Tag: healing

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.

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

Hold Fast

by Maasaisis

We are wired to problem-solve, but what happens when the problem affects everyone, yet the solutions feel different for each of us? How do we navigate the collective terror of impending doom—the world vibrating with angst and division?

Fear reigns over what we cannot control, convincing us that we can escape it or defeat it. But how can we “win” if we’re operating from the same mindset that created the problem? Chaos persists because everyone has their own truth to defend. As long as there’s someone or something on the other side of the battlefield, any victory will be short-lived. A Course in Miracles teaches that we must leave the battlefield entirely, beyond the mind that believes in the battle.

So, where do we find our security? At the root of my dis-ease lies scarcity, loss, pain, and death. It’s where I land when the reality I created feels like it’s crumbling into nothing. How can peace be found in what we cannot control? No amount of running, hiding, or fighting against the manifestations of fear will bring lasting assurance. True safety can’t be found through opposition. As long as we fight to protect what we inevitably can’t keep, we lose—like sand slipping through our fingers.

Why do we seek love, happiness, and joy? Because these are the essence of our making, and we long to return to them. Yet, we perceive them as fleeting—things that can be taken or lost.

Often, our gains come at the expense of someone else’s loss. For example, I may celebrate my health by comparing it to someone else’s suffering. This is how ego tries to make me feel safe, but it’s a sham. It convinces me that I’ve escaped a similar fate, while instilling the fear that it could still happen to me. What kind of assurance is that?

But what if the truth is that we already have all we need? What if our inheritance cannot be lost? If the body is what separates us and our identification with it is the source of all our problems, can we look past it? In that understanding, we would no longer be bound by our mortal predicament.

My survival instincts peaked during my own battles with fear. No amount of effort could overcome its formidable force as long as I believed what it was trying to convince me of. What was it trying to tell me? That I am a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, destined to suffer and fade into being forgotten—with that being the end. But what if the thought that believed I was a speck changed?

All problems originate in the human mind, shaped by a survival-based perspective. Even billionaires feel they need more to secure their existence, just as those struggling for their next meal or seeking escape from unbearable circumstances. The form may differ, but the underlying fear remains the same.

I’m learning to anchor myself in what cannot be shaken—in the intangible realm beyond the part of my mind that feels threatened. It exists in a space where no imaginable worst-case scenario can affect it, untouched by forces I could ever conjure. This requires faith.

I keep holding fast to what I can’t fully understand, yet it miraculously keeps my light lit. I’ve learned that everything I long for is just a thought away—if only I can grasp it. If I succumb to the fear of the possibility of cancer coming to get me again, if I believed I was ‘incurable,’ life would just be a ticking time bomb. That’s no life at all.

There is a way out of nightmares if I recognize that I’m in one and choose to open my eyes. The evidence of this in my life inspires me to keep trusting, even without knowing where it’s leading me. All I know is that this is the only way I know how to do this—whatever this is. My only job is to leave the battleground within myself and bridge the divides in my everyday life, however they appear.

Anything I hold against myself or others only brings pain, even if it’s unconscious. Perhaps the helplessness of witnessing the chaos in our world can only be healed by seeing it for what it truly is—a beast born from the errors of our thinking, and therefore, something that can be undone. Each time we catch ourselves in attack mode and respond with loving forgiveness for what we’ve forgotten, we create an opportunity for change—a change that serves us all, starting with each mind choosing peace.

Does this mean I roll over and don’t take a stand? No, but I can take a stand while holding fast to what can’t be changed in a world dominated by change. A radical shift is necessary in these unprecedented times, which amplify our collective fear. Isn’t it time to try something different to break this cycle of division? I trust in a mighty force that works through each and every one of us when we remember what can’t be taken.

If every interaction reflected the larger whole, and we had the choice to mend the divide—regardless of how things appeared on the surface—would it be a practice worth engaging in? If we viewed conflict as an expression of fear and a desire for safety, recognizing that, in this way, we are all the same- would it shift our perspective on how to approach it? Wouldn’t we help each other from that place? If we are truly connected, then human relationships become the mirror through which we see our relationship with ourselves at the deepest level—and an opportune place to heal from.

