for summer to be over and George to start kindergarden and also my radiation to be over at nearly the same time; just 12 treatments left for me. The anticipation for both of these changes is dissipating....on the Tuesday after Labor Day George will go to his new school and though I am still full of bittersweet feelings, it is going to happen and I feel ready for it. New rhythms will be created in our lives, walking him to school and getting to know his new teacher to start with, and we'll each, George and I, have to reconfigure the dance of our relationship.
And this end of my formal treatment, I am really ready for that, too; I feel like I'm done with it now, frankly, even though I still have my morning ritual of running out the door at 7:20AM with my coffee mug in hand to head to Fox Chase.
I'm done in that I can sense the ways that I've changed in the last six months; I can feel what it is to have come out of being a thirty-seven-year old woman, mother of two young children, diagnosed with breast cancer. I can feel what it means to survive. I can tell you that the smells and tastes of summer
really have been much sweeter and deeper. I can tell you that I forgive others and myself much more easily. I can tell you that I decluttered my office at work, throwing out papers I had held onto for six years but had never looked it because I could say to myself
I really don't need this.
I can tell you that I feel like my soul has landed more completely in my body and I can tell you that may not have happened just now if I hadn't brushed so closely against my own death--
by that I mean
looked it in the face.
And by looking at my death in the face I mean being scared shitless
and also kind of not being scared shitless, kind of being okay.
And being okay,knowing that I am really here, now, present,
alive, surviving, resilient, courageous, vulnerable, forgiving
that is what I mean by smells are sharper and sounds are clearer and cares are less.
It's finally almost here when my regular cancer treatment at Fox Chase will be over
and I can go back to being
a mom like the other moms taking their children to kindergarden and preschool
and I know too
that what I am feeling now
the intense, vivid, sensual appreciation of the world inside and around me
may dull and fade in time
and that that will be okay.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
I've slogged my way throgh 1/2 of my radiation treatments
It's been a f--ing hot week here
That's all I have to say just now
Really
Love to all
That's all I have to say just now
Really
Love to all
Saturday, August 8, 2009
1 week of radiation down,
5 weeks to go. I've never been more thankful that I live so close to Fox Chase. My appointment is for 7:30AM. I leave the house at 7:20AM, arrive, park, take the elevator to the first floor, change into my gown, put my bag and clothes in a locker, sit in the waiting room, pick up a magazine, find an article I want to read, get called back before reading it, get zapped for 8 minutes, go back and get dressed, this time rubbing aloe vera onto my skin, take the elevator back upstairs, walk to my car, drive back home and arrive at 8AM so I can finish getting the kids ready for camp. Not bad! The routine has even motivated me to get school bags and lunches packed the night before which makes for a much easier morning.
No side effects to report. 5 weeks to go. I am feeling well.
***
I've been walking a few mornings a week, when I can fit it in, plus getting back to lifting weights which I alternate with yoga (20 minutes of either one most days). It's not a hard core workout by any means but I am feeling the difference. Exercise is such a clear antidote for stress, both in the endorphins that get released in my body and also in the way that moving my body takes me away from the racing thoughts in my mind and grounds me into my body, into the now.
I wish that I had been doing this all along, over the past few years, but the truth is, like most moms of young children who are also working outside of the home, most of my time was spent keeping the balls of everyone's needs at home and at work juggling in the air. The juggling was nonstop and if I got a moment to put a ball or two down and take time for myself, I preferred taking a coffee break or sitting on my ass and watching TV.
The walking/yoga/weights is part of my big paradigm shift that has come about since getting the breast cancer diagnosis, which forced me to stop juggling and just watch the balls fall crashing to the earth.
If it was as simple as "make time for yourself," all moms of young children would figure out a graceful way to do that. My experience is that I've needed to explore deeper layers of what has stopped me from living a life of optimal wellness. I've needed to unclutter my emotions the same way I need to unclutter my house and unclutter my time.
I know that I was on a path of doing this before the diagnosis; I've been striving for balance and wellness for some time. But the urgency of my diagnosis forced me onto a steep learning curve that I've happily embraced.
