I birthed a new spiritual practice recently when we travelled to Hawaii. (Since my glioblastoma brain cancer diagnosis spiritual practices have become particularly vital.) So most mornings during this weeklong vacation I snuck out for a sunrise stroll by the ocean, coffee in hand, waves lapping across my sandals. Don\u2019t tell my family, but this may have been my favorite part of the trip.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Why don\u2019t I ever do this at home?<\/span><\/i> I wondered when we returned. We don\u2019t have palm trees or warm January weather, but there\u2019s a lovely riverside trail not far from where I live. And so I\u2019ve taken to weekend morning coffee strolls by the river.<\/span><\/p>\n This Sunday it’s crisp and clear. I snug my scarf up tighter to ward off the cold and bring my coffee mug to my lips with my mittened hand, noticing how the river water shimmers in the sunlight. I stop at a bench half-a-kilometer down the trail, tug my jacket under my bum and sit. I notice that my chest is somewhat tight, so I practice centering prayer: five minutes to just breathe and to release thoughts that wander in (1). Sitting in the sunny gleam on the bank above where people are fishing in the river, I remember a few lines from the poem I wrote a year prior, <\/span>Find Me By The River<\/span><\/i> and I recite them under my breath: Find me by the river\/ with my heart laid bare\/\u2026find me by the river\/all barriers stripped away\u2026\/find me by the river\/Finally learning how to pray<\/span><\/p>\n It\u2019s hard today, this practice of slowing my soul. But it’s Sunday. And I believe this practice is vital for my optimal health living with glioblastoma brain cancer. So I press in. I set the timer on my watch. Five minutes. I close my eyes, feeling – really feeling- the warmth of the sun on my face. As people’s shoes crunch on the gravel path behind me, I hear portions of their conversations. It\u2019s hard work to ignore, to keep my eyes closed, and train my thoughts to letting go.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n But I remember the snippet of a podcast my husband was listening to as we drove to my daughter\u2019s ringette game a couple days ago. Diary Of A CEO podcast host, Steven Bartlett interviews Martha Beck, sociologist and Oprah\u2019s life coach (2). Martha and Steven discussed deep gladness, though I don\u2019t remember that in the moment by the river\u2019s edge. What I do remember is Martha Beck\u2019s reference to Eckart Tolle\u2019s approach to Psalm 46: \u201cBe still and know that I am God\u201d. I know the passage well, but Tolle has a fresh approach which Beck describes: \u201cIn this verse is the name of God, like six different ways: <\/span>Be<\/span><\/i> is a name for God. <\/span>Stillness <\/span><\/i>is a name for God. <\/span>Know<\/span><\/i> is a name for God. <\/span>I am<\/span><\/i> is a name for God. And <\/span>God<\/span><\/i> is a name for God.<\/span><\/p>\n My eyes still closed, I press in to Psalm 46 one name of God at a time. Be. I pause. Still. I pause. And-. \u201cAnd\u201d grabs me and holds me, tangibly so. I let go of the rest of the verse and focus on \u201cAnd\u201d. \u201cAnd\u201d is God\u2019s name too. Of course it is. My eyes well. Maybe from the gleam of the sun off the water. Maybe because I\u2019m sitting at \u201cchurch\u201d by the river and the Divine has spoken. Softly. Pointedly.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnd\u201d.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnd\u201d is God\u2019s name.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnd\u201d.<\/span><\/p>\n I feel my soul\u2019s warmth loosen my chest; \u201cAnd\u201d is the promise that there is more. That my story isn\u2019t finished. \u201cAnd\u201d. I hold the word like a jewel. Precious. Simple. Almost unimportant. Yet utterly divine. I stop trying to release my thoughts and instead let them dash across my mind.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnd\u201d is Hope- \u201cHope,\u201d as Emily Dickenson so beautifully wrote \u201cis the thing with feathers \/that perches in [my] soul\u2026that keeps [me oh so] warm\u2026yet – never – in extremity\/[asks] a crumb – of me\u201d.\u00a0 (3)<\/span><\/p>\n Oh Emily, you understand. I think.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnd\u201d is also faith. \u201cYou cannot afford to lose faith that you will prevail in the end,\u201d James Stockdale Eight year Vietnam POW said (more or less) in perhaps my favorite quote for anyone facing adversity. \u201cDespite the courage you\u2019ve taken to look the brutal facts of your reality straight in the eyes\u201d.\u00a0 Because \u201cAnd\u201d is believing for more, knowing that you may come up short. (4)<\/span><\/p>\n I get up from the bench and make my way home, my insides warmed not only from the coffee, but moreso from my spiritual practice. Yet, when I get home and grab my journal paradoxically, I know – oh how I know-\u00a0 as a member of the brain cancer community for eight years, that \u201cAnd\u201d can also mean that the death bells toll for me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Exhale.