blooms and besos

“I kiss away your curse, I kiss away your curse!” the one little girl kept promising to the other little girl.

Their Mom was standing near taking a call, and they were busy in the business of healing as I walked into the grocery store last night.

Just a kiss and all was cured.

If that’s the case, I’ve got a whole lotta smooching to do—among friends carrying crosses of their own, up and down the hallways of the KU Cancer Clinic, maybe to the fella who played the “no you go ahead, no you go ahead” kindness with me at checkout. Everybody’s got somethin’ they’d love to kiss away.

Around my birthday last month, a dear heart thankfully let me know that it was okay to feel all the feels—that this one might land a little differently than others. I’m now finding that Mother’s Day is maybe doing the same. There’s nothing like an illness, a loss, a life change to crystalize things. When you tip toe a wait through scans, procedures, and an eventual knowing of what your something might be, it brings all kinds of things to the forefront—what kind, how long, who or what is gonna kiss it and make it better already?

Which is maybe why we have built-ins to our lives that help sustain us through those waits and wonders—friends, family, habits, routines, and seasons—those strongholds that we can tuck into when we need. For me, on Mother’s Day, that means a hubby who will foot the bill at the nursery for digging in the dirt, homemade cards from the kids, likely a bottomless cup of coffee while breakfast is being made, and something off the grill for dinner. A solid routine we’ve perfected over the years—creature comforts, home time treasured. Kiss. Repeat.

Mid-day this Mother’s Day will find me lunching with the sister who lives near and our Mom. Our Mom who still flashes a radiant smile, so full and beautiful despite the parts that have changed. Between memory and mobility sometimes fleeting, there’s plenty I’d love to kiss away for her. And in the visual that is her daughter having cancer, I’m certain she’s got besos for days for her youngest babe.

There is love in the lumbering, the figuring of who needs what when.

And often times, a simple kiss or bloom will do.

So that’s what’s on my heart, in my head this Mother’s Day—
the parts of us that need kissing,
the curses that need to be a-going,
the grace that is healing.

Wherever it hurts, I hope you feel comfort.
Whenever, whatever you can kiss and make better, I hope you will.
However you can love, I encourage you to do just that.

“Sayin’ One Love, One Heart
(One kiss!)
Let’s get together and feel all right.”

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tree pose

A couple lifetimes ago I used to be an admission counselor for a small liberal arts school. I would fill my fall and spring weeks with travel from one Drury Inn to the next, one Casey’s Convenient Store to the next. I spent my days visiting high schools, meeting with some students who were interested in the school I was talking about, meeting other students who were grateful for the pass from class that hour. In the evenings I would stand behind a table in various hallways and gyms with pamphlets and a passion for how my alma mater might be a match for the curious parents and students browsing about. Being a ‘W’ school, and often in the gym’s back row or back hallway sans A/C, I had to keep my smile strong, my brow mopped from the sometimes sweating.

In the afternoon hours when I wasn’t following up on work, I’d sometimes haul out the VCR I’d packed, call the front desk for help with cords, and pop in the Ali McGraw yoga DVD I brought along. A friend of friend suggestion, this was my intro to yoga. It felt like the perfect way to stretch out a road warrior body, and I grew to appreciate the bolted into the floor beds on either side of me as I attempted tree pose, with eyes soft, looking at a focal point, but still falling more often than not.

Trees and I have a thing. While I especially adore their fall splendor, other seasons grow on me too. There’s a magnolia out back that reminds me of their fleeting beauty. One year my daughter picked the first bloom off of it. I was a touch annoyed at first, but when the wet cold came in the night I realized that she seized the chance to hold what was lovely while she could. She’s also the kiddo who says that when she has her own museum, “EVERYTHING will be touchable art, Mom.”

There’s one at the park I often loop that has this heart shape that I caught when it was freshly cut. Years later, one can still see its weathered loveliness after seasons of tucking away from the path, but still being present with every walker, jogger, stroller passing by. I think it must love sunrises with its gaze to the east.

