Author: Maasaisis

LIFE WITHOUT ANSWERS

by Maasaisis

I’ve been expecting the report from my most recent breast MRI to land in my inbox. I’m still in training—to receive these notes without letting them hijack my inner state. Reports that arrive like tarot cards, capable of projecting a future reality that contradicts the one I’m living.

My laptop rests on a tabletop made from massive slabs of hardwood, in a large tiled kitchen overlooking a garden of lush tropical plants that look as if they’re on steroids. We are halfway through our vacation in Mexico, escaping Nelson’s long winter in the laid-back village of Lo de Marcos. By now, we had acclimated to the unstructured rhythm where nothing happens in a hurry, and where the sun shines even on unwanted news.

I had requested a breast-specific MRI to give my body a break from medical imaging that uses radiation. I accepted that this meant traveling to a larger hospital in another town in order to have a look inside without that cost. There were two possible destinations, and one happened to be in the same city we would be flying out of for our trip to Mexico. The stars aligned. I booked the appointment for a Saturday—the day before we flew to Puerto Vallarta.

I decided to let it go. I wouldn’t give energy to anticipating the result until it was quite literally in my face, which is today. A deep meditation this morning left me with a quiet certainty: no matter what, I would continue on the path laid before me, guided by a way of interpreting my life that keeps me safe under all circumstances. I admit this is easier in the absence of pain or imminent danger, but experience has taught me it’s the only way forward without letting this disease take me hostage. I dropped my shoulders on the out-breath, repeated my A Course in Miracles lesson for the day, and clicked open the report.

The MRI confirmed what I already knew. It felt far-fetched to imagine a different outcome when I can still feel multiple lumps in my breast, embedded in scar tissue left behind by ulceration. Like barnacles clinging to the memory of my wound, they remind me of what I’ve been through—and that I’m still in it—even as my life continues to shine beyond it.

Any wish to one day receive the words cancer-free is no longer the destination of my path. Instead, I anchor myself to what fuels my soul and continue choosing the path that leads me toward peace now. Wishing does not belong in the present.

It makes sense to me that what was once a large mass, as my body broke it down, may have left small remnants scattered through the surrounding tissue. The scan also showed nearby lymph nodes in the right armpit that are likely involved. The left breast and its surrounding lymph nodes, which were affected not long ago, remain clear. I’m grateful there are no new frightening surprises, and that what miraculously disappeared on the left after the wound on the right closed has remained that way.

Given my history, the radiologist can only assume these scattered lesions are active cancer. Once labeled metastatic, that designation tends to stick, shaping future assumptions and forming the basis of treatment decisions. The only way to know for certain whether these current lumps are cancerous would be through biopsy. Because my cancer has mutated before, it’s possible I’m dealing with another variation. The familiar questions arise: Is my current treatment still effective? Do I undergo another biopsy? Would surgery even be an option? Would I have to consider a more aggressive treatment plan?

The analytical mind tries to navigate its way out of this maze, searching for certainty. But what I’m really seeking is higher ground—a vantage point that allows a wider view.

I haven’t thrown the baby out with the bathwater, per se. Years of learning about the disease process through German New Medicine, and experiencing its stages in my body in real time, have offered me an alternate way of understanding what my body might be doing. I hold this perspective as a lens—one that helps broaden my view and keeps fear from narrowing it.

In GNM, there isn’t a distinction between hormonal cancers and others, but rather an interpretation of how specific biological programs unfold through phases of conflict and repair. Much of what I came to understand was shaped through lived experience, recognizing patterns as they appeared in my own body. I only have my experience to reference. There is no right or wrong way—only the way I am no longer trying to dominate, especially since studying A Course in Miracles.

Because of that, I remind myself that decision-making has to come from a place not ruled by fear. I try to create enough space for difficult choices to settle, rather than forcing them into shape. That means listening beyond my conditioned thinking and first examining where the real conflict lies—always beginning in the mind.

What I’ve found is that when the way forward becomes clear, even if it isn’t what I wanted or expected, a sense of peace follows. There’s no pushing, nor being pushed. Instead, a quiet certainty settles in. I no longer hold many absolutes, except for the one thing that keeps me free in any situation—and that does not depend on my body.

I do not sense imminent danger. Quite the opposite. I feel vitally alive—nourished by sunshine, purified by the ocean, held by the abundance of love that surrounds me. What is yet to come has not arrived, and so I stay here, present, basking in the now. As the year closes, I recognize the same truth that has carried me along the river of life: let go, let God, and remember that nothing real can be threatened, and only love endures.

LESSON: MY SAFETY LIES BEYOND MY BODY.

Above painting “Alchemy” by maasa.ca

THE CONCEPT OF ME

by Maasaisis

Aren’t so many of us in search of meaning in our lives? Isn’t that quest ultimately driven by the age-old question, Who am I?

When we’re born, most of us don’t yet know who we are. As we move through life, we begin to fill that blank space with ideas shaped by our experiences and the people around us. We form an image of who we should be—one that reflects inherited beliefs about what makes us worthy, safe, and special. Over time, we find ourselves striving toward that image or resisting anything that threatens it.

Our sense of good and bad is shaped entirely by experience. Some of us are even taught to mold ourselves into someone else’s version of “good,” or to believe that what another person calls “bad” is actually right.

Being born can feel like beginning a painting on a blank canvas. At first, each brushstroke is our own, but as life unfolds, other hands begin touching the canvas—through influence, circumstance, and expectation. Eventually the shapes and colors morph into something foreign, something other than me.

So we keep painting, layering new strokes in search of meaning, hoping to finally create something magnificent. Yet the more we add, the more we forget what was there before the first stroke—the untouched space that quietly recognizes itself completely.

Perhaps our longing comes from that remembrance. In this way, the world becomes the practice ground—to learn to unlearn the belief that we must become something in order to find peace. We gently undo every version of ourselves we thought we needed, each one an avatar created for a different chapter of the dream. But who is the one dreaming the life lived through them?

It can feel mind-bending, especially when our senses insist that only matter is real. Yet suffering always arises at the borders of the self-concepts that make up the collective—the places where we divide and separate. When the little “i” of separation becomes the center of perception, we can’t fathom the all-inclusive reality of Love—a Love so abundant it breaks the laws of this world, where one’s gain must come at another’s loss. In the realm of the shared Self, what is given is also received, because the giving and receiving happen within the same One.

When I scrutinize what version of myself would finally make me happy, I see that I can never be truly satisfied, no matter what I overcome, do, or achieve. Fulfillment based on what my body does—or fails to do—is always temporary. I find myself asking: What are these values for? What version of myself am I protecting, and why am I so afraid of losing it? Perhaps it’s because I made it and it feels so precious.

The healthy self, the creative self, the strong self, the generous self—all exist beside their opposites, each quietly in conflict with the other. Life becomes a dance between these selves, each grasping at fleeting ideas of happiness and safety.

My state fluctuates with my mind. My vitality can be snatched away in an instant when old fears catch up with me in a single thought. Even when nothing around me has changed, the thought I don’t want this to change can take my healthy self hostage, seized by the one facing the formidable unknown.

These moments remind me, viscerally, that no version of my constructed self can protect me from impermanence. Peace can only be found through trust in divine law—the truth that we are already perfect, whole, and eternally safe as we were created, of the same essence, beyond any concept of ourselves we could imagine.

