Tag: healing cancer

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/

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

THE FALLEN NIPPLE

by Maasaisis

I’m examining a part of myself that has been with me all my life, now detached and between the tips of my tweezers. It’s surreal that this blackened, shrivelled raisin of a thing once served as my daughter’s comfort and source of nourishment, nurturing her growth for over two years.

“Should we say something?” my husband asks. My stomach churns in a strange brew of fascination, disbelief, and horror. My nipple has fallen off and it is no longer a part of me.

There have been so many levels of letting go. A year ago, I was finally ready for a mastectomy only to learn I wasn’t eligible. For the last six months, my body has been breaking down this fist-sized ball of unruly cells in a painful, gruesome process—my body’s own way of giving me a mastectomy.

The fleshy crevice is nearly closed, and the sheer force of tissue pulling together brings the most intense pain, surpassing even the avulsion fracture in my left humerus from my recent fall. After my third staph infection due to this open wound and low immunity, I’ve accepted antibiotics as part of my treatment plan. Once my foe, antibiotics are now my ally—a testament to the softening of my once-rigid way of thinking.

The right side of my torso and arm feels like it’s rusting—heavy, creaky, and persistently achy. It’s a diversion from the new lump growing in my other breast. This unwelcome newcomer has a genetic twist, playing by a different set of rules from the other side. I’m not sure if experience has lessened the shock of another cancer or if I’ve simply become immune to adversity. Either way, there’s nowhere to go but toward acceptance, mustering the fortitude to keep going.

“Thank you for being a part of me. Go in peace,” I say. I package up my nipple to be buried with our son, whom I miscarried years ago. What I’m sharing may seem like tragedy and hardship, but I’m seeing it differently. I’m recognizing how much I’ve let go of, which has helped me grow in ways I may not have otherwise. I’m finding confirmation of this in how I navigate these experiences.

There are only two ways of being. In this cocoon of metamorphosis, I can be trapped in darkness or held in light, depending on how I perceive my experience. I’ve started simplifying my approach to life: whatever is not of peace must be examined, and it’s my work to practice finding my way back to peace if it’s absent.

Some days, I crumble under the weight of it all. In the catharsis of unyielding pain and exhaustion, I cry out for mercy. There are thoughts I dare not voice—because if I say them aloud, they might become real. My mind swings like a pendulum between what I have gained and what I have lost. Tonight, I mourned the loss of what was once my perky pink nipple. Tomorrow, I hope to gain something that will illuminate my way forward.

I’m managing my pain while readying myself for the next stage of treatment. There are many moving parts, and they can only be organized from an eagle-eye perspective. Looking back over the last five years, I see that my milestones of growth have come through loosening my grip on what I think I know, acceptance, and my willingness to see things differently—to choose a perspective that doesn’t trap me with nowhere to go.

Now I’m waiting to have my sternum biopsied. We need to determine if the metastasis there is related to the hormone-driven cancer or the new one. If it’s connected to the original cancer and the other is contained without spread, surgery may be recommended. If there is spread, I’ll need to consider systemic treatment for both. The thought of surgery no longer terrifies me. My attachment to appearance no longer enslaves me. Accepting help no longer feels like defeat.

I’ve decided to be proactive and use the remaining funds that this incredible community raised for me towards genetic testing. If I’m to have faith in conventional treatment, knowing that guesswork is minimized would be helpful. FoundationOne, an FDA-approved lab, uses biopsied tissue to identify mutations, amplifications, and other alterations to match targeted treatments. Though it’s unfortunately not covered by our healthcare system and comes at a high cost, this step feels essential for my peace of mind and the best way forward.

I didn’t want to fight to get my oncologist’s sign-off on this or to help me apply for the grant. Her support is essential in moving forward and incorporating this information into my treatment plan. After a four-hour drive and praying for a smooth meeting, I was met with warmth and her full support.

I’m not the same person who once held strong judgments and rigid beliefs. Reflecting on who I was, I see how much I’ve softened the boundaries of what I thought I knew. On a good day, I as Spirit feel more real than I as body. In surrendering my attachments—to appearances, outcomes, and certainty—I’ve discovered that guidance often arrive in the most unexpected and affirming ways. I yearn for connection, to bridge the gap of differences, and to find refuge in the love that unites us all. In this way, I feel closer to God and all of creation, and in this connection, I find my peace.

