The word poverty brings up many images for most of us, whether or not we have experienced it. Impoverished still more so. For many people the two words sum up vast regions of Africa or other 3rd world nations but for me those words, especially impoverished, brings up feelings of a period of my childhood that, try as I may, still come to haunt me in the night. Tonight was one of those nights.
Many things can be said about my mother, she was funny and had a great personality, outgoing, stylish in her own way, vain and proud. My sisters would both probably add cruel and thoughtless to that list, but I have to say that I didn't experience that in the way that they did. Looking back on our lives to the period following my parents divorce it was an impoverished existence. I would not realize that for some years to come, however. Immediately following the divorce we moved from a typical suburban home to a charming home in the mountain town of Paradise California. Had we of stayed there, I think that life would be quite different for my sisters and I but we did not. We moved to Texas so that my mother could be closer to her sister that always seemed to be her emotional anchor. Even with her anchor though my mothers spirit seemed to wither and die. I remember her saying to me once that children did not know if they were poor or not, but I knew that we were. We left a beautiful and comfortable home and moved to a dark country style house with a crazy land lady that lived the back rooms which she had converted into an apartment.. I still remember the sound of rat traps going off in the attic and finding the evidence in the trash can the following morning. Still for awhile we were happy or let me say I was happy. Even tornadoes couldn't wipe away my optimism as one of my favorite memories of that time is my sisters and I being shoved in a bathtub during a tornado, foolishly believing that the house and everything might blow away but somehow being attached to the plumbing we would be safe. I didn't know enough about the world not to be happy at that point.
We would move yet again, this time to a small drab box of a house next door to my Aunt and her husband. Once again, I knew we were poor. Yet I would go and visit my father who was living in Ft Worth, Texas the time and know that at least a part of my was ok. Somehow, my life seemed to have a safety net. For my mother that was not the case. She dried and withered emotionally in the Texas heat. My sisters and I begged to return to California which finally, loaded into my mom's Chevy we did. Mom never recovered from the divorce. She would go on to re-marry a man that I believe she resented and looked down on, but who kept meals on the table. She would continue sewing and designing cloths that she would wear only in the drab little house. As she escaped farther and farther into dark red color of many bottles of wine, I escaped into books. My oldest sister escaped into the Army and my middle sister, I am still not sure if she found an escape. She still bears the emotional scars of those years. Looking back, I see how my mothers depression came to cloud or vision. What I knew them was simply that our existence was no longer one of beauty.
Impoverished is a word that describes not just the physical financial landscape. It cuts much deeper like a scythe removing the golden wheat from the ground. It removes the scenery and color and movement until there is nothing but dried nubs left in the ground. Impoverished is the word for losing hope which is what happened to my mother. Far to proud to take a handout or help or to admit her actual age (but that is yet another story about her). She created and accepted an impoverished existence and all that goes along with it, especially the lack of joy. Even the Sunday outings to church seemed to be filled with resentment and bitterness. Our trips to get ice cream after church became just fond memories. I can speak for no one but myself, that church became the place that I couldn't wait to leave so that I could get back to my pile of books that I was always reading. It was thanks to those printed words in paperback pages that I never lost the ability to dream or see or know beauty. They were my drug of choice. I was saved from a drab and impoverished existence by them. I was saved from bullying by them. I was saved from opinions of the outside world by them. In order to graduate from the sixth grade, we had to log and do book reports on two thousand pages. My pages numbered in excess of twenty thousand, and I actually won some sort of award for having done so.
It is clear to me that being impoverished is a state of mind. Having traveled much of the world, I have seen many people with no money but much joy. These people are not impoverished, in fact some of them are most likely the richest people in the world. Joy and love create a richness all of there own. Happiness is it's own reward. God is infinite and unlimited and tapping into spirit brings about the sense of being unlimited. I have experienced this first hand many many times. And much like the story about going to the river with an eye dropper and going thirsty, while envying the man who brought a cup, far to many of us cripple ourselves in our lives by our own behaviors. Rejecting joy is a choice. It is harder physically and mentally as well. It is much easier to be happy than it is sad. You don't seem to have to work at happy, where sadness takes constant work to remain in that state of mind, so why do we bother? I wish I had the answer to that but do not.
What I do know is that in spite of what my bank account says about me, I feel rich and privileged. I look around at the beauty that I easily create and see evidence to back this up daily. I am nurtured by family and friends who are rich in spirit. My mind is incapable of sustaining a dull and grey world, and thanks to the lessons of life I know that I will never be or feel impoverished.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Ordinarily Extraordinary
Life is amazing. In ways large and small it reveals truth to us. Just by walking around a different corner one day on your morning walk you can discover something that you never knew existed before. So it is also with writing. For the past few months my posts have been dwindling. So have the extraordinary feelings and emotions that I get from writing daily. I was thinking about it this morning, wondering why I don't feel so bright and polished lately. When was the last time that I felt amazing? As the blocks rolled on beneith my feet the answer slowly reveiled itself to me. The last week that I felt amazing was the last week that I had written daily.