Not that I wake up to a life of zen, clean balance; not at all. I wake up to June whining about me not washing her favorite bathing suit and George rejecting the gluten free muffins that he absolutely loved two weeks ago and dirty dishes in the sink and a shitload of things to accomplish at work. Nothing external has shifted. But my perception of it, my reaction to it, my awareness of what triggers my stress, my ability to breath through it, my focus on the big picture
has transformed my life into a much happier, healthier one, even if my zen garden is deeply buried under layers of Disney Princess and Spiderman shit.
***
5 weeks of radiation to go and 5 weeks until George starts kindergarden and I can't help but thinking about how this new chapter of my life is intersecting with this new chapter of his. His going to kindergarden frees my time and energy in a way that will allow for me to focus differently on my new awareness of wellness.
I am so happy that we found a great kindergarden class for him at the public school and that we will walk just 1/2 block each morning to get there. I am so happy about all of the progress he's made in preschool and with the RDI cognitive therapy that we are doing at home.
But I get really teary when I think too much about him going to kindergarden. As much as I know the space and separation is neccessary for both of us to grow, I guess I am not quite ready to let go of my baby. Even though he's gone to preschool for full days of mornings and afternoons, this coming separation still feels hard. The acknowledgement of time passing, of him being ready to enter that big elementary school; I'm struggling with it.
Maybe there is still some goodbye that I need to say to the baby that he was. That baby that I can still see, smell and feel so vividly from his first ten days of life in the NICU to the miraculous day when we brought him home. Maybe there is some goodbye that I need to say to the busy toddler, to the three-year-old who struggled to acquire language. Maybe there is a goodbye I am holding back for the four and five-year-old boy who spent hours with me, learning skills like cutting and dressing and playing catch with a ball that other children just acquire naturally.
Maybe I need to hold those parts of George in a deep place in my heart so that I can make room for the six-year-old boy that he has become, ready for this new challenge, sunny, tall and strong. When he goes to school, I can walk down the block and watch him on the playground at recess, I will be able to walk by and look into his classroom. I know I will be able to do those things, but I will try to not.
No side effects to report. 5 weeks to go. I am feeling well.
***
I've been walking a few mornings a week, when I can fit it in, plus getting back to lifting weights which I alternate with yoga (20 minutes of either one most days). It's not a hard core workout by any means but I am feeling the difference. Exercise is such a clear antidote for stress, both in the endorphins that get released in my body and also in the way that moving my body takes me away from the racing thoughts in my mind and grounds me into my body, into the now.
I wish that I had been doing this all along, over the past few years, but the truth is, like most moms of young children who are also working outside of the home, most of my time was spent keeping the balls of everyone's needs at home and at work juggling in the air. The juggling was nonstop and if I got a moment to put a ball or two down and take time for myself, I preferred taking a coffee break or sitting on my ass and watching TV.
The walking/yoga/weights is part of my big paradigm shift that has come about since getting the breast cancer diagnosis, which forced me to stop juggling and just watch the balls fall crashing to the earth.
If it was as simple as "make time for yourself," all moms of young children would figure out a graceful way to do that. My experience is that I've needed to explore deeper layers of what has stopped me from living a life of optimal wellness. I've needed to unclutter my emotions the same way I need to unclutter my house and unclutter my time.
I know that I was on a path of doing this before the diagnosis; I've been striving for balance and wellness for some time. But the urgency of my diagnosis forced me onto a steep learning curve that I've happily embraced.
Not that I wake up to a life of zen, clean balance; not at all. I wake up to June whining about me not washing her favorite bathing suit and George rejecting the gluten free muffins that he absolutely loved two weeks ago and dirty dishes in the sink and a shitload of things to accomplish at work. Nothing external has shifted. But my perception of it, my reaction to it, my awareness of what triggers my stress, my ability to breath through it, my focus on the big picture
has transformed my life into a much happier, healthier one, even if my zen garden is deeply buried under layers of Disney Princess and Spiderman shit.
