Before I share my thoughts on this topic, I want to reassure you that I'm not feeling gloomy or sad today, and in fact, I've had a little "steroid energy buzz" that led me to sort through some clothes in the closet to give away. I'm about ready for a nap, so it's not an excessive buzz, but except for nausea and vomiting first thing this morning, I'm feeling good. But this post isn't about my physical state; I just wanted to provide that reassurance.
On the Christian calendar, Holy Week marks the last days of Jesus' life on earth, including Maundy Thursday (today) which commemorates the Last Supper, and Good Friday when we remember the crucifixion. Then, the joyous day of resurrection is celebrated on Easter. Easter is an upbeat holiday, both spiritually and secularly, and so many of us love to celebrate Easter, but may skip over the more serious days leading up to it. But these days of Holy Week are somber and call for inner reflection. Since I've been doing a lot of that over past months, it fits my state of mind to think about mortality during Holy Week.
From a book of daily readings by Madeline L'Engle that I treasure comes this poem, which I read on Monday of this week before meditation.
From St. Luke's Hospital (2)
If I can learn a little how to die,
To die while body, mind, and spirit still
Move in their triune dance of unity,
To die while living, dying I'll fulfill
The purpose of the finite in infinity.
If God will help me learn to die today,
Today in time I'll touch eternity,
And dying, thus will live within God's Way.
If I can free myself from self's iron bands,
Free from myself not by myself, but through
Christ's presence in this simple room, in hands
Outstretched in holy friendship, then, born new
In death, truth will outlive the deathly lie,
And in love's light I will be taught to die."
(from Madeline L'Engle, Glimpses of Grace, p. 80)
"To die while living, dying I'll fulfill / The purpose of the finite in infinity." What is the purpose of our short finite lives, spiritually and philosophically speaking? Our purpose along a stream of time that goes back farther than we can imagine and into the future over time we can't conceive of? We can so easily got caught in thinking that life is meant to be easy, to be happy, to be successful (however we define that). But what if life is about none of those things, really?
During Lent, about fifteen of us from church have been meeting in a book discussion group to talk about the book "Learning to Fall: The Blessings of an Imperfect Life," which I've linked to almost from the beginning of my blog. In our discussions, I've talked with the group about my experience since the diagnosis of gallbladder cancer of taking on my mortality, and wondering about the purpose of life. That has included wondering whether or not we humans may be just plain wrong about why we are here. It's a heavy notion, it's difficult to articulate. In his book, Simmons comments on this idea, in a wonderful chapter entitled "Mud Season:"
"Before my illness I, like everyone, had always spent much my time in the mud, only I didn't know to value it. Mud seemed only to block my way. I had spent my life in pursuit of knowledge and happiness, only to find out that both were overrated. For what is knowledge without faith, and what is happiness without sorrow? The path to resurrection lies through the mud because only through pain and sorrow do we grasp the necessary truth offered in the Ninetieth Psalm" [which he quotes from, but I won't; it's about our mortality].
On a much lighter note, the question makes me think of the greeting card sold in alternative stores that says "What IF the hokey pokey is what it's all about?"
I have no answers these questions, or solutions to my ponderings. I do think that life is much more complex and mysterious than many/most of us think, and certainly than I have thought most of my life. We so easily look in all of the wrong places for what will be most deeply fulfilling, and then feel surprised when we are still unsatisfied. In the last 10+ months, I have made quite a few changes to my life, in response to my diagnosis, my energy, and my shifted sense of priorities. I still miss some of the things I used to find quite satisfying, and I'm also finding a new sense of peace with this slower pace, with more time for contemplation, and for the opportunity to connect with others that my disease, and this blog, have provided.
Holy Week offers us the chance to think about our mortality, and how we live our lives. Whether or not you identify as a Christian, the fact that this one man chose to give his life for others, and then, in his resurrection, founded a whole new religious faith based on love of neighbor and God, is a powerful teaching. In the stories of his last days, we hear the human Jesus struggling with his destiny. Since my diagnosis, I have resonated many times with these words of Jesus, spoken in Gethsemane on the night before he died, "My Father, if is possible, may this cup be taken from me, yet not as I will, but as you will." So many times in these months I have wished not to be sick, not to have gallbladder cancer, not to have a terminal diagnosis. Slowly, I have come, if not to fully accept this diagnosis, at least to accept that this is the hand dealt now, and my choice is how I deal with it.
May the deep lessons of Holy Week touch you this year as they have me, and may you find, emerging from the mud of this somber week, that Easter is especially joyous.
Showing posts with label spiritual. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spiritual. Show all posts
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Peace Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi
Since my diagnosis of gallbladder cancer, I have found that I have been drawn to the prayer commonly known as the Peace Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. While he was born in 1182, the prayer itself didn't appear in printed form until 1912, so it seems likely he didn't author it. Still, it has such a powerful message, I'm not surprised that it is so popular. Here's the prayer:
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
I so appreciate how the words turn around our normal expectations about the way to live and be happy, and to thrive. We can think that the meaning of life, having a full life, is all about us and getting what we want and believe we need, when often life is most deeply about reaching past ourselves to see how we all are connected and need each other. The words feel very healing to me.
