Tag: mental-health

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.

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

Hold Fast

by Maasaisis

We are wired to problem-solve, but what happens when the problem affects everyone, yet the solutions feel different for each of us? How do we navigate the collective terror of impending doom—the world vibrating with angst and division?

Fear reigns over what we cannot control, convincing us that we can escape it or defeat it. But how can we “win” if we’re operating from the same mindset that created the problem? Chaos persists because everyone has their own truth to defend. As long as there’s someone or something on the other side of the battlefield, any victory will be short-lived. A Course in Miracles teaches that we must leave the battlefield entirely, beyond the mind that believes in the battle.

So, where do we find our security? At the root of my dis-ease lies scarcity, loss, pain, and death. It’s where I land when the reality I created feels like it’s crumbling into nothing. How can peace be found in what we cannot control? No amount of running, hiding, or fighting against the manifestations of fear will bring lasting assurance. True safety can’t be found through opposition. As long as we fight to protect what we inevitably can’t keep, we lose—like sand slipping through our fingers.

Why do we seek love, happiness, and joy? Because these are the essence of our making, and we long to return to them. Yet, we perceive them as fleeting—things that can be taken or lost.

Often, our gains come at the expense of someone else’s loss. For example, I may celebrate my health by comparing it to someone else’s suffering. This is how ego tries to make me feel safe, but it’s a sham. It convinces me that I’ve escaped a similar fate, while instilling the fear that it could still happen to me. What kind of assurance is that?

But what if the truth is that we already have all we need? What if our inheritance cannot be lost? If the body is what separates us and our identification with it is the source of all our problems, can we look past it? In that understanding, we would no longer be bound by our mortal predicament.

My survival instincts peaked during my own battles with fear. No amount of effort could overcome its formidable force as long as I believed what it was trying to convince me of. What was it trying to tell me? That I am a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, destined to suffer and fade into being forgotten—with that being the end. But what if the thought that believed I was a speck changed?

All problems originate in the human mind, shaped by a survival-based perspective. Even billionaires feel they need more to secure their existence, just as those struggling for their next meal or seeking escape from unbearable circumstances. The form may differ, but the underlying fear remains the same.

I’m learning to anchor myself in what cannot be shaken—in the intangible realm beyond the part of my mind that feels threatened. It exists in a space where no imaginable worst-case scenario can affect it, untouched by forces I could ever conjure. This requires faith.

I keep holding fast to what I can’t fully understand, yet it miraculously keeps my light lit. I’ve learned that everything I long for is just a thought away—if only I can grasp it. If I succumb to the fear of the possibility of cancer coming to get me again, if I believed I was ‘incurable,’ life would just be a ticking time bomb. That’s no life at all.

There is a way out of nightmares if I recognize that I’m in one and choose to open my eyes. The evidence of this in my life inspires me to keep trusting, even without knowing where it’s leading me. All I know is that this is the only way I know how to do this—whatever this is. My only job is to leave the battleground within myself and bridge the divides in my everyday life, however they appear.

Anything I hold against myself or others only brings pain, even if it’s unconscious. Perhaps the helplessness of witnessing the chaos in our world can only be healed by seeing it for what it truly is—a beast born from the errors of our thinking, and therefore, something that can be undone. Each time we catch ourselves in attack mode and respond with loving forgiveness for what we’ve forgotten, we create an opportunity for change—a change that serves us all, starting with each mind choosing peace.

Does this mean I roll over and don’t take a stand? No, but I can take a stand while holding fast to what can’t be changed in a world dominated by change. A radical shift is necessary in these unprecedented times, which amplify our collective fear. Isn’t it time to try something different to break this cycle of division? I trust in a mighty force that works through each and every one of us when we remember what can’t be taken.

If every interaction reflected the larger whole, and we had the choice to mend the divide—regardless of how things appeared on the surface—would it be a practice worth engaging in? If we viewed conflict as an expression of fear and a desire for safety, recognizing that, in this way, we are all the same- would it shift our perspective on how to approach it? Wouldn’t we help each other from that place? If we are truly connected, then human relationships become the mirror through which we see our relationship with ourselves at the deepest level—and an opportune place to heal from.

