Tag: life

RESILIENCE

by Maasaisis

“How are you feeling?” my oncologist asks over the phone.

I can tell these conversations are hard for her because I know she cares about me. Not in a way that makes me special, but through a connection built on mutual respect that I believe has blossomed into an expression of love.

I always have to check in with myself before answering a question directed at my body. I don’t really know what a normal baseline is anymore in terms of how I should be feeling physically. My mind has learned to reframe discomfort and pain as background noise, but I’m constantly having to dial it back these days because it’s getting louder. So I state the facts, careful not to step into the trap of meaning-making.

“Well, I can feel T4 now. It feels vulnerable and achy, and I think it’s causing the painful kink under my shoulder blade that I’ve had for weeks. The remnants of the ulceration in my breast have congealed into a larger mass and shifted to the upper outer corner, near where it broke open before. It’s pulling on the fascia and restricting movement along my right side. I remember this pattern from before, and I’m concerned it will open up again.”

As I say this, I recognize that it is a valid assessment based on past experience, and from here, I begin to see the footing for my next step.

We both know we’re at the next phase of responding to my scan results, which showed disease progression in my T4 vertebra, breast and nearby lymph nodes. Our dialogue is open, calm and collaborative. I listen, doing my best to stay out in the open, because it’s only here that I’ll find breadcrumbs to follow.

She suggests another round of chemo, and I name the drug before she can. This surprises and impresses her. I’ve revisited my genetic testing results from a year ago, and that drug did show up as a possible match. I do feel informed. Even so, chemo doesn’t click into place.

“What do you think?” she asks.

The next step hasn’t solidified, but it’s forming as I answer her. It is emerging from the joining of our minds, as we come together to find a step we can both follow.

“I feel my body needs a break after the last eight rounds of chemo. Can we discuss surgery and radiation?”

It’s such a strange thing to be discussing treatments that used to terrify me more than cancer itself, without any resistance. My heartbeat is steady, my voice is calm, my mind is alert as our conversation moves into territory that used to be completely off-limits.

I haven’t been eligible to discuss what my doctors call “non-curative” procedures like surgery and radiation since I was diagnosed with metastatic cancer, but now I feel able to state my case with conviction.

I advocate for this new direction, which becomes clearer as I speak. It’s been years since I could properly hug someone without guarding my tender breast with my elbow. Lump, with its dense thicket of scar tissue, takes up more than half the real estate of what’s left of my right breast. It tugs, it swells, it demands attention. It has a mind of its own, a constant reminder of workarounds and all that I’ve been through.

Suddenly, I know.

“I want a mastectomy,” I say.

I don’t need to argue my case. She gets it as a way to maintain my quality of life. I deeply appreciate her support as she agrees to expedite the process with the surgeon I requested. The same surgeon I’ve returned to numerous times along the way, without ever quite landing under his knife. The ease of arriving here confirms that I’ve found the next crumb.

Resilience is moving towards life, regardless of what it brings us, and making hard decisions from a place of equanimity. This is what I feel as I find myself ready to part ways with my breast. I don’t feel the desperate attachment to save it that I carried for so many years. I no longer need the symbol of Lump to remind me of what I’m learning. I no longer need my breast to be who I already am. I don’t need to know why anymore. I can feel the ripeness of it. It is finally time to let it go.

I used to think resilience was rooted in grit and brute strength. The power to push through anything, to fight back no matter what life throws at you. Now, the meaning of the word comes with grace. It is soft and malleable, yet holds power without defence. This is how I want to meet life.

People often refer to cancer as something to battle. For me, after seven years of living alongside Lump and watching its offspring come and go, it has become a symbol of what I am not. It is a mirror that reflects where I place my belief. When it becomes the centre of my life, I feel afraid and at its mercy. It evokes the need to control and fix an identity that insists I am broken.

Cancer brings my humanity to the forefront: the pain, the confusion, the destitution, and the hope of healing. The belief that it is a death sentence can easily become the whole story and sabotage the miracle of life. There is a massive hole in the story Lump wants me to believe. How can I be broken if I am already whole?

Disease is a contradiction, and coherence is my healing. I know this to be true, but the process is a continual return, losing and finding my way again.

No, this is not a battle. Lump is not my enemy. What is required is the greatest love and compassion to forgive what it would have me believe about who I am.

Through this body, I am continually learning where I am placing my value.

This is how I want to meet life: not by how much I can endure, but by continuing to peel away the layers of belief that steal my joy and sabotage my worth.

My circumstances may change, my body may struggle, and the future may be uncertain, but I can still choose love, gratitude and joy as my inner response.

This is my path of healing. Through this choice, I begin to live what I am remembering.

