Eating the "I"

I love the phrase, Eating the "I." We're constantly eating ego, constantly chewing on, "How does it show up?" I'm much better able to do this than I used to be. I can't always get out of the grip, but I usually ask, O.K., what's my ego doing? What defenses are up? And I'm better at loving myself regardless of what I observe.

Most people interacting with me probably find me much the same as I've always been. The difference is in what happens internally when my patterns come up. I sort for understanding differently. I experience myself differently. I'm more open to my foibles. I'm much more forgiving of myself.


This was brought home to me when talking to a friend with Enneagram style Four who said, "The same old stuff comes up again, and I hate seeing it time after time after time."

These patterns may show up forever. You have to love yourself anyway.

Your old habits won't react as automatically, you'll judge yourself less and less harshly, the struggles won't be as difficult, and you'll be less hooked most of the time. But, for as long as you live, your worldview will still have some influence over your reactions. 

All my resistances, of course, are true to my Enneagram Nine style – to "forget" myself until I was in my thirties, to see myself as my idealized image of "the good girl." In particular, I've become aware of how distractibility can keep me from my own focus. The most important and visible manifestation of my dawning awareness has been to find my own voice and follow it without distraction.

When I Wish, I Blow Bubbles...

In Wishing Well Paul Pearsall drew upon the Hawaiian kahuna (shaman) tradition – that we can wish "well" or "poorly." Sometimes we want a specific outcome so much we find it difficult to surrender to the larger healing.

"Wishing is the enemy of the positive thinker who prides herself on being so strong-willed that there is little need for mysticism or the equanimity of wishing. Wishing is much too passive, gentle, and humble for the needy and power-motivated brain. So in wishing well we let go of needing to be in control, of expecting a specific outcome. We focus on serenity, delight, purpose, meaning, and compassion vs. 'trying' to heal a certain part of the body in a certain way. It involves a kind of easy flow with the cosmos."

This quality is conveyed by one person who said, 'When I wish, I blow bubbles...'" 

Relax, be patient, wish from the heart (vs. the mind), connect lovingly, allow surrender of the self.

Beyond Skepticism

Years ago a colleague challenged my skepticism about the usefulness of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. “Have you studied the MBTI?” he asked. “Have you been trained in it?”  I had not, I told him. “Then perhaps you should know what you’re saying ‘No’ to.” Luckily I was open enough to see the flaw in my logic. I did take the training, if only to be able to give an informed “No.” Instead, I’ve found ways to go deeper with the MBTI than my early, negative, uninformed experience of it could have predicted.

Skepticism can be healthy. Woe to those of us who believe everything we read or are told. To the Greeks, in fact, “skepticism” meant inquiry, the essence of their position not doubt or denial or disbelief, but rather continual exploration – a willingness to keep their minds open to new possibilities.

But when skepticism reflects a closed mind instead of an inquiring mind, it becomes a defense against learning more, against possibly changing a familiar worldview. The basis for this kind of skepticism is fear. When I labeled the MBTI as “superficial” I was new to consulting, eager to defend my own training and credentials, and quick to dismiss something I knew very little about. I was afraid to change my point of view – I needed to believe I knew all I needed to know. I thought I was right; others were wrong.

The name calling itself is a cue to defensiveness. And while my describing the MBTI as “superficial” was only slightly demeaning, the attitude behind any word can color it significantly. During a recent check-up with a doctor I’m very fond of, I mentioned I’d contributed to Obama’s campaign. The immediate, sour look on his face told me he found my point of view completely unacceptable. He stepped back and said with distaste in his voice, “He’s a MUSLIM!” Aside from the fact that Obama does not pray to Allah, as far as I know, so what? Romney is a Mormon and Mormons have some beliefs that differ, I’m sure, from my doctor’s fundamental Christian upbringing. His comment about Obama was not founded in skeptical inquiry, it was based on fear of the unknown.

When I heard that some cynics were questioning the healing qualities of my qigong classes, I wanted to ask “Do you really believe that thousands of us, representing all ages and from all walks of life (students, professors, artists, Ph.D.’s, medical and other professionals) are completely deluded about benefits we directly experience?” But I’ve learned the hard way that no amount of evidence will convince someone whose mind is closed. So let me simply offer my condolences to anyone who jumps to negative conclusions and name-calling about my qigong practice, instead of following skepticism’s true intent of inquiry. If only they knew what they’re missing.

Sand Mandalas

Now often demonstrated by the Dalai Lama and groups of Tibetan monks, the sand mandala ceremony begins with chants, music, prayers, and then pouring millions of grains of sand in bright colors from a metal tube called a chakpu. The finished mandala is about five by five feet in diameter, and takes three to five days to complete.

