Stepping Away from the Edge

A Sort Of Metaphor

Over the weekend, I sat on my patio and looked across my yard, and I saw this. . .

My pergola.

A cool and private oasis in my landscape. 

Green. 

Shady. 

Comfortable.

And it got me thinking. . .

because . . . well . . . it wasn't always like that.

Four years ago it looked like this. . .

Nothing.  Just dead-ish lawn and a clear view to my neighbors' house.

I had always, always dreamed of having a pergola . . . or an arbor. . . or a gazebo.  With a swing.  And wisteria.  But I never really thought I'd actually have one.  Not in that spot, certainly.  Not anywhere.

But then I got cancer.

And needed to occupy myself during the four months of chemo treatments.

So I dreamed.  With landscape design books and gardening magazines open all around me.

I decided I wanted to change my view.

I decided I wanted to create the spaces I'd always only dreamed of having.

I decided to make my dreams . . . happen.

And I had help.

My friend, Sandie.  Who encouraged.

And Tom.  And Brian.  And my Dad.

They dug in.

They plowed under.

They raised up.

They set down.

They hammered in.

My pergola.

Because they love me.

And there it was. . .

Raw.

Naked.

Stark.

In need of planting.

No one would see the pergola and not know it was . . . new.  Raised from what used to be there.

Kind of like . . . I was. 

But now . . . 

Why, it looks like it's been there forever.

And always.

The structure is sound. 

The roots are deep. 

The edges are smoothed out.

Kind of like . . . me!

 

The Pull of September

I have always loved September.

When I was a little girl, I loved school.  In fact, the first day of school was right up there with Christmas Day for me.  (That -  and my family's annual trip to the Kiddie Land amusement park.)  Big excitement!  It was all so fresh . . . and new! 

I loved summertime, too. . . don't get me wrong.  But by the time the end of August rolled around, I was ready for the NEW and the CHANGE that September represented.  I was ready for structure.  I was ready for school.  I was ready to get to work!

Come September, I had a new teacher and a new grade and a new classroom.  I got new shoes and a new lunchbox and some new dresses.  Best of all . . . I got new school supplies.  I loved buying - and then organizing - my new school supplies.  Crayons.  Big Chief pads.  Pencils.  A big eraser.  A ruler.  A new pencil box.

The academic calendar -- September through May with a restorative break for the summer - has resonated with me since first grade.  Even when I was out of school (finally. . .) and working (before I had kids on their own academic calendar), I felt that Pull of September!  For me, September seems to be the most appropriate time to launch new goals and plans and resolutions.  I understand the whole New Year's thing. . . the turning over of the annual calendar and the fresh January feeling that comes with it.  But. . . it's still the middle of winter.  Nothing is changing, really.  Except the number of the year.

So. . . for me, September = Fresh Start.

Or. . . it DID.

Until 2008.

In 2008, September started to represent something altogether different for me.  It was in September 2008 that my cancer nightmare grabbed hold and wouldn't let go.  It was in September 2008 that I entered the horrible period when I knew that something was terribly wrong with me.  But I didn't know what . . . yet.  But words like. . .biopsy . . .  and malignant . . . and lymphoma . . .  were in the air.

September 2008 . . . offered no diagnosis.  No idea of possible treatment options.  No doctor.  No notion of extent or prognosis.  (That all came in October.)  Just the awful. . .

freefall

bottom-of-the-world-dropping-out

clawing at the air for answers

kind of agony.  Through all of September.  It didn't feel like a Fresh Start.  It felt like a nightmare.

In the Septembers that have followed . . . 2009, 2010, 2011 . . . I've slowly come back around.  Those first couple of Septembers were pretty tough.  I went to The Edge.  I plunged over.

Last year, I was much better.

And this year?  2012?  Four years later?

I'm feeling the Pull of September in a very strong way.  A good way.  This year, I feel like dancing at The Edge.

So I bought myself a new box of crayons. 

Just to open them up and see their colorful, fresh points . . . all lined up in the box.  

