Category Archives: Fourth Phase

Cancer, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Pause. Say Good-bye

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Artemis:  On the way home

Tuesday gratefuls: Miralax. Senna. Michigan. Basketball. Baseball. Another tough night. Artemis II. Space. Hubble. Webb.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Master Travelers

 

Kavannah: Hakarat Hatov.  Gratitude.  “Who is rich? Those who rejoice in their own portion.” Pirkei Avot (4:1)

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: I have been retreating from the world. Lunches and breakfasts are painful due to the head drop. Driving still wears me out though the brace helps. I have new aches and pains. From the cancer? I don’t think so…but.

 

Since last week I have been constipated. Could be a side effect of the Tramadol. Painful. Unresolved. Some progress. Miralax to 2x a day. Add senna.

Went to bed. Early. 6 pm. Exhausted by the demands of the day. Slept well until 1 am. After that. Left side. Right side. Stomach. Back. Repeated and repeated and repeated. Could not find the sleep switch. Up at 3:30 am. Rested. Sorta. Residual aches. Sore back.

A learning about death. You stop. Everything else goes on.  Cars queue up behind a red turn signal. A group of preschoolers, all holding on to the same rope. Going to the park. Shadow circles her food bowl, waiting on you to come home. As you always have. Not this time.

The damnable ordinariness. Years of loving, talking, reading, all made moot. When Kate died her brilliant mind went silent. All her experience as a doctor. A lover. A quilter. Gone.

Yet. Artemis II took three Americans and one Canadian further from Earth than any human has gone before. Michigan beat UConn to reclaim the Men’s NCAA tournament.

I had my aspirations as a young man. Stop the war.  Raise a son. As I worked, people died every day. Good people. Kind people. Their ends did not register in my life. Their momentous parting, everything for them, was nothing to me.

In life I can fight, love. In death I cannot.

Yet I no longer privilege one over the other. When the reaper comes, the fruits of a long and interesting life will gather into my body, then disperse. To create new molecules, new lung tissue, new fingernails.

On these bad days–pain, constipation–I wonder: Is this how the final exit goes. Pain and discomfort. Then, surcease. I hope not. I would prefer to die quietly, surrounded by friends and family, Shadow by my side.

I do not mind dying. Not sooner than necessary. But when it is time. Yes. I take that long last ride.

When it happens, a fisherman catches a bass. A couple will make love and create a new human. I will have gone on ahead.

Stop a moment.
Pause.
Say good-bye.

Cancer, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Casual Cruelties

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Artemis:  Miles from 244,850 earth. Miles from moon 26,740. As of 5:06 am, April 6th, 2026.

Monday gratefuls: Eggs. Oatmeal. Kitchen. House cleaner. Medical Guardian. Artemis II nearing moon. Michigan v. Uconn.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Integrity.

 

Kavannah: Hakarat Hatov.  Gratitude.  “Who is rich? Those who rejoice in their own portion.” Pirkei Avot (4:1)

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: I blocked myself yesterday. I didn’t want another entry in the distress cycle, a straight run from April 1st. Couldn’t think of anything else. Also, I had stomach and intestinal issues. Thinking straight was not in the cards.

 

This morning. Still the gut issues. Not as intense. Dispiriting.

When my body aches. My mind responds.

Yesterday I had to sit myself down and have a talk. About casual cruelties against myself. I know, I said, the distraction and pain don’t give us much of a buffer to work with.

The rest of us hears it. Over and over. Does that apply to the sick part of us?  The part that missed our phone call with our boy.

Bad hand grip. I’m going to die. Low stamina. Why are you not on the treadmill. You’re impossible!

What I’m proposing is a gentler version of self-talk. Ah, I see we’re having trouble opening that jar. You stumbled on the way to the  kitchen. This is a surprise? No. It’s who I am right now.

This stumbling guy. This cancer trial guy. A father, a brother, a grandpa. A reader, a writer, a friend to the other. A man.

A man who deserves your compassion and concern, not your judgment or contempt.

