Flower Chaplain

 The pots of tulips i planted in December were shooting green, so i brought some of them indoors to bud. 

My sweetie and i are making a jail break next week-- flying to Florida. So i delivered 3 pots of budding tulips last evening--one to a grieving widow, one to a cancer survivor, one to an always-helpful friend. Call me the Flower Chaplain.

A handful of my friends are chaplains, and i've wondered whether i could be one. But i don't have quite the right personality type. No matter. 

I can offer the hope of spring to those who are ill, the message of change to those who are grieving.

Cause of Death

Three friends died this past week--two from cancer, one from COPD. Maybe we could say we all die from breathing. We all die from living, from having lived. The cause of death is birth.

Look deeply into the eyes of those you love.

Hail the Size of Beans

Hail pounded my metal roof a couple of days ago, making an awful racket. The hail was the size of beans, although it looked like mothballs bouncing around in the rain.

I was surprised the hail didn't damage more plants. Some plants, like my annual poppies, stand straight up, while various weeds lay on the ground looking pummeled.

What keeps us straight and steady when stress is hailing down all around us? Yet another friend has lung cancer. Someone else is having a replacement heart valve replaced again.

These super-stress events call for compassion and equanimity. The pummeling hurts, and it is impermanent. Weather changes--it comes and goes. Our internal weather also changes.

But while it's hailing, it hurts. Place your hand on your heart. And breathe.

It's Snowing

It's snowing. I kid you not.

The first killing frost last night, and winter has begun. Whaaaa....???

Wait a minute. I still have garlic to plant, lime to spread on garden beds, kayaks to store away, and a dozen other change-of-season tasks. Suddenly, it's time to put up Christmas lights? And it's not even Halloween yet!

A friend emails me that her brother who has outlived his cancer diagnosis by 2 years now has cancer metastasized to the brain. The doctors say he has maybe a month to live.

We have a day to live. This day. Don't resist it. Go jump around in the snow now.

Good Applesauce

Everyone agrees. It's a great apple year.  I have yellow apples on a "wild" tree that hasn't produced apples in 35 years. They're not pretty. (I'm not an orchardist.) But they do make good applesauce.

When i cleared the land where my house now stands, there were a handful of apple trees in the woods. I left two of them and managed to kill the others by pruning too severely. Their location is not ideal; they are in a partly shady spot. Bill pruned them into lollipops for many years before i asked a veteran pruner to attend to them. This year--apples!

Sometimes, i feel like my meditation practice doesn't produce much. I still am not adept at concentration practices. Then something happens. This year--a cancer diagnosis--and i see that my meditation practice has produced bushels of fruit.

I'm making applesauce this year, even from that other apple tree with the small apples that make pasty, blah applesauce. I'll use the blah applesauce for cooking. I'll use that blah diagnosis to support a delicious mind.

Noxious Knotweed to the Rescue

During my post-cancer treatment, i go not only to the oncologist, but also to a naturopath. The naturopath suggests several supplements. The one she prescribed for me yesterday is Resveratrol, which i found in the health section of the food co-op. Here's the kicker: Resveratrol is made from Japanese knotweed!

Japanese knotweed is a loathsome invasive, growing along roadsides and streams, and crowding out native plants. My sweetie Bill, who is on our town's Conservation Commission, goes every summer month to cut down 4 patches of knotweed along nearby U.S. Route 5. It takes years of dedication to knock out a single stand of knotweed. One gardener told me a shoot of knotweed in her backyard came from a neighbor's patch, 65 feet away.

Noxious knotweed turns out to be a stellar anti-oxidant. Our "enemy" becomes my friend.

The Buddha called everyone he met "friend." Could we call everyone we meet today "Friend"? Could we call every irritating, unpleasant thing "friend"? Quakers call themselves the Society of Friends, and work toward peace in many different ways.

Yes, some friends are sneaky and underhanded. We still keep our guard up--for our own safety and for the safety of others. But we don't need to hate. We keep talking, communicating, and connecting in a friendly manner, like the Dalai Lama's attitude toward the Chinese who have tortured so many of his fellow Tibetans.

Hate only harms ourselves. Even if we are only hating Japanese knotweed. Right now, i am grateful to this particular enemy.

Installing a Plant in Your Habitat

When i visited the Devonian Botanic Garden in Edmondton, Alberta, 20 years ago, i bought several packets of seeds from that zone 3 garden. The only one that survives today is the Siberian Delphinium. Eight feet tall with cobalt blue blossoms, the flowers are more simple than delphinium as we think of it.

Delphinium is usually a short-lived perennial, but this Siberian cultivar has lasted 20 years.

