Tag Archives: cancer

Communicate and Overflow

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I’m reading All the Way to Heaven: The Selected Letters of Dorothy Day. Dorothy, founder of the Catholic Worker, was a writer in all senses of the word. She said:

The reason we write is to communicate ideas … We must overflow in writing about all the things we have been talking about and living … Writing is an act of community. It is a letter, it is comforting, consoling, helping, advising on our part, as well as asking it on yours. It is a part of our human association with each other. It is an expression of our love and concern for each other. *

Is that not fantabulous? It encourages me to, again, let my life overflow into my writing.

It’s been a week filled with emotion and anxiousness, but also prayer and blessings. Wednesday was my 12 year anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer.

It’s a beautiful anniversary, because without it, I would no longer be on the planet. But, it’s also a difficult anniversary. It was such an unexpected, glaring indication of my mortality. And, boy oh boy, a cancer diagnosis isn’t just dipping your toes into all of that. You are thrown into the deep end of the pool. The shock of hitting the water takes your breath away. You submerge. But then, face out of the water, you float, and slowly learn to swim.

This year I had a CAT scan scheduled for my anniversary. How’s that for good planning? (laughing) I didn’t choose the date, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have chosen it had I been the scheduler. Still, in many ways it turned out to be the perfect date for the test.

Dorothy quotes Catherine of Sienna, “All the way to Heaven is heaven, because He said ‘I am the Way.’ “ Then she offers her wish — may heaven be in your heart today. *

The CAT scan, on my anniversary, heightened my fear and worry about the unknown. Out of necessity, I worked harder, surrendered more deeply, and prayed with greater fervor for heaven to be in my heart as I went about my day.

I was patient with the receptionist who seemed to be struggling with her own tiredness. I smiled under my mask and chuckled at my goofy comment to her. I chose to be peaceful as I waited — eyes closed, breathing with purpose and prayer. Then Miriam called me and walked with me to the CAT scan room. Miriam is a funny, talented nurse/tech — who knew what my brown scapular was. She laughed, talked, listened, and brought a bit of heaven to me, and boy oh boy am I grateful! Now I wait with hope.

I came home and crawled into bed for a much needed nap. I awoke to snow. I love snow! It’s beautiful and altogether magical. I fell asleep later that night to the delicate pings of the snowy mix against my windows.

The next morning, I bundled up and headed out to shovel. I remain easily fatigued, and not feeling totally well, but, how could I not go out into that cold, bright, beautiful, snow-filled day? Shovel in hand, I considered ignoring my fatigue and overall feelings of malaise. Thankfully my wiser self prevailed. I did slow, steady work, capturing ridiculously tiny amounts of snow in my shovel. And, I rested — a lot.

My work and rest routine turned out to be a great gift! The white of the snow was a perfect foil to the texture, shapes, and color of the grasses, berries, seed pods, branches, and flowers that surrounded me as I rested against the end of shovel. The seed pods and flowers provided pockets and pedestals for the ice to take shape. My stillness in the quiet enabled my ears to the hear the sounds of the bird’s flapping wings and chirping songs.

I gleefully snapped shots during each of my rests — sometimes resting more just to photograph. I purposefully chose brilliantly white snow-filled backgrounds with little extraneous visual noise.

When I finished, I sipped hot cocoa and crafted a poem. Hoping to encourage the feeling of soft peaceful silence, I used only lowercase letters. It was funnily jarring to change the uppercase I to lowercase. But, on my second or third read, I settled into it, appreciating the sense it gave that I am very small in this magnificent expanse of life, and snow.

_____________________

brilliant white snow
piercingly cold air
beautiful soft silence
broken only
by the birds’ wings
and sweet songs

shovel, rest, breathe

my breath deepens
my eyes
squinting in the light
see more
my ears
hear more

shovel, rest, breathe, look and listen

i notice a plethora of details
texture and structure
subtle changes in hue and tone
color where I thought there was none
always present
not always perceived

shovel, rest, breathe, look and listen, notice

i am in awe 
of the details
the beauty
and the gifts
of God and nature

shovel, rest, breathe, look and listen, notice, marvel

i try
to capture them 
with my
heart 
mind and 
camera

shovel, rest, breathe, look and listen, notice, marvel, photograph

i imagine and feel
sparkles of joy
with each gift
noticed with wonder
captured with gratitude

shovel, rest, breathe, look and listen, notice, marvel, photograph, be grateful

_____________________

It is incredibly important to fill my days with rest, breath, noticing, wonder, awe, and gratitude.

