp and then we took them and got them both haircuts as short as we could and then June decided she was a boy and we just kept washing every damn thing in the house and trying to work and using natural nit remedies like bathing the kids in vinegar.
Motherfucker. I'm sorry if this sounds facetious because I don't mean it to be at all but nits have been harder for us to deal with than cancer. And I'm just now, thinking they're gone, the nits, thinking they're gone, laughing at that. A little bit.
****
It's been a funny few weeks of post-cancerness. I've been receiving things--cards and presents--from people who weren't present for me during my cancer experience. First came a package from a mom of a boy who went to preschool with George for two years whom I had developed a close friendship with and then had stopped talking to me about a year ago because she was "going through things and couldn't deal." That was a strange, hard experience for me because if I can say one thing about myself, I'm a good friend. I'd never had someone do that to me before. I won't rehash it all except to say that it was very painful for me and I've let it go and then there comes a package from her a few weeks ago with jewelry for me and a video for the kids and a note.
And then a few days later a long heartfelt letter from a friend of a friend saying how sorry she was that she hadn't been there for me and wishing me well.
And then more jewelry, beautiful earrings and a necklace, from a congregant at the synagogue where I work who had been one of the few people who hadn't written me a note or email while I was going through surgery and treatment to say that I was in her prayers.
And then a brisket. From another congregant. Who saw my post-chemo haircut and apologized for not reading her emails from our "Acts of Caring" list and wanted to know what was going on while I was in the middle of an activity with a large group of students. When I said that I couldn't talk just then, she left the room looking flustered. I went back to my office after school and found a large brisket on my desk with a note from her.
Now this part has been comical. Because I didn't need any of these people to be with me during my cancer experience; I have people close to me, very close, who were incredibly present. So I am able sit back and watch these delayed reactions in an unattached way. And accept their gifts.
****
Monday morning George is having surgery. It's routine; ear tubes in, tonsils and adenoids out. We've been through the ear tubes before at CHOP and I am grateful that we discovered that he needs them again and also his tonsils and adenoids out. It won't be easy, the surgery and recovery for him, but he is my love and I am holding how good this will be for his health on the other side of recovery. If you pray, pray for him. Hold him in light and affirm that he will go through surgery with ease. George is my baby and this coming week will be another one that won't be easy for us.
But easier, I think, than the motherfucking nits.
Monday, October 12, 2009
I'm deep in life after cancer now;
it feels different, I feel different. It's hard to explain...
at Yom Kippur, I really felt the difference, in a surprising, wonderful way. I lead three services in a row and can have up to 70 kids in a service. A lot of them don't want to be there and I work hard to figure out a way to make the day meaningful for them. Usually this means creating skits and characters and all sorts of shtick. But this year, I hadn't put in hours and hours making props and costumes to teach the children about being helpful instead of hurtful, about forgiveness and letting go. I just spoke to them and prayed with them. When we prayed, for example, after the Barchu, for God who creates light and darkness and all things in the world, I told the children that light and darkness means what we see outside of us in nature, but also the light and darkness we feel inside of us, that was created by God, that is holy, those moments of us feeling the darkness. The kids were so with me and maybe something resonated in some of them.
In life after cancer, I am relying less on performing or entertaining; I am trusting more that my inner sense of strength will lead me through difficult, stressful, challenging moments.
In life after cancer, I am not expecting myself to be perfect at all; I can more easily say I'm sorry when I fuck up and then I let go of my mistake without obsessing about it.
In life after cancer I am seizing two hours after school every weekday when I am with the kids, 3:30--5:30pm, and I try to be on the phone or computer only if I have to be, and I make that time to be as present as I can with them, with what's happening in that moment. We've had some awesome times playing outside in these cooler autumn afternoons,
a kind of coming back to ourselves, of grounding, after whatever has happened in the day for us. For George, that could be lots of feelings that he can't express, all of the energies of the teachers and kids that he's been with all day, his own frustrations--
and so for two hours or so, I focus on being openhearted and it's been a kind of nourishing recovery time for all of us.