Hangs head. Yes, I know. I want to do that, I do. But in the moment of pain. You can no longer do what you used to. I worry. Is this the slope? Work harder. Please.

Not very dignified, eh? No. At some point I catch on to the negative self-take. Big sigh. Charlie, not again. Then I sit myself down with myself. Self-compassion is on the agenda. Even if I am weak, I remain Charlie. With limits–as always. Just different ones.

Got my notice for a pre-trial start up appointment. I imagine I’ll get my first treatment date. I need to get started. Yes. I’ve chosen to surrender myself to the trial, to the new drugs. I chose this.

All of the treatments will be in Rocky Mountain Cancer Care’s midtown office near Presbyterian.

Kate, on her death bed, told me: Trust your doctors.  Zip up. Abandon the rabbit holes. The critiquing. Lean in.

With all the upset and uncertainty of the last year plus I hope these trials can calm the worried me.

 

Watch.

Storms come and go.

Shelter.

Aging, Family, Fourth Phase, GeekWorld

Losing it

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Thursday gratefuls: Artemis in orbit. High orbit. Space dreams. The Moon. The far side of the Moon. Back at it after 53 years

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Retina photographs

 

 

Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut.  Shadow

Tarot: Two of Arrows, Judgement. Randomization today. Decisions will follow.

One brief shining: I lost my phone on Sunday. Hunted in the house, at the restaurant where Luke and I had lunch. No teléfono. Peculiar feelings. Relief. Concern. Has anyone tried to contact me?

Losing your phone seems impossible. Unless you drop it out of a moving vehicle. We cradle and carry our personal computers. With care. Not unusual to hear someone say: My whole life is on that phone.

Cute photographs of Shadow. Alan’s contact info.  A quick way to see if anyone responded to my e-mail about the phone.

When we sit down, the phone comes out. Oh, Ruth texted me. Tom sent out another poem.

How could I leave something that intimate, that personal behind? Maybe it was the fatigue from wearing the neck brace. Maybe that I didn’t wear a hat. I almost always wear a baseball cap. At a restaurant I’ll put my hat down, my phone inside it.

If I knew where I lost it, it wouldn’t be lost.

This would not have been a thing in high school, college, seminary. Or even through my fifteen years in the ministry. Ubiquity of the sort we have today? Not until the early 2000’s.

At my age and my level of infirmity, I’m inclined to forgive myself. Going out has increased in difficulty. Unlike Ruth and Gabe I spent over fifty years without a portable phone. I’m on my side.

Wasn’t always.

What can compare? A car? No match for something I could carry inside it. Television? No. Ironically, no longer bound to home to watch TV. You can watch on your phone.

Lost time. Lost relationships. Lost in the woods. Lost

“Not all who wander are lost.”  JRR Tolkien

In certain Christian communities if you’re lost, you’re going to hell. I’m sure my phone is ok there.

I’ve lost many things. Two marriages. My car in a parking lot. My relationship with my dad. Two wedding rings.

Kate died. Five years ago. In 10 days. Losing her? The most difficult of the last sixty years. I’m following her path. Gradual decline.

Over the last year I’ve lost a lot. I’m weaker. A bit unsteady. My feet don’t always go where I aim them. Opening sealed dog treats. Difficult to impossible.

I’m ok with it.

When you lose something.
Look carefully.
Forgive yourself.

Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends

Who do you love?

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Monday gratefuls: Luke, assistant professor of Chemistry. Jamie. Spring. Walking. Moving. Samantha. RMCC.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Leo

 

Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut. The eyes of Shadow. The rough bark of the lodgepole.

Tarot: Five of Vessels, Ecstasy. “…seek and surrender to the cosmic life force.” Accepting, embracing the power of life, even in hard circumstances.

One brief shining: Eating out with Luke. Our long relationship adds another memory over tandoori chicken and mango lassi.

 

Once every month or so Luke comes up to do his laundry. The machines in his apartment complex are cranky, expensive. I love that he comes. A chance to catch up. Eat a meal together.