What? Why? Clearly more walking and thinking were needed to figure this phonomon out. Actually nothing came until I came home and pulled out a notebook that Ken gave me for my birthday and started doing what the notebook was intended for, writing down my thoughts. As the paper filled up so did my heart. Not that I think that I'm brillient or special. It is exactly the opposite. I am an ordinary man who when he lets go can see the extraordinary in life. The more I let go, the closer I feel to God and the closer I feel to God the easier it is to express myself, to create to sculpt a life in words. Some of these will be read by only myself and others shared, but all of them extraordinary in the way a leaf or a blade of grass is extraordinary. They are one individual expression of the divine.
I remember this feeling well. Years ago I started painting. No training to start off with, just the belief that maybe I could create something beautiful. I did! I found that the medium came easily and effortlessly to me. I painted for my friends freely giving away what had come thru my hands into being. The more I painted the more creative I became. I found that I could create digital works of art and sculpt. The big dream for me though was always to tell stories. To write. I never did, though until the cancer diagnosis. Perhaps it was the fear that even though I believed at one level I would survive it, there was a dark beliefe just below the level of conscienceness that maybe I was running out of time and better start telling those stories before it was too late. I believe that the truth is that when I am creating I feel closer to God and the only time I feel extaordinary is when I am close to God, so it make sense that I need to create. Maybe because these are my God given talents and to not use them would be to waste my life. I also believe that to truly waste your life is to never feel connected to God, to never experience something truly bigger than yourself or your own life. I spent years in the dark being small and I know that I don't want to revisit that path. So once again I am writing.
Several religions belive that having a disiplined practice is important to stay connected to God, more than ever this makes sense to me. Writing has been my practice this past year, when consistant, I feel amazing, and when not writing, I feel dull and lifeless. I believe that I am not alone in this. I suspect that Athletes, Artists, and anyone living out their highest self feels this. It is when we try to listen to others truths that do not work for us or to swim upstream in a river that was not intended for us to swim that we drown our own spirit.
What? Why? Clearly more walking and thinking were needed to figure this phonomon out. Actually nothing came until I came home and pulled out a notebook that Ken gave me for my birthday and started doing what the notebook was intended for, writing down my thoughts. As the paper filled up so did my heart. Not that I think that I'm brillient or special. It is exactly the opposite. I am an ordinary man who when he lets go can see the extraordinary in life. The more I let go, the closer I feel to God and the closer I feel to God the easier it is to express myself, to create to sculpt a life in words. Some of these will be read by only myself and others shared, but all of them extraordinary in the way a leaf or a blade of grass is extraordinary. They are one individual expression of the divine.
I remember this feeling well. Years ago I started painting. No training to start off with, just the belief that maybe I could create something beautiful. I did! I found that the medium came easily and effortlessly to me. I painted for my friends freely giving away what had come thru my hands into being. The more I painted the more creative I became. I found that I could create digital works of art and sculpt. The big dream for me though was always to tell stories. To write. I never did, though until the cancer diagnosis. Perhaps it was the fear that even though I believed at one level I would survive it, there was a dark beliefe just below the level of conscienceness that maybe I was running out of time and better start telling those stories before it was too late. I believe that the truth is that when I am creating I feel closer to God and the only time I feel extaordinary is when I am close to God, so it make sense that I need to create. Maybe because these are my God given talents and to not use them would be to waste my life. I also believe that to truly waste your life is to never feel connected to God, to never experience something truly bigger than yourself or your own life. I spent years in the dark being small and I know that I don't want to revisit that path. So once again I am writing.
Several religions belive that having a disiplined practice is important to stay connected to God, more than ever this makes sense to me. Writing has been my practice this past year, when consistant, I feel amazing, and when not writing, I feel dull and lifeless. I believe that I am not alone in this. I suspect that Athletes, Artists, and anyone living out their highest self feels this. It is when we try to listen to others truths that do not work for us or to swim upstream in a river that was not intended for us to swim that we drown our own spirit.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Lessons learned along the way
About 3 or so weeks ago, I decided that I had had enough of being "stuck" in the house. I wanted to get back in the world. Go back to work. Do all of the things I normally do. I decided to push myself. It made sense. If you push yourself in the gym, you get results. Push yourself at work, you get promoted.... Well, that is apparently if you are ready to be pushed. Against the advice of my doctor and even my own dad, to take it easy, I pushed. I mowed the lawn, weeded, weed whacked, raked and made the outside of my house look like it had been visited by a professional gardener. I ignored being tired and some what out of breath. I even ignored feeling dehydrated. In short, my body pushed back.