Brugh Joy, in a workshop I attended, told a story about St. Francis that spoke deeply to me. Francis was born to wealth, and, while he wasn't always happy to be wealthy, he avoided unpleasant situations and people for much of his young life. But God was speaking to him, and at some point, he realized that he needed to do what he most feared. Brugh saw this as an example of a person challenging his shadow, that disowned part of ourselves, by doing the thing we most fear, by facing the thing that most challenges us. So, the story goes, Francis sought out a leper, whom he feared, knowing that the disease was highly contagious, and he put his hand into the wounds of the leper. In doing so, he faced his deepest fear and found himself transformed. After that, he was not the same man. Brugh used this story to illustrate how we can be transformed by facing our fears and doing the thing we fear the most. While I have no illusions that I'm like St. Francis, dealing with cancer, having a life threatening diagnosis, and being faced very powerfully with my mortality has certainly required me to face some of my deepest fears. And I'm still struggling with all of it . . .
For Christmas last year, I asked Patty to give me a mobius bracelet of the St. Francis Prayer. (A mobius bracelet has no beginning and no end, because a twist in the metal keeps the circle - and the words - going; see illustration at top of this post.) I had discovered them for sale on Healing Baskets, a website that sells custom made baskets for folks who are sick, including those with cancer. My friend Mary sent me a basket last summer, and it was filled with special wonderful items to heal and soothe and support (bath salts, a pad to warm in the microwave, ginger candy, and so on), and when I ordered a basket for a friend last fall, I discovered the mobius bracelet with the St. Francis Prayer. I like silver anyway, and the silver bracelet is just $75.00. So Patty gave it to me, and I've worn it most of the time since Christmas (except when we were in St. John, because I didn't want to worry about losing it).
Wearing the bracelet, having the first part of the prayer there and available to read through and meditate on is a wonderful soothing exercise. I love the prayer, I love my bracelet, and when my illness has me really down and worried, I feel better remembering the prayer.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
I so appreciate how the words turn around our normal expectations about the way to live and be happy, and to thrive. We can think that the meaning of life, having a full life, is all about us and getting what we want and believe we need, when often life is most deeply about reaching past ourselves to see how we all are connected and need each other. The words feel very healing to me.
Brugh Joy, in a workshop I attended, told a story about St. Francis that spoke deeply to me. Francis was born to wealth, and, while he wasn't always happy to be wealthy, he avoided unpleasant situations and people for much of his young life. But God was speaking to him, and at some point, he realized that he needed to do what he most feared. Brugh saw this as an example of a person challenging his shadow, that disowned part of ourselves, by doing the thing we most fear, by facing the thing that most challenges us. So, the story goes, Francis sought out a leper, whom he feared, knowing that the disease was highly contagious, and he put his hand into the wounds of the leper. In doing so, he faced his deepest fear and found himself transformed. After that, he was not the same man. Brugh used this story to illustrate how we can be transformed by facing our fears and doing the thing we fear the most. While I have no illusions that I'm like St. Francis, dealing with cancer, having a life threatening diagnosis, and being faced very powerfully with my mortality has certainly required me to face some of my deepest fears. And I'm still struggling with all of it . . .
For Christmas last year, I asked Patty to give me a mobius bracelet of the St. Francis Prayer. (A mobius bracelet has no beginning and no end, because a twist in the metal keeps the circle - and the words - going; see illustration at top of this post.) I had discovered them for sale on Healing Baskets, a website that sells custom made baskets for folks who are sick, including those with cancer. My friend Mary sent me a basket last summer, and it was filled with special wonderful items to heal and soothe and support (bath salts, a pad to warm in the microwave, ginger candy, and so on), and when I ordered a basket for a friend last fall, I discovered the mobius bracelet with the St. Francis Prayer. I like silver anyway, and the silver bracelet is just $75.00. So Patty gave it to me, and I've worn it most of the time since Christmas (except when we were in St. John, because I didn't want to worry about losing it).
Wearing the bracelet, having the first part of the prayer there and available to read through and meditate on is a wonderful soothing exercise. I love the prayer, I love my bracelet, and when my illness has me really down and worried, I feel better remembering the prayer.
Monday, February 26, 2007
"Make No Comparisons" - Brugh Joy's Spiritual Lesson #1
Since my post of Feb. 20, I've been thinking about how I couldn't stop comparing myself to others, knowing that other people on chemo have a hard time, or an even harder time than I am. It brought to mind some spiritual lessons I keep learning over and over again. I know it's human to compare our experience to others, but it's not always that helpful.
