Tag: family

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.

TUG OF WAR

by Maasaisis

I thought that if I played by this new set of rules, I would be able to maintain at least some semblance of my old life. If I took a long enough nap late in the day, I should be able to gather enough energy to be in fine form for the flamenco show. That’s what I thought. What was supposed to be a short nap turned into over an hour. I peeled my eyes open, groggy and heavy. The voice inside said, ‘Get up, shake it off!’ so I put on my flamenco shoes and dragged myself into position to practice our set.

I noticed right away that the music was coming in muffled through my right ear, the one that’s been plugged periodically for the last couple of months. Nausea set in after my first spin, and every stamp of my nailed shoes reverberated through my bones. This distraction threw me offbeat, and suddenly, I had no idea what the next move was. I panicked and tried again, but my body lagged behind. I just couldn’t keep up.

The doctor said these medications would make me feel old, physically and mentally. The thought of getting ready for the show overwhelmed me. There are many voices arguing in my head: ‘Do it again, practice!’; ‘Just lay down, you’ll be okay’; ‘Forget it, who are you kidding?’; ‘Tough it out! Stop being dramatic!’ I fall into bed, sobbing uncontrollably because I know it’s not going to happen.

There is a tug of war between the part of me that is fighting for what I feel should be mine and having to let it go because I have to. The new set of rules is that it changes moment by moment. The lesson? There is no wisdom to be found in the midst of a messy meltdown. I only have this blank page to spew out my discontent because I need to let it out so I won’t implode. I’m angry that what I was looking forward to was snatched away from me. I’m grieving the fact that I can’t plan to look forward to something. I’m grieving the days lost in sleep.

I understand the lesson about letting go and living in the moment—an enlightening way to strive to be. I keep receiving this message repeatedly, but when the moment takes me away from what lights me up, I feel utterly defeated. Then, the guilt of admitting defeat drowns me under the wave of self-loathing. The internal conflict rages on – one side mothering the wounded child, the other seething and clinging to all that I used to be. One side yearning for a sense of control and predictability, the other acknowledging the futility of such desires on an unpredictable health journey.

People keep saying how strong, courageous, and beautiful I am. The truth is, that is how I used to see myself. That version of me is fading into something else that I can’t find. I don’t recognize what I’m morphing into, and it’s scary. I’m at that place that happens in every painting process—the place where I have no idea how to move forward, where everything doesn’t look right, and I don’t know how to fix it. I feel vulnerable and exposed in this stuck place. The only thing that keeps me going is trusting the process. If I just keep showing up in front of the canvas, something eventually shifts, and my whole perspective on the painting changes, allowing me to break the spell — to find beauty and meaning where it wasn’t before.

I know I will come up for air with a fresh look around. If not now, it will come. Thank God for my angel of a husband, who envelops me in his love no matter what state I’m in. Even when I want to push him away, he holds me until I eventually melt into him. He cries with me, and in doing so, he helps me open up the floodgates so I can just let it all rip, allowing me to feel everything just as it is.

LESSON: THE RULES CHANGE MOMENT TO MOMENT