My new crayons . . . are a symbol of . . .

new beginnings

a time to set goals

an opportunity to re-group and prepare myself for the next nine months

life . . . moving forward

For the first time in a few years . . . September = Fresh Start!

Again!

Just Three

It's Thursday.  Time for a 3-fer!

1.  Having your adult kids at home for a visit is GREAT.  But, wow!  There never seem to be any clean glasses available. . .  And there are shoes and books and keys and empty snack bags EVERYwhere!  (Feels like old times.)

2.  Two weeks from today, I'll be in Sweden with my sister!  Between work and home and garden, I have a million things to wrap up before I leave.  (Biggest concern on my mind. . . what to pack???)

3.  I have my 6-month check-up appointment with my oncologist this afternoon.  The amazing thing. . . is that I FORGOT about the appointment until I got a reminder call from her office yesterday! (I never thought that would be the case.)

Have a great Thursday!

On Everyday-Ness

When I was young, it seems I was always waiting for . . . something.  The Next Big Event or Special Day or Turning Point that would mark my life and make it "special."  I was totally bored by the ho-hum, everyday cadence of my life.  I wanted Big Things. 

As I grew older, I started to get it.  I began to get a glimpse of what was actually behind all those "life-is-a-journey-not-a-destination" quotes and inspirational posters.  That Special Days . . . were special, sure.  But they weren't . . . everything.

And then I got cancer.

All I wanted, then, was Everyday-ness.

I craved the ordinary, "normal" pace and cadence of life.  I wanted to feel a breeze and drink some wine on my patio and pet my dog and see movies with my husband.  I wanted to talk to my mom on the phone and send cards to my sister and hug my kids and cook a plain, old, ordinary dinner.  I wanted to meet my friends for coffee and sit through committee meetings and sort the mail and pull weeds.  I wanted to put gas in my car and run errands and vacuum my floor and watch tv. 

Yes.  That kind of excitement. 

Sometimes, you have to have the absolute wonder of Everyday-ness threatened. . . to completely appreciate its value and loveliness.  Or . . . that's how it worked for me.

Back in January, in that flurry of goal-making so common to a fresh, new year, I stated that I wanted to "Celebrate the Ordinary" as one of my annual goals.  I try to do this every day.  I really do!  But I was looking for a way to do this with more intention.  Then, a while ago, I saw a new online class being offered by Big Picture Classes called  31 Things. 

31 Things . . . is a class designed to to celebrate the everyday-ness, right now, right here . . . through 31 daily writing and photography prompts.  It's a class designed to help document, understand, and celebrate the routine, daily stuff of life. 

When I read about the class, it seemed like a perfect fit for me!  Not only did I find the content and the structure appealing, but the timing actually works perfectly -- tucked neatly between the end of a very busy work time and my upcoming travels.  I signed up right away!

Day One started yesterday.

So now. . . I'm immersed in 31 Things.  I'm still figuring out how I'll share the process on my blog.  I know I will.  I'm just not sure in what format*. 

Stay tuned!

==========

*There is also a scrapbooking component to the class.  One thing I know for sure . . . I am not a scrapbook kind of gal!  Although I'm often inspired by the scrapbook journals other people put together, I have found that the scrapbook format does not work for me.  Rather than becoming an extension of expression, scrapbooking becomes a barrier for me!  So, I will NOT be participating in the scrapbooking element of 31 Things.  Just sayin'.

 

 

Beats the Alternative!

So many times, I hear people . . . dispair. . .  that it's their birthday.

Another year older.

No spring chicken.

Past their prime.

Beats the alternative.

Well.  Today, let me assure you . . . having a birthday . . . and turning a year older. . . is a privilege.  Not a problem.

 

It's my birthday, too, yeah!

I never used to like to celebrate my birthday.  I didn't want to draw attention to myself.  I still don't, really.  But I do like to acknowledge the day now -- more than ever.

We're gonna have a good time!

I'm going to fill my day with things I love doing.  My turbo-kick class.  Lunch with a friend.  A little knitting.  Maybe some gardening (a first for my birthday!).  Dinner with Tom.  And, tomorrow, a birthday dinner with my family -- where my Mom will make me the same birthday dinner I've requested since about age 8 (lasagne, "grass salad," and German chocolate birthday cake).

