Yoga hs been one of the constancies on either side of the semi-colon in the sentence that is my life (not like a prison sentence--like nouns and verbas and lots of parentheses). Before brain surgery, I did a sun salutation every morning. Right after surgery, when I was still in the hospital bed, I did hospital bed yoga: any posture or stretch I could think of that I could do lying down was my daily exercise.
Now that I'm home and walking but still uneasy with my balance, I do lying down and sitting up yoga every morning. Mostly, I do a sun salutation minus tree pose (where a person stands like a tree on one leg--the way all trees stand), and minus triangle pose or anything else that might make me fall and bump my head. I've added to the routine poses that stretch my back and my neck, a kind of rehab yoga.
Not only does the yoga serve to stretch my body and to center me, but it also reminds of the calm within myself, a place that I can access when anxiety--about falling or about being unable to work or about dying--sets in.
I feel lucky to have found such a discipline before my brain tumors. So much was in place for me before brain tumors: a loving partner and family, a variety of experiences in my vocation, a supportive church community, an amazing group of friends, Storm allegiance and other past-times.
Of a paranoid imagination, I have always tried to prepare for hard times. Like the boy scouts, I have pledged to be prepared. Before surgery, I biked all over town, partly because I loved it, and partly because I knew a car battery would die in the event of a nuclear attack (I didn't go so far as to figure out the breathing part); I'd work to strenghten my upper body in case one day I couldn't use my legs; I've always saved as much as I can for retirmement, in case Social Security runs out (this, I don't think, is paranoid); I hiked up rocky trails with my teeth clenched, so that if I fell I would not bite off my tongue.
I know some Christians talk about preparing for the afterlife, but if nothing's gone really wrong for you yet, I'd suggest you prepare for the unknowns of this like. Yoga's a good place to start, for now and for later.
Of course, last weekend the local newspaper reported that the local minister of a megachurch said that doing yoga is like inviting in little demons. The minister's logic went like this: yoga's parent is Hinduism, a religion that, in this enlightened minister's opinion, worships many gods and is therefore pagan and ergo evil. I wonder where journalists go to find and report such wisdom.
Mary
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
P.S. 5 Perspective
My chiropractor, Richard Bartlett, told me this excellent story about keeping loss in perspective. A few years ago, the Seattle Sonics (there was a men's NBA basketball team in Seattle then), played in the NBA finals. This year seemed to Dr. Bartlett the year this team should win. Sam Perkins, after all, was on the team along with other greats. Dr. Bartlett had season tickets with his son. This win would be a testosterone fest. (He didn't tell me that part. I inferred.)
The Sonics, however, lost. Dr. Bartlett was devastated. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. For three weeks he couldn't shake the loss. Then, one day, he was riding the bus home from the office, tired from his full day of work healing people, and he looked out the window to see a large black man escorting a beautiful young woman into a limousine. That life looked good to Dr. Bartlett. That man looked happy. That man looked familiar. That man was Sam Perkins.
Sam Perkins the player was plenty happy. Dr. Bartlett the fan, who had no control over winning and losing, was grieving. This scenario, Dr. Barlett wisely noted, was ridiculous. This loss was not his to control, not his to grieve.
Deep. But if the Storm loses next year, don't even try this logic on me.
Having experienced losses beyond my control, I know that control is not the central issue in appropriate grieving (unless maybe we're talking sports, which we often are.) I have grieved my loss of balance, of clear vision, of a mouth that works the same on both sides. These losses were not under my control, but for sure they are mine.
A few years ago, my friend Jenny, a doctor who has herself been through struggle and loss from diabetes, told me that one day I might be thankful for my tumors. To be honest, I'm not there yet, and I don't know if I'll ever be. I am aware, however, that with loss I have gained a new perspective on what is important to me, and I align my days with what's important. I know that because of this new perspective my life has changed, in many ways for the better. Every minute now is different than it might have been.
I remember years ago a new minister promised the congregation, "Every time I look at you, I will look at you as a child of God." This is how I see more now, not because I try but because I do. I am every moment amazed by the people in my world, by the phenomenal beauty of fall leaves and sun breaks, by the gift of being here.
