Saturday, November 2, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
Little Patch of Land
Most days, I drive by the most beautiful little patch of land. It is at the corner of 23rd and Massachusetts in Lawrence, KS. Not any bigger than most front lawns, this small piece of heaven is perfectly planted, manicured and maintained. There is nothing extraordinary or novel about this section of land. But, it is always beautiful, lovingly cared for, bringing me a smile every day that I pass it. Although it is so small that if I'm distracted in the least, I am sure to miss it.
I hope my life is like that little patch of land. My life is simple but sublime. I nurture my soul with my love for my family and my passion for creativity and knowledge. And, I hope to bring a little joy or a smile to the few people I see each day. I may fall short, but every time I drive by 23rd and Massachusetts, I try just a little harder.
I hope my life is like that little patch of land. My life is simple but sublime. I nurture my soul with my love for my family and my passion for creativity and knowledge. And, I hope to bring a little joy or a smile to the few people I see each day. I may fall short, but every time I drive by 23rd and Massachusetts, I try just a little harder.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Days Like This
Last weekend my parents and I visited my sister Kathy and her family in their home in the hills west of Dallas. Afterward, we drove into Dallas to spend a couple of days visiting museums with my sister as our guide. First on our list was the JFK Sixth Floor Museum in downtown Dallas.
We drove into Dallas - myself, driving with my dad in his car, and Kathy in her brand new car, with Mother as her passenger. We had already purchased our tickets online for the specific time slot of 3:00 - 3:30 pm and were on track to arrive at the museum at that exact time. We just had to locate our hotel and drop off Dad's car and drive to downtown Dallas together.
I punched in the address of the hotel into my Google Maps but true to form, let my phone die before we could reach the destination. Kathy took charge and loaded the address into her phone and we took off in the direction of downtown. While Dad and I were following my sister's car, well, we began to clearly drive in circles ...... at least three times. Apparently her phone was not accepting the address of the hotel and was leading her back to the point of origin. Driving a car in circles in the middle of Dallas with my dad in the passenger's seat is a distinct experience that one would only wish on.......oh, let's say Al Qaeda.
With the clock ticking we decided to just pull over and drop the car off at a random spot and go onto the museum together as planned and pick the car up afterward, perhaps better prepared to find the hotel. As Dad and I got into my sister's car, something was clearly wrong. Mother, who was impeccably dressed in her green top and white pants, was covered in melted chocolate.
"Get in, hurry," my sister said as we were silently studying the situation at hand.
Mother appeared to be as confused as the rest of us that she had gotten chocolate all over herself and the interior of the brand new car. It had apparently melted in her purse and unknowingly gotten all over her.
"We need to clean up Mother.....this mess...." I stuttered. "She has more clothes in the trunk of their car....."
"There is no time." said Kathy, tossing a small towel to my mother as we peeled out onto the expressway, "We will miss our time slot."
After a bit, Mother spoke up, "Well, I'm certainly not going into the museum like this."
We drove on, my Dad for once in a stunned silence, myself in the back seat with Mother and her chocolate clothes, no one daring to speak. I made eye contact with Mother and both of us overcome with the hilarity of the situation broke out into fits of giggles. No one the in front seat joined in our amusement.
We arrived at the museum and Dad and I jumped out of the car with our tickets and into the building while Kathy parked the car with Mother. Apparently Kathy had some extra clothes packed in her trunk and Mother changed in the back seat of the car while Kathy kept the parking attendants from peering into the window.
When we all arrived at the sixth floor, we meandered through the exhibits, but eventually found a bench to sit on and decompress from the previous hour's activities. I looked at my mother sitting on the bench in clothes not her own, with tear stains on her face. Yes, we had laughed until we cried in the car, but these tears were fresh. From the minute she walked onto the floor, she was overcome with that moment of horror..........when she lost her President.
The chocolate and the car were cleaned and we eventually found our hotel........and I wouldn't have changed that afternoon for the world.
We drove into Dallas - myself, driving with my dad in his car, and Kathy in her brand new car, with Mother as her passenger. We had already purchased our tickets online for the specific time slot of 3:00 - 3:30 pm and were on track to arrive at the museum at that exact time. We just had to locate our hotel and drop off Dad's car and drive to downtown Dallas together.
