Come walk with me and explore the journey of LIVING with end stage breast cancer.
“I can’t believe they did that.” I often say, when someone irritates me.
Instead, lately I’ve started saying, “I don’t understand why they did that.” Every time I do, the angry shadows go away and my heart swells with light.
by Anne Carlson
Now that its fall, most likely I’ll find that box of summer clothes I’ve been looking for.
When we were kids and you asked me to marry you, and I didn’t answer you right away? It wasn’t because I didn’t want to, it was because I wasn’t sure you were serious.
Just for the record.
My grandmother and some of my aunts would have their hair done weekly. Always the same poofy purple on my grandmother and blue on my aunts.’ I promised myself when I got old I would never have colored hair.
I looked in the mirror today, and by golly my hair is blue. Yikes. That would make me a rebel of my own rule.
Writing Fallen Warrior is like mounting a bucking bronco. Something within me does everything it can to keep me out of “that place” where the story rises from. Painful, because I’m writing as that lost childhood me. So what’s the problem, I’m a grown-up now?
I made a promise that when I grew up, I would go back and find the other lost ones that were like me.
Happy people don’t have less crap in their lives, they’ve just learned to flush often.
What we think is cool becomes the protocol from which we define our dignity.
My memories of people, in time migrate into a composite of one, much the same as how a collage of many pieces become a single art piece, a statement, a theme.
Reflecting on what my collage is, what it has been, and what it can be.
“I just can’t look at this date and not remember.” I said to my neuro-therapist.
“I’m actually from New York,” he said, “and I lost a lot of friends that day that were firefighters.”
and there was that moment.
Calling upon the beauty and the ugly across the span of a lifetime and putting it in one place to create a story.