Holiday Cancer Cheer

There’s no Cocktails that really make it onto my holiday menus since my cancer diagnosis. Those halcyon days of fine wine and creative concoctions are long gone. So the lack of drink kind of makes these dry holiday seasons well…dry. In light of that I thought I might share with you some of my anecdotes about how I handle all the stress and the isolation of cancer and the holidays. I’m taking a bit of a different twist on your usual cancer blog fare.

Perhaps you can take some key points away and infuse your own drinks with some of these interesting ways of handling things that are rather uncomfortable and can be somewhat depressing. I find the holidays carry as much weight as all of the past 12 years of being with my beloved and every stinking holiday season beginning about two weeks before thanksgiving and ending just after New Year’s Eve, when I can finally relax.

After 54 years alive and 1/4 of those with my husband and most of those 12 years with two adolescent growing to teen boys who expected incredibly nice, increasingly costly gifts, here’s some practical as well as some less pedantic, more spiritually-based techniques of handling the cancer holiday blahs.

  1. Learning to deal with bodily functions such as farting in public or knowing every clean bathroom in about a five mile radius from the house. Me: farts in line at the grocery checkout. Clerk: looks at me like this 😑 Me: Looking down, holding out my index finger, as if to scold a dog or a small child, and saying, “bad dog! Oh you know these support animals. I should cut down on his protein shouldn’t I?” Clerk: looks around sees no dog. Rolls eyes and elbows the teenager bagging my beets and ginger and tumeric. Me: Fart again, “bad boy!” looking around embarrassed and hoping silently I’m in range of a clean bathroom. I laugh to myself and muse as to why it has to happen so often at the grocery checkout. I stab the credit card machine with my chip up hoping it’s not declined heaping additional facial redness on top of that brought on by my intestinal eruption embarrassment. This year I am hoping for a few Silent Nights rather than personally sounding like I am playing a one -woman band version of the entire horn section of the college football show at halftime.
  2. Don’t wind up in the hospital. I don’t know if it’s the stress of the holidays or if it’s thinking about the people who haven’t called me or who might call me or who might not call me on the holidays and all the stress that goes along with that and what to say and what they’re going to ask. Perhaps that stress is all just coincidental to becoming ill enough to wind up hospitalized. However, every year this time of year I have been in the hospital for the past four years. I’m hoping that this year the hospital is not in my holiday plans instead of a nice trip elsewhere. I don’t consider the hospital a vacation. Nor that nurses are there to serve my needs and to wait on me hand and foot or to give me facials and massages. Although I wish they would instead of waking me from thin skinned sleep and asking me for my vitals over and over again.
  3. To decorate or not to decorate? Do I have the will to actually put the lights up get a tree haul it home put it up and hope that Craig will be there to help me. And then adorn it with all the decorations that I have collected over the past 12 years for family. I’m not sure that I’m going to do it this year though I did find a very cost effective retailer (Big Lots has 18 feet of white outdoor LED rope lights for $12!). I think I’d rather enjoy the beauty of nature all its own and use the stars as my decorations this year. First it’s a lot cheaper and second it’s a lot more beautiful and I appreciate them all the more every night that I’m out here and it’s not raining.
  4. Getting up before 1 pm to shop for gifts on time and with a bit of meaning for those who will get them. Probably late due to not getting out of the house in time to get to the stores or lack of personal financial resources. Wake up! I yell inside my mind, where no one can hear me but myself. As I reach for my magic rope, one I imagine falls from the ceiling above my bed, generalized bone pain and neuropathy in both arms, I’m prevented from reaching the frayed and knotted jute twisted above me. While the painful tingling in my hands caused by nearly five years of chemical therapies wakes me with a jolt I’ve no problem staying awake.
  5. Lose the guilt. Many days guilty feelings wash over me instead of a restorative shower. I feel guilty for lazing about and wonder if it’s even necessary to feel ashamed. People who count on me know I have morning challenges, or in some cases afternoon challenges. My schedule shifted later and later as we closed in on moving out of our house in San Jose. It’s amazing how much crap people accumulate over 11 years in one home. I realize too that 11 years is the longest span of time I’ve lived in one house. And now I start afresh without the guilt. I have new friends that don’t know me as I was before and therefore don’t have expectations of me as I wants was. They know me now and they like me as I am now. So I intend to drop the guilt this year and also if my friends who live in San Jose or back on the East Coast don’t understand well I suppose they’ll just have to live with that. I won’t live with the guilt anymore that’s for certain.
  6. Listen to more music. Music fills me with joy. I sing many songs I make up on the fly to my cat, Simon. Most of them are lullabies, as he seems to enjoy these most of all. I’m definitely guilty of singing loudly in the car and of course in the house. I also sing in the shower and pretty much everywhere I can. I’ll even sing to the music on the loudspeaker in the grocery store. Hopefully the same clerk who hears me fart does not hear me sing.One of the things that was absent from our lives for about five years while my husband was depressed was music. Music has refilled our house, filled spaces that were left void of sound and reverberates in our ears words and tunes that we both love to listen to. Right now we just listened to that one jimmy our Canadian trio Rush’s Fly by Night and it’s an awesome album. The title song is about leaving the past behind you with life leaving us “no time for hindsight” and that something I also intend to do which is not ditch the music from the past, but…
  7. Leave all of those past things that I can do nothing about behind me. Not making much ado about nothing. That’s something the cancer taught me to do, which is to leave the past where it belongs. In the past. That alleviates a whole lot of guilt (see above number 4) and it also brings me to my next point which is…
  8. Do not hold onto expectations of the future. With cancer you cannot have expectations of the future even if the future is tomorrow. Plans change ljconstantly. My health changes constantly and everything changes constantly around my health. It’s very hard to make plans and keep plans around something that is constantly changing. Life should be like that anyway: a little more spontaneous and a little less planned. But that’s hard to do around the holidays when people want to make plans. Further, when I was forced retirement I really didn’t have to plan my days anymore. I don’t have to live by calendar except to show up at the oncologist and get my chemo and make sure that I get my prescriptions on time. I also have a small business and I do need to ship my items on time but other than that I really don’t have to keep much of a diary. The only real diary I need to keep is a personal diary.
  9. Isolation can be good for writing not for the holidays. I wonder to myself if the reason I don’t hear from people is that they’re wondering if I’m dead or too ill to speak. Or maybe they think I’m in the hospital which I usually am this time of year. Or maybe they don’t want to give excuses for why they haven’t called or called back or texted or texted back. But it’s all OK it really doesn’t bother me all that much because honestly I’ve determined that if he will don’t want to call me I’m not going to pressure them to do so and I’m certainly not going to pressure myself into trying to call them. I don’t get very many cards anymore he used to get quite a lot. But now one or two trickle in maybe a half a dozen for the entire holiday season. Part of this has to do with my husband being depressed for the last five years and part of it has to do with me having cancer for the last five years. His depression comes and goes, stage 4 cancer just comes, and that’s about it.
  10. Live. Just live. And have a peaceful end of this year. I hold out hope. I’ll always have it for myself and for all of you. Go in peace. You deserve it.

