Four

She is four. She is beauty and grace, half pirate, half princess, and all things magical about the world. And I am hers. For however many hours in the day, I am completely, utterly, hers. Not quite a parent, not quite a playmate, I am her link to both safety and wonder. I try to teach her things such as patience, wild abandon, honesty, truth, to see the good in the world, and to temper innocence with wisdom.

We are at the park, the same park that I took her to last spring. The park where a bed of shamrocks blanketed the gully and she walked among them, bent down a single time and picked a four leaf clover. Just. Like. That. Lucky from the start. The shamrocks have not yet woken from winter’s sleep this year. She asks about them. Soon, I tell her. Soon. The wind is blowing fiercely, breathing a new kind of life into us, and we play. First pirates, then princesses, then it is time for the bench swing. We are steps away when an elderly woman, who holds the wisdom of three of my lifetimes, takes respite there. She is four; she knows “fair” and gives me a sideways stare. I understand. I bend and take her hands into mine. “It’s ok,” I tell her. “Make a friend. Go ask her if you can share."

And so we sit, three generations together, on the wooden bench swing. We talk about the important things in life: first teeth, preschool, and memories of a time long ago that seems only a breath away.

She is four. I try to teach her things such as patience, wild abandon, honesty, truth, to see the good in the world, and to temper innocence with wisdom. I, too, am learning.

Return of the Robins

They have come (as they always do) following the memory of green, of warmth, of the smell of the earth in bloom. They have traveled from far away - from places where Spring does not go. They swarm, flit, dip, dive, raiding the Hawthorn tree of its berries; the ones they miss fall like rain on the rooftop. A whirl of brown and red, of feather and resilience blankets the sky, only permitting filtered sunlight and the promise of new to pass through. They are back. Finally (finally), it is Spring.

Dusk

So much of what inspires me comes at dusk - the quiet, bittersweet time after a long day when the sky reminds you what it's like to be alive. Some of these pictures are old, some are new, but all of them reflect the beauty that is twilight.

A Breath In Time

Solitude

And the still strong roar

Of the ocean fill me

The sky brilliant swirls of pinks and blues mixed on dusk's canvas

And wishing stars hang delicately by threads from heaven

I am alone

Left with the remnants of a breezy autumn day

Left with sea foam

And shells washed ashore

Awoken from hundreds of years beneath the sea

Left with palm fronds used as makeshift shovels

For carving castles and happily-ever-afters

I am small and here I know it

I am but one of thousands, of trillions, of even more

I shout as loud as I can to the sea

Her waves drown my voice

Shush me like a child

I am small here and I know it

I am alone

Left with the remnants of a breezy autumn day

With seaweed from a mermaid’s garden

Plucked from waters dark and deep

A tiny sliver of a moon lights my path;

Shines down from years away

I watch as my footprints disappear

My marks on the world washed away

I am small here and I know it;

I am but a breath in time, nothing more.

Tamed

“You were once wild here. Don’t let them tame you.”
~ Isadora Duncan

I had almost forgotten it - the feeling that only astronauts and children know. That feeling of pure uninhibited flight, of wings disguised as arms, toes pointed heavenward touching the cerulean sky; spinning in orbit, seeing the world for the very first time; being pulled back to earth only to take flight again. I had almost forgotten it.

Time has a way of taming us. Our eyes become familiar with life’s terrain and we become immune to so much beauty, to potential, to fallen dreams that need mended wings to fly. We work around what we are lacking for fear of the pain caused by mending what is broken – or simply for lack of knowing how to fix it. And eventually what we once knew is all but forgotten, a hole in our hearts, a feeling we can’t really distinguish anymore. We have become tamed.

I had almost forgotten it – the thirst for life that I once knew. The feeling that I belonged, that I had a purpose, that life had something planned for me, and the passion for the possible that once stirred deep within. I had almost forgotten it. I was almost tamed.

Secrets of the sea

Listen closely and she will tell you her secrets...

Secrets of mothers and daughters

And fathers and sons


Of lovers






Of solitude




And friends

Of grace

Of wonder

Of paths not yet taken

And a thousand dreams yet to come...