At the same park is this one that’s always caught my eye. So often it’s reminded me of life’s immeasurable sorrow with the one limb that just kind of falls to the ground—in grief’s submission, in prayer, in hopeful bending. And the other branches? I see community, I see promise, I see those who can stand tall, look up, lift up while still sidling up next to the one in their midst. Sturdy base, many branches, heart center.

This one from our cabin up north might be one of my favorite ‘while out walking’ finds. The abundance of trees along that gravel road and of all glances into the woods, I spied this beauty. Bark peeled back, perfect placement. I have a thing for hearts like I do for trees and this peek-a-boo gift of a discovery put a skip in my step all the way back to the cabin.

The other day I was out walking with a dear friend and looked across the way to see another gem in my life posted up on a blanket with one of her daughters under the tulip tree in her front lawn. It was stop and take a picture beauty, those two tucked into whatever chat and people watching they were taking in, but kindly pausing long enough for a snap and a quick chat. That tree must have felt like the Giving Tree with these two coming to sit under its splendor, like maybe they have before, like I bet they will again and again.

This one here made me pull the car over. It was the day before my appointment to lop off my long-loved and lived in curly mane upon my head. A painful shedding of told me it was time to lose the locks in this part of treatment, and after taking some time with this part of the tour I was ready. The pared down pale backed by the beautiful blue caught my eye. Had my kids or hubby been in the car with me there might of been an understandable, ‘here we go again’ roll of their eyes to go with.

Tree pose.

Tall.

Eyes soft.

Focal point ahead.

And the prompt from that VHS tape that I always remember at the most timely ‘about to lose my zen and balance’ effort of stretching tall, “if you start to fall, don’t give up… trees s w a y….” It sometimes gave me the church giggles, it sometimes helped me zero back in on the pose.

One of my back at it somethings as I clear out of this initial fog and into spring is reuniting with my local yoga studio. Westport Yoga has become a beautiful space for my spirit, my body, my heart. Doing solo sessions with Lisa, the owner, has been a gift in this time of transition—in reconnecting parts of the new me to the what was me, in embracing another season, in welcoming what’s to come.
“Healing in, Grace out…
h e a l i n g in,
g r a c e out…” we’ll say.

The wood floor will creak under my feet, the body will bend and fold in, the heart will expand and breathe out.

And I smile thinking about those first fumbling tree poses, and I think about the living in the years since, and I cherish those practices—be it faith, walk routes, yoga—that always feel like a haven, a home.

“Breath for b o d y,
breath for m i n d,
breath for s p i r i t . . .
may we always be happy, healthy and whole.”

+++

(Westport Yoga is set to open new doors May 5th at 59th Street & Brookside Boulevard)

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velveteening

Savoring the last ‘perfect bite’ of breakfast that a friend kindly delivered on Sunday morning, I offered across the table, “I hope I never again take for granted feeling good.” Coming out of the woods on any given morning post treatment is like a delivery from a massive hangover. All that’s missing? The frivolity and leaned into pour from the night before. The dullness, the stillness, the desiring, but not having the energy for melts away as I shuffle down the hallway to see if the coffee’s gonna sit right. I light candles, I feather a nest for morning quiet with the the dogs tucked near, and I glance at the clock to see how much time I might be able to steal away in my slippers. I cherish the morning softness of our home for the gift that it is—the comfort of knowing my loves are content, the security that is a home long Velveteened with all our many years of living here.

After my newish routine of trying to flip more pages than screens first thing, I later tapped into my inbox over a second cuppa on Sunday for the hits of inspiration that arrive every morning. The gospel reading this past weekend was one that I’ve wrestled with for years. So much so that when the priest started reading it last Saturday evening, my guy glanced over with a knowing “here we go…” grin on his face. “I'm getting better with it,” I smiled back. And with each reading comes another take on the meaning of a father welcoming back with open arms his fallen away, his lost, his joy and his longing wrapped up all in one reunion. The Prodigal Son.

