Tag: surrender

GOD’S GUARANTEE

by Maasaisis

I was searching for God in my dream last night. Where are You? I need to know that You are there. I need to know that I’ve invested in what is real. I need to know that Your promise is the truth. I need to experience it in a tangible way — through my felt senses, here and now.

And then, in an instant, He answered my call.

From the room of my dreamscape, I was lifted and suspended in the open space of my mind — my back to what I’d left behind, my heart open to the light that filled the sky. A surge of ecstatic love rippled through every cell of my being until I became it. God’s love filled all the cracks of fear and doubt within me. The joy I felt broke the lineage of time and folded into itself to always. The jubilation of receiving proof that I had placed my trust in Truth was the only answer I ever wanted.

I can still feel the realness of that dream — how my prayer was answered in a way so certain and strong that it carried into waking life. Its presence now is a guiding light through the trials we are to navigate. Our collective ailment of fear is like a house of mirrors, reflecting our individual plights in distorted ways — each of us wrestling with different shapes of the same illusion. Fear convinces us we are alone, fending for ourselves, while love reminds us that we belong to a unified force far greater than anything we face on our own.

What makes us feel so alone? It can only come from believing we are separate from each other. A Course in Miracles teaches that we were born from perfect love, created with limitless potential. Yet somewhere along the way, the idea of a separate self arose — what was One seemed to become many — a choice made through our own free will.

Making the choice to separate from the love that held us all is where our initial sense of guilt took root. Fear then becomes the fuel that keeps the illusion of separation alive. The Course helps me see that an all-loving God didn’t create suffering — we did, through the limitations we place upon ourselves, and by guarding the idea of the self we made.

It’s that time of year again — when autumn’s changing colors remind me that we’re moving into the season where darkness begins to dominate the day. It’s shedding time. The trees make it look effortless to let go and dare to be bare, but it’s not so easy for me to stand naked amid the landscape of my scurrying thoughts.

As the light gives way to darkness, so do my thoughts. My mind keeps hooking into where I was this time last year. Old stories have a way of repeating, creating more of the same — especially when a trigger appears. Yesterday gets dragged into tomorrow, skipping the beauty of today. The body follows wherever the mind gets caught. Fear travels that line and embeds itself in the tissues, plucking a string like a note on a guitar — echoing the story I thought I’d left behind. I feel the familiar tightening in my chest wall, and my breath hitches.

Unconsciously, my hand traces the smooth contour of what remains of my right breast — a stark contrast to the rough terrain of bound-up scar tissue beside it. The small leftover lumps that appeared on the PET scan lie beneath the part I got to keep. To feel them, I used to have to press my fingertips deep, but that has changed as of late. They are moving toward the surface, pronounced and making their presence known. My fingers anxiously feel them, a habit from before, which is taking root in the fertile soil of my mind. How easy it is to falter beneath the snowball effect of fear, to get lost in “what ifs” and “what to do?”

Nothing in my present state even comes close to where my mind tries to take me. Physically, I feel vital — stronger than I have in years. Yet fear, born in the past, has the power to erase all proof of truth in the now. The anxiety of having my current blessings robbed by what this could mean is a ball and chain that can easily take me down.

I anchor to God’s guarantee that I felt in my dream — that my true Self is not my body or the things that happen to it in the passing of time. I carry a small treasury of A Course in Miracles lessons within me — teachings that help me unhook fear’s grip and return to refuge. I steady my runaway thoughts with a remedy found in a lesson: I can be hurt by nothing but my thoughts. I breathe it in, examine my thoughts, and ask gently: What thought am I believing in?

At the root of them all is the fear that God would abandon me.

I have to admit — my faith is not yet whole. Somewhere in the shadows lurks a quiet terror: what if I’m wrong?

So I begin again — the slow, steady work of untying the knots in my thoughts. Finding freedom in reaffirming what I’ve learned and experienced. The evidence of receiving guidance and finding my way is held in God’s love, extended through His Sons and Daughters no matter what I am up against.