Perhaps miracles happen when we step onto a playing field where no one needs to win and fear cannot enter. But first, we must allow the possibility of such a place to exist in our minds. I believe that as we shift from fear to the safety of love, the ripple will spread—benefiting us all. What I’m certain of is that the paradigm of pointing fingers only repeats the same patterns. A Course in Miracles is gently guiding and inspiring me to question the dominance of fear. That’s where the real healing is taking place, and I believe it’s extending outward and beyond.

LESSON: I’m eternally grateful for the community of mighty companions studying the Course alongside me—teachers and friends who dedicate their lives to making these teachings accessible for all of us. I’ve never truly felt like I belonged until I found the Course. It has literally saved my life. There are study groups happening all over, all the time. This is not a profit-based organization but one that genuinely seeks to contribute to the healing of the world. Here’s the link if you feel a tug. https://circleofa.org/

WAILING THERAPY

by Maasaisis

I’ve been waiting for my husband and daughter to leave for the day. The house is still, amplifying the sound of my pacing feet. I feel as though I’m going mad, squeezed by a vise grip made of my own flesh. My shallow breath crashes against the tight wall of my chest with nowhere to go. Anxious and writhing in pain, I feel that something is going to snap. I don’t feel right inhabiting this tight and torqued body. The urgency of something needing to happen overwhelms me. I don’t know what—until I open my mouth.

At first, I’m stunned by the sound. It comes from the deepest, darkest cavern of my being. Every ounce of my energy is behind it, driving it out from a place that has been dormant. Once the channel to the exit is open, it moves with force. The ceaseless sound of anguish reverberates against the vaulted ceilings as waves of crying, wailing, howling, and screaming crash against the walls around me. It’s a cathartic symphony, raw and primal.

Somehow, my fur kids, Apollo and Tuzzo, instinctively keep their distance, as if sensing this for what it is—an animal release. The vocal purging eventually stops, followed by a silence broken only by my panting breath. From this untamed ceremony, I’ve discovered newfound space within the constriction of my body—a respite from something other than the focus on my suffering. A gift from chaos.

This is yet another edge I have to find my way around, through or over. No matter what it looks like on the outside, energy needs to move.

I’ve been sounding out what I’m up against—my wailing therapy is not just about release; it’s a reaching toward life. I must keep moving toward life, even as the intensity of these last few weeks tries to pull me away. Even through hardship, I’m visited by angels always close by.

They have been showing up through people and moments that remind me I’m still here—precious and deeply loved. People are pouring their prayers over me, bringing me beautiful meals, offering meaningful gifts, sending fortifying messages, giving me deep heart-to-heart touch and soulful conversations. I hold fast to the life and love that make this wild ride bearable.

My heart has cracked open through adversity, creating space for love to funnel through. It tends to the sharp edges, where tears of agony alchemize into beams of light. My heart is wildly awake, with an incredible capacity to feel it all—the mix bag of everything—and still keep pumping for life.

I’ve never felt closer to my family and friends. I prioritize to be free of grievances and the trivial things that used to bother me. I no longer feel intimidated by beautiful, powerful women—I want to draw them in and shine their beauty back to them. I’m drawn to elders to hold me in their wisdom. I give myself permission to present myself as I am. I don’t avoid talking to people I don’t know. I cherish taking time to do just about anything, giving value to what I can do, and doing my best to let go of what I can’t. I’m learning to forgive…mostly myself. I’m not afraid to express that I’m scared and to claim that I don’t know anything, which fortifies my faith in God.

I’ve changed my mind about many things, allowing me to bend with what’s happening. These are profound gifts bestowed upon me during the most challenging of times.

This post has come together in fits and starts, mirroring the rhythm of my days lately. My daughter and husband shaved off my hair as I declared my readiness for chemo, only to find out the day before that I had another bout of a nasty staph/strep infection that postponed it. It turned out my body had become resistant to the last round of antibiotics. The persistence of this infection is what needs to be addressed before the nuking of cancer cells. This deep-seated inflammation surely contributed to the maddening pain.