Some moments have been so beautiful like last Thursday afternoon when we stopped by our CSA to pick up our fruit share of Golden Delicious apples and the sky was strikingly blue with giant white clouds and the three of us held hands and ran up and down the big green hill in front of Kol Ami synagogue
and I felt overwhelmed with joy--to be alive, to be running hand and hand with my children, to be part supporting an organic farm, to celebrate Sukkot, to live in a neighborhood that we love.
I still have a shitload of things to do, projects to organize, finances to get in order, queries to send out.
Not a lot has shifted externally for me at all, even though I feel different in my own skin, now that my cancer is gone and
I imagine in the next few years, there will be profound external shifts. (Wouldn't there have to be? With all of this internal shifting happening?)
I am clarifying some really big dreams now.
The difference that I'm trying to describe, which is hard to describe, is the way I'm reaching out for my dreams. It's not my old way of getting over pumped on adrenaline and caffeine. I'm trying to go for balance, in just a day to day way, one hour at a time, more or less. Some days I feel much more balanced than others but my awareness is there, so when I become stressed or tired
I can more easily come back.
In life after cancer, I am happier. In life after cancer, I am more forgiving. In life after cancer, I am thousands of times more grateful and more present.
In life after cancer, I look different, with my GI Jane dark hair buzz cut growing in each day and my new piercings (nose and upper ear).
In life after cancer, each day opens and unfolds so imperfectly and I feel the holiness in it all.
at Yom Kippur, I really felt the difference, in a surprising, wonderful way. I lead three services in a row and can have up to 70 kids in a service. A lot of them don't want to be there and I work hard to figure out a way to make the day meaningful for them. Usually this means creating skits and characters and all sorts of shtick. But this year, I hadn't put in hours and hours making props and costumes to teach the children about being helpful instead of hurtful, about forgiveness and letting go. I just spoke to them and prayed with them. When we prayed, for example, after the Barchu, for God who creates light and darkness and all things in the world, I told the children that light and darkness means what we see outside of us in nature, but also the light and darkness we feel inside of us, that was created by God, that is holy, those moments of us feeling the darkness. The kids were so with me and maybe something resonated in some of them.
In life after cancer, I am relying less on performing or entertaining; I am trusting more that my inner sense of strength will lead me through difficult, stressful, challenging moments.
In life after cancer, I am not expecting myself to be perfect at all; I can more easily say I'm sorry when I fuck up and then I let go of my mistake without obsessing about it.
In life after cancer I am seizing two hours after school every weekday when I am with the kids, 3:30--5:30pm, and I try to be on the phone or computer only if I have to be, and I make that time to be as present as I can with them, with what's happening in that moment. We've had some awesome times playing outside in these cooler autumn afternoons,
a kind of coming back to ourselves, of grounding, after whatever has happened in the day for us. For George, that could be lots of feelings that he can't express, all of the energies of the teachers and kids that he's been with all day, his own frustrations--
and so for two hours or so, I focus on being openhearted and it's been a kind of nourishing recovery time for all of us.
Some moments have been so beautiful like last Thursday afternoon when we stopped by our CSA to pick up our fruit share of Golden Delicious apples and the sky was strikingly blue with giant white clouds and the three of us held hands and ran up and down the big green hill in front of Kol Ami synagogue
and I felt overwhelmed with joy--to be alive, to be running hand and hand with my children, to be part supporting an organic farm, to celebrate Sukkot, to live in a neighborhood that we love.
I still have a shitload of things to do, projects to organize, finances to get in order, queries to send out.
Not a lot has shifted externally for me at all, even though I feel different in my own skin, now that my cancer is gone and
I imagine in the next few years, there will be profound external shifts. (Wouldn't there have to be? With all of this internal shifting happening?)
I am clarifying some really big dreams now.
The difference that I'm trying to describe, which is hard to describe, is the way I'm reaching out for my dreams. It's not my old way of getting over pumped on adrenaline and caffeine. I'm trying to go for balance, in just a day to day way, one hour at a time, more or less. Some days I feel much more balanced than others but my awareness is there, so when I become stressed or tired
I can more easily come back.
In life after cancer, I am happier. In life after cancer, I am more forgiving. In life after cancer, I am thousands of times more grateful and more present.
In life after cancer, I look different, with my GI Jane dark hair buzz cut growing in each day and my new piercings (nose and upper ear).
In life after cancer, each day opens and unfolds so imperfectly and I feel the holiness in it all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)