I want to affirm that my body’s sole purpose is to extend love — that life’s work is to forgive the false concepts we’ve made of ourselves and others, the ones that make us forget what we are really made of. Even when fear trickles in when I keep God at arm’s length, somehow His grace always invites me back Home, to where love lives and where I am forever safe.

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.

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

TUG OF WAR

by Maasaisis

I thought that if I played by this new set of rules, I would be able to maintain at least some semblance of my old life. If I took a long enough nap late in the day, I should be able to gather enough energy to be in fine form for the flamenco show. That’s what I thought. What was supposed to be a short nap turned into over an hour. I peeled my eyes open, groggy and heavy. The voice inside said, ‘Get up, shake it off!’ so I put on my flamenco shoes and dragged myself into position to practice our set.

I noticed right away that the music was coming in muffled through my right ear, the one that’s been plugged periodically for the last couple of months. Nausea set in after my first spin, and every stamp of my nailed shoes reverberated through my bones. This distraction threw me offbeat, and suddenly, I had no idea what the next move was. I panicked and tried again, but my body lagged behind. I just couldn’t keep up.

The doctor said these medications would make me feel old, physically and mentally. The thought of getting ready for the show overwhelmed me. There are many voices arguing in my head: ‘Do it again, practice!’; ‘Just lay down, you’ll be okay’; ‘Forget it, who are you kidding?’; ‘Tough it out! Stop being dramatic!’ I fall into bed, sobbing uncontrollably because I know it’s not going to happen.

There is a tug of war between the part of me that is fighting for what I feel should be mine and having to let it go because I have to. The new set of rules is that it changes moment by moment. The lesson? There is no wisdom to be found in the midst of a messy meltdown. I only have this blank page to spew out my discontent because I need to let it out so I won’t implode. I’m angry that what I was looking forward to was snatched away from me. I’m grieving the fact that I can’t plan to look forward to something. I’m grieving the days lost in sleep.

I understand the lesson about letting go and living in the moment—an enlightening way to strive to be. I keep receiving this message repeatedly, but when the moment takes me away from what lights me up, I feel utterly defeated. Then, the guilt of admitting defeat drowns me under the wave of self-loathing. The internal conflict rages on – one side mothering the wounded child, the other seething and clinging to all that I used to be. One side yearning for a sense of control and predictability, the other acknowledging the futility of such desires on an unpredictable health journey.

People keep saying how strong, courageous, and beautiful I am. The truth is, that is how I used to see myself. That version of me is fading into something else that I can’t find. I don’t recognize what I’m morphing into, and it’s scary. I’m at that place that happens in every painting process—the place where I have no idea how to move forward, where everything doesn’t look right, and I don’t know how to fix it. I feel vulnerable and exposed in this stuck place. The only thing that keeps me going is trusting the process. If I just keep showing up in front of the canvas, something eventually shifts, and my whole perspective on the painting changes, allowing me to break the spell — to find beauty and meaning where it wasn’t before.

I know I will come up for air with a fresh look around. If not now, it will come. Thank God for my angel of a husband, who envelops me in his love no matter what state I’m in. Even when I want to push him away, he holds me until I eventually melt into him. He cries with me, and in doing so, he helps me open up the floodgates so I can just let it all rip, allowing me to feel everything just as it is.

LESSON: THE RULES CHANGE MOMENT TO MOMENT

BELIEF AND BIAS

by Maasaisis

Is Rumi referring to the quantum field when he said, “What you are seeking is also seeking you”? If the universe consistently responds to the vibrations we emit, could all experiences be inherently personal, rendering the concept of an absolute truth obsolete?

The very framework of my identity is now undergoing construction. Growth demands space for expansion, and the residence I’ve inhabited is no longer conducive to my evolution. The challenge lies in recognizing what no longer serves my development. I must rearrange some structural elements that supported me, even if it’s scary to build in a place where safety isn’t guaranteed. This new design must be created as I go, and I have no idea what I’m building.