I punched in the address of the hotel into my Google Maps but true to form, let my phone die before we could reach the destination. Kathy took charge and loaded the address into her phone and we took off in the direction of downtown. While Dad and I were following my sister's car, well, we began to clearly drive in circles ...... at least three times. Apparently her phone was not accepting the address of the hotel and was leading her back to the point of origin. Driving a car in circles in the middle of Dallas with my dad in the passenger's seat is a distinct experience that one would only wish on.......oh, let's say Al Qaeda.
With the clock ticking we decided to just pull over and drop the car off at a random spot and go onto the museum together as planned and pick the car up afterward, perhaps better prepared to find the hotel. As Dad and I got into my sister's car, something was clearly wrong. Mother, who was impeccably dressed in her green top and white pants, was covered in melted chocolate.
"Get in, hurry," my sister said as we were silently studying the situation at hand.
Mother appeared to be as confused as the rest of us that she had gotten chocolate all over herself and the interior of the brand new car. It had apparently melted in her purse and unknowingly gotten all over her.
"We need to clean up Mother.....this mess...." I stuttered. "She has more clothes in the trunk of their car....."
"There is no time." said Kathy, tossing a small towel to my mother as we peeled out onto the expressway, "We will miss our time slot."
After a bit, Mother spoke up, "Well, I'm certainly not going into the museum like this."
We drove on, my Dad for once in a stunned silence, myself in the back seat with Mother and her chocolate clothes, no one daring to speak. I made eye contact with Mother and both of us overcome with the hilarity of the situation broke out into fits of giggles. No one the in front seat joined in our amusement.
We arrived at the museum and Dad and I jumped out of the car with our tickets and into the building while Kathy parked the car with Mother. Apparently Kathy had some extra clothes packed in her trunk and Mother changed in the back seat of the car while Kathy kept the parking attendants from peering into the window.
When we all arrived at the sixth floor, we meandered through the exhibits, but eventually found a bench to sit on and decompress from the previous hour's activities. I looked at my mother sitting on the bench in clothes not her own, with tear stains on her face. Yes, we had laughed until we cried in the car, but these tears were fresh. From the minute she walked onto the floor, she was overcome with that moment of horror..........when she lost her President.
The chocolate and the car were cleaned and we eventually found our hotel........and I wouldn't have changed that afternoon for the world.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
The Land We Belong To
This afternoon, as my parents were visiting, we sat down to watch a movie "Far and Away" a depiction of the famous land run into Oklahoma. With the recent devastation still on my mind, I wondered to myself if these settlers could even imagine what their claimed land held in store for them.
My stomach still churns at the the sense of helplessness I felt last week as the cable news channel showed the tornado plowing through my hometown, the helicopters swooping in with instant videos of the destruction. People were shocked as the improbable reality of a storm of such magnitude actually striking again, turned into a seemingly familiar resignation of gloom when what was left was nothing but rubble.
And the media descended into the chaos, asking the obvious questions - "Why do you continue to live in an area that poses so much risk? Most people's answers implied the same message...."Because it is what we know.....Because it's home."
Yes, it is home, but it is a tough land, with unforgiving summers, red clay dirt, fierce winds and reckless storms. These storms twist and tease, beating a path of destruction and spewing the lives and belongings of the victims back to the ground, then casually creeping into the dark cloud above it.
But these people who endure, whose families have histories far before the dust bowl, have never taken the easy path. Instead of shaking their fists at fate or the land that betrayed them, they get up another day, and although a little worse for wear, they move forward in the hopes that their tomorrow will be a brighter day.
After all, they are home.
My stomach still churns at the the sense of helplessness I felt last week as the cable news channel showed the tornado plowing through my hometown, the helicopters swooping in with instant videos of the destruction. People were shocked as the improbable reality of a storm of such magnitude actually striking again, turned into a seemingly familiar resignation of gloom when what was left was nothing but rubble.
And the media descended into the chaos, asking the obvious questions - "Why do you continue to live in an area that poses so much risk? Most people's answers implied the same message...."Because it is what we know.....Because it's home."
Yes, it is home, but it is a tough land, with unforgiving summers, red clay dirt, fierce winds and reckless storms. These storms twist and tease, beating a path of destruction and spewing the lives and belongings of the victims back to the ground, then casually creeping into the dark cloud above it.
But these people who endure, whose families have histories far before the dust bowl, have never taken the easy path. Instead of shaking their fists at fate or the land that betrayed them, they get up another day, and although a little worse for wear, they move forward in the hopes that their tomorrow will be a brighter day.
