We made it to the park earlier today - 5:30 am - and perhaps that's why, but it was a good wildlife day there. First, we found the heron, in the grass near the larger part of the pond. I sat and just watched her for a while. She was hunkered down, neck pulled in so far I wasn't sure it was her. Then she extended her neck and her head; suddenly she was 3-1/2 or 4 feet tall! And then she flew. She glided across the pond to the small island in the middle of it. Perhaps that's where she's been staying.
We also saw many MANY Canada geese, as all the baby goslings are growing up now and almost as big as their parents. They swim in very straight lines behind one or another parent (the other parent, I think, bringing up the rear), reminding me of the children's book Eloise, where all the little girls walked in a line behind the nuns. Interestingly, the geese were grazing in the grass when we arrived, and 2 adults were clearly posted as sentries, keeping watch, and then herding the youngsters into the water. I learned from a book I read in the past week or so that at the same time that Canada geese nest and raise their young, they also molt, so not only the baby geese can't fly yet, their parents are ground-bound as well.
We also saw a bunny - which appeared to be on the left side of the bell curve in bunny intelligence since it saw Jessie and froze and if I'd let her go, she would have caught it. I also saw the muskrat again, watched him or her swimming in the pond going one direction and passing within a foot or so of two Mallards swimming the other direction. Yesterday morning I think I saw the fox again - or maybe a different one - just a flash in the park, dashing into some brush.
Well, June is almost over - it has been a wonderful doctor-free month for me. My hair is almost 1/2 inch long now - almost! - and I think grayer than before (but is that surprising?). I turn 60 next month, and one thing cancer did for me was make me look forward to every birthday. After I see the doctor next month, I'm going to make some decision about this blog. I have a feeling I'm going to keep on writing, because although it wasn't the motivation for this blog (which was to keep family and friends updated about the cancer diagnosis and treatments), writing here has come to be helpful to me in some other way. I thought about starting another blog, just to keep writing on non-cancer specific topics, especially about my wanderings and wonderings in and about nature, and that's still a possibility. But so is just keeping on keeping on here. I guess I'll figure it out.
One of the gas stations in our neighborhood that was Luk Oil is now BP. I wonder if they're doing any business. Not mine.
Peace.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Saturday morning
I think, just possibly, I have reached the first corner and begun, just begun, to edge my way around it - in terms of seeing a difference in my fatigue level. Yes, I still get tired, really flat out tired. But I also get up every day before 6:00 a.m., usually around 5:30. And I work 9-10 or more hours 5 days a week. So I try to be kind to myself and say that schedule would be tiring to anyone, let alone an almost-60 year old. My hair is growing, too. It is so liberating not to wear a hat indoors (mostly I still wear a baseball cap outdoors, either because I get cold or because I"m worrying about sunburn).
Jessie woke me up at 5:00 am this morning I refused to get up then and begged for more sleep. I did get up by 5:30 and we were at the park before 6:00 am. It's a beautiful morning and supposed to be a hot day - first in a while - and the park was already "full" of people (by my standards, meaning there were 4 or 5 cars there, a couple of joggers, a few photographers - the Rose Garden has reached and is peaking in its full glory, drawing photographers like honey bees).
We had a nice walk. We began at the pond searching for the heron - optimistically since H said she had seen her/him. But no luck. We did see a gaggle of Canada geese - several pairs of parents with offspring. The gosling Canada geese are almost as big as the adult Mallards. The pond was almost crowded.
The highlight of the walk was a downy woodpecker who landed on a branch of a pine tree about 4 feet from us and sat there for some time. So beautiful. Then he/she flew up into the branches of the pine. I could still see him/her, but not so clearly. Really beautiful.
We stopped in the Rock Garden and I went through my T'ai Chi form. Two chipmunks chased each other down the rock wall (good thing Jessie didn't see them--they are her particular weakness). Jessie sat and blinked in the sunshine. A pair of women photographers strolled through the Perennial Garden above us, murmuring.
The park is just bursting out in summer dress and song. I think today is some sort of ceremony marking the peak of the Rose Garden, not sure.