***
5 weeks of radiation to go and 5 weeks until George starts kindergarden and I can't help but thinking about how this new chapter of my life is intersecting with this new chapter of his. His going to kindergarden frees my time and energy in a way that will allow for me to focus differently on my new awareness of wellness.
I am so happy that we found a great kindergarden class for him at the public school and that we will walk just 1/2 block each morning to get there. I am so happy about all of the progress he's made in preschool and with the RDI cognitive therapy that we are doing at home.
But I get really teary when I think too much about him going to kindergarden. As much as I know the space and separation is neccessary for both of us to grow, I guess I am not quite ready to let go of my baby. Even though he's gone to preschool for full days of mornings and afternoons, this coming separation still feels hard. The acknowledgement of time passing, of him being ready to enter that big elementary school; I'm struggling with it.
Maybe there is still some goodbye that I need to say to the baby that he was. That baby that I can still see, smell and feel so vividly from his first ten days of life in the NICU to the miraculous day when we brought him home. Maybe there is some goodbye that I need to say to the busy toddler, to the three-year-old who struggled to acquire language. Maybe there is a goodbye I am holding back for the four and five-year-old boy who spent hours with me, learning skills like cutting and dressing and playing catch with a ball that other children just acquire naturally.
Maybe I need to hold those parts of George in a deep place in my heart so that I can make room for the six-year-old boy that he has become, ready for this new challenge, sunny, tall and strong. When he goes to school, I can walk down the block and watch him on the playground at recess, I will be able to walk by and look into his classroom. I know I will be able to do those things, but I will try to not.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The time when I heard the news that I was diagnosed
with breast cancer
feels so far away from me now. It was February, dark and snowy.
I was talking with my friend Jane on Saturday, telling her about the whole of my chemo experience and she said
I bet you feel like there's nothing you can't do now
and I said Exactly
which doesn't mean I don't have moments of getting stressed out or worried or nuts with my kids
but in those moments I can more easily come back to the bigger picture
and call on the tools I've been working on (deep breathing, noticing something of beauty around me) and move away from fear. And it's that ability, looking at fear and consiously neutralizing it, the fills me with a new sense of power and hope and excitement for my life.
***
Last week we had an incredible gift. We spent the week at a little house on Big Bass Lake in the Poconoe Mountains. My friend Steph came up for the weekend and our friends Katie and Jim and their precious 10-month-old baby Lila who live in Rochester came up, too. We hadn't seen Katie and Jim for four years. Friendship is so extraordinary, real friendship. It was so natural and laidback being together, even with the kids waking up early and having no water pressure for showers and some mornings overcast skies...we had time to cook and eat together and play games and stay up too late and talk and drink wine.
Being away from work for a week, with no email access, was so great for Fred, who has a new manager at the theater who is really competant and allowed him to leave knowing the theater was in good hands. It makes me happy to watch the way Fred is shifting in his life, the new ways he is taking care of his health and the way we are meeting each other in a more loving, appreciative place.
And for me, it was the stepping out of Elkins Park and away from not the home and the daily chores but more being out of the element where everything happened--the news, the shock, the surgery, the blood, the chemo, the metallic taste, the piles of shit I had no energy to deal with, being away from Fox Chase Cancer Center, that was it for me.
I'm done with that identity, being someone in crisis, someone ill, someone who needs help. I just want to retreat from it and sink into the new ways I am transforming
and I want to quietly emerge
as the woman
I want to be.
And while I was away I would think people see me and they don't know about the cancer
I'm just a 38-year-old woman stopping at a road side fruit stand to look at the tomatoes, look at the corn. And then my eye would catch the rear view mirror pulling into the fruit stand and I would see my bald head covered with a scarf and remember
it all
not with a feeling of shame in any way, or sadness
but in my mind, I'm free of it, moving on, done.
***
And I am back home now. I have 6 weeks of radiation to start on Monday. It feels like more of an inconvenience than anything else.
But when I go there, when I'm under the machine, my plan is to use that time, to set a clear intention,
to imagine the rays that are healing rays
helping me transform.
feels so far away from me now. It was February, dark and snowy.