Glad to be here, and I'm so thankful you are, too. Mary
The Sonics, however, lost. Dr. Bartlett was devastated. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. For three weeks he couldn't shake the loss. Then, one day, he was riding the bus home from the office, tired from his full day of work healing people, and he looked out the window to see a large black man escorting a beautiful young woman into a limousine. That life looked good to Dr. Bartlett. That man looked happy. That man looked familiar. That man was Sam Perkins.
Sam Perkins the player was plenty happy. Dr. Bartlett the fan, who had no control over winning and losing, was grieving. This scenario, Dr. Barlett wisely noted, was ridiculous. This loss was not his to control, not his to grieve.
Deep. But if the Storm loses next year, don't even try this logic on me.
Having experienced losses beyond my control, I know that control is not the central issue in appropriate grieving (unless maybe we're talking sports, which we often are.) I have grieved my loss of balance, of clear vision, of a mouth that works the same on both sides. These losses were not under my control, but for sure they are mine.
A few years ago, my friend Jenny, a doctor who has herself been through struggle and loss from diabetes, told me that one day I might be thankful for my tumors. To be honest, I'm not there yet, and I don't know if I'll ever be. I am aware, however, that with loss I have gained a new perspective on what is important to me, and I align my days with what's important. I know that because of this new perspective my life has changed, in many ways for the better. Every minute now is different than it might have been.
I remember years ago a new minister promised the congregation, "Every time I look at you, I will look at you as a child of God." This is how I see more now, not because I try but because I do. I am every moment amazed by the people in my world, by the phenomenal beauty of fall leaves and sun breaks, by the gift of being here.
Glad to be here, and I'm so thankful you are, too. Mary
Saturday, October 2, 2010
PS4 who am i
Like many poetry-reading teenagers, I connected with Emily Dickenson's "Are you a nobody? I'm a nobody, too." When my sophomore English teacher Mrs. Smisson invited us to create a graphic symbol of ourselves, I cut out a large question mark. Today, I'm more of a semi-colon than a question mark, but the question still intrigues me: Who am I?
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord," and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an aunt,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Apparicio y Maria,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord," and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an aunt,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Apparicio y Maria,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
PS3 I'm a big fan.
When my high school teachers attended my soccer, volleyball and basketball games, I thought it was weird. Other athletes seemed to appreciate these teachers' attendance, but it seemed to me that it would be more fun for them to play a sport themselves instead of watching me.
Now that I'm older and struggling with balance and vision as I recover from brain surgery and radiation, I'm a big fan. Ann and I attend all of the home games for the Storm, Seattle's WNBA team. When they're away we watch them on television if the game's available. We scour the newspaper for articles about them. Storm player bobbleheads of Lauren Jackson, Swin Cash, and Sue Bird grace our living room. In the back room, we have our "Title IX Shrine," posters of the original Seattle ABA team, The Reign, the Storm team the year Sheryl Swoops played, and a signed cartoon of Lauren and Sue (we're on a first name basis.)
Here's how to be a fan: On game day, wear your Storm gear. Also wear your Storm gear every other day. Make sure you have enough so that you aren't stanky. At church, if there are prayers of thanksgiving, be sure to pray in thanks for the Storm. Even if you can hardly walk, practice your layups on the court at the neighborhood park. Pretend you're Sue--as you practice layups and at all other times.
At the game (of course you'll go), stand up at the beginning of each half until a Storm player scores. Only then can you sit down. Yell and clap when directed by the booming voice. When the other team enters the arena for warm-ups, clap for them. When their starters are introduced, clap again. If there's a really good player on the other team or especially if there's a player who once wore a Storm uniform, clap a lot. We are good sports, we Storm fans, and we appreciate good basketball players, whether or not they play for us. When the game's underway, however, cheer only for the Storm. Some Storm fans boo the referees, but you should not do this. It's obnoxious. The refs, like everyone else out there, are doing their best.
Have a beer at the game. Vendors sell microbrews, and you can't buy ice-cream anymore, so you may as well have a beer. After the game, talk about each big play with your friends. Honk your horn joyfully. Drive like you cheer, politely. The next day look sadly at anyone who was not at the game. Nod your head as if that person who did not attend has a disease. Then tell them when the next game is as if you assume they want to know.
If you have an office, or even just a wall, hang Storm memorabilia for all to see. Do not take your memorabilia down in the off-season. This would be treasonous.
