Quoting from Mark Vonnegut (son of Kurt) in his new memoir,
"My father gave me the gifts of being able to pay attention to my inner narration no matter how tedious the damn thing could be at times and also the knowledge that creating something, be it music or a painting or a poem or a short story, was a way out of wherever you were and a way to find out what the hell happens next and not just have it be the same old thing."
When I read this, I knew why blogging has become so important to me. Caught up in the busyness and demands of my life, I have not been giving myself any creative time lately, and it's beginning to take its toll. I am becoming increasingly aware of Francoise (the harpsichord) sitting in silent rebuke and of the lament of my inner voices growing more insistent. It's been over a month since my last report, and, while my inner psychic responses are holding steady, the cancer is not. I'm well into another round of radiation, targeting a tumor in the subcutaneous layer of my right side just below the rib; and also a tumor on the pelvis which is beginning to invade the cortex of the bone. Except for being able to see the lump on my right side, I experience nothing from these presences. If I hadn't seen them on the scan, I might think it was all a hoax.
As with my previous radiation treatments, I have no side effects, except for an adjustment to a new routine. My body's natural alarm is 7AM but, to be ready every day for a 7:30 radiation treatment, a biological clock change was necessary. It has become a part of the adventure, to be awake and out in the darkness with the other early risers, something warm in the to-go cup and music playing that I have been wanting to hear. I've learned to go to bed earlier, and I'm hoping that after the treatments are over, I can maintain this schedule as a way to regain the lost creative time – an unexpected gift from the radiation.
Nevertheless, I have not felt a lack of creative spirit since life itself seems so creative to me now. At the end of September, I turned 79, beginning my 80th year. In fact, by Chinese reckoning I am 80, since in China you are one year old on the day of your birth. Van woke me up on my birthday with a youtube concert of “our songs,” songs from the days of our courtship and early marriage, evoking the sweetness and depth of 60 years of memories. Steve and Laurel created a CD of the concert for us, inspiring us to try dancing again!
I am surprised and delighted these days by the joy I am experiencing with my friends and family. The big events - the births, marriages, deaths - and the simple shared moments –a hug, a conversation, a concert, a meal. To the hundred years of blessings that our home holds in the being of its structure, was added this month the joyful family shower for beloved cousins, Natalie and Eric, expecting their first baby in early November; and the exquisitely touching wedding for Angie, Tenzin, and baby Loden, particularly meaningful because I had been deputized to perform the lovely ceremony created by them.
Also this month, The Stanford community, our neighborhood, and friends and family came together to remember Nelee Langmuir, our friend and neighbor who died in August. Nelee held a salon, attended by the coming and going of many, many friends, during the days she was dying. Conversation, food, and wine flowed, as Nelee flowed in and out of alertness. Her services were held this month in Stanford Memorial Church, another structure of more than a hundred years, holding a rich store of blessed memories for me and thousands of others. How fortunate I am to have this model as a guide for my future!
No less meaningful for me are Robert's hug on a Sunday morning; Laurel's sharing of her time, talent, and hospitality; Frank's friendship and shared appreciation of Philharmonia; Jim's treating me to personal organ concerts; Faith's constant and comforting presence in my life - only a glimpse into the riches nourishing me from the people in my life. I am very grateful.