The creation process concludes with a consecration ceremony, and then... they dismantle the mandala!

Formed into traditionally prescribed Tibetan iconography that includes geometric shapes and historical Buddhist symbols, the sand mandala is a tool to consecrate and bless the earth and its inhabitants. The dismantling of the mandala symbolizes the impermanence of all existence.

Those of us who have become attached to life, and fearful of losing it, have much to learn.

Give Me Liberty, Or Give Me Death!

Chiron taught his students how to become "sacred warriors;" how to follow their quests and then go to death peacefully when the time comes. He taught his students how to access multidimensionality and balance polarization and duality. Today we might call such people shaman, -- those who have learned to walk in other dimensions, work with duality, synthesize male and female, human and animal, mind and body, life and death. M.Z. Hawkins, Chiron and the Tarot 

I had a distressing encounter with the gynecologist I'd been going to for years, when I went in for a pap smear last week. He knew I had extremely low hormone levels from the post-breast cancer medication I was taking, and was thus dry as a prune -- yet jammed the speculum into me, saying "Sorry if this is uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable? It hurt like hell. But not as much as the way he responded to my talking about alternative approaches to lowering estrogen without diminishing brain function. Our brains need some hormones to function properly, and the so-called "brain fog" side effect of my prescribed aromatase inhibitor had become such a problem I was having panic attacks. After a lengthy attempt to get him to hear me, and his saying, "With all due respect..." which you know means no respect at all, I got it. He's been programmed to believe only in magic bullets, and to postpone death as long as possible, no matter what the patient has to go through to stay alive. 

My internist, perhaps not coincidentally a woman, was completely the opposite -- she listened, asked questions, and responded that she, too, would choose quality of life over years lived.

By the way, my risk of recurrence is only one in four without any medication. Also, that statistic only refers to "women my age." It doesn't take level of activity, weight, diet, or other lifestyle factors into account. So I believe I'm more likely than most 73-year-old women to be one of the three in four who don't have a recurrence.

Nonetheless, the oncologist had convinced me that decreasing that risk to one in eight made potential side effects worthwhile, and besides, "not everyone has side effects." So I was a good sport. And I'm not chickenhearted. I handled the headaches and the joint pain. Even when my hips ached so much that every step was an effort, I still got on the treadmill every day. But eventually my thinking became so confused I couldn't get my mind around large concepts or organize my thoughts. Creative writing was out. So was painting. I had no energy for much of anything. The "me" of me was gone. Not acceptable.

After ten months on the aromatase inhibitor, I chose to stop taking it. With the support of my preventive medicine practitioner (also a respected M.D.) I'm keeping track of my estrogen level, experimenting with alternative ways to keep it low but not so low I can't think.

And from now on, I'm partnering only with wounded healers, doctors and other health workers who are in touch with and have learned from their own pain, and who don't let fear of death get in the way of responding to a vibrant woman who would rather die than lose her capacity to think clearly.

(Published in Survivor's Review, Volume No. XIV, 2013.

The Beauty Way

In Be Careful What You Pray For... You Just Might Get It, Dr. Larry Dossey describes the Navajo belief in the power of words, the importance of thinking and speaking in a positive way – in "the Beauty Way."

Counter this with how easily caretakers can affect a patient's recovery with such hexes as, "Only 2% of people with this kind of cancer survive more than a year."

Of course, doctors don't intend to do us in. Nonetheless, the harm can be real: "Medical curses such as 'It's your funeral,'" Dossey writes, "'You're a walking time bomb,' 'You should have had surgery yesterday,' 'There's nothing more I can do,' and so on, are not uncommon." 

In contrast, Dr. Thomas Oxman and colleagues at Dartmouth Medical School found that the factor most highly correlated with survival and a positive post-operative course after surgery was the degree of spiritual meaning in the patient's life. 

Our Beauty Way answers these questions: 

"How will I participate in my recovery and not be a victim?"

"What is my purpose?"

"What is meaningful to me?"

"How might I make a difference in the world?" 

Stigmata

I've completely healed from my cancer surgery, feel vigorous and happy, and have a positive prognosis (only one in four women at my age and with my kind of breast cancer and gene expression will have a recurrence within ten years).

Yet when I visited my son on Saturday, he worried that the three-hour drive might be too much for me, and a friend of his took great pains to tell me how great I looked and how happy he was to see me doing so well (I could almost hear the unstated "...for someone who has cancer").