Shhhhhhh....

A Lesson in Gratitude

"At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us."

~ Albert Schweitzer

Last week I found out the extent of the surgery and that for certain it was not cancer. I am incredibly relieved. Some of you know the particulars of the surgery, but suffice to say, the doctor had quite a lot to repair. I have four scars – three small ones and one big one - but when I see them, all I can think of is how grateful I am. Grateful that I was able to have the surgery, grateful to be alive, grateful to have a part of my life back, and grateful for the constant support I have received here, in emails, and via Skype. I know how incredibly lucky I am to have friends like you.

The past three weeks have been trying: surgery, another trip back to the hospital, two visits to the doctor, four rounds of antibiotics, one tropical storm (no electricity for days, but it pales in comparison to what many people lost to the storm), and returning to work, but I think I’ve done well, considering.

So now that’s behind me, it’s on with life. And you know what? It just got a whole lot better.

I woke up!

I'm home now, but still really sore. Thank you for all of your comments, emails and well wishes. I tried to think of all of the places you told me of before surgery, which was a wonderful distraction -- you guys are the best! I'm not sure I actually dreamt of them during surgery, it's all kind of a blur...and judging by how I woke up, I think it's probably good that it remains that way!

As far as the cancer part, the doctor seemed to think (although he can't say for sure until the test results come back in a week or two) that it wasn't cancer and that my chances of having children in the future are "fair." So, fingers crossed, those were the two outcomes I was hoping for. There is still healing left to do, but apart from that, I'm so glad this is over. All of your well wishes worked and I can't thank you enough for your continued support. I couldn't have done it without you!

Making a list

The wait is finally over and Thursday I will be in the hospital. I'm nervous about anesthesia, as anyone would be (and this is where your help comes in), but I'm glad it will be over.

I'm putting together a list of things to dream about, just in case there is room for dreams under anesthesia. I know that you probably go to sleep and don't remember a thing and wake up saying strangely funny things, but you know, just in case.

Tell me, please, about the most beautiful places in the world you have ever seen, the company you had while there, what this time of year (or any time of year) is like in your country.

First, I'll dream about the Christmas Market in Belgium because that's where Zoe is. I think this might be a long-ish dream, so more places are in order. Where should I go next?

Dreams

Dreams swirl in my head and cling to my night clothes, refusing to fade with morning’s light, feigning innocence, feigning unfamiliarity with the morning routine, beckoning me to return to them. As sunlight spills through white curtains, I acquiesce, following them as they lead me to the sea, to the dune flowers, to the sirens’ song carried gently in the wind. I listen as they sing to me of the beauty hidden beneath the sea. Even in the deepest darkest water, they tell me, there is beauty, there are stars. A kitten’s nose presses against mine, nudging me back into morning, and I rise and follow my own path to the sea.

(more on Flickr.)

Here & Now

I don't know anything more now than I did last month, except that surgery will be in August. In the meantime, I'm trying to still my mind (easier said than done) and remember the here and now.

Perspective

First, I would like to thank everyone – those friends who have remained constant over the years and those who I have just met - for your words of support, emails and comments. I thought long and hard before making the last post. I’ve had my share of things go wrong over the past couple of years that I felt that talking about this would be complaining, but life is about the good and the bad and I hope that this blog reflects how hard I’ve tried (and succeeded) to find happiness and joy in spite of all the bad.

I have had a little bit of time to think about everything, to let it all sink in and to try to gain some perspective. I’ve tried considering the odds. For my age group, odds of ovarian cancer are 1 in 100. If you have an ovarian mass, the odds are 1 in 7. I am hoping for the best and trying not to worry as the diagnosis is not certain yet. However, what is certain is that surgery is necessary and imminent, and that really does scare me. I’m also trying to come to terms with the fact that this, when the time comes, will be harder than it should be at best, if it is even still a possibility. That alone is devastating - a wound that is still fresh, raw, and remains at the very pit of my soul.

The coming weeks will provide more answers, maybe some more hope, and I’m certain more tears. But I will get through this, just as I have everything else. So, onward and upward and into the unknown. Thank you to all of those who walk with me through this.

~Joanna