When I was taking workshops with W. Brugh Joy, I read his book Joy's Way: A Map for the Transformational Journey. An Introduction to the Potentials for Healing with Body Energies. In the third chapter of the book, Brugh describes a cosmic experience of a woman who came to talk with him about her challenges in life. A few months earlier, she had been walking along a beach, saw an iridescent light, and heard a booming voice deliver three injunctions. She thought she was going mad. The voice said, slowly and repetitively, "'There are three injunctions for you. Pay attention to them. Make no comparisons; make no comparisons. Make no judgments; make no judgments. Delete your need to understand; delete your need to understand.'" (p. 59)
Today I want to share some of my thoughts about the first injunction: Make no comparisons. Like many spiritual lessons, I feel that I have been learning and relearning this lesson for decades. My comparing myself to others on chemotherapy is an example. I feel that the reality is that my task, my spiritual work right now, is to be present to my experience and to see what it has to teach me. I can empathize with the experience of others, but making comparisons is not useful (human, but not useful).
In his book, Brugh makes a few useful points about this injunction. He says "The tendency to live in ideas about reality isolates the mind from the true reality of the physical level . . . self is - the self is true, without question - but ideas about self may be true or false, . . . If the individual insists on holding on to ideas rather than harmonizing with what is, pain must follow." In these words, I hear him saying that believing things about ourselves, in comparison to others, isolates us from the truth about our self. I hope I'm not making this too ponderous, because it's a lesson that has really served me.
For some of us, perhaps many of us, this comparison comes in looking at our physical attributes and judging them as wanting in comparison to friends, family, societal ideals, etc. Brugh gives an example of this for himself in his book by talking about his dissatisfaction with his physical appearance for years. I was doing this in a small way when I felt overdressed for the weather on Feb. 20, and didn't like what I saw was the way others were seeing me. For much of my life, I have judged my physical body by cultural standards and found it wanting. Now that the calendar year says I will turn 60 if I live until my June birthday, I can get caught less in that, but it's still there. Last fall, I saw an old friend whom I hadn't seen in perhaps 20 years, and a mutual friend commented back to me that she thought I looked old. Well, we are the same age, but I have let my hair turn gray. I haven't completely accepted my aging body, but I do recognize that making comparisons with younger bodies accomplishes nothing. Aging is something we baby boomers don't always do gracefully, I fear.
On a spiritual level, making comparisons can mean seeing others as more spiritually evolved than we are, and feeling hopeless to achieve what someone else has achieved. For me, with my gallbladder cancer diagnosis, there is this desire not to be facing the challenges I have. I want to live a longer life, I want to see my kids grow up, I even want a less serious cancer if I have to have cancer. But none of that wishing changes the reality. Can I give up those comparisons to the life I wish I had to, to the life others have, to allow myself to benefit from the life I do have?
Toward the end of the section on this injunction, Brugh adds "It is especially important that one not interpret the injunction against making comparisons as an exhortation to live in a state of complacency, where everything that the outer mind sees is rationalized as being perfect or right, without need for change. Complacency is the way of the ignorant." I've never thought of this spiritual lesson as encouragement to accept everything the way it is, without question or concern, but I can see how it could be read that way.
Make no comparisons. Be true to oneself, and be willing to look under the rocks of consciousness to see what is hidden from awareness. Under those rocks lie the possibility of transformation, of true change that allows us to fully unfold into the person, the spiritual person, we were meant to be, we were created to be.
On another day, I'll add Brugh's thoughts - and my own - about the other two injunctions.
Today is a pretty good day for me in Chemo World, as I grade some papers, make up a midterm, and try to stay off my feet with their "hot spots." Three and a half days remaining in this cycle of chemo . . .
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
What's changed in me in the last 7 Months?
Mulling over the arrival of a new year on the calendar, and that I'm still alive as 2007 has begun, I've been mentally listing some of the things that have changed in the 7 months, 9 days and some hours since my diagnosis of gallbladder cancer. Working on writing this post, I also remembered that I called this blog "Life Changing Cancer" for a reason. Even in August, I didn't feel that I was the same person I had been. So how have I changed?
In no particular order . . .
1. I think we have too much stuff, too many material possessions. I think I do, my kids do, my family does, Americans do, and I wonder what we are thinking. And I continue to struggle with where to put everything. For whatever reason, I didn't particularly think this before my diagnosis.
2. In keeping with #1, I find it easier to let go of things. I've been a collector all my life, saving all my favorite books, stones and seashells, and the elements of my varied craft projects, thinking I'd get back to them when I retired. I have carried my quilting fabric, books and patterns for years, through many moves, thinking I'd make quilts again. And I have quilted occasionally since I first learned how in the 70s, but I've never quilted like I did then. Last August, Patty, my friend Bev and I went through my finished quilt tops, and Bev took one home to have it finished. (I had made her a quilt in the 1970s, but it burned in a house fire a number of years ago.) In the fall, my younger sister, Carla, and I went through my containers of fabric, and cut pieces for quilts, and she took home a big box of fabric and pieces to work with. (Thinking about this, I realize I didn't really have to wait for a cancer diagnosis to move on some of these things!)