I can only begin to envision that everlasting beauty, and so I practice believing—trusting that what is real has never changed.

When I contemplate my true identity as a perfect creation untouched by what I think or do, I feel immense relief. Whatever I believe I am—or should be—has nothing to do with what I truly am. Beneath all layers of self-concept lies the original, unalterable holy Self, exactly as Love created me. This same unchanging Self lives in everyone, quietly waiting to be remembered. And because our minds are ultimately joined, remembering it in myself and choosing to recognize it in others helps reveal it in all. This is no easy feat, especially in the face of pain or injustice, nor does it turn me into a passive bystander to be tossed about. It does, however, give me the sense that I’m standing for something meaningful—something that points toward a freedom resting on stable ground.

Duality—the yin and yang of life—reflects the tension of opposites that governs this finite world. But what if duality was a choice we made with the first stroke on our canvas? What if we set in motion a painting meant to contain everything we thought we wanted, only to discover that no canvas could ever hold what we truly are?

And yet, beneath every shifting stroke, something changeless remains. The shared Self is untouched by striving, fear, or judgment. The world continues to teach and challenge us, but we can look beyond its rules for solutions—to step back, breathe, and question what is determining our state.

When the insanity and heartbreak of this world bring me to my knees, my practice is to return home—to divine reality—where our shared essence holds us, and peace is all there is.

Holding this paradox—the life we experience and the perfection of our true identity—is where I seek freedom. As we release the layers of self-concept that shift with every experience, we find steadier ground within. Each moment of awareness becomes an opportunity to return to that quiet, unchanging Self—the part of us that has never been lost. Even for an instant. And that instant can lengthen into the next, and the next.

Life is not about finishing the painting or capturing every detail perfectly. It is about remembering that the masterpiece already exists within us—the quiet assurance that nothing we do or fail to do can alter what is already complete.

ACIM LESSON199: I AM NOT A BODY I AM FREE

This blog was inspired by my reflections on my weekly ACIM Essentials class, “A Case of Mistaken Identity,” taught by Robert and Emily Perry at the Circle of Atonement. They have a vast selection of podcasts exploring A Course In Miracles here https://circleofa.org/podcast/

GOD’S GUARANTEE

by Maasaisis

I was searching for God in my dream last night. Where are You? I need to know that You are there. I need to know that I’ve invested in what is real. I need to know that Your promise is the truth. I need to experience it in a tangible way — through my felt senses, here and now.

And then, in an instant, He answered my call.

From the room of my dreamscape, I was lifted and suspended in the open space of my mind — my back to what I’d left behind, my heart open to the light that filled the sky. A surge of ecstatic love rippled through every cell of my being until I became it. God’s love filled all the cracks of fear and doubt within me. The joy I felt broke the lineage of time and folded into itself to always. The jubilation of receiving proof that I had placed my trust in Truth was the only answer I ever wanted.

I can still feel the realness of that dream — how my prayer was answered in a way so certain and strong that it carried into waking life. Its presence now is a guiding light through the trials we are to navigate. Our collective ailment of fear is like a house of mirrors, reflecting our individual plights in distorted ways — each of us wrestling with different shapes of the same illusion. Fear convinces us we are alone, fending for ourselves, while love reminds us that we belong to a unified force far greater than anything we face on our own.

What makes us feel so alone? It can only come from believing we are separate from each other. A Course in Miracles teaches that we were born from perfect love, created with limitless potential. Yet somewhere along the way, the idea of a separate self arose — what was One seemed to become many — a choice made through our own free will.

Making the choice to separate from the love that held us all is where our initial sense of guilt took root. Fear then becomes the fuel that keeps the illusion of separation alive. The Course helps me see that an all-loving God didn’t create suffering — we did, through the limitations we place upon ourselves, and by guarding the idea of the self we made.

It’s that time of year again — when autumn’s changing colors remind me that we’re moving into the season where darkness begins to dominate the day. It’s shedding time. The trees make it look effortless to let go and dare to be bare, but it’s not so easy for me to stand naked amid the landscape of my scurrying thoughts.

As the light gives way to darkness, so do my thoughts. My mind keeps hooking into where I was this time last year. Old stories have a way of repeating, creating more of the same — especially when a trigger appears. Yesterday gets dragged into tomorrow, skipping the beauty of today. The body follows wherever the mind gets caught. Fear travels that line and embeds itself in the tissues, plucking a string like a note on a guitar — echoing the story I thought I’d left behind. I feel the familiar tightening in my chest wall, and my breath hitches.

Unconsciously, my hand traces the smooth contour of what remains of my right breast — a stark contrast to the rough terrain of bound-up scar tissue beside it. The small leftover lumps that appeared on the PET scan lie beneath the part I got to keep. To feel them, I used to have to press my fingertips deep, but that has changed as of late. They are moving toward the surface, pronounced and making their presence known. My fingers anxiously feel them, a habit from before, which is taking root in the fertile soil of my mind. How easy it is to falter beneath the snowball effect of fear, to get lost in “what ifs” and “what to do?”

Nothing in my present state even comes close to where my mind tries to take me. Physically, I feel vital — stronger than I have in years. Yet fear, born in the past, has the power to erase all proof of truth in the now. The anxiety of having my current blessings robbed by what this could mean is a ball and chain that can easily take me down.

I anchor to God’s guarantee that I felt in my dream — that my true Self is not my body or the things that happen to it in the passing of time. I carry a small treasury of A Course in Miracles lessons within me — teachings that help me unhook fear’s grip and return to refuge. I steady my runaway thoughts with a remedy found in a lesson: I can be hurt by nothing but my thoughts. I breathe it in, examine my thoughts, and ask gently: What thought am I believing in?

At the root of them all is the fear that God would abandon me.

I have to admit — my faith is not yet whole. Somewhere in the shadows lurks a quiet terror: what if I’m wrong?

So I begin again — the slow, steady work of untying the knots in my thoughts. Finding freedom in reaffirming what I’ve learned and experienced. The evidence of receiving guidance and finding my way is held in God’s love, extended through His Sons and Daughters no matter what I am up against.

I want to affirm that my body’s sole purpose is to extend love — that life’s work is to forgive the false concepts we’ve made of ourselves and others, the ones that make us forget what we are really made of. Even when fear trickles in when I keep God at arm’s length, somehow His grace always invites me back Home, to where love lives and where I am forever safe.

POLKA DOT ORANGE LIGHTS

by Maasaisis

“I’m happy about your results,” my oncologist says over the phone. She’s relaying the radiologist’s report from my recent PET scan. I’m surprised by the felt sense of release, even though I had convinced myself that this time I wouldn’t let it get to me. I wouldn’t let the anticipation of the result become an invisible weight I carried. But it was still there. The difference is, I’m stronger now, and I can carry it without letting it drag me down.

Still, my light-as-a-feather release moment was short-lived. My quick translation of what she said was, “I’m done, I’m cancer free! Whoopee! Finally!!” But then she proceeded with what I didn’t want to hear which meant: it ain’t over yet.

The Coles Notes version is that there are lumpy remnants of disease bound up in my scar tissue. There are still a few small nodules left over from the breakdown of the big tumour. I focused on the positive: it’s no longer in my other breast, sternum, liver, lymph nodes, or in the suspicious activity that showed up in my right lung several months ago.

