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.