The last few months have been a kick in the gut for my ego. Clumps of hair fall out in fistfuls, and gray hairs populate what’s left. At the peak of my angry tumor, there’s a loonie-sized scab with a mind of its own. My ears are taking turns blocking out this reality, and it feels like I’m underwater. For the first time, I feel like I know absolutely nothing. Electrical pain communicates from my breast to my sternum and into my ribs. Breathing feels like someone sitting on my chest. Rashes come and go, confirming my inability to rein in the rapid changes my body is undergoing. I’ve been in denial about the metastasis of this cancer, but I can no longer ignore what my body is telling me.

This lump resembles the ego. Cells that have separated from the whole, adopting a dominating existence, attempt to convince other cells of their singularity and importance. It’s a mutiny against homeostasis, recruiting cells at a rapid rate. They all seem to have forgotten their origin, and it’s up to me to help them remember their harmonious nature. A significant inner renovation is taking place, and new methods will be utilized for this next version of me.

The contradictions I encounter daily are becoming amusingly apparent. The only certainty is that there is no Plan A or B, no right or wrong—only the entirety of existence. What I’m uncovering is that every idea is steeped in bias, supported by evidence that is subsequently contradicted by opposing biases. For instance, a deep dive into a study by a doctor claiming cancer feeds on glutamine and sugar, portraying cancer as a metabolic disease, is countered by another study refuting the entire notion. Whom do I believe? Whom do I trust for my cure?

This perplexing disease reportedly afflicts 40% of the Western population. Despite substantial investments in research and resources, the understanding and treatment of cancer remain elusive in the long run. The presence of conflicting information prompts a crucial question: How can we discover effective and curative treatments without a clear understanding of the truth about the disease? Why do some people heal while others don’t? Does it have to do with our own beliefs and biases, or is there something at the soul level that decides?

I’m starting to discern a connection between belief, bias, and the seemingly supportive evidence—a sort of quantum revelation. Like physicists studying subatomic particles, there was a debate about their nature. Some believed they behaved like matter, while others argued for an energy-like behavior. The revelation was that the behavior of these particles, essential for everything living and even non-living, shifts depending on the observer and their predisposed beliefs.

As the structure of my metaphorical house undergoes reconstruction, I question the trajectory that brought me to this juncture. Would I be facing this health crisis if I had followed the initial recommendations of doctors? Was it a mistake to exclusively embrace German New Medicine to understand this disease? Despite the numerous case studies supporting GNM with 100% accuracy, did my cancer resurface only when doubt and fear crept in? Am I a victim of this disease, did I unconsciously create it, was it part of my soul contract, or none of it and all of it? Will I ever know why? These questions will have to be laid to rest beneath the earth of what will be built.

In the midst of treatment, there will be no gradual ceremony marking my transition from mother to crone. The crone archetype embodies wisdom from a lifetime of experiences. I strive to enter a slower, empowered, and all-encompassing phase of life. This choice is available in every moment, even if momentarily forgotten when things get really messy. I embrace the conscious leap across the threshold into medically induced menopause, honouring the fertile grounds that gave rise to my daughter.

I must strive to find stillness at the center of the cyclone. My purpose is to come back to myself when external forces try to pull me out of orbit. In my center, there’s peace and recognition that everything that came before is a vital piece of the giant puzzle. This place beckons me to be gentle, to love myself, to have faith, be grateful, and bless this treatment so it will work. I’ll have to bend like a willow tree, flexible and resilient, embracing the winds of change.

LESSON: HEAVEN IS A STATE OF MIND.

THE SPACE IN-BETWEEN

by Maasaisis


It’s terrifying to face the realization that options are running out, and what remains is what I’ve desperately avoided. The expansive realm of possibilities suddenly funnels into an ominous direction-pushing me towards where I thought I would never go.

