One Word Can Make All the Difference

So, there’s wonderfully good things that transpire to create a solid high of energy around us that heal. Then I think neutral stuff happens all day long like stopping at a red light. It can be a negative event if the conditions we perceive make it so: e.g. I’m late so this might make me later still; I have bad luck. Outside of all perception and control things happen all around us: environmentally, socially, scientifically, etc. We assume we have some way to partake in those events or that they conspire against us to create a negative vortex or a positive window or door to look out or step through. It’s vague. But the vagueness is very interesting isn’t it?

Perhaps you feel like cancer or disease is in some way your fault or a conspiracy of circumstances. I actually believe it’s both. In my heart I now know there preceded my cancer diagnosis events that were incredibly stressful creating a hospitality center for my cancer to take up residence in my body. It’s not my “fault.” There’s no way we can know just what dis-ease lie in wait for us except for the occasional discordances like diabetes, which is generally genetic. However that’s controllable with diet.

We live in a diseased environment that much like our bodies under stress develops dangerous conditions in which nature slowly dies. In some sense I’m glad I won’t be around to see the death of our planet as we know it. Depressing. But truth be told did we need the fluoride in our water? Did we need all that corn? Do chickens need such big breasts that they fall over? Does organic even mean without chemicals? No. None of this is true. But we are fed a body of fear to add to our newly stressed out lives and we wonder why breast cancer rates since the 1950s have increased from 1:40 to 1:8 (or 7 depending on who you ask). That’s a gigantic rate of increase in a very short period of time. And not to get too much into numbers but only 5% of cancers are genetic. Including breast cancer.

So what can we do about all this? Well I am headed back to Commonweal in Bolinas, California in two weeks to attend my second session at the Cancer Help Program. (CHP information)I’m giddy with excitement and literally cried tears of joy upon receiving the call last week. And we are in the midst of closing on our house and finally finding a new one. But it doesn’t have to be stressful. I sit in acceptance of offers of help from a professional organization expert hired for me by my realtor, with C’s assistance and the enlisting of a moving and storage company if it comes down to it. I’m not giving up the opportunity to move to a new home with my life partner and best friend to drag the same shit along buried deep in a dark box from my internal attic. No point. It wasn’t working for me before so it won’t work going forward.

The first week long program started the healing in October of 2016. But I knew I wasn’t well and wound up spending a week in the hospital upon my return. C was at the apex of his depression and there was no relief in sight. He was hospitalized about two months later as well, for his anxiety had gotten so bad that I couldn’t in good conscience watch him deny his condition any longer. A long road to healing began for us both individually and as a couple.

But something seemed really undone. Like a frayed rope or like confetti or ticker tape after a parade my mental streets need sweeping. I called one of the founders of the CHP in March hoping to get to the June week program before the summer break. Only eight people can attend. September had the right mix for me with the other seven attendees. June just didn’t play out.

I am blessed again to benefit from people I love and respect and who gave me a path to find my way to new meaning. The most profound statement of healing cane from one of my private sessions with Michael Learner, the founder of Commonweal. He said, “Ilene, why don’t you call yourself a writer? That’s what you are.” And a simple statement changed the course to bring us here. Today.

I am a writer headed back to the Cancer Help Program in two weeks. In the meantime I hope to post one more time to respond to Nancy’s Point and her Blog Hop. I feel like a bad friend but I know she understands.

I’d check out her blog if you’ve not been there yet. I love Nancy’s way of explaining the emotions and medical conditions about having cancer and losing her mom to cancer as well. Take the time to read her stuff it’s worth it. She’s also written several helpful books especially for those new to this cancer culture that you’ll welcome even if it’s old hat.

And with that I leave you with my love and my light and a gentle goodnight and a poem from Robert Frost:
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

Three and Counting

Please, just listen.
I mean listen:
Life and Look and Playboy and Harper’s Bazaar
Scattered
Black and white subscriptions
Ambiguous evidence in hand, hunting down women at work.
Sniffed out innocently by the Eisenhower oval office pet dog,
While a General brutishly  goose steps onto the front lawn of Korea.

In cloudy skies we can point to everything,
Curious index fingers ask why about that big dark bird.
We find similarity and we described it
In high school English to empty the milk cartons of meaning.
Gentlemen find themselves striped and
Reflected in receding ice cubes,
Swinging across Elm into suburban basement cock fights.
Floating, melting into her whiskey colored eyes
The missus distributes disambiguated steak and potato dinners
Defrosted
With a side of dry rye wit.

