Tag: presence

TOUCHING GOD WITH MY HANDS

by Maasaisis

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

The right track to where, exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts that feel like a noose tightening around my neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These are the miracles I now speak of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hold them there until you can really feel it.

This is how I touch God with my hands.

LESSON: I RECEIVE WHAT I GIVE

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

LIFE IN PRESENT TENSE

by Maasaisis

I regretted asking the moment the doctor responded. Until today, I had never inquired about my official diagnosis. Did it not matter to me because I’m focused on the work to get better, or did I simply not want to know? ‘It’s stage four,’ she said. She didn’t have to finish with an extended explanation and we both knew it. My stomach dropped as her words instantly filled the hollow in my gut. Though I knew this to be true, it had been tucked away in a no-access zone, hidden out of sight and out of mind.

My coping mechanism oscillates between faith and denial, with only a thin veil separating the two. I’m learning that adversity is an invitation to awaken to my response to life. Struggles only arise when I compare myself to my past self or when I’m overwhelmed by what might happen to me in the future. Both tendencies make me miss what’s possible now.

I was fine until I asked. I even impressed myself with my ability to detect the early stage of another staph infection, which was the reason I was sitting in the doctor’s office in the first place. Instead of being upset about another recurrence only a couple of weeks after the last, I chose to be grateful that I caught it early this time instead of landing in the ER again. Instead of resisting another round of antibiotics, I accepted what needed to be done given the circumstance. I showed her my breast, and she noted how much better it looked, confirming how I felt. But everything changed when I was put into a category.

The power of two words spoken aloud by someone else instantly created a different reality. It contradicted the feedback from my body, which suggested that despite the expected side effects, the treatment is working. I recognized my visceral reaction, which prompted a sudden shift in my state. The chill that ran through me seemed to extend into the future, yet it felt like just one of many potential versions, too elusive to keep me in a state of panic. My wise friend reminded me that a diagnosis is not a prognosis. With this reassurance, I return to the baseline of what I know to be true in this moment, focusing on all that is well within me rather than fearing what could go wrong.

I continue to meet myself as life unfolds before me. Today, I was granted the grace to observe my reaction and respond in a manner that felt more authentic than succumbing to the abyss of ‘what ifs.’ I became aware that I attributed meaning to those words based on conditioning that was not mine and not based on where I’m at now. There is no future, only now and now and now.

With the residue of Doc’s words still echoing in my mind, I drove home, recognizing the weight inside me. I allowed myself the catharsis of tears to release it. Seeking solace in the forest, I clung onto a sturdy tree. Shinrin-Yoku, the Japanese practice of forest bathing, has continually brought me home to myself. Amidst the trees, I felt the cleansing stillness wash away what was not serving me. Anchored in the solid embrace of a cedar, I calibrated to its unwavering presence. My senses opened to the palpable calm around me as I slowly exhaled.

I asked myself: ‘What is true in this very moment?’ The answer came with ease: ‘I’m safe, I’m okay, I am not in imminent danger.’ Such certainty is only available in present tense.

I’m aware that my grievances stem from reaching towards life without cancer, from being free from interruptions of symptoms, and from having limitations. Yet, my quest for purpose is unfolding in the present. This is my purpose—to find a way to meet myself as I am and find ease in the midst. There is always a choice to accept or resist. The gift lies in having a choice, even when it may not feel readily available. It’s okay to shake and shudder until the moment leads to something else. It always does.

Each moment serves as a meeting place for the full gradation of possibilities of how I can engage with my life. It’s a beautiful life, filled with the diverse shades of the human experience. To be asleep to it, lost in denial, is to miss the essence of my purpose. This, perhaps, is the most profound lesson showing me the way to liberation in any given moment. .

SILVER LINING

by Maasaisis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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