Today was a day at the beach. With lovely friends and one of the brand new babes in my life in her adorable hand-sewn baby teepee. Maybe it’s not true or it’s just the summer weather talking, but I think a corner has been turned. Like that construction? I have turned a corner I should say. Okay I should probably just scrap the cliche altogether and say: I feel better. I feel like the sickness is rinsing off of me. I know, three years later, but suddenly it’s hitting me: victory.

And especially with the headaches mostly gone: I’m ok. Truly as ok as everyone else. Though there are certain cares I have to take. Like my friend J and I have been doing this Bikram thing. I’ve been to five or six classes. And it’s kicking my ass. But it’s amazing to sweat like that, to feel every pore just dumping out salt and water and whatever else is in there. And leave feeling wrung out, done, cleansed. And the repetition of postures is meditative. Over and over, again and again.

But I noticed after the last couple of classes that my tongue’s been kind pale and purply. Nothing anyone but an acupuncturist would notice unless you told them to. So I wrote my acupuncturist and he explained in interesting, technical TCM terms about yin and how releasing that much water and toxins could be depleting my yin energy which is what keeps our immune system running, we call on the yin reserves. And in my case, those reserves are essential to remission. He reminded me of the time last summer (or the year before?) that I tried the master cleanse with C. And she was fine, if hungry, and within eight hours I was head-deep in my porcelain BFF.

When you’ve had as much toxic–if healing–stuff put in you as chemo recipients have, any accelerated detoxing is not ideal and easily overloads the system. Which is rough because I totally love the idea of Extreme Cleansing. I really like the idea of having a lightened toxic load.

But P the acu said I should do non-hot yoga regularly and Bikram every couple of weeks or so. Because that way it’s unlikely that I’d release any more toxins than my system could process. Which is sad for our Bikram challenge–which J, of course, healthy rockstar that she is, is rocking with a perfectly fine tongue.

Anyway, just as I need to focus on my cruciferous intake and getting sleep and making sure it’s dark when I sleep and drinking plenty of water and exercising and eating organic and drinking green tea and not serving tea to my negative thoughts, and not eating too much sugar, there are a few things us “survivors” need to avoid. I mean like besides charred meat and cigarettes and bisphenols. Over-detoxing, I guess being the main thing. Oh and stress. Ha. I think my new approach to stress is kind of like my approach to ice cream. I can’t get it out of my life so I will displace it as much as I can with good stuff. So: More joy, baby. More dancing, more friends, more movement, more life. You know?

I just signed up for a workshop in July that I’ve been contemplating since April: a week of drumming, chanting, and dancing. And lake-ing and hiking. I’m psyched.

And I hope you are digging into summer too out there. I’m still so grateful for anyone who might still be reading. Thanks.

When Your Body Is Good

Man alive, it’s hot out there. I just got back from a divine weekend in the Berkshires that involved gigantic leafy reminders of trees, a froggy, fishy, lake, and incredible samba music. Yes.

I got my test results back the other day. And not only are they squeaky-clean green-flag perfect (hey, this is one area where aiming for perfection is not a flaw), but for the first time in maybe three years I’m actually starting to feel like I’m really, truly going to be ok.

After sitting tensely with Dr. Z before he told me what my scans and blood tests looked like, my world was seriously churning before me. I had been feeling so weird, so nauseated and tired, and upside-down, and the GP said I was anemic, and, and, I dunno, I was afraid that this would really be the time there was bad news.

But nope. I’m not even anemic. Stupid GP tests. After delivering the green-lights, he asked how I was feeling.

“Much better now that I know I’m not imminently dying.”

“You thought that?” he asked, surprised.

“Umm, yeah. It was a possibility.”

“Well, I can’t tell you that you’re not going to die,” he said. “But I can tell you that it won’t be before me.”

And macabre as it sounds I wanted to hug him and do a little happy dance there in the beige, windowless room. (He’s a good 20-30 years older than me, so it’s not that macabre.) Because really, it was the first time he’s said anything like that. Like, chica, you’re good. Go live.

After I shared some major recent stresses, he said, “Lymphoma-wise, you’re perfect, but I wish you were happier.”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

And I am. In my healthy, shiny, lake-cleansed, drum-danced, not-imminently-dying body.

J.K. Rowling’s Speech

Maybe it’s because it’s 4pm and I did Bikram yoga at 7am this morning even though it’s 96 degrees outside, but reading J.K.’s Harvard commencement speech made me really verklempt.

One of my favorite bits:
“So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”

Go here for the rest.

Maybe 10 years ago my friend A. gave me a book by poet Cin Salach, “Looking for a Soft Place to Land.” I was hunting for it the other day only to discover it had vanished. Loaned into the abyss, I imagine.

So I just got my new copy in the mail. Flouting copyright laws everywhere, I wanted to share part of my favorite poem in the book (though there are so many wonderful ones). (Cin, if you find this, I hope it’s ok and thank you.)

After Cages
by Cin Salach

…Hold on for seeds and softness.
Hold on for windows and water.
Hold on to the heavens with your breath.
Hold on to the nest with your scream.
You are your own mother.
No one will ever love you more.

Learn to ride your memories
like a bird rides the sky.
Find the wind shifts,
let them lift you and turn you.
Roll the currents off your body
like the next word off your tongue.
Fly.
Welcome storms, sudden and serious.
Swim to the center.
Tread air.

History left you alone here,
don’t let the future do the same.
Grab it by the shoulders,
cup its face, stroke its cheeks,
look it in the eyes and say, “Future, baby!
I thought I missed you. I thought
I’d have to spend the rest of my life without you.”
Wink, flirt, kiss the future on the lips
and don’t be afraid to use a little tongue.

Hold on for sunshine and shadows.
Hold on to the earth with your feet
Hold on for nature to pick your heart,
break the locks and send you airborne
down the aisle bearing brilliant bouquets
of fire and flowers.
Hold on…

Because the future is flirting back.
Calling you by your name,
laughing at your jokes,
mooning about forever, forever…
and what do you think?
You think, “forvere, forever…”
doesn’t sound very carefree.
And you should know.

But the future is on one knee now
even while you are midair,
discovering aerodynamics
and learning to avoid cliffs when you soar.
And the future is stroking that spot
on the back of your neck,
whispering in your ear,
“Do you want me or not?”

But you are feeling the wind in your hair, finally
after all these years
and the answer is almost too easy:
Send history packing,
but keep the future panting.
Claim this sky for yourself.
Make it sacred.
Declare it off limits to anyone
who isn’t madly in love with you.
Understand that not everyone will be.
But know that tomorrow will be waiting,
mouth open, tongue extended
to taste you.

Hold your breath for thirty years
then break the surface slowly,
skinless, liquid.
You are your own lover.
No one will ever love you more.

Amen.