The symptom started a few days later with a sore throat and a tight chest, by nightfall, I was feverish and knew I had a chest cold. The cold lingered, making it impossible to do the things I love to do. In fact anything but laying around with the dogs (which they seemed to love) was not possible. Now, three weeks later, I am just getting over the cough. My flem has gone from green to yellow and now clear. I am on the mend, but carry the wisdom that I should have listened.
Where have I heard that before? Oh yeah, here in my blog. In my head and heart. Listening has always been one of my own shortcomings and now, I was the victim of my own selfish ways. I get it. Just because we hear something or understand something doesn't always mean the we have applied it, and clearly I am guilty of not applying this lesson. Ken still complains that I don't listen to him. That should have been a clue. Additionally, I am still having trouble speaking, because I didn't apply the lessons of my speech therapist and practice daily (apparently talking to myself and the dogs just isn't enough). The other thing I am guilty of is not practicing meditation and prayer on a daily basis. I have stated several times and still believe that those two things were paramount in my healing. Wouldn't it stand to reason that not practicing them could be paramount in a relapse? It makes sense to me. So now the plan is to sit aside some time each day. Time to listen. Listen to God. Listen to my heart and mind. Listen to others, especially Ken. Maybe I'll even listen to my doctor and my dad and take things just a little bit easier.
Of course in the mean time, I do plan on asking the universe for more energy, perfect health, but in praying for specifics, I am reminded of the old Quaker saying: "Pray, but then move your feet". Perfect health and energy are possible for everyone of us, but just like practicing other disciplines, they both require practice and, well, discipline. Proper Nutrition, staying hydrated, exercise, rest and LISTENING to our bodies when they are telling us something. OK, so no healing chocolate donuts, no matter how tempted I am. I am after something much sweeter than a quick sugar fix and that is living a sweet life.
The symptom started a few days later with a sore throat and a tight chest, by nightfall, I was feverish and knew I had a chest cold. The cold lingered, making it impossible to do the things I love to do. In fact anything but laying around with the dogs (which they seemed to love) was not possible. Now, three weeks later, I am just getting over the cough. My flem has gone from green to yellow and now clear. I am on the mend, but carry the wisdom that I should have listened.
Where have I heard that before? Oh yeah, here in my blog. In my head and heart. Listening has always been one of my own shortcomings and now, I was the victim of my own selfish ways. I get it. Just because we hear something or understand something doesn't always mean the we have applied it, and clearly I am guilty of not applying this lesson. Ken still complains that I don't listen to him. That should have been a clue. Additionally, I am still having trouble speaking, because I didn't apply the lessons of my speech therapist and practice daily (apparently talking to myself and the dogs just isn't enough). The other thing I am guilty of is not practicing meditation and prayer on a daily basis. I have stated several times and still believe that those two things were paramount in my healing. Wouldn't it stand to reason that not practicing them could be paramount in a relapse? It makes sense to me. So now the plan is to sit aside some time each day. Time to listen. Listen to God. Listen to my heart and mind. Listen to others, especially Ken. Maybe I'll even listen to my doctor and my dad and take things just a little bit easier.
Of course in the mean time, I do plan on asking the universe for more energy, perfect health, but in praying for specifics, I am reminded of the old Quaker saying: "Pray, but then move your feet". Perfect health and energy are possible for everyone of us, but just like practicing other disciplines, they both require practice and, well, discipline. Proper Nutrition, staying hydrated, exercise, rest and LISTENING to our bodies when they are telling us something. OK, so no healing chocolate donuts, no matter how tempted I am. I am after something much sweeter than a quick sugar fix and that is living a sweet life.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Damaged Goods
As with many diseases, cancer can leave you feeling like damaged goods. In my case, I had half of my tongue removed, skin removed from my arm to replace the tongue, skin removed from my leg to replace the skin from my arm, lymph nodes from the right side of my neck removed, a trachea implanted to that I could breath and a feeding tube so that I could eat. Of course as time went by the trachea was removed, but left a divot looking scar on my throat that moves up and down when I swallow, also the feeding tube was removed as I was able to swallow on my own and begin eating. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months the healing continued. My focus is no longer on having cancer or even having had cancer. All of this came at an unfortunate time for me. I was busy working on my sexy by fifty plan. The diet had worked and I had a new found swagger. I was on track, with two years to go to perfect my physical body. The universe, however, had other plans for me and one day I discovered the tumor in my tongue. The only lingering side effect is some difficult in speaking clearly all of the time. Granted I have re-mastered most of the English language, I still have great difficulty with words ending in LLS. Walls, balls, falls....They end us sounding like waas, baas, etc. Certain accents are considered sexy, but speech impediments, not so much.