Take a cha-cha-cha-chance!

And I'm going to use this gift of another year . . . to try some new things, think big thoughts, move in new directions, live happy, and not waste a minute.

Because . . . getting older . . . really DOES beat the alternative!

 

Ordinary Stuff

Saturday was a day-of-note for me.  The anniversary of my final chemo treatment. 

Three years.

And what did I do to mark the occasion?  Well.  An intense spinning class.  A long walk with Jenny.  A letter to my oldest friend.  Pruning roses.  (Yeah.  It was that nice.)  Chocolate biscotti with my tea.  Vacuuming.  Some knitting.  And a glass of wine.

Ordinary stuff.

The stuff of life.

Shine On

When I finished chemo (nearly 3 years ago now!) and started . . . living my life. . . there was a certain sense of . . . Newness.  Freshness.  Shiny-ness. . . all around me.  It was like I had been polished; like whatever had been hidden beneath (from all those years of lliving. . . instead of LIVING) had been suddenly exposed.  A little raw, surely, but also fresh. . . and. . . new. . . and shiny!

The colors seemed brighter; contrasts sharper.  My senses were heightened.  I was more aware.  Of everything.  And the world felt more . . . mine.  I didn't want to wast a minute!  I wanted to DO and GRAB and BE.  I wanted to SHINE.

I really liked that feeling. 

Having cancer sucked, no doubt about that.  Chemo is just plain creepy and unpleasant.  It is shattering to pull back the Veil of Illusion and know, deep in your bones, that your life really IS limited (maybe not now, but . . . eventually).  I came out of that experience, though, with a new attitude.  A sense of . . . Freedom.  Appreciation.  Newness.  Clarity.  Prioirty. 

For a while, I really did live a shiny, new life.  Little things didn't bother me.  I was joy-filled and open to new things.  I felt free-er and happier than I had in a very long time. 

And, in most ways, that is still the case.  But.  I can also tell that some of life's "tarnish" is building up on me again.  It's been long enough (and that's a gift in itself!) that I'm losing some of that . . . shine!

So I think the word SHINE started coming to mind . . . as a way to remind me of what life felt like in that first year after chemo.  To encourage me to buff off the tarnish building up on my life.  To let that fresh, exposed me SHINE through.

One little word.

SHINE

 

Carry It With Me

Yesterday, I had another 6-month check-up appointment with my oncologist.  Everything is still looking good!  No signs of anything amiss; no concerns; no reason to even have scans any more.  This is very good news!  Happy day!

Here in Kalamazoo, we have a local cancer center for all cancer patients (adults, that is; the kids have their own space somewhere else) and their doctors.  It's a one-stop-shopping kind of place: oncology offices, chemo infusions, radiation, lab work, support groups and classes, fitness center -- all in once place.  "They" (the folks who initially envisioned this space -- and the folks who run it now) have carefully crafted a patient-centered place where there really is a welcoming and hopeful atmosphere.  I mean, cancer is creepy.  Everything about it is just awful.  But the cancer center here in Kalamazoo tries to create an environment of comfort and support.  The décor is homey and comfortable -- yesterday there was a fire roaring in the fireplace of the main waiting room, a volunteer was playing lovely Christmas music on a grand piano, and patients were gathered around a couple of tables working on jigsaw puzzles.  Not your typical medical waiting room, certainly!  All of the staff (from reception and scheduling to lab techs to the nurses and doctors) are friendly and upbeat.  They really do make an effort to bring comfort and a little "normality" to an uncertain and overwhelming situation.

The waiting patients have a different attitude than you find at most medical offices, too.  There is a lot of direct eye contact, smiles, offers to give up a chair or help with a coat.  Strangers - sharing that unwelcome bond of cancer - offer advice and encouragement and hope.  And all of this in the context of waiting . . . and waiting. . . and waiting. . . sometimes for hours.  No one ever seems short of patience or demanding.  I think we're all hyper-aware that important work is going on in that place -- and that we can't expect to stay on schedule.  We're all in the same boat, actually.  Cancer upended our plans anyway. . . so, what's a few hours in a waiting room with others similarly upended?