It is absolutely necessary to acknowledge my awesomeness and strength, as well as my tiredness.

It is essential to be kind and merciful to myself, and others.

As a human, sister, daughter, teacher, learner, writer, creative, artist, coach, and every other thing I am, and way I interact in this world, there is incredible value in silence, brilliant light, kindness, having heaven in my heart, and bringing it closer to others.

I join Dorothy in her wish for the world — May we all have heaven in our heart.

*Both quotes are from All the Way to Heaven: The Selected Letters of Dorothy Day by Robert Ellsberg

Reflections on Month 6 and Beyond

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Last week this happened.

I had my 6 month infusion, and after 6 hours in the chair, I was able to ring the bell.

The infusion itself was exhausting – physically, mentally, and emotionally. And ringing the bell? That was a swirl of all sorts of emotions. I had finished at the infusion center, but my last month of at home meds started the next day. Phew.

I’ve been expecting this last month to be easy. I was mistaken.

The level of difficulty has me feeling distressed, and a tad bit guilty. Perhaps that’s a lack of humility. Or perhaps it’s a misunderstanding of the process and gravity of it all. I’m the queen of relentless positivity and possibility. That’s good — fantabulous even. But, sometimes I need to remember that the positivity and possibility are happening against a backdrop of struggle, and endurance.

Those two photos speak to me of this dicotomy.

I purposefully captured the struggle amidst the positivity in the first photo. My face is to the sun — and the Son. Simultaneously an IV is pumping a plethora of medications into my vein. That is fantabulous and awful. Fantabulous because they are helping me crush the cancer. Awful because they are pummeling my body, mind, and spirit. It’s often remarkably difficult to keep them from vanquishing me.

In the second, I am ringing the bell — indicating the end of my infusion treatment. I’m laughing with my awesome nurse, as she and others cheer me on. Immediately after, we embraced in tears. It was a moment of exhilaration, joy, and relief; as well as a moment of exhaustion, sadness, trepidation, and some disconnect.

Perhaps that sounds odd. Why wouldn’t I just be relieved and happy?

I was! But, those infusions, and those remarkably wonderful, brilliant, and caring nurses have become part of my life. There’s an intense comfort knowing those fantabulous nurses are waiting for me each time I go in. There is security knowing their expertise, and those meds they give me, are keeping me alive and helping me thrive. It’s difficult to leave them, and nearly impossible to express my depth of gratitude.

Add to that the current status of my cancer as incurable, and the emotions intensify. That nagging negative voice in the back of my head complains and points out that it’s not really the end. There will be more.

It is only now, over a week later, that I can take a breath, acknowledge the truth the voice raises, and remind it that even so, for the moment, I am done with the infusions, and that is good.

Meanwhile, I push on with my home medications. They are working their own particular magic. They press on against my cancer, giving it no rest. For that I couldn’t be more grateful. And yet, they continue to press on me as well, and that is not pleasant. Thankfully, they too will soon end, at least for this session. And that too will be a victory worth celebrating. They are no easier, and no less important than the infusions, so their conclusion shall be celebrated as well. (smile)

As I sit here with an pounding head, aching chest, and overall malaise, I chuckle thinking, “Perhaps we should all do more daily bell ringing!”

We took the time to meditate and pray? Ring a bell!
We pause for some breathing and positive thoughts? Ring a bell!
We see the beauty in the little things? Ring a bell!
We are the recipient of unexpected kindness? Ring a bell!
We have patience, and don’t crank at the person who accidentally stepped on our last nerve? Ring a bell!
We notice the miracles and gifts of every day? Ring a bell!
We don’t vomit — even though we feel like we might? Ring many bells! (laughter)

When my last infusion was finally finished, and my nurse excitedly said “Wait! You get to ring the bell! Give me your phone, I’ll take a photo!” I chuckled. The photographer in me thought “Where shall we take it?” I momentarily considered good backgrounds. Then my aching head and ridiculous exhaustion got the better of me, and my thoughts morphed into “Oh my gosh, let’s just take it anywhere!”

In hindsight, the background is perfect. Behind me are all the little infusion pods. Behind me are my six months of infusions.

BEHIND me.

They are behind me. Finished.
At least for now.