When Leo comes in the house, Shadow sniffs under the door, tail wagging at propeller speed. Then she twirls around for a couple of turns. When Leo comes through the door, she races over to him, smiling, play bowing.

They go outside for a turn in the big yard, Shadow bouncy and running, Leo walking stiffly. At 13, he’s slower. His joints ache as he tries a couple of runs with the youngster.

Luke had let his hair grow for two years. It came over his shoulder. Before he came up here, he had it all braided, then cut off. He grew it out for a charity that makes wigs for children with hair loss. He showed me a picture of the braids in his hand.

Teaching becomes him. Nobody tells him how to teach. He’s teaching a field he knows well.

He stands straighter, speaks more confidently. He’s created chai-chi–tai-chi taught from within a kabbalist framework.

He also told me yesterday he loves when I tell him I love him. “Not many men do that,” he said. When did we become so closed?

Luke turns 35 this year. Veronica, my mikveh buddy, is late twenties. Ruth turns 20 this year, Gabe 18. At 79 I cherish these relationships.

I turned 34 (Luke’s current age) in 1981. The year Joseph was born and our adoption of him finalized. When I turned 20, I was, like Ruth, still in college. 1967.

The great chain of becoming.  Charlie to Joseph, to Luke, to Ruth. No blood. Still, we love.

When Kate died, I lost my best friend, my lover, my wife. What to do with that love? The love that flourished with Wolfhounds and Whippets, with working in the garden together, cruising around Latin America. Where does that love go? It doesn’t die with her.

Love as many as you can.
As often as you can.
Anywhere you can.

Feeding the dogs. Eating Indian food.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feelings, Fourth Phase, Paganism, Writing

Doing is Overrated

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Shabbat gratefuls: Rain in the forecast. Cancer. Clinical trials. Samantha. Dr. Josy. Ruth and Gabe. Ruth, 20 in a week.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Shabbat

 

Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut. Knowing myself, my world, my now. Shekinah.

Tarot: #17 The Pole Star. Embrace myself, follow my soul’s purpose.

One brief shining: Having that struggle. Again. Still. What am I, who am I? What is my soul’s purpose? Is it about what I can do? Or, is it about who I can become? Am I stuck in these questions, using them to distract myself from living?

 

College. The moratorium years. I spent them in a fluid, fluxing milieu of protests, carrying my green book bag, The hours in the library, in my favorite carrel. All-night shifts in the guard’s hut at Magnalite.

I came out of college with two majors: philosophy and anthropology. Two disciplines I still love.

Married Judy. A mistake. Unsure of myself. Wandering from silly job to silly job. My mind the same, always escaping from the work I was doing.

While working as a rag-cutter at Fox River Paper, I would spend hours unclogging the cutter, moving bales. Needing stimulation beyond the physical labor.

No direction. No purpose. Frustrated with myself. This went on into seminary, into my stint in the ministry. Oh, I found things to do. Managing the independent living program. Organizing. Consulting. None of them seemed my soul’s purpose. Organizing came the closest.

Yet even organizing fed the wrong wolf. The angry guy was not who I wanted to be. I had fed the same wolf in the polarized protests of the late sixties. I found myself in a constant scanning for injustice, for leverage, for communities willing to fight. Not a peaceful existence.

I had become a clergyperson because I did not want to cut rags anymore. Not because I’d had a sudden reconversion to the faith of my youth. It was a job with a paycheck.

Flailing. Celtic myth and legend. In writing my doctor of ministry thesis I found myself writing a novel, not the thesis. Something in me had stirred, moved me far away from the ministry. Made sense since my Dad was a writer. But. I didn’t like my Dad. Dissonance.

The novel and a turn toward an earth-centered faith led me out of the ministry. Looking back now, twenty-one years of Ancientrails, nine novels later, I’d say a primary purpose of mine is writing. Ancientrails has a body of daily work that not many can duplicate. That’s writing. Every day.

I have another purpose, less defined perhaps. Deep, honest conversation with others. Tara and I, her kids, mine. Gardening. Judaism. Dr. Josy, the joy of animals, her mission to deliver affordable care in-home.