LESSON: I AM WILLING TO SEE THIS DIFFERENTLY- I CHOOSE PEACE INSTEAD.

-Teaching from ACIM

CHAOS TO LOVE

by Maasaisis

The process of biological changes manifests as loud, outer expressions, screaming for attention. It’s so easy to be swept away by these acute sensations and fall victim to them. When my focus latches on, it’s like a ravaged dog clamping onto a bone, unwilling to let go. Escaping the madness of what all this could mean requires a quantum shift in awareness.

Now, both breasts are mutating. For months, I’ve been witness to the gruesome disintegration of a mass that, depending on my mindset, can look like healing or like cells spiralling completely out of control. My awareness has evolved, revealing just how easily I can be whisked into victimhood and pulled into dark, unsettling territory. This new lump on my other breast is a different cancer—its subtle emergence allowed it to slip under the radar of my current treatment. It is not hormonally driven which means I’ll have to consider an alternate plan.

The use of my right arm now has limitations due to the swelling of trapped lymphatic fluid under my armpit. This breast has shrunk to half its size as the tumour corrodes. My right wing feels taut, wrapped tightly, like it’s encased in saran wrap. I’m quite certain there’s tearing in my tissue from all the stretching thats causing the edema. The open crevice reveals a dark abyss where there is a battle taking place. The other day, I pulled out a piece of rotted flesh the size of a loonie, and the sight of it made me woozy. Is this process of tissue dying off a form of healing, or am I slowly breaking down?

Yesterday, nearing the end of a peaceful forest walk, a distressed call from my daughter coincided with my dog getting into a vicious dogfight, instantly changing my state. Whirling around, I stepped onto a slippery rock, sending my phone and legs flying into the air. I broke my fall with my good arm and went into immediate shock. It felt as if the opening on my breast ripped wide open, while pain shot through my shoulder and wrist on the other side. The tranquil forest suddenly became a stage for my screams, echoing alongside the brutal sounds of the dogs fighting—a symphony of chaos amidst the silent trees that my daughter heard on the phone lying nearby.

The thing with chaos is that it can feel like the entirety of time, pulling us into its trap. The dogs stopped when my boy, Apollo, sensed I was in trouble. Somehow, he knew I was more important than the fight and came right to my side, whimpering and crying with concern. I lay there, terrified of the damage beneath my bandage, now with both arms compromised. All I could think was, ‘Are you fucking serious? More pain?’ My mind quickly spiralled into blame—the wrong shoes, the dog fight, the phone call—but I caught myself and changed my mind. That road will take me nowhere but down.

Becoming something of an avid traveler in my mindscape, I recognize the familiar downward spiral. Each descent reveals traps and my entire existence hinges on if I can step over the traps and respond to life in an affirmative way. Can I find peace amid so many frightening, moving pieces? No, not always and not right away. What I’ve noticed is that when I strip everything down to this very moment, I’m okay. Nothing is imminently ending. If I separate myself from the pain as an external experience, I can find pockets of respite simply by being here.

As I type, each press of a key reminds me of what’s wrong with me, but I counter it with, ‘Well, at least I’m writing, at least no bones are broken, my boob is still in one piece, I’m eating, and above all, I am so deeply loved by so many.’ What’s truly scary is not knowing what will happen. Grounding myself in what I do know is the only solid counteraction I can hold onto. As long as I anchor myself in love without clinging to it as something I might lose one day, I have the magic antidote to get me through the toughest of days.

I have been stripped down in a way that has allowed me to love myself by truly accepting love from others. Suffering is the sickness of feeling utterly alone. I’ve finally allowed love in. I feel the sparkle of all my relationships shining bright like a lantern, guiding my way forward. In this torn-up world of differences, love is the only medicine. It’s the glue that binds us to life, enduring through whatever is thrown at us and staying with us always.