They are behind me. Making me cancer lighter.
That is miraculous

They are behind me. Exhausting me.
That’s something I have to remind myself.

These 6 months have not been easy. My body, mind, and spirit have worked hard, and had more bad days than good. They have been pummeled. They are fantabulous for sure, but they are going to take a bit of time to recover. When I talked with my Dana Farber oncologist in October he said “You should be feeling great (pause) by sometime in January.”

Sometime in JANUARY?!?!?!??? Eee gads. If I recall correctly, I thought to myself “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Did he just meet me?!?!” But, now, I realize the wisdom of his words. This isn’t a little sprint. This isn’t an easy workout. This is an endurance event. And no matter how fantabulous I am, as with every endurance event there is preparation, execution, and recovery.

Now I need to respect the final push, and the recovery.

With that in mind, I remind myself this final push of medications and side effects, as well as my recovery are supported by all the things I do in the background.

Where I am, and who is there with me — in person, prayer, and spirit — matters!

How I eat supports me and all my work.

The things I do, and the ways I think, fuel me.

I always tell my Kindergartners about the importance of the struggle in our lives and learning. One year, one of them reminded me with great conviction “The struggle is real, Ms. James, and it’s important!”

Yes, my sweet, courageous, determined, girl — you are right. The struggle is real and supremely important. So too are these things. They overflow with life, energy, hope, joy, possibility, and power. They enable me to endure, survive, advance, and thrive.

So, with a big breath, I remind myself (and perhaps you) sometimes angst is just part of the process. But guilt? Guilt is inappropriate. Patience, peace, and acknowledgement of all I am, all I do, and all I have accomplished (with the help of so many) — that is appropriate. Let the bell ringing continue.

But first, I must collapse for a nap.

The Magic of Three

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For some reason I like groups of three. I often put patterns of three in my art. I find power in the sounds of three words strung together — Breathe, pray, trust. I chuckle as I contemplate a plethora of wonderful blueberries.

This week my threes showed up as reminders to feed my mind with truth, beauty, and positivity.

Did you know, the neuroplasticity of our brain allows us to replace negative thought patterns with more truthful and positive ones? We aid our brain in this task by focusing more of our attention and inner conversation on these new thoughts. So, in praise of the magic of three, and in my never ending quest to program my brain for health, happiness, and holiness, here are three thoughts from this week that are true, positive, and, I think, beautiful.

It’s always good to try, isn’t it? — Liz Steel

Yes, in art and in life. It’s always good to try. Try to be grateful. Try to be kind. Try to be brave. And perhaps most importantly, try, even when it seems unlikely you’ll succeed. What’s the worst that can happen? You won’t be able to do it — yet.

Liz’s book is finally out of my mail quarantine. I’m fascinated by her sketches. I’m equally fascinated by how difficult it is for me to translate what I see with my eyes into a sketch on my page. None-the-less, it was remarkably satisfying to try!

“We are never more than one grateful thought away from peace of heart.”
― Brother David Steindl-Rast

I am a huge Brother David fan. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve listened to his audio book The Grateful Heart as I drive from one place to another.

If you haven’t read or listened to Br. David, stop reading this, click on this link, and listen.

Did you go yet? His spirit, voice, and words are a blessing. “Look at the sky. We so rarely look at the sky. … Look at the faces of people you meet. Each one has an incredible story behind their face.”

I’ve decided to document my grateful noticing . Last week I jotted down things for which I am grateful. This week, I’m collecting scripture verses that I’ve experienced as gifts.

You are a true warrior!
I’m putting all those dates into my calendar to pray extra for you.
— A friend

When I received this text message, I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed. It was amazing, in the midst of my fear, angst, and fatigue, to be reminded of the truth — I am a warrior, and I’m supported by my warrior friends.

As I looked for a photo to add to this magic of 3 thought, I came upon many ways I am a warrior — prayer warrior, positivity warrior, cancer-fighting warrior, sword wielding warrior, creativity warrior, teaching and learning warrior. None of them felt right for this particular connection. Then I found this photo.

It’s from a visit to the PEM. A large piece of art, lit from within, hung in one of their exhibition spaces. That light cast intricate shadows of the art on the walls. It was beautiful to look at as I stood in the doorway. When I stepped into the room, the light hit me as well, casting my image onto the wall. It was awesome.