This chronically festering open wound poses a challenge for chemo, as the treatment will wipe out my immune system, leaving me dangerously vulnerable to the effects of this recurrent infection. I had to laugh at the irony of my premature hair shave in the middle of winter. Still, I’ll offer it up as a symbol of my readiness—a gesture of my willingness to do whatever it takes. I was able to proceed with the immunotherapy portion of my treatment, and a meeting with a surgeon was quickly arranged to discuss the possibility of debridement or a “palliative mastectomy.”

The word “palliative” has come up a couple of times now. I’ve deflected it, swatting it away like a bee that wants to sting me. This word has the power to make me retract from life if I let it. So, I am choosing to see it as I would the word “may”—a word that leaves room for possibilities, for this or that, and everything in between.

Now, as we approach the time of the birth of Christ, I search for the light of Christ within—the light we all carry, the light that connects us to each other and to this crazy, beautiful life. What else can I do but seek and follow this light? What else can I do but keep reaching for love and life? Though I may not know where I’m going, I keep finding jewels in the most unlikely places. That tells me I’m on the right path. That tells me to just keep going.

I close this year celebrating what I’ve gained through what I’ve endured and what I’ve let go of. I’m doing what I can and accepting a whole lot of unknowns. I’m learning, making mistakes, getting real messy, while striving to keep my heart open. I don’t want to leave anything important unsaid. I hold ambition and inspiration in keeping my dreams alive.

I move toward a new year by placing one foot in front of the other, step by step and breath by breath. I send my deepest gratitude for all the love and support I’ve been given. I believe in the power of love as the most potent medicine to do this dance of life. We’re all dancin’ in our unique ways, but we’re doin’ it together. And when the music shifts, breaks, and stops as it naturally does, may we remember to keep dancing—however we may, even if it is only on the inside.

LESSON: KEEP DANCING

THE FALLEN NIPPLE

by Maasaisis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Teaching from ACIM

LOST MY MIND

by Maasaisis

I write to disperse the overwhelming pressure of indignation welling up inside me. If I don’t do something, I will implode. The rage rumbles from deep within, rising to the surface, and I can’t decide if I need to break something, cry, or scream. My hands were painting a facade over my inner turmoil with bright, happy flowers. Disgusted by the colourful lie, I left my studio before I tore into the canvas.

I feel utterly defeated by the savage return of this stabbing pain. I clutch my elbow to my chest, hoping to still the sharp intensity. Grace and wisdom have abandoned me. I want to smash something into a million pieces, but not with innocent bystanders close by.

My right breast is an angry tight fist, made up of clusters of defiant cells. It’s pulling outward, breaching the surface and spewing blood. I want to rip it out of me, but I’m stuck with it, everywhere and all the time. This unsightly disfigurement is a constant reminder of what I’m up against, demanding meticulous care that I’m forced to provide. My life is a constant work around in attempting to tame this beast that has a mind of it’s own.

I’ve violently silenced the voice of reason that tells me to be patient, that healing can’t be rushed. I want to do something reckless, like go on a wild bender, but I have two teenage kids in the house and a husband who doesn’t deserve a crazed wife after a hard day of work.

The relentless onslaught of sleep deprivation, constant pain, unyielding self-care demands, and the fiery storm of hormonal chaos has pushed me over the edge into darkness. It all began with the realization that I won’t be able to swim in the lake to soothe the summer heat with my open wound—another joy stolen by this disease. I’m utterly fed up. My mind is a minefield, and I’m stepping on every single one, triggering explosions of what I thought I’d overcome.

Why is this happening? What did I do to deserve this? Will I ever heal? The questions I thought I’d extinguished now ring in my ears. It’s an off day, to say the least. I’m blaming it on the drugs because I need something to blame. I’m granting myself this beautiful, sunny summer day to raise my fists defiantly to the open sky.

In the midst of my calamity, I want to push everyone and everything away. I don’t want to be seen caught in the trap of this disease. Love can’t reach me when I’m lost in the dark. I isolate so I won’t pull the ones I love into the abyss of self pity. It’s a relentless cycle of despair, anger, helplessness, and guilt for feeling this way. I’m ensnared by every obstacle that obstructs love’s path.