Later, I shared my perspective with my son that I had cancer. Now I'm cancer-free, focused -- like most other people -- on staying healthy and preventing a recurrence. I wonder, though, if some potential clients will hesitate to hire me. I've been quite open about my diagnosis and surgery; will they see me differently, as "a cancer survivor"? Will they feel uncomfortable with me? One woman wrote this about her work experience:

"I avoided telling many coworkers of my diagnosis, fearing being treated as if I had one foot in eternity, and the other on a roller skate... I could see it in the eyes of those who weren't well-informed. The stigma was virtually painted on me for a while."

Stephan suggested several aspects of stigma associated with cancer, one more self-imposed ("No one will love me because I have no breasts"), the others more social: disapproving/blaming ("She should have had regular mammograms"), or setting us apart as "sick"/avoiding us because they don't know how to talk about cancer and feel awkward asking questions.

I suspect that avoiding or pitying or blaming cancer survivors has a deep psychological root in fear of the ultimate reality: we're all going to die, and nobody likes to be reminded of it. As Irvin Yalom wrote in Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death, "Self-awareness is a supreme gift, a treasure as precious as life. But it comes with a costly price... Our existence is forever shadowed by the knowledge that we will grow, blossom, and, inevitably, diminish and die." All humans carry the stigma of the wound of mortality.

My bout with cancer was a huge awakening, a deeply moving experience I don't regret in any way. Instead, I'm grateful for the sometimes blinding clarity, boundless gratitude, and deep presence I live in much of the time. Yet I sometimes obsess on the relentlessness of death. So I'm adapting the Buddhist practice of death meditation, meant to remind us to live each moment fully because life is precious and short, and  -- when we are dying -- to remove our fear so we have a good rebirth.  

"Old masters advise, 'Stick the word death on your forehead and keep it there.'" Philip Kapleau, The Zen of Living & Dying.

My own death meditation is immersion in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry about the inevitable. I started, at Yalom's suggestion in Staring at the Sun, with Tolstoy's Ivan Ilyich, who said, on his deathbed, "It can't be. It's impossible! But here it is. How is this? How is one to understand it?"

A favorite nonfiction piece, from The Death Issue of the literary journal Conjunctions, is Sallie Tisdale's  "The Sutra of Maggots and Blowflies:"   

"The first time one tastes certain complex flavors they are unpleasant, even offensive. But in time it is that very flavor, its complexity--the bitterness or acidity mingling with other layers--that brings you back... This is a little bit of what I feel toward flies... Flies have long been considered the shills and familiars of gods, witches, and demons. They are so unutterably strange, all swarming and speed and single-mindedness, and they cannot be avoided... (We) shred our world like giant pigs rutting after truffles. We poison our nest and each other and ourselves. We eat everything, simply everything, but we turn away from flies."

Death images in poetry range from Khalil Gibran's For life and death are one, even as the river and sea are one, to Baudelaire's Death, who carries a bouquet, handkerchief, gloves, and moves with all the careless and high-stepping grace of a courtesan. For Emily Dickinson, Death was a traveling companion: Because I could not stop for Death / He kindly stopped for me / The carriage held but just ourselves / And immortality.

I leave this meditation for today with Anne Sexton's poem "Rowing," from The Awful Rowing Toward God:

...I am rowing, I am rowing

though the oarlocks stick and are rusty 

and the sea blinks and rolls

like a worried eyeball,

but I am rowing, I am rowing,

though the wind pushes me back

and I know that that island will not be perfect,

it will have the flaws of life...

I, too am rowing; I am rowing.

Lovely Amazons

I received "One Lovely Blog Award" this morning from The Spirit That Moves Me. This generosity is an example of the community I've found, a sisterhood I think of as Amazons, who -- according to legend -- protected their territory with bow and arrow, and removed a breast to improve their ability to pull the bow-string:

Circles and circles
of brave, extraordinary
Amazons who have
no breasts to hinder
strength of bow, arrow's quiver,
our hearts' target
the cancers threatening
to invade our home. 

As a recipient I'm asked to link to the blog that sent me the award and then to seven others that have inspired me. In turn, maybe they will post the award, then link to my blog and seven others, each time widening our circle of lovely Amazons:

1. The Spirit that Moves Me
2. Breast Cancer? But Doctor... I hate pink!
3. F--- Cancer and The Horse it Rode In On: The Adventures of Baldylocks
4. The Cancer Warrior
5. Knock, Knock, It's Cancer!
6. Not so Big C: A Breast Cancer Odyssey
7. Dancing with Cancer, Living with Mets: A New Normal
8. ChemoBabe

Here's a short TED video about a public art space created by Candy Chang where passersby could write in their wishes: "Before I die I want to..."

