it's a bagel

Good news:  The latest MRI shows no growth in Rich's tumor.  In fact, the local radiologist hints in his report that this may be scar tissue, it doesn't seem to be acting like a tumor...which confirms my suspicions.

It is a bagel, coated with cream cheese and muenster, gone awry.  The cure?  A homeopathic application of mini-bagels, lightly coated with butter or cream cheese.

Could it thus be possible that Bagels are Evil?

If so, soon we shall find a few believers, then it will be proclaimed from pulpits, and soon politicians will compete with their bona fides on who is tougher against bagels, and accuse their opponents of waffling (another good breakfast food):  "You ate bagels in college!"

And their opponents will waffle back:  "Well, we chewed, but we didn't swallow.  And of course we shouldn't allow our enemies to acquire bagels for their own evil purposes."

Have an imaginative week --- but don't believe anything you think,

Candace

zen garden

I have been playing with the thought of creating a small Zen garden, either outdoors or in our home.  Such gardens are Buddhist in origin, and 1,000-plus-years-old.  As many reading this probably know, in appearance they're simple, with minimal ingredients:  Rocks, sand, a few green plants, perhaps a stone lantern or statue.

The point of such gardens is not "decorative," but about going to the contemplative heart of our existence, expressed in the creation of the garden, in its maintenance, and in its quiet "being with."

So I was surprised when scanning the Web to find that you can find instructions to build a Zen garden at the big box stores, or order desk top models to relieve "executive stress" (add a fisherman for only $3 more!)

First reaction:  "Abomination!"

Second reaction:  "Why not?"

Most of us, after all, are not Buddhist monks or professional gardeners, but we want a taste of the beyond and of beauty, so why not play with sand and rocks?  And invite a fisherman, too.

Happy gardening,

Candace

 

pilgrim with no destination

Better to be a pilgrim without a destination than to cross the wrong threshold every day. -- Sy Safransky, editor, The Sun Magazine.

What Sy Safransky is describing is his decision to leave a job that was sucking at his life, and then borrow fifty dollars to start up a magazine that, quite possibly, no one would read.  But thirty years out, both he and the magazine are alive.

Some would say he was brave, others would say foolish.  But, really, he had no choice.  

Illness forces us to go out the door and hit the road.  It doesn't matter what is making us sick:  A tumor, a job, a relationship.  When we move on, where we end up matters far less than knowing we won't be returning to where we were.  In this, there is excitement, danger, and the hope that others will be reading our lives.

Best to all,

Candace

gone hunting

Once I had a friend who owned a high-end second home in a semi-rural area. When it came time for renovations, she contacted a local contractor of good reputation.

Too late.

"I made all the money I need this year," he said. "I'm going to my hunting cabin. Be back in the spring."

She was first astonished, then contemptuous.

"People here have no ambition," she concluded.

I concluded he was alive, and she was jealous.

About the missing months here: I had made all the blog-world words I could for the year, so went hunting for rest and revival.

I think it worked.

For those wondering where Rich, my beloved Chordomite, is: Still on Sutent with apparent benefit. The tumor shows some signs of dissolving, and no new clinical indications of growth. We continue to travel monthly to Sloan Kettering for check-in, Rich has added physical therapy to his daily regimen, and we look forward to another year of no growth.

Best to all --
Candace

the road taken

Last week I went out of town during the first light snow of the season. Before leaving, I checked the alternative routes, of which there were at least three. I chose the fastest, but also the least travelled.

On a previous trip, this journey took almost two hours. Going this time, it clocked in at 1 hour 38 minutes, with the bonus of pretty views and almost no other cars in sight.

Still. I should have noticed.

One road, called CR 52, climbed and climbed and, for most of its ten miles, was receiving a light blanket of snow. Elsewhere it was only rain, or no precipitation at all.

The next morning, ready to return home, the streets outside the inn were covered with a couple of inches of snow, and more falling. A postcard scene, and I didn't think twice. I could have chosen only state highways which, in this part of the world, are usually plowed and salted and safe. This would have added about 20 minutes to the trip.

But why not go the same way I came? It was so pretty! And fast, too.

All went well until CR 52. But I didn't think of turning back; I had come too far, I know how to drive in snow, and --- an adventure. And a car that tracked sure. The few other vehicles I met were either crawling, or pulled over to the side of the road.

When I reached the state highway about 30 minutes later, the road was clean and the sun was breaking through.

I checked the time when I arrived home: 1 hour 40 minutes.

A good choice, after all.

But next time, if it's snowing, I won't be on CR 52.

Candace

waves on an ocean

"What we call life...consists of single moments, which arise, dissolve, and arise again, like waves on an ocean"-- The Dzogchen Ponlop Rinpoche

As a child I lived near an ocean and I loved body-surfing the waves into shore. The highest were the best; in their current all I could do was "just go" and let myself be churned onto the beach. Those moments held everything: Fear tossed with abandon mixed with awe. And I would go back for another ride and another and another not because I was stupid (well, maybe) but because I was vaguely aware of something else: This land-locked human was dissolving into something I could not understand, but what a relief it was.

Where we are: Rich is experiencing a significant amount of pain in his neck, arm, and two of his fingers. He considers the possibility that "this is the beginning of the end." A big wave, again, and a reminder to let the fear melt away. But I will try to keep the wildness and wonder.

Candace

Training

At my favorite coffee spot a sign occasionally appears above one of the cash registers: "Training: Please Be Patient." I am tempted to borrow and wear it --- and ask for a few extras.

In retrospect, I achieved mastery of every "job" only after I had moved on. I don't think I ever quite managed childhood, or puberty, or college, or my first career, or my second...you get the idea.

Until it was over, and then I realized two things.

First, regret: If I only knew what I now know, how easy it would have been.

Second, acceptance: I know now that I never could have known.

Training is not a place from which we move on, but a place where we learn to be comfortable. And learn patience. For me, and with you, and all of the days.

Candace