Tag: hope

TOUCHING GOD WITH MY HANDS

by Maasaisis

The result of my most recent PET scan did not give me the clarity I sought. It’s so easy for the mind to think it has things all figured out, running scenarios, making assumptions, seeking assurances that only ever show up wearing a different face. I wanted the result to say “significant reduction of disease” or “evidence of effectiveness of treatment” — something that would feel like confirmation, that I’m on the right track.

The right track to where, exactly?

“You should be happy that you are stable, this is good news,” says my doctor as he ran his pen to speed-read over my result. “You have no new spots, and the spot on your sternum seems a little better. Although the diminishment of disease is minuscule, we have to assume that the treatment is helping.”

Seems. Assume. I don’t like those words. Not solid enough where my life hinges.

“But what about the areas where it has enhanced slightly?” I asked.

“It’s not a lot,” he said. “PET scans can be ultra sensitive, even to a fault, affected by your lifestyle, what you’ve eaten, and metabolic shift on a daily basis.”

Then what can we make of any of this, if all it gives me is a weird grey zone? My mind circles around a child stomping her feet. So what does this mean? Is it working? Do I need the full dose? But… I’m leaving for Spain next month…

Thoughts that feel like a noose tightening around my neck.

On the outside, I’m looking healthy and strong. Even my doctor notices it. As I rest my arms behind my head, taking the weight of it — so full of heavy thoughts — my biceps flex and bulge, bare out of my sleeveless vest.

“Wow, look at you looking buff!” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

“Ya, I’ve been working out,” I reply. But the outside is the easy part. It’s the inside that persists.

My main oncologist was supposed to go over the results before proceeding with my 4th round of treatment. She was on holiday, and I felt slightly annoyed to be put on the back burner without her to consult. We’d hoped the scan after 3 rounds would give us something to work with. Instead I’m left squinting at ambiguous data, trying to find a foothold.

“Let’s just keep going with the current dose for 2 more rounds until I go on my trip. No point rocking the boat before I go,” I said. By now I know I have the power to shape my treatment plan. Every case is uncharted territory. No two bodies, no two paths, the same. To my doctor, stable is good enough. My glow and zest for life tells him what the scan cannot, and he knows I need this trip to keep the lamp of my spirit brightly lit.

And yet, the pain in my spine is becoming more noticeable. Is it more noticeable because I’m paying attention to it, or because it’s where the cancer is most active?

What happens next is my choice. I can sabotage it with thoughts that spiral and lead nowhere. Or I can exchange them for something that keeps me free.

Where is my peace? Not in the mind where there are land mines everywhere.

I must have been in my mid-twenties when the title A Course in Miracles first grabbed my attention. What enticed me then was my perception of what a miracle would be, some grand act of supernatural power that would give me what I wanted. The miracles I wanted at that time were nothing but ego boosters: recognition, world goals, jet-setting around the world as a wellness leader of some sort.

It wasn’t until the framework of my own making had to be examined, when my physical framework began to break down, that I finally began to understand what a miracle truly is. The book landed in my life at exactly the right time. It is saving my life by teaching me how to live no matter what is going on.

A Course in Miracles is not a religion. It is a retraining of the mind, teaching us who we really are as love created us. The Course comes with 365 lessons, one for each day of the year. On the hard days, I hang onto it like a lifeline. It has given me an antidote to every fear I could ever conjure, and the steps to help me solidify it. Some days I have to come back home every thirty minutes. That is the power of fear. But fear is no match for Truth.

The Course truly landed for me in 2022. On my birthday, January 7th, I wrote this in my journal, a line from the Course that felt like a direct message from God:

“You are perfectly safe as long as you are completely unconcerned about your readiness, but maintain a consistent trust in mine.”

My mind accepted it as Truth. I no longer felt I could trust my own way. I am made up of temptations and contradictions that will snatch my peace away. The judgements I hold and the identity I’ve constructed always want more, and are never satisfied, no matter how much I feel I’ve accomplished. I need help to walk my walk, so I’ve entrusted the way to the One who knows.