From the Heart

The word courage comes from the Latin cor or heart.

Because I grew up in a military family, many of my male high school classmates went to West Point, and then to Viet Nam. In 2000, I reconnected with my high school sweetheart and learned he'd been awarded The Bronze Star for "heroic service" in Nam. When I asked him to describe the events leading to the medal, he said "I don't think of myself as a hero. I wasn't feeling courageous. I just did what I had to do."

That's what it was like for me, as I moved from a "suspicious" mammogram to an MRI and biopsy, to bilateral mastectomy all within a two-week period. I just did what I had to do. As have many of you, I always wondered if I would be frightened by life-threatening circumstances. I was not, and so I don't feel "brave" or "amazing" as others have suggested.

Last week I went to my first breast cancer support group meeting, and the other women there said their experience was similar to mine. 

It's like driving in a heavy rainstorm late at night. You'd rather be home by a cozy fire, but you're on full alert, every sense attuned to what's happening in your immediate environment. You don't have time to be afraid. 

The Cries of the World

I wept when my friend Nancy gave me this statue after my surgery, with only an intuition of why Kuan Yin touched me so. Then I read this quote from Exotic India, which captures how I have been feeling these past few weeks:  

Kuan Yin: The Compassionate Rebel. Buddhism's most enduring (and universal) contribution to the world has been insufficiently translated as compassion. The original Sanskrit word is karuna, which holds within itself traces of the fragment ru, meaning to weep.

The term karuna is frequently described as a love for all beings. However, the all-encompassing nature of compassion is quite unlike conventional love—which is rooted in dualistic thinking and is egoistic, possessive, and exclusive. 

Karuna's root meaning is said to be the anguished cry of deep sorrow and understanding that can only come from an unblemished sense of oneness with others. The name of Kuan Yin signifies her compassionate nature, literally meaning 'One who hears the cries of the world.'

Grist for the Mill

The Sandhill Stage -- a concert series at the Prairie Creek Lodge to benefit the non-profits Conservation Burial, Inc. and Alachua Conservation Trust.

At a Sandhill Stage concert last night, Penny Nichols sang "Grist for the Mill" from The 8 Voyages of Nep, about her own experience with breast cancer.

Penny brought it all back to me -- Linda Ronstadt and the Stone Ponies, Janis Joplin, Mother Earth, Jefferson Airplane. So much pain, so much love, so many blessings, it's all grist for the mill (click here, scroll down and play #4): 

Bring it in, bring it in, 

it's all grist for the mill. 

What comes out is the sweetest flower, 

fills me up in my darkest hour.

Bring it in, bring it in,

it's all grist for the mill.

Theater of the Absurd

The lymph ducts of the breast usually drain to the sentinel node before the lymph nodes underneath the arm. It's called the "sentinel" because it helps sound the warning when cancer has spread.

I have been very, very lucky. The radiology team was able to isolate the sentinel lymph nodes for each breast before surgery. The word "sentinel" stems from the Latin sentire, to watch, and my sentinel nodes took care of me, alerting the doctors that no further lymph nodes need be taken, and no chemo is necessary. 

There was drama in the surgical theater, drama in my happy conversation on New Years Eve morning when my surgeon reported the news. "We did the right thing; we got it all."

Since the surgery a week ago, you can think of my life as a theater of the absurd. Stage directions:

Single actor onstage, night-time, then day-time, a bed, a reclining chair (both surrounded by rumpled covers, socks). A CD player. Actor sighs, adjusts reclining position on bed, fluffs pillows, dozes, awakens, moves to chair, raises and lowers chair back, sighs. She turns on CD player with remote, listens to indistinct voices, dozes, sighs, moves back to bed. No monologue.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame; the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

From The Essential Rumi by Coleman Barks


(Thanks to Gilly Weinstein for sending me this poem)

...

Volcanic Moments

A volcano erupts in Iceland. Tens of thousands of flights are canceled and millions of passengers stranded...  Have you experienced any of these typical reactions in the face of an oy vey moment -- lost your sense of humor, became fixated on what wasn't working, gave up completely, felt annoyed and resentful, looked for someone to blame, pretended it wasn't happening?" Larry Dressler, "Volcanic Moments: Four Practices for Facing Surprises with Grace."