“There is a new lesion in your spine at T4 that we are going to have to keep an eye on,” she continued. It’s a game of give and take, and what is left over is where I have to count my blessings. My mind quickly grasped for an explanation.

I had two terrible falls last year where my heels went over my head and I smashed hard onto my back. Both involved slipping and landing on solid slabs of wet rock. The first time, I broke my fall with my left arm, which fractured my humerus and left me with a frozen shoulder I’m still patiently thawing out.

The second time was a classic ass-over-teakettle slip down the stone steps to my garden. That time I remember lying there motionless, afraid to move, praying that I hadn’t broken my back.

“Could a fracture or major trauma in that area cause a higher glucose uptake in the scan?” I ask. I can hear the desperation in my voice and feel my heart squeezing around panic. “It could,” she replies, “but the formal report says that it is likely a metastasis.”

This is how it starts: fear finds a crack to get in. If I look away and let it in, it will take hold—and that is what metastasizes and spreads. That is what alters my experience from being free to becoming a prisoner. I know I have to nip it in the bud—not with denial, but by shifting my awareness to a greater Reality that will guarantee my safety.

This is the thing: the radiologist is commenting only on the supposition in cases like mine. The last PET scan was done over a year ago, when the orange glows of sugar uptake in my report were polka dotted in too many places. Assuming that cancer “spreads,” all the orange glows led to the presumption that it was all cancer — even though healing tissue also takes up sugar. This is my own disclaimer on these super sensitive machines that pick up everything. I was never completely sure that was the case, but I didn’t want to biopsy bones and organs, so I went along with it, hoping it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It was most likely denial, but at the time, it was the only defense I had to keep going.

The radiologist comments on my scarring as a “surgical site,” which it is not. The scar tissue was not from a clean cut surgery. I wanted him to know what I endured—that I didn’t have the option for a quick and easy removal of my problem. It’s more like a mesh of healed tissue from a decomposition site. I find it mildly annoying that the guy writing this report has no idea what I’ve been through and writes without considering my falls as a possible explanation for the T4 light-up. I recognize my annoyance is guarding what I want to keep safe, so I let it go with my next out breath.

My oncologist is thorough and pulls up the last three PET scans, spanning two years, to compare them on her screen. “Maasa, you really should see the changes in the imaging. You can literally see those orange globes of light around your body dissipating with each scan. I think you would feel really encouraged if you could see what I see,” she says. I love this woman, especially because she wants me to just keep doing what I’m doing. And even though there is no real end to talk about in terms of treatment, I decide that this is good news—because really, it doesn’t change anything. I can keep living the way I am.

I had decided I wouldn’t live suspended on “what ifs.” There will be more tests, and the only constant is change in whatever direction life flows, so I’m training my mind to anchor to what is steady and forever. It’s ongoing daily work — practicing permanence in a world that only guarantees impermanence.

I was nervous when I signed up for a workout class that I used to do in my twenties. I’d been feeling the nudge to get strong, to push healthy oxygenated blood through my system for a house clean. To feel those endorphins combat the restrictions in my body, to be told what to do by a guy that inspires me.

Coach tells me not to ask questions and just do what he says. That is exactly what I need: just show up, do the work, and get on with it. I survived the first week of a strenuous, sweaty workout, which confirmed for me that so much of how I feel depends on the limits I place on myself. Sure, I have to modify here and there, but my body followed the state of my mind that chose not to let anything get in the way.

My monthly treatment in the chemo lounge was right after class on Friday. My veins were so pumped that, for the first time, the nurse couldn’t get an IV into me. It gave me a funny sense of satisfaction—even though it hurt to have her poke and prod until I finally relaxed and let her in.

It’s helping my mindset to know that the cocktail of two drugs for my targeted therapies does not damage my healthy cells. Instead of attacking fast-dividing cells like chemo, they target and block the receptors that fuel the cancer cells. The hope is that, without fuel to grow, those unruly cells will weaken. With me strengthening my own immune defense through everything I’m doing—mostly mindset, herbs, supplements, and exercise—they may eventually remember their true function and return to behaving like healthy cells.

My life can easily be defined by tests and the shifting statuses of this disease. What I’ve learned from the latest PET scan is that I’m still reaching for the finish line — and I don’t want to be in a race. My path is the one I’m on, and anticipating it to be any different will only cause me grief.

Tests come in three-month increments. Thankfully, the next one is an MRI, which I requested because I need a break from the radiation of these nuclear medicine machines. Rather than reaching for a different kind of life or pinning my hopes on a better scan result each time, I’m practicing being here now — finding perfection even in the nooks and crannies. To be an expression of the good stuff I want to share — and for the rest, I place the future in the hands of God.

LESSON 194 ACIM: I PLACE THE FUTURE IN THE HANDS OF GOD.

FROM WHAT IF’S TO WONDER

by Maasaisis

It is inspiring to learn that peace is something I can access within myself, but it requires a conscious choice. It may be fleeting—like the sea, calm one moment, turbulent the next, yet in the depths, it remains still—constant and ever-present beneath the moving waves. We thrash against what we cannot control, cling to what we don’t want to lose, and forget that deep below lies the safety we seek. When we focus only on what’s happening on the surface, it’s easy to get lost at sea.

It takes daily practice to train myself to believe that I am not a body, but it is the only idea that truly offers the kind of guarantee I seek. Every fear I’ve ever had comes from external circumstances affecting me, my loved ones, and the world at the physical level. So, I aim to manage how I think about the physical world in order to make peace with what I cannot control or understand.

Six years ago, right before the Labour Day long weekend, I left our beautiful campsite at Garland Bay on the shores of Kootenay Lake for a solo trip I’d been dreading for months. The lump in my breast had been growing, and I could no longer hide behind my stubborn denial. The biopsy was scheduled during our camping trip, just days before my daughter was to start Grade 4.

I didn’t want to be coddled or accompanied; I just wanted to slip into town, get it done, and return in time to savor our last summer hurrah together. She was only nine then. Today, she’s starting Grade 10—and here I am once again, waiting for scan results after the Labour Day long weekend. Interesting how cycles repeat, but this time I keep my peace close by.

I still feel the twinge of “scanxiety” lurking, trying to take hold with worries of the result. Each time fear rises, I anchor myself to my spiritual practice, drawing on the teachings that remind me of what is truly unshakable.

Mama and I decided to make the trip together to Kelowna, where I was scheduled for a PET scan at the B.C. Cancer Center. Seeing her navigate life with an uncomfortable ileostomy bag for months, after her emergency surgery for acute diverticulitis, reminds me of the resilience we both carry—and of the quiet strength it takes to live with open hearts amidst unknowns.

Mama rarely complains, even as the overburdened medical system made her wait long past when her reversal surgery was due. With thirty people ahead of her and a surgeon who works only twice a week, she has been patiently waiting her turn. We’ve both endured our share of bodily challenges but managed to stay afloat. That’s just how our family is—we don’t linger in self-pity; we strive to shift perspective until it becomes useful and meaningful. Together, we turned the trip to Kelowna into a celebration: good food, shopping, and the closeness we share.