The conversation with my oncologist continues to unfold with ease. We both agree that radiation on my T4 vertebra may help with the discomfort and dampen the cancer activity there. And just like that, in a short phone call, I receive the grace of peace around the decision I have made. This has become my cue that I am being guided. This is the only way I know how to do this now.

Before she hangs up, my oncologist makes it clear that systemic chemo is the only way to address circulating cancer cells in my system. I know it is her job to do so, and it is my job to receive her care with an open mind. I do so while staying true to my process, knowing that the steps beyond these are still unknown and I can only place my footing where I can clearly see the path. She understands, and it feels like she has wrapped a warm blanket around me.

I meet with my surgeon the following week. Since our first meeting a few years ago, I have continued to be held by his warm, approachable and professional manner. He inspects my scarred breast with interest. The last time he saw me, I was in critical condition, weakened by the onslaught of staph infections from the ulcerating tumour, too weak to undergo treatment.

He had been called in to discuss palliative surgery to cut out the mess, which would require other parts of me to be sliced out and used to patch up my breast. After eight months of toughing out the breakdown process, believing it would eventually heal on its own, I was at the end of my rope and agreed to do whatever was necessary. Miraculously, the wound closed over just before the plans for surgery were set in place, but not without leaving behind the remnants of what had been there. Now, I wish to let go of the rest.

It feels like we’ve come full circle, under better circumstances, with me feeling strong and ready for this surgery.

My surgeon believes he can remove not only Lump but also the significant scar tissue that has restricted blood and lymph flow, both of which are necessary for healthy tissue. He admits that he won’t know if he can get clear margins until he goes in there, but he thinks I may regain some elasticity in that region with this surgery. He will also remove the hardened lymph node that is pulling and causing numbness under my arm. As a doctor, he is compelled to make it clear that the surgery isn’t curative, but he also sounds confident that it can help as the next step.

This surgery feels like a gift I stumbled upon, given by a man I already trust. I pick up the breadcrumb and put it in my pocket as I leave his office smiling.

I audibly let out a breath when the radiation oncologist walks into the little cubicle of an exam room at the cancer centre. I feel my decision validated as soon as our eyes lock. I’m overwhelmed with relief, held in Love’s presence.

How can a stranger feel like a friend in an instant? Because I am guided to see her as a breadcrumb along Love’s path. I don’t need to figure everything out because I’m being shown how to live: to trust that each moment is guiding me to the right person, on the right path, at the right time, affirming a life without fear ruling me.

“The level of radiation you’ll be receiving should be enough to control the activity that is causing you discomfort, but it’s not meant to get it all,” she says.

I understand in an instant that she, too, is assuming I’ll be doing chemo after this.

“Well, I’m still not sure I’ll do another round of chemo. I’m just taking everything one step at a time. I’d like to recover from the radiation and surgery, and perhaps get a baseline scan again before I consider the step after that,” I respond.

“Oh, okay. Well, let me make sure you’re booked for another PET scan, with enough time to fully recover. Then we’ll talk about the results and discuss things from there.”

Even though we have just met, I get the sense that she sees me. Not just as a patient navigating cancer, but as someone who is finding her way. I am not doing this alone. I am receiving insight that is being supported, and to me, this is a miracle.

I’m astounded by the efficiency of my healthcare team, working together to create a treatment schedule that is happening right away. This week, I will travel solo to the cancer centre to begin my radiation treatment. I receive another confirmation in the form of an incredibly generous discount on a cozy condo that will become my writing hub, where I hope to finish the bulk of my memoir. This, too, feels perfectly orchestrated.

Then, another wink from Holy Spirit: the naturopath I want to see offers to sell me the product I believe will support my recovery from radiation and surgery, without the expensive consultation that is normally required.

This body is my vessel, and I tend to it as a means of becoming more of what I really am. My purpose and healing are one. Love leaves breadcrumbs along the way, and I trust that I will find them and follow.

LESSON: LIFE BECOMES THE BRIDGE FROM THE UNKNOWN TO THE KNOWN.

AWAKE NOW

by Maasaisis

The chemotherapy didn’t work the way we had hoped it would. I could easily fall into despair. I could rant, shake my fists at the sky, and scream, “Why?” I could focus on what it cost me — my hair, my time, my hope. But I didn’t feel that way while I was receiving treatment. I actually made use of the time, writing, praying, connecting, which kept my vibes high. This result does not change that. Only my interpretation of it, looking back, can trap me. So I accept what I don’t want to hear and pray for a higher interpretation of my situation so I can keep my peace. I need help fortifying my trust so I can navigate what I can’t know.

I had a meltdown the day before I found out. I couldn’t ignore the feeling of foreboding. I just knew I was headed for bad news. My heart thumped rapidly in my throat. I felt cold and nauseous — terrified of the future my mind was already conjuring, one that seemed to lead to suffering and death. The immense power of these dark thoughts had me reeling on the inside, even on a beautiful sunny day while quietly walking my dog on the outside. I’m barely keeping myself upright. It’s all too much, so I plead, “God, help me, please.”

