Again...

When I’m there, truly there, and being present in the moment, Cyrus astonishes me. He makes me think about human nature, the planets, the stars, patterns. I see such light in his eyes. This weekend we soaked up the time together, and I felt, for the first time in awhile, that we were truly connecting and conversing. He was learning. Sometimes he just holds my face in his two little hands and looks and looks and LOOKS into my eyes. I wonder what he sees there?

He asks why so often, I sometimes find myself cringing because I’m tired of explaining. But really, that answering and those questions should be joyful. He is Growing. He’s being who he’s made to be.Kids just are as they are. During baby dedications, they wiggle and squirm on the stage and look uncomfortable, because they are. They just want to GO everywhere and see everything all and once and move. To be.

We grow up and we learn social norms and then we are quiet and we don’t fidget and we eat with forks. We try to fit into what others want to see, not necessarily what we are. I try to hold on to his child's wonder at the world. I feel it seeping in when I’m at the coast, or during a particularly beautiful rendition of Mozart’s symphonies.

Cyrus and I looked at bird’s feet on saturday, and we watched the chickadees calling and flitting from tree to tree. We saw the sun rising and ate toast with jelly because it was the good kind of jelly and he wanted “the sweetness”. I taught him how to cut the asparagus with his fork and slurp noodles and put his napkin on his lap.

We spent a long time laughing at the sounds we could make with the little bird whistle I gave him for christmas. We read a book and then Cyrus read it back to me. Abashed, he couldn’t “remember the part” but tried to explain it anyway. His cheek is scratched because he fought with a boy in church over the toy trains. He went potty on his own and told Rachael I was proud of him. He ate the steak tonight with such joy and intensity. We went for a walk and got a treat (orange juice) from Ava’s and I grinned at his lip smacking delight.

May I hold to this. May I be the kind of mom that takes joy in her children. May I learn from Cyrus and may I teach him to love as we are loved.

As I look forward to moving, I realize how much has changed in a short amount of time. This apartment has meant a lot to me. When Rachael and I came here we were ready for a fresh start and a place to call our own. So we made it ours. We decorated and organized, using not one stick of furniture from the old apartment–it was a fresh start and that meant purging. I’ve never been proud of a place I lived in until now. People step inside and smile. They feel welcome and they always say, ‘its so peaceful.” that makes me happier than anything. We don’t have it filled with expensive things, but everything has meaning. It stands for something.

This place is the first apartment I’ve felt at home in. The place Dave told me he liked me for the first time. The place I learned to love writing again. The place that Cyrus learned how to brush his teeth and put on his shoes and say the word delicious. This place is my home, and I am sad to leave but I am excited for the future.

I’m ready for new. I’m ready to have a place with just Cyrus and I. It will be an adjustment, but it will be good. I want to make a home for myself, and I’m strong enough to do that now. It’s making me smile just thinking that. The transformation that has taken place in me in the past two years is fantastic: I’d probably not recognize myself.

Thank God for grace and mercy and fresh beginnings.

The light does shine in the darkness. That is my motto, my anthem for this new year. I am a new woman and i am making a new life. I’m choosing the light. My heart is open, my soul is uplifted. I feel heavy some days--Tired and weighed down and incapable. But I am loved no matter what. And that is a miracle in itself. I can give love now because I’m not broken, I am restored.

Life is dark and treacherous; we can’t see around the bends and we stumble, searching for a foothold. We can’t turn back, but going forward seems an insurmountable task. Yet when we stop looking for the next move, stop trying to balance perfectly-when we just stop, and OPEN our eyes we see it: we’re not alone. The cliffside is dotted by a million other people and we’re all moving forward as best we can.

Dusty and sweaty and strong, we are climbing the mountain. Together.I see in the darkness, a great light.

The Sea of Is

Cancer leaves a mark that is never forgotten. It shapes you. It changes your sense of self, your family dynamics, your relationships, and the way you interact with the world. Nothing is left untouched.