Entering the Cancer Center, I leaned on my daily A Course in Miracles lesson. I’d started the 365 lessons at the beginning of the year, and that day’s—Lesson 240, “Fear is not justified in any form”—felt fitting for a waiting room full of uncertainty. I reminded myself that who I am, as God created me, can never be truly threatened, and that fear only arises when we believe something outside of us has power over our peace. Looking around, I felt a gentle compassion for everyone there, each facing their own mortal struggles just like me. The body is the ego’s most convincing disguise, yet beneath it, I held onto the awareness that our true nature is always safe—and silently shared what I believed with those around me.

Over the last two years, my main oncologist at the cancer center has been a steadfast ally. There is a mutual respect between us—one I might even venture to call a friendship. When I received the appointment for my PET scan at the Cancer Center, I asked if, by chance, she could see me for just a few minutes, assuming she was at work. The lovely ladies on her team conveyed the message, and my heart leapt when I saw her coming down the hall—I didn’t hold back my embrace, even though it was our first time stepping beyond the usual patient-doctor boundary.

I showed her the large scar where a third of my breast had putrefied and is now fully healed. She traced her fingers gently across it and congratulated me, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of us standing in the hallway, admiring my scarred breast as patients and staff walked by. Her effort to come see me, even for those brief but meaningful minutes, reflected her genuine care—and I felt it. That kind of love is its own medicine. I hugged her again as I said goodbye and made my way to the nuclear medicine division.

With this scan, I will gain clarity on the source of the lumpy remnants in my breast and whether any cancer activity remains in my body. Even though the body is not who I truly am, I need it as a neutral vehicle through which to extend my love into the world while I am here. The PET scan nurse guides me into a room and injects me with radioactive sugar, which will light up areas in my body if there are any hungry cancer cells. She reminds me to avoid pregnant women, babies, and children for six hours, as I will still be radioactive. I go over my prayers and fill my mind with thoughts of peace for forty minutes, allowing them to take effect. Then I step into the tunnel, and lay down in the hands of God.

I remembered all the times I tried to manifest the life I thought I wanted—things, circumstances, comforts. How often did I get what I asked for, only to feel empty again? Manifesting has taught me that I don’t truly know what I want. What I long for most is a peace that cannot be disturbed, safety that is guaranteed, and a sense of wholeness that comes from within and spills outward. It can only come from returning to my Creator and creation itself, already present beneath the layers of the human story. This is what Lump led me to learn—the greatest gift to come from the messiest part of my life.

During this time, we were caring for the last of our four pet rats, whose body was riddled with tumors. She was in rough shape, yet her insatiable drive to eat and be touched made it unbearably difficult to decide to play God and end her life. Each day, I watched her struggle and felt a conflicted mix of trusting nature to take its course while confronting the unsettling echo of my own journey with cancer. It reminded me of the uncertainty I was still facing, and that no matter how much I practice, the fear of death and the attachment to the experience of being in this body remain primal. I played tug-of-war between loss and what cannot be lost as we prepared for our Labour Day camping trip to Silverton, B.C., the day after my return from Kelowna.

Standing on the paddleboard, gliding across the crystal, glassy water of Slocan Lake, the mountains rose in their majesty all around me—a reminder of my place in the vast mystery. I landed in the kind of peace I had been seeking, where the debris of “what ifs”—the scan results and all that I cannot know—settled to the bottom of the still lake. I realized how long I had been chasing the “whys” of this disease, trying to make sense of it. At last, it didn’t matter to me anymore.

After exploring many spiritual traditions throughout my adult life, I have chosen one path to study and practice. Following the teachings of A Course in Miracles helped me navigate what could have been the darkest time of my life, offering an alternative perspective that shone a light onto what feels timeless and real. It resonates with me deeply, even though it will likely require practice for the rest of my life. My experience has shown that as long as love, forgiveness and peace remain my priority, the way continues to unfold. In this light, I can relinquish the “why” and rest in the changeless.

As the light of our perfect day yielded to night, Al and I walked down to the beach, drawn by the splendor of the star-filled sky. Above us, space unfurled in deepening shades of blue, dissolving into velvet black. Millions of stars glittered overhead, and the Milky Way stretched like a luminous river, a bridge leading me into the mystery.

The Big Dipper was straight ahead in my sightline when my eyes caught a light racing across the sky at incredible speed. Just as I exclaimed, “What’s that?” Al locked on too. Out of millions of stars, he found the very one I had seen ripping across the night. “What is that?” he echoed.

Moments later, another appeared—this one wavering, flashing, and veering at an odd angle like a drunk driver. “Another one!” I cried. For an hour, we watched as lights darted, flared, and streaked in ways no plane or satellite ever could. Dozens of them moved with impossible speed and strange, erratic patterns, like vessels skipping across dimensions.

They would appear out of nowhere, often right where we were already looking. The most thrilling moment came when two streaks hurtled toward each other from opposite directions, seemingly destined to collide—only to miss by a hair’s breadth to our naked eyes. And the most mesmerizing part wasn’t just the spectacle itself, but that Al spotted each one only a heartbeat after I did, as if we shared the same mind. “Are you creating them?” he asked.

“Am I… or is it us out there creating us here in this moment?” I answered.

We sat in the darkness, gobsmacked and spellbound. We wanted answers. Our minds wanted to know—what were they, why were they there, and what they were doing? It is in our nature to ask, to seek safety within the confines of understanding. But by releasing the “why,” we received the gift of wonder in the mystery. In the vastness that cannot be explained, we can let our imagination roam, embracing what cannot be contained and can only be experienced—even with lingering question marks.

Opal, our ailing rat, was still hanging on when we returned—still eating feverishly, dragging her broken body to the food bowl as if her survival depended on it. I noticed a small ulceration under her armpit, exactly where mine had been. And then, out of nowhere, just like the lights in the sky, clarity appeared in my mind. I knew it was time. I made a phone call, and the decision was confirmed with an opening that very afternoon.

I was surprised at how emotional I became. She had become a symbol of facing the impermanence and suffering of this world—to feel it all, yet anchor to what I believe to be true: that there are no endings, even when it feels so out of reach. I stroked her feeble body and repeated the ideas that have given me solace from the Course: You are not a body. You are free, for you are still as God created you. Love created you like itself—unto love you will return. As I choked out these words through tears that would not stop, I found myself caught in the beautiful paradox of yes, I know—but it still hurts.

It took another lethal shot for her eyes to glass over, carrying the palpable sense that she had left. From her ending here to another beginning, wrapped in the blanket of mystery, I felt the same serenity I had felt paddling on the lake—the stillness of peace where everything settled into its rightful place. She rests alongside the ashes of my grandmother, two of my star babies who did not make it to term, and other fur babies who passed before her. I used to push death away, unable to be too close to endings, but now I understand that it is love that allows us to be fully present as life flows out and on.

LESSON: PERMANENCE EXISTS IN THE MYSTERY.

AS WITHIN, SO WITHOUT

by Maasaisis

My doctors are careful to avoid words like miracle or cure during our monthly appointments. Living with stage 4 cancer that is currently inactive, they tread lightly, cautious not to spark false hope. They reinforce the same quiet disclaimer: for now, you’re doing well.

There are three doctors in rotation at my local clinic, each of whom I leaned on through the peak of my healing crisis. Whoever was on shift became my lifeline that day, meeting me wherever my crisis happened to land.