So why am I going on about this?  Well.  Let's just say it was probably the best way to start off the holiday season for me.  Surrounded by hope and patience and grace.  I want to carry the feeling I got in the waiting room of the cancer center yesterday. . . with me all season long!

Go.Yellow.

This Sunday (October 2) is LIVESTRONG Day -- a day of "global, collective action in the fight against cancer."  (It's also Lance Armstrong's diagnosis anniversary date.)

The theme this year:  Wear Yellow.

I encourage you to visit the LIVESTRONG Day website.  Make a pledge to Wear Yellow on Sunday.  Share your story.  "Go Yellow" -- and create your own LIVESTRONG Day avatar!

And. . . if you know anyone with cancer . . . or struggling with issues of Survivorship. . . encourage them to visit the LIVESTRONG website.  They'll find people who understand, helpful resources, lots of support, and tools to fight!

Wear Yellow.

LIVESTRONG.

One Little Word

"Whatever you want to do, do it now.  There are only so many tomorrows."  -- Michael Landon

When I first finished up my chemo treatments and was tagged with the "remission" label, I was in a very fragile place:  I was at The Edge.  A lot relieved.  A little scared.  Suddenly. . . the colors were brighter.  The sky was bigger.  Things just tasted better.  Change had come.  I was learning to live with the uncomfortable certainty that . . . life really IS limited.  So make it count!  I threw open my arms.  I embraced the world around me.  I lived like time was precious.  I stepped away from The Edge.  But I was still close enough . . . to think about it all the time.

In that first year after chemo, I reached out to people and activities and dreams in a way I never had before.  I tended to say . . . "Why not?". . . "Let's do it!". . . "I want to". . . "YES!"  I didn't stop to overanalyze; I opened myself to possibilities; I didn't get bogged down with things.  I was really clear about what was important and what I wanted to do and who I wanted to do it with.  And that felt really good!

And now?   (Nearly) three years since?

Well.  Even though, from time to time,  I get close to The Edge again, for the most part, I'm finding my angle of repose -- that point where I've settled in to what's comfortable; to what seems "normal;" to-almost-but-not-quite where I was before I had cancer.

And, you know. . . this bothers me a little.

As I slide into a new angle of repose, I can feel myself losing that openness.  I'm starting to feel frozen by "oughts" and "shoulds"; I'm starting to say "yes" to things that aren't really important to me; I'm starting to feel like there is plenty of time.

I've learned that being a little close to The Edge. . . isn't necessarily a bad thing.  I mean, if your angle of repose lets you believe that there are plenty of tomorrows ahead of you. . . you may miss opportunities to seize today.  (And I actually like reaching out for those opportunities!)

This is the "anniversary-time" of the awful, dark days of my initial cancer diagnosis and the beginning of my treatment.  (Three years, now!)  It's become a time of reflection and remembering.  This year, I'm haunted by this new angle of repose; this feeling frozen; that, perhaps, I've actually stepped TOO far from The Edge.

And then, a week or so ago, I read one of Mary's posts. . . about the One Little Word project she was doing for 2011.  When I read her post, I was struck!  Like, in the words of Tom in Four Weddings and a Funeral. . . "lightning bolt city!"  Something about what she wrote resonated with me, and really got me thinking.

One little word (an actual word, not the project) has  been surfacing in my mind for a few weeks; a little voice that keeps getting louder.  I didn't realize there was actually a "program" designed to help you listen to that word -- but, WOW, was that an interesting concept!

After a quick pow-wow with Mary, I decided to join the One Little Word program myself.  Yeah, I'm quite late to the party.  Which is fine.  What it means is that I'll have to move through the one-month exercises at my own pace.  And I'm okay with that.  I'm ready!  I need this.

One Little Word. . . has been there for awhile.

One Little Word. . . is getting louder.

One Little Word. .  .is needing to be explored.

One Little Word. . .

MOVE!