3. As you can see from #2, I no longer expect to be alive and doing projects in 30 years. I might be alive, but I no longer have that expectation, and it makes it easier to let go of things, and to make other choices. And if I am alive, maybe I'll be choosing some new craft projects!
4. I've done my best to identify the stressors in my life, and to reduce them whenever possible. I resigned from some of my work responsibilities in the summer, and I think more carefully before saying "yes" when asked to take on something new. As a result, I find it easier to say "no" when that's the right thing to do. I'm meditating regularly, and working consciously on stress relief.
5. I've been working on strengthening my spiritual self these past months. I felt connnected with my spirituality when this happened, but the diagnosis broke open something in me, something that wants more, wants to be more, and certainly wants my life to mean more.
6. I have a new empathy for people with chronic, life-threatening or terminal illness. I have been healthy all of my life, had my first surgery (and it was elective) at 52, and my first broken bone at 58. It's not that I blamed people with physical problems, it's that I just didn't understand their journey in some deep way because that had not been my life's path. Now, my new experience with the medical profession, and my readings of the stories of so many people's journey with cancer, have shifted my lack of understanding, my lack of empathy, for those, like me, in this situation.
7. I'm less likely to postpone joy. Last summer when our family traveled to the southwest for a long-planned "trip of a lifetime" to many national parks, Patty and I began to say "If not now, when?" We were more extravagant on that trip than we'd ever been (and we were still saying at campgrounds), and we didn't spend our life savings, but we have different priorities. When we talked about vacationing in the Caribbean in March 2007, we said "Let's go!" (and we're still staying at a campground). We will go back to St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands in March, all of us, and if it's my last trip there, I will have gone to a place full of memories, and our family can make new memories. The last time there, Lucy was almost 5, and did some snorkeling while holding onto Patty, but now both kids can swim, and we suspect they will love snorkeling!
8. I frequently feel mortal. We all are, of course, but I didn't particularly feel mortal before this diagnosis. Some days I feel more mortal than others, but it's definitely a place I visit frequently.
Somehow, I think my list of changes was longer while I was washing dishes this afternoon, but this is what comes to me now. It's not an exhaustive list, but it's an honest one for the moment.
In no particular order . . .
1. I think we have too much stuff, too many material possessions. I think I do, my kids do, my family does, Americans do, and I wonder what we are thinking. And I continue to struggle with where to put everything. For whatever reason, I didn't particularly think this before my diagnosis.
2. In keeping with #1, I find it easier to let go of things. I've been a collector all my life, saving all my favorite books, stones and seashells, and the elements of my varied craft projects, thinking I'd get back to them when I retired. I have carried my quilting fabric, books and patterns for years, through many moves, thinking I'd make quilts again. And I have quilted occasionally since I first learned how in the 70s, but I've never quilted like I did then. Last August, Patty, my friend Bev and I went through my finished quilt tops, and Bev took one home to have it finished. (I had made her a quilt in the 1970s, but it burned in a house fire a number of years ago.) In the fall, my younger sister, Carla, and I went through my containers of fabric, and cut pieces for quilts, and she took home a big box of fabric and pieces to work with. (Thinking about this, I realize I didn't really have to wait for a cancer diagnosis to move on some of these things!)
3. As you can see from #2, I no longer expect to be alive and doing projects in 30 years. I might be alive, but I no longer have that expectation, and it makes it easier to let go of things, and to make other choices. And if I am alive, maybe I'll be choosing some new craft projects!
4. I've done my best to identify the stressors in my life, and to reduce them whenever possible. I resigned from some of my work responsibilities in the summer, and I think more carefully before saying "yes" when asked to take on something new. As a result, I find it easier to say "no" when that's the right thing to do. I'm meditating regularly, and working consciously on stress relief.
5. I've been working on strengthening my spiritual self these past months. I felt connnected with my spirituality when this happened, but the diagnosis broke open something in me, something that wants more, wants to be more, and certainly wants my life to mean more.
6. I have a new empathy for people with chronic, life-threatening or terminal illness. I have been healthy all of my life, had my first surgery (and it was elective) at 52, and my first broken bone at 58. It's not that I blamed people with physical problems, it's that I just didn't understand their journey in some deep way because that had not been my life's path. Now, my new experience with the medical profession, and my readings of the stories of so many people's journey with cancer, have shifted my lack of understanding, my lack of empathy, for those, like me, in this situation.
7. I'm less likely to postpone joy. Last summer when our family traveled to the southwest for a long-planned "trip of a lifetime" to many national parks, Patty and I began to say "If not now, when?" We were more extravagant on that trip than we'd ever been (and we were still saying at campgrounds), and we didn't spend our life savings, but we have different priorities. When we talked about vacationing in the Caribbean in March 2007, we said "Let's go!" (and we're still staying at a campground). We will go back to St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands in March, all of us, and if it's my last trip there, I will have gone to a place full of memories, and our family can make new memories. The last time there, Lucy was almost 5, and did some snorkeling while holding onto Patty, but now both kids can swim, and we suspect they will love snorkeling!