For me it all came down to this, what is sexy and is it important? Can I be sexy? Who knows? Do I want to do the work (which could include some plastic surgery)? And who's idea of sexy am I pursuing anyway? The GQ model idea of sexy? The guy next door? Aren't I more that that? I am a survivor. I am tough and capable and loving. Shouldn't I be content with that? I have a loving and amazing partner in my life who seems pretty happy to show up and be with me just as I am. Can I find contentment in that?
All of these ideas were challenged recently, when I met a big girl in a tiny body. I had dropped by the SPCA store to buy shampoo for my dogs and decided to go and give a little love to the residents at the shelter. As I stepped into cottage two, I saw her for the first time. She was just a tiny little thing with huge round black eyes and a little button of a nose showing through her frowzy fur. She stood quietly on her hind legs and front paws on the bars of her cage. She had hope in her eyes, but it was plain to see that she knew most people would pass her by. She wasn't talented like the poodles that she shared a temporary home with. She didn't jump and walk on her hind legs begging for attention. Our eyes met and I lost my heart to her in that second! I went to say hi, but told myself that I was being stupid! I already had two dogs at home and didn't need a third. I took her picture anyway, to show my partner Ken later. With that I left her behind. What I didn't know, is that I had taken a piece of her with me. The feel of her tongue on my fingers, the hope in her eyes. I couldn't stop thinking about her. I showed Ken the photo and he declared that it was my birthday week and if I wanted another dog, he was cool with the idea. (I should mention that we did have at one time three dogs. One of them had passed away from stomach cancer this past year. It left a hole in our hearts but our other two dogs, seemed to be much happier with it being just the two of them). Finally on my birthday, we got up and went to a museum but left early to go and "just say hi" to her.
We took her out for a visitation and the image that I will always hold in my heart is my partner Ken carefully holding her. Ken is a big guy and he held her like she could just break at any second. His eyes were filled with love and concern and she looked at him with the same hope that she looked at me with. The spell would be broken though, when we were informed that she had "serious medical issues" and needed to speak to her representative. We did and found out that she would have to have surgery. I was originally told by a volunteer that it was hip surgery. A friend of my had gone through that last year and ended up spending thousands of dollars only to end of having her dog put down as it could not handle the pain afterwards. I knew I couldn't handle that not to mention that we are still paying my medical bills and should not be acquiring more debt. It was a good decision I thought. I was using my head an not my heart. I should be proud. On the way home I asked Ken how he was doing and he quickly replied "fine". Matter solved! That was a Saturday and by Monday morning I realized that the matter was far from solved. What if they put her down? That was the way things were going. We had been told that everyone who looked at her passed because of the expense involved. I was in a panic! The SPCA was closed on Monday and Tuesdays and it is basically impossible to get anyone on the phone during those days. I also found out that Ken was not "fine". He was suffering from the remorse of walking away from her, just as I was. He reveled that he didn't talk all of the way home because he didn't want to cry. If you knew Ken, that is a big thing. This is a man that doesn''t cry. We have been together for over twelve years and I have only seen him cry about three times, so knowing that he was about to shed some tears was really saying a lot!
I camped out at the gates of the SPCA on Wednesday morning with a list of questions that Ken and I had gone over. What we wanted was to take her to our vet and get some idea of the expense involved. Of course that wasn't possible I was told but I could adopt her and get a full refund within 30 days. Yeah, that's gonna happen, I thought to myself. Like I could ever bring her back. Then, good news arrived, I spoke with the vet as the SPCA and found out that she had a "luxating patella". Basically it was her knee and not her hip. For some reason it didn't sound as bad and as frightening. The truth was though, it was already too late. When I got to the "pound" that morning there was no way that I wasn't going to adopt her. She was like me, she was damaged goods. The difference was that no-one had walked by me. My life is rich with family and friends and the most amazing man, that I am fortunate enough to spend my life with. There was never a question that when diagnosed with cancer I wouldn't be taken care of, because I was loved. There could be no question that she wouldn't be taken care of either. I filled out the adoption papers and brought my dogs to meet her. They didn't kill her (in fact they sort of ignored her) so it was agreed that this would be a good fit and she could come home with us. She still had to be neutered so we picked her up the following day.
We named her Ginger, and what I can tell you is that she takes my breath away every time I look at her. Maybe it's her small size and maybe it's the way she looks at me. I don't know. What I do know, is that she is not in the least concerned about her knee. She is an amazing dog who is loving, yet stands up for herself. She is a daily reminder that I am not damaged goods. I might not have all the same parts I started off in this world with, but I am me and that is quite enough for her. And like her, I don't see a crippled dog when I look at her (and neither would you, she shows no sighs of her leg bothering her, except occasionally missing a step). Ironically, I no longer see a damaged man when I look in the mirror. I see a strong survivor, a good person and something that brings me even greater joy, I see Gingers Dad!