Her little dog came up to me first, then a woman I recognized from a distance approached with a beautiful smile. She is someone I’m getting to know, but I haven’t interacted with her beyond surface pleasantries. We said hello, and I could have kept going, but I couldn’t. When she asked me how I was, in that split second of hesitation as I decided how to answer her, she somehow knew — as if she had peered into the turmoil in my mind.

“You look like you are carrying something heavy,” she said.

That was all I needed to break down and fall into her arms, already open to catch me. God works through all of us, and an angel came and held me in the rawness of my mortal being for just as long as I needed, so I could keep walking along my path a little lighter.

After all these years, my turnaround time — from a knockdown to standing back up, eye level with what I’m given to face — is remarkably fast. This is how I know I’m healing and waking up to my true mission in earth school. My mortal predicament didn’t last long, despite the immensity of what I knew was coming. That bout with terror prepared me for the next day, when I received the PET scan result without going into complete panic.

Clear-headed and stable, I braced myself and took the hit without stumbling backwards — even as the weight of the word progression pressed into me.

I am still here — still facing the unknown of what comes next, but I am wiser.

When I have the wits to assess myself, I can see that I have fallen for the same old trick of the ego, trying to convince me that all that I am is wrapped up in this body, vulnerable to all the things that are out of my control. It’s out to get me and will keep at me until I see that it has no power over me. The part of me that is waking up knows better. It has footing in what is solid, with years of practice in and out of the battlefield of my mind. I just need to keep returning, over and over again, above the battlefield, where I can rest and remember what is real.

My learning is now being asked to be lived in real time. Living is requiring me to be present, and it is no longer an idea. It is the only place I can find refuge — the only place I can change my mind. It is the way in which help can get to me, where I am not merely surviving but open to another way.

I don’t know what the next treatment will be. I don’t know what else will come up. I don’t know what my body will or will not do. I don’t know so much.

But I know this: nothing can be taken from me that is truly mine to keep.

I’m still learning to fully place my trust in that. Seven years ago, I began a journey of learning to trust what I can’t fully understand, trusting that life is happening for my highest good even when it’s incredibly hard. That trust has been built through grace, given to me over and over again, even finding me at the depths of my despair.

Perhaps this is my only purpose now: to keep casting out doubt, calling out my fears, and fortify my trust. Not by knowing what comes next, but by being present for the step I’m taking. It happens here, where I can be receptive to the guidance that is showing me the way.

Fear always wants to take me somewhere that is not here. It makes me anticipate, brace, prepare, and scramble for certainty in what does not last.

So I remind myself of this: I am safe right now.

My way forward is how I meet each moment in relationship with Truth. That is the power I possess: to live for life now rather than live fearing death.

Right now, it is a beautiful day. The sun is wrapping me up and shining light to illuminate my mind. There is no rush to be anywhere. The trees gently sway. The air feels so good to breathe. The creek rushes beside me. I am held in this place, where I can be in peace or choose to become lost in thoughts that offer me no refuge, only more questions that cannot be answered while missing the beauty around me.

I am among what I am in the shared peace… here. There is joy to be found in this moment, and it is real.

Here I will stay, to live and let life come to me.

I have healed by undoing the rigidity of control.

Just like my creative process, which is often scary and uncomfortable, with many episodes of frustration and uncertainty, I trust the process. I don’t always know where a painting is going. I just show up, and eventually something shifts. An idea comes through to break the spell. I keep going.

The canvas is never finished in uncertainty. The path is never revealed in its entirety. But suddenly, it is complete, and I am absolutely in awe-filled love.

Perhaps this is what I am learning about life itself.

I don’t need to know what comes next.

I only need to meet what is here — and recognize the Love that is already here.

LESSON: ALWAYS NOW

FINAL ROUND

by Maasaisis

I’ve just completed my 8th and final round of chemo, and I didn’t ring the bell.

I actually had to think about it and even ask for guidance. What does it mean to ring the bell? It means I achieved something difficult. I followed through. It is the sound of, “I did it!”

To tell you the truth, chemo was a walk in the park compared to the intense protocols I put myself through. I probably would have rung the bell at that time—for being diligent, determined, and disciplined. But I’m not who I used to be. There is a quiet part of me wanting to turn toward an inquiry: What is this for?

It’s not that I want to downplay the act of completion with a celebratory ring for all to hear. I have witnessed enough people in the chemo lounge looking sick, tired, and withdrawn while we all face the uncertainties of being in that room. I get it. Healing can look like a step-by-step process, and to finish one process is worth celebrating. I remember how I hooted and hollered when my beloved friend finished her rounds. For her, she was done. She was moving into a future away from that room.