8. I frequently feel mortal. We all are, of course, but I didn't particularly feel mortal before this diagnosis. Some days I feel more mortal than others, but it's definitely a place I visit frequently.
Somehow, I think my list of changes was longer while I was washing dishes this afternoon, but this is what comes to me now. It's not an exhaustive list, but it's an honest one for the moment.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Resting, Truly Resting
On this Labor Day weekend, I'm thinking about resting and not laboring. It's become a cliche in our culture to talk about how busy we all are, and like many cliches, it's largely true. Many of us find ourselves going nonstop from morning until night, and then collapsing in front of the television, which can shift our focus, but isn't truly restful. One thing I have read in many essays, blogs, and books, is how often a diagnosis of cancer causes us to re-examine our lives, and how we spend our time. I have joined those numbers over the past three months as I recovered from surgery, took family vacations, and contemplated how I choose to live my life, including time to rest.
In his blog, Leroy Sievers doesn't talk much about the spiritual aspects of dealing with cancer, but in his August 9 post, he did ask his readers for "new tricks." He was seeking new ideas for getting through the day, making life with cancer more manageable. He received over 100 responses to that post, and I think it's because his question so resonates for those of us with cancer. And, even without cancer, we can all ask how we want to make our lives work better.
True rest, I think, can be a spiritual discipline, and many spiritual discplines can help us truly rest. Many of us churchgoers know that the words "sabbath" and "sabbatical" derive from a Hebrew word for rest. The sabbath is intended to be a time for rest and reflection, but I think none of us need to wait for one special day of the week to rest and rejuvenate. So, as I have been contemplating how to change my life, to slow it down, to find more rest and rejuvenation in my daily life, I have been contemplating spiritual practices and how my living and working space can support stepping out from the busy-ness of daily life.
Meditation and Centering Prayer. For many years, I meditated regularly, but after the birth of my (now 10-year old) daughter, I found it hard to maintain, and stopped meditating. Two years ago, I returned to a regular meditation practice, initially just one day a week, and, when I was joined by a friend in that weekly meditation, it became a grounding highlight of my week. Over the past few months, I have chosen to return to regular meditation. For me, meditation is a time to sit in silence and to listen for the voice of God. Some days my mind is very busy and I need to bring my attention back again and again to my mantra (a simple sying that grounds me in God's presence), and some days I feel truly lifted out of my busy mind and into a spacious and holy place, if only for a few moments. I believe that the spiritual discipline of meditation is a powerful tool for deep rest.
Sacred Space. I have always tried to maintain some space in my house for sacred objects and photographs of loved ones who have died. I have added a new sacred space this summer in a corner of my bedroom, a small table covered with the first silk scarf I painted containing images of water and sky, and then laid with a candle, a smudge stick (for cleansing the air), a few crystals (because they are beautiful and can absorb energy around them, I believe), and a few special books. I also lay on the table a strand of beautiful prayer beads and a pocket angel with the word "Harmony" on the back, given to me by my meditation friend. Just looking at the table grounds me, and sitting next to it in meditation creates a corner of grounded, quiet, sacred energy.
And, when I meditate I can wrap myself in a colorful hand knit prayer shawl, made for me and prayed over by loving friends.
Sacred, Spiritual Reading. Whether it's the Bible or something written more recently by a spiritual teacher, reading about the inner world, the world of spirit, offers me the potential for grounded, healing thoughts. I am going to be writing more later about some of the books that have moved me, but for now, I want to mention a pamphlet sent to me by a professional colleague and friend who is a cancer survivor (Thanks, Elizabeth!) entitled "How to Survive and Thrive in the face of a life-threatening illness." A healing group from her church put together a lovely booklet with personal stories and reminders about things that can be healing; prayer, dreams, loving companionship, spiritual reading, living in the moment, art, and holding hope. This book just arrived in the mail yesterday, but already it has spoken to me powerfully of the commonality of our struggles with cancer, and the power of spirit to mend us, spiritually and, sometimes, physically.
Reiki Energy. Five years ago, I was trained to be a Reiki healer, which essentially means trained to channel this energy. I'm not going to try to explain the process here, but I do want to say that I feel the energy fill my body when I open to it, and that I do believe Reiki opened a channel to universal healing that is available to all. (That may sound a little strange to you if you have had no experience with Reiki, but I am speaking for myself and what I know.) I am grateful to the friends who have asked me if they can channel Reiki energy to me from a distance, and I would not hesitate to seek a Reiki healer for hands-on work if I felt in need.
As I come to the end of this post, and look at where I began, I wonder if this all reads like a lot of work, and not rest at all. Setting up the routines and making the time for it may feel like work, but once I am in the rhythm of attending to my need to rest and rejuvenate, then each of these offers solace, peace, rest and comfort. Taking care of myself doesn't have to be work, but it does require intention and attention.
