One of the Five

Sometimes when sleep won't come, someone arrives to fill the space. Last week such a one came bounding into my reverie full blown, and together we caroused across our memories for hours, in a dream state. His name was Christan Martin. I have been blessed with five incredible men in my life. One of the things they all have in common is to be loved equally well by both men and women. Everyone wants to be at the table with them, in their presence, breathing the same air. Each of them is a gift. these men connect at some mystical level with everyone they meet. We all want to live and die with them, to be in their company nonstop. They eclipse all others. Chris was a new pastor to our church. Firecracker, open, available, gifted. I was about twenty five, happily married and the mother of a four year old girl. Like so many others, mind melding with Chris was a given. When out of his office, he could be seen everywhere with a small boy atop his shoulders. His little boy desired only to be wherever his father was. Jet black hair knobby knees and stunning eyes, he looked closely at us all to try to see what his Dad was drawn to. The answer was so simple, so pure. Chris believed everyone who crossed his path, or whose path he crossed, was a gift from God to be discovered and enjoyed. In short, I think he sought God inside everyone. Wish I could say I learned from his example. I'm learning very late. Chris attended Franklin and Marshall College, and Harvard, and earned his divinity degree from Princeton while he was making his mark as a flyboy based in Hawaii and keeping the locals hopping in the company of Don Ho, of Tiny Bubbles fame. He was pursued by a quiet Yakima girl who bought a one way ticket to Hawaii. She was married to him for forty four years before his life here ended. She was an anchor to his crazy wild energy, so like that which my own husband of fifty three years is for me. Well. Someone has to hold those of our ilk to the earth, lest we go flying too close to the sun. Chris had the ability to let you know that because you are God's creation, you matter. He loved the idea of paying it forward, of the magnitude of the importance of loving, no holding back. He risked all the time, every moment. His was a seeking mind. He was a farm boy from Lancaster County, PA, an athlete and a scholar, but you had to discover that for yourself.You just wanted that thing he had, the self confidence to give himself away. After four years in the private sector, he joined the Air Force and served as chaplain for 40 plus years. Frequently decorated, all over the world and influencing so many, i kept up with him about twice a decade. He was one of those who just picked up the conversation where we left it. I saw him once more when on a hot summer night he appeared with his family , hauling me out of a night time swim. Finally, I located and called him in 2000, to find I was six months too late. Chris had died of a brain tumor. His fab kids took leave from their jobs....no easy trick....and went with their parents on a world tour to see every last nook and corner Chris had wanted before heaven. At last when his ravaged brain wouldn't allow him balance, confining him, he marked out his remaining days like you'd expect. He remained engaged and involved in the last of his life. He knew his future. He'd soon be home with the Lord he loved, the One he shared, for whom he claimed As his Father.Chris believed we are here to love. To do it as best we can, to make the effort to do it freely. To tell each other NOW, when we are vibrant with life. Not when it won't matter anymore. Why do we wait? Tell someone you love now. I have learned many important lessons from my men. None is so important as this.

Treasure People

Oh, I have so many many! They email me, send me cards of encouragement and good cheer, lift me up to the very face of God for kisses, exhort me to victory and applaud every huddle I jump. I am blessed beyond belief, marveling that these people exist in my life. They have offered to dust my house, grocery shop for me, hold my head if sick, visit, take out my trash, teach me how to wear head scarves, wear scarves to keep me company. Who does that? Who? My relationship with these fab humans covers more than thirty years, and in hours of chemo have put themselves right in the chemo room in their emails to me in real time. When there is need, they drop everything and respond. In my hand is a worry stone. Black, smooth, reassuring and comforting, from a river of living water, found in a river bed on a hike a very long time ago. It resides in my pocket, or beneath my stroking fingers, a talisman of promise signifying the absolute constancy of permanence and shaping. Constant bathing by a cool clear stream for who knows how long, my fingers now apply their subtle pressure to make my mark upon that Permanence, and the stone, warming to my touch, returns the favor. This came in the mail: so do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Matthew 10:31. It came from a treasure person, one of those sustaining singers who shared herself and her faith in the mission purpose of my choir. It is no accident we are called Promise as we live out the promises of scripture. I love that assurance...worth more than many sparrows. I whisper to those little brown birds at my feeder and say I am worth more than all of you little guys! I know of whom I speak. This is my Lord, to whom I owe everything. His promises to me are money in the bank, life affirming and powerful. It is my source of courage. And it is bulwarked by the uncommon and consistent support of so many treasure people who step right in when I am shaky. When I falter. When the darkness whispers my name. They turn me around, reminding me that nothing has ever been said about my demise, even when I raised the question. To trust all those people who tell me with authority that survival is not only possible but assured. This cancer is curable. Cured. Pay the insurance price and reap the benefit. Six months of chemo and radiation? Kidding? Well, no. Do it. Do it bravely. Trusting. Take all those hands holding me up, hold tight to them. They know what they are about.How many ways can they be thanked? Give to receive. Walk along side. Hear the lesson. Take notes. We are bound together. We can look the other way, but believe me, we are still bound. It is about understanding what is in it for all of us. Any moment it can be you. Yeah. I thought I was home free, just because I have lived a long time, well past this kind of trouble. Wonder where that is written? Foolish in the extreme. We are bound together. No one is alone. No one.