I know I need to come up for air and that means I need sleep. I disown my pride and falter back to the morphine so I can numb myself and escape. I granted myself this mercy in hopes of a better tomorrow.

There are days when I lose my grip on what I thought I’d learned, and suddenly, it all seems meaningless. Suffering has a deafening voice, often drowning out the whispers of wisdom, love, and gratitude. Sometimes, I simply need to splatter and spew, raging against my tormentor. It’s not elegant, but it’s a release nonetheless—a raw expression of humanity.

It encapsulates the perfect imperfection of our existence—the beauty, the joys, the despair, the hopelessness—all intertwined with the uncertainty of why we are here and where we are headed.

LESSON: SOMETIMES WE JUST NEED TO SPEW THE UGLY.

THE JEWELS INSIDE

by Maasaisis

Enlightenment is each time I awaken to something that brings about a radical, positive shift in my state. I don’t believe it to be a destination, attainable only by those who possess something others may not. You don’t have to be a spiritual master to wake up to yourself. The Holy instant in which I received such an awakening sprung with the budding energy of spring.

I’ve had this insight before; the remembrance emerged from the familiarity that resurfaced. It broke free from the heavy layers of symptoms and survival that had kept me from retrieving it. When I landed back in my ‘aha’ moment, it became abundantly clear that I had become a victim of my circumstance and operating from a place of brokenness. I was living life intently focused on the need to be fixed.

The cascading effect of my physical deterioration over the last five months tested every aspect of my being. There were times when I felt the absence of the only thing that gave me a semblance of assurance: my faith. When my connection to the Divine felt lost, I retreated into shutdown mode and escaped into drugged sleep. I latched my mindset on surrender but in doing so, I allowed myself to primarily be a cancer patient.

The grace of all that is good always finds its way back to me. This is how I continue to have faith. In one auspicious moment, I clearly understood that, even with many insights along the way, the frequency of how I was operating stemmed from a place of sickness. My language had morphed into a lingo of struggle, amplified by my symptoms. But how can I hope to heal if I continue to put out signals of being diseased? If my cells need to remember what they were before they became mutants, I must remind them with my imagination and infuse it with feeling. Energy flows where attention goes.

The challenge lies in catching my response to strong physical sensations that screams disease. If I can just acknowledge it’s presence without suppressing it or labelling it, it creates an opening to transmute it into something that I can let go of. In that sense, surrendering truly becomes a tool for living rather than merely surviving.

My legs are pumping the pedals on a smooth incline that weaves through the dense forest. I can smell the earthy, damp essence emanating from the tribe of trees. My heart pumps vital blood for the optimal functioning of my athletic body. My muscles are solid and strong, every cell nourished and exuding vitality. Sunlight streams in between the trees, revealing the emerald green of moss blanketing rocks and the base of tree trunks. My bike is an extension of me, responding to my will with speed and clean lines. Gratitude overwhelms me as I take in the beauty around me. I can hear Al riding right behind me. He is always there in moments that count the most. At the summit, overlooking Gaia’s magnificent vista, we respond to awe with presence.

I continue to revisit this visualization as often as possible, engaging my felt senses. Even though I’m not there yet, it’s important to acknowledge how far I’ve come rather than focusing on the distance left to travel. There has been significant improvement compared to how I was between December and February, when getting out of bed was a monumental task. Now, I can take long walks without crashing after, go grocery shopping and cook dinner for my family.

The evidence of my healing is showing up in unexpected places. I’m recognizing that this stripped-down version of me has created a much wider space in my heart to feel. Allowing others to see me as I am has enabled me to soften into their presence. I’m able to receive love which has become my medicine.

So many have prayed for me and held me through the most vulnerable of times. Living in a small community where I’ve resided for the last two decades, the kind folks of this town remind me that I’m loved and that I matter. I’ve fallen into the arms of people whom I barely know, in tears when asked how I’m doing, only to be held in the loving way of a long-time beloved. My heart swells with every meaningful gesture from another. To forgive myself when I forget and lean into remembering. I didn’t have the ability to be this way before this wisdom disease came to mentor me. My outer shell was too hard to crack for the jewels to be found inside.

LESSON: ENERGY FLOWS WHERE ATTENTION GOES