At the PEM, the light from the piece of art projected an accurate image of me onto the wall. This time the light of my friend and her words, projected an accurate image of me onto my own heart and mind. I’m grateful for her, and every other amazing person who walks beside me, light at the ready.

Who Am I As A Writer?

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What an interesting question. At first my response was, “I really don’t know. I just write.”

But, on further introspection, nothing could be further from the truth. I don’t ever, or rarely, just write. I always write to understand, to teach, or to create the perfect moment. Often I do it to create a space of positivity, affirmation, encouragement, and hope, that can be returned to as often as needed.

Sometimes I do it for me. Sometimes I do it for others. But it’s always the same. It starts with an idea, or a need, and it moves forward through many iterations. It’s a lot like my art making. I do it for the fun of the experience, the process, the flow, and the product.

I write and create art to tell stories — for myself and others.

More and more I am discovering and experiencing the power of stories. I want to fill the world, or at least my little part of it, with stories of goodness, truth, beauty, courage, and kindness.

That is who I am as a writer, artist, creative. Heck that is who I am as a human being. Or at least, it is who I strive to be.

Here is a shot of the latest story I am telling myself, and anyone who needs to hear it.

There is joy and possibility even in the wonkiness. And amazingly enough, sometimes there is great joy and possibility. I am loving the wonkiness of the mandala — created purposefully — and I’m thinking of working on a series!

The Power and Solace of Creativity

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I’m feeling quite ill today. Took my chemo meds this morning – so it is to be expected. It helps to rest in the cool, quiet, darkness of my room. While I do, with any energy I have, I pray, and think of ways to help myself find more strength, more joy, and more ease.

The first time I did cancer treatment, I kept a journal of all sorts of wonderful thoughts and prayers people sent me. For some reason it’s been difficult to do that this time.

None-the-less, I’ve made an agreement with myself to make an art journal of encouragement and beauty. So, I direct my thoughts to that.

What might help me now, and inspire me each time I turn to it? I am drawn to the power of words and images, so I set to work.

I carefully choose and craft the images and words. Repeatedly I read the words. I let their meaning and sound fill the space around me. I notice how they make me feel. I search for words that create the palpable sensation I seek. Then I string them together in ways that increase their power. My hands shake as I lay down the words and images. Interestingly enough, I’m able to breathe through that and actually allow it to form my drawing in ways that please me.

Do I still feel ill? Yes. But I also feel soothed.

The power of creativity – in thought, design, word, and deed – is strong. I think I will take my journal back to bed with me, and rest with it in my hands. I will imagine the sweet smell of beeswax and roses seeping out — bathing me in warm, luscious peace, as my sister and brother Saints sit and keep me company.

Hope and Create

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Recently, I received an SOS — an invitation to be part of a group of bloggers making and experiencing magic by sharing our stories. I love their idea that “the magic of story happens when a story is released into the world and it wraps around someone’s heart.” Fantabulous, isn’t it? I hope this bit of my story wraps around someone’s heart bringing a sweet song of hope and peace.

Sometimes, being is difficult, because life is difficult. That is not to suggest in any way that being and life are not glorious, mysterious, and wonderful. They are! But, sometimes, there is uncertainty, fear, anxiety, and pain, amidst the glory, wonder, and mystery, and that can be burdensome.

This year has had some wearying moments.

I have an incurable — but totally manageable — form of cancer. I am well, I really am. I am strong, brave, beautiful, fantabulous, and very loved. And yet, sometimes, it gets the best of me. It has been becoming more active over the last few years. And that, as well as how it makes me feel – fatigued, sometimes ill and unsafe — has been hard to manage.

Did I mention wearying? Yes, I did. Part of me whispers “It bears repeating — weary.”

But even for the weary there is hope. I love Pope Francis! Listen to a few things he has said recently about hope.

“Hope does not disappoint!”

“Do not be afraid, do not yield to fear: This is the message of hope. It is addressed to us, today. These are the words that God repeats to us this very night.”

And not only hope, but creativity as well.

“I’m living this as a time of great uncertainty. It’s a time for inventing, for creativity.”

I am doing my best to breathe, and to live the words Pope Francis speaks to me, and to us. Let us live in the moment, even in uncertainty — with hope and creativity.

No One Knows

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If you are a regular follower of my blog, you know I have cancer. If you aren’t a regular, but happened upon my blog today — welcome, and let me hip you to my diagnosis. I have Waldenstroms Macroglobulanemia. It’s a rare form of non-hodgkin’s lymphoma.