I was talking with my friend Jane on Saturday, telling her about the whole of my chemo experience and she said
I bet you feel like there's nothing you can't do now
and I said Exactly
which doesn't mean I don't have moments of getting stressed out or worried or nuts with my kids
but in those moments I can more easily come back to the bigger picture
and call on the tools I've been working on (deep breathing, noticing something of beauty around me) and move away from fear. And it's that ability, looking at fear and consiously neutralizing it, the fills me with a new sense of power and hope and excitement for my life.
***
Last week we had an incredible gift. We spent the week at a little house on Big Bass Lake in the Poconoe Mountains. My friend Steph came up for the weekend and our friends Katie and Jim and their precious 10-month-old baby Lila who live in Rochester came up, too. We hadn't seen Katie and Jim for four years. Friendship is so extraordinary, real friendship. It was so natural and laidback being together, even with the kids waking up early and having no water pressure for showers and some mornings overcast skies...we had time to cook and eat together and play games and stay up too late and talk and drink wine.
Being away from work for a week, with no email access, was so great for Fred, who has a new manager at the theater who is really competant and allowed him to leave knowing the theater was in good hands. It makes me happy to watch the way Fred is shifting in his life, the new ways he is taking care of his health and the way we are meeting each other in a more loving, appreciative place.
And for me, it was the stepping out of Elkins Park and away from not the home and the daily chores but more being out of the element where everything happened--the news, the shock, the surgery, the blood, the chemo, the metallic taste, the piles of shit I had no energy to deal with, being away from Fox Chase Cancer Center, that was it for me.
I'm done with that identity, being someone in crisis, someone ill, someone who needs help. I just want to retreat from it and sink into the new ways I am transforming
and I want to quietly emerge
as the woman
I want to be.
And while I was away I would think people see me and they don't know about the cancer
I'm just a 38-year-old woman stopping at a road side fruit stand to look at the tomatoes, look at the corn. And then my eye would catch the rear view mirror pulling into the fruit stand and I would see my bald head covered with a scarf and remember
it all
not with a feeling of shame in any way, or sadness
but in my mind, I'm free of it, moving on, done.
***
And I am back home now. I have 6 weeks of radiation to start on Monday. It feels like more of an inconvenience than anything else.
But when I go there, when I'm under the machine, my plan is to use that time, to set a clear intention,
to imagine the rays that are healing rays
helping me transform.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
My chemo is done
and this last one went smooth, baby, smooth.
It is done.
And I feel really well,
light, happy
at moments I wonder
what did I learn from all this?
what is going to change in my life this year?
what is going to open, what will close?
and at other moments
I don't have the need
to analyze "what all of this meant"
I'm digging that place
because why should I bother
with the tiring circle of meaning making
when the truth of my life is
it's early July
the tomato plants in my garden are tall
the tomatoes are fat and green
George is jumping in the swimming pool at camp
and learning to swim
and June is
June is
soaking up everything there is under the sun
and Fred and I are very grounded together,
very in love
and my friend Sheila who lives in Chicago
came to visit,
the day we spent together
was this phenomenal day
it came to an end, my chemo
July is here
we are eating watermelon
with the windows open
a cross breeze blowing
through this old house
that needs some fixing
that Fred and I love so much
and have worked so hard to make
our home.
What does it all mean
seems pointless right now
that game, that analysis
it all means, I'm here
in this moment, that is
here, then gone.
It is done.
And I feel really well,
light, happy
at moments I wonder
what did I learn from all this?
what is going to change in my life this year?
what is going to open, what will close?
and at other moments
I don't have the need
to analyze "what all of this meant"
I'm digging that place
because why should I bother
with the tiring circle of meaning making
when the truth of my life is
it's early July
the tomato plants in my garden are tall
the tomatoes are fat and green
George is jumping in the swimming pool at camp
and learning to swim
and June is
June is
soaking up everything there is under the sun
and Fred and I are very grounded together,
very in love
and my friend Sheila who lives in Chicago
came to visit,
the day we spent together
was this phenomenal day
it came to an end, my chemo
July is here
we are eating watermelon
with the windows open
a cross breeze blowing
through this old house
that needs some fixing
that Fred and I love so much
and have worked so hard to make
our home.