The integrative private clinics that I’ve researched hold great promise, offering targeted treatment plans that I can at least align with my understanding. They all claim a gentler and more assured approach with an emphasis on extensive testing before formulating a treatment plan. I spent 20 minutes on the phone today nodding my head and feeling my optimism blossom until she smashed that possibility with a $200,000 US estimate for my “personalized plan” and wished me luck before she hung up.

Every potential avenue for assistance, particularly those I see as a middle ground, seems out of reach unless finances are not a concern. It’s disheartening but unsurprising that the realm of cancer treatment operates as a lucrative industry. Access to effective treatments with minimal harm to the body appears to be a privilege reserved for those with significant financial resources.

The long-awaited callback for my initial appointment with an oncologist finally arrived, scheduled in a few weeks. Anticipating this moment filled me with dread, as it signifies confronting what I’ve fiercely resisted for years. While friends and family impatiently awaited this call, seeing it as a positive step, I secretly viewed it as a window for a last-ditch effort to execute alternative cures.

My kitchen now doubles as my apothecary, where I diligently consume an array of concoctions every hour. At night I take it the other way and shove a suppository of potent cannabis in hopes of taming my lump. I’m pummelling my body with anti cancer agents that are accessible to me, resulting in a pristinely alkaline body and less twenty pounds of weight. Living with cancer for over four years has gifted me with a reservoir of knowledge empowering me to assist my body during this “space in between”.

I’ve acquired the wisdom to attend to every aspect of my being, not just my physical but recognizing the crucial role of nurturing my mental and spiritual well-being. The irony lies in the current situation, where day by day I’m moving into alien territory. I know I must confront my fears and make space for what is beginning to feel like the inevitable which is a system where I will have to poison and burn my body to cure it. How can I make sense of it and accept it? That is the work that I must do now.

Remarkably in the mean time my body has shown significant changes with my homemade protocol. Just a month ago, my condition was dire—my breast inflamed, angry, purplish-red, and only opioids provided relief at the cost of depression and endless sleep. Drugging myself was an easy escape and one that could have taken hold of me. Climbing stairs left me breathless, and my skin was covered in ugly, itchy rashes.

I’ve always gauged my health by how I feel, my optimism, inspiration, and physical abilities. Since committing to my extensive healing protocol, I’ve ceased pain meds, reduced napping, and managed to calm my angry breast which has allowed me to reclaim my precious energy. If I can keep going with patience and perseverance will it eventually heal me? Do I have the time to keep going?

I continue to consistently be saved by my unyielding spirit, tirelessly determined to keep shining. No matter how many times I end up in a puddle of despair somehow I am given the opportunity for a different perspective that forces me to yield what I can not control. It an ongoing dance between acceptance and resistance. I know this yet I still continue to get trapped until I have the wits to know that I hold the key for my release.

Time is ticking, and there’s a discrepancy between my actual feelings and what the doctors are conveying about the state of my health. I am being informed of something that contradicts my own experience. Am I now to distrust my own experience and trade it in for what’s seen on a piece of paper and relayed over a phone call? It’s like walking up to a stranger and asking “hello, please tell me how am I feeling?”

Ultimately, the fact remains that this lump must be addressed one way or another. Additionally, there is a concern about potential metastasis amid conflicting scan results that requires confirmation. I have exhausted my resources and continue steadfastly in my commitment to do all that I can to support my body. I have approximately three weeks until my meeting with the oncologist, where an entirely different treatment plan will be recommended to me. I pray every day to be shown the way, to not hinder my progress, to avoid making assumptions, and to discern the difference between valid guidance and fear-driven beliefs.

LESSON: “If we can’t change our fate, at least we can accept it, adapt, and possibly undergo inner growth even in the midst of of troubles” – From Daniel Goleman’s introduction of Viktor Frankl’s book “Yes To Life”.

Mind Matrix

by Maasaisis

It’s not unusual to have multiple biological programs coexist at the same time. One trauma can piggyback on another, usually from the fear of our symptoms or from what we are forced to face. Currently, I find myself in the midst of an activated phase of the periosteum program. The telltale sign of this activation is the excruciating sharp, stabbing pains reminding me of intense labour contractions but in my breast.