For me, part of me doesn’t want to declare completion when I still don’t know what comes next. I don’t want to claim something I still cannot know—the state of my body. Instead, I want to ring a bell only I can hear: the one that sounds when I recognize my true inheritance. I always have the opportunity to choose the domain of peace within my mind.

I believe I came to recognize that place during the rounds of treatment that required my energy, time, and commitment, and to value my own invulnerability. So I celebrate today in my quiet way, with a smiling heart and so much gratitude for the lovely doctors and nurses who helped me along the way. That is enough.

The accomplishment for me is to remain anchored in the safety of my true home, where I reside with God, even while the world tries to convince me otherwise. I keep having to remind myself that I am not separate from God. Perhaps this is the biggest lesson of all: I am not outside of Love, but part of it, and there I am always safe.

Whether I’m back in the chemo lounge, searching for my purpose, facing a crisis at home, or stuck in my familiar, fear-induced messy mind space, what I want to celebrate is my determination to find my way back to joy, regardless of what appears to be happening to me—even if only for an instant.

I’m also claiming that I am much more open to what is happening and what may happen at the level of my body. The next PET scan will tell me where I’m at, but the less I invest in my experience as being solely of my body, the less afraid I am.

The body is not where the mind resides. The mind has the potential to express our Spirit, an extension of Creation itself, or to experience itself as separate from it when we have forgotten who we are. Remembering this allows me to remain open to possibilities I may otherwise close myself off to. I know that the place to focus is on the healing of my mind. From there, time and time again, I am finding my way.

The life I led before prepared me, in a sense, for this. It fueled my search for purpose and deeper meaning, the things that lit up my spirit. Life with Lump led me into the darkest caverns in my mind, where fear mimicked the power of cancer cells—to seed, multiply, and take over.

I’m learning that the mind, like the ocean, can be both ominous at the surface and utterly still in its depths. If I keep trying to tread water at the surface, I will eventually tire out. If I remember that what I really am is the stillness that cannot be affected deep below, my life becomes less about my concerns of being flung around by every wave.

For me, my healing journey became my spiritual journey, and I am eternally grateful that I’m finding my way back to God through applying the teachings of the Course. It could be cancer. It could be a breakup, a natural disaster, loss, war… In our finite world, we are all running from the same seed of fear that fuels our personal hell. I’m not suggesting that we bypass our humanness, but I believe there is a choice to decide when we are ready to pass through it.

Perhaps our spirit is always calling us to inhabit our rightful state, and each and every one of us, at some level, is hearing that call and responding, consciously or unconsciously. Maybe our life circumstances are the catalysts that answer it. I believe there are many paths that all lead to the same changeless place, meeting us exactly where we are.

My personal curriculum is learning the real meaning of life—that it goes on even when the body eventually turns to dust. In the inner sanctum of what we really are, we are already whole, perfect, and healed for always. The more I inhabit that knowing, the more supported I feel navigating the surface stuff. There is a way out of the hell we interpret our lives to be. Heaven is a state of mind, and it can only be entered through there.

I needed to go all the way to the top to understand my original design. In doing so, I restored my relationship with my Maker and discovered that the power of this Divine relationship is ignited when I choose to be in relationship with it. I’m awakening an ancient memory of what is unalterable, with no conditions or compromises. It is available to us all. It reminds me that we are of the same, that suffering is where the waves are crashing on the surface, but we are also safe in the nature of what we really are. That is the paradox of being here. We can hold both. We hold the key to recognize that the door has always been open, and we don’t have to die to walk through it.

As a result, the relationships I care about most have healed, and the relationships I thought didn’t matter now matter to me.

I don’t have regrets. I look for cues for what is holding me back. When I’m afraid, I ask for help. I’m becoming more aware of how easily judgment can slip into even my attempts to be kind or loving, and how the same thought system that produces a subtle jab or gossip can, left unchecked, become something far more destructive. This horrified me at first, but now I counter it with correction as soon as I notice my error, which takes a great deal of forgiveness. I’m a work in progress, and perhaps my greatest lesson is to be patient and kind as I learn to undo the tendencies that need to be healed.

When I feel I need to defend my identity, my opinions, my body, my reputation, or my future, I have already accepted the belief that I am alone, separate from the Love that binds us, mortal, and vulnerable. The undoing of my defenses against the dangers of the world brings me home to Oneness and invulnerability.

I am no longer driven to find my grandiose purpose because I recognize that it happens every time I choose love over fear—through life circumstances and in relationships that contribute to the healing of the world.

Sometimes love asks me to stand up against injustice in worldly matters. This is where I know I need a lot of help—learning to decipher how to respond without reacting from defensiveness, anger, or retaliation. Not to attack back or fight, but to ask for the miracle to stand strong and serve everyone, even those causing the injustice. In the world of cause and effect, justice may still be served, but perhaps it can be done from a place of recognizing that even heinous acts arise from defending a false identity born of fear—the very same thought system that would have me believe I am a sick, vulnerable body.