Perhaps miracles happen when we step onto a playing field where no one needs to win and fear cannot enter. But first, we must allow the possibility of such a place to exist in our minds. I believe that as we shift from fear to the safety of love, the ripple will spread—benefiting us all. What I’m certain of is that the paradigm of pointing fingers only repeats the same patterns. A Course in Miracles is gently guiding and inspiring me to question the dominance of fear. That’s where the real healing is taking place, and I believe it’s extending outward and beyond.

LESSON: I’m eternally grateful for the community of mighty companions studying the Course alongside me—teachers and friends who dedicate their lives to making these teachings accessible for all of us. I’ve never truly felt like I belonged until I found the Course. It has literally saved my life. There are study groups happening all over, all the time. This is not a profit-based organization but one that genuinely seeks to contribute to the healing of the world. Here’s the link if you feel a tug. https://circleofa.org/

DON’T ASSUME ANYTHING

by Maasaisis

As I sauntered into the frigid water amidst the flurry of screams, splashes, and gooseflesh, I was reminded of the simple yet profound lesson: don’t assume anything. The annual polar bear dip in the lake has become the only real symbolic tradition our family shares.

It began during the debaucherous phase of my husband and my early courtship over two decades ago. Still thoroughly inebriated from the epic party of New Year’s Eve, we impulsively jumped into the bone-chilling glacial waters of Kootenay Lake, desperate for a cure from our horrible hangovers.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, this impulsive act would evolve into something far more meaningful. What started as a way to rid the debris of toxicity transformed into a symbolic ritual—clearing the slate for a fresh start each new year. I had so much to release from the most challenging year of my life.

Leading up to the grand event, I was still pleading for respite from the debilitating pain induced by my chronically infected wound. It was outrageous to even consider jumping into a lake already laden with bacteria, made worse by a slew of people transforming it into a cesspit of infection-loving agents. Not to mention, I was on standby for a palliative mastectomy, which wasn’t for a curative cause but rather a necessary step, with its own unknowns, in order to proceed to the next phase of treatment that would hopefully nuke the cancer.

I had reached—or so I thought—a stalemate with my eight-month ordeal of enduring the gruesome ulceration of my tumour. Only in hindsight can I see the blessings hidden within periods of doubt, suffering and fear. I wouldn’t have been eligible for surgery if not for the recurring infections. I wouldn’t have started the new treatment had my cancer not mutated into a different kind. I was ready to let go, my hands open.

But my hands gripped, white knuckled in the darkness. At night, my trust waned, smashing against fears and contradictions of my own making. My heart raced with the terror of losing parts of myself. What security was there in what I was willing to give? My mind fought, freaked, and froze around runaway thoughts that I could not control. Would I regain mobility in my already compromised arm? Would I be left with a Frankenstein version of my current wound, along with a donor site that might not heal properly? Would my cancer run rampant? Death lurked close by, and faith was but a whisper in my shallow breath.

With a new day and along with the light, I pray to strengthen my trust in letting go. The more I release the need to control and arrange the world around me to feel safe, the freer I become to recognize the path unfolding for me. I’m learning to trust this way because I feel at peace with the next step—only as it unfolds. When I analyze and weigh my options, mingling them with combative emotions, all that happens is that I go around in vicious circles. Decision making brings only anxiety and uncertainty. I cannot be trusted operating from this place.

In my right-mindedness, I see how my perceived safety net is hooked onto anchors that aren’t secured deeply. My constant attempts to rearrange and stay on top of what I’m trying to control only make the net tremble, precariously holding everything together.

This is why A Course in Miracles teaches me to let go of what I think I know and offer my free will for guidance—to see beyond the mind I have constructed and trust in what I don’t yet have the capacity to understand. It’s a big ask, one I often meet with resistance: to take responsibility for all that I don’t want to feel, while finding empowerment in giving up what I’ve given power to.