PEACE BE WITHIN ME

by Maasaisis

Waiting with bated breath is what truly needs healing. But waiting for what? To live my life after this disease? No. The sooner I accept that cancer exists at the periphery of my life, the less I’ll be tossed around by it. I recognized the terror that surged from my gut to my throat when the doctor shared his concern. The chill that spreads and touches every part of me is all too familiar. It’s the dread of not knowing—and not wanting to know—that settles in the pit of my stomach like a heavy stone, landing with a thud.

Denial is an incredibly adaptive force, conjuring escape routes around what I do not want to accept or face. I recognize my defence mechanisms from past experiences, even when they are disguised as something else. Although they strive for reassurance, they do not change what I ultimately have to confront. My mind has been stretched in analysis, trying to explain the escalating pain I’ve been feeling lately. I chalked it up to the deep, open wound on the side of my breast, convincing myself that “pain is part of healing.”

This journey has taught me that darkness requires acknowledgment to bring it to light. Everything kept in the shadows will eventually find a way to recruit every aspect of my being and pull me in. Pretending it’s not there doesn’t heal it. I am terrified of screenings and the possibility of discovering what I don’t want to see. Accepting this fear as real—one that needs to be reframed—I did everything in my power to hold on to my peace while undergoing multiple screenings and awaiting results. My body feels like a battleground, but my spirit beckons me to stay in a place where it can’t be touched.

The flesh straddling the dark, ulcerated crater is trying to bridge the gap with formidable force. There’s an intense gravitational pull attempting to seal the opening, like the tide responding to the moon in the natural order of things. It’s like a rolling wave building as it moves toward the shore, dragging and tumbling the ocean floor with it. My right side feels torqued, stretched, and pulled in unnatural ways—like wearing a tight corset with little give. The wing of my shoulder feels clipped, but I’m reminded that I can create space in my mind where flight is always possible.

As I reflect on my experiences, my understanding of resilience is evolving. I’m beginning to embody the idea that resilience is about claiming peace, regardless of what’s happening outside. It’s about finding the still center of the cyclone while remaining within it. This place is always available—just one thought away. It can’t be reached through force; it’s found by letting go and trusting that I’m held.

It’s a choice to hold fast to faith, knowing that no matter what, I’m being guided to experience what I came here to learn. I am discovering what cannot ever be threatened and what endures. I’m learning about healing that goes beyond just healing myself.

What a huge relief it is to finally acknowledge that I don’t know anything. My suffering stems from the belief that I must know—doing whatever it takes to gain a sense of control over situations that are inherently uncontrollable. Each time, I come up with a version of what I’ve used in the past—a formula for being okay. Yet every solution has its holes, allowing familiar fears and doubts to creep back in, prompting the same defenses, which are bound to fail.

No matter what response I conjure in the face of fear, it’s always made from the same fabric of past coping mechanisms. So, I find myself questioning this entire approach to situations beyond my control. Admitting that I have no control—and no permanent fixes—leaves me with only one option: to hand it all over to a higher order.

This reckoning—the act of taking the terror of not knowing, putting it into a bag, and handing it to a higher power—feels like the only place where true refuge exists. I hand it over and say, “Here, take it all. I don’t know anything. Please, know for me.” It’s a release from the constant circling of old patterns, which only ever lead to that same desperate place, shaking and quaking, where the mind’s analysis inevitably leads to darker holes.

I tether myself to prayer, mooring my mind in peace to be guided through whatever my human experience brings. I anchor myself in the love that sustains me, believing in what can’t be changed and is everlasting. I pray that my situation does not hurt those I love. It is this love that inspires me to choose—again and again—to seek and find peace in uncharted territory.

My screening results showed regression of the disease in my liver and lungs, countered by the progression of a new lump in my other breast and possible growth in my sternum and pectoral area. It’s a mixed bag of information, but I was able to accept it without curling up into a ball. Though it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, I recognized strength in my own voice as I navigated the new information and considered what it might mean.

I am utterly done with letting this disease run the show—keeping me teetering on the edge of creating my own hell, held hostage by the wait for test results and the worst-case scenarios my mind imagines. I refuse to remain a victim of helplessness. What I do know is that resisting what needs to be accepted leads nowhere; panicking or making decisions from a place of fear only perpetuates suffering. I may have to pivot, change my treatment plan, or do things I don’t want to do. There is a place in my mind where turbulence can’t reach me. It is there that I will find my way.