A good morning.
Peace, peace ... an oil free peace to all living things and the world we live in.
Jessie woke me up at 5:00 am this morning I refused to get up then and begged for more sleep. I did get up by 5:30 and we were at the park before 6:00 am. It's a beautiful morning and supposed to be a hot day - first in a while - and the park was already "full" of people (by my standards, meaning there were 4 or 5 cars there, a couple of joggers, a few photographers - the Rose Garden has reached and is peaking in its full glory, drawing photographers like honey bees).
We had a nice walk. We began at the pond searching for the heron - optimistically since H said she had seen her/him. But no luck. We did see a gaggle of Canada geese - several pairs of parents with offspring. The gosling Canada geese are almost as big as the adult Mallards. The pond was almost crowded.
The highlight of the walk was a downy woodpecker who landed on a branch of a pine tree about 4 feet from us and sat there for some time. So beautiful. Then he/she flew up into the branches of the pine. I could still see him/her, but not so clearly. Really beautiful.
We stopped in the Rock Garden and I went through my T'ai Chi form. Two chipmunks chased each other down the rock wall (good thing Jessie didn't see them--they are her particular weakness). Jessie sat and blinked in the sunshine. A pair of women photographers strolled through the Perennial Garden above us, murmuring.
The park is just bursting out in summer dress and song. I think today is some sort of ceremony marking the peak of the Rose Garden, not sure.
A good morning.
Peace, peace ... an oil free peace to all living things and the world we live in.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Monday
H called me last night to say that one day in the prior week, she couldn't remember which one, she was walking in the park at around 6:30 in the morning and she saw "my" heron. The heron was standing on the small pond side of the bridge that goes over the neck of the two parts of the pond, still as a statue. H walked down to the shore to get a closer look and got very close indeed to the heron, who didn't seem at all disturbed by H approaching so near.
Thanks to H, I feel better and will start looking for the heron on and even under the bridge.
Ironically I think I may have seen the heron in flight yesterday afternoon myself, while walking Jessie in my own neighborhood. I saw a lone bird in flight approaching from the northwest, and it seemed big, but not a hawk because of its odd shape and light color. Maybe a seagull, I thought, wondering what a seagull would be doing in our neck of the woods (50 miles from the shore). Then as the bird passed overhead, I realized it was either a great blue heron or possibly a crane, but I think a heron, in fact, I think "my" heron on her way back to the park and our pond. Neck pulled in, long legs drawn out behind. Beautiful. Made my night.
Peace.
Thanks to H, I feel better and will start looking for the heron on and even under the bridge.
Ironically I think I may have seen the heron in flight yesterday afternoon myself, while walking Jessie in my own neighborhood. I saw a lone bird in flight approaching from the northwest, and it seemed big, but not a hawk because of its odd shape and light color. Maybe a seagull, I thought, wondering what a seagull would be doing in our neck of the woods (50 miles from the shore). Then as the bird passed overhead, I realized it was either a great blue heron or possibly a crane, but I think a heron, in fact, I think "my" heron on her way back to the park and our pond. Neck pulled in, long legs drawn out behind. Beautiful. Made my night.
Peace.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Saturday morning
Jessie and I made it to the park this morning, but we were late. I woke up about 5:40 and we didn't arrive at the park until 6:00 am. It's amazing what a difference 45 minutes or an hour makes, in terms of other what's happening there among the creatures (including the fact that by 6 am there are other human beings and usually dogs). I haven't seen the heron in weeks. I believe she just stopped by on her way further north, and I'll likely see her later, in the fall. The crop of ducklings are growing so fast. On the shore by a bench, I found a slew of downy feathers; someone apparently grew into their real ones.
