Cadeaux!

An artist named Anne, at her beautiful 'Bulles Dorees' blog, is having a giveaway to celebrate her six-month blog anniversary. You can check it out here, and also see her gorgeous artwork. Happy anniversary, Anne!

I've decided to put my poems from my other blog (a non-starter) on this blog, so they'll all be in the same place. Here they are.

Psychopomp

I
am
happy
to
hear
your
equinox
voice
again,
dear catbird.

Sing
your
message,
curt
or
kind –
shock
of
brazen
sunlight
or
miles
of
numinous
night –
and
my
voice
will
rise
to
greet
it.
Come.

May Terry

Interdependence

How can the spindly sycamore
photosynthesize enough
for that 14 foot trunk
and the tower of branch
and smaller branch,
and smaller still, new and
struggling to reach out,
with that sparse lace of leafy
canopy?

I guess we have to count on
Nature to mother it,
as she does the lilies of the field,
and the small determined sparrow.

I, too, count on her,
but I know that she, also,
must count on me.
Take care.

May Terry

It's always interesting to reread my poems after not seeing them for a while. I'd rate the first one okay, I guess, but I think the second one sucks, with the possible exception of the second stanza.

I reread this one recently, and I've decided it's almost sort of good. So there you have it.

Buzz

It's been a long time since I've written a "real" post to this blog. Call it writer's block, or laziness, or whatever you want--the fact is I've been feeling rather flat lately, emotionally speaking. I've been filling in my time with reading, watching baseball on TV, anything to avoid admitting to myself that I'm mildly depressed, and to keep from obsessing about death.

Today I turned off the small TV we keep in the computer room. John had been watching the Olympics while working on his computer. I rarely watch that set, so I noticed that it turns off in a different way from the living room TV--it fades very quickly to a spot, making a buzzing sound as it does so, then goes dark.

While riding to get the takeout, I found myself remembering a poem I first read in high school, by Emily Dickenson:

I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died --
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air --
Between the Heaves of Storm --

The Eyes around -- had wrung them dry --
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset -- when the King
Be witnessed -- in the Room --

I willed my Keepsakes -- Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable -- and then it was
There interposed a Fly --

With Blue -- uncertain stumbling Buzz --
Between the light -- and me --
And then the Windows failed -- and then
I could not see to see --

I'm not a big Dickenson fan, but this poem surely captures the most we can guess about the moment of death, and evokes the visceral fear that I believe most people feel about dying, whether they admit it or not.

Mostly I fear that I won't be able to breathe to breathe, if you know what I'm trying to say. My obsessing over death the past few months has made it difficult for me to enjoy the summer. I do a lot of lying around, and am ashamed to have become such a couch potato. I keep expecting for something--liver or kidney failure, brain metastases--to come and announce to me that this is it, you only have a few months, or weeks.

What a waste. Why can't I stop?

A thought...

.
"We can reject everything else: religion, ideology, all received wisdom. But we cannot escape the necessity of love and compassion.... This, then, is my true religion, my simple faith. In this sense, there is no need for temple or church, for mosque or synagogue, no need for complicated philosophy, doctrine or dogma. Our own heart, our own mind, is the temple. The doctrine is compassion. Love for others and respect for their rights and dignity, no matter who or what they are: ultimately these are all we need. So long as we practice these in our daily lives, then no matter if we are learned or unlearned, whether we believe in Buddha or God, or follow some other religion or none at all, as long as we have compassion for others and conduct ourselves with restraint out of a sense of responsibility, there is no doubt we will be happy."

~ Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama ~

(Remembering the people of Tibet

and the victims of Tiananmen Square

on the opening of the Beijing Olympics )

What kind of thinker am I?

Okay, I'm back to blogging, after a period of nail-biting and existential angst. You're right, you don't want to hear about it.

What got me back here is another one of those silly quizzes. This one is called, "What kind of a thinker are you?" I cannot resist those things. So flattering, that they want to know, don't you think?

Anyway, here's the quiz:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/leonardo/thinker_quiz/

Below are my results. They got me to a 'T', linking me in a very agreeable way with the likes of William Shakespeare and Mother Teresa (one of my heroes). Irritatingly enough, I can't post anything after the box below, so you'll have to tune in to subsequent posts to read any more from me. I'll bet you can't wait.