What does it all mean
seems pointless right now
that game, that analysis
it all means, I'm here
in this moment, that is
here, then gone.
Friday, June 19, 2009
only one more round of chemo to go!
This thought kept me going all week. It's been a long week. This was my shittiest reaction to the chemo. I won't share all of the details but will just try to sum it up by saying that a low point included throwing up all over my library book about Indian independence as seen through the eyes of a Brahmin widow.
But I only have one round of chemo left, I only have one round of chemo left...
(getting the chemo, still fun. My friend Julianne came with me to this one and highlights included sharing our hysteria watching Wanda Sykes from the Press Club dinner on her laptop during the infusion. chemo has been really excellent for extended girlfriend time, especially when Fox Chase runs so damned late.)
Leaving this week, I am affirming two things:
1) I have an amazing group of girlfriends (who not only got to chemo with me but this week did stuff like pick up the thousand of Thomas trains off of George's carpet and vacuum the crumbs, yikes!)
2) I only have one round of chemo left, I Only have one round of chemo left!
****
George was in between school and camp this week and I had my babysitter around but spent every morning when I had the most energy doing something special (but very laidback) with him. A few mornings, we took walk in Valley Green, a park taht is part of the Fairmount Park system here in Philadelphia.
I've been taking George to Valley Green, one of my favorite places in the universe, since he was a baby. There are big open trails and we can walk together and there are no cars so I am really relaxed about not holding hands and as George gets older he does an amazing job of going ahead of me, then stopping, looking at me and waiting for me to catch up.
We took stale matzah to feed the ducks and then walked on and George found a new trail, steep, covered in rocks. We went up pretty high and stopped at a little waterfall. I started thinking, what an awesome waterfall, it looks so zen, who designed the rocks in just that formation...and then I caught myself...like, yeah, this is it, this is nature--
and being in valley Green with George, where we can walk under the tallest trees and discover new paths and the simplest, most elegant, most tranquil little waterfalls, we connect easily and deeply and words are inessential.
And I was walking back, I was thinking about how light and emptied out I felt from our walk and how the oxygen we breathed in from those old, strong, vibrant trees shifted both of our energies
and how God is a mystery
and how I believe the mystery of God is deeper and more beautiful than any tree or waterfall
but the trees and waterfalls give us an idea
and the mystery of God is within me (within everyone)
and it is stronger than the worst things that happen to us.
I don't know what George was thinking, but he was chanting in a pretty clear voice, "We feed the ducks, we feed the ducks..."
****
I was cleaning a bit of mess from my desk (not actually cleaning, let's say "shifting" some papers around)a few days ago, and I found a "to do" list that must have been from before I found the lump, maybe late January, early February. I read it, bewildered. After I found the lump, basically all of these things fell off my radar screen.
I didn't know what to do with it. Should I start doing these things? I mean, I hadn't done them in 5 months, and despite being in treatment for breast cancer, my life is pretty balanced and just good right now.
I read it again, crumpled it in a ball and tossed it in the trash. Just reading it filled me with anxiety, the way I had written the list, the fervor of the handwriting, looked like a note from a madwoman. How was I supposed to do all of those things? A lot of them concerned making calls and appointments related to George's kindergarden assignment.
I realized how much I have shifted emotionally and spiritually in these last months. I don't want to write those crazy lists anymore. I want to do what I can do in a day, and that's it. I want to keep making time to be with my girlfriends, my children, Fred, to laugh, to be in nature...these things I have prioritized and have managed to do and am still paying my bills and working and cooking and kind of cleaning my house--
but with a different energy, an energy that kind of internally feels and trusts the connection between people and allows events to unfold and has less need to control what happens
and out of this opening, coming from less fear, really beautiful things do keep happening.
Like for example, George is going to be in a very good kindergarden class at Myers Elementary, that is less than 1/2 block from our house, where I had thought there was no way possible there would be the support he needs.
But there is.
And I kind of did nothing about it, except
talk from my heart to Dr. Ferrare, the school psychologist who tested George,
and from there
everything unfolded.