There’s also the gardener, nature mystic. Fed by the green world. Planting. Communing with individual trees, plants. Loving the mule deer, the elk, black bears, mountain lions. A mountain man.

So here I am at 79. A man who writes about paying attention: to self, to others, to mountain life.

I guess those questions, about purpose, about who I can become occur when I feel I’m not doing. Not doing enough. A pox on those thoughts.

Doing is overrated.
Becoming.

Enough.

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health, Memories

The Trial

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Friday gratefuls: Cool night. Starting my morning. Tamales. Cheeseburger. Mark in Hafar. Mary in Melbourne. Joe and Seoah in Osan.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Morning Darkness

 

Kavannah: Areyvut. Mutual responsibility.  All humans are accountable one to another.

Tarot: King of Vessels, Heron. Quiet presence. Emotional balance. Waiting for the trial to begin.

 

One brief shining: I want my cancer on its heels. Samantha, trial coordinator, called. I need to go back in, redo an EKG, sign more papers. Tired of all the preparatory work. I want to start the trial.

 

Trial. I’ve had jury duty several times. All in Minnesota. A lot of sitting around, reading. Waiting. I served on one jury, an unmemorable case. We found the defendant guilty.

Juries fulfill the promise, made two-hundred and fifty years ago, that I will not judged by aristocracy, but by a jury of my peers.

This clinical trial brings together a jury of my peers.

The full trial lasts nine months. The sentence will be handed down by my body and the actinium’s aim.

No guarantees. My participation is voluntary.

You could call this a capital trial. Some of us will get a reprieve. Hope I’m one of those.

Science. I had polio, measles, and mumps. Polio was long ago, when I was about a year and half old. Yet it continues to impact me at 79. My head drops. My left diaphragm is paralyzed.

I remember mom coming in to check on me. A dark room. I was sensitive to light. Mom would bring me soup or a sandwich, lay a cool rag over my forehead. Measles.

Here’s the thing. When I was eight years old, I had to stand in line in Thurston Elementary. To get a shot. The polio vaccine. I felt this as a keen injustice since I’d already had polio. Result? By 1979, twenty-five years later, polio no longer menaced the U.S.

If only I’d had the MMR vaccine, first available in 1971, I could have avoided the measles and the mumps.

I know, from direct experience, the need for vaccines.

I have benefitted from medical science. I may have been born too early for the polio and MMR vaccines, but I’m pleased my son Joseph could get them.

Not to mention the many different protocols that have extended my life after my cancer diagnosis. I feel good about participating in the clinical trial. It’s medical science which will  help not only me, but thousands of men in the future.

I’m living proof that medical science matters. At the most personal level.

I’ll go in.
Repeat my EKG.
Sign the papers.

 

Fourth Phase, Memories, Minnesota

Shining Through

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Shabbat gratefuls: Christina. Sam. Jamie. Luke. Two Wendys. Gary. Ayelet. Ode. Tom. Paul. Bill. Neck brace. Writing. Parsha.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Chesed

 

Kavannah: Areyvut. Mutual responsibility.  All humans are accountable to each other.

Tarot: Five of Bows, empowerment.  Returning to the homeland of your soul. I write.

 

One brief shining:  I have a coffee mug. A male moose stands in shallow water, looking away, toward the boreal forest. Below him is an inscription: The Gunflint Trail. I bought this mug over forty years ago. It has survived moves, constant handling. A Velveteen Rabbit.

 

Legacy cannot be purchased; but it is inescapable.

 

Ruth and Gabe will remember me.  Ancientrails, words and ideas over time.

Legacy arises from life. It cannot be created by a name on a building or a ghost-written biography.

My social worker, Rachel, believes in the ripple effect. She sees  our interactions with others expanding, rippling out. Rachel is a kind and sensitive woman. She treats me with kindness. Her soul expands further into the world when I unconsciously treat another with kindness.

That coffee mug. Has had a ripple effect. On me. Holding it I remember Raeone and a night on the Gunflint Trail when we heard a banging, clanging sound. Opened the door to a black bear, head in our garbage bin.