I've been thinking often lately about how easily "deeper" thoughts, feelings, slip away. Getting a cancer diagnosis is like a child being told by a parent on a visit to an amusement park, "Okay, we're leaving in an hour - what do you want to do for that hour?" You suddenly become aware that your time is limited, precious; you're not just aware of months, of weeks, of days, but even of hours and minutes. You're AWARE, that's the point. You don't take things for granted. You pay attention. Sometimes you pay attention because it is so hard and difficult, painful, and you just want to get through that moment, that hour, that day to a better one where you don't feel sick or hurt with pain. But that's not all of it. In the waves of treatment you go through, there are ups and downs, and even in the ups, you pay attention. You are aware that you are having a good day, that a good day is a precious thing to be grateful, to take advantage of, to live the fullest you are capable of.
And then treatment concludes, and concludes postively, you are told you are "doing very well," that you had "a great scan" and you begin to go back to day to day life. In the beginning, the normalcy of it is frightening. What do you mean, "normal" life? you think, I have cancer - how can anything ever be "normal" again? But it can. It is. It becomes so. And soon you are taken step by step back to normalcy. Still there are lingering signposts of your journey - the shortest haircut anyone can imagine, for example, and your continuing fatigue, and of course, that weird numbness still troubling your feet. But on the whole, a day now - compared to a day during treatment - it's back to normal. And you find yourself not paying attention. Walking in nature without being aware, truly aware. And you think, how does that sweet precious awareness slip away so soon? How can I find it, keep it? Do I have to be suffering, going through chemo or radiation, fearing death as a near neighbor to stay present in my life?
I hope not. Perhaps awareness of losing awareness is a first step.
Peace.
I've been thinking often lately about how easily "deeper" thoughts, feelings, slip away. Getting a cancer diagnosis is like a child being told by a parent on a visit to an amusement park, "Okay, we're leaving in an hour - what do you want to do for that hour?" You suddenly become aware that your time is limited, precious; you're not just aware of months, of weeks, of days, but even of hours and minutes. You're AWARE, that's the point. You don't take things for granted. You pay attention. Sometimes you pay attention because it is so hard and difficult, painful, and you just want to get through that moment, that hour, that day to a better one where you don't feel sick or hurt with pain. But that's not all of it. In the waves of treatment you go through, there are ups and downs, and even in the ups, you pay attention. You are aware that you are having a good day, that a good day is a precious thing to be grateful, to take advantage of, to live the fullest you are capable of.
And then treatment concludes, and concludes postively, you are told you are "doing very well," that you had "a great scan" and you begin to go back to day to day life. In the beginning, the normalcy of it is frightening. What do you mean, "normal" life? you think, I have cancer - how can anything ever be "normal" again? But it can. It is. It becomes so. And soon you are taken step by step back to normalcy. Still there are lingering signposts of your journey - the shortest haircut anyone can imagine, for example, and your continuing fatigue, and of course, that weird numbness still troubling your feet. But on the whole, a day now - compared to a day during treatment - it's back to normal. And you find yourself not paying attention. Walking in nature without being aware, truly aware. And you think, how does that sweet precious awareness slip away so soon? How can I find it, keep it? Do I have to be suffering, going through chemo or radiation, fearing death as a near neighbor to stay present in my life?
I hope not. Perhaps awareness of losing awareness is a first step.
Peace.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Sunday morning
The Koman Race for the Cure for 2010 is history. It was a good and moving experience for me. The day started rainy and turned steamy and incredibly humid. I met my friends and, as it turned out, because one of them had a bad ankle (he'd had surgery on it last year and it still isn't right), we ended up walking in the 1.5K rather than 4K walk. Which was fine. It was interesting to participate as a "survivor" of BREAST cancer - and I do now think of my 2003 surgery as having been to address breast cancer - while having just experienced 6 months of dealing with uterine cancer. I did have some sense of silo-ism in the "cancer community" - each type of cancer in its own silo, caring about its own treatments, cures, etc. I understand that breast cancer is a huge problem and deserves its research, treatments and cures - but I would like to see communications and partnerships with ALL people dealing with any types of cancer. (I think I posted before about my 2003 experience, but here it is again: a routine mammogram found microcalcifications, which are highly associated with an aggressive type of breast cancer; I was sent for a biopsy; the biopsy said I had "pre-cancerous" cells; I was sent for surgery, not a mastectomy, but to remove more tissue around the biopsy site) and that was that; my surgeon felt no further treatment - radiation or chemo - was called for. I did have mammograms every 6 months for 18 months, then back to yearly. Fast forward to 2009 - my medical oncologist, Dr R, tells me that there isn't any such thing as "pre-cancer," and that what I had is now viewed as a specific type of cancer itself, a type which does often come back; she was surprised I wasn't being "followed" - although I do get regular mammograms. So, apparently I had breast cancer in 2003, and uterine cancer in 2009. Good news - unrelated, meaning the uterine cancer was not metastasized breast cancer.)