After all, they are home.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
On My Own Terms
I spent the last week in the hospital. I have adjusted to the fact that although it certainly doesn't define me, I will be a cancer patient forever. And after seven years, I have accepted the potential outcomes of my disease and feel confident that if I leave this life on earth, I will awaken to another experience, another realm, always connected to my loved ones. So, bottom line.... my cancer doesn't shake me.
I think what I have taken from the whole doctor/hospital thing is - question everything. In the beginning of my illness, I was terrified, so everything the physicians said and did - I accepted without question. And, God bless them, they are amazing, wise people, these physicians, but they cannot know our bodies like we do. And, they do not know every single, correct decision every patient should make. They just don't.
I've learned to speak up. If I think that there might be a better option of treatment than I am offered, I go in search of it and try it. If I don't want a tube shoved down my nose, through my throat into my stomach, then I just say "no" and smile. If the nurse assigned to my room is having a bad day.....I can ask to have her reassigned. This past week in the hospital I woke up to an anesthesiologist standing over my bed with consent forms for me to sign because the on-call surgeon was wanting to cut me open and do an exploratory surgery with a possible intestinal resection. (He had a sudden opening in his schedule) Again, "no" (smile)
I know that I am to the point that I will need to have surgery, but I'm doing it on my own terms. I've since spoken to the surgeon and asked that the surgery be a collaborative one with another specialist. I've learned to cover my own bases, because sometimes, they just don't. Perhaps I need to feel in control of something and this gives me that aspect of control.
Interestingly enough, the physicians are usually very open to discussion and compromise. So for now....life is on my own terms.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Beautiful Things
Last night I attended a book discussion featuring my favorite author, Cheryl Strayed. This past summer, I read her book, "Wild," a memoir of her journey as a young woman alone on the Pacific Crest Trail. Her story resonated with me so profoundly as it has with thousands of other people. Although I've never hiked ten miles, much less the hundreds of miles she walked, I gravitated to her journey of reflection and eventual self discovery. On this particular trail, she came to terms with her grief, acknowledged her mistakes and found a path to a more enlightened, humbler life.
During the session, she read the last passage of her book "Tiny Beautiful Things" which is advice to her younger self so I had to buy it to read myself.
"There are some things you can't understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It's good you've worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness........ You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don't waste your time on anything else. Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room"
During the session, she read the last passage of her book "Tiny Beautiful Things" which is advice to her younger self so I had to buy it to read myself.
"There are some things you can't understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It's good you've worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness........ You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don't waste your time on anything else. Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room"
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Friday, February 22, 2013
Beautiful
Monday, February 11, 2013
My Counselor My Friend
Today I called my therapist to set up an appointment. I don't see him regularly anymore, just dialing him up on occasion if I have something on my mind, or a decision in the making. We end up talking about everything under the sun....from football to poetry or politics. He always has an inspiring piece of literature or article that he has saved to pass on to me. And, he doesn't pull any punches with me - often telling me things I don't want to hear, but doing so in such a way that I can't help but accept them. During our many conversations I get a glimpse into his life, his dedication to his faith, his love of poetry, his pride in the accomplishments of his children and grandchildren. And, I will sometimes see him in passing on the streets of Lawrence, an elderly gentleman, always stately in his suit jacket and fedora. I consider myself to have hit the jackpot when finding such a counselor. I'm grateful for the wisdom that he passes onto me from his life experiences and even his own passion of the arts. But, today it was not his voice message....rather another doctor's stating that he was undergoing a health crisis and unable to communicate with his patients.
This man....my counselor, helped me find my path to wholeness through pursuing art. One of my favorite writings he suggested to me at a particularly dark time in my life is a speech from Karl Paulnack - following is just a small section:
"One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940. Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany. He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940 and imprisoned in a prisoner of war camp.
He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a place to compose, and fortunate to have musician colleagues in the camp, a cellist, a violinist, and a clarinetist. Messiaen wrote his quartet with these specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand prisoners and guards in the prison camp Today it is one of the most famous masterworks in the repertoire.
Given what we have since learned about life in the Nazi camps, why would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water, to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture - why would anyone bother with music? And yet, even from the concentration camps, we have poetry, we have music, we have visual art; it wasn't just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must be somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope, without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit, an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we say, "I am alive, and my life has meaning."
Godspeed, my counselor and friend.
This man....my counselor, helped me find my path to wholeness through pursuing art. One of my favorite writings he suggested to me at a particularly dark time in my life is a speech from Karl Paulnack - following is just a small section:
"One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940. Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany. He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940 and imprisoned in a prisoner of war camp.