Cancer in the Family

I’m fascinated by the impact our decisions create; some with major historical waves or most with barely noticeable little fluctuations in the air. Does anything really happen for a reason? My short history’s peppered with the lives of my mother and father and their parents. So here I investigate what my father gave me.

Everyone projects their life expectancy with an equation including a family history. Hoping to uncover relevant information, sifting through our historical data sometimes leaves golden nuggets in our miners pans. Some data insists on investigation although the output may never relate to an end result. Pun intended. I found a hand drawn family tree when sorting through my fathers personal notes a few weeks ago. My family going back to pre 1910 Russia, predating Stalin’s takeover and thus you’re reading my words now.

In 1941, my dad came into his life in a Brooklyn, NY posh Jewish walkup. My grandfather, Jack, born Jacob, one of four children, and the middle son of Russian Jewish immigrants. His father, Isaac after whom I am named, was a renowned Rabbinical Cantor who happened to die as the result of vehicular manslaughter committed by a Cuban National in the ‘50s. No breaking tire skid marks were found at the scene, said police, and the driver, a medical doctor, claimed he honked his horn from about a block away when he saw an old man crossing through the next intersection. This Cuban physician, although found preliminarily guilty by a Miami Beach judge and released for trial, was instead extradited and sent running 90 miles south from Miami to Havana.

Not so ironically, Jack had run rum from Cuba to New York during the Prohibition, which in turn led him to a very lucrative career as a purveyor of alcoholic beverages once liquor became a legal substance. Among Jews, four rabbinical groups were approved to purchase wine for services in the temples, which led to some competition for membership. The supervision of sacramental licenses could be used to secure donations to support a religious institution. There were known abuses in this system, with imposters or unauthorized agents using loopholes to purchase wine.