This December I’ll actually have survived, and with some regularity, thrived, with WM for 11 years. Amazing to say — especially considering the first prognosis was that I would leave the planet in 5 years. Clearly, and thankfully, that information was incorrect.

Lately I’ve been struggling a bit more with how WM makes me feel physically, emotionally, and mentally. WM compromises my immune system making me more likely to get sick. I’m not sure if it’s because of the immune system connection but it also sometimes just knocks me out — with little or no warning. I will be up and about, doing the myriad of things I do, and out of the blue – WHAM! — I am completely exhausted. Sometimes that makes me feel a bit crazy, or like a completely weakling.

Funny, as my struggle has been increasing, so have the comments from people I meet. No one notices the struggle. (I think that’s a testament to my ability to breathe, and do, and be — and to all the amazing people that hold me up in so many different ways.) They all say “WOW! You look FANTASTIC!!!”  It cracks me up. The latest person told me every time they see me, no matter what I’m going through, I seem to have an ethereal glow about me. (Wow.)

So regardless of how I feel, I’ve decided to accept these statements as truth. I look (and am) fantastic, and I glow, with an ethereal glow.

But today, glowing or not, I’ve felt incredibly frustrated, irritated, and emotionally spent. Funny, feeling all that is frustrating, irritating and emotionally draining. But, to be kind to myself I am just getting over one of those 3 day in bed episodes.

As I drove home after work I wondered — with as little crankiness and judgement as possible — “What is wrong with me?!? Why is this sometimes so painfully, crushingly difficult?” This, along with a myriad of other questions that come in these moments of angst.

To ease the pain in my chest, I took a few deep breaths, said a prayer, and turned on Audible. I started listening to I’ll Push You.

As I listened I thought … oh yeah, that’s it. One of the reasons this is so tough is because I’m capable and strong. I have been my whole life, and I take some pride, comfort, and enjoyment in that. I love pushing myself, and being in control, and crushing goals and obstacles, and, did I mention, being in control.

F*ck. It’s hard to not be in control. It’s hard to face my own inability to crush this. It’s hard to be weak at times. Makes me cry. The tears feel like a sign of weakness, but I think the willingness to shed them, to feel the pain that causes them, is a sign of strength. So funny right? A willingness to experience weakness and fear, is actually a strength.

Every day — sometimes every moment — I’m working on it. Working on being healthy, being strong, being weak, eating well, hydrating, taking care of my emotional and mental wellbeing, asking for help, giving help, accepting kindness, giving kindness, praying, trusting God, asking the Saints and angels to be with me, having admirably stubborn optimism, glowing, and sometimes, weeping and questioning it all.

In I’ll Push You, when asked about the prognosis, Justin says “No one knows.” I think that’s true with me as well. No one really knows. No one knows when I’ll need treatment again, when my symptoms will become more severe, when they will discover a cure, or when I’ll leave the planet. I’ve never been a big fan of that. But today, it seemed,  “no one knows” is the perfect prognosis.

Picasso once said “Everything you can imagine is real.” Why not imagine a great prognosis and a beautiful life — no matter what? Cancer-free, cancer-light, or cancer-not-so-light, life still is, and it’s good.

Funny,  as I write this, I feel like vomiting. It isn’t easy to be human, or have cancer, or be afraid, or not be sure what’s what. But, it’s all good.

So I embrace my glow — my ethereal glow — no matter what. And, since no one knows, I will imagine fantabulousness, and breathe through all else.

Perhaps by now you are wondering what this has to do with creativity. For a while so was I! Obviously it has to do with creativity because it’s about me — the creativity loving educator. But, as I sip my cup of tea and take a moment to think, I believe the connection to creativity is deeper.

IMG_20191030_205833-01.jpeg

Creatives look at things differently. We choose to imagine things that others do not. We engage in possibility thinking, wondering, risking, learning, and living with curiosity, joy, and openness.

 

Creativity is about life — surviving, thriving, and glowing — even when we feel like vomiting!

Oh, I must add that to my imagining — fantabulousness with no anxiety induced nausea. Ah yes, that is good.

 

 

 

What if?

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I bought this the other day, framed it, and placed it in my classroom. It’s not always this noticeable. There are usually two sweet potato plants, and a pencil sharpener the girls love, next to it. Still, I was a bit surprised no one asked me what it said, or why I put it there. Maybe it was because it was spring break, maybe we were just busy, maybe they thought I’d mention it to them. Who knows.