LESSON: “I do not know what anything, including this, means. And so I do not know how to respond to it. And I will not use my own past learning as a light to guide me now.” – A Course In Miracles

PURGING

by Maasaisis

My ego is revolting in a ceremony of resistance and release. I feel the need to purge what must come out, yet it fights to maintain its territory of self-importance. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve felt the escalating buildup. Yesterday, I was finally able to wail it out.

This wave began with the news of a beloved friend who released herself from her body. Her sudden departure shocked me, and it could have easily sent me spiraling into existential conflict. Yet, I was granted the grace of space, allowing me to recognize the importance of honoring her Spirit. Her light, which can never be extinguished, illuminated this understanding. It’s the very light that exists in me, though I’m still shaking as I hold onto this insight.

This isn’t spiritual bypass, where grief is avoided. Instead, it’s about facing the attachments I hold and allowing grief to show me hidden truths that can either pin me down or heal me. Grief offers a small peephole through which I can choose to look, revealing what I keep hidden—the true source of my suffering and the fears I hold.

As I held space for feeling her loss, I noticed how terrifying it is to confront the impermanence tied to our bodies. We live in a world full of endings, yet we invest so much into holding on. We compromise, manipulate, control, and arrange our external world to dull the overwhelming fear of deep loss that we’re afraid to feel. Although this struggle manifests differently for each of us, I believe the root of all our suffering is our quest for peace that already exists within our Spirit.

For some, peace seems unattainable while in the body. For others, the experience of being in the body becomes the catalyst to discover where it’s always been. Perhaps our individual paths ultimately lead to the same place—a place that is always available and within reach. Aren’t we all striving to return to our indivisible nature, to fill the gap that can only be filled by love—love that encompasses everything and always? Isn’t that what peace is: resting in a place where nothing can be taken away or need to be changed?

The more I question what occupies my mind, the more I become aware of the traps within the labyrinth of my thoughts. As I strive to surrender the meanings I have assigned to the things I cherish, my ego retaliates with ferocity, expressed in my body through pain. I am an apprentice alchemist, learning under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. I feel the stirrings of a revolution of undoing.

What can be understood intellectually must still be alchemized into knowing. This process often requires breaking down the components of what held it together so it can transform into something of value and importance. For me, this breakdown process is extremely painful—a metaphor unfolding in the slow, rotting process of a heightened crescendo, punctuating my five-year saga with my lump.

Undoing this story means waking up to a new one. It’s happening in fits and starts, with many do-overs. My ego wants to fight, and my body is the battleground where this struggle unfolds, intensifying the pain the more I seek solace in God’s peace. It rebels, demanding that I focus on the peaking discomfort that calls me into the darkness. I want to escape, but I won’t find the exit where there’s a fight.

Death and pain are the ego’s most powerful tools for convincing me that all I am is confined to my body. The moment I release this belief, I create space for what exists beyond. Perhaps that’s where we can find the truth we’re searching for. Nothing external can replace what I already possess, though the world tells us otherwise.

A Course in Miracles teaches that peace exists in removing the obstructions to love’s presence. So, I continue to do my best to redirect my attention to finding love, and I often find it easier to access this love outside myself—through the strength of love I have for others. This beautiful distraction offers respite from the attention that pain demands.

The thing about practicing anything is that nothing is permanent while we are here. The light switch flickers on and off within our mortal predicaments. In a world where our peace can be so easily disrupted, I must continue to practice. This practice will look different for each of us, but the shared ground we stand on is our deep desire for peace. I believe we will all arrive there, beyond the space of time and in a place of always.

LESSON: SEEK NOT WHAT YOU WILL SURELY LOSE. CONTENT YOURSELF IN WHAT YOU WILL SURELY KEEP, AND BE NOT RESTLESS, FOR YOU UNDERTAKE A QUIET JOURNEY TO THE PEACE OF GOD. -ACIM

JEDI MIND TRICK

by Maasaisis

I’m continuing to explore the idea that life is an interpretation of my thoughts and feelings—experience springs from choice. Choosing peace requires self-awareness and radical responsibility. Though I’m taking baby steps with plenty of do-overs, I’m encouraged by discoveries that make my heart leap.