I try not to draw conclusions in the face of such coincidences. But no one ever saw Cantor Kaminsky’s music after he was killed. My grandfather left countless letters from pleading rabbis and cantors for access to the music so it may live on. Jack never relented and all that’s found is one Hanukkah liturgy, still sung today, still felt in the hallowed temples of Orthodox Jews.

His business partnership with his younger brother Morris: stores that sold alcoholism to at risk minority groups in demographically strategic locations around the five boroughs of New York. My grandparents smiled and dressed like movie stars – both good looking and expensively dressed in their photographs: at their cabana at the Fontainebleau pool, in the nightclubs of New York and Miami Beach, holding me as an infant later on in years.

My father took an entirely different approach to Cuba. Instead of capitalizing on the sugar cane fermented sweet rum, my grandfather’s wealth from such profiteering afforded his leftist son (my father was a southpaw as well as a communist) a five year run as a translator who spoke very little Spanish and a decent news caster disguised as a jazz disc jockey (or vice-versa)for Radio Free Cuba. The parallels tantalize even the worst imaginations to seek out commonality in difference. His father looked for any opportunity to show his only son his love and acceptance, while the son looked at these gifts as shadows of something he declared throughout his life as “not quite” what he needed and “never what he [I] really wanted”.

My grandmother, Lee, née Leah Fuchs, born also to Russian immigrant parents, attended high school in Brooklyn at PS 21, graduating in 1921. Leah, a popular and beautiful girl who, after her friends signed her senior autograph book, modeled hats for department stores before marrying Jack in the 1920s. By 1941 when Len, born Leonard arrived, she’d spent her adult life living through innumerable miscarriages and nearly died giving birth to my father.

Amazingly, my father never felt loved enough. Feeling short changed by parents who desperately wanted him, their beloved son experienced the best life could offer a Jewish boy in the 40s and 50s in New York City. A city he loved in return for its embrace of his defiance of his parents’ beliefs. My father became a divorced communist atheist by 1972.

Lee died when I was four years old, and photographs of her in the final years of her shortened life show her embracing me in custom little dresses she had made for me in posh Lincoln Road dressmaker shops. She had found her salvation through grandchild as daughter. I imagine the fact that I spoke full sentences by 6 months helped in allowing her to elevate my young ego and she spent little time without me. She had a radical mastectomy, chemical therapies and eventually died in the hospital and in severe pain, leaving my grandfather heartbroken.

My father eventually died of brain cancer at 71. His personality prior to the ordeal was altered significantly due to chemical changes in his brain. He became incapable of controlling his anger and cursing and mean behavior. The surgeon neglected to tell me what we might expect. Thank you modern medical professionals. Forgetting the closest people to the patient isn’t uncommon with brain surgery, either.

It’s hard not to take such outbursts personally- because it is. It is personal to the one on the receiving end. All of it. When my dad first woke up from his 28 hour brain surgery he cursed at me, yelled and sent me away. We were so close before that yet it took two years for us to repair our scarred relationship enough to have him book a trip out to California which he never got to make.

I used Hospice services with my dad, also with my best friend who died at 37 of HIV related illness. Same scenario for my maternal grandmother who died years before my father in the same loving facility and in the same exact dimly lit room. Ironically though they hated one another. Also hospice was there with my grandfather Jack at his Miami condo.

In the hospital environment for my best friend Allan and later my dad, they were helpful throughout the entire process including wishes for end of life and all the dirty shit for grieving people who do not have the emotional strength to pull it all together. It’s too much for anyone. They also offered me perspective at a time when I was angry for losing two people who meant nearly everything to me.

How can I go on – I go on. Now I’m angry for different reasons but it seems no one wants to deal with stage 4 cancer and a prolonged state of severe depression that’s taking such a toll on me I cannot keep my anger contained. I seriously don’t understand why C still cannot get out of his own way for a long enough time to give me the emotional or physical support I so desire. Then I remember he can’t help it. I feel ashamed for my lack of patience and the need to be here for him is making me resentful. Until something happens.

I know I’m angry with C for having hereditary depression. I hold out my hope like some stupid flag leading a parade of one. I seem to be the only one left in his life, since he isolated himself from everyone else. Yet he’s so much better and I’m still quite angry. Learning to drop the anger and pick up the baton of gratitude must not get lost as an objective if I’m to live a full and rich life.

You see my point. I am angry with all of them to some degree. I’ve spent too much time crying and not nearly enough time being grateful. You see, cancer takes its victims down into places so dark and ugly sometimes we even hate ourselves – we are not humans we become a cancer in a body of genetic tangles as we, the progeny walk towards the graves our greats and grandparents now and forever inhabit.