The periosteum program arises from an extreme separation trauma, and it’s no surprise that it results in intense nerve pain. The neural network covering the bones’ surface swells and pinches the nerves during this active phase. I’m certain this program was initiated when I faced the agonizing decision to undergo a mastectomy, the ultimate separation from my breast, or perhaps it’s the fear of ultimate separation from life itself.

After days of being debilitated on the couch , every sharp pulse reaffirms the intimate connection between body and mind. I recognize that the manifestation of disease symptoms is a primal survival response to the thought files of my mind. Despite this understanding, I am having a hard time convincing my mind that it is safe when it is busy responding to the pain, perpetuating a seemingly inescapable and vicious cycle. The struggle is real, the awareness is clear, yet finding the exit from this intricate labyrinth remains elusive.

Even at the precipice of my limit, I hold fast to the faith that I’m exactly where I need to be. It took me four years to reach the peak of my ultimate surrender. I finally understand that surrender doesn’t mean giving up or defeat; instead, it’s about widening the breadth of understanding while letting go of attachments to any kind of outcome. For me, the letting go is happening in increments—like releasing one finger at a time, each one tightly gripping the matrix of mind that wove my safety net.

Awaiting the results of recent scans to detect metastasis left me stranded in a terrain of terror. What has become clear to me is that the terror I felt was tied to the possibility of being proven wrong in my understanding of the disease process. If cancer had “spread,” it would mean I misunderstood, potentially jeopardizing my life for a belief that once made me feel safe. The stakes are high; if cancer does spread through the lymph and blood, my prognosis wouldn’t be good. However, if what I learned through German New Medicine is correct, and if a new significant trauma was not triggered, the results would show that the cancer remains localized in my breast.

The realization of the significance of being right in the way I invested in my healing journey, rather than being physically okay, was something I need to examine closely. Was it my steadfast and unshakable belief that actually kept my body free from metastasis, as the results ultimately proved, or did I find truth in German New Medicine?

Trauma is unavoidable, but armed with the understanding from my own experience, it’s about finding ways to mitigate fear and our survival response by doing whatever it takes. Recognizing this, I am taking every measure to avoid responding in high alert to my frantic mind. Even if it means relying on the assistance of opiates to seek refuge, allowing me to come up for air and gain a new vantage point for perspective.

I am convinced that continuing to endure the intensity of my current physical experience is a sign of a healing phase, where my tumour will eventually decompose or encapsulate. The intense pressure I feel on the surface, the heat, the swelling and the pain suggests that it is moving in that direction. However, I am realistic enough with myself to acknowledge that an open, rotting, oozing mess on my breast would likely trigger other trauma programs in my body and I am unable to risk more.

Understanding the potential trauma of losing a breast torments me. I recognize that opting for reconstructive surgery with implants may alleviate the trauma of that loss, but the thought of replacing my tumor-swollen breast with a foreign object repels me. As I witness the circling of my mind, I can feel my skin respond and I know I just need to stop.

I am reciting the Lord’s Prayer, placing emphasis on “Thy will be done,” visualizing myself opening my hands and letting go. God answered my prayer by narrowing down my options. The surgeon suggested chemo and hormone therapy to shrink the mass over possibly six months, but there isn’t even an iota of space in my capabilities to accept that option, no matter how much I try to surrender. This means that I will require a skin graft to span the space of what will be removed since I won’t have enough skin to cover my wound. Reconstruction is not an available option at this point. Strangely, I find myself able to accept this alternative.

Our minds excel at creating safety, but my fortress is crumbling, revealing a terrified child curled up inside. It’s taken this long to see that she’s always been there, yearning for that special way that only I can comfort her. As I yield to more tests and await the opinions of specialists, I wonder if they will be able to bridge the gap between how much I can let go of and how far they are willing to go, so that I can live with whatever will be done. It’s a delicate balance between what I know and what they know, and my only hope is that we can meet in the middle where I may be finally liberated.