I remember M.J. We were close, then not.

Holding it I remember the boreal forest which fills the Arrowhead region of Minnesota. Wolves, bears, moose. Glacial lakes. A border with Canada. A long coastline on the Great Lake, Superior.

The ripple effect. Ceramics capture ripples. Over the years since that banging, clanging night I’ve often picked up this mug, filled it with cold coffee, and signed on zoom with my Ancient Brothers, three of whom still live in Minnesota.

The moose has a few spots where its glaze has worn off to reveal the white glaze of the mug’s first firing. Constant use has changed it from a souvenir to a vessel of memory, more filled with Grand Marais and the North Shore than the gallons of coffee I’ve drunk from it.

The mug’s legacy. An emptiness bounded by glazed clay. It’s that emptiness, the cylinder-shaped nothing. That makes it useful.

That’s legacy. Unintended. Yet inevitable. Our lives create an empty space which others can pour themselves into.  At my age much of my glazing has worn off from  constant handling. The self–my neshama–once glazed over by convention and routine, now casts a gentle glow through my long frayed exterior.

Pick up the mug.
Fill it.
Remember.

Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Not clear. Not now.

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Monday gratefuls: Health. Diet. Exercise. Weariness. Ruth and David. St. Patrick. Irish Wolfhounds. Shadow of the morning.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Taxes

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: #12, The Mirror.  My neshama lies in the boat, ready for another return (teshuvah) to the homeland of my soul

One brief shining: I missed the mark (hamartia) on Sunday’s Ancient Brothers discussion of health. I found myself confused and ashamed. What is health for me? Have I let myself down?

 

Protein targets. Eat real food.  Low sugar, low salt. Exercise: 150 minutes.

Friendships. Learn something new.

A handbook for living perfectly.

I listen. Have listened. Too many marks to hit. I accused the “culture” of blaming and shaming. Making me feel like a self-abuser unwilling to do what’s good for me.

Not true.

Look at the exercise I have done. Intense cardio. Diverse resistance. The labors of gardening. Wildfire mitigation. Caring for Kate.

Don’t I deserve a break, a time when I can focus what energy remains on what sustains me–reading, writing, time with friends and family?

So what if I’m not the poster boy for diet and exercise? So what if I lose six months, a year of life if I can increase the quality of my life now?

Yeah. OK. But.

What if I’m rationalizing?  What if the simple truth is that the alternative is hard work?

Am I blaming and shaming myself by internalizing our obsession with fitness and perfect diets?

Am I the one guy who can’t lash himself to the mast of the good ship health, wax in his ears when the sirens of red meat and downtime sing?

Over the last year and a half, I’ve found this dance between health and quality of life more and more difficult to navigate. Reminds me of our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. I seem stuck between what I can do and what I should do.

Health matters. Ask any of us in our late seventies, early eighties.

My calendar fills with visits to specialists and imaging centers. Back pain. Head drop. A labrum tear. Managing the cancer part of me so it doesn’t destroy its host.

Perhaps that’s it.

So much of my time, energy, and money already goes into health. A lot. I work hard to maintain resilience, not let the little craft in which I live get swamped.

When I get home, I need to place cancer back in its place. Sit down to ease my back.

Exercise then? Nah.

Make something to eat? Yes, if it’s not too hard.

I’ve not yet learned how to square this circle.

I want to live. Live well.

How do I balance these competing, valid demands?

Not clear.

Not now.

 

Fourth Phase, Health, Shadow Mountain

Medworld

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Friday gratefuls: Scans. Their news. Wind, speaking. Tara. Jordan. Aorta. Prostate cancer. Trump. Iran. Mark. Mary.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Writing

 

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Four of Vessels, Boredom.  A current difficulty. Cancer thoughts+Fatigue+Back pain=low mental energy. Not boredom, but lassitude, a close relative.

One brief shining: Another whap across the forehead. Increased metastatic disease. Latest PET scan. So many tests. Medworld can consume life, spreading beyond its confines and colonizing the day-to-day. I don’t want that.