For me it all came down to this, what is sexy and is it important? Can I be sexy? Who knows? Do I want to do the work (which could include some plastic surgery)? And who's idea of sexy am I pursuing anyway? The GQ model idea of sexy? The guy next door? Aren't I more that that? I am a survivor. I am tough and capable and loving. Shouldn't I be content with that? I have a loving and amazing partner in my life who seems pretty happy to show up and be with me just as I am. Can I find contentment in that?
All of these ideas were challenged recently, when I met a big girl in a tiny body. I had dropped by the SPCA store to buy shampoo for my dogs and decided to go and give a little love to the residents at the shelter. As I stepped into cottage two, I saw her for the first time. She was just a tiny little thing with huge round black eyes and a little button of a nose showing through her frowzy fur. She stood quietly on her hind legs and front paws on the bars of her cage. She had hope in her eyes, but it was plain to see that she knew most people would pass her by. She wasn't talented like the poodles that she shared a temporary home with. She didn't jump and walk on her hind legs begging for attention. Our eyes met and I lost my heart to her in that second! I went to say hi, but told myself that I was being stupid! I already had two dogs at home and didn't need a third. I took her picture anyway, to show my partner Ken later. With that I left her behind. What I didn't know, is that I had taken a piece of her with me. The feel of her tongue on my fingers, the hope in her eyes. I couldn't stop thinking about her. I showed Ken the photo and he declared that it was my birthday week and if I wanted another dog, he was cool with the idea. (I should mention that we did have at one time three dogs. One of them had passed away from stomach cancer this past year. It left a hole in our hearts but our other two dogs, seemed to be much happier with it being just the two of them). Finally on my birthday, we got up and went to a museum but left early to go and "just say hi" to her.
We took her out for a visitation and the image that I will always hold in my heart is my partner Ken carefully holding her. Ken is a big guy and he held her like she could just break at any second. His eyes were filled with love and concern and she looked at him with the same hope that she looked at me with. The spell would be broken though, when we were informed that she had "serious medical issues" and needed to speak to her representative. We did and found out that she would have to have surgery. I was originally told by a volunteer that it was hip surgery. A friend of my had gone through that last year and ended up spending thousands of dollars only to end of having her dog put down as it could not handle the pain afterwards. I knew I couldn't handle that not to mention that we are still paying my medical bills and should not be acquiring more debt. It was a good decision I thought. I was using my head an not my heart. I should be proud. On the way home I asked Ken how he was doing and he quickly replied "fine". Matter solved! That was a Saturday and by Monday morning I realized that the matter was far from solved. What if they put her down? That was the way things were going. We had been told that everyone who looked at her passed because of the expense involved. I was in a panic! The SPCA was closed on Monday and Tuesdays and it is basically impossible to get anyone on the phone during those days. I also found out that Ken was not "fine". He was suffering from the remorse of walking away from her, just as I was. He reveled that he didn't talk all of the way home because he didn't want to cry. If you knew Ken, that is a big thing. This is a man that doesn''t cry. We have been together for over twelve years and I have only seen him cry about three times, so knowing that he was about to shed some tears was really saying a lot!
I camped out at the gates of the SPCA on Wednesday morning with a list of questions that Ken and I had gone over. What we wanted was to take her to our vet and get some idea of the expense involved. Of course that wasn't possible I was told but I could adopt her and get a full refund within 30 days. Yeah, that's gonna happen, I thought to myself. Like I could ever bring her back. Then, good news arrived, I spoke with the vet as the SPCA and found out that she had a "luxating patella". Basically it was her knee and not her hip. For some reason it didn't sound as bad and as frightening. The truth was though, it was already too late. When I got to the "pound" that morning there was no way that I wasn't going to adopt her. She was like me, she was damaged goods. The difference was that no-one had walked by me. My life is rich with family and friends and the most amazing man, that I am fortunate enough to spend my life with. There was never a question that when diagnosed with cancer I wouldn't be taken care of, because I was loved. There could be no question that she wouldn't be taken care of either. I filled out the adoption papers and brought my dogs to meet her. They didn't kill her (in fact they sort of ignored her) so it was agreed that this would be a good fit and she could come home with us. She still had to be neutered so we picked her up the following day.
We named her Ginger, and what I can tell you is that she takes my breath away every time I look at her. Maybe it's her small size and maybe it's the way she looks at me. I don't know. What I do know, is that she is not in the least concerned about her knee. She is an amazing dog who is loving, yet stands up for herself. She is a daily reminder that I am not damaged goods. I might not have all the same parts I started off in this world with, but I am me and that is quite enough for her. And like her, I don't see a crippled dog when I look at her (and neither would you, she shows no sighs of her leg bothering her, except occasionally missing a step). Ironically, I no longer see a damaged man when I look in the mirror. I see a strong survivor, a good person and something that brings me even greater joy, I see Gingers Dad!