The root cause of my experience boils down to mindset. I remind myself that my experience is shaped by what I choose to focus on and the meaning I assign to it. Do I choose survival or invulnerability—fear or Love? This choice ripples through my perception and behavior. My mind decides between two realities: what is divine and impenetrable, or what is mind-made chaos. The latter, always shifting and crashing, reveals that I’m making it up.

I want to invest in what can’t be changed or lost—what always has been and always will be. It’s easy to focus on problems, especially when they manifest in the body. Disease is loud and demanding, using pain and dysfunction to dominate our experience through fear and survival. Yet, beneath this turbulence lies the quiet presence of salvation, always available if we have the insight to look deeper.

My eyes are like film projectors, playing the movie of my mind and keeping the focus on me. As long as that focus remains, it traps me in a closed loop of my own making. Initially, the thought of taking responsibility for what I don’t want made me angry and defensive. It’s easier to blame a raw deal or believe I was dealt a bad hand, but these are just excuses for the meanings I’ve assigned. Like a magnifying mirror that turns a tiny hair on a mole into a porcupine quill, our minds amplify what’s unwanted, making it seem impossible to remove. The only solution is to decide it’s not there.

I’m not suggesting I should retreat into denial or ignore my body’s needs. If my life reflects where I invest my attention, perhaps I should focus on what can’t be taken away from me. Everything happens in my mind. Even when my body signals pain, discomfort, and dysfunction, it’s my mind that pushes me into exasperation. I can choose to flip the mirror and see the whole picture. I can decide to give and receive what is impenetrable.

What if death is merely an illusion of the mind that believes in endings? The mortal predicament often causes scrambling and suffering. Investing everything in this body, destined to fail, is precarious.

A Course in Miracles teaches that Love created us to be like Itself. Love is the only thing that cannot be threatened or changed; its purity is unwavering. Our misery can be compared to a nightmare: we feel alone and scared until we wake up and realize it was just a dream. Can we apply the same perspective to our waking nightmares? Even within the human dichotomy, what if we could choose to awaken and understand that we are held in the immutable truth of our indestructible nature?

What if the way out of the fog that brings us together in our miseries is to lift each other up by holding each other in the highest regard? If we are truly One, healing through right relationship feels more genuine than healing ourselves in isolation. It seems more attainable to project love outward and trust that it will rebound back to us, breaking down the barriers we’ve created to love ourselves. I feel this is the next big step in understanding healing. I’ve been so focused on my own healing and feeling isolated, but now, thanks to A Course in Miracles, I’m realizing it’s not just about me. It’s about how I see myself in relation to others and how I perceive them.

If peace is our inherent right and love is our essence, then every genuine act of love—whether in thought or action—brings us closer to uncovering what we already are, hidden behind the fog of our own making. It often feels easier to see others in their perfect wholeness than to see myself that way. By focusing less on myself and holding others in absolute love, free from judgment, I feel like I’m discovering a crucial piece of the puzzle. It seems like a valuable and worthwhile practice to pursue.

I liken this viewpoint to the way of the Jedi. George Lucas, the creator of Star Wars, may have drawn inspiration from a similar place in the galaxy, as the Jedi Code emphasizes focusing on peace and being aware of rash actions driven by dark thoughts. A skilled Jedi becomes aware of triggers that lead to conflict and turmoil and uses the Force, which connects us all, to create a peaceful mindset. This reinforces the way of the Jedi.

Perhaps the Force itself is love. When we look away from it, we create things that break, hurt, and end. The dark force uses every tactic to misdirect us from what cannot be destroyed, making us believe that life happens to us and forces us into an endless battle.

It’s like a Jedi mind trick to use love as the tether to correct the belief in all things that threaten us. We feel threatened because we feel scared, alone, and vulnerable. I find incredible relief in the idea that I can never truly be alone. Every opportunity to connect with another, with my heart open, is not only a chance to heal myself but also to contribute to the healing of others and the world we create.

