Imbolc and the Moon of Deep Friendship
Monday gratefuls: Robin. Shadow the bandageless. Audrey, winning at regionals. Sports. Joe, the three letter guy. ICE. Minnesota.
Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Actinium
Week Kavannah: Bitachon. Confidence. I need to focus on confidence this week. Important decisions for cancer treatment, how to stay confident when physical weakness challenges me.
Tarot: Seven of Arrows, Insecurity
Between treatment protocols. Exhausted. Not working out. A time of deep uncertainty.
One brief shining: A trigger finger locked. Life hinging on unproven chemicals, tests, blood draws. A sore right shoulder. Love of friends and family. Shadow. Unavoidable mortality.
Underlayments. Love. Joseph and Seoah. Ruth and Gabe. Mary and Mark and Diane. Korea to Melbourne to Saudi Arabia. Kate across the threshold. Knowing and seeing each other anyhow.
The love of old friends and new. Ancient Brothers. CBE.
Feeling connected in a Dog’s kisses. Coffee in the morning. The Shema.
So that. When cancer makes an aggressive move, I want to push back, get into a clinical trial. So that. When exercise falls away, my tennis shoes go back on.
And yet. Sometimes. I sit back in my chair. Think. Oh, come on. Enough. May I ride it all out from the comfort of this recliner? Surrender. Wait. For a miracle. For a finish.
Not the brave face. Nor a frightened one. Weary.
I do not want to scare those who love me. No. Yet I do not want to be dishonest either. This is not easy.
Not most of the day. When soreness or shortness of breath hits. Then. Pain suggests: a sick man who a moment ago was in his forties, eager. Whap.
Underlayments. I lean into love, buoyed up by Joe’s voice, by Tara singing happy birthday. By the regard in which I hold myself.
Underlayments. Remember. Shadow’s waggly tail. Gabe’s new poem. Superior Wolf’s second draft.
Consolation. More to do. Rejuvenation.
Not dead yet.
Knowing. Deep. This day, this singular unrepeatable day. All I’ve got. Ever. And this day, right now, hands on the keyboard. Shadow sleeping nearby. Morning darkness not dispelled. I am fully alive. Laying down breadcrumbs.
Underlayments. How to reconcile. Weariness and excitement. Pain and joy. Not easy. Not impossible. Most often through writing. Talking it out. Diane and her book club. Tom and a new book. Listening.
Realizing words. These words spilled in a certain order. Saying, hello out there, hello.
My one strong link to my journalist father. A need to express myself. Clearly. Often. Yes, a need. Not a want. That peculiar inside-out move of the artist: exposing the inner journey so others know they are not alone.