Because of the rain yesterday morning, Jessie and I didn't make it to the park. We went this morning, but again it was humid and uncomfortable, even at 5:50 in the morning. The whole park seemed subdued; the trees almost wilting on their trunks, the Mallards grazing in the overgrown grasses (it looks like the park's landscaping budget must have been cutback; they seem to be letting lawns get wildly out of hand, is actually fine with me), a gaggle of Canada geese sitting in a straight line on the shore of the pond, gazing at it in what looked like humidity-induced stupor. But perhaps all of those impressions were - what do they call it - displacement? My own feelings displaced onto the park's plants and creatures.
I know I still need to write about my experience with my private "retreat" last weekend, but today my thoughts are overwhelmingly in the Gulf. (As I've said to David more than once, I think that at some point in the future, not sure how long, hopefully sooner rather than later, we (meaning humanity) are going to look back at this particular oil spill and the ecological and social disasters it wreaked and it is going to prove to be a turning point, a point where history, reaching back, will say some day 'That's when things began to change.' I hope so; to the extent I believe is something bigger than the world, the universe, I pray so.) I'm posting a link to an article I just read and then I'm "cutting and posting" remarks of Rachel Maddow that are quoted at length in the article, but which I want to see here in my blog, word-for-word. To repeat what the article's author said about it, "Please read it."
Peace. Peace especially to all living things in the Gulf, and to the souls of those that have passed on.
The link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/chris-durang/i-want-my-earth-back_b_600859.html
Rachel Maddow:
...The oil now coating wildlife and the beaches of this beautiful coast stinks. It stinks, it smells bad, it is filthy, it is slimy, it is sticky, it is toxic - even if Mississippi governor Haley Barbour wants to say that it's not... it is irredeemably foul, and it is everywhere.
And when you come upon it in person having only seen it on televsion, at least if you're me, you are overwhelmed by the post-apocalyptic sensory experience of a man-made disaster irretrievably destroying part of our country.
You are disgusted that BP put this ocean and this coast and the communities inland in jeopardy. Disgusted at the billions of dollars in quarterly profits that lined the oil industry's pockets and deepened their wells, and didn't do a thing to prevent this.
You are disgusted that the government let BP and the rest of the oil industry do that. Disgusted that American leaders screamed "drill, baby, drill!" without considering the consequences, all in the name of whoring themselves for a few votes during the few months that gasoline prices were rising.
Disgusted that the booms off this coast meant to protect it mostly aren't doing anything. Disgusted that those booms remain largely unmanned. Disgusted that there isn't much more to do, except maybe put more people here to try to make this totally inadequate technology try to work less horribly than it does.
This is not Hurricane Katrina. This isn't another Katrina, This isn't another anything. This is a whole new thing, happening to us. This is America's Deepwater Horizon disaster, we all own it forever.
And right now, right here in Grand Isle and all along the Gulf Coast, there are really only 3 things that matter: stopping the oil from flowing, protecting the coast and the ocean from the millions of gallons of oil that are already spilled, and making sure that this never, ever happens again.
You can diagnose whether we have a functioning media in this country by whether or not the country understands that this is a vile environmental mega-disaster. You can diagnose whether we have a functioning political system in this country by whether or not the results of this mega-disaster is change.
Big oil has been too rich to care about what it was putting us all at risk for. And we've been too cowardly to change direction and break free from them. If that changes because of our national disgust at this disaster, then America's political system in 2010 works. If it doesn't change, then it doesn't work.