He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a place to compose, and fortunate to have musician colleagues in the camp, a cellist, a violinist, and a clarinetist. Messiaen wrote his quartet with these specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand prisoners and guards in the prison camp Today it is one of the most famous masterworks in the repertoire.
Given what we have since learned about life in the Nazi camps, why would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water, to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture - why would anyone bother with music? And yet, even from the concentration camps, we have poetry, we have music, we have visual art; it wasn't just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must be somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope, without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit, an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we say, "I am alive, and my life has meaning."
Godspeed, my counselor and friend.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Legacy
Although we may not fully see
Your life becomes our legacy
When shadows fall and memories fade
Your light will break darkest shade
You’ll carry us beyond our grief
Above the path we won’t yet see
And far beyond the rain we’ll hear
Your heart still beating ever near
Be strong be brave don’t fear the night
Embrace another realm of life
Will that be a star I see or
Your spirit guiding me
We’ll look for love to often see
Others needing empathy
And in your honor may we be
Examples of your legacy
Monday, August 20, 2012
Back to School
My first semester at the KU's School of the Arts begins tomorrow. Ideally, I would not be fifty years old and still feeling the effects of chemo on Friday......What can I say? I'm a late bloomer.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Angels
I've been flying back and forth to Chicago over the past year for a clinical trial not available elsewhere. My visits vary anywhere from once a month to once a week, and so the airlines have basically received every last penny in my pocket.
So, a few months ago, I decided to look into an organization called "Angel Flight" an organization of pilots that donate their planes, fuel, and their time to fly people to and from their doctor's appointments. I cannot say enough about the people who are a part of this - other than they are selfless and compassionate. I flew a couple of times with them over the summer and will use them on occasion in the future. My hope is that my treatment will go so well, that I won't need to travel anymore, but these angels will be there if I do.
So, a few months ago, I decided to look into an organization called "Angel Flight" an organization of pilots that donate their planes, fuel, and their time to fly people to and from their doctor's appointments. I cannot say enough about the people who are a part of this - other than they are selfless and compassionate. I flew a couple of times with them over the summer and will use them on occasion in the future. My hope is that my treatment will go so well, that I won't need to travel anymore, but these angels will be there if I do.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
81/2 Miles
Until last week, I had been undergoing cancer treatments every week for the past nine weeks. Every week I worked Monday through Wednesday, flying to Chicago on Wednesday evenings, receiving a treatment on Thursday, flying back that evening and working on Friday.
So, now I'm on a break for a while until I have to return to Chicago the last week in June. I decided to spend time with my parents and help my mother with different tasks around the house. In addition, I am taking a little "me time" which includes walking.....alot.
The first day I was at my parent's home, I put on my gear and told my mother I was going for a walk.
"Where?" Mother asked.
"To Earlywine, the park nearby," I answered
"Well, okay. Take your cell phone so I can call you."
"No, it is charging," I say.
"Then take mine," she responds.
"No, I don't want to carry a cell phone, Mom."
"Okay, I guess I'll just have to go with you," she replies.
"No....It is fine really. I'm just going on a walk," I say.
"Well, lots of people go on walks and never come back," she says to my back as I'm walking out the door.
After a few days of walking (and coming home to my dad pulling out of the driveway on his way to hunt me down) I relented and started carrying my cell phone. I've been walking five miles per day, and today I increased to eight and a half.
I'm enjoying the summer.....living in the moment......Life is good.
So, now I'm on a break for a while until I have to return to Chicago the last week in June. I decided to spend time with my parents and help my mother with different tasks around the house. In addition, I am taking a little "me time" which includes walking.....alot.
The first day I was at my parent's home, I put on my gear and told my mother I was going for a walk.
"Where?" Mother asked.
"To Earlywine, the park nearby," I answered
"Well, okay. Take your cell phone so I can call you."
"No, it is charging," I say.
"Then take mine," she responds.
"No, I don't want to carry a cell phone, Mom."
"Okay, I guess I'll just have to go with you," she replies.
"No....It is fine really. I'm just going on a walk," I say.
"Well, lots of people go on walks and never come back," she says to my back as I'm walking out the door.
After a few days of walking (and coming home to my dad pulling out of the driveway on his way to hunt me down) I relented and started carrying my cell phone. I've been walking five miles per day, and today I increased to eight and a half.
I'm enjoying the summer.....living in the moment......Life is good.
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