Yet we, as their hopes, fade in our dying bodies.

Cancer and Intimacy: How to maintain life in a healthy relationship when you’re not healthy

I contend, against what some might disagree with, that the fundamental rules of the road still apply to relationships even after a cancer diagnosis. Mind you, special circumstances arise like depression for either partner, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for the patient, anxiety, survivors guilt (if you’re not stage four), and an inability to partake in sexual activities as you once enjoyed. This is true especially if you’re undergoing treatments like chemotherapy or radiation, and during healing from surgeries.

The endless list of caveats, not excuses, swirls around the bedroom like the static electricity before a storm – it’s invisible but we can all feel its effects. Sex in the time of metastatic breast cancer can leave women feeling awkward, shy, unattractive… In some cases sex can pose a medical danger due to the suppression of the immune system by treatments. The act of intercourse or the insertion of (fill in the blank) can tear a very delicate vaginal lining allowing bacteria to enter the blood stream. I’ll leave it here for you to draw your own logical conclusions.

A host of various challenges beyond physical intimacy can create a hurricane gale force wind of yelling in the living room, too. Not to mention the generally debilitating fatigue and insomnia causing scheduling mishaps. Financial burdens cause cancellations of plans and much needed vacations that must wait, or in some cases never ever come to fruition.

Those two examples, complex and full of emotional heaviness, are just a few in a list of “collateral damages” as Dr. Susan Love refers to all the plights caused by gynecological cancers . But cancer doesn’t have to pull up the roots of a strong relationship, nor does it effect the ability to execute on the basic blocking and tackling of keeping love alive in every couple’s relationship playbook. I keep a laundry list of things in my mind that I know require my attention to protect whatever got us together and keeps us together.

We like to believe cancer changes certain aspects of our personalities, generally for the better. We also must differentiate between chemo brain when applicable, fatigue juxtaposed against raw intelligence, common sense, and kindness. If we were jerks prior to cancer, chances are we are nicer but still jerks after cancer. Irrespective of side effects, cancer probably cannot make you a complete idiot either sans a few IQ points from whole brain radiation, god forbid, either.

For example, there’s no excuse for not keeping the anger and hostility in check in lashing out at your mate. That’s a stupid use of your cancer card. A mate who didn’t ask for the role of caregiver and primary earner, if these weren’t your beloved’s role as it probably became on the day you got handed your cancer card and membership in a club you never wanted to belong in the first place.

I try to live by how I wish to be treated, though god knows it’s not always possible. On the days when I find myself in a bad mood I stow myself away with apologies in advance, or if I’m up for it I vacate the premises for a while. Generally speaking, as was in life before cancer leaving for a spell makes the heart grow fonder and stupid arguments forgiven if you can even recall what the tiff was about in the first place. A short term memory lapse may be indeed be the single upside due to chemo brain when it comes to silly arguments. A nice thought anyway.

Yet, cancer can tear apart even the most stable of relationships. That is prior to diagnosis. In my own case, the C’s depression nearly did us in but I’m not the kind of person to cut and run when the chips are down. And he’s been better for a couple of months now and I’m certain I made the right decision, although it was difficult at times to do the right thing.

Reversal of Fortune

Many people disagreed with my reversal of caregiver duties. I’d been advised he should be taking care of me. I thought long and hard about it and I found a very counterintuitive conclusion: my mind was not on my cancer and by defocusing my energy from thinking about my own illness, I didn’t succumb to self pity. The pity party never got started, and as we do not know how long I had cancer before my stage four diagnosis, it’s been at least six years very likely I’ve been walking around with breast cancer.

Prior to four years ago, the C had a very high stress job at the worlds most prestigious and popular company as a senior scientist. For 10 years I played a key role in keeping him and my stepsons healthy and happy while holding my own in a career that ended the day cancer began. He’s still supporting me with a home, an automobile, money when I absolutely need it, etc., and for lack of some of those kinds of stressors I’m very, very lucky. And I know it, and now that the big D (depression) has ended he doesn’t ever think to bring this up as a point of contention. During the big D, C resented me having to rely on him. For now, we are past the big D, and we are getting along better than ever. With caution and the proper medications, that is.

Ilene’s golden rules of a peaceful relationship

The following comprise a list of free, no-cost high value things you can do to strengthen your relationship at a time when many fall apart for various reasons and whose fault can be either person.