I’ll be sure to mention it to them when we return. There are so many great What if? questions we can ask ourselves. To name just a few: What if I choose to be kind instead of less than kind? What if I just give it a go? What if I believe I can? What if I let others help me? What if I help others? What if we do it this way? What if I don’t know? What if I do?

Maybe my girls didn’t ask me about it, so that I could ask myself about it. So, until I mention it to them, I’m mentioning it to myself.

What if? 

It’s such an amazingly awesome, and at the same time, frustrating question. Say it to yourself.

What if? 

The awesomeness is the possibilities that are held in that question. The things that might become if we ask What if?

And yet, I think the frustrating part of What if? might be the exact same thing. What if? has the potential to open so many doors, windows, opportunities. But, what shall we ask? What will happen if a door or window opens? What will change? What will be challenged? How will I respond?

What if? is a remarkably powerful question when we are thinking, considering, designing, inventing, and/or creating. It’s a gigantic part of the creative process. “What if we do this? What if we do this instead? Let’s try.” Then it comes back again. “Now, what if???”

Lately though I’ve been asking myself What if? in a very different regard. I’ve got to have some tests done to see what is going on with my cancer. What if? rears it’s somewhat ugly head in my mind. What if? What if it’s the cancer? What if I have to do treatment? What if it’s not the cancer? What is it then? What if … What if … What if? 

At some point in my mental conversation I shook my head, and let out a strong, loud breath. It was as if, in some way, I embraced all my what ifs? and let them be, just for a moment. Kind of like in the creative process, you can’t allow yourself to get lost in the what ifs. At some point you have to let out a strong breath, take a look at the situation, the problem, the idea, and the what if? answers. Then you need to choose one, or start a new path.

Unable to choose one of the what ifs I imagined, or feared. I chose a new tack.

What if they find the cancer is more active? That’s ok. They are brilliant. I am brave, and, to quote a friend, a bad ass (cracks me up every time). And perhaps more importantly I am supported by God and all the awesome people I am blessed to have in my life. It will, somehow, be ok.  And, hey, if I have to do treatment, I’ll also have to take time off from work, and while I love my job, that will be nice.

What if I have to change some things in my life? That’s ok, too. Miracles happen. Life is good. Perhaps there is a beautiful surprise right around the corner. Everything is going to be alright.

What if it’s not the cancer? Hallelujah! Now we have more information and will be better prepared if it ever is the cancer. It’s not like I ordered these tests. Those brilliant doctors I mentioned did.

What if I did a bit more breathing, and a bit more listening to the blessings, joy, miracles, and positivity that is all around me? What if I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to be held — by the Saints, angels, God, the Blessed Mother, and the fab people around me? It’s tough to imagine doing that at times, because, let’s review, I am a brave bad ass who really enjoys being in control!

But that, is the beauty of what if? Being able to see, and do, things in a different way.

I’m going to give it a try. What don’t you?

What if? 

 

Fatigue, Eyeballs, and Flowers

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I was home sick yesterday. It’s Saturday today, and I’m still home sick. Actually, it’s not so much sickness, as remarkably strong fatigue. Ever since my diagnosis and treatment, I have some days that I can do nothing other than sleep, or lie in a heap on the couch with a delicious cup of green tea before going back to bed to sleep! The fatigue is crazy-powerful. It makes me feel ill in many different ways. It’s annoying, but what can I do? Press on with relentless positivity, some kvetching, and of course some creativity!

Today’s a bit better, but yesterday even creative thinking, and artistic work, had me climbing back into bed. But as someone said “Earth without art is just eh. Go.make.art!” Or as I say, “Life without creativity and art is missing some serious joy!” So fatigue or not, art and creativity here I come!

I’m trying to figure out a design for a bathroom cabinet. I know it will contain the word LOVE in arts and crafts style lettering, as well as some as yet unknown number of arts and crafts style flowers. I thought about the project for a few days, and then began sketching the flowers. I’ve done them before but these will be mirror images of the ones I’ve done in the past. Sounds simple right? Yeah, not so much.

Yesterday I grabbed my grid paper and began sketching a plethora of flowers. Some of them looked a lot more like eyeballs than flowers! Eyeballs! That just won’t do! It cracks me up and frustrates me all at the same time. So I sketch on, immersed in my creative and artistic process.

