January Newsletter: The Writing Life

Hello out there! Here is a link to see “The Writing Life,” where I share cool stuff, including a featured writing — Kansas Poet Laureate Kevin Rabas this month, a writing prompt (this month focused on saying hello and goodbye to what we welcome and release with the year), and a writing tip (“Read like a maniac” this month, and always always). There are also updates to what I’m up to, including upcoming in-person (in Emporia, Kansas) and video-conferenced cialis best price canada workshops on “Blogging for Your Soul and Audience,” a perfect workshop if you have a blog or are considering starting one as a way to build your audience and/or build your writing practice.

Kevin Rabas, This Month’s Featured Writer

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Sizing Up the Writing Life: Everyday Magic, Day 133

Last night, Danny and I were talking about rereading our old journals, and joking about how big our collections were. “Mine are this big,” I said, spreading my arms out to full wing span. “Well, mine are this big,” he said, doing the same with longer arms. So I decided to actually measure my journals to see not just how big they are, but when I occupied the journals most in my life, which I suspected was in my 20s, coinciding in the 1980s.

Turned out I filled up 24″ of journals during the 1980s in self-examination, stabs at poetry and stories, agonizing over what seems utterly silly to me now, and deep questing for understanding, spirit and guidance. From the 1970s, I only have 3 inches of journals, but my journals didn’t cheap cialis india start until 1976,  I used very slim notebooks and was quite young those years. My writing life compressed mightily in the 1990s when I was popping out babies and a dissertation between sharp turns into new jobs, leaving me with only enough time to fill about 11.5″. Come the 00s, the writing life had expanded again to about 16″ filled with far less worry, doubt and confusion than previous decades.

All in all, my journals fill 54.3 pages, almost a foot shorter than I am. They’re where I learned to write, and especially, how to live. I have no doubt they will not only out-live me, but out-grow me as they continue to lead me to the much-larger world of the story behind the story behind the story of my initial thoughts.

Writing Your Year Anew: Arrivals, Departures & Your Own Best Life: Everyday Magic, Day 164

Listen to a live podcast of this column here!

As 2010 dwindles down, I wanted to share a column I wrote for The Magazine of Yoga on what we want to invite in, release, mourn and celebrate in light of a new year. Please check this out, and also look at other inspiring articles in this lovely (free and freeing) on-line journal

Scans For Life: Everyday Magic, Day 956

With my oncologist, Dr. Sharon Soule

Years ago when I was in the oncology center waiting room for an appointment following my bout of breast cancer, two women made me cry. One was in her 70s, and the other was her middle-aged daughter, both clinging to each other and having a hard time answering questions because of their sobbing while they checked in to hear test results. I was soon called back to see my oncologist, and so were they, but I saw them again on my way out, both of them laughing and crying at once, still clinging to each other. A nurse who escorted them out hugged them and said, “I’m so happy for you.” They arrived in terror and left in joy.

I know those feelings pretty well. Since those dreaded “you-have-cancer” words first entered my orbit in 2002, I’ve been on the scan bus, making more stops than I would have expected because I was also diagnosed with BRCA 1, one of the breast cancer mutations. Add to this that my father and uncle died young from pancreatic cancer, and MRIs entered the mix. Then there was the ocular melanoma last summer, and now, post-treatment for that, I’m a regular in our hospital’s radiology department.

Last Friday, I had my second seasonal (every three months for many years) scan to make sure what was in my eye didn’t travel. Because this type of cancer, when it has legs (and I pray it doesn’t), usually shows up in the liver and sometimes in the lungs, I had an abdominal and chest CT scan (used to be called a CAT scan, although there’s little purring, involved), and some blood work. I was scared beforehand but not as scared as the first one last fall, and far less scared than the parade of of scans last spring. In the week before the scan, I had a few seconds here and there of full-body terror that makes me feel like I’m both thoroughly embodied in terror and also on the outside looking in. But I’ve learned fear storms are just another kind of weather that moves through: keep breathing, drink some water, tell yourself it’s just a strong emotion that will ebb, and eventually, the sky clears.

With Melissa, the wonderful CT scan technician

Getting scans to see what’s happening under the hood is something many of us endure. I know so many people living with and recovering from many health challenges, all of which require showing up on time, sometimes drinking strange fluids or having dye injected into us, and then being ferried in and out of large, sometimes (in the case of MRIs) outrageously loudly-clanging machines. There’s also other tests of trepidation many of us go through that show whether we’re in the money or up shit’s creek. My scans and health history aren’t more challenging than what many others go through, and I have a lot of “there but for the grace go I” moments when I hear of friends who are facing degenerative diseases, chronic pain, and terminal diagnoses (although life is such a diagnosis). Then again, comparison of our learning edges and life challenges is a futile activity.

I’ve learned and am continually learning to stay calmer, working through my phobia of being restricted in the grips of a machine. Last summer, my wonderful oncologist Sherri Soule gave me a prescription for a lot of Lorazepam, a low dose anti-anxiety drug. I wondered why she prescribed so many, but now that I’ve had that refilled twice, I know sometimes we need a little pharmaceutical help. I also have a GABA spray I highly recommend for moments that activate our fight or flight response. Like many of us, I practice slow, deep breathing, listen to music (especially during scans, and I’m sure Enya was invented for MRIs), and bring along Ken and sometimes other support people.

For this last scan, I found extra support in the technician, a lovely woman named Melissa who remembered me from last time, talked over the singers I was listening to my iPhone during the scan (Brandi Carlile and Carrie Newcomer), and treated me with such energetic tenderness that she put me at ease. Then there was the wait for results, best spent not speculating — we distracted ourselves by getting brunch at Wheatfields, reveling in the glory of bread. I’m so grateful that my oncologist doesn’t play the phone game (a call if all is fine or a “you need to come in right away” if it’s not) and meets with me a few hours after the scans. As she came in smiling, telling me all was well, to my surprise I started crying, but that’s pretty common with scans.

Each scan is another tumble with seeing how mortal we are. Recently, my therapist and I realized that it wasn’t the scanning machines — CT scans, MRIs, and Pet scans — that freaked me out as much as what the scans might read. At the same time, the whole process makes me fall more in love with this life, enough to spend a long and healthy lifetime grappling with what I keep discovering here.

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