I wish I could tell you life as the sibling of a cancer patient gets easier after treatment. No more hospital visits, no more worry about blood cell counts, no more agonizing over CAT scan results. But it won't.

There isn’t a normal to go back to. Once you’re out of crisis mode, that anchor of “How It Was” disappears, and you’re left floating in the "Sea Of Is." “Is” is hard, because you don’t know where you fit in or what life should look like.

My family is one of the lucky ones– my brother is still with us. Imagining the pain of trying to go on after losing a sibling makes my heart ache. I have stood by friends on this journey and I know the little things hurt the most: sorting through her memories and storing them away in the attic. Closing her email accounts; forgetting she’s gone and buying her a birthday present. That loss shreds the soul. Life is never the same.

Even if your sibling survived, you go through a grieving process. For me, there are triggers. Six years post treatment I find myself cringing when I get in an elevator. That familiar sound as the door closes brings back memories of riding the elevator up to the oncology unit: the endless hours of waiting, that smell of antiseptic and paper mache in the lobby, the "uplifting" quotes in that horrific font on the hospital walls that seemed to mock us. Those triggers are minor compared to the many residual effects.

My sisters and I have all shared that darkness. Cancer has crept into our art projects, our dance presentations, our sports games and our careers. We do not live as though being siblings of a cancer patient defines us, but we cannot escape the effects of that stolen time. We lost our senior year of high school, we lost the innocence of childhood, we lost our friends, we lost our freedom. Living in the shadow of someone fighting cancer is hard, but no one is allowed to talk about it because you’re not supposed to talk about yourself when your sibling could die.

After you’ve processed through the grieving, you might feel isolated, as I do, from those who have not experienced pain. Jokes and small talk come easily enough, but when it comes to deep soul searching truths, when it comes to sucking the marrow out of life, many times I feel utterly abandoned. Like no one understands what life really is about, or sees through those eyes tinged with tears and triumph. Once you’ve suffered in life, you emerge a different, deeper, more soulful person. You stand out.

Therin lies the pain and the beauty of being the sibling of a cancer patient. We can’t go back to our numbness. We must clasp tightly to the small joys of life; they are overwhelming in their simple splendor. We learn that happiness is slivers of laughter mingled with tears; joy and pain side by side. We learn to take time to cherish small moments in life, because time is all we have.

Life is not a coloring book, and there aren't lines. Mostly it is messy and con- fusing and you can only take one day at a time. We learn to be authentic, and to say what we truly mean because we don't know when or if we'll get to say it again. We learn to let people accept us as we are. These lessons are ones we could never have learned in any other way.

As the sibling of a cancer patient, you are now a part of a community of people who understand. No matter where you go, you are connected with other siblings, other cancer patients, other families who know how to be strong together.

At first, I was reluctant to be a part of the “cancer people.” It was like a club where the only rule to get in was that you had to hurt. I didn’t want to admit that was me. But once I did, I saw the strength of people who face illness with dignity, who give from the deepest part of themselves, and who live like each day is their last.

I want to give you hope that good can come from your situation. Lessons of trust, faith and love are life changing.

I hope you embrace your new community with open arms. Let them hold your hand. Let them cry with you. Let them sit with you in the dark, and wait. There is a beautiful tomorrow on the horizon. Even if it seems that life will never be what you wanted, it is still filled with small goodnesses. Hold on to the moment. Breath in the fresh air, listen to your heartbeat, watch the sunset.

Hold fast to the small intricate joys of life. If you look you will see them– even on the darkest days.

Beyond Words

This thanksgiving I am overcome by joy and gratitude, for a myriad of reasons.

I am thankful for loss, because it has taught me to truly appreciate what I have.

I am thankful for the feeling that life is crumbling around me, because it has forced me to build from the rubble.

I am thankful for second chances. Including the ones I give myself.

I am thankful for the courage to love.

I am thankful for the ability to feel air in my lungs—to Be.

