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Archive for August, 2013

For the Week of August 25, 2013: Writing Life: One Piece at a Time

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on August 25, 2013 | 1 Comment »

Last weekend at this time, I was flying home from Rhinebeck, New York, and participating in Omega’s “Living Well with Cancer Program.  This past week, I’ve remembered different faces, some of the stories I heard, and the sense of community that developed over the weekend among those cancer patients and survivors who attended.  In the dining hall, where we convened three times a day to have our meals, several large and colorful quilts hung on the walls.  Quilts made of different scraps of material, pieces of colored fabric assembled into a design—a work of art—and serving as a reminder of life—all the experiences and event that make up our whole life, not just the part that has to do with cancer.

Writing the story of your cancer is experience serves many purposes, prime among them one of healing, making sense of the experience and coming to terms with the “new normal,” your life after cancer.  By writing, we gradually integrate the cancer experience into the context of a whole life, but at first, it’s hard to see beyond the chapter called “Cancer.” For a while, cancer overshadows all the other chapters of our lives

A diagnosis of cancer can trigger a maelstrom, fears, emotions and treatment struggles that seem to overwhelm your daily life.  And yet, it is the full life that ultimately matters, the memories, all the chapters of your life.  Our memories from our lives are, as Virginia Woolf observed, “moments of being” that are truly essential to our sense of self.  Writing your memories, the ones that carry the greatest emotional impact, defines your identity as a human being.  “Re-membering” is really a process of putting your life back together and discovering its defining patterns and themes.

Several years ago, I read Whitney Otto’s imaginative novel, Making an American Quilt.  The protagonist, Finn, at a crossroads in her life, spends the summer with her grandmother and great-aunt, who are both avid quilters.  Together with a group of friends, they work on a special quilt for Fran’s coming wedding.  As the women work on the quilt, they share stories of their lives, and Finn finds herself learning a good deal about life as the women talk.   The women’s individual stories are echoed in the colors and scraps of fabric sewn into each quilt, one piece at a time, until the whole pattern is revealed.

I was inspired by the story, and for a few days afterward, considered signing up for a quilting class, but, being a somewhat impatient seamstress, I never did.   But the story has stayed with me, and I often tell my students to think of the process of writing memoir as similar to quilt-making.   That metaphor is not original with me.  Google “memoir writing and you’ll find perhaps a dozen references to the process of completing one compared to quilt making.  The quilt metaphor was introduced in 1993 by Mary Clearman Blew in her book, The Art of Memoir.  Clearman described the writing process this way:

Remember that you have all colors to choose from; and while choosing one color means forgoing others, remind yourself that your coffee can of pieces will fill again.  There will be another quilt at the back of your mind while you are piecing, quilting, and binding this one…”   (In Writing the Memoir, by Judith Barrington, p. 24).

Over the years, I’ve heard many stories from the men and women who come to my writing workshops, the fragments of life stories like those used to make a quilt.  Put together, they have themes, patterns, a sense of the whole life of the person.  To write “through” cancer is ultimately to remember that cancer is only one piece of all the other pieces of our lives that shape us and make us who we are.

Imagine, as you write this week, that you have, like the quilters in Whitney Otto’s novel, a coffee can of scraps:  colors, textures, shapes—all representing the “stuff” of your life.  Think of your whole life, not just the one chapter called “Cancer.”  What events have had the most impact?  What did you learn from them?  What events contributed most to your sense of self?  Imagine you could create a quilt of your life.  Which story would you choose to tell first? What colors do you envision?  What textures?  What patterns emerge?  What themes do you discover?   Write the quilt of your life, one piece at a time.

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For the Week of August 18, 2013: Twenty-four Brand New Hours…

Posted in Uncategorized on August 19, 2013 | Leave a Comment »

I saw the season’s first bluebird
this morning, one month ahead
of its scheduled arrival.  Lucky I am
to go off to my cancer appointment
having been given a bluebird, and,
for a lifetime, have been given
this world.

–Ted Kooser, Winter Morning Walks:  One Hundred Postcards to Jim Harrison

My husband and I returned home last night after nearly two weeks away, first visiting my granddaughter and her parents in Toronto, then traveling on to the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY, where I was one of the faculty members for the Living Well with Cancer program.

As different as my time in Toronto and at Omega was, both were deeply joyful and restorative.  In Toronto, I happily dove into the world of a two year-old, sharing in her imaginative play and daily new discoveries.  At Omega, I immersed myself in the breathtaking beauty of the campus and the community of the cancer survivors who attended the weekend.  In both, I walked with unabated joy, drinking in the peacefulness that enveloped my spirit—the familiarity of tree lined streets in a city I used to call home, the lush foliage of trees, flowers and wide expanses of grass that define the Omega campus.