God of the Universe hears my cry

Let me come right out with it: I am a Christian. Bold. Out loud, straight up, in love with my Lord kind of Christian. Crazy for God. Out of the box. Exuberantly, fully, no holds barred sold out for Him Christian. In His God aspect, God of everything God, He rolls down His God of the universe thunder voice across time and space and into me saying, "you are mine! Mine!mine!" no choices. I belong to this God. Like all else that He made, I am in the pile and valuable to Him. Not sort of. Not twentieth on the list. I matter to Him. He sacrificed His Son for me. Mind bending. In His Son aspect, as Jesus, only Son of God, He speaks to me of His Promises. Those He made to Israel, to His chosen, to His own.to me. I claim them all. God gave me to Him. He is Master. Savior. King of Kings. Lord of all. Alpha.Omega. Beginning. End. Jesus, name above all names. I love Him like crazy. He loves me with a passion. With compassion. no holds barred. Love beyond explaining. Without reservation. Oh my goodness, without restraint. He is crazy about me! In His Holy Spirit aspect, He lives deep within me, speaks in holy whispers of intense love, guiding me, helping me, teaching me, motivating me and bonding me to Him. I love this aspect, need Him in this way, want to know Him more, and more until there is nothing else in my realm of existence. I seek Him out, day and night, and cannot get enough of Him,share him, sell Him, want everyone I know to know Him. He is my delight, my teacher, my companion, supporter, advocate, who knows what is required of me.Knows the purpose for me, the Reason I was made, and why God loves me. I love God because He loved me first. I can't resist love from this Being. Resting in that, so little else retains importance. But satisfying as this sounds, I find that staying close is my responsibility. I need to want to. The world gets in the way. Diverts me. I forget where my nourishment resides. God rarely imposes. He let's me wander away. Lost in the weeds. Out from under his wings. Playing in traffic. He knows exactly where I am. It's me who is lost. How prodigal. When I am lost enough, He sends out a call and I respond. He still knows my name. He brings me back on the sound of His voice. Reminds me where I belong. Beds me down and tucks me in. There is no greater love.

Life in the Cancer Lane

In the way of things, I have buried myself beneath the covers, amassed great books to read, like Be A Miracle, The Amateur, and The Harbinger.each keep me stepping, but not fast enough. Having felt really well after chemo, it is only that I didn't know the pace of the drill. the weekend was a wipe and by late afternoon today I am recovering from the flu-like misery that is the horned child of those chemicals that seek out any residual calls I might be harboring. Suffering is not becoming. It hurts. But I feel hungry so maybe I have passed this week's glitch. I have discovered I am held in the arms of incredible people who have taken me to their hearts, wrapped me in their arms and have stormed heaven with prayers for me. Humbling in the extreme, but I din't wish to blow it off as trite and unimportant. If you know my history, I am the product of unloved and unwanted, so this level of concern for my health and my recovery are way outside anything i have ever experienced. I marvel and pinch myself and what has happened is that I have had to see myself as these many see me: strong. Unbroken. Able. Winning. I'm trying to recognize myself within their framework of recognition of who they perceive me to be. It is permeating my chemo team, too, for they barely know me but have determined that i am up to this trial, able to stand straight within the blast of poisonous wind, to prevail. I pay attention, and closely, to the bald statement from my doctor that my body is free of cancer, that what we are doing is insurance against recurrence. A believer triumphs. So I march forward, bearing up, facing the day, demanding of my body the mundane: eat properly, eliminate, rest, meditate, laugh at the ridiculous, refuse the negative voice, keep a positive attitude for there is great reason to remain so. I am learning material I had no desire to know. But I stay focused where I do know treasure is: the cardinals on the deck, the gold finches in the trees, the thrush that sings to the morning sun, wakens me to the day and reminds me that along with them I am God's creature with her own voice, her own song, her own purpose. I am not my cancer. I am the same woman I was a year ago, or a month ago or a week ago. Life happens.what I do with my life defines me in the world. It is a gift to know who I have been in the eyes of my friends. In the world in which I function, I am a wife and mother, a grandmother, a good friend to many, a writer, an encourager, and with this part of my journey, one who will share the experience. I know myself to be blessed and cherished. Those are pacer bricks on a difficult road. The road is crowded and perilous. But I walk it held close on the path by these, my ardent supporters. Life in this lane requires my attention, but it is not all my life is about.