Friday, September 23, 2011
Prepare for Impact
In life we never really know, just who is going to have an impact on our lives. Who will love us, hate us, hurt us, it's all a waiting game. This subject is on my mind after sharing a wonderful lunch with Laura. To merely call her a friend would be to grossly undersell the relationship. I met Laura through Weight Watchers, when she filled in for my regular meeting leader. I remember liking her style. Later, when I had become a receptionist for Weight Watchers I was able to work with her in a few meetings. Later, still, when I had put some of my weight back on, I started attending her meetings. Yes, she did help me loose some weight, but the impact came later, when I was diagnosed with cancer. Laura was literally one of the first people who showed up for me. A cancer survivor herself, she knew well the journey that I was about to undertake and selflessly gave of herself and experience. She introduced me to others that would become a core part of my journey that I called my survivors group. Laura also introduced me to the Cancer Support Community of South Bay, where I attend my group meetings. Laura was never asked to do these things, she just did them out of love. It was a great lesson for me. There are people out there that will just love you, no strings attached. This, I believe is true for all of us. I am grateful for her friendship and partnership in my journey. I am also keenly aware that my time to give back is here. Just holding onto love does nothing and no one any good, we have to give it back to the world, let it flow, grow and come back to us. That is the impact of true friendship.
I write about it today, because I wonder who along the way, I might have loved, learned from, had I not rejected them. We all do it, turn a blind eye to the homeless person, roll our eyes at the kids in Starbucks, change lanes at the grocery store because we think that the person in front of us is about to use food stamps and take up our precious time. But without others is our time really that precious? What if we asked the crazy kid at the coffee shop what they were drinking and discovered something new? What if we gave a dollar to the homeless occasionally or bought them a meal, or maybe sat with them and listened to their story. Wouldn't that time be well spent? For those of us (and yes, I include myself in this) who watch TV daily, wouldn't our time be more rewarding being out in life instead of watching a falsification of life? What would happen if everyone gave up two hours of television a week and did volunteer work? How would our communities be impacted?
I remember attending several funerals over the years. Some big, some small, but the one I really remember the most is my Grandfathers. The love that poured out of everyone there for him. And why? He himself was loving, and inclusive. Everyone was welcome at his house. I seriously doubt if he ever met anyone he didn't like. At the end of his life, I could see that it was a life well lived. I stood there proud to be his Grandson. His loving nature impacted me in a way that still makes me want to give back today, what more can I say.
After the battle with cancer, I got to reclaim my life, but more importantly, I got to choose the type of life that I want to live. That is a gift that cancer can give you if you are open to receiving it. The gift to finally stop what you are doing and really examine things. What is important and what you want. It gives you the time to prepare for impact. You just have to be willing to look away from the pain to see and feel the good.
I write about it today, because I wonder who along the way, I might have loved, learned from, had I not rejected them. We all do it, turn a blind eye to the homeless person, roll our eyes at the kids in Starbucks, change lanes at the grocery store because we think that the person in front of us is about to use food stamps and take up our precious time. But without others is our time really that precious? What if we asked the crazy kid at the coffee shop what they were drinking and discovered something new? What if we gave a dollar to the homeless occasionally or bought them a meal, or maybe sat with them and listened to their story. Wouldn't that time be well spent? For those of us (and yes, I include myself in this) who watch TV daily, wouldn't our time be more rewarding being out in life instead of watching a falsification of life? What would happen if everyone gave up two hours of television a week and did volunteer work? How would our communities be impacted?
I remember attending several funerals over the years. Some big, some small, but the one I really remember the most is my Grandfathers. The love that poured out of everyone there for him. And why? He himself was loving, and inclusive. Everyone was welcome at his house. I seriously doubt if he ever met anyone he didn't like. At the end of his life, I could see that it was a life well lived. I stood there proud to be his Grandson. His loving nature impacted me in a way that still makes me want to give back today, what more can I say.
After the battle with cancer, I got to reclaim my life, but more importantly, I got to choose the type of life that I want to live. That is a gift that cancer can give you if you are open to receiving it. The gift to finally stop what you are doing and really examine things. What is important and what you want. It gives you the time to prepare for impact. You just have to be willing to look away from the pain to see and feel the good.
Friday, September 9, 2011
The age of acceptance
We are all going to die....eventually. That is what logic tells us. As we age we see many examples of it. Family members and friends die, pets die, plants die and we know so will we....eventually. We accept that fact and file it firmly into the back of our thoughts, trying not to dislodge it. We fight off death by trying to look younger, to feel younger, to dress younger, beat our cancer and other diseases, but it still looms on the horizon that we will all travel to....eventually.