I'm a big fan. You can be, too. Mary
Now that I'm older and struggling with balance and vision as I recover from brain surgery and radiation, I'm a big fan. Ann and I attend all of the home games for the Storm, Seattle's WNBA team. When they're away we watch them on television if the game's available. We scour the newspaper for articles about them. Storm player bobbleheads of Lauren Jackson, Swin Cash, and Sue Bird grace our living room. In the back room, we have our "Title IX Shrine," posters of the original Seattle ABA team, The Reign, the Storm team the year Sheryl Swoops played, and a signed cartoon of Lauren and Sue (we're on a first name basis.)
Here's how to be a fan: On game day, wear your Storm gear. Also wear your Storm gear every other day. Make sure you have enough so that you aren't stanky. At church, if there are prayers of thanksgiving, be sure to pray in thanks for the Storm. Even if you can hardly walk, practice your layups on the court at the neighborhood park. Pretend you're Sue--as you practice layups and at all other times.
At the game (of course you'll go), stand up at the beginning of each half until a Storm player scores. Only then can you sit down. Yell and clap when directed by the booming voice. When the other team enters the arena for warm-ups, clap for them. When their starters are introduced, clap again. If there's a really good player on the other team or especially if there's a player who once wore a Storm uniform, clap a lot. We are good sports, we Storm fans, and we appreciate good basketball players, whether or not they play for us. When the game's underway, however, cheer only for the Storm. Some Storm fans boo the referees, but you should not do this. It's obnoxious. The refs, like everyone else out there, are doing their best.
Have a beer at the game. Vendors sell microbrews, and you can't buy ice-cream anymore, so you may as well have a beer. After the game, talk about each big play with your friends. Honk your horn joyfully. Drive like you cheer, politely. The next day look sadly at anyone who was not at the game. Nod your head as if that person who did not attend has a disease. Then tell them when the next game is as if you assume they want to know.
If you have an office, or even just a wall, hang Storm memorabilia for all to see. Do not take your memorabilia down in the off-season. This would be treasonous.
I'm a big fan. You can be, too. Mary
P.S. 2 A pink and a blue or two pinks or two blues?
I didn't come out to myself as a lesbian until I was 30 years old, so I'm not sure what it's like to come out as a school-child. When I did come out, I remembered unintended insults from the past, so now that I'm a grown-up (sort of), I think a lot about younger persons who may be GLBTQ (gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, queer/questioning) and what they experience. Friends who came out when they were school-age have told me how hard that was.
I read an article a few years back that said that young children often may perceive themselves as GLBTQ before they start school, but quickly learn from their schoolmates that being GLBTQ is not okay, and they go underground for a while. According to this article, those children who start to imagine themselves as GLBTQ may start asking questions and struggling again around fourth, fifth, or sixth grade. I was thinking of things that might have helped me as a child, and I thought I'd share them with you in case you have young ones in your life.
As a child, I believe I would have been interested in open images of myself in the future: language of a partner instead of a husband or wife and images of a "wedding" or "ceremony" that go beyond male/female. My siblings and several friends brought their children to Ann's and my wedding. What an amazing experience that would have been for me. One of my younger nieces is still trying to understand it all: "You're getting married? But you're girls!" Years ago, Ann and I were playing the game of Life with my sister's four children at the beach one day. When Willie landed on "Get Married", Isabella asked if he wanted two pinks, two blues, or a pink and a blue. She was proud of herself and so were we. And amused. I can't imagine having imagined that option as a child.
I rebelled against pink at an early age. Perhaps that was my subconscious way of claiming my difference. My parents were partially open to new gender roles. My sister and I played sports and were required to cut the grass, for example. I don't think my brother, however, was required to take on traditionally female roles. Well, once Sister Jennifer made him wash and put away the dishes, but he didn't rinse them, so Mom had to rewash all of the dishes. (No, neither Jennifer nor Matthew took that on, and I certainly didn't. I think I might have watched.) Last summer, my little brother (now old enough for a colonoscopy), put away dishes from the dishwasher, which would have been helpful except that the dishes were still dirty. Clearly, he needed more guidance at a young age.
Similarly, I always believed I could have any occupation I sought (doctor, lawyer, engineer, etc.), but I'm not sure my brother believed he could have a traditionally female occupation, say a nurse or a kindergarten teacher.
