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.