****
One chemo left (whoo-hoo!), one chemo left...
But I only have one round of chemo left, I only have one round of chemo left...
(getting the chemo, still fun. My friend Julianne came with me to this one and highlights included sharing our hysteria watching Wanda Sykes from the Press Club dinner on her laptop during the infusion. chemo has been really excellent for extended girlfriend time, especially when Fox Chase runs so damned late.)
Leaving this week, I am affirming two things:
1) I have an amazing group of girlfriends (who not only got to chemo with me but this week did stuff like pick up the thousand of Thomas trains off of George's carpet and vacuum the crumbs, yikes!)
2) I only have one round of chemo left, I Only have one round of chemo left!
****
George was in between school and camp this week and I had my babysitter around but spent every morning when I had the most energy doing something special (but very laidback) with him. A few mornings, we took walk in Valley Green, a park taht is part of the Fairmount Park system here in Philadelphia.
I've been taking George to Valley Green, one of my favorite places in the universe, since he was a baby. There are big open trails and we can walk together and there are no cars so I am really relaxed about not holding hands and as George gets older he does an amazing job of going ahead of me, then stopping, looking at me and waiting for me to catch up.
We took stale matzah to feed the ducks and then walked on and George found a new trail, steep, covered in rocks. We went up pretty high and stopped at a little waterfall. I started thinking, what an awesome waterfall, it looks so zen, who designed the rocks in just that formation...and then I caught myself...like, yeah, this is it, this is nature--
and being in valley Green with George, where we can walk under the tallest trees and discover new paths and the simplest, most elegant, most tranquil little waterfalls, we connect easily and deeply and words are inessential.
And I was walking back, I was thinking about how light and emptied out I felt from our walk and how the oxygen we breathed in from those old, strong, vibrant trees shifted both of our energies
and how God is a mystery
and how I believe the mystery of God is deeper and more beautiful than any tree or waterfall
but the trees and waterfalls give us an idea
and the mystery of God is within me (within everyone)
and it is stronger than the worst things that happen to us.
I don't know what George was thinking, but he was chanting in a pretty clear voice, "We feed the ducks, we feed the ducks..."
****
I was cleaning a bit of mess from my desk (not actually cleaning, let's say "shifting" some papers around)a few days ago, and I found a "to do" list that must have been from before I found the lump, maybe late January, early February. I read it, bewildered. After I found the lump, basically all of these things fell off my radar screen.
I didn't know what to do with it. Should I start doing these things? I mean, I hadn't done them in 5 months, and despite being in treatment for breast cancer, my life is pretty balanced and just good right now.
I read it again, crumpled it in a ball and tossed it in the trash. Just reading it filled me with anxiety, the way I had written the list, the fervor of the handwriting, looked like a note from a madwoman. How was I supposed to do all of those things? A lot of them concerned making calls and appointments related to George's kindergarden assignment.
I realized how much I have shifted emotionally and spiritually in these last months. I don't want to write those crazy lists anymore. I want to do what I can do in a day, and that's it. I want to keep making time to be with my girlfriends, my children, Fred, to laugh, to be in nature...these things I have prioritized and have managed to do and am still paying my bills and working and cooking and kind of cleaning my house--
but with a different energy, an energy that kind of internally feels and trusts the connection between people and allows events to unfold and has less need to control what happens
and out of this opening, coming from less fear, really beautiful things do keep happening.
Like for example, George is going to be in a very good kindergarden class at Myers Elementary, that is less than 1/2 block from our house, where I had thought there was no way possible there would be the support he needs.
But there is.
And I kind of did nothing about it, except
talk from my heart to Dr. Ferrare, the school psychologist who tested George,
and from there
everything unfolded.
****
One chemo left (whoo-hoo!), one chemo left...
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
My birthday was really beautiful;
I am grateful and happy to be 38.