This forgetfulness is a cloud that would have me wandering aimlessly in its shadows until I remember that I am still shining bright, as I have, and as I always will be, forever unchanged. I do believe that our earthly experience is designed only for our awakening. We each gravitate towards a life and a path that will bring us home to our godly state when we are fully awake. To realise that the safety of our true home was always within reach.

There is no right path. Only that whatever way we take, we recognise that truth is truth and it is the same for everyone. There is never a sacrifice in reaching truth. The only things we sacrifice are the things we cling to that were never real to begin with. What we release is what was standing in the way of really living, the kind of life that doesn’t end.

I feel this in the tears that stream down my face, love’s guarantee that nothing can take away what I already am.

It is not God that sets our curriculum. It is our soul that chose to forget, so it can experience God through remembering. Why on earth did I choose to have this earthly experience? Perhaps in the ultimate power of creative expression given to me, I wanted to play God in the world of my own making. Who needs God when I can be my own God?

And the light of me that is always connected to my creator is nudging me, sometimes shaking me wildly, to wake up from this dream I am dreaming. And when I land home, even if only for an instant, my heart bursts into an expansiveness that is not of this world. I’ve landed in this space through connection, not just with others, but with nature that reflects the purity of my mind so beautifully.

These are the miracles I now speak of.

God reminds me that my only job is to love another as I am loved. When I feel my Creator’s love, I want to collapse into the immensity of that gentleness, that eternal patience, those arms always open for me to fumble into, with just the slightest willingness to reach for truth. This is the true meaning of forgiveness: to forgive the world, to forgive all outer appearances and actions, and to remember we are all just waiting to fall into the most perfect embrace of who we really are.

And because that love is so kind and generous and gentle, its way brings me peace. Difficult decisions become easy, because the fears that are amplified dissolve, knowing that ultimately none of the problems I think are an issue is really a problem. No matter what, my safety is guaranteed, and nothing in this world can offer me that. It is only the split mind that suffers. The return to wholeness is only one thought away.

In the modern world, there’s so much focus on self-care and building boundaries to keep us safe. What I love about the Course is that healing often comes through relationship.

I am in a beautiful position through my massage work. I am constantly reaching strangers through my touch, where my hands become an expression and an extension of my heart. If I am struggling, it is evident within the first moment of contact. Perhaps I’ve had a hard day. Perhaps there is a judgement. Perhaps my client said something that made me shut down. And in the time we have together, I return to my lesson for the day and remember that my only job is to love them as love meets every single one of us.

When I am there, I know it is accepted, because it is returned back to me. In those moments on the table, I reach for a meeting place in our minds. A place where I can say, without words: there you are. I see you. And in that timeless space of connection, we are both being nurtured by something far deeper than touch. We have landed in peace.

So I invite you: the next time you’re stuck in the storyline of discontent, go out into the world and extend your love to someone else. I’ve found it surprisingly easier than sitting with my raging mind. The act of getting up and giving to someone else, when I can barely give to myself, is how I paradoxically give to myself.

If we pray to be of service to others from a place of genuine care, integrity and authenticity, truly miraculous things can occur. Not just for them, not just for us, but for everybody. Because we are one.

Even if you are not physically with someone, place somebody in your mind who is struggling. And instead of trying to fix their problem at the earthly level, hold them with all of your mind to the perfection of who they really are, as love created them. Hold them in the light of their love, healed, untainted, pure, and whole.

Hold them there until you can really feel it.

This is how I touch God with my hands.

LESSON: I RECEIVE WHAT I GIVE

MEDICINE OF GRIEF

by Maasaisis

I am here, and she is not. She crossed the threshold two years ago to a place where the living can’t go. I sat with her and watched her close her eyes for the last time. I tenderly washed her porcelain body that shared a similar affliction as mine. In that extraordinary experience of witnessing true surrender, I both shattered and found healing in my heart. Sitting with death in such an intimate way brought to the surface what I hid inside. Beneath the surface of my blessed life lives the terror of leaving all that I cherish behind.