In addition to chores and occupations, openness to style or fashion that goes against the gender-code: (pink for girls, blue or red for boys, dolls just for girls, math for boys, etc.) might have been helpful. I was in general not amused by dolls: only by one that was my size and would startle my mom when mom walked in the room and mistook the doll for her child. She would kind of jump and roll her eyes. I loved that. My brother loved dolls and our toy kitchen, but he had to trade them in for toy guns and holsters to ride on his rocking horse. He cried, terrified, the first day he rode that horse. Perhaps I should clarify here that as far as I know my brother is straight.
There was plenty of humor everywhere about gay people. In the seventies, we wore oxford shirts with "fag tags" on the back. We played "smear the queer." When our neighbor, Dr. King, came out as a gay man I heard him called, "Dr. Queen." I laughed. It was funny. But when I came out, I remembered the jokes and felt angry.
My friends and I make jokes still, but now we're explicitly on the inside together. Giving directions in the car, we avoid, "Go straight," and opt insted for "Go forward." When a male/ and female couple shows affection publically, we might say to one another, "It's okay for them to love each other, but do they have to put it in our faces?" At a poker game the other night, we decided that the best hand, beyond a royal flush, is a queer royal flush, one that wraps around from the Ace to the two.
For young ones though, whether they're GLBTQ or not, helping them find a safe place in the world for each person to be the one created for this world is serious. The struggles of GLBTQ youth, their likelihood to be bulllied or homeless or suicidal is well-documented, and these struggles are too serious for humor that might be misinterpreted.
No joke. Mary
I read an article a few years back that said that young children often may perceive themselves as GLBTQ before they start school, but quickly learn from their schoolmates that being GLBTQ is not okay, and they go underground for a while. According to this article, those children who start to imagine themselves as GLBTQ may start asking questions and struggling again around fourth, fifth, or sixth grade. I was thinking of things that might have helped me as a child, and I thought I'd share them with you in case you have young ones in your life.
As a child, I believe I would have been interested in open images of myself in the future: language of a partner instead of a husband or wife and images of a "wedding" or "ceremony" that go beyond male/female. My siblings and several friends brought their children to Ann's and my wedding. What an amazing experience that would have been for me. One of my younger nieces is still trying to understand it all: "You're getting married? But you're girls!" Years ago, Ann and I were playing the game of Life with my sister's four children at the beach one day. When Willie landed on "Get Married", Isabella asked if he wanted two pinks, two blues, or a pink and a blue. She was proud of herself and so were we. And amused. I can't imagine having imagined that option as a child.
I rebelled against pink at an early age. Perhaps that was my subconscious way of claiming my difference. My parents were partially open to new gender roles. My sister and I played sports and were required to cut the grass, for example. I don't think my brother, however, was required to take on traditionally female roles. Well, once Sister Jennifer made him wash and put away the dishes, but he didn't rinse them, so Mom had to rewash all of the dishes. (No, neither Jennifer nor Matthew took that on, and I certainly didn't. I think I might have watched.) Last summer, my little brother (now old enough for a colonoscopy), put away dishes from the dishwasher, which would have been helpful except that the dishes were still dirty. Clearly, he needed more guidance at a young age.
Similarly, I always believed I could have any occupation I sought (doctor, lawyer, engineer, etc.), but I'm not sure my brother believed he could have a traditionally female occupation, say a nurse or a kindergarten teacher.
In addition to chores and occupations, openness to style or fashion that goes against the gender-code: (pink for girls, blue or red for boys, dolls just for girls, math for boys, etc.) might have been helpful. I was in general not amused by dolls: only by one that was my size and would startle my mom when mom walked in the room and mistook the doll for her child. She would kind of jump and roll her eyes. I loved that. My brother loved dolls and our toy kitchen, but he had to trade them in for toy guns and holsters to ride on his rocking horse. He cried, terrified, the first day he rode that horse. Perhaps I should clarify here that as far as I know my brother is straight.
There was plenty of humor everywhere about gay people. In the seventies, we wore oxford shirts with "fag tags" on the back. We played "smear the queer." When our neighbor, Dr. King, came out as a gay man I heard him called, "Dr. Queen." I laughed. It was funny. But when I came out, I remembered the jokes and felt angry.