I will never downplay how profoundly grateful I am to live only five minutes from the hospital. Over time, I came to know most of the oncology nurses, and they came to know me—by name, by story, by the rhythm of my visits. They were always just a phone call away, always prioritizing me when my body went through its strange, frightening eruptions and changes.

This is one of the many blessings of living in a small town: care feels personal, human, and near.

The female doctor is warm and kind, yet she never sugarcoats the truth. She has a practiced way of sliding the tissue box toward me when my eyes well up, speaking plainly about what I’m facing, her soft eyes full of sympathy, even while she knows there is only so much she can do.

The younger male doctor has a bit of doom‑and‑gloom vibe, yet when it mattered most—like the day I reacted badly to the drugs in my IV—he became tender and human. I told him I was scared, and he anchored me with his steady presence, holding my hand and staying by my side until the heavy sedative finally pulled me under.

The doctor I’ve gravitated toward—maybe because he’s also a contractor like my husband and enjoys his band—is light, funny, and warm. He gives me hugs, reinforces what’s working, and encourages me to lean into optimism. He understands how I operate and does his best to support me, even when he doesn’t always agree. He’s a good match for me because, with him, I feel completely at ease to be myself. I’ve even shared some of my more ‘out there’ protocols with him, and although he sometimes raises an eyebrow, he never dismisses or downplays the way I approach my healing.

Each of them, in their own way, does their best to guide me with the wisdom their experience has given them, while staying within the boundaries of their profession—where “best‑case scenarios” are measured by statistics from funded research. But there aren’t many statistics for people like me: riding shotgun with Holy Spirit and focusing on healing the mind because I believe healing must first take place in the mind before the body can follow.

At my last appointment, I wasn’t expecting the young doctor—it was a Thursday, the day my easygoing doc usually works, but he was away. My heart raced a little faster, alerting me that my nerves were picking up the signal: I was uncomfortable. Sitting across from him always feels like breaking the ice. He carries a quiet sadness, as if he spends his days delivering news he’d rather not give, and suddenly I felt anxious—wondering if it had something to do with my blood test results.

As I waited for him to open my chart, I debated whether to ask the question that had been hovering over me—the one about wanting a goalpost for the end of my treatment.

Even with lingering restrictions from scar tissue left by the tumor’s ulceration on my right side and a frozen shoulder on my left, I’m on a mighty comeback—those unruly cells have receded and remembered their true function in a surprisingly short time. But miracle is not a word I can freely use in that room, so I hold it close as my own secret.

My tumor markers have been clear for months. My last two CT scans cautiously describe me as “responding exceptionally to treatment.” Not cancer-free—never that—but exceptional nonetheless. There were tiny nodules detected in my right breast, which could simply be scar tissue puckered into a four-inch seam where the wound finally closed—or it could be residual disease, the inevitable disclaimer.

It’s hard to know without a PET scan, which is more sensitive to metabolic activity and can better distinguish active cancer from scar tissue. But PET scans aren’t handed out lightly—they’re expensive and usually reserved for getting answers that could lead to a new direction in treatment.

Why do I need to know more if I’m responding so well? Because treatment indefinitely feels too permanent for my free spirit. I’d have to advocate for myself and convince my oncologist to get me that Cadillac scan.

“How long do I continue with treatment?” I asked, testing the air, careful not to wander into the dark territory where his answer might trap me.

“You’ll continue until it stops working, until the cancer mutates and we have to try something else.” He looks at me as if I’m a ticking time bomb.

I slammed my shell shut around the pearl of the life I’ve reclaimed—the bright, miraculous reality of surviving what I did and feeling like it’s finally behind me. I ended my line of questioning, course-correcting the trajectory back toward my happy life without disclaimers, where the only ticking is the joyful beat of my heart.

When I leave the clinic, I return to the place where my real processing happens—my canvas. Painting is both a spiritual practice and a mirror, reflecting the oscillation between what I want to release and what I want to embrace. It’s the dance between fear and love, the discomfort of not knowing, and the willingness to reach beyond that uncertainty to explore what is possible.

Facing a blank canvas feels much like facing the uncertainties of my life—grappling with the desire to grasp certainties where none exist, only to find clarity in the ebbs and flows as they come, which then shapes the terrain my mind will inhabit.

I’m not a formally trained painter. I don’t plan ahead; my ideas take shape gradually, layer by layer, percolating beneath the surface—some elements stay, others dissolve into the underpainting. Often, what I see in my mind or feel in my heart doesn’t translate through my hands, which is deeply frustrating. Sometimes, my inner critic is so harsh it makes me want to give up entirely.

This is the darkness that hovers beneath the bright light of my creative inspiration—the same kind of trap the mind sets when it dwells on the thought that this body may never be fully free of disease. It’s easy to get stuck, feeling down and out, if I let it have its way.

A respite from the circling back of my disclaimer came in the form of a woman who had purchased a painting from me. She had worked as a curator at the Tate in London and other prominent art institutions. She is launching a passion project—an advisory and curatorial platform born from her extensive experience in the art world—dedicated to creating space where underrepresented artists’ work is fully appreciated and thoughtfully presented.

She told me she’d been following my work and felt a deep spiritual connection to it—the light within it. She wants to represent me and help bring my art into the world, with plans for exhibitions in LA, New York, and London. I was thankful that I believe in miracles because this definitely felt like one landing right into my inbox.

During our Zoom call, I connected with her instantly. Through her eyes and passion, I saw my work anew. She spoke with sincerity and joy, and I felt the unmistakable stirrings of purpose—that I could extend my love through my creations beyond my little town, with her as an ally. A contract was promised, with her taking only a small commission, and I accepted, allowing myself to rest unguarded in the grace of it all.

But the contract didn’t come. Not the next day. Not the day after. Days stretched into silence. My mind turned violent on itself: She changed her mind. She saw how much of an amateur I am. How foolish to believe I could belong in that world.

Every time I sat at my canvas, my insecurity bled into the colors. My painting became chaos—a mirror of my spiraling thoughts. After four days, I finally sent a gentle reminder via text. Still nothing. I felt small and stupid.

Eventually, my sanity recognized that my ego gripped expectations and outcomes with white knuckles, spinning lies and judgments that made me miserable. I returned to my hourly spiritual practice with renewed vigor. I prayed to release the thoughts I did not want and anchored myself to a new perspective. I sent her love and gratitude for recognizing my light and released her from my expectations. I chose to return to the ample abundance already present in my life. I chose to love everything about my life in that release—and something shifted.

I approached my canvas with a willingness to let go, covering it with a bold layer of glaze. There would be no turning back after this move—I’d have to surrender the small part in the center that I loved and didn’t want to change. The rest was a busy swirl of colors.

Nervous but determined, I washed my canvas with a cool blue and a warm ochre. The chaos stilled instantly, creating a quiet space to begin again—from a different vantage point, this time guided by the eye of my heart. Creativity returned: tender, curious, and flowing.

The release I felt was palpable, and on that very day, the woman wrote back. She apologized—her mother had suffered a medical emergency that had consumed her attention. We can never truly know what others are going through, but what we can know is that everything we experience is a choice, and our choices shape how we perceive life. It was a powerful lesson in how easily the mind can distort reality, and how love and release can restore clarity.