In his blog, Leroy Sievers doesn't talk much about the spiritual aspects of dealing with cancer, but in his August 9 post, he did ask his readers for "new tricks." He was seeking new ideas for getting through the day, making life with cancer more manageable. He received over 100 responses to that post, and I think it's because his question so resonates for those of us with cancer. And, even without cancer, we can all ask how we want to make our lives work better.
True rest, I think, can be a spiritual discipline, and many spiritual discplines can help us truly rest. Many of us churchgoers know that the words "sabbath" and "sabbatical" derive from a Hebrew word for rest. The sabbath is intended to be a time for rest and reflection, but I think none of us need to wait for one special day of the week to rest and rejuvenate. So, as I have been contemplating how to change my life, to slow it down, to find more rest and rejuvenation in my daily life, I have been contemplating spiritual practices and how my living and working space can support stepping out from the busy-ness of daily life.
Meditation and Centering Prayer. For many years, I meditated regularly, but after the birth of my (now 10-year old) daughter, I found it hard to maintain, and stopped meditating. Two years ago, I returned to a regular meditation practice, initially just one day a week, and, when I was joined by a friend in that weekly meditation, it became a grounding highlight of my week. Over the past few months, I have chosen to return to regular meditation. For me, meditation is a time to sit in silence and to listen for the voice of God. Some days my mind is very busy and I need to bring my attention back again and again to my mantra (a simple sying that grounds me in God's presence), and some days I feel truly lifted out of my busy mind and into a spacious and holy place, if only for a few moments. I believe that the spiritual discipline of meditation is a powerful tool for deep rest.
Sacred Space. I have always tried to maintain some space in my house for sacred objects and photographs of loved ones who have died. I have added a new sacred space this summer in a corner of my bedroom, a small table covered with the first silk scarf I painted containing images of water and sky, and then laid with a candle, a smudge stick (for cleansing the air), a few crystals (because they are beautiful and can absorb energy around them, I believe), and a few special books. I also lay on the table a strand of beautiful prayer beads and a pocket angel with the word "Harmony" on the back, given to me by my meditation friend. Just looking at the table grounds me, and sitting next to it in meditation creates a corner of grounded, quiet, sacred energy.
And, when I meditate I can wrap myself in a colorful hand knit prayer shawl, made for me and prayed over by loving friends.
Sacred, Spiritual Reading. Whether it's the Bible or something written more recently by a spiritual teacher, reading about the inner world, the world of spirit, offers me the potential for grounded, healing thoughts. I am going to be writing more later about some of the books that have moved me, but for now, I want to mention a pamphlet sent to me by a professional colleague and friend who is a cancer survivor (Thanks, Elizabeth!) entitled "How to Survive and Thrive in the face of a life-threatening illness." A healing group from her church put together a lovely booklet with personal stories and reminders about things that can be healing; prayer, dreams, loving companionship, spiritual reading, living in the moment, art, and holding hope. This book just arrived in the mail yesterday, but already it has spoken to me powerfully of the commonality of our struggles with cancer, and the power of spirit to mend us, spiritually and, sometimes, physically.
Reiki Energy. Five years ago, I was trained to be a Reiki healer, which essentially means trained to channel this energy. I'm not going to try to explain the process here, but I do want to say that I feel the energy fill my body when I open to it, and that I do believe Reiki opened a channel to universal healing that is available to all. (That may sound a little strange to you if you have had no experience with Reiki, but I am speaking for myself and what I know.) I am grateful to the friends who have asked me if they can channel Reiki energy to me from a distance, and I would not hesitate to seek a Reiki healer for hands-on work if I felt in need.
As I come to the end of this post, and look at where I began, I wonder if this all reads like a lot of work, and not rest at all. Setting up the routines and making the time for it may feel like work, but once I am in the rhythm of attending to my need to rest and rejuvenate, then each of these offers solace, peace, rest and comfort. Taking care of myself doesn't have to be work, but it does require intention and attention.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Living, Really Living, Despite a Terminal Diagnosis
In my third blog entry, I began to write about the challenge of living with a terminal diagnosis. Some of the responses to that entry focused on concern for dying, and the experience of dying. I appreciated the experiences shared there, and the responses also helped me see that I wasn't completely clear about my difficulty in living the question. While I do not want to die, I do not fear death, and I trust that modern medicine has the capacity to relieve most/all of the pain that may accompany the end stages of this cancer.
So, what I am most concerned about is the living, living with a terminal diagnosis. What I wish I had asked my friends who were dying and knew that they were was what they thought about as they anticipated death, and what they had learned about living in the process of dying. What were the ways they had found to talk with loved ones about their impending death? What were the ways they had found to live more fully knowing that the end was approaching? What wisdom came newly to them as death approached? What new ways of thinking about living came to them as they lived in the face of death?
With all of these questions in mind, I am thrilled to find a book or an essay written by someone who has engaged these questions, whose thinking has gotten big enough to encompass big questions, big enough because they see their end. I found such book in Learning to Fall: Blessings of an Imperfect Life by Philip Simmons. Diagnosed in 1992 with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease), he survived longer than many, and had the opportunity to write the essays in this wonderful, engaging book. He writes about dying, and he writes about living, and he writes about the natural world and what he can teach us about both.