Every death caused by cancer unleashes a torrent of fear and grief. No matter how I try to reframe it with the belief that we are not our bodies, finality is a wound that heals and reopens with every loss. My beloved sister’s passing affected me deeply, and I wasn’t sure if I could show up. There was a constant tug of war between my love for her and the trauma of losing her.

How can I honour those who have passed without casting the dark shadow of death upon myself? How can I allow grief to meet grace? How can I nurture the resistance to push it away? How do I balance my capacity to honour what is mine to heal and showing up for those that I love? These were my prayers as the days drew closer to celebrating my dear friend who chose death for her liberation.

Ultimately, love wins. It was the rallying force of all those who loved her that called me back to join the circle of her radiance.The beautiful thing about grief is that it breaks us open and connects us in the most primordial way. It strips away the layers that keep us apart, exposing the glue that binds us together as One. Grieving for one thing is the same as grieving for all things. It doesn’t need to be named or categorized. It’s all the same, and there lies the medicine for us all.

Legendary stories were spun in the circle of friends who gathered for our beloved Scarlet. I was in awe that even after two years, she had the ability to bring us together again in such a profound way. In showing up, we consciously chose to harness her medicine for collective healing.

When I spoke in the circle, I couldn’t voice the truth of my grief. Instead, I found myself hovering in a safer place, sharing inappropriate stories and recalling her gift to make others shine. For those who knew her well, it was perfectly appropriate to celebrate her in this way.

I couldn’t speak out what was really there. I couldn’t say that I felt abandoned by her choice to leave or that I wanted her to fight harder because that is the voice of my own fear, and it’s mine to transmute.

I was a year into life with cancer by the time she was diagnosed. My coping mechanism stemmed from my incessant need to understand the origin of my disease. I empowered myself with discipline and sought knowledge—I refused to be a victim to the disease. She, however, was terrified. There were times when we could be together, and other times when her fear was too much of a trigger for me. I just couldn’t show up for her without completely unraveling myself.

I believed my role was to be strong, to assure her everything would be okay because ultimately I needed to believe it myself. When I couldn’t fulfill that, I thought it best to hide, to stay away, convincing myself we both needed to walk our own paths. Perhaps there could have been healing for both of us in falling apart together. Maybe I should have invited her into the domain of my own vulnerability, but at the time, I clung to the safety structure I’d built for my own survival, unable to let go. What I know now is that regret often accompanies grief, and the only path for healing is through forgiveness.

My beloved friend understood that I was shaking below the surface of my brave demeanor. She knew I couldn’t allow myself to fracture while facing my own mortality. Perhaps she thought I would try to change her mind? Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me she was leaving, and why it took the power of the Holy Spirit to bring me to her side to witness her departure, to cast aside my terror and be there when it counted.

If it weren’t for the sequence of universal nudges that alerted me to what was happening, I would have missed the greatest gift Scarlet had to offer me. It wasn’t the gift of her healing from the disease; it was the gift of showing me that grace can accompany the greatest act of letting go. She cut the cord to life and allowed us to bear witness, showing us that we can come together and find closeness in what we all must face.

She continues to help me fill in the deep groove of fear from the other side. She encourages me to fall apart because no matter how many pieces are spread out all over the place, the glue is always tacky for love to put us together again. Her mighty spirit lives on in all of us.

I oscillate between lessons on the dichotomy of mortal and immortal teachings. The teachings from Spirit reinforce that our innate nature cannot be augmented, diminished, or extinguished, while the lessons from life remind us of our finite humanity. Through these teachings, we are brought together in the human experience, guiding us to embrace the unknowable. Together, we bridge the gap through our shared grief, vulnerabilities, regrets, and imperfections, forging a path towards what cannot be broken.

LESSON: I AM NOT A BODY. I AM FREE- LESSON 199 IN A COURSE IN MIRACLES



In Memory of Scarlet Mary Rose “Mother Of All”- By Maasa

SILVER LINING

by Maasaisis

I woke up feeling as if I’d been dragged behind a running horse. I had to keep my breath shallow so my ribs wouldn’t expand against the hot pain wrapping beneath my breast and around my back. I immediately sensed that something was terribly wrong. The reflection in the mirror confirmed my dread—a wide, bright, red welt wrapped around me on the outside of where I felt the pain inside. This significant change occurred rapidly during a disturbed sleep after a mind-fucker of a day. Perhaps my discombobulated state that day was a foreshadowing of what was to come.