 

The steady, slow beat. Since last May.

With five diagnostic procedures in less than two weeks, their reports, it is as if I live in Medworld.

Medworld is not the day-to-day world. It’s a world of white coats, big parking lots, expensive machines. A world dominated by regimented time: show up a half-an-hour early.

Hallmarks of big science. Sophisticated, intricate machines.  Acolytes of the white coats to run them. Take off your shirt. Any metal in your pockets? Lift your legs.

Followed by the abstruse report: Widespread osseous metastatic disease is substantially worsened from 1/28/2026, with numerous new lesions identified. Means, uh-oh.

Turning, turning this new information. Wondering, again, about dying. About new treatments. How will I respond to them?  The critical factor at this point. Moments. Projections. Moving away from today toward a bed-ridden, supportive-oxygen dependent patient. Loss of agency. Who will be by my side?

Winching myself, one ratchet at a time, back. To the present. Where I have no bone pain. Where I am weak, yet mobile. Where I can still write. Where I live my non-Medworld life.

Stuck. Sometimes. Forgetting that Medworld supports, is only adjacent to: walks in my backyard. Making supper. Laughing with the Ancient Brothers.

I push it back. Not repressing. Rather. Putting those thoughts in Medworld where they belong. Why? Medworld can only slow the coming of the scythe, not prevent it. As a doctor on NPR said, “The death rate for each generation is still 100%.”

Writing. Friends and family. Marriage. Death. Episodes of a life. The final days for me are not yet.

Only one episode.

 

 

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health

Machine Medicine

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Thursday gratefuls: Mariposa. Andres. Alan. Bubble study. A long walk. Morning darkness. Ruby. Gas prices. Iran.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Resilience

 

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Knight of Arrows, Hawk. I need to look at the big picture, see cancer as only a part of a long journey.

 

One brief shining: A cold gel. A sonar wand. Andres took the measure of my heart. Possible shunt. A walk, long, to the Evergreen Building for my PET scan. Pleased with how I held up. Once again radioactive tracers. Lounged in the recliner for an hour, reading a Joe Pickett novel. Kindle app on my phone. Lie down.

 

My body, investigated. Bone scan. Echo. PET scan. Baselines for the clinical trial. No more even mild claustrophobia. Too familiar.

Wearing the soft brace around my neck while out and about. My head drops. Not as far. Doesn’t strain my back. I don’t get as worn out. Though. Feels clunky. Odd.

Second Uber back from Sky Ridge. Mariposa, a squat Latina with six-inch all black nail extensions. Drove eighty m.p.h. Quiet. As I prefer due to my poor hearing.

Shadow greeted me with wiggles and kisses. I remind myself, don’t take this for granted. Remember how long it took. How much heartache.

Getting ready for this clinical trial is a trial of its own. Organize rides. Co-pay. Not cheap. A volunteer guided me each time, the hospital a maze. Sit. Again. Wait.

Charles? I’m Andres. Charles? I’m Andrew. Out of the waiting room. Lie on your side. Lie on your back. Do you want a warm blanket?

No results yet. The doctors sit in their offices far away. Reading scans. Looking at results. I sit at home, tired and lacking information.

The life. Chronic disease. Periods of being home, petting Shadow, reading. Periods of whirs, hums, the stick of a needle. Data. Learning what happens next.

Like that frog. Warming water. I grow accustomed to each test.  One of these tests. One of these days. There’s nothing more we can do. The cancer has gone too far. Earlier, that would have been unwelcome news. Now? One point on this path. I’ve had a long life, one not marred by disease or disability. Enriched.

Punctuation marks. My cancer diagnosis pushed me over the line into life’s last phase, the fourth phase. In the fourth phase I acknowledge my mortality. Not as distant. No longer with that slight hesitation. Maybe not me?

I lean on friends and family. Feel my body gradually giving way.  Everything is harder. Yet. I would not change this time. I’m writing my way into it.

I sit in my chair. Calm.