Omega Institute

I had the privilege to be part of a faculty at Omega that included Sandra Gilbert, coordinator for “Yoga Therapy in Cancer and Chronic Illness,” Jeremy Geffen,MD, medical oncologist, and  creator of the integrative medicine and oncology program, The Seven Levels of Healing®.;  , Omega’s president and a kidney and prostate cancer survivor, Kathy LaTour, Editor at Large at Cure Today, Carolyn Scott Kortge, creator of the Walking Well® program, and Scott Burton award-winning comic and champion juggler.  All but one of this year’s program faculty is a cancer survivor.

What was most gratifying, perhaps, is that our perspectives were remarkably intertwined and alike, no matter what specific expertise we offered.  Each of us focuses on healing in our individual practices and programs, not just the body, but the whole person:  heart, mind and spirit.  Although cancer-free for over a decade,  the messages of healing, of mindfulness and gratitude are as relevant to my life now as they were then.  It was an extraordinary weekend; inspiring and humbling to be part of the entire community of cancer patients and survivors who attended.

And yet this morning, I awakened grumpy, my temples throbbing, my mind sluggish from jet lag.  Even at 5:45 a.m., I could hear the sounds of the city, the arrival of airplanes at Lindbergh Field, cars racing along the freeways that surround San Diego, the unpleasant shock of re-entry into a rush-rush world.  I sighed and rolled over, unwilling to face the stack of “to do” and “should do” tasks on my desk.  Then I remembered the words Carolyn Scott Kortge read to us the last morning of the Omega program before she guided the group through a mindful walking exercise:

Waking up this morning, I smile.

Twenty-four brand new hours before me.

I vow to live fully in each moment,

And to look at all beings with eyes of compassion.

 Thich Nhat Hanh

Twenty-four brand new hours before me…  Well, I had to smile.  I got out of bed, ran a comb through my hair, put on my slacks and a tee shirt, and walked outside.  I did a few slow stretches on the front porch and then set off, walking the familiar streets of my San Diego neighborhood, only this time, with intention, mindful to establishing a rhythm, to use the rhythm to mentally repeat an affirmation:  “I am healthy.  I am happy.”  I was able to keep an energetic pace as I walked uphill,  focused on my body’s rhythm, my affirmation and pushing the “busy mind” aside, the one that so often disrupts my ability to be fully present on my morning walks, and when I returned, I stopped at my front door, turned to face the street, and murmured “Thank you” to my body, my legs, for doing their work so effortlessly.  It is no surprise that I returned to my house invigorated, grateful for the quiet of early morning, even if my San Diego neighborhood is not lined with the old, graceful trees I so miss from my former Toronto environs.  I walked into the front room, opened the blinds to reveal the view of the canyon, sat down and began writing.  The words came easily, my mind clear and invigorated from my early morning walk.

Waking up this morning, I smile.

Twenty-four brand new hours before me…

Take a walk around the block, along a favorite trail, near a stream, lake or the ocean.  Concentrate on being present—to the rhythm of your body, the gratitude you have for being alive, the joy that being fully present can bring.  Afterward, spend some time writing—anything—and see where it takes you.  Twenty-four brand new hours before you.  Embrace the day with gratitude.

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For the Week of August 11, 2013: Writing a New Chapter

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on August 11, 2013 | 6 Comments »

“Cancer didn’t have to be my entire novel. It was just a chapter.”

—Alice Hoffman, Survival Lessons

This past Wednesday, I led my final expressive writing workshop for cancer patients and survivors at the Stanford Cancer Center, a program I’ve led since its inception in 2004.   I wrestled with the decision to leave months ago, acknowledging that the monthly trips north to Palo Alto (which I’ve done for seven years since we moved to San Diego) had become increasingly tiring while airfare had more than tripled.  My decision was made easier knowing that I had, in Ali, a former member of the writing workshops, someone who would honor the spirit of the program and yet bring her own unique gifts to its leadership.  But despite all that, the day was bittersweet, and I felt the heartache of loss.  Even when we know—and we’re ready—to move on, it’s difficult to say good-bye to one of life’s significant chapters and open a fresh page to the next.

Writing in the book, The Healing Art of Writing, poet Jane Hirshfield reminds us that life takes place in a continual process of breaking down and remaking—that even illness “remodels us for some new fate” (p. 204).   My unexpected diagnosis of early stage breast cancer in 2000 was the beginning, I discovered later, of a new chapter of my life, one that has been, in many ways, more joyful and satisfying that many of the other chapters.

“Change your life,” Rilke said.  It’s like writing a new chapter, isn’t it?  And that’s not easy.  In his memoir, Intoxicated by my Illness, Arthur Frank described the experience of illness as about learning to live with lost control.  Our old lives break apart, just like Humpty Dumpty’s, and a new one begins to form—even if we can’t see it at first.  Our stories are critical to not only repairing the damage done to our lives by illness, but in making sense of the experience and out of the brokenness, affirming that we are still there, still capable of putting ourselves, our lives, back together.