  • Math — the shapes, the number of grid lines I’m using to create each flower, where the various shapes lie in relationship to the middle of the whole flower.
  • Freedom to make the shapes flow and a bit askew instead of mathematically perfect.
  • Deep observing — of the flower, the shapes, the sweep of the lines, the areas that are outside my original space.
  • The beauty of my pencil — how it feels in my hand, and how wonderfully it skims across the paper leaving my mark with great ease.
  • The process itself — think, try, think some more, look at it a lot, go away, come back, look at it again, rearrange, repeat.
  • And, finally there is me, my breath, my brain, my heart, and the joy and contentment I feel as I create, learn, make mistakes, try again, and eventually succeed.

This is my work from yesterday. Overcome at one point with how much they all really did look like eyeballs I pulled out my watercolors and brush, hopeful the color would help me see flowers. If nothing else I figured the watercolor would bring me joy.

Thankfully the watercolor worked wonders. The eyeballs transformed into  proper-looking flowers, and I transformed into a little less frustrated, little more happy and content me.20181005_140102-01

I want to share this process more and more with my students — in all areas of the curriculum. I want them to experience all I just experienced.

I’m sure I’ve said this before, and each time I have this revelation anew, I try to be mindful of my teaching practice and classroom management. Do I gift my students with time to process, think, create, observe, learn, fail, try again, rethink, and change their minds? Am I transparent sharing my own process with them? Do they know how many times my flowers look like eyeballs?

I try, that’s for sure. But, there is something really intrinsic to my process, that I am not convinced I provide for my students. Is it time to think? Time to be with one problem or project? Time to observe and learn about things on their own?

I don’t know. But, for sure there is something about being in the moment, something about the immersion, the peace, the struggle, and the whole process that I must continue to reflect upon, and bring to my students.

Cancer? Yes, and …

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Each summer I head to Boston for my yearly Dana Farber visit. I’m happy and grateful to have these remarkable people on my healing team. At the same time, as my appointment approaches,  I experience a relatively serious amount of stress and anxiety. Even looking up the website to share as a link sent waves of nausea crashing over me!

The nausea isn’t about them — it’s about the cancer and my relationship to it. I’m relentlessly positive, and do  many really wonderful things to strengthen myself physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. But, my positivity, and all my other good work, is sometimes overshadowed by my angst.

I needed a bit of a jolt to amp up my game. So, I buzzed off to see Catherine — a beautifully creative and awesome human being — for some henna and positive vibes.

She knew I wanted something powerful that could speak to me, and others. She didn’t disappoint.

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How fantabulous is it?!! In case you’re not sure, the correct answer is “Awesomely fantabulous!!!”

Beyond the artistry, it’s fantabulous for the power it holds. It’s a philosophy of open acceptance of what is, and what can be.

Look …

Yes, I have to go to Dana Farber each summer, and frequently have blood drawn, and that is a great privilege and opportunity.

Yes, I am experiencing angst and stress, and I am happy and blessed.

Yes, I have cancer, and I have incredible health.

Yes …

and, I am happy.

and, I am loved.

and, my body is working for optimal health, my mind is working for optimal learning, my spirit is working for optimal awesomeness.

and, there are untold possibilities. Possibilities that I know, and ones I have yet to discover or imagine.

As I write my yes, and thoughts, I realize there is a better, more creative way to look at my yes, and lists. I can be creative, re-think, re-cognize.

Often my and, is actually my yes. 

I have cancer. Yes.

It feels huge, overpowering and all encompassing. It is a yes in my life, but absolutely, positively, not the essential yes of my life.

The essential yesses of my life are:

Yes, I am blessed, and … 

Yes, I am happy, and … 

Yes, I am loved, and … 

Yes, I am healthy,  and … 

Yes, my body, mind, and spirit are working for optimal health, learning, and awesomeness, and … 

Yes, the world is full of possibility, and … 

Yes, I am, and am surrounded by, incredible abundance, and … 

I’m digging the space that surrounds the yes, and in Catherine’s design.  It speaks of the space we take as we hear, say and wonder about yes, and.  It is a space waiting to be filled with breath, thoughts, conversation, prayer, openness, insight, creativity, being, and possibility.

Yes, and.

I embrace the power and possibility, and wait with curious and hopeful joy.