I have become watchful, with a willingness to stop and question my motives for why I may be driven to do something. Even when I think I am being kind and loving, I’ve come to discover that my motivation can come from serving my ego—to feel special, to be appreciated, or to receive love in return.

I’m practicing that what I give is what I receive. If I have the awareness to take a sacred pause and follow the motive to its root, I can then ask how else I should respond. Often, I get the message to just wait. To not jump into rescue mode and let the “get things done and fix things” mode settle down.

I’ve been amazed at how solutions have come from a much deeper, more loving place than the surface fix I initially had in mind. Because as long as I see the problems of the world at face value, the solutions I come up with will only touch what shifts and changes like ocean waves.

LESSON: LIFE IS RETURNING HOME OVER AND OVER AGAIN UNTIL WE STAY.

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/

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.

AS WITHIN, SO WITHOUT

by Maasaisis

My doctors are careful to avoid words like miracle or cure during our monthly appointments. Living with stage 4 cancer that is currently inactive, they tread lightly, cautious not to spark false hope. They reinforce the same quiet disclaimer: for now, you’re doing well.

There are three doctors in rotation at my local clinic, each of whom I leaned on through the peak of my healing crisis. Whoever was on shift became my lifeline that day, meeting me wherever my crisis happened to land.

I will never downplay how profoundly grateful I am to live only five minutes from the hospital. Over time, I came to know most of the oncology nurses, and they came to know me—by name, by story, by the rhythm of my visits. They were always just a phone call away, always prioritizing me when my body went through its strange, frightening eruptions and changes.

This is one of the many blessings of living in a small town: care feels personal, human, and near.

The female doctor is warm and kind, yet she never sugarcoats the truth. She has a practiced way of sliding the tissue box toward me when my eyes well up, speaking plainly about what I’m facing, her soft eyes full of sympathy, even while she knows there is only so much she can do.

The younger male doctor has a bit of doom‑and‑gloom vibe, yet when it mattered most—like the day I reacted badly to the drugs in my IV—he became tender and human. I told him I was scared, and he anchored me with his steady presence, holding my hand and staying by my side until the heavy sedative finally pulled me under.

The doctor I’ve gravitated toward—maybe because he’s also a contractor like my husband and enjoys his band—is light, funny, and warm. He gives me hugs, reinforces what’s working, and encourages me to lean into optimism. He understands how I operate and does his best to support me, even when he doesn’t always agree. He’s a good match for me because, with him, I feel completely at ease to be myself. I’ve even shared some of my more ‘out there’ protocols with him, and although he sometimes raises an eyebrow, he never dismisses or downplays the way I approach my healing.

Each of them, in their own way, does their best to guide me with the wisdom their experience has given them, while staying within the boundaries of their profession—where “best‑case scenarios” are measured by statistics from funded research. But there aren’t many statistics for people like me: riding shotgun with Holy Spirit and focusing on healing the mind because I believe healing must first take place in the mind before the body can follow.

At my last appointment, I wasn’t expecting the young doctor—it was a Thursday, the day my easygoing doc usually works, but he was away. My heart raced a little faster, alerting me that my nerves were picking up the signal: I was uncomfortable. Sitting across from him always feels like breaking the ice. He carries a quiet sadness, as if he spends his days delivering news he’d rather not give, and suddenly I felt anxious—wondering if it had something to do with my blood test results.

As I waited for him to open my chart, I debated whether to ask the question that had been hovering over me—the one about wanting a goalpost for the end of my treatment.

Even with lingering restrictions from scar tissue left by the tumor’s ulceration on my right side and a frozen shoulder on my left, I’m on a mighty comeback—those unruly cells have receded and remembered their true function in a surprisingly short time. But miracle is not a word I can freely use in that room, so I hold it close as my own secret.

My tumor markers have been clear for months. My last two CT scans cautiously describe me as “responding exceptionally to treatment.” Not cancer-free—never that—but exceptional nonetheless. There were tiny nodules detected in my right breast, which could simply be scar tissue puckered into a four-inch seam where the wound finally closed—or it could be residual disease, the inevitable disclaimer.

It’s hard to know without a PET scan, which is more sensitive to metabolic activity and can better distinguish active cancer from scar tissue. But PET scans aren’t handed out lightly—they’re expensive and usually reserved for getting answers that could lead to a new direction in treatment.

Why do I need to know more if I’m responding so well? Because treatment indefinitely feels too permanent for my free spirit. I’d have to advocate for myself and convince my oncologist to get me that Cadillac scan.

“How long do I continue with treatment?” I asked, testing the air, careful not to wander into the dark territory where his answer might trap me.