So try as I can, I:
Listen
Acknowledge
Apologize
Laugh
Forget it
Forgive it
Hug and kiss
Trust
Laugh
Be a best friend
Laugh
Hug some more

The Underminers

One little bit of smack talk is treacherous to a marriage. One little bit of love right now – even a knowing look of “it’s me, don’t worry I got you,” will play in Peoria every night. There’s some very basic things my 53+ years have provided me through experiences in my understanding of men, helping me find a peaceful way to travel from Venus to greet my martian and meet him half way.

A few good general lessons make sense whether cancer invaded or not:
Don’t ask “what are you thinking sweetheart.” He’s not thinking about anything. Really.
Change yourself, not him. Help him be a better him, with augmentations like a shirt he’d buy himself. If he needs you to help out, he will ask what to do eventually.
Those two round things in a bag in his pants are his to enjoy . Let him keep them. He has to protect them to protect you and that’s his job because we aren’t that evolved as a species yet.
This keeps me out of the cool feminist refrigerator but I couldn’t care less.
You do look fat in that dress/ skirt/ shorts/ jeans so don’t ask him to take the beating for it.
If you don’t have your own interests get cracking or crafting and pursue them outside of one another and outside of work. Life’s not dull, the same memories replayed and infinitum, are.
Privacy is an indelible right for anyone so do not go through anything of his ever. Never ever. Not a cell phone, not email, not the glove box of his car.
If you don’t leave for that place you intended to chances are you probably,y never will, either. Fun must become part of your routine both together and apart.

We will survive

Without the few aforementioned best practices, a couple won’t develop the foundations for a future and for love to find a higher ground above any kind if illness. You can call me a romantic because I am. And I brought breakfast in bed to him 90% of the days we’ve been together. I also follow my own advice. I didn’t fail, but yet for a marriage go on while starving it of love one may lose their life as well from the stress level brought on by a breakup. Know that to go on whatever path or direction your lives may take together, remember to be BFFs first because everything else will follow in the footsteps of your good choices…

The forest of cancer and the trees of love
… even in the wildest winds there will be one last twisting deciduous leaf on a fragile white fir branch way in the back of the shallow foothills. If it’s alive you’ll find it. The leaf reminds us in the forest there’s a tree with hope of life clinging to it as we must cling to one another even in the harshest storms. As the tree seems reborn in the springtime, love can withstand wintertime, too.

A Confessional: dedicated to beloved friends and readership

I’m living with my cancer and without fear of death. When I die, I close of the book of life I’ve written from my birth until that last, peaceful exhale. Beginning immediately facing each new day with gratitude not despair, love not fear, finding comfort in the changes that occur naturally and without effort each day in the certainty of growing even a minute older and slightly wiser.

If someone complains about their age or the effects of age in their outward appearance I have to laugh at the folly of vanity while coming to the aging process from a position of hope. I hope to live to see my gradually aging face or look down at my time weathered hands and that my days are full of garden dirt and callouses from toiling with artistic endeavors and of writing. Each of these efforts yields a better experience with each moment of practice.

What if the following statement were absolutely true: Practicing life prepares us for a beautiful death.

Longing for the great gift of aging.
We move into consciousness from sleep each day – a sleep from which we, eventually, will no longer awaken. I’ve breathed gently in the last soft breath of my best friend Allan who died (too young!) at 37 years of age from AIDS related illness, and that of my father who died at 71 years of age from complications of a huge but benign mitochondrial brain tumor. I am grateful to have had the blessed offering to bear witness of death at their sides.

Breathing someone’s final exhale of air is a taste few of us get the opportunity to intake. This very act has had such a profound impact in my life, that it’s now upon meditation and deep reflection, completely changed my perspective of death. So much so that the sadness of loss in living life without them honestly feels selfish to me now. Neither of them are in physical pain and they’re with my consciousness here as long as I am.

Curiously I await to solve the mystery of where our consciousness goes after the body separates from the energy it produced to make thoughts, memories, laughter, truths, inventions, experiences, experiments and most importantly LOVE. While the transition of consciousness certainly keeps me expectant of this single universal truth and everyone’s final gift from a life lived, it’s so intriguing to me as to what happens during that process.

In NO way am I in a huge hurry to find out. And I have no “bucket list.” I’m not going to kick the bucket over to see what’s inside. Nor do I have but two regrets. I’m keeping those for myself for now, but nothing personal.