WOUNDED HEALING

by Maasaisis

I can now stick the tip of my pinky finger into the black crater of my putrefying tumour and watch my nail disappear. My curiosity meets my repulsion as I wiggle my finger around, discovering new caverns of hollow spaces. I remind myself that although the foul-smelling decomposition of my flesh brings me to the brink of losing whatever foothold I have, I’ve been primed and ready for this by what I’ve learned through German New Medicine. Belief is also a choice, and right now I’m anchoring myself to whatever keeps me steady in the wild terrain of my mind.

I’m cautious about certainty, but my intuition tells me that I’m witnessing evidence of cancer cells dying off and my tumour shrinking. This gruesome biological process seems to be nature’s way of degrading what is unhealthy and unwanted. I can feel the tight ball of unruly cells retreating into itself, pulling on the network of connective tissue and causing inflammation that blocks lymphatic pathways. The tension is felt from the ribs below my breast, up my inner arm, and wrapping around to my lats. The squeezing of nerves sends sharp echoes into my bones.

I recognize that the details I’m sharing may be offensive or interpreted as a cry for help. Perhaps it is. I write as a way to release the pressure building in my mind and to alchemize dark thoughts into clarity. Space is crucial for me to orbit. My intention to be transparent and honest is to invite what wants to be revealed, giving me the opportunity to heal both my mind and body. Whether driven by my ego, a need to document my journey, or as a necessary form of therapy to keep going, I also hope it may serve others in some way, as I utilize creativity as my rose compass on my healing journey.

I’m still learning to balance what fuels my spirit with the patience and care my body needs. I’m getting better at gauging whether I’m overextending myself or being too cautious and limiting my experiences. There’s always room to pivot and respond if I allow myself the space to change my mind. If I impose too many boundaries on how I think I should be or what I can and can’t do, it creates a cage that leads to self-induced suffering.

I knew that a full weekend of vending my visionary crafts, dancing flamenco, and consciously connecting with those who attended the opening of my art exhibit would test my capacity for output. Needless to say, it was a testament to how love and the joy of heartfelt connection are precious medicines for my soul.

Bare-breasted, I sit as the wound clinic nurse cleans my oozing opening. I feel deeply irritated when she asks why I haven’t had the tumor removed. I haven’t seen this nurse before; her curt foreign accent makes her sound harsh and too direct for my sensitive state after a big weekend. The sleepless nights, punctuated by sharp pain and the emotional toll of the drugs I took to manage it, along with a general feeling of being ‘over it,’ contributed to my irritation. Instead of lashing out or retreating into myself, which is what I wanted to do, I course-corrected and calmly stated that surgery is not an option for me while treating metastasis. That response seemed to soften her; perhaps the softness was already there, but I only noticed it after my intentional remark.

I can easily fall into the trap of associating what’s happening to my body as my only experience of self, especially as my keen sense of smell constantly reminds me of a part of me that is rotting away. It’s easy to feel self-conscious about the smell, but that’s the beauty of transparency: there’s no need to hide. The practice is in finding safety in the wide open.

My mind is most vulnerable when day slips into night and pain lures me into the territory of fear and uncertainty. Until recently, I relied on my superpower of being able to sleep and shut off adversity. Now, that power has been hijacked, bringing new nighttime anxieties about losing the natural ability to rest and reset.

I’ve made peace with the tiny teal-colored pellet of morphine that I’ve accepted as my ally for now. I’m having a harder time with the little aqua-colored ones that can easily send me off to sleep. There is a price to pay for this assured reset, as it amps up my already medically induced volatile hormones. It makes me question and quake.

I’m into the seventh month of treatment, and although there are days where I feel like I still don’t have a handle on anything, I’m getting better at being kind to myself. I am more patient than I used to be and have faith in what can’t be fully known but deeply felt as truth. I seek opportunities where I can open to love instead of repelling, shrinking or hiding. I do my best to remember that that pain happens, but fear and suffering is a choice. I ask for help to surrender what is in the way of trusting what can’t be threatened.

While on a walk, I saw a round of a cut-up fallen tree. Looking closer, I was amazed to see bright green foliage sprouting from what I would have otherwise thought was dead. It led me to reflect on how the will to exist and express can blossom from the most unlikely places. The force of creation is a power to behold, sustained by the remembrance of its indestructible nature.

LESSON: “Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists.”- A Course In Miracles

Joy captured by photographer Clinton Johnson.