About death, Simmons writes that acceptance of death provides a freedom to live differently, living in the present moment, living without attachment to thing in the same way as before. This is one of the things I have learned in the two and a half months since my diagnosis: live in the moment, appreciate the moment, be here now. The idea is not a new one, not to me, not a new thought from him, yet my experience of appreciation of the present moment has changed in these last months.
Yes, more often than I would like, I fall down the deep well of despair that a cancer diagnosis can bring.
And I also have discovered a new joy in sitting quietly in awe at the beauty of the moment before me. The sparkle of the ocean as the sun begins its descent. The beauty in my daughter's eyes. The poignancy of a moment sharing vulnerability with a friend. The mischievous sparkle in my son's face. The smell of cinnamon on a doughnut. The cold sweetness of Cherry Garcia ice cream on a hot summer night.
So, in the face of the terminal diagnosis, I am committed to living as fully as I can.
So, what I am most concerned about is the living, living with a terminal diagnosis. What I wish I had asked my friends who were dying and knew that they were was what they thought about as they anticipated death, and what they had learned about living in the process of dying. What were the ways they had found to talk with loved ones about their impending death? What were the ways they had found to live more fully knowing that the end was approaching? What wisdom came newly to them as death approached? What new ways of thinking about living came to them as they lived in the face of death?
With all of these questions in mind, I am thrilled to find a book or an essay written by someone who has engaged these questions, whose thinking has gotten big enough to encompass big questions, big enough because they see their end. I found such book in Learning to Fall: Blessings of an Imperfect Life by Philip Simmons. Diagnosed in 1992 with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease), he survived longer than many, and had the opportunity to write the essays in this wonderful, engaging book. He writes about dying, and he writes about living, and he writes about the natural world and what he can teach us about both.
About death, Simmons writes that acceptance of death provides a freedom to live differently, living in the present moment, living without attachment to thing in the same way as before. This is one of the things I have learned in the two and a half months since my diagnosis: live in the moment, appreciate the moment, be here now. The idea is not a new one, not to me, not a new thought from him, yet my experience of appreciation of the present moment has changed in these last months.
Yes, more often than I would like, I fall down the deep well of despair that a cancer diagnosis can bring.
And I also have discovered a new joy in sitting quietly in awe at the beauty of the moment before me. The sparkle of the ocean as the sun begins its descent. The beauty in my daughter's eyes. The poignancy of a moment sharing vulnerability with a friend. The mischievous sparkle in my son's face. The smell of cinnamon on a doughnut. The cold sweetness of Cherry Garcia ice cream on a hot summer night.
So, in the face of the terminal diagnosis, I am committed to living as fully as I can.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Living, Not Dying, with Cancer
When I first received the diagnosis of terminal cancer, I was puzzled about how to live. Somehow, "taking to my bed" (as some folks used to do) until the cancer "took me" didn't seem to be an option. But, I was recovering from surgery, my body was weak and my energy low, so I wondered whether or not I would ever feel "normal" again. Two months later, I feel good, my energy is amazingly strong, and I have moved on from the initial shock of the diagnosis. But still, I wonder, how do you live, knowing, really knowing, that your days are numbered?
As a spiritual person, this question has felt especially important. I attend a Christian church, and I am part of a Christian community, and I also read spiritual material from many traditions, so I have been reading a lot. What is life? What is the purpose of our lives? Are we born to this life in order to learn certain lessons? Do we die when those lessons are learned? (I think the answer to that questions is no, but the question was in my mind.) I mention in my first posting that I haven't had good conversations about dying with those I have known who knew that their death was approaching, and I regret that. Why don't those who are dying, or who have a terminal diagnosis and are anticipating death, talk about it more? What are we afraid of? Are we afraid of death? The process of dying? I am determined to break the silence, for me and my diagnosis, at least, but I feel that I am stepping into a land with no map, a land where I know others have been, but have left too few clues., and no map to help me navigate.
On a practical note, one site that I found that would have been very helpful to me in the first weeks after my terminal diagnosis is one part of the hospice website. The hospice site includes an article by a doctor dying of cancer who provides practical personal and planning suggestions. But, he is not really talking about the spiritual aspects, the soul aspects of a terminal diagnosis.
Another place that I have found much insight and support and laughter and tears is the NPR website called My Cancer, by Leroy Sievers. Leroy's stories of his struggle with cancer, and the many responses from those with cancer, and those who love them, and those who are moved by his story, have enriched me immensely. Reading his blog and the comments has become a high point of each day. In his July 10 blog, Leroy talked about his fears, everyone's fears, and asks if we are afraid of dying, but he doesn't really talk about the spiritual aspects of a terminal diagnosis, either.