Awakening wide awake.
While dreading it in the past I now love having insomnia because it gives me extra quiet solitude and time to read, write, think, meditate. Yet at first I resented my inability to sleep about one night a week – sometimes more or less. Insomnia depends upon what my body struggles to heal from and my mind refuses to put a bookmark in my life for the day and close down for the night.

Finally it dawned on me – no pun intended – that rather than fight to find sleep that never falls I should embrace the extra gift of time. There is so much our bodies try to tell us that we reject for various reasons. But maybe metastatic cancer comes with an after hours club invitation that we should gladly RSVP to join rather than fight or decline.

Yet the deepening loneliness and isolation do not feel especially worthy of the “gift” title. And these emotional rips in my seams aren’t worth a moment of extra time from cancer happens to have as a special kick in the head.

Over four years, depression changed my husband into someone I no longer know. The man I knew wouldn’t just sit around silently or pretend to sleep while actually ruminating. I wish he’d get well and rejoice with me in the daylight instead of what he cannot help on his own and all of it has me very angry right now.

Did I overstay to the point of no exit due to the intolerable amount of stress a breakup and move alone would cause me? That delectable detectable Cortisol flavor that cancer finds especially yummy would emit from the stress body might literally kill me. The consolation of quenching my curiosity about the death process would be checked off my “need to find out” short list, but not at the loss of and the deep desire for some loving time with him. And by “him” I mean whomever he becomes when he picks up his head after too long of his beautiful mind gone into the darkness of despair I cannot cure with or for him.

Of course resentment lingers in the air like smog over Los Angeles in the 70s. And I question my own judgement of trading fierce love and loyalty for self preservation.

Regrettable or not?
How do I not cover my eyes while I ride shotgun as he’s driving us both underground in and out of the dark tunnels of depression? Depression removes a person’s individuality as they move from one conscious state of being to another. Yet how to find his cruel remarks and his lack of empathy and care during those darker times as a way to see myself differently and stand back and remember that it’s just my thoughts making me unhappy hasn’t come to me…yet.

I find it really difficult to separate the depression from the person – is it the depression or is it really him saying that or, very frustratingly, not saying anything? Is it me he’s angry with or my disease? How can he look at me writhing in bed all weekend and not move to ease my suffering? I cannot find another way to understand but this:

Our conscious selves equal our thoughts and our thoughts are only illusory. However, rip the ribbons and paper from the present and by the time you think you’ve understood something fully, it’s already in the past. I meditate in the here and now, in this moment. I meditate to receive the world I’m in without judgement or labels or any expectations. I believe any person will do what they will regardless of what we choose to believe they think or feel, and I cannot know what anyone else feels but myself about a situation means.

Or, in other words – if life’s difficulties are only our thoughts and my thoughts aren’t “me,” but very much a construction of my consciousness – then why does it hurt so deeply to my core!?! Riddle me that, Joker!

One singular sensation!
Please make no mistake, I believe in a singular One-ness, connecting all things that ever were to all things in forevermore. Perhaps not inclusive of an organized religion’s version of God for me to adhere to, and for which I do not begrudge anyone’s spirituality. (I do take issue with those who feel the need to commit acts of violence in the name of their god(s).)

I believe in the One representing all beginnings and every ending together at once, the circle of what is and is not, energy and harmony, light and dark, opposites and parities. And you can hear my voice raise up with the joy of this “knowing.” Perhaps it is towards this abstraction, where our spirits or souls disappear, when our physical bodies give way and depart from the earth and the understandable, tangible universe. Back to the singular One, the infinite, to everything and in nothing. Mind blown in the windless universe.

I think my most authentic sense of self is found in the fundamental truth that all things, every molecule making up every thought and every step that leads us to the next place in the dimension we choose even by releasing a sneeze or not eating that apple, comes from the same “stuff” as dreams and stars are made of…and with that I can rest my mind free of guilt, shame, pain, and suffering. If it were only so easy to do as to say “I can do this.” And I’m in no way close to perfect and may find someday that I’m very, very wrong! Straight to hell with me and my heresy!

My confessions should be crystal clear to you – haha! But here’s the short list

  1. I hate cancer.
  2. I’m slightly afraid but definitely curious about death.
  3. I hate depression.
  4. I’m really angry with my partner for not being a partner.
  5. I think I should have left him but I’m not sure so I won’t.
  6. My spirituality is probably a mixed bag of religions, eastern philosophies, and science.

This may be anticlimactic for having read so far, but part of writing is practicing to become a better writer. And a great writer I’m not but a good writer I’m becoming. Greatness alludes me.

But I start each day hoping…