Something I’ve mulled over in recent weeks is the to my knees feeling that knocked on January 2nd of this year. I went in to see the doctor because I couldn’t catch a full breath on top of back pain that would not subside. What coupled with the pneumonia sighting on the initial scan were two masses in my mediastinal cavity that had taken up residence unbeknownst to me. That nagging fullness at the bottom of my neck that I’d endured for months? That sensation that I thought might be stress or anxiety creeping up my throat? It was pressure, alright, just the dreaded cancer kind.

What hit me as I sat in the hospital that day between walks from one scan to the next, from eyes of people who knew to people who suspected, were the words I heard from someone over a year ago. “What you hold onto has the capacity to grow in you like a cancer.” The words hit back then, and again came knocking as they stringed together in a painful, prickly recollection that long wait and see day. The sobering remembering rattled my spirit, it doubled down on the magnitude of all that I was processing. Surely I hadn’t grown this in the midst of other life figurings. Surely not.

It’s taken some time and some chats with great go tos to help me work through the uninvited reminder that partnered in my thinking that day. I know in my heart of hearts that this is not how the spirit works, how cancer grows. I know, I know, I know…

But I still heard, and then I felt, and continually I remind myself that any tour of being a human—living, breathing, figuring alongside other humans—can be met with a myriad of responses. And with that remembering, I am comforted by the fact that there are trials, there are pains, and always there is promise.

So how fitting the reminding with last weekend’s reading… the lost being found, the hardened being softened into an embrace, the long-standing steady being not dismissed but loved alongside the wayward. The business of ranking goodness, suffering, trial is not a fair trade, is not for our human capacity. What is, though, is our showing up, our meeting with a heart of willingness to understand, our cup of grace either being filled or offered.

“We’re all just walking each other home. ”

— Ram Dass

As Emily Wilson-Hussem so beautifully shared in her reflection last Sunday: “His response is always love. His response is always mercy. His response is always open arms. We must hold fast to the reality that He receives us again and again…”

Not just him, but all of us...
Open arms. Mercy. Love. Receive. Repeat.

Whatever might be your working through, your long wished for, your becoming… my hope, my prayer is a deep, deep knowing—at in interval that’s meaningful to you—that you are forever loved, forever cherished, forever welcomed, forever ever meant to feel good.

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creature comforts & hunts

Just after the noon hour, sunlight streams in from a high window in the back of our house during this time of year. The beams land squarely on comfy pillows residing on our couch of late. During other times of year, the beams showcase dust that needs tending or dog hair that needs sweeping (I try to time visitors accordingly). More times than not this week, with bitterly cold temps outside, I close my eyes and let the sun bake my face as I rest my head on the couch pillows. It gives credence to siestas that more cultures should embrace. It makes me understand how some of our dogs' best hunts involve the sun on our tile floor. It’s become a window to do what those who know have advised in recent weeks—”Save yourself for when the kids get home.”

The other night, as I tossed and turned, I finally got up to restart the dryer just so I could hear it tumbling from the other side of the wall. Growing up, my sisters and I often fell asleep to the sound of dishes being done and laundry getting cycled through. Being a night owl, my Mom would seize on the end of day time and space to get those tasks finished. Those home sounds—even now—provide a lull of comfort. It wasn’t a cure all for sleep sought, but it sure felt like a hug.

The Mister and I held down the furniture, cozied under blankets, and enjoyed a morning news program on Sunday that we haven't watched in I don’t know how long. In doing so, we learned about a champion cheese maker who we’re gonna have to figure into our travel time to the cabin this summer. All hail the curds! With snow coming down, a kind neighbor who cleared our drive, and another kind soul who came to shovel the steps, we rested. It felt like that moment when we first had kids and I thought, “What did we DO with all of our time before this?!” It was a Sunday slip of permission to just be.