The help I’ve received has come in ways I could never have planned or imagined for myself. My nemesis, the staph infections that prevented me from getting chemo, instead allowed me to receive the gentler targeted therapy portion of the IV cocktail.

I never would have imagined that one treatment of the targeted therapy would reroute me into the lake. By the time the surgeon called me back just after Christmas, my wound had transformed from an angry, oozing mess into something that actually looked like it was healing. Before I could share this update, he gravely explained that I would need invasive surgery to remove my breast, cut into my pectoral muscle, and go deeper into the chest wall. This would be followed by extensive reconstructive surgery requiring specialists. I’d have to carve out parts of myself to remake what had been taken away—all with the looming risk of poor healing or the cancer compromising me further.

He was surprised and excited when I told him that my wound looked better than it ever had—that it actually seemed to be closing with healthy tissue. For the first time in over a year, I no longer needed morphine to manage my pain! He agreed that the best path forward was to get on with treatment as soon as possible.

My path continues to twist and turn in surprising ways, reminding me that a higher working order is in play when I choose to trust. The onslaught of antibiotics for my infection had concerning repercussions on my gut. When another three weeks passed, I received the same unorthodox treatment without the harsh chemotherapy. Truth be told, I’m still terribly afraid of chemo. Even though the infection and gut issues looked horrible from the outside, on the inside, I felt as though I was being gently guided to not be afraid.

The genetic testing result I’d been waiting for over two months might be ready before the next round of treatment. Knowing I have a good match would give me the courage to shift my perspective and fully accept chemo as medicine, not poison. I’m placing my trust in divine timing and also leaving room to have no set plan in place.

My practice is to remember to stay open, even when I feel the urge to close tightly around all that is precious to me in an attempt to protect it. There is a paradox in handing it all over, where freedom intertwines with the terror of letting go, until the moment both hands open. I keep coming up for air on a regular basis. I forget, and then, by the grace of God, I remember that life cannot be truly lived while fearing the loss of what we love. A Course In Miracles teaches that Love is the absence of fear.

I’d triple-secured waterproofing over what was left of the open wound—an upside-down heart-shaped opening where my breast used to curve. Below it, a bridge of healthy tissue between another meaty section that’s shaped like a semicolon. The deep, long and narrow bottom of the crevice, prone to infection- hidden for months, had finally widened and risen to the surface to dry out. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d fully submerged in water.

Albeit the middle of a Canadian winter, the beach was devoid of snow. While the weather was milder than in other years, I still hopped between my bare feet, stripped down to my bathing suit. A sizable crowd had gathered, many of whom I recognized as seasoned veterans, shrieking with excitement. Da danced around in his bathing knickers, my husband hollered, Mama was, as always, ready to document with camera in hand, and my teenage daughter grimaced against the cold. Together, we prepared for the plunge, my family by my side.

This was it—we all needed to press the reset button, and this time, I would do it with focused intention. For the first time, I didn’t rush in and out. I took in every step of the way into whatever comes next, and found my way back to shore.

LESSON: WHAT I THINK I KNOW DOESN’T PROVIDE THE KIND OF SECURITY THAT I SEEK.

WAILING THERAPY

by Maasaisis

I’ve been waiting for my husband and daughter to leave for the day. The house is still, amplifying the sound of my pacing feet. I feel as though I’m going mad, squeezed by a vise grip made of my own flesh. My shallow breath crashes against the tight wall of my chest with nowhere to go. Anxious and writhing in pain, I feel that something is going to snap. I don’t feel right inhabiting this tight and torqued body. The urgency of something needing to happen overwhelms me. I don’t know what—until I open my mouth.

At first, I’m stunned by the sound. It comes from the deepest, darkest cavern of my being. Every ounce of my energy is behind it, driving it out from a place that has been dormant. Once the channel to the exit is open, it moves with force. The ceaseless sound of anguish reverberates against the vaulted ceilings as waves of crying, wailing, howling, and screaming crash against the walls around me. It’s a cathartic symphony, raw and primal.