Life and lemonade

In the past two months life has been lived beneath the lemon tree. No cherries, grapes, or Bartletts. Only lemons. In this hiatus time I have learned things I never wanted to know about. Like cancer and how it grows. Like the difficult paths to it's defeat. Like how much courage it takes to walk fearless over hot coals in very bare feet. Like the unspoken fears that are horrific compared to the ones that are speakable. I never wanted to know a surgeon up close and so personal that he could lift a whole system up and out of my body. Like his incredible skill with a robotic scalpel. Who wants to know that on a personal level? Why is it essential to be intimate with a now unreliable bladder, and it's quirky failures on the way to surgical recovery? My journey has only begun and getting a good start out of the gate to health land required serious activity upon my body, from which I am still recovering, so that I can get to the really hard work of chemo which will include hair loss. Not maybe, or, we'll see, but definitely,definitely, and very soon after the first treatment. Omg. At my age I stupidly thought I'd gotten safely past this deep dark forest. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I am in very deep woods and for now the memoir is tabled, twitching there like some blob trying to hang on to it's importance. When some of this is under my belt, perhaps I can return to those chapters, get them edited and out to an agent or whatever we are to do now in the fragmented world of publishing. But that I have found my blog and marshaled my thoughts before the next siege, it is heartening, as even with chemo hard on my heels, I have found my thought process and determined that in the midst of this misery, I am alive and have every hope of wellness at the end of this cure. Not maybe. Definitely. And you who read this will walk with me and hopefully talk with me until one day in late November I will have this behind me. Hope is the beacon.

Life Gets In The Way

One can so easily forget the blog when life gets in the way. Between health issues and essay writing, it was easy to get sidetracked, pulled away from the memoir and get lost down primrose paths and dark bottomless holes.

I learned this week it is possible to write so much "show" that it can overshadow "tell"! I learned that polliwogs sing, that the night temps determine when they stop and start, and that Venus and Jupiter, hanging in the night sky all this month are good for another few days if the skies are clear. There is something mystical and magical about them. They have a presence, no doubt about it as they stand firm in the black velvet. Every clear evening sends me the front door where they make their appearance. I am bummed if it is overcast. Venus, because that planet is closer, dwarfs Jupiter which I know to be the largest planet, but so much farther away. astronomy is not my strong suit, nor is it much of my interest, but I am quite enamored of these two planets so visible this month.

The memoir suffers in the moment. Until my plate is cleared I can't concentrate on it. Polishing is done. Weaving is not. I mean to say I must do the work of making it flow so that you page turners will....turn the page! There is no doubt that the story is a gooder. No doubt that it is well told. No doubt that I have captured my mother, the eraser, negator, rubber out par excellence! But I have.... And memoir writing can get you there...discovered brokenness and pain in my antagonist that, had I understood her tragedies, I would have recovered sooner.perhaps we withhold our ability to see until we can bear seeing.

I can say, though, in my most frightened moments, I wanted my mother. But you see, I always wanted my mother. She did not want me.

Post writers conference

Yikes. Cold, cold, cold! There I was in Arizona's high desert, wher the sun was brilliant and the blowing breeze was COLD! Got up to oh, maybe 50 during the day and down to 33 at night. Sitting around a blazing bonfire meant the front of me was steaming and the back of me was frigid. Getting there and back was arduous and ended here in a snow storm. But enough complaining.

There is nothing that a room full of writers can't overcome. The lectures were informative, the instructors were full of good stuff all writers need to know, and sharing ideas about how to do the deed were plentiful. There were a lot of poets this time, good poets who excel at their craft. What was lovely was the level of shared information by writers who have managed to be published...I am in awe...and what was devastating was the ongoing conversation about the pretty well broken publishing business, and how many countless avenues have been spawned. So many it's hard to figure where the fit is. Seems perhaps the correct road is to ePublish through Amazon, and a fave person also suggested iuniverse. When it is time, I'll do the wise thing and consult Jack Heffernan, a publisher available to us at conference and happy to advise any writer who asks. a number of writers there are published and willing to direct me to small presses, and apparently out there somewhere are still people who will pick upnthe marketing piece that is so daunting. I could focus forever and not get it right; my marketing skills are zero. I will need someone who will be good at that and worth their fee.

The whole idea of self publishing is daunting to me, and yet I think I see that for today's writer, that could be attractive. Someone suggested that I place at least sone parts of my memoir out here for others to read. That might make sense if I had a clue there was an audience. My reading a particular essay while at conference got a good reception. I might place it out here just to see what might happen.

It stuns me to see how this seems to work. A ballerina is expected to dance and do it well.to dance well enough to attract an audience. She is not expected to produce the ballet, nor to design the set, or build the stage. She is to dance. That is what she does. You see my point. IT remains to be seen the direction I take. But for now, I will be resting up from a long trip of real distance, remembering the fun part of the workshop, and not the perils of today's travel.