First reading

Since a significant part of my professional work has been speaking from the front of the room, you’d think I have developed full comfort there. But reading for the first time at the Art in the A.M. event this week was still a daunting experience.

Let me give a bit of background… I am working to earn that writer-beach-walker title – and one of the commitments in that quest is to be active in the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild. I’m taking advantage of workshops they offer, and keeping an eye out for other opportunities to engage. The Guild offers several monthly programs of live readings that I’ve been attending fairly consistently. At Art in the A.M., writers read an essay prompted by one of the three pieces of artwork offered for consideration that month. At Night of Songs and Stories, writers read pieces that speak to the designated theme.

This month, I was captivated by a photograph by Linda Rosenbluth, and I wrote the piece below. The photo got me thinking about all kinds of moments of dramatic change in my life – those moments that demarcate the line between before and after (certain events, for example, or a set of weighty words uttered by someone else). Some of these have heralded sunny periods and some have blocked out the light for a while. Trying to write 300 cohesive words on such a broad swath of experiences, though, proved too difficult. So I decided to focus on just one such moment.

Many thanks to my poet friend Jo and my course facilitator Judy for feedback on the initial draft of this piece; it is much better as a result of your comments. Stay tuned at the bottom for some additional reflections….

The reading: Dawn

Photo by Linda Rosenbluth

There are moments in life that instantly draw a line between light and dark.

“See that shadow on your mammogram? It’s characteristic of carcinoma.”

When you are in your early 30s, you think you have plenty of time to achieve all your dreams. Marriage, children, great job, lovely home, fun vacations… they are all on the horizon. When you’re in your early 30s and you receive a life-threatening diagnosis, your expectations radically shift. All of your dreams are focused on obtaining a cure.

Cancer treatment is dark and debilitating. Mutilating surgery, nauseating chemotherapy, energy-sucking radiation, loss of appetite, and hair, and belief in your someday dreams. All offered up in exchange for that cure. Which I got, thanks to God and medical science and support from family and friends.

But as the sky brightened, I found I had lost the patience to wait for my dreams.

I went after them one by one, and wherever there has been darkness, I choose to turn toward the light. I used the money I had saved to adopt a baby to buy a house. I landed a terrific job to replace one that was not quite right. I deliberately spent time with family and friends, hosted game tournaments, took solo vacations. I earned my doctoral degree. Eventually, I founded my own consulting practice where I could do the work I liked my way. I wrote a book. And recently, I traded my house for a condo at the beach.

Post-carcinoma, I try to remember that every sunrise is a gift. Whether the sun makes its debut in muted pastels or hides behind stormy skies, each sunrise brings an opportunity to craft my life anew. Each dawn reminds me of my personal mantra –

“Be not afraid of the enormity of the possible.”

Video Replay  (thanks to Jo!)
I received more than a few compliments and words of encouragement afterwards… several from people who felt I exactly captured what it’s like to be a cancer survivor. The woman sitting next to me leaned over when I sat down, put her hand on mine, and said simply, “brilliant.” That made my day!

Postscript

In the weeks since I wrote the first draft of this piece, I have spent some time pondering the degree to which it is true (or not). The limitation of 300 words forced me to gloss over a lot.

I don’t think I’m nearly as resilient and optimistic as might be implied in this piece. There have certainly been sorrows in my life – in many ways cancer being the least of them. I have often said to myself – and occasionally to others – that I spend too much time pretending things don’t matter when they do. It’s not like I don’t recognize the failures and disappointments, but I don’t believe in wallowing (many tear-soaked nights notwithstanding).

I think I do indeed “turn toward light” as much as I can. I believe that I possess the control and capacity to move forward in a positive direction – that I can do things that make me happy, that I can find substitutes for things I can’t have, that I can pretend my way into joy.

I’ve reread this essay dozens of times in preparation for the public reading. And that has served to etch the commitment for a joy-filled, meaningful life into my heart and mind. That mantra – be not afraid of the enormity of the possible – resonates deeply with me. One way to read it is to resolve to stand strong against the things we should be afraid of – and there are plenty of those. But on the other hand, some of the enormous possibles are tantalizingly promising, and that’s what I want to focus on.

Like maybe – just maybe – living fully into that writer-beach-walker aspiration.