I don’t know what will come of our relationship, and I will not cling to any expectation. What is clear is that painting is crucial medicine for me—a place where I can process and choose to trust that I’ll find a way through the muck in my mind to the purity of joy, peace, and beauty that reveals the essence of my spirit. I’ll keep painting, and I’ll keep finding my way, regardless of where it might lead.

So, I choose not to accept any disclaimers in my life. I choose to trust that I will know when it is time to change course, to glaze over what needs to shift, and that by seeking a better way through love and peace, I will always be shown the way.

LESSON: WHAT I THINK IN MY MIND, IS WHAT SHAPES THE LIFE I LIVE.

Above painting by Maasa: “As Within, So Without” – Inspired by teachings of A Course in Miracles. “Love created me like itself.” When we offer love to fill the space between us, it ripples outward— received by all, for love recognizes only itself.

THE GIFT OF SAYING ‘YES’

by Maasaisis

Being in a position where I regularly faced mortality gave me the gift of valuing what has always been free, yet so easily overlooked. My devotion to love was mostly reserved for my immediate family, nature, and a few very special friends I could probably count on one hand. I’ve never considered myself a particularly social person. Truthfully, I’d much rather hunker down at home—where all my needs are met—than seek out company.

But that part of me has shifted. I’ve come to deeply value what can unfold when I choose to connect and leave space for something new to reveal itself. So when I received an invitation to my cousin’s wedding—a cousin I hadn’t seen in years—I said yes. Even though the timing wasn’t ideal and the airfare would be costly, I recognized it as an opportunity to reconnect with extended family and chose to go.

The matriarchs of our clan—as we fondly call ourselves, being descendants of Scots—are now in their mid-80s and 90s. It’s a rare and precious occasion for all of us to be together, and who knows if there will be another opportunity to connect and celebrate in this way again.

I had once travelled through India with the cousin who now, at 61, was preparing to be married. After being a bachelor for most of his life, it felt like a miracle that he had found his greatest love. I knew I needed to be there—not just for him, but for myself. This precious life is meant to be shared, and my experience has taught me that it’s always worth making the initial effort to connect with others. The gift we give by showing up is also the gift we receive.

It’s been nearly six years since Lump came to mentor me. In that time, I thought I understood so much—yet ultimately, I still understood very little. I’d like to think I’m now closer to gaining a deeper understanding of the biggest question. That question has shifted—from asking why I got cancer to a deeper devotion to how I can stay on a path of love in a world that seems to be growing more loveless by the minute.

How can I nurture connection in a world so divided?
How do I discern whether I’m being guided by an intelligence that knows what’s best for me, rather than the voice in my head that simply wants to be right?

This is how I’ve been gauging my healing: by observing the thoughts that occupy my mind, and by my willingness to examine what’s dominating my mental space—and change it if it’s not in alignment with how I ultimately want to live.

I was at the airport on my way to the wedding when I ran into a friend I’d been thinking about. I had even considered reaching out after hearing she was going through a health crisis. But, like it happens for so many of us, I put it on the back burner—letting other things take priority over the persistent nudge I kept feeling.

The truth is, I was afraid. I was scared of how unwell she might be, and I didn’t want to face it—because it would stir up my own insecurities about my health. Then guilt would follow the avoidance, and denial would mask the act of looking away. This is the typical pattern of our default survival mechanism—and even as I become more aware of it, it still takes conscious effort to break the cycle.

The moment I saw her, I recognized it as my chance for a do-over. But the airport was busy—she was heading outside just as I was going in. I genuinely wanted to connect and told her she’d been on my mind. I could feel the moment slipping away, so I said, “Let’s talk in the waiting room once we’re through security.” There was only one flight into the city, so I knew we’d be on the same plane.

She agreed, and I went in first to clear security. The waiting room was packed, but I managed to find a seat with an open one beside it. I saved it for her, holding onto the hope that we’d get a chance to catch up.

The woman beside me started chatting with me. I’ve come to learn, through A Course in Miracles, that any encounter holds the potential to be a holy encounter—a moment where the barriers between two people dissolve. It is through these connections that we can begin to heal ourselves, each other, and ultimately the world. So I chose to be present and engage with her, even as my eyes continued to scan the room, hoping to spot my friend.

Our conversation came to a natural pause when the woman beside me turned her attention to her phone. I took it as a sign to look for my friend again. I thought about leaving my things on my seat to walk around the waiting room in hopes of finding her—but I noticed an almost anxious energy rising in me as I stood. I sat back down.

That’s when I heard a clear voice in my mind say, “Don’t worry, you’ll sit next to her on the plane.”
What? I responded internally.
Then came the doubt: “Here you go again, thinking you’re hearing the Holy Spirit. You’re just making it up.”
And then—quiet, steady—“You’ll find out. Now let it go.”

So I did. I let it go, sat back in my seat, and relaxed until it was time to board the flight.

I used to always strive to be early, driven by the stress of wanting to get ahead of everyone to save time. But knowing better now, I stayed in my seat until most people had boarded. Just as I leisurely made my way to the line, I spotted my friend doing the same from across the room.

There you are! I said. Too bad we only have a few minutes to catch up while we’re in line.

I asked about her health, and she gave me the shortest version as she pulled out her passport with the boarding pass tucked inside. My eyes caught sight of the seat number peeking out, and suddenly my heart burst open—tears welled up in my eyes.

As soon as the boarding agent cleared us through, I poured my heart out to my friend about how much it meant to me that I’d received the message we’d be sitting together. I didn’t hold back—she was the kind of person who would understand. In fact, she too had been gaining a similar understanding. As she put it, “We are not the ones in charge.”

It wasn’t just that the message turned out to be true. It was the confirmation I needed—that the way I’ve been learning to step aside, to get out of my own way and seek guidance in my healing journey—is the right way. The only way for me. Because the truth is, I’m never making these decisions alone.

We were both given the gift of a full hour sitting side by side, sharing our stories and the lessons we’d each gathered along our healing journeys—each echoing the same truth, spoken in our own way. There was a deep joy in realizing that we are waking up together—in ways we may not fully understand, but with a quiet faith that something we are seeking is unfolding. And I do believe it’s happening on a collective level.

The crazier the world seems to become, the more I sense a quieter, steadier voice within us all—beckoning us to choose again. To choose alignment with peace. With love. To remember that there is always another way to see—one that brings us closer to wholeness, and closer to each other, no matter who we seem to be on the outside.

The great clan gathering at my cousin’s wedding was the most love-filled icing on the cake. I had many heart-to-heart conversations that affirmed something we all seemed to know deep down: that love is the only answer to help us through the mess of the world. Attacking and dividing only create more of the same. The wise matriarchs of our clan radiated joy, wisdom, and steadfast love—and inspired me to age with that same kind of grace.

My heart swelled seeing my beloved cousin so deeply in love, so alive with excitement to begin this chapter with his bride. My two brothers were there, and I couldn’t help but feel proud to be their sister—two kind, thoughtful, and hard-working men who carry strong family values. I spent precious time with my three cousins, each of whom I’ve shared meaningful chapters of life with, and my favourite witchy aunties—shining gems and radiant examples of joyful, spiritually-rooted living. As an added joy, my beloved friend—and friend of the family—arrived in perfect timing, lighting up the gathering with her bright, beautiful presence.