“You’ll continue until it stops working, until the cancer mutates and we have to try something else.” He looks at me as if I’m a ticking time bomb.

I slammed my shell shut around the pearl of the life I’ve reclaimed—the bright, miraculous reality of surviving what I did and feeling like it’s finally behind me. I ended my line of questioning, course-correcting the trajectory back toward my happy life without disclaimers, where the only ticking is the joyful beat of my heart.

When I leave the clinic, I return to the place where my real processing happens—my canvas. Painting is both a spiritual practice and a mirror, reflecting the oscillation between what I want to release and what I want to embrace. It’s the dance between fear and love, the discomfort of not knowing, and the willingness to reach beyond that uncertainty to explore what is possible.

Facing a blank canvas feels much like facing the uncertainties of my life—grappling with the desire to grasp certainties where none exist, only to find clarity in the ebbs and flows as they come, which then shapes the terrain my mind will inhabit.

I’m not a formally trained painter. I don’t plan ahead; my ideas take shape gradually, layer by layer, percolating beneath the surface—some elements stay, others dissolve into the underpainting. Often, what I see in my mind or feel in my heart doesn’t translate through my hands, which is deeply frustrating. Sometimes, my inner critic is so harsh it makes me want to give up entirely.

This is the darkness that hovers beneath the bright light of my creative inspiration—the same kind of trap the mind sets when it dwells on the thought that this body may never be fully free of disease. It’s easy to get stuck, feeling down and out, if I let it have its way.

A respite from the circling back of my disclaimer came in the form of a woman who had purchased a painting from me. She had worked as a curator at the Tate in London and other prominent art institutions. She is launching a passion project—an advisory and curatorial platform born from her extensive experience in the art world—dedicated to creating space where underrepresented artists’ work is fully appreciated and thoughtfully presented.

She told me she’d been following my work and felt a deep spiritual connection to it—the light within it. She wants to represent me and help bring my art into the world, with plans for exhibitions in LA, New York, and London. I was thankful that I believe in miracles because this definitely felt like one landing right into my inbox.

During our Zoom call, I connected with her instantly. Through her eyes and passion, I saw my work anew. She spoke with sincerity and joy, and I felt the unmistakable stirrings of purpose—that I could extend my love through my creations beyond my little town, with her as an ally. A contract was promised, with her taking only a small commission, and I accepted, allowing myself to rest unguarded in the grace of it all.

But the contract didn’t come. Not the next day. Not the day after. Days stretched into silence. My mind turned violent on itself: She changed her mind. She saw how much of an amateur I am. How foolish to believe I could belong in that world.

Every time I sat at my canvas, my insecurity bled into the colors. My painting became chaos—a mirror of my spiraling thoughts. After four days, I finally sent a gentle reminder via text. Still nothing. I felt small and stupid.

Eventually, my sanity recognized that my ego gripped expectations and outcomes with white knuckles, spinning lies and judgments that made me miserable. I returned to my hourly spiritual practice with renewed vigor. I prayed to release the thoughts I did not want and anchored myself to a new perspective. I sent her love and gratitude for recognizing my light and released her from my expectations. I chose to return to the ample abundance already present in my life. I chose to love everything about my life in that release—and something shifted.

I approached my canvas with a willingness to let go, covering it with a bold layer of glaze. There would be no turning back after this move—I’d have to surrender the small part in the center that I loved and didn’t want to change. The rest was a busy swirl of colors.

Nervous but determined, I washed my canvas with a cool blue and a warm ochre. The chaos stilled instantly, creating a quiet space to begin again—from a different vantage point, this time guided by the eye of my heart. Creativity returned: tender, curious, and flowing.

The release I felt was palpable, and on that very day, the woman wrote back. She apologized—her mother had suffered a medical emergency that had consumed her attention. We can never truly know what others are going through, but what we can know is that everything we experience is a choice, and our choices shape how we perceive life. It was a powerful lesson in how easily the mind can distort reality, and how love and release can restore clarity.

I don’t know what will come of our relationship, and I will not cling to any expectation. What is clear is that painting is crucial medicine for me—a place where I can process and choose to trust that I’ll find a way through the muck in my mind to the purity of joy, peace, and beauty that reveals the essence of my spirit. I’ll keep painting, and I’ll keep finding my way, regardless of where it might lead.

So, I choose not to accept any disclaimers in my life. I choose to trust that I will know when it is time to change course, to glaze over what needs to shift, and that by seeking a better way through love and peace, I will always be shown the way.

LESSON: WHAT I THINK IN MY MIND, IS WHAT SHAPES THE LIFE I LIVE.

Above painting by Maasa: “As Within, So Without” – Inspired by teachings of A Course in Miracles. “Love created me like itself.” When we offer love to fill the space between us, it ripples outward— received by all, for love recognizes only itself.

