As I begin to feel better, my love for writing...and the energy to do it...begins to return.

I love walking in the mountain meadows and forests that surround where I live in Northern New Mexico. It is cooler up there on a hot day, and the lush green of the meadows and trees feeds something in my heart, body, and spirit. On those long walks, which I look forward to getting back to as I heal, I learn, unwind, relax, come back to myself.

An experience at the end of an afternoon walk impressed me deeply, and is helping me to understand the process I've been in and am emerging from.

Several years ago, I was walking down a steep, grassy meadow edged with a deep pine and aspen forest. Below me stood a beautiful speckled fawn, which I expected to bound away to mama as I approached. Instead, she sank very slowly to the ground, tucked her head, and lay completely still. I thought she was ill, and reported it to a ranger at the end of my hike. But he reminded me that the fawn was simply following mother nature's instinctive response to danger by going completely still and almost invisible. He assured me that mama was close by watching from the woods, and that all was well.

I could feel the way that fawn had gone quiet and invisible. And now, as I recover from treatment for cancer which was challenging to say the least, I realize that I, too, had gone into an instinctive quiet inner state in order to get through this experience.

And now that treatment is over, I am learning that healing from it all is a big challenge requiring time, patience, and the support of my family and friends. And that it would not be quick. I seem to be slowly emerging from a state of survival, in which I could get the essentials accomplished, but otherwise, be in a deep, quiet place.

I found myself without words for long stretches of time. I thought of my friends, and of all the incredible support I am receiving often. It is part of what protected and supported me through this experience. But my desire to reach out and stay in touch did not make it to the surface as often as I thought it would. I simply had no words for much of what I experienced.

Now, I feel as though I am surfacing in gentle waves. A lot of my healing can best be described with the word, gentle. Patient. Microscopic steps, sometimes seemingly backwards, not a straight line forward, but as my spiritual teacher described many times, the curve is upwards, and what was once my high is now my low as I get better.

I am staying at my Mom's, under the wonderful care of my sister Blane. When I got here a couple weeks ago, I hardly had the strength to walk. She has nourished me with her loving, making me food, tea, special drinks, making sure I have what I need, watching over me as I gain back strength, my digestive tract heals, and I begin, at last, to gain some weight. At 5'10", I had gone down to under 104 lbs. but am steadily gaining as I'm able to eat more.

Such a time to be watchful of my attitude...am I focusing on how far I have yet to go, or on the progress I am making...on the grace of the loving care I am receiving, or on my desire to be back up and running and home...on my worries about what's next in my life or on how graceful and beautiful and loving my life is today, right now.

My friend Cristina sent me a fabulous card with a quote from Voltaire: Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats. I smile every time I read this. And that is the whole point.

Thank you for all your love and support.

I wish you well wherever you are in your life,
Stede