In science we would fold a mirror in thirds and
With respect to the hidden shadows find
Unnatural suspects. How dulled the senses
Thrashed by the gin mill of technology
Slowly pulled out of a Cage of empty spaces,
Drowned by the sounds of wood-paneled isolationism.
Yet we ask questions drawn from a box of angels at a miracle dinner:
An entire eight course galloping Gourmet special,
Or so-called, to feed on somebody else’s words.

The notorious vodka dressed with privately dismembered parts,
Smoking pipes, guns and skulls
Huge hips and house tits – giggles from beet red cheeky kids.
No, mother, advertisements, I swear.
No true story, with full magazines targeted by
Bullet points as submarine 100 proof alcohol holes.

And get this.
Seriously. As if that weren’t enough.
Mister Britain sent our commander in chief, still whole,
An artful paperback starring a spy and women with genitals for names.
How heavily infused with the bonds, stocks, red phones, a desk,
And one bombed blonde.
He related, I imagine he was stirred,
By her vermouth-scented breath waved like a magician’s scarf
Over his cold, bent body.
Promises of a universe held in a single Bucky ball…
And expressed on the moon.

In the years of our first breath our unfinished souls
We came out gasping for air.
Specific yet ambiguous enough
Though I wasn’t adopted as was the upper middle class
Interest en vogue back then.

Next door,
Someone defiantly sweats over a project;
Today’s Society: Our outdated social behavior.
Can you even determine a single source?
While we spread our arms wide across different domains:
Beer, soda, fashion, ties, cruises, cars.
Who wonders if a stenographer became involved with some director,
I think she probably typed for him at an agency,
He may or may not have knowledge of the messages
Samples slices of pies and examples between the unknown layer cakes.

Our lives backed over, in
1966 mauled in a dense article,
Stanley starts filming 2001.
A reenactment with photographs of Lord Snowden.
Phrases like:
“Alcohol consumption”
“Mind altering”
“Hidden innuendo”
Very redundant, for the affluent.
No apologies needed.
No offense taken.

Follow the Queen

My room unlatched
Releasing shirts, slacks
To hungry closets for
New black suits.
Drawers devoid, empty,
Open for guides and
Maps. A single dirty window
Opens to a brick wall.
My memory of the word
“Defenestration” fell out.
My mouth shares the doubt
Of an incomplete education.
Underneath paper thin sheets
Uncover my form asleep dreaming,
Murmuring bird breeds.
I fly into the diaspora.
Street artisans took to the
Deep sea once, yet to which land?

I hold the receiver and
Wish for a revolver.
Legal language defense
Foreign escapes
Hold up in court.
Unknown room numbers
In a delicious series of
Chambers marked 12, 31
Maybe 2004.
Remembering a stone cold six story
Buddha in a wide open gin palace.
Cigars and molten cherries
Jubilee. Bananas foster
Charles Foster Kane,
His full name from nothing.
Mother’s greasy brunch pumpkin
Markets and street tchotchkes.
Snow globes from America where
Going down South the snow
Attracts curious tourists.
Temporary neighbors
Angry without rose beds,
Lawnmowers without preteens.
I learned the names of
Chateaux. Bordeaux, Chablis
Pure sunshine Chardonnay.
Tastevin and Caskets
Down in the catacombs
The same town underground.

Rise up and run off
Spilling me like syrup
On pancake embankments.
A cooing stewed pigeon
On an expired warranty the
Black dial telephones,
Hissing tube televisions.
Anonymous but you only
Would send such indifferent
Cheap bouquets of sprayed
Carnations and baby’s breath.
Such sorry little pimples
Those flowers, like calling
Cards for bill collectors.
Or foreign exchanges between
Currencies for emergencies.
Ladies wearing smart suits
Tahitian pearl chokers
Rhinestone bangle bracelets
Bengal tiger-print hot pants.
A real mistress
Ends in a whisper
Her knowledge sits stuck
In the back of a cab.
Like all irrelevant souvenirs.
Bees swarm from the 300 year oak
Guarding the fire department.
Emptying from the hive
Growling as one great
Carpet to cover the daylight yellow
Moist and musky bungalow.
Shotgun shacks, powder kegs open
Their queen, a patron saint
Leaves her scent, thinning the
Hive of the dullards,
The abused and the confused.
One last time, dressed
For success the top opening
For California mornings air.
I sneak out the back and press on,
Press on emerging into traffic.