I have a birthday coming up, so as I am apt to do each year I search for the latest and greatest anti aging creams and techniques. I remember to moisturize and mask. I think about asking for Strivectin for my birthday (a sure sign that I am getting older, when I was younger, I would have been happy with a blow job). Today while shopping for something with a stronger retinol base, it occurred to me that I never once thought that my Grandmother or Grandfather needed to look younger. They were perfect just the way they were (even if my Step Mom and maybe even my Dad might disagree with me on that one). They were the closest thing to unconditional love that I have ever experienced. And no they did not always like everything I did, but they always liked and loved me for who I was. I kept thinking about this on the way home after purchasing nothing from the anti aging section, and realized that I have never heard any of my friends say God, my Grandma looks old, she really could use some work. And no one ever says "Good grief, Grandpa, you need to get your self back in the gym". It seems to me that the modern day therapy of parenting our inner child, is a generation off. What we really need is to Grand Parent our inner children. I could use a strong does of unconditional love, and I'd also kill for some of my Grandpa's "Takkas" (he was actually saying taco's, but that was the way he pronounced it. I can not bring myself to call them mere taco's now as it would feel like insulting my Grandfather's culinary genius. Sadly the recipe died with him, much like the unconditional love that I know my whole family experienced from this special man).
Back to my point, isn't about time that we all loved our self unconditionally? What would it feel like to love more than to judge especially ourselves? I don't really know right now, but this year for my birthday, this is the gift I want. Just to love. Myself and everyone that I come in contact with. I want to love the wrinkles that I have earned over the years from smiling. I want to love the frown lines that I have earned from thinking. In short, I want to embrace and love the wisdom that I have acquired in my time here on the planet. And then, of course, I want some more time, and what the heck, I'll take some Strivectin too!
I have a birthday coming up, so as I am apt to do each year I search for the latest and greatest anti aging creams and techniques. I remember to moisturize and mask. I think about asking for Strivectin for my birthday (a sure sign that I am getting older, when I was younger, I would have been happy with a blow job). Today while shopping for something with a stronger retinol base, it occurred to me that I never once thought that my Grandmother or Grandfather needed to look younger. They were perfect just the way they were (even if my Step Mom and maybe even my Dad might disagree with me on that one). They were the closest thing to unconditional love that I have ever experienced. And no they did not always like everything I did, but they always liked and loved me for who I was. I kept thinking about this on the way home after purchasing nothing from the anti aging section, and realized that I have never heard any of my friends say God, my Grandma looks old, she really could use some work. And no one ever says "Good grief, Grandpa, you need to get your self back in the gym". It seems to me that the modern day therapy of parenting our inner child, is a generation off. What we really need is to Grand Parent our inner children. I could use a strong does of unconditional love, and I'd also kill for some of my Grandpa's "Takkas" (he was actually saying taco's, but that was the way he pronounced it. I can not bring myself to call them mere taco's now as it would feel like insulting my Grandfather's culinary genius. Sadly the recipe died with him, much like the unconditional love that I know my whole family experienced from this special man).
Back to my point, isn't about time that we all loved our self unconditionally? What would it feel like to love more than to judge especially ourselves? I don't really know right now, but this year for my birthday, this is the gift I want. Just to love. Myself and everyone that I come in contact with. I want to love the wrinkles that I have earned over the years from smiling. I want to love the frown lines that I have earned from thinking. In short, I want to embrace and love the wisdom that I have acquired in my time here on the planet. And then, of course, I want some more time, and what the heck, I'll take some Strivectin too!
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
How Did This Happen?
We pray, we watch our diets, we do as we're instructed by our doctors, all in order to regain our precious health. As it returns, however, it is not uncommon for those of us recovering from any disease, to reclaim our human-ness. We forget to pray, or meditate one day and then the next. The piles of green vegetables that we have been eating go bad in our refrigerators, while we snack instead on taquitos and sweets. I walked the dogs, that should be enough exercise pops into our heads. In short we grab for the lives we once lived. I'm human and fallible. We need to remember, though, that we are human and fragile. I know first hand how easy it is to loose the connection to God, to forget daily prayers and the connection with the divine. I lived that way for years. I also, in spite of a base diet that is very healthy managed to snack on junk food. I never met a taco, I didn't love, or a beignet for that matter!
So here I have been these last several months focusing on my return to health. An amazing partner at my side, reading and studying all he can about cancer and diet so that we can live without my having a repeat episode. His badgering me with "really? Is that cancer killing ice cream?" And me just wanting to live. My taste buds have come back and ironically my sense of smell is even more sensitive than prior to the cancer and with that comes and even improved sense of taste. I stopped juicing, on a daily basis, and started visiting my local taco shop more often. In fact I started eating out a lot and stopped cooking at home. My salt intake soared. In the mornings I would wake up and my face and tongue would be swollen and restricted. I stopped practicing my vocal exercises on a daily basis. (ok, I was never good about doing them daily, but I somehow stopped all together).
