Tag: living in the present

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

LIFE WITHOUT ANSWERS

by Maasaisis

I’ve been expecting the report from my most recent breast MRI to land in my inbox. I’m still in training—to receive these notes without letting them hijack my inner state. Reports that arrive like tarot cards, capable of projecting a future reality that contradicts the one I’m living.

My laptop rests on a tabletop made from massive slabs of hardwood, in a large tiled kitchen overlooking a garden of lush tropical plants that look as if they’re on steroids. We are halfway through our vacation in Mexico, escaping Nelson’s long winter in the laid-back village of Lo de Marcos. By now, we had acclimated to the unstructured rhythm where nothing happens in a hurry, and where the sun shines even on unwanted news.

I had requested a breast-specific MRI to give my body a break from medical imaging that uses radiation. I accepted that this meant traveling to a larger hospital in another town in order to have a look inside without that cost. There were two possible destinations, and one happened to be in the same city we would be flying out of for our trip to Mexico. The stars aligned. I booked the appointment for a Saturday—the day before we flew to Puerto Vallarta.

I decided to let it go. I wouldn’t give energy to anticipating the result until it was quite literally in my face, which is today. A deep meditation this morning left me with a quiet certainty: no matter what, I would continue on the path laid before me, guided by a way of interpreting my life that keeps me safe under all circumstances. I admit this is easier in the absence of pain or imminent danger, but experience has taught me it’s the only way forward without letting this disease take me hostage. I dropped my shoulders on the out-breath, repeated my A Course in Miracles lesson for the day, and clicked open the report.

The MRI confirmed what I already knew. It felt far-fetched to imagine a different outcome when I can still feel multiple lumps in my breast, embedded in scar tissue left behind by ulceration. Like barnacles clinging to the memory of my wound, they remind me of what I’ve been through—and that I’m still in it—even as my life continues to shine beyond it.

Any wish to one day receive the words cancer-free is no longer the destination of my path. Instead, I anchor myself to what fuels my soul and continue choosing the path that leads me toward peace now. Wishing does not belong in the present.

It makes sense to me that what was once a large mass, as my body broke it down, may have left small remnants scattered through the surrounding tissue. The scan also showed nearby lymph nodes in the right armpit that are likely involved. The left breast and its surrounding lymph nodes, which were affected not long ago, remain clear. I’m grateful there are no new frightening surprises, and that what miraculously disappeared on the left after the wound on the right closed has remained that way.

Given my history, the radiologist can only assume these scattered lesions are active cancer. Once labeled metastatic, that designation tends to stick, shaping future assumptions and forming the basis of treatment decisions. The only way to know for certain whether these current lumps are cancerous would be through biopsy. Because my cancer has mutated before, it’s possible I’m dealing with another variation. The familiar questions arise: Is my current treatment still effective? Do I undergo another biopsy? Would surgery even be an option? Would I have to consider a more aggressive treatment plan?

The analytical mind tries to navigate its way out of this maze, searching for certainty. But what I’m really seeking is higher ground—a vantage point that allows a wider view.

I haven’t thrown the baby out with the bathwater, per se. Years of learning about the disease process through German New Medicine, and experiencing its stages in my body in real time, have offered me an alternate way of understanding what my body might be doing. I hold this perspective as a lens—one that helps broaden my view and keeps fear from narrowing it.

In GNM, there isn’t a distinction between hormonal cancers and others, but rather an interpretation of how specific biological programs unfold through phases of conflict and repair. Much of what I came to understand was shaped through lived experience, recognizing patterns as they appeared in my own body. I only have my experience to reference. There is no right or wrong way—only the way I am no longer trying to dominate, especially since studying A Course in Miracles.

Because of that, I remind myself that decision-making has to come from a place not ruled by fear. I try to create enough space for difficult choices to settle, rather than forcing them into shape. That means listening beyond my conditioned thinking and first examining where the real conflict lies—always beginning in the mind.

What I’ve found is that when the way forward becomes clear, even if it isn’t what I wanted or expected, a sense of peace follows. There’s no pushing, nor being pushed. Instead, a quiet certainty settles in. I no longer hold many absolutes, except for the one thing that keeps me free in any situation—and that does not depend on my body.

I do not sense imminent danger. Quite the opposite. I feel vitally alive—nourished by sunshine, purified by the ocean, held by the abundance of love that surrounds me. What is yet to come has not arrived, and so I stay here, present, basking in the now. As the year closes, I recognize the same truth that has carried me along the river of life: let go, let God, and remember that nothing real can be threatened, and only love endures.

LESSON: MY SAFETY LIES BEYOND MY BODY.

Above painting “Alchemy” by maasa.ca