I celebrated with friends and with my children and with a special dinner out with Fred. Sunday was a gorgeous sunny day after a really rainy week. I've been doing a series of sun salutations most mornings and my yoga instructor gave me the teaching of inhaling the sun's rays into my heart chakra and exhaling my energy back to the sun. Inhaling and exhaling a continuous cycle of ten sun salutations opens me up and Sunday when I woke up (late at 8AM because Fred got up early with the kids)I felt the sun coming through the window into my room, and deeper into my being, into my core.
In the morning we walked to a little arts festival down the street and I stood in line with June so she could go on the moon bounce. June loves jumping on a moon bounce probably more than anything else in the world right now and that's saying a lot, because she's just like mom in that she has quite a lot of passions. It was hot out and we did wait a while and after she got her turn to bounce like crazy for five minutes, she asked me if she could get in line again. We did. Another parent told me I have the patience of a saint and I laughed.
It isn't patience, exactly. It's more a sense of deep presence that's come to life in me more and more. The truth is, it was a beautiful sunny day, it was my birthday, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for my life, and there was really no where else on earth I would have wanted to be besides standing in line with my daughter so she could bounce on the moon bounce again. What would have been more important, more urgent
than to see her, 3 and 3 quarters years old, jumping, suspended, weightless, then crashing into the earth full of laughter?
It is important for me to cultivate a sense of joy in my children. They actually don't need much help from me, beyond me stepping out of their way. I mean this truth sincerely; I think it is one of my most important jobs as a parent. To give them room to experience joy--
because going through these last hard months, I am overwhelmingly thankful for my passions, for my deep desire to be alive, for my ability to take in joy from things small and big; reading a psalm or a poem, doing a sun salutation, talking to a friend, watching "The Office" with Fred, teaching, hanging out with my family, taking walks, buying groceries, dancing, listening to my favorite songs again and again. All of these things fill me with joy if I am present and open to them and going through life joyfully, aware makes the hard things, which are natural and inevitable, easier to bear.
So standing in line to let Miss June jump for joy made me joyful and I also hope was an investment, that she should grow to have an open heart and spirit (like mom) which will help her live deep.
I celebrated with friends and with my children and with a special dinner out with Fred. Sunday was a gorgeous sunny day after a really rainy week. I've been doing a series of sun salutations most mornings and my yoga instructor gave me the teaching of inhaling the sun's rays into my heart chakra and exhaling my energy back to the sun. Inhaling and exhaling a continuous cycle of ten sun salutations opens me up and Sunday when I woke up (late at 8AM because Fred got up early with the kids)I felt the sun coming through the window into my room, and deeper into my being, into my core.
In the morning we walked to a little arts festival down the street and I stood in line with June so she could go on the moon bounce. June loves jumping on a moon bounce probably more than anything else in the world right now and that's saying a lot, because she's just like mom in that she has quite a lot of passions. It was hot out and we did wait a while and after she got her turn to bounce like crazy for five minutes, she asked me if she could get in line again. We did. Another parent told me I have the patience of a saint and I laughed.
It isn't patience, exactly. It's more a sense of deep presence that's come to life in me more and more. The truth is, it was a beautiful sunny day, it was my birthday, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for my life, and there was really no where else on earth I would have wanted to be besides standing in line with my daughter so she could bounce on the moon bounce again. What would have been more important, more urgent
than to see her, 3 and 3 quarters years old, jumping, suspended, weightless, then crashing into the earth full of laughter?
It is important for me to cultivate a sense of joy in my children. They actually don't need much help from me, beyond me stepping out of their way. I mean this truth sincerely; I think it is one of my most important jobs as a parent. To give them room to experience joy--
because going through these last hard months, I am overwhelmingly thankful for my passions, for my deep desire to be alive, for my ability to take in joy from things small and big; reading a psalm or a poem, doing a sun salutation, talking to a friend, watching "The Office" with Fred, teaching, hanging out with my family, taking walks, buying groceries, dancing, listening to my favorite songs again and again. All of these things fill me with joy if I am present and open to them and going through life joyfully, aware makes the hard things, which are natural and inevitable, easier to bear.
So standing in line to let Miss June jump for joy made me joyful and I also hope was an investment, that she should grow to have an open heart and spirit (like mom) which will help her live deep.
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