You are an Interpersonal Thinker.

Interpersonal thinkers: Like to think about other people, and try to understand them Recognise differences between individuals and appreciate that different people have different perspectives Make an effort to cultivate effective relationships with family, friends and colleagues
Like interpersonal thinkers, Leonardo had lots of friends and contacts, and was a popular figure at the Italian court.		Other Interpersonal thinkers include Winston Churchill, Mother Teresa, William Shakespeare Careers which suit Interpersonal thinkers include Politician, Psychologist, Nurse, Counselor, Teacher

Inchies

I did these for a Yahoo group swap. They're one inch by one inch. It was fun!

May

Decisions, decisions

Here's an article for you, from Wendy Harpham, a physician who has long been dealing with lymphoma. (Click here for the article.)

I've decided when I face sweet Dr. Schauer, my oncologist, and he has to utter the (for him, as well as me) painful words telling me I've run out of options, I will simply ask him if I can be a high as possible from then on. It's reasonable, don't you think?

(Is she serious? Whaddaya think? Maybe it's just a toxic muse. Had chemo today, after all.)

Having serious stomach pain, which the onc thinks is gastritis due to the chemo. He suggests the possibility, if my scans are still negative next time, of going off chemo. This is scary as hell for me. The first genuine weighing of quality of life against length of life. Dr. Schauer has prescribed another stomach med for me, in hopes the bunch of them together will give me some relief. He has also faxed a referral to the Brownstone Gastroenterology Clinic, which accepts Medicare and Medicaid so that I can see someone before I blow a hole in my stomach.

John is surprised that I do not complain, as he does. It just doesn't give me any satisfaction.

The pain in my stomach has given me the first inkling that I might actually choose QOL in the end.

With metta,
May

I'm having one of those nights. As usual, I've taken enough sedatives to put a Clydesdale to sleep, and I'm wide awake.

These are invariably transformative nights that come after a period of mood swings and general craziness. If you've read my last couple of posts, you know what I mean.

The thing that really confuses me is that my sense of humor seems to be taking a long nap, and is possibly at this point comatose. I've always called on humor for perspective in my life, and now I don't seem to be able to do that. My blogs are boring and my social life is humdrum. I feel like putting on a clown face and seeing if I can make others' reactions make me laugh.

Letting go. I used to feel something like contempt for the AA saying, "Let go, let God". Now, I'm not so sure about the God part, but I sure do know that I've got to let go. It's the only way I'm going to stay sane, and that, to me, means not being overcome by the old beast of depression, or worse, addiction.

I don't expect to drink--not that most people do. But I really don't think that's the danger. I think the danger is becoming addicted, again, to the emotional patterns that make me miserable. They still afford some degree of familiarity, and therefore a weird sort of comfort. That means I can choose: misery or facing the demons. I don't feel very courageous at the moment, or very clear on how to do the latter.

I'm planning on going back to a regular spiritual practice. While spiritual seeking is a worthwhile activity, it's not one that brings me back into harmony with the truths I've found over the years. Only a ritual practice of some sort will do that.

I splurged and ordered a Persephone statue for myself. I am setting up my altar upstairs so that I will be reminded daily to face my inevitable end. This is not morbid. This is where I am in life.

I might even get a bumper sticker that reminds me to let go. If I let go, Mother Earth will take care of me. If I empty myself, I will be filled.

With metta,
May

Well, Ann, whom I spoke about in my last blog post, died yesterday, in peace at home.

The funny thing is that I feel better today. I feel sad for Ann's family and friends, but I think I've let go again. I just said to myself: it's okay if I don't live another five years, or a year, or five months. I'll just live while I'm alive.

Why can't I let go like that at will?

I hate hope.

A woman I met at the Breast Cancer List's get-together in Boston a couple of years ago has just entered Hospice. She had recurred with liver metastases shortly before I did, and had a long remission, just as I did. She responded to Herceptin, being positive for the Her2neu oncogene, just as I am.

It can happen so fast.

The problem with hope is that I'm not paying attention to living. And when I get news like this, I get depressed.

It's hard to plant a perennial garden when you know you may not see it bloom next year.

Yes, I'm angry. And sad for Ann, and for myself. And scared.