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began…

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations…

But little by little…

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do–

determined to save

the only life you could save.

(From:  “The Journey,” by Mary Oliver)

Perhaps when we’re cracked open by something as terrifying and disorienting as cancer, it’s “how the light gets in,” to quote an old Leonard Cohen song, and we begin to see the possibilities before us.  What matters, ultimately, is having the courage to move forward into that new and altered life.  It’s something that I’ve had the privilege to witness again and again in my workshops.    I’ve been witness to personal struggles, journeys, to new life and to death.  I have been inspired and humbled by every person who has written with me, whether at Stanford or the many other workshops I’ve led.  As they found their voices, I discovered mine.   Those are gifts of stories, of discovery and healing—theirs and mine– I carry with me.  While my heart might ache a little this week, my gratitude to every man and woman who has written with me at Stanford far outweighs the sorrow.

What new chapter are you writing in your life?

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For the Week of August 4, 2013: Can It Get Any Worse?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on August 4, 2013 | 12 Comments »

saywer-tornadoI’m a news junkie.  My day begins with NPR and ends with the nightly news on NBC, CBS or ABC, depending on which newscaster is most appealing to me on any given day.  Lately, however, I’ve begun to wonder if my addiction to current events is healthy.  The news, particularly the nightly news, is almost always bad, or at the very least, aggravating:  the perpetual dysfunction and gridlock in Washington, the terrorist threats that have led to an overseas travel alert, the continuing violence and bloodshed in parts of the Middle East, the sad commentary on the character of political personalities on either coast, the continuing weakness of our economy, an outbreak of a severe stomach illness linked to packaged salad mix…the list of depressing news goes on and on.

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I question my decision to tune in.  Is it healthy to be bombarded with such disastrous news day after day?  I doubt it, because I struggle, some evenings, to feel hopeful about the world, my country or state.  I talk back to the broadcasters, arguing with the political pundits who ignite my ire.  My blood pressure rises; my body tenses, and even the human interest “feel good” story at the end of the evening news does little to offset the impact of so much suffering and hardship happening in the world.  I doubt I’m alone in these feelings.  “Can it get any worse?” I wonder aloud.  Given the barrage of crises, wars, natural disasters, and political embarrassments that are the stuff of the nightly news broadcasts, apparently it can.

Can it get any worse? “Afraid so,” Jeanne Marie Beaumont’s poem tells us.  She uses the litany of bad news questions we hear almost daily as the lines of her poem.  By the time we reach the end of it, we discover she’s already answered our questions in her poem’s title.  “Afraid So.”

…Is this going to hurt?

Could you lose your job?

Did the glass break?

Was the baggage misrouted?

Will this go on my record?

…Could this cause side effects?

Is the wound infected?

Are we lost?

Will it get any worse?

Bad news is all around us, and as cancer survivors, you know what it’s like to get it.   “I have bad news for you,” the doctor begins.  You feel your heart plummet.  “You have cancer.”  Cancer?  It sounds like a cosmic bad joke, even a death sentence.  You rail against the diagnosis in one moment and break down in tears the next.  You’re in the middle of your own personal disaster.  Why is this happening?  What is the prognosis?  What can I do?  What can I expect?  Will it get any worse?  Well, maybe so.  Maybe not.

Everyone has bad, even terrible, times in our lives, whether the result of being diagnosed with a life threatening illness, losses, or hardship like the loss of income or one’s home.  None of us are immune to bad news, but life demands we go on.  We can’t give up; things do change, and often, they get better.  We have to find room for hope, for strength and resilience to move ahead.  Whether we find that through support communities, prayer, the promise of a new treatment, or reaching out to help others who are suffering, we move on, repair, rebuild, and deal with what we’re given.   There’s extraordinary courage discovered out of disaster or hardship.  I still think about the people living in New Orleans after Katrina struck five years ago, the victims of the 2011 tornado in Joplin, Missouri, the community of Newtown, Connecticut, and more recently, the three young women freed from years of abuse and violence in a Cleveland neighborhood.  While those individuals and communities  still bear the vivid reminder of events, the destructive power of the storms, the depth of their emotional wounds, they’ve shown strength, given us hope as they begin to rebuild homes and lives.  We are humbled by their  strength and sheer human resilience in the midst of unbelievable devastation and loss.

Can it get any worse?  Maybe so, but then again, maybe not.  Hope keeps us moving ahead, one step at a time.  Think of a time you were dealt bad news, your own or someone else’s?   How did you first react?  How did you get through a difficult period in your life?   What helped?  How did you find the strength—even hope—to cope and begin to heal?  How did you find a way to reverse the course and bit by bit,  make your life better?

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