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnd\u201d can mean the end.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n More akin to John\u2019s revelation of the pearly gates than a freely fluttering bird. But I do not let this get me down. Instead I turn to a quote by Christian Wiman that I read awhile back in the book <\/span>The Lost Art of Dying<\/span><\/i>,(and have scribed as an epitaph in my memoir manuscript): \u201c<\/span>to die well, even for the religious, is to accept not only our own terror and sadness but the terrible holes we leave in the lives of others; at the same time, to die well, even for the atheist, is to believe that there is some way of dying <\/span>into<\/span><\/i> life rather than simply away from it, some form of survival that love makes possible.\u201d (5)<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span>I\u2019m comforted by Wiman\u2019s words; \u201c\u2018And\u2019 is a \u2018dying into life\u2019 that love makes possible.\u201d I scrawl into my journal. I\u2019m reminded of <\/span>My chemical engineer cousin\u2019s words at my grandmother\u2019s memorial: just as the laws of thermodynamics state the conservation of energy so too, the love energy from those we loved who have passed away stays with us. It is conserved when they leave this earth, it surrounds us and lives on. It\u2019s in the flowers and in the trees, in the rain drops and rays of sunshine.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I thought if these musings ever became a blogpost this would be the end. It\u2019s warm and cozy, despite the bittersweet subject matter. But days after my riverside mini-epiphany I find myself clinging on too long. Not to life. Oh, no, to something much, much more trivial. <\/span><\/p>\n In my journal I wrote, \u201cI cling on too long – long past the point of purpose, function, usefulness- because it is so hard to say goodbye.\u00a0<\/span>In writing this I see that an outsider may wonder, \u2018oh what is it that she has to let go of? The answer (brace yourself and please be kind not to laugh): Our gingerbread house. Gathering dust. In February. It\u2019s still so hard for me to let go of this transient fixture of the season whisked away by Valentines Day.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I cannot keep it all and that is hard for me this morning as I toss the cookie and candy house into the compost.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n And that’s okay.<\/span><\/p>\n It’s okay to feel.<\/span><\/p>\n Deeply.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n In writing this, I gasp, oh gosh when it comes to feeling\/grieving what really matters, it\u2019s really gonna be hard for me. Since my brain cancer diagnosis I\u2019ve been on a journey of learning how to feel. Like really feel my feelings, therapy-style, in order to stay my wellest self- no longer moving outside of my integrity (6.) It’s been healing. Also incredibly challenging. Now I wonder if maybe I can schluff off what I\u2019ve learned and numb out instead of feeling. That would be easier. And busyness would do that trick. Just follow the flow I think, the wide path of the kids ballooning schedules and forget about feelings.<\/span><\/p>\n But I remember poet Andrea Gibson\u2019s words: \u201c…I don\u2019t\/ want to get out without a\/ broken heart.\/ I intend\/ to leave\/ this life so\/ shattered\/ there\/ better be a\/ thousand separate heavens for\/ all my flying parts.\u201d I greatly admire Gibson\u2019s courage to love and join them in accepting(ish) love\u2019s promise of a broken heart. Accepting(ish) love\u2019s promise of deep grief that surely one day will come- again- and may wreck me. Sending parts of me flying through the Universe. My Love-energy scattered. (7)<\/span><\/p>\n Be kind to yourself, Cheryl, I\u2019ve learned to say. So, it\u2019s okay that it is hard for me to accept(ish) the \u201cterrible holes we leave\u201d which negate the notion that \u201cdying into life\u201d makes any of this (insert swirling arms) easier. It\u2019s okay that \u2018And\u2019 the small and comforting name of God is also hugely terrifying.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0I think of one more Emily Dickinson poem I\u2019ve read lately and note that It\u2019s okay that when \u201cthe frost of death [is] on the pane\u201d I too will likely \u201c[fight] mortality\u201d \u201clike sailors fighting with a leak\u201d. (8)<\/span><\/p>\n It\u2019s okay.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Because \u2018And\u2019 will be there: Still. Knowing. Not asking – a crumb of me.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n xo <\/p>\nBeing Still<\/h2>\n
When the death bell tolls<\/h2>\n
Living with integrity<\/h2>\n
\nCheryl<\/p>\nNotes:<\/h2>\n