I am thankful for physical, emotional and spiritual wholeness.

I am thankful for clarity, boundaries, and confidence.

I am thankful for the fragile life entrusted me, and lessons that thrust me into a wider perspective.

In the dark corners of life, light shines more brilliantly. My soul is awash with blessing.

I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world

A few days ago someone asked me if I was an author. Haltingly, I answered "no." Yet amidst carcasses of half written screenplays, partially outlined novels, and snippets of poetry, my true creation lies.

Since I was a little girl, all I've wanted is to be an author. The desire to create worlds, build empires and tear them down again--to splatter a canvas with people and places I've never seen or met, thrills me. I think the written word connects on such a visceral soulful level with those who chose to engage in reading.

After reading a phrase, chapter, or even just a solitary word, have you ever simply frozen? Lost, for just a moment, somewhere between the letters and the crisp paper they were printed on, you found another sliver of truth, of yourself, and something shifted. Therein lies the beauty of literature. Using one's imagination to fall into another dimension is something for which there is no equivalent. No virtual reality, video game or film can come close to the experience.

Some can bring universes into being with the stroke of guitar strings or the gentle hum of a song. Others use paint and brushes,, clay and water. Words, to me, make the most sense. And so, I will write. This time I will focus on one work (instead of the ten I've always got tumbling around in my small head).

We'll see where it goes...

Onward! Progress!

The changes in my life feel so insignificant in comparison to the vast uprooting of lives taking place in Japan this last few week. But I suppose even small changes are worth recording. No, this does not mean I will be documenting my latest beverage selections and shower schedules on twitter. Sorry to disappoint--my generation's obsession with over-sharing has escaped me.

Seasons come and go, and people change with the passing time. Slowly, imperceptibly we inch towards growth. Sometimes quickly, in one swift instant, we move years beyond our former selves. This sounds all mumbo jumbo (ish), but I promise I'm not trying to drag you to a tie dye laden drum circle. It's just a thought I've been having lately.

Since change is such a constant in our lives (the only constant, really) why are we so damn afraid of it? Why do we fight it so hard against it's current? Why do we seek out sameness, without even giving a thought to the new? Is this just a trait of human beings? Is it engrained in the western culture, or global? What is it about change that is so terrifying?

Someone once told me "all forward motion is progress," and I try to stand by that slogan. Each breath is a new one. Cheesy, yes. But still true. I want to be someone that embraces change. Instead of floundering in the unfamiliarity of the newness, I want to revel in the chance for experiences, ideas and something greater than I could have previously envisioned. That's what makes it great. I COULDN'T have seen it before it happened. Without change, the world would be so bloody boring.

Working as a (real life) Marketing Coordinator is full of challenges, and certainly keeps me on my toes. The design environment is full of creativity, color, and a vibrancy that can only come from a love of life, expressed through art. It is exhilarating. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to be sure that I'm not dreaming. I don' think I'll ever tire of looking out from the lobby to the glossy water of the Willamette, cargo ships drifting past...

Cyrus is growing talkative and more defiant daily. He's still the sweet boy who likes to cuddle and read Goodnight Moon at least twice before bed, still the curly headed mop of hair bouncing around to the Beatles record and crumbling crackers around the living room. But he's growing older, and wary that life doesn't always bring him what he wants. I so cherish being his mum, and often wish I had ten more hours in the day to spend with him.

Life feels so full of hope tonight. Who knows what's around the bend?

Adventures await.

Strategic Plan

This picture sums up my life right now.

So many options, so many possibilities!

Look

Within just one day of deciding to curb my frantic facebook and texting habits, I feel like I've seen more of the world.

My modern day half assed Thoreau movement is in full swing.

We'll see how it goes when I log in to my computer at work tomorrow morning...

In the mean time I'm setting some serious goals. Once they're achieved, I'll probably join the rest of the world on the ol' FB.

Until later,

-Out of Touch In A Good Way