Blessings in the trees

Ok, I’m back in the magnificent village I call home. I have baked some seriously delicious coconut meringues (from a recipe in the book you gave me, Sue), walked in the hills with Melissa twice, and hung out with Michael and the kids. I have had my meeting with the chemo nurse, Debbie. I have been to the hospital for my tests; the technicians each said that my scans look normal to them but that the doctor makes the final decisions—that’s as good a report as I was going to get. Now it’s just the weekend—sparkling days and chilly nights—and then into the next phase.

I am ready to go! It turns out to be excellent to have worked right up to the last minute and then come home and get started, because I am all ready for this next phase to begin. I have read up on the side effects, Debbie has walked us through the various emergency numbers, and my wigs are at the ready (one of them scared me SO much last night as it crashed to the floor during a small earthquake—any of you ever been terrified by a falling wig?). I have my ribbon-y necklace, my lifetime supply of green tea (thank you to Beth and Janet!) and the love and support of all of you reading. I couldn’t be readier.

And, I have a new comfort, in the form of trees. I have a friend skiing this week in the wilds of Canada, and he’s skiing through alpine forests. This is dangerous play because trees in snow are dangerous for any number of reasons. I'm curious about those who have dangerous fun (not me!) so I've asked about it. Zafer, reflecting on the experience of skiing through trees, tells me:

I have learned that the best way to ski in densely wooded terrain is to face the slope while looking for open spaces to go through. I have learned that looking at the trees gets me focused on the obstacle and inevitably gets me in trouble. It reminded me of meditation: the trees are the thoughts and emotions that bubble up, and the space between the trees is the essence of my being. If I keep my mind on the thoughts and emotions, I cannot rest into my core. I wonder whether this is also true of life? 

I’ve been wondering that too. And wondering what it means to think of my time in chemo this way. I’ve been playing with keeping my focus off of the trees of the dangers (the low blood counts, the mood swings, the nerve damage, the hair loss) and shifting my attention to the open spaces and the long arc of the life I’m working to have. I have to notice the trees enough to do the things I have to do (weigh myself and take my temperature each day, rinse my mouth with saltwater and baking soda five times a day—yum) but not let my eyes rest on them in a way that makes it hard for me to see the spaces in between. I need to be careful that I don’t panic in the trees rather than watching the arc of the slope, the sparkle of the lake at the bottom, the white snow against cobalt blue sky. I’ve been working on this all week.

 

And then, as an aside, Debbie said yesterday, “Well, you know your chemo comes from the bark and needles of the Canadian Yew.” And so it does. I’ve been reading up on it. This Canadian pine tree, while seriously poisonous, has also been used for centuries by First Nations people as a medicine. And now it’s coming to an IV near me. Somehow the conversation with Zafer about skiing through Canadian alpine forest and the coincidence that my chemo is actually made from Canadian alpine forest struck me as a blessing. And then, as I was writing this blog, a blessing popped onto my screen from Grace (who says in her comment on a different post):

Yes, Jennifer, you are deeply loved in every corner of the planet. Every tree bears witness, every breeze whispers comfort, the beautiful moon speaks what you most need to hear. Everything is holding you now. Everything.

More blessings in the trees. I am so grateful to all of you, to Sue for the granola, to Mark for the astonishing envelopes, to Kirsten for the pancakes, to the participants at my gig last week who told me that they were made powerful by the “redemptive power of complexity.” What a beautiful ribbon to put on this month of work. I am grateful to each of you who make a dot on my blog map (see, Janet—I got a new one!) and who email or comment or just think about me.  I’ll keep you all close this week in close amongst the alpine trees, and long into the sloping arc of my future.

By the way, I’m making a little baldness collage to post here in a few days/ weeks once I join the rest of you baldies. If you have a picture of yourself bald, will you send it to me and be included in my collage?