LESSON: SURRENDER DOES NOT MEAN GIVING UP OR DEFEAT; INSTEAD, IT’S ABOUT WIDENING THE BREADTH OF UNDERSTANDING WHILE LETTING GO OF ATTACHMENTS TO ANY KIND OF OUTCOME.

The Roller Coaster Ride

by Maasaisis

I’m at the point where I am beginning to realize what I actually signed up for. It reminds me of that feeling on a roller coaster ride, steadily ascending to its highest peak and dreading every second of it. At the top, in the brief pause, I am forced to face the terrifying reality that there is absolutely nothing I can do to change what is about to happen. There’s no turning back, no changing my mind, and no amount of fight will alter the course of the next few minutes. The only thing left to do is to surrender.

My right breast is taut from pressure on the inside. It’s a likeness of a perfect grapefruit—swollen, round, and oddly perky. Under different circumstances, it might have fuelled my vanity, but it’s due to the palm-sized tumour underneath. Now visibly larger than its twin, it throbs and sends sharp, electric messages to surrounding areas.

I’ve had to adapt to this new reality. I’ve become a left-hearted hugger, a back sleeper, and I keep my right elbow at the ready to shield my throbbing breast from any kind of impact. I am adjusting to new ways to support my healing and sleeping as much as I need.

This mass resembles a slowly shifting continent, inching its way toward my armpit. Its relentless pull restricts the mobility of my shoulder and diminishes the strength in my arm. Everything I hold dear about myself finds expression through my hands. It’s not what I say but the authenticity of my hands that allows me to connect with people on the deepest level. As both an artist and masseuse, my hands serve as the language through which I communicate.

Though I should be celebrating the promising signs of healing that I’ve come to understand, it’s innate human nature to react to pain with fear and resistance. I am uncertain if the mass will eventually erupt to the surface or if it will become dormant after raising a ruckus. I remain to be my own test subject.

In recent weeks, the pain has intensified significantly. Every time I pressed my fingers to catch a hook in the tissue of the person I was massaging, I would feel a painful echo reverberating in my breast. It became a disruptive distraction to what is otherwise a practice of serenity and prayer.

This week, I finally arrived at the point where I had to release my massage practice. The decision left me grappling with the aftermath—my self-worth plummeted and landed on questions like : “Who am I if I can’t massage anymore? What if I can’t paint anymore? Who am I if I can’t use my hands?”

When the heart falls out of harmony, it recruits the mind to conjure up the worst-case scenarios. We do this in an attempt to prepare ourselves, even though most of these scenarios never materialize. It’s a convoluted way of trying to find comfort in situations beyond our control. While we’re entangled in these thoughts, life continues to move forward, often slipping by unnoticed. We miss the gifts of what each moment can bring us even though it may be uncomfortable.

The irony is that I’ve been praying for this to happen. I’ve been asking for my “biological program” to reach its completion. I’ve learned from German New Medicine that cells heal best in a warm, liquid environment. Healing brings swelling, heat, and yes, pain. It’s the body’s way of signalling us to rest, to refrain from using that part so it can mend itself. This is why we often reach the peak of discomfort, also known as a healing crisis, before the body can return to homeostasis.

Against my better judgment, my well-being is compromised by toggling between my worst fears and my faith in what I’ve learned in the last four years of this healing journey. Nevertheless, I continue to remind myself to extend forgiveness to the part of me that still falls prey to these “what-ifs.” The only way is through it. I always have the choice to embrace pain and the unknown with surrender and faith, trusting in my body’s innate ability to heal. There is always the right time to remember when I forget.

I’m grateful to be reminded of the opportunities within every obstacle. Now that I’m not massaging, I have more time for my creative projects that had been shelved. This newfound time allows me to nurture and listen to what my body needs. I’m embracing this journey, wherever it may lead me, much like taking a deep breath at the peak of a rollercoaster ride—relaxing and surrendering to the wild ride ahead.

LESSON: RELAX AND SURRENDER.