I believe in reincarnation (not really a Christian belief, I'm afraid, but . . . ), so I do believe that my soul, the essence of who I am really, not just my personality, will continue after my death. But I like this life, my family, my friends, my work, and I don't really want this life to end. So, how can I face death while still living fully?
One thing I am doing is feeling my gratitude, right here, right now, at being alive. I wake up each morning, and I am so happy to still be here, to be feeling good, today, to feel love for others and love from others. This EE Cummings poem has really been speaking to me:
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
Each morning, I feel that I have died and I am alive again, and I am grateful.
As a spiritual person, this question has felt especially important. I attend a Christian church, and I am part of a Christian community, and I also read spiritual material from many traditions, so I have been reading a lot. What is life? What is the purpose of our lives? Are we born to this life in order to learn certain lessons? Do we die when those lessons are learned? (I think the answer to that questions is no, but the question was in my mind.) I mention in my first posting that I haven't had good conversations about dying with those I have known who knew that their death was approaching, and I regret that. Why don't those who are dying, or who have a terminal diagnosis and are anticipating death, talk about it more? What are we afraid of? Are we afraid of death? The process of dying? I am determined to break the silence, for me and my diagnosis, at least, but I feel that I am stepping into a land with no map, a land where I know others have been, but have left too few clues., and no map to help me navigate.
On a practical note, one site that I found that would have been very helpful to me in the first weeks after my terminal diagnosis is one part of the hospice website. The hospice site includes an article by a doctor dying of cancer who provides practical personal and planning suggestions. But, he is not really talking about the spiritual aspects, the soul aspects of a terminal diagnosis.
Another place that I have found much insight and support and laughter and tears is the NPR website called My Cancer, by Leroy Sievers. Leroy's stories of his struggle with cancer, and the many responses from those with cancer, and those who love them, and those who are moved by his story, have enriched me immensely. Reading his blog and the comments has become a high point of each day. In his July 10 blog, Leroy talked about his fears, everyone's fears, and asks if we are afraid of dying, but he doesn't really talk about the spiritual aspects of a terminal diagnosis, either.
I believe in reincarnation (not really a Christian belief, I'm afraid, but . . . ), so I do believe that my soul, the essence of who I am really, not just my personality, will continue after my death. But I like this life, my family, my friends, my work, and I don't really want this life to end. So, how can I face death while still living fully?
One thing I am doing is feeling my gratitude, right here, right now, at being alive. I wake up each morning, and I am so happy to still be here, to be feeling good, today, to feel love for others and love from others. This EE Cummings poem has really been speaking to me:
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
Each morning, I feel that I have died and I am alive again, and I am grateful.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
A Life Changing Diagnosis
Receiving a diagnosis of terminal cancer is a life changing event; it certainly was for me, two months ago. Since then, I have worked hard to gather information aboout gallbladder cancer, and because it is rare, the information has been difficult to come by. One purpose for me in writing this blog is to share information gained, including links to sites on the web which have been productive and helpful. A second purpose, quite different but related, is to share my thoughts on the spiritual journey of receiving a terminal diagnosis. Perhaps this cancer will not kill me, but the odds are not in my favor.
The cancer in my gallbladder was discovered when my bile duct blocked, the bilirubin began to build in my body, and the blockage could not be cleared endoscopically. Surgery removed my gallbladder, revealed cancer in my bile duct, and provided a bypass for my bile duct; subsequent pathology reports indicated that the origin of the cancer was my gallbladder. I have recovered well from the surgery, and so have not begun chemotherapy, but there is a clear medical consensus that only chemotherapy will slow the progression of the disease. So, I will begin chemo when tests indicate that the cancer has begun to spread.
If you had only six months or a year to live, would you want to know? What would you do with the information? Would it make a difference in how you lived your life? These are questions I have been asking for the past two months. In asking them, I have also noticed how little guidance there is for this process. Who have I known personally who was able to anticipate their death? I can think of only two individuals, and I never asked them whether or not they were living differently in their awareness of their mortality.
So, those are the themes in this blog. I look forward to a dialog with those I know, and those I don't about this strange, life changing journey.
The cancer in my gallbladder was discovered when my bile duct blocked, the bilirubin began to build in my body, and the blockage could not be cleared endoscopically. Surgery removed my gallbladder, revealed cancer in my bile duct, and provided a bypass for my bile duct; subsequent pathology reports indicated that the origin of the cancer was my gallbladder. I have recovered well from the surgery, and so have not begun chemotherapy, but there is a clear medical consensus that only chemotherapy will slow the progression of the disease. So, I will begin chemo when tests indicate that the cancer has begun to spread.
If you had only six months or a year to live, would you want to know? What would you do with the information? Would it make a difference in how you lived your life? These are questions I have been asking for the past two months. In asking them, I have also noticed how little guidance there is for this process. Who have I known personally who was able to anticipate their death? I can think of only two individuals, and I never asked them whether or not they were living differently in their awareness of their mortality.
So, those are the themes in this blog. I look forward to a dialog with those I know, and those I don't about this strange, life changing journey.
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