My friends and I make jokes still, but now we're explicitly on the inside together. Giving directions in the car, we avoid, "Go straight," and opt insted for "Go forward." When a male/ and female couple shows affection publically, we might say to one another, "It's okay for them to love each other, but do they have to put it in our faces?" At a poker game the other night, we decided that the best hand, beyond a royal flush, is a queer royal flush, one that wraps around from the Ace to the two.
For young ones though, whether they're GLBTQ or not, helping them find a safe place in the world for each person to be the one created for this world is serious. The struggles of GLBTQ youth, their likelihood to be bulllied or homeless or suicidal is well-documented, and these struggles are too serious for humor that might be misinterpreted.
No joke. Mary
P.S. All about me.
Ani Defranco forgot the words to the song she was singing at The Vancouver Folk Music Festival several years ago. Amusingly, she strummed her guitar and sang, "All about me. More about me. More about me." Likewise, when I went to Michoacan, Mexico as a volunteer for a health project in my twenties, I knew the adventure would be more about me than about the people I was going to help.
This is my way of saying I'd like to write again. I remmber now that this blog is not for you, really. It's for me. In my commitment to write a daily entry and in my delight at all the positive feedback, I had forgotten that the blog is really for me. It is of course also about you and this community and our connection. True. But I forgot that it was born from my need to put words to my experience and to send those words out to those who, graciously, listen.
After a fare-thee-well and a month's hiatus, I'd like to come back. I find myself writing entries in my head that only fade to black and I'm sorry to have lost them. So I'd like to write to you again, but this time I'll remember that the writing is as much about me as it is about us, and I'll ask your forbearance as I write when I feel compelled instead of each day.
Word? Mary
This is my way of saying I'd like to write again. I remmber now that this blog is not for you, really. It's for me. In my commitment to write a daily entry and in my delight at all the positive feedback, I had forgotten that the blog is really for me. It is of course also about you and this community and our connection. True. But I forgot that it was born from my need to put words to my experience and to send those words out to those who, graciously, listen.
After a fare-thee-well and a month's hiatus, I'd like to come back. I find myself writing entries in my head that only fade to black and I'm sorry to have lost them. So I'd like to write to you again, but this time I'll remember that the writing is as much about me as it is about us, and I'll ask your forbearance as I write when I feel compelled instead of each day.
Word? Mary
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Summer #23: One must know when to stop.
Summer #23 Two questions have compelled me throughout my life, and they are questions I have often often framed for my students: "Who am I?" and "What is my dream?" I remember that the essay question on Davidson College's application the year I applied was, "Who are you and why?" My response began confidently, "I am a child of the seventies...." A truer response, I think, was to the first assignment in my high school sophomore English class: "Create a symbol of yourself." My symbol, wisely I think now, was collage of photos formed into a large question mark. I thought then as I think now, "I contain multitudes." That question mark hung on the teacher's wall, forgotten by everyone but me I suppose, all year, and challenged me daily: Who am I and why is this question so impossible for me to answer?
I like Sandra Cisneros's metaphor of Esperanza's self as a series of wooden dolls that fit inside one another, each ourselves at one age, and each age still a part of who we are.
When I lived in Dallas, my friend George, who was a medical student then and I hear is a psychiatrist now, gave me a couple of riddles, of tests, designed to help a person know who they are. I don't remember them exactly, but they went something like this: Riddle #1 consisted of three questions to which a person needed to write an extended response. Each of the three questions was, "If you were an animal, what animal would you be?" As I remember, your first response is how you see yourself, the second how others see you and the third how you really are. Riddle #2 also comprised three questions: #1: If you were an animal, what animal would you be? #2: Descibe your favorite body of water and #3: Imagine that you are naked, in a white room. There is light in the room, but no clear source of that light. There are no windows and no doors, only four white walls, a white floor and a white ceiling. It is silent. Describe how you feel.
Try it and see what you discover.
If I were an animal, I would be a cat. Really, I am a cat. I like to nap in the sun and run around when I feel like it. Sometimes, I will allow you to pay attention to me, but only when I feel like it. Otherwise, I am preoccupied chasing butterflies and such. I, however, do not carry dead rodents in my mouth. And I do not pee in a litter box.
My favorite body of water is the ocean. It is deep, mysterious, and complex. The life that teems beneath the surface cannot be guessed at from a distance. It is strong and steady. Waves reach perpetually for the shore. At times it is playful, and at other times it is beautifully chaotic.
