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Fatigue requires my attention, so I am cutting back on the frequency of my blogs

I need to sit still, listen, and wait while the sun drenches me.

Until the next blog, my thanks and love …

 

Photo taken on the grounds of Eastern Point Retreat House, Gloucester, Massachusetts, 2013. I used to rest on this bench after returning from walks by the ocean.

Like a weaver, you roll up my life and cut it from the loom…I twitter like a sparrow, I moan like a dove. Isaiah 38: 12-14

This quotation from the prophet Isaiah speaks to the quaking in my depths that sets my teeth on edge: I’m confronted by the Weaver’s power that will end the ongoing project of my life, one I dearly love, but so late in its actualization. Clearly, I am not in control and I don’t like it.

This time, it is nerve pain in my left heel, stinging as I sit at my word processor.

Other bothersome symptoms, related to the Dexamethasone I’m taking, continue shadowing my day: moonface, increasing fatigue and shortness of breath and dizziness, weight gain, increasing deformity and flexibility in my hands, intermittent knee pain. Coughing up infected mucus exhausts me. Only physical death will free me from these symptoms.

In the interim, it’s critical to interface these downers with CPA’s 12 Steps and to receive daily support from my buddies during meetings and phone contacts. Although my terminal illness tries to waylay me into believing that I am alone, that no one cares, this is gobbledygook. Together, we surrender, afresh, to Higher Power and live.

Only the Weaver’s shears will set me free, whenever, however. Until then, like the twittering sparrows outside my study window, I watch and listen. It’s about growing spiritually, one day at a time, with still more opportunities to unfurl my birthright.

 

 

On the other side of change lurks the unknown, at times fraught with crippling fears for most of us.

I still shudder remembering the first wrench: leaving home for the semi-cloistered convent after college. Only the trousseau afforded clues of the lifestyle I was preparing to embrace, and that wasn’t much: linens, toothpaste, rubbers, galoshes, Girl Scout shoes, man-sized handkerchiefs, white nightgowns, etc. Once behind the enclosure, daily changes whittled my identity to the robot-like postulant that I became with nineteen others.

The second wrench was leaving the convent seventeen years later, on my own forthe first time in my life. Helpers showed up precisely when I needed them, but lesserfears still tinged decisions and scrambled my thoughts while moving from city tocity, from job to job, from advanced degree to advanced degree.

The third turn-around was surrendering to my disease of alcoholism and joining Alcoholics Anonymous in 1991. Again, others modeled practicing the 12 Steps until I was willing to practice them myself, and with Higher Power’s help, explore the faulty bedrock of my identity and rip it out. At last, I was becoming my own person.

And now the fourth change—accommodating terminal illness in my lungs within the Unknown, buoyed by the gentle discipline of Chronic Pain Anonymous. To this daily practice, I bring the compass of faith. I’m in good company. In some future not of my devising, this part of my journey will end. In my dreams, however, I am still healthy, still learning.

So like everyone else, I am mortal and show up for each day’s experience.

 

 

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