Something was undoubtedly wrong, but it was Sunday. I’d been visiting the local oncology department regularly lately; the last thing I wanted was another hospital visit. In the blue welcome packet I received from the oncology nurse was a special neon pink skip-the-line slip. Having this slip was supposed to expedite any emergency visit for a cancer patient. Guess I might as well play my cancer card, I thought. I slung my arm around my husband, and he dragged my limp body into the ER like a big sack of potatoes.

There should be no contest to suffering; everyone in that room was suffering profusely. Slumped in the waiting room, overwhelmed with pain, fever, and nausea, I sobbed like a child, completely helpless. Even in that state of despair, the common thread of suffering in the ER connected me to a greater force. What bound me was compassion and the indivisible nature of suffering.

Hours had gone by with me in and out of consciousness by the time I was assessed and diagnosed. It turned out I had a staph bacterial infection that had spread from my tumour. Out of the bloodwork and cultures taken, one sample showed that it was in my blood. I was immediately put on IV antibiotics in hopes that I wouldn’t go into sepsis.

The doctor on duty did not have the best bedside manner. I could tell he was annoyed, dealing with a tedious patient and a case file he needed to comprehend thoroughly. ‘You’re in rough shape, and you’ve got a lot going on you should be concerned about,’ he said matter-of-factly. I didn’t have the energy to stand up for myself, a concern in itself. I just nodded and let him be who he was. He suggested trying to needle aspirate the pulsing red protrusion of my tumour in hopes of drawing out some infection. The last thing I wanted was this man sticking a giant syringe into my breast, but that is what happened, and unfortunately, there was no pus, only a bloody mess to show for it. Thankfully, that was the last I saw of him as I drifted in and out of delirium.

I slept in between bouts of nausea that would wake me up and bring me back to my predicament. Eventually, I was given the option to continue to stay in the ER or go home, as there was nothing more that could be done except continue IV antibiotics every 24 hours. I was torn between staying under the care of physicians and wanting to be in my own space with my family. I didn’t trust what my body was doing and was afraid of how compromised I felt. It was a terrifying feeling that I couldn’t shake even in the comforts of my home.

For the following 5 days, I continued to receive treatment in and out of the ER. The oncology nurse suggested I take a break from the targeted therapy drug I was taking in conjunction with the hormonal therapy medication. She told me that it’s an immunosuppressant and would hinder my healing from the staph infection. I suddenly understood what had most likely happened. I’d been on my cancer treatment plan for just over 2 weeks, during which time I was more immunocompromised than usual.

I’d been battling skin rashes and inflammation around my tumour for months. Fevers would come and go, but never did it cross my mind that the cause could be an infection. The oncologist waved it off as a cancer symptom, and I accepted the pain that came with it. I believe I’ve had this infection going on for a long time, and my immune system would fight it off every time it reared its ugly head. With the new medication that suppressed my immune system, it finally broke free into its full expression as a nasty staph infection.

I’m one to always look for the silver lining even amidst dire situations. Every day my body improved with antibiotics pumping through my veins. As the raspberry-red giant welt began to recede, I also noticed that the evidence of rashes that plagued me for months started to disappear. The pain in my breast slightly alleviated, which also has to do with the infection leaving my body. So even though this was a horrid experience building up for months, I’m grateful that it happened so that it could be addressed.

My way of being continues to morph through my experience with this disease. Time has stretched out like taffy, soft and malleable, unlike how I used to feel pressed up against it, always trying to stay ahead. I’m learning that I create my own suffering by planning how to fill the space of time. Life is happening to me in ways that I cannot control or predict. It’s asking me to be gentle and present with whatever is happening, and it requires a whole lot of compassion. To hold myself in high regard, to be worthy even when I’m responding to life from my couch.

LESSON: PATIENCE IS NOT WEAKNESS- Detective Katagiri from Tokyo Vice