Moving Forward

A New Way of Living Deliberately

This morning I went to the shopping center early. I had to buy briskets to put in brine today: corned beef on Christmas Day. It’s my own tradition. And every year I leave it until the last day to get started. That’s become tradition, as well.

At 8:45 it was still dark outside. The windscreen was flecked with water drops. The air so wet and heavy, it seems to hold them in place. I know the sun will turn in two hours. I won’t see it—it will be a slate gray all day today. I remind myself that this is the darkest day. There will be many days in February when it won’t seem true, but it is. This is the shortest day. I’ll remind myself. It may look dark, but we are still turning toward summer. It’s like a chant in the background of my inner monologue.

I had to wait for the monopol (state liquor store) to open. I can’t get non-alcoholic wine anywhere else. My phone’s battery was dead, so I had a cup of coffee in an empty cafe, and stared at the window. Not out, but at. The reflections of the light fixtures and Christmas lights in the cafe mingled with those across the street. I read the name of the cafe backwards on the glass. And I tried to remember the last time I sat with nothing to do, no one to talk to, and had a cup of coffee.

I closed my eyes, and rubbed them. I knew they were still puffy from a lousy night’s sleep. And without consciously choosing to, I smelled the coffee. The strong burnt edge that the steam was carrying to my nose. Then I did become conscious of my noticing.

My toe aches. Surgery just after the new year will make it possible for me to run again. The arthritis has been there for ten years or so, but I think the aromatase inhibitors have made it unbearable. My breast-ish aches. I think it’s because I have a cold, and the lymphedema in that tissue is flaring up again. But I am healthy otherwise. And that’s something I am conscious of now.

And my mind—my mind is good.

All the drama I used to make at work—I don’t need it anymore. I have no idea if I am overthinking, but creating drama is a tactic to make connections with people. However tenuous and unhealthy. Time away from that environment I had been in for more than a decade was actually good for me. Clarifying.

It is late in my life to find calm and to reach out without shame. By that, I mean I feel as though I’ve misused a lot of my time thus far. Yes, in terms of my own artistic ambitions, but also in terms of relationships. What I missed what was right in front of me with my kids, I was so full of fears. So insecure.

I do have regrets, and I did things I am ashamed of. But now I know I can be ashamed of the actions, but not myself. I extend that kindness to other people. Now I extend it to myself.

Is this what filling your body with poison does to you? I know it is bro science, but part of me wonders if having killed every bit of my gut biome has resulted in clearing my head.

Last spring I tried to begin a substack for expressive writing for breast cancer survivorship. At first it felt like a good choice, something meaningful, and a match for my particular skill set and experience. But before I gave it time to take root, I pull out. I realized it wasn’t a healthy choice for me yet. I needed to be able to take on other people’s struggles in a supportive, empathetic way without falling into darkness.

I still need and benefit from expressive writing, but that’s different than making it a scheduled, deliberate ongoing practice to focus on cancer: “Let’s sit down and think about cancer.”

I am sorting out a better way to guide people away from rumination. Introduce them to expressive writing in small doses.

I have days that I don’t really think much about the cancer. Although, every time I look in the mirror, I see my hair and I miss my old hair so much it hurts. And I know that is ridiculous. Shallow. Whatever.

I see how much my face has aged, and I think—is this how I would have looked had I not had chemotherapy? How old am I?

But there are days when I am myself. When I teach the students to (literally) lift one another and fly one another over the stage. And they lift me. And I fly and I think, yes, I am 58 and unafraid, and just look at me! I’ll lead the way—if you keep holding me up.

Because no one can fly alone.

I know just how sappy that is. But I’m not afraid to be sappy anymore.

If we are going to mark a New Year’s Day, I think it should be today: the winter solstice.

I have redesigned my website, and my main substack. I’ve devised a way to make a bit of extra income that has nothing to do with talking (or writing) about cancer, and that will get me closer to some of the goals that I have.

I am not sure I said that right. Because, since the cancer diagnosis, I’ve realized that I don’t want to spend my life working toward goals that I may never meet. Instead, I want to head down that road—so to speak—and enjoy it all. I’m getting poems published, I’m getting plays on their feet. I’m having interesting conversations with people about art. I’m (sometimes) making (often) younger artists feel seen—by actually seeing them—and mentoring them.

I’m watching the sun rise and set. I no longer freak out and swat at wasps. (If you follow my other substack, you’ll understand that). Life is good. But god-damn it I don’t want to give credit to cancer!

I will continue to write here because I’ve found that having the personal diary separate from my writing process journal has been good for me—and for my professional writing. I don’t know how often I will bring up the breast-ish issues—although my tattoo is scheduled for March—but it won’t be forced.

I have only a few subscribers here, but you are now forewarned of what lies ahead. Thank you so much for reading this past year!

Warmly,
Ren

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