THE GIFT OF SAYING ‘YES’

by Maasaisis

Being in a position where I regularly faced mortality gave me the gift of valuing what has always been free, yet so easily overlooked. My devotion to love was mostly reserved for my immediate family, nature, and a few very special friends I could probably count on one hand. I’ve never considered myself a particularly social person. Truthfully, I’d much rather hunker down at home—where all my needs are met—than seek out company.

But that part of me has shifted. I’ve come to deeply value what can unfold when I choose to connect and leave space for something new to reveal itself. So when I received an invitation to my cousin’s wedding—a cousin I hadn’t seen in years—I said yes. Even though the timing wasn’t ideal and the airfare would be costly, I recognized it as an opportunity to reconnect with extended family and chose to go.

The matriarchs of our clan—as we fondly call ourselves, being descendants of Scots—are now in their mid-80s and 90s. It’s a rare and precious occasion for all of us to be together, and who knows if there will be another opportunity to connect and celebrate in this way again.

I had once travelled through India with the cousin who now, at 61, was preparing to be married. After being a bachelor for most of his life, it felt like a miracle that he had found his greatest love. I knew I needed to be there—not just for him, but for myself. This precious life is meant to be shared, and my experience has taught me that it’s always worth making the initial effort to connect with others. The gift we give by showing up is also the gift we receive.

It’s been nearly six years since Lump came to mentor me. In that time, I thought I understood so much—yet ultimately, I still understood very little. I’d like to think I’m now closer to gaining a deeper understanding of the biggest question. That question has shifted—from asking why I got cancer to a deeper devotion to how I can stay on a path of love in a world that seems to be growing more loveless by the minute.

How can I nurture connection in a world so divided?
How do I discern whether I’m being guided by an intelligence that knows what’s best for me, rather than the voice in my head that simply wants to be right?

This is how I’ve been gauging my healing: by observing the thoughts that occupy my mind, and by my willingness to examine what’s dominating my mental space—and change it if it’s not in alignment with how I ultimately want to live.

I was at the airport on my way to the wedding when I ran into a friend I’d been thinking about. I had even considered reaching out after hearing she was going through a health crisis. But, like it happens for so many of us, I put it on the back burner—letting other things take priority over the persistent nudge I kept feeling.

The truth is, I was afraid. I was scared of how unwell she might be, and I didn’t want to face it—because it would stir up my own insecurities about my health. Then guilt would follow the avoidance, and denial would mask the act of looking away. This is the typical pattern of our default survival mechanism—and even as I become more aware of it, it still takes conscious effort to break the cycle.

The moment I saw her, I recognized it as my chance for a do-over. But the airport was busy—she was heading outside just as I was going in. I genuinely wanted to connect and told her she’d been on my mind. I could feel the moment slipping away, so I said, “Let’s talk in the waiting room once we’re through security.” There was only one flight into the city, so I knew we’d be on the same plane.

She agreed, and I went in first to clear security. The waiting room was packed, but I managed to find a seat with an open one beside it. I saved it for her, holding onto the hope that we’d get a chance to catch up.

The woman beside me started chatting with me. I’ve come to learn, through A Course in Miracles, that any encounter holds the potential to be a holy encounter—a moment where the barriers between two people dissolve. It is through these connections that we can begin to heal ourselves, each other, and ultimately the world. So I chose to be present and engage with her, even as my eyes continued to scan the room, hoping to spot my friend.

Our conversation came to a natural pause when the woman beside me turned her attention to her phone. I took it as a sign to look for my friend again. I thought about leaving my things on my seat to walk around the waiting room in hopes of finding her—but I noticed an almost anxious energy rising in me as I stood. I sat back down.

That’s when I heard a clear voice in my mind say, “Don’t worry, you’ll sit next to her on the plane.”
What? I responded internally.
Then came the doubt: “Here you go again, thinking you’re hearing the Holy Spirit. You’re just making it up.”
And then—quiet, steady—“You’ll find out. Now let it go.”

So I did. I let it go, sat back in my seat, and relaxed until it was time to board the flight.

I used to always strive to be early, driven by the stress of wanting to get ahead of everyone to save time. But knowing better now, I stayed in my seat until most people had boarded. Just as I leisurely made my way to the line, I spotted my friend doing the same from across the room.

There you are! I said. Too bad we only have a few minutes to catch up while we’re in line.

I asked about her health, and she gave me the shortest version as she pulled out her passport with the boarding pass tucked inside. My eyes caught sight of the seat number peeking out, and suddenly my heart burst open—tears welled up in my eyes.

As soon as the boarding agent cleared us through, I poured my heart out to my friend about how much it meant to me that I’d received the message we’d be sitting together. I didn’t hold back—she was the kind of person who would understand. In fact, she too had been gaining a similar understanding. As she put it, “We are not the ones in charge.”