Suddenly, I was watching my body change. How could I be 150 and look fat? Then it was 155 still looking fat. Had I lost that much muscle? Prior to my cancer, I had trimmed down from 170 something to 155 and was looking good. I gained some weight prior to surgery because I was warned that I would loose approximately 15 lbs while undergoing radiation. When all was said and done, I finished my radiation at 140 lbs. Since that day I have slowly watched pound by pound my weight creep up and up. Motivated by an annual trip, I realized that I had to do something. I had to get back on my healthy eating plan. I had to accept that I was human and pretty much the same human that I was prior to cancer. I had to go within and find the strength and motivation. Like so many of us who have had to battle their weight, there is also an underlying factor. We need to do it in order to regain our maximum health. For those of us battling and surviving cancer there is also a much greater need to do it, we have to prevent the cancer from returning. You would think this last reason alone would be enough to keep all of us survivors on the straight and narrow, but it's not.
So what happens? Do we just give up? No! We start to live! Life is amazing. It feels good. Indulging feels good. We forget how good the perfect weight feels on our bones. Just like forgetting to say our prayers. Yet we find that remembering to say our prayers, to stay connected directs us to wanting to stay healthy. It just feels better. I started my healthy eating plan and in just a few days, I had the energy I had prior to cancer. I have been a white tornado around the house. Just a few minutes of meditation and some good food, can surprise you. I suddenly have enough time in the day to do what I need to do and want to do and what Ken wants me to do. Will I hit my goal weight and revert to my bad habits? I'd like to think not, but the reality is that is an option. Just as loosing our connection with God is an option. It just isn't the best option and one that we can control. So I have to set up reminders, have stricter guidelines of how much weigh gain is acceptable (the number is not 20 lbs!). Most of all, I need to remember how wonderful it feels to live fully. No food or diversion can ever take the place of that. I just have to remember. I just have to listen to the people in my life who remind me of that. Say, wasn't it not listening that got me here in the first place?
So here I have been these last several months focusing on my return to health. An amazing partner at my side, reading and studying all he can about cancer and diet so that we can live without my having a repeat episode. His badgering me with "really? Is that cancer killing ice cream?" And me just wanting to live. My taste buds have come back and ironically my sense of smell is even more sensitive than prior to the cancer and with that comes and even improved sense of taste. I stopped juicing, on a daily basis, and started visiting my local taco shop more often. In fact I started eating out a lot and stopped cooking at home. My salt intake soared. In the mornings I would wake up and my face and tongue would be swollen and restricted. I stopped practicing my vocal exercises on a daily basis. (ok, I was never good about doing them daily, but I somehow stopped all together).
Suddenly, I was watching my body change. How could I be 150 and look fat? Then it was 155 still looking fat. Had I lost that much muscle? Prior to my cancer, I had trimmed down from 170 something to 155 and was looking good. I gained some weight prior to surgery because I was warned that I would loose approximately 15 lbs while undergoing radiation. When all was said and done, I finished my radiation at 140 lbs. Since that day I have slowly watched pound by pound my weight creep up and up. Motivated by an annual trip, I realized that I had to do something. I had to get back on my healthy eating plan. I had to accept that I was human and pretty much the same human that I was prior to cancer. I had to go within and find the strength and motivation. Like so many of us who have had to battle their weight, there is also an underlying factor. We need to do it in order to regain our maximum health. For those of us battling and surviving cancer there is also a much greater need to do it, we have to prevent the cancer from returning. You would think this last reason alone would be enough to keep all of us survivors on the straight and narrow, but it's not.
So what happens? Do we just give up? No! We start to live! Life is amazing. It feels good. Indulging feels good. We forget how good the perfect weight feels on our bones. Just like forgetting to say our prayers. Yet we find that remembering to say our prayers, to stay connected directs us to wanting to stay healthy. It just feels better. I started my healthy eating plan and in just a few days, I had the energy I had prior to cancer. I have been a white tornado around the house. Just a few minutes of meditation and some good food, can surprise you. I suddenly have enough time in the day to do what I need to do and want to do and what Ken wants me to do. Will I hit my goal weight and revert to my bad habits? I'd like to think not, but the reality is that is an option. Just as loosing our connection with God is an option. It just isn't the best option and one that we can control. So I have to set up reminders, have stricter guidelines of how much weigh gain is acceptable (the number is not 20 lbs!). Most of all, I need to remember how wonderful it feels to live fully. No food or diversion can ever take the place of that. I just have to remember. I just have to listen to the people in my life who remind me of that. Say, wasn't it not listening that got me here in the first place?
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