Because of the rain yesterday morning, Jessie and I didn't make it to the park. We went this morning, but again it was humid and uncomfortable, even at 5:50 in the morning. The whole park seemed subdued; the trees almost wilting on their trunks, the Mallards grazing in the overgrown grasses (it looks like the park's landscaping budget must have been cutback; they seem to be letting lawns get wildly out of hand, is actually fine with me), a gaggle of Canada geese sitting in a straight line on the shore of the pond, gazing at it in what looked like humidity-induced stupor. But perhaps all of those impressions were - what do they call it - displacement? My own feelings displaced onto the park's plants and creatures.
I know I still need to write about my experience with my private "retreat" last weekend, but today my thoughts are overwhelmingly in the Gulf. (As I've said to David more than once, I think that at some point in the future, not sure how long, hopefully sooner rather than later, we (meaning humanity) are going to look back at this particular oil spill and the ecological and social disasters it wreaked and it is going to prove to be a turning point, a point where history, reaching back, will say some day 'That's when things began to change.' I hope so; to the extent I believe is something bigger than the world, the universe, I pray so.) I'm posting a link to an article I just read and then I'm "cutting and posting" remarks of Rachel Maddow that are quoted at length in the article, but which I want to see here in my blog, word-for-word. To repeat what the article's author said about it, "Please read it."
Peace. Peace especially to all living things in the Gulf, and to the souls of those that have passed on.
The link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/chris-durang/i-want-my-earth-back_b_600859.html
Rachel Maddow:
...The oil now coating wildlife and the beaches of this beautiful coast stinks. It stinks, it smells bad, it is filthy, it is slimy, it is sticky, it is toxic - even if Mississippi governor Haley Barbour wants to say that it's not... it is irredeemably foul, and it is everywhere.
And when you come upon it in person having only seen it on televsion, at least if you're me, you are overwhelmed by the post-apocalyptic sensory experience of a man-made disaster irretrievably destroying part of our country.
You are disgusted that BP put this ocean and this coast and the communities inland in jeopardy. Disgusted at the billions of dollars in quarterly profits that lined the oil industry's pockets and deepened their wells, and didn't do a thing to prevent this.
You are disgusted that the government let BP and the rest of the oil industry do that. Disgusted that American leaders screamed "drill, baby, drill!" without considering the consequences, all in the name of whoring themselves for a few votes during the few months that gasoline prices were rising.
Disgusted that the booms off this coast meant to protect it mostly aren't doing anything. Disgusted that those booms remain largely unmanned. Disgusted that there isn't much more to do, except maybe put more people here to try to make this totally inadequate technology try to work less horribly than it does.
This is not Hurricane Katrina. This isn't another Katrina, This isn't another anything. This is a whole new thing, happening to us. This is America's Deepwater Horizon disaster, we all own it forever.
And right now, right here in Grand Isle and all along the Gulf Coast, there are really only 3 things that matter: stopping the oil from flowing, protecting the coast and the ocean from the millions of gallons of oil that are already spilled, and making sure that this never, ever happens again.
You can diagnose whether we have a functioning media in this country by whether or not the country understands that this is a vile environmental mega-disaster. You can diagnose whether we have a functioning political system in this country by whether or not the results of this mega-disaster is change.
Big oil has been too rich to care about what it was putting us all at risk for. And we've been too cowardly to change direction and break free from them. If that changes because of our national disgust at this disaster, then America's political system in 2010 works. If it doesn't change, then it doesn't work.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Thursday night
I had a good weekend. I'll write about it soon, but not tonight - just too tired. I actually stayed up to 11:00 p.m. last night and got up at 5:45 a.m. (my energy is gradually returning - but right now I'm wiped out). More later.
May the Chairman of the Board of BP volunteer to be stuffed into the spewing pipe to stem the flow of oil (and BS) that continues to spew out in the Gulf and across the airwaves.
Peace.
May the Chairman of the Board of BP volunteer to be stuffed into the spewing pipe to stem the flow of oil (and BS) that continues to spew out in the Gulf and across the airwaves.
Peace.
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