Dressler's post miraculously arrived in my in-box on December 24, minutes after my surgeon told me I have cancer in both breasts. Definitely an oy vey moment. My typical defense in the face of unwanted news has been to pretend it wasn't happening. Of course everything bubbles below. Indeed, my personality style has been characterized metaphorically as a "volcano" -- apparently calm, with complex layers beneath the surface. 

I'll be even more particular, and suggest I've been a shield volcano, formed of layers of fluid lava. Unable to pile into steep mounds, these layers create a gentle, sloping cone and spill from several vents. Attempts to shield myself have created a calm exterior but have also led to lifelong digestive problems, joint pain, and occasional bouts of magna-lava anger -- the symptomatic "vents" my body developed to blow off steam when the rumbling could no longer be contained.

Our bodies give us messages and this one is clear: another vent has appeared, cancer erupting in both breasts. So I'm taking Dressler's advice to heart:

1. Check-in:  Notice without judgment what you're feeling physically and emotionally.
2. Name It:  What underlying thought, judgment, or belief are you holding too tightly?
3. Pause:  Instead of acting, take deep, deep, conscious breaths.
4. Shift:  Ask questions that shift you to a more productive mental, emotional, and physical state: "What beliefs can I let go of right now in order to serve my highest purpose?" "What are the hidden gifts and opportunities in this moment?"

Some of my thoughts and beliefs:

• "I'm not the cancer type -- my issues have shown up in stomach aches and arthritis." 
• "Death is unacceptable." 
• "I must fight this." 

Obviously the first belief has been refuted. The second is simply laughable; we all, eventually, accept death. Third, trying to "fight" the cancer would reinforce the dysfunctional belief that I must shield myself from reality -- instead of fighting I want to embrace and transform this energy for healing. 

On Christmas Eve I extended Dressler's Pause and Breathe stage, spending hours reading about double mastectomy, searching for post-surgery apparel, sending love to my breasts, letting in the messages cancer brings, terror echoing all the way down to my toenails:

CANCER, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer.....

...

Wired

Sometimes an abnormal area will be seen on the mammogram that should be tested for cancer, but is not felt as a lump on examination. The mammography department can help your surgeon find the area more easily by using a technique called "wire localization." Harvard Health Publications.

The day after a biopsy of both my breasts I viewed The Buddha documentary, and was struck by this: "All things change. Everything born is subject to decay. Use even this for awakening." 

My wake-up call came suddenly. After a mammogram on December 24 and consulting the next day with my gynecologist, I met with my surgeon last Monday, had an MRI and blood work on Tuesday, and biopsies on Wednesday.

The pre-op procedure was quite an adventure. The radiology team placed localizing wires in each breast, with only a local anesthetic. Some women freak out, the nurses told me. They've seen everything, from a woman who threw up on them to another who bit the nurse's hand. 

I couldn't turn my head to watch, because if I moved the radiologist would have to repeat the procedure. After he finished I looked down and saw a blue push pin in each breast. The nurses then cut two Styrofoam cups to half-size and taped them over the push pins to protect them until surgery. Robo woman!

The woman next to me in the pre-op holding room was questioning her doctor about the size of the scar he'd leave. I gleaned from their conversation (through the curtain between us) that she'd had a lumpectomy before and now had another lesion with lymph node involvement, but had opted for a lumpectomy again instead of mastectomy. 

Her surgeon kept saying "We need to look at the bigger picture. You have breast cancer, and we want to remove it." She appeared to be in her forties, so I understood her fear of losing her breasts, but what level of vanity would lead her to endanger her life? I was clear about my own wishes. I wanted the cancer GONE.

Under general anesthetic for the biopsies, I was woozy afterward, and couldn't help laughing at the dressing that replaced the push pins: white, pointy tents. 

My surgeon called with the results on Friday. Mastectomy on the left. "We can negotiate the right." But why would I want only one breast, and a 72-year-old one at that? Can you picture the reconstruction? "No, no, guys, it's not nearly old enough, far too perky...."  

The Dalai Lama said a miracle is "something you cannot understand, something unexpected." My miracle? Instead of fear, I have felt mostly joy and gratitude for the tangible love from everyone I encounter, including each of the nurses and doctors who took care of me earlier this week. 

A friend wrote to me on Friday: 

"I understand your 'mostly joy' response. I experienced the same with my reality encounter last year at this time. I think it has a lot to do with how we give meaning to the whole of our lives--whatever comes can be greeted with open hands, open mind, open heart, odd calm, certain gratitude, with the occasional terrifying gut check cry."

Christmas Eve: I removed my pointy tents and took a good look at the biopsy stitches. Both breasts would be deeply scarred. Then a deep breath and gut check. Ah, no. They will be gone.