There was so much love in that intimate gathering, and I silently thanked the Holy Spirit for guiding me there—to receive gifts meant not only for me, but for all of us.

LESSON: EVERY ENCOUNTER IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO CHOOSE LOVE.

UNFORESEEN VISITOR

by Maasaisis

Lately, I’ve had several graphic dreams of giving birth. I wake up wondering what they’re trying to tell me. Maybe it’s about birthing something new—a sign of the life that’s been extended to me—or perhaps it’s my body speaking, mourning the loss of the monthly cycles that abruptly stopped over a year ago when I began hormone therapy. A rhythm that often synced with the full moon and had accompanied me since I was twelve.

I didn’t have the capacity at the time to make sacred the closing of my fertility. I skipped the slow transition and dropped straight into the volatile swings of menopause within a month of starting treatment. Not that I was planning on having another child at this stage of life, but it still felt too soon, too sudden, and too permanent. With my life on the line, it was a sacrifice I didn’t give much credit to—just something I let go of without a proper goodbye.

Life in survival mode barely registered the radical shift from mother to crone. I felt myself aging from the inside—losing weight rapidly, aching joints, thinning hair, a fading sex drive, and dry skin. I couldn’t tell whether it was my body under siege by cancer or the absence of the hormones that had kept me feeling bouncy and womanly. All of it took a back seat to the tremendous effort it took just to keep my mind from cracking under the relentless pain of my lump unraveling over those months.

With my monthly cycle dormant, the familiar waxing and waning of my internal rhythm has shifted into a new tide—one of unpredictable waves, where heat rises without warning and chills follow like a shadow.

My husband and I decided months ago that whatever sleep we could get in separate beds was far more valuable than insisting on sleeping together. At first, it was hard—after twenty-four years of sharing our bed and sleeping within arm’s reach. But now he can snore away without worrying about keeping me awake, and I can thrash around, kicking the blankets on and off, fiddling with the wireless fan all night long. It works for both of us—and yes, date nights still happen, even if I have to talk myself into it. I wasn’t about to let that spark die, even as my body smouldered quietly in the background—my sense of identity rebelling against the slow withdrawal of my sexual desire.

I stopped hormone therapy when my cancer shifted from HER2-negative and hormonally driven to HER2-positive and protein-driven—a mutation I believe was triggered by starving the cancer of its hormonal fuel. At forty-eight, it was unlikely I’d regain fertility, even seven months after stopping the hormone blockers. For someone who once relished deep, uninterrupted sleep and napped regularly, the hormonal upheaval and circadian disruption stole what had been my superpower: sleeping through just about anything. I even became an early riser—for the first time in my life.

Recently, I’ve turned a corner—sleeping better, feeling less discomfort, and no longer riding the thermal rollercoaster. I convinced myself that the initial storm of menopause had run its course, that I’d paid my dues and finally got the hang of being a crone. I even packed on some weight that, just a few months ago, felt impossible no matter how much I ate. I took it as evidence of my body returning to homeostasis—a healthier new normal.

Another vivid dream of blood between my legs—and today I finally understood: these dreams were heralds of a reckoning with what was lost. At first, I was baffled. Then I burst out laughing, holding the evidence on toilet paper, and announced to my family, ‘No way—I got my period!’ Suddenly it all made sense: the weight gain, the return of vitality, the longer nights of deep sleep, my tender breasts. My womb has resurrected to it’s normal function—and it’s shedding what’s left of my eggs! I’m giddy, even as the familiar cramping and bloating return—sensations I haven’t felt in so long. My body is staging its own comeback, offering me a gentler, more natural transition into cronehood—a redo of what was taken too soon.

I’m amazed by the intelligence of the body—how it can pick up where it left off, even after everything in between. I carry a map of scars, proof of my undoing and remaking. To reclaim what was lost feels like a quiet miracle. This return reaches far beyond a biological comeback—It’s a homecoming to myself, and a reminder that what was once lost can be found again.

LESSON: WHAT WAS LOST MAY RETURN IN ITS OWN MYSTERIOUS TIMING.






ANGELS AMONG US

by Maasaisis

Mama loves to shop. What used to annoy me now brings me joy, as I’ve learned to nurture our relationship by appreciating what lights her up. Our closeness was forged in the volatile years when my cancer dominated our lives — years that taught us both to drop our armour and revealed the gift of holding each other in our vulnerability.

I finally feel that the gap between us is nearly closed — the gap that perhaps began the day I was cut out of her belly and taken away. The gap that widened during the three long days it took to return to the familiar sound of her heartbeat.

I used to yearn for her to hold me in a way that made me feel loved — not through the gifts she showered on me, but through presence. For a long time, love felt disguised in things. But now I know better. I understand that her love was always there, potent in its truth no matter how it was given.

I was happy to be on an outing in the next town over, where we planned to have lunch and visit Canadian Tire — a store that would satiate most of her shopping needs. Knowing her particular taste for good food, I chose a Thai restaurant that I knew would meet her high standards, hoping to nourish her well before setting her free in the aisles of that giant store.

She hadn’t had an episode of her debilitating stomach issue in months — the kind of attack that would double her over in pain and cold sweat. They were frightening to witness. Every time Da and I tried to convince her to get it checked out, she recovered soon after and brushed it off. Deep down, I knew something serious was going on. But I also knew I couldn’t force her to look inside — not when I was well aware of the scanxiety that comes with medical screenings.

I convinced myself the homemade probiotic yogurt I’d been making for her had healed her. Every week, I’d buy organic half-and-half, carefully heat it to pasteurize, then combine Lactobacillus reuteri and Lactobacillus casei Shirota — probiotic strains known for supporting gut health and promoting restful sleep. I fermented the mixture for thirty-six hours in the SousVide I’d invested in to make our medicine. Because of the heavy use of antibiotics I’d taken over time to treat chronic infections from my ulcerating tumor, I’d become susceptible to colitis. I was determined to heal my gut — which I did — and I truly thought Mama’s had healed too… until she ate that spring roll.

She took two bites and gave me that unmistakable “uh-oh” look, instinctively clutching her gut. A wave of foreboding settled into my own stomach. Not here, not now, I thought. Our red curry was still on its way, but even as I tried to distract her with conversation, we both knew it wouldn’t be wise to fuel more heat into her already-agitated system. I took a few bites and asked to have it packed to go while Mama visited the washroom for the second time.

“Maybe we should just go home,” I suggested.
“No, I’m fine,” she said, slowly getting to her feet.

The best medicine was only a few blocks away, where she could tick off everything on her shopping list. Torn between my fear and my better judgment, I decided to let her lead, trusting she knew what was best for her.

She leaned heavily on the shopping cart, pausing and wincing between aisles. Breathing through her pain, she still managed to find the best deals for what she was after. I was impressed, but I still feared that if she escalated to the level I’d witnessed before, we’d be in serious trouble. I rubbed the small of her back, feeling the heat radiating through her shirt, beads of sweat collecting at her brow.

We still had to pick up my car from the detailers yet another town over, which meant we wouldn’t be home for at least a couple more hours — including the stop we had planned at our favourite discount grocery store. She was adamant we stick to the plan, even as it became clear the digestive meds from the drugstore had done absolutely nothing.