I remember the last time I felt that way—when I would nap when the children would afternoon sleep during the summer we lived overseas. In our tight London flat quarters, the best thing I could do when they were slumbering wasn’t chores or busy work, but to follow their lead. Resting when they rested, I was saving myself for the kids—fresh faced when it was time for the afternoon market or park tour before dinner. It was just us, it was pared down distractions, it was a time away together.

That era was memory bank building, often enchanted, and a so many things to cherish tour. I say this because I also remember that time away being sometimes hard, sometimes lonely, and then over before I could believe it.

This current tour of chemo recovery every other week requires a bit more focus to hold onto the good, let go of the hard, and simmer in the moments that speak to the heart. But maybe it, too, will be over beore I know it.

First, though, we have to get through it.

When the kids were first on the scene, a dear cousin sent us We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. It was referenced about a year ago when we were talking about a movie we’d just seen with the kids. While addressing the hard times that the family had experienced I said, “That’s the deal, guys—when you’re family, sometimes you just gotta get through it.”

“Like Going on a Bear Hunt,” my other half brilliantly offered.

We’ve been referring to that board book ever since, and especially of late.
“Can’t go around it, can’t go over it, can’t go under it—ya just gotta get through it.”

Maybe that’s part of the hibernation that is now… so timely with the weather, with Lent on our doorstep, with the body dictating the spirit’s need to respond—with rest, with tucked in time for rebooting, with an appreciation for what’s been, what is, and what will be. …and all of that made possible with creature comforts, sunbeams, and the support of so many who champion our hunt along the way.

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.”

— Mary Jean Irion

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crosses and consolations

If I sleep late enough, and if Mother Nature’s finally, *blessedly* shining, my first view upon waking is a cross made by morning light—part of our door’s framing reflecting off picture glass.

Seeing it always makes the body wait a little bit before rising. I’ll think about what’s going on in my orbit, with family, with friends. All those many loves, faces, and sometimes the crosses they carry… some pocket size, some private, some so large it takes a good many hands to help shuffle it through the day. My one size fits all visual reminds me, though, that a cross is a cross is a cross—there’s no checking to see how heavy it might be, how long it’s been carried, if it’s splintering, if it’s more smooth to the touch. A cross is a cross is a cross.

When I think on some of the most burdensome crosses I’ve witnessed among people, one would never know to look at his face, to hear how she talks, to share in his space, or to feel the energy she brings to a room.

I stand back and marvel at how he shows up despite. I find myself wanting to holler from the roof tops “Amen!” her boots on the ground still going. Crosses don’t always mean death, sometimes they bring about such a purposeful, loving, showing up for the living existence that another’s load is made all the lighter by pure presence.

“We are each other’s harvest;
we are each other’s business;
we are each other’s magnitude and bond.”

— Gwendolyn Brooks

Our church community has a tradition on Good Friday of those who’ve endured known hardships carrying a large cross throughout the worship space as we pray. It’s a beautiful, meditative representation of another’s walk and the support of all the many gathered. My lean in whisper reminder to my children is that every single pew is filled with people carrying burdens we know nothing about. I say this for a few reasons. I say this because I want them to remember that there’s known and there’s private—and both is an okay way to do life. I say this because I appreciate the visual that even those who are privately touring can also show up for the supporting. I say this because we are there in community and it takes all kinds, all knowings, all walks, all people to witness, to share, to bear.

“We’re all just walking each other home.”

— Ram Daas

This is why we look at more faces than phones. This is why we get to know the people who regularly ring up our goods. This is why we follow nudges to reach out when the spirit conspires for such connects.

As David Whyte to beautifully offers in his Pilgrim chapter:

“. . .it might be that faith, reliability, responsibility and being true to something unspeakable are possible even if we are travelers,
and that we are made better, more faithful companions, and indeed PILGRIMS on the astonishing, never to be repeated journey by combining the precious memory of the —then— with the astonishing, but taken for granted experience of the —now—,
and both with the unbelievable, and hardly possible
—just about to happen—. ”

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fiveandtime