It wasn’t just that the message turned out to be true. It was the confirmation I needed—that the way I’ve been learning to step aside, to get out of my own way and seek guidance in my healing journey—is the right way. The only way for me. Because the truth is, I’m never making these decisions alone.

We were both given the gift of a full hour sitting side by side, sharing our stories and the lessons we’d each gathered along our healing journeys—each echoing the same truth, spoken in our own way. There was a deep joy in realizing that we are waking up together—in ways we may not fully understand, but with a quiet faith that something we are seeking is unfolding. And I do believe it’s happening on a collective level.

The crazier the world seems to become, the more I sense a quieter, steadier voice within us all—beckoning us to choose again. To choose alignment with peace. With love. To remember that there is always another way to see—one that brings us closer to wholeness, and closer to each other, no matter who we seem to be on the outside.

The great clan gathering at my cousin’s wedding was the most love-filled icing on the cake. I had many heart-to-heart conversations that affirmed something we all seemed to know deep down: that love is the only answer to help us through the mess of the world. Attacking and dividing only create more of the same. The wise matriarchs of our clan radiated joy, wisdom, and steadfast love—and inspired me to age with that same kind of grace.

My heart swelled seeing my beloved cousin so deeply in love, so alive with excitement to begin this chapter with his bride. My two brothers were there, and I couldn’t help but feel proud to be their sister—two kind, thoughtful, and hard-working men who carry strong family values. I spent precious time with my three cousins, each of whom I’ve shared meaningful chapters of life with, and my favourite witchy aunties—shining gems and radiant examples of joyful, spiritually-rooted living. As an added joy, my beloved friend—and friend of the family—arrived in perfect timing, lighting up the gathering with her bright, beautiful presence.

There was so much love in that intimate gathering, and I silently thanked the Holy Spirit for guiding me there—to receive gifts meant not only for me, but for all of us.

LESSON: EVERY ENCOUNTER IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO CHOOSE LOVE.

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

SOULFIRE

by Maasaisis

Learning anything new requires practice before the frustration and discomfort start to ease. It’s akin to arriving in a new country with unfamiliar language and customs. We crave familiarity because within what we know, we can navigate predictably. We gather life experiences to establish a standard of living, so when that is forced to change, struggle is inevitable.

We must learn to crawl before we walk, but returning to crawling after knowing how to walk can feel demeaning. However, viewing the world from a different perspective can bring new meaning and challenge what we thought we knew. Certainty is a perception that does not leave any room for growth.

I used to be so confident in my certainly which allowed me to attain so much in my life. The attainment accelerated as I got older and gathered more to be confident about. My appearance, my vitality, and the knowledge I consumed and shared crafted a narrative of success. But why then was it never enough? Why didn’t I feel satisfied?

I’m contemplating the borders of what success once meant to me. It was crucial for me to be recognized as a strong, beautiful, talented and independent woman capable of achieving anything she set her mind to. The umbilical cord of my value was always attached to serving others in a meaningful way, yet beneath the surface of that admirable pursuit lay a less glamorous reality. My outward expression was a super imposed version of what I did not want to feel. I buried my insecurities deep within, amplifying my mission whenever they tried to resurface.

The fire of ambition was fuelled by big dreams and new challenges, most of which I attained. Still, it was never enough, and I continually sought new ways to feed that fire by learning and integrating fresh approaches into my expression. I’ve taken countless courses and pursued numerous endeavours, always seeking something new, exciting, and noteworthy to satisfy the hunger deep within.

Now, in my inability to blaze my way forward, I’m granted the opportunity to make peace with the domineering doer and allow myself to be exactly as I am. To seek ease of being without the pressure to become anything more or less. In exchange for my willingness, I’m given glimpses of aspects of myself that are ripe for healing. What would it be like to approach the unfolding path with curiosity about where it leads, rather than a relentless pursuit of achievement? What will be known by not knowing anything?

The irony lies in this soulful invitation occurring at the most fragile time in my life. Without the loud expression of the persona I once strove to embody, I’m beginning to hear wisdom from a quiet yet powerful voice. This disease is unveiling the stripped down version of me so I can let her be just as she is and be enough. What I want now can’t be found by reaching for it. Peace, containment and ease is like the space in between the breath. It’s always there but easy to miss.

Even in this vulnerable state, I’m cradled by an invisible, tender embrace. Held in this way, my heart unfolds gently, like a rose unfurling to reach the warmth of the sun. There’s a beckoning to return to that which I’ve always been and to what yearns to be known. Not all at once, but in meaningful ways that keeps my Soulfire burning bright.

LESSON: EASE OF BEING IS NOT SOMETHING TO ATTAIN BUT RATHER TO ALLOW.