Our ride home was cloaked in her quiet endurance, punctuated by sharp breaths over the bumpy roads. Da was already deep into teaching a four-hour seminar online by the time I got her home. I still had the morphine I’d relied on to manage my acute pain for so long, and we’d used this strategy before — a small dose had taken the edge off, and she’d usually be fine by the next day. I practically had to carry her to bed. After setting her up with a heating pad, I gave her the opiate. Let’s wait and see was our family’s go-to plan, always reluctant to face the ordeal of going to emergency.

I’d just settled back at home when my phone rang — Mama on the other end, asking if she could take another pill. Without hesitation, I got back into my car and drove the short distance to her house. I could hear Da’s voice, still presenting in Japanese, coming from the basement. He couldn’t have known that his wife was upstairs, grimacing against the pain that was stealing her breath away. The moment I saw her — her hair plastered to her sweaty, pale, crumpled face — I made the decision. “I’m taking you to emergency, now,” I said, switching to Japanese so she would really hear me. She did not have the strength to argue.

I’m convinced that angels were watching over us, especially after what Mama shared with me a few days later, following her emergency open surgery. Had I not taken her in that moment, had she not been seen quickly in the ER, had I not pushed for a CT scan so adamantly, we may have lost her. She had ruptured her intestinal lining due to an infection that even a strong dose of IV antibiotics couldn’t tame. A severe case of diverticulitis had her ambulanced to a bigger hospital where a surgeon was waiting to assess her.

The connection between thought, feeling, and experience became painfully clear as I battled my fear, clinging to the lessons I’d learned throughout my own healing journey. What was supposed to be a two-hour surgery was now stretching into four. What had the surgeon found once he opened her up? How bad was it? Could she die? My belief in the worst-case scenario truly tested my faith in what cannot be taken away.

I finally got the call I’d been waiting for.
“She’s out. She’s okay,” Da said.
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I replied with a huge exhale.

The surgeon had told Da she could have died without the emergency operation. He’d removed a large section of her badly perforated sigmoid colon and attached a temporary ostomy bag. A long line of bulky staples was etched down her belly where the incision had been made.

When I saw her the next day, I knew — both in what I felt and what I saw — that she had touched something otherworldly.

“There are angels everywhere, Maasa,” she said.
“What? You can see them?” I asked.
“Yes. I can’t see their faces, but they’re like flowing, transparent curtains — and there are so many of them. They’re rushing to help the nurses, helping the people here.”

Her eyes glassed over with emotion as she spoke. “One of them came to me and whispered in my ear.”

She couldn’t understand what was said, but she was completely assured that everything — no matter what — would be okay. And then, she told me, Jichan and Bachan — her parents who had long since passed — came to let her know that there is nothing to fear on the other side. That they are all there — the ones who passed.

I’ve rarely seen my mother cry, but these were tears I recognized — the same kind I’d shed when I felt closest to God during my own brush with death. Goosebumps rose on my arms; I knew she was telling the truth.
“I also saw you with the angels,” she said. “But you weren’t transparent. You walked right by my room, looking for me, and I kept calling out to you.”

I hadn’t been to that hospital until then, but she accurately described the hat I’d worn the day before. I believe prayer can override the laws of the physical world. Somehow, as I clung to faith that my prayers were being heard, I had found my way to be close to Mama.

“Then the strangest thing happened,” she continued. “I found myself hanging upside down… among smoked kippers. And I was completely at peace.”

“Kippers? Like herring?” I asked, puzzled.

I didn’t connect the dots — until Da did. His father had spent much of his life working in a kipper smokehouse in Scotland. Mama felt his presence watching over her in that very place, as if he had come to reassure her himself — confirming what she’d already been told: there is nothing to fear beyond this life.

After a week in the hospital, Mama came home. She’d lost her voice from the tube that had helped her breathe during the long hours of surgery. It feels like she still has one foot in the world where angels abide. Something has shifted in her — a quiet certainty born of what she experienced, which only deepens the ground where I’ve placed my own faith.

LESSON: “God’s angels hover near and all about. His Love surrounds you, and of this be sure; that I will never leave you comfortless.”- Complete and Annotated Edition (CE) of A Course in Miracles.

NOW WHAT?

by Maasaisis

The acute phase of survival has since passed, and in its place, a gap has opened—space that wants to be filled. I feel the aftershock in residual tremors, my footing seeks traction in the space ahead. Now, life back to somewhat normal pulls me into the trap of restlessness—as if I need to make up for what I’ve been through by becoming someone of more value.

It’s ridiculous, but even after all this, it still comes to get me. I’m still getting duped by the habit of assigning value to what I do, instead of resting in the quiet grace of all that’s been given to me. Even as my intellect understands that I’m already at home base, the self I’ve constructed keeps me running—from the perfection of how I was created.

I feel the pressure to do something significant in return for the extension of my life. I thought I was done with the rhetoric of that harsh inner voice—the one that drives me to do more, to be better. But ego is loud, convincing, and insistent—sending me out in search, while I forget that I’ve already been claimed by an inherent happiness that asks for nothing in return.

Cancer takes up so much space—not just as an all-encompassing distraction, but as something that gave meaning through the effort to survive. The biological malfunction that became my greatest challenge also cracked me open, allowing light to come in. Now that I have a relationship with that light, I’m on alert for what blocks its shine.

I feel the tension of knowing that my scramble for purpose is rooted in fear—the fear that if I don’t fill the gap with what I make of myself, the disease might return and do it for me. So the focus shifts to the next problem—whether it’s the volatile state of the world, the financial pressure we’re all facing, or the endless causes I feel helpless to do anything about. It’s all an outward projection of the same thing: I’m still trying to fix it from the outside, instead of settling back in.

As I sit here after my quiet morning contemplation, I’m reminded that ego will have me seek but will make sure I never find. It distracts me with a sense of urgency to do something, anything for an illusion of a fix of what can’t be fixed from the same level where the problem was created.

I’m finally free of that horrendous pain that once felt like it would never end. But the gift of coming out of it is so easily forgotten as I latched onto the next mountain to climb.

The unsettling sense that I needed to do something should have been my cue to pause and examine the root of that urgency. Instead, I convinced myself that I could be of value by helping my husband, a developer, and jumped into a path entirely outside my norm—just as I was beginning to come up for air. The idea felt so far removed from my usual operating system that I mistook it for clear guidance. So I enrolled in a university-level course to become a licensed realtor, with the intention of selling the units he built.

It only took ten days of misery—battling my brain to retain information I had no desire to keep—before I could admit I’d made a mistake. The choice came from fear of the open space that was actually meant for my happiness. I’m still on the mend, still receiving ongoing treatment, and still hold my breath when I click open my blood test results every three weeks. My gratitude for my health had been misplaced in what I could do with it instead of simply basking in it.

I’m of value because I’m still here, doing my best to live and share what I’m learning. Even though I don’t fully understand how, I trust I’m doing my part for the healing of the collective. This is what I return to when I find myself spinning out of orbit. To come back home to happiness and shine out.

LESSON: MIND IS STILL ENOUGH TO RECEIVE THE ANSWER THAT IS NOT ENTAILED IN THE QUESTION. -A Course In Miracles

It’s important to mention that much of what I write is inspired by my ongoing study of A Course in Miracles. That said, studying it doesn’t mean I fully understand it. It continues to meet me exactly where I am, gently guiding me to live to love.

Above painting by maasa.ca