Somehow, my fur kids, Apollo and Tuzzo, instinctively keep their distance, as if sensing this for what it is—an animal release. The vocal purging eventually stops, followed by a silence broken only by my panting breath. From this untamed ceremony, I’ve discovered newfound space within the constriction of my body—a respite from something other than the focus on my suffering. A gift from chaos.

This is yet another edge I have to find my way around, through or over. No matter what it looks like on the outside, energy needs to move.

I’ve been sounding out what I’m up against—my wailing therapy is not just about release; it’s a reaching toward life. I must keep moving toward life, even as the intensity of these last few weeks tries to pull me away. Even through hardship, I’m visited by angels always close by.

They have been showing up through people and moments that remind me I’m still here—precious and deeply loved. People are pouring their prayers over me, bringing me beautiful meals, offering meaningful gifts, sending fortifying messages, giving me deep heart-to-heart touch and soulful conversations. I hold fast to the life and love that make this wild ride bearable.

My heart has cracked open through adversity, creating space for love to funnel through. It tends to the sharp edges, where tears of agony alchemize into beams of light. My heart is wildly awake, with an incredible capacity to feel it all—the mix bag of everything—and still keep pumping for life.

I’ve never felt closer to my family and friends. I prioritize to be free of grievances and the trivial things that used to bother me. I no longer feel intimidated by beautiful, powerful women—I want to draw them in and shine their beauty back to them. I’m drawn to elders to hold me in their wisdom. I give myself permission to present myself as I am. I don’t avoid talking to people I don’t know. I cherish taking time to do just about anything, giving value to what I can do, and doing my best to let go of what I can’t. I’m learning to forgive…mostly myself. I’m not afraid to express that I’m scared and to claim that I don’t know anything, which fortifies my faith in God.

I’ve changed my mind about many things, allowing me to bend with what’s happening. These are profound gifts bestowed upon me during the most challenging of times.

This post has come together in fits and starts, mirroring the rhythm of my days lately. My daughter and husband shaved off my hair as I declared my readiness for chemo, only to find out the day before that I had another bout of a nasty staph/strep infection that postponed it. It turned out my body had become resistant to the last round of antibiotics. The persistence of this infection is what needs to be addressed before the nuking of cancer cells. This deep-seated inflammation surely contributed to the maddening pain.

This chronically festering open wound poses a challenge for chemo, as the treatment will wipe out my immune system, leaving me dangerously vulnerable to the effects of this recurrent infection. I had to laugh at the irony of my premature hair shave in the middle of winter. Still, I’ll offer it up as a symbol of my readiness—a gesture of my willingness to do whatever it takes. I was able to proceed with the immunotherapy portion of my treatment, and a meeting with a surgeon was quickly arranged to discuss the possibility of debridement or a “palliative mastectomy.”

The word “palliative” has come up a couple of times now. I’ve deflected it, swatting it away like a bee that wants to sting me. This word has the power to make me retract from life if I let it. So, I am choosing to see it as I would the word “may”—a word that leaves room for possibilities, for this or that, and everything in between.

Now, as we approach the time of the birth of Christ, I search for the light of Christ within—the light we all carry, the light that connects us to each other and to this crazy, beautiful life. What else can I do but seek and follow this light? What else can I do but keep reaching for love and life? Though I may not know where I’m going, I keep finding jewels in the most unlikely places. That tells me I’m on the right path. That tells me to just keep going.

I close this year celebrating what I’ve gained through what I’ve endured and what I’ve let go of. I’m doing what I can and accepting a whole lot of unknowns. I’m learning, making mistakes, getting real messy, while striving to keep my heart open. I don’t want to leave anything important unsaid. I hold ambition and inspiration in keeping my dreams alive.

I move toward a new year by placing one foot in front of the other, step by step and breath by breath. I send my deepest gratitude for all the love and support I’ve been given. I believe in the power of love as the most potent medicine to do this dance of life. We’re all dancin’ in our unique ways, but we’re doin’ it together. And when the music shifts, breaks, and stops as it naturally does, may we remember to keep dancing—however we may, even if it is only on the inside.

LESSON: KEEP DANCING