“The keys just dematerialized,” says Da over the phone.
I’d just returned from my forest walk, where I visited my favourite tree. I tend to gravitate to this particular forest when I need to fortify my trust in where I place it. Trust is a relationship that goes both ways, and this holy fire must be tended so the blaze stays bright enough to light the way. Why am I afraid? Because the fire needs stoking.
I place my hand on Mama Tree and look up her mighty trunk, which extends toward the bluebird sky. I want to feel as solid as she does. The vertebra that received radiation is more painful than before. It’s been a week since the final treatment. Shouldn’t it feel better by now? Is it working? This is how doubt creeps in, cracking the foundation of trust. This is why I’m leaning into Mama Tree.
My mind is so busy seeking answers that I haven’t left any room for an answer to come to me. How can I receive help if I’m filling my mind with the noise of questions I’m weary of asking? If I truly placed my trust where it belongs, I would have no need for assurances. Yet here I am, asking for yet another confirmation that I’m being taken care of.
This is the human predicament. We cling to the carefully constructed systems of belief we’ve made to give ourselves a sense of security, even when they keep us from the truth that sets us free. Truth is not something we make. It belongs to us all, discriminates against no one, and heals the mind that has forgotten it.
In the space between my thoughts, I hear the deeper calm of my own voice say to me:
“Dear child, you are afraid because you still don’t trust me. I will give you as many confirmations as you need because my love for you will never cease. You are my beloved child. There is nothing to fear. You are safe. Trust in me.”
I feel buoyed by the message and continue my walk, telling myself, Of course it is so! It isn’t long before I have an opportunity to practise what I’ve just been reminded of.
“Where are you?” I ask Da.
“I’m at the second-hand store. I came here looking for a desk, which I found. I put it in the back of the car, and my keys just disappeared! I’ve been looking for the last forty minutes. I’ve looked everywhere in the store and in the car. They’re just gone. Can you go home and get my spare keys?”
As I drive down to my parents’ place, I ask how I can help. I know that even though they have an extra set of car keys, Mama will be upset with Da for losing them. “Please help me help them both,” I pray.
“Just trust that you can find them. That is all you have to do,” comes the answer.
Another message to strengthen my trust. I counter every doubting thought with another brick laid over its foundation. It’s important not to let my ego play the hero. My focus is simply on being a vessel for the love and guidance I have placed my trust in.
Da looks tired and utterly over it by the time I get to the second-hand store. I can tell he just wants to take the spare keys, head home, and forget about the lost ones.
“Just give me five minutes,” I say.
We retrace his steps to where he found the desk in the store, then head back to the car, where I do a once-over under the seats and in the spaces between them.
“I already tore the car apart. I even took the desk back out. I’ve checked everywhere,” he repeats.
I’m drawn to the back of the car. The glass tabletop for the desk is wrapped in a blanket, sitting on top of the folded-down back seat and the base of the trunk. I lift it up and search around, finding nothing. Then I notice a little flap that lifts to reveal the floor compartment where the spare tire is stored. It feels a little ridiculous to look so deep. The tire is seated perfectly in place, and in the dark cavern of its home, it’s a miracle that I spot the tiniest corner of black plastic poking out from underneath it.
Somehow, the keys had fallen through the floor and ended up beneath the tire.
“I got it,” I say matter-of-factly.
There is no pride, no ego inflation. Just a quiet knowing of what it feels like to receive from where I have placed my trust. I am reminded that there is no order of difficulty in miracles. They are evidence of the truth, which is revealed in the absence of what is not.
Da had placed his trust in Saint Anthony, his go-to saint whenever something goes missing. It wasn’t until later, after the whole sequence of events had unfolded, that he realized Saint Anthony had prompted him to call me. It wasn’t just about finding his keys. I needed to be reminded of where I had placed my trust, and perhaps this was exactly the experience I needed to prepare me for what was to come.
This is how love serves all its extensions. It reaches far beyond the limited ways in which we try to arrange life and fix things from only one angle.
* * *
I am calm as I wait for the surgeon in the exam room. It has taken over seven years to finally reach a place where I can let go without feeling as though I’m losing a part of myself, the part I once identified with my femininity, my beauty, my very sense of self.
It has taken this long to undo the superficial attachments that shaped who I believed myself to be. It’s not that I no longer care about my body. It’s that I no longer look to it for my identity. I appreciate it as a neutral vessel, one I want to care for so that it can serve a higher purpose, free of the endless needs and demands that come with mistaking it for who I am.