In this white room, I breathe deeply. I rest. I feel at peace.
As I remember, the animal reveals how you see yourself. The water reveals how you feel about sex. Your feelings about the white room reveal how you feel about death. I don't know if any of this is true, but I find it interesting to think about: who am I, really?
Some of my favorite people are those who see in me what I want to be true about myself. On her sixieth birthday, my friend Rita wrote a kind of a "Who's who?" for the people at her party. About me, she said, "Mary lives her beliefs." I want that to be true of me.
My recent student Yessicaa wrote a note to me when she graduated: "You're very kind, helpful, caring and motivating. Thanks to your caring heart I realized that there are people out there who care for me and discovered how special teachers can be in a student's life." This I want to be true of me as well, and I am graced that someone has seen that in me and shown me to myself in such a kind mirror.
I think about whether these tumors have changed who I am. They have certainly changed my life. Who am I? I am a survivor, the disabled woman down the road, Ann's partner, my parents' child, a sister, an aunt, a cousin. I am a teacher, a writer, a friend, an adventurer, a child of grace.
Thanks for staying with me as I've shared myself in this blog. In the sharing, I am discovering, and in that discovering you have been a support, an ear (or an eye), a kind friend. As Lao Tsu wrote centuries ago, "One must know when to stop," and I think it's time to stop this blog now, but the questions and the life and the grace persist. With love. Mary
I like Sandra Cisneros's metaphor of Esperanza's self as a series of wooden dolls that fit inside one another, each ourselves at one age, and each age still a part of who we are.
When I lived in Dallas, my friend George, who was a medical student then and I hear is a psychiatrist now, gave me a couple of riddles, of tests, designed to help a person know who they are. I don't remember them exactly, but they went something like this: Riddle #1 consisted of three questions to which a person needed to write an extended response. Each of the three questions was, "If you were an animal, what animal would you be?" As I remember, your first response is how you see yourself, the second how others see you and the third how you really are. Riddle #2 also comprised three questions: #1: If you were an animal, what animal would you be? #2: Descibe your favorite body of water and #3: Imagine that you are naked, in a white room. There is light in the room, but no clear source of that light. There are no windows and no doors, only four white walls, a white floor and a white ceiling. It is silent. Describe how you feel.
Try it and see what you discover.
If I were an animal, I would be a cat. Really, I am a cat. I like to nap in the sun and run around when I feel like it. Sometimes, I will allow you to pay attention to me, but only when I feel like it. Otherwise, I am preoccupied chasing butterflies and such. I, however, do not carry dead rodents in my mouth. And I do not pee in a litter box.
My favorite body of water is the ocean. It is deep, mysterious, and complex. The life that teems beneath the surface cannot be guessed at from a distance. It is strong and steady. Waves reach perpetually for the shore. At times it is playful, and at other times it is beautifully chaotic.
In this white room, I breathe deeply. I rest. I feel at peace.
As I remember, the animal reveals how you see yourself. The water reveals how you feel about sex. Your feelings about the white room reveal how you feel about death. I don't know if any of this is true, but I find it interesting to think about: who am I, really?
Some of my favorite people are those who see in me what I want to be true about myself. On her sixieth birthday, my friend Rita wrote a kind of a "Who's who?" for the people at her party. About me, she said, "Mary lives her beliefs." I want that to be true of me.
My recent student Yessicaa wrote a note to me when she graduated: "You're very kind, helpful, caring and motivating. Thanks to your caring heart I realized that there are people out there who care for me and discovered how special teachers can be in a student's life." This I want to be true of me as well, and I am graced that someone has seen that in me and shown me to myself in such a kind mirror.
I think about whether these tumors have changed who I am. They have certainly changed my life. Who am I? I am a survivor, the disabled woman down the road, Ann's partner, my parents' child, a sister, an aunt, a cousin. I am a teacher, a writer, a friend, an adventurer, a child of grace.
Thanks for staying with me as I've shared myself in this blog. In the sharing, I am discovering, and in that discovering you have been a support, an ear (or an eye), a kind friend. As Lao Tsu wrote centuries ago, "One must know when to stop," and I think it's time to stop this blog now, but the questions and the life and the grace persist. With love. Mary
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