The surgeon draws a large acorn shape, its tip extending into my armpit, beyond the hardened lymph nodes. The line curves down along the thick, puckered scar tissue that follows the contour of my breast, then back up to encase Lump, which is poking out well within the purple border. He allows extra room for clear margins while preserving enough skin to pull across and close the area.
I’m grateful that no other part of me will need to be carved out to close me up. It looks as though I may even be left with a tiny curve that resembles a breast rather than a tabletop. As an artist who appreciates organic shapes, this is a gift. I feel an overwhelming sense of love for the care this man is taking. I bless his hands and thank him. I am ready, and I trust him completely.
* * *
I am somewhere in the veil between wherever I have been and returning to the awareness of me. In this delirious state, I see a magnificent owl fly into the recovery room and perch above me. It’s the same owl my friend in Victoria had spotted on her property in the brightness of day. She has also been on a long cancer journey, and we have leaned on each other many times along the way. Like me, she receives confirmations that she is being taken care of. For her, finding feathers is a sign that she is on the right path.
This owl had become a beacon of the trust she places in something greater, and she had shared how special it felt to have it watching over her. I’m sure she sent him over to me. I make a mental note to thank her for sending this messenger of love my way.
When the surgeon changes my bandage, I see Da wince before I look down. There, along my outer breast, is a roughly seven-inch diagonal incision, impeccably stitched. A tube protrudes nearby, connected to a plastic bulb rapidly collecting my blood. I’m surprised by how impressed I am. My primary feeling is relief. Lump and all the carnage it created are finally gone!
I’m drifting in and out of consciousness, wrapped in a warm blanket of opiates. I’m encouraged to stay the night, with the added bonus of a private room in the maternity ward.
I continue to slip in and out, my presence seemingly divided between here and there, yet somehow unified in my awareness. Tuzzo, my recently deceased cat, saunters through the crack in the door, jumps onto my bed, and begins licking my face. Love transcends physical reality, connecting us through eternity. I am held in this perfect thought as I drift off once again.
The low, guttural moaning, punctuated by screams, suddenly brings all of me back to the maternity ward, where the woman next door is in transition. I know these sounds. They carry across all time, the sounds of every woman becoming a mother. It is the perfect circling back, and my entire focus shifts to supporting the mother and baby next door.
“I can’t do it! I can’t!” she cries. My mind is laser-focused on affirming that she can. Wordlessly, I send her strength, all the while coaxing her baby to come out. Yes, you can. You’re doing it. You’re made for this! I know you can! There isn’t an iota of doubt in my mind as I continue to support her as though I’m in the room with her. I am her doula, I am her mother, I am her child, I am her.
We are in a timeless space of presence. Unbound love passes through the walls from me to her, from her to her baby, and back to me, circulating an energy that holds us all in the ceremony of life.
It feels as though only an instant has passed when suddenly we are all suspended in a quiet space. Then it happens. I hear the mother gather a mighty breath, followed by the primordial cry of breaking open. Silence. Panting. Then joyous laughter, followed by the baby’s cry as it takes its first breath. I dissolve into sobs that break my heart open into a million pieces, releasing me into the boundless expanse of love that holds us all as one.
Perhaps our teacher shows up differently for each of us, but I believe it is the shared part of us that calls us to heal the divided mind and remember that our true nature cannot be divided. It can never be lost. I recognize this teacher in every expression of love. To give is to receive, and the more I extend that love, the more I receive it, and the more I remember our shared Self.
My elation is intertwined with the grief of letting go. It is a strange feeling to grieve from a place of peace. Lump is gone, along with most of my breast, which had become the symbol at the centre of my learning for so many years. I take a deep bow in my heart, acknowledging that I no longer need it to teach me anything.
My body is no longer the source of my life, my identity, or my worth. My life is the practice ground where I continue to strengthen this belief. I willingly give meaning to my life from a place of infinite worth, revealed to me by my true teacher, who continues to affirm this in ways that deepen my trust. This relationship saves me time and again, and it is one I want to devote my life to.
While one woman is bringing new life into the world, the intercom announces emergencies elsewhere. The hospital is holding the whole spectrum of human experience at once: birth, healing, crisis, and death. Then I hear, “It’s a girl!” next door, and another wave of tears cascades down my face, watering the soil of life.
LESSON: TRUST IS THE FOUNDATION FROM WHICH LIFE SPRINGS.
“HEALING OF MIND”- In process painting by Maasa