Our good intentions--to meditate, to drop a bad habit, to develop a good habit--are often short-lived. Yes, they are all good ideas, but we don't take the time to "install" them into our lifestyle. The last thing we need is one more thing to do. So how can we work with our already-overloaded bandwidth to really take on a new habit?

When i first came across The Work of Byron Katie 8 years ago, i knew it was one of those good ideas that would soon get lost in the busy-ness of everyday life. So i made a weekly appointment with a nearby certified facilitator of The Work. Three years ago, i installed The Work app on my smart-phone. By now The Work is pretty much installed into my life. It was a life saver during my recent cancer diagnosis.

My Siberian delphinium blooms vigorously 20 years later. It is definitely "installed" in my garden. And this good habit, this "skillful means" of The Work is installed in my mind.

Friends on the Same Path

Every weekday morning, a meditation friend, Rose, and i carpool 40 minutes to the hospital in Keene, New Hampshire for our radiation treatments. This is Rose's fourth bout with lymphoma. After 9 months of monthly chemotherapy, and, now, 5 weeks of radiation, her hair is growing back, so softly. Spending a couple of hours every day with my spiritual friend Rose is a godsend. The Buddha said that our spiritual friends are the entire spiritual path.

A certain camaraderie develops in the radiation waiting room, even though we're all sharing only small talk. Ron lives on the other side of New Hampshire, and i pass him every morning in the dressing room because his appointment is right after mine.

Yesterday was Ron's last day of radiation, and he brought a bucket of alstromeria for the 6 radiation technicians. He also gave a rose to Rose (ahem :) and a rose to me. Who better to share the joy of the end of radiation treatment than your radiation comrades? They KNOW, viscerally, what you're going through.

Research shows that people in cancer support groups live longer. This is an example of the value of friendship, the kind of friendship where you can talk about your deepest fears and deepest longings, and the other person KNOWS.

What's your deepest longing? What's your deepest fear? Spend some time with a spiritual friend today.

Gardening--A Cancer Preventative

A friend recommended Cancer: 50 Essential Things to Do. The author, a cancer survivor who at one point was told he had 30 days to live, has talked with thousands of cancer survivors. This slim, easy-to-read volume is the distillation of all those conversations.

He delineates 8 overall strategies, including medical treatment, diet, and community of support. He also includes Purpose & Play.

"Survivors balance this deep sense of purpose with play. It's more than fun; it's something much deeper, a cultivation of joy.... I am struck by the large number who enjoy gardening...."

That's you and me, my friend. We are cultivating joy. We en-JOY gardening.

Notice joy when you go out to the garden today, even if you are only walking by a flowerbed on the way to your car.

Feel the joy in your body.

We are playing in the garden, and Nature speaks to us silently, deeply, subconsciously of life and death. It happens every day, every minute. Life unfolding and changing.

Surrender

When i say i have zero fear about this breast cancer / lumpectomy today, some friends think i'm in denial. Other friends say, "You're so brave" or "You're so strong." Strong has nothing to do with it. I am not taking a stance nor standing against cancer nor standing up to it. I am surrendering.

I surrender to Life as it is unfolding.

Right this minute, not even the doctor knows, really, what he will find. He has made some educated guesses. I surrender to his expertise.

Not even the doctor knows what my follow-up treatment will be. "It all depends" on what he finds. If he doesn't know yet, i don't need to know.

For years i have ended my meditation with May i see and accept things as they really are.

Today i see that many things are unknown. May i accept not knowing what cannot yet be known.

No worries. No fear.

Zero Fear

Yesterday, the rabbi asked me, "What's your fear level?"

"Zero," i said.

I have breast cancer.

Notice your fear level. Right this moment.

I'm going for a lumpectomy tomorrow.

I've known about this for 10 days. (See my February 17 blogpost.) And my visits to my local doctor and hospital (4, so far, with another one today) have been stress-free. So easy.

Pain is inevitable; Suffering is optional.
Resist the present moment (the mental pain, the thought
of cancer), and distress arises.

The future cannot be known. Not really. The doctor doesn't know what the follow-up will be until after the lumpectomy. Wanting to know what can't be known is called anxiety and worry. I'm not going there.

Today is a sunny, blue-sky day.

This is what our meditation practice has been aiming at for all these years: Deep happiness regardless of outer conditions.

Meditate today as if your hair is on fire. Your life, your well-being depends on it.

Gone to Seed

My nurse practitioner, Maggie, died after a long bout with lymphoma. Her art work is on exhibit at a local gallery and entitled "Gone to Seed."  We are all going to seed--some faster, like Maggie, at age 62, and some of us slower.

Maybe today feels pretty much like yesterday. Maybe it feels like nothing much is happening. Yet change is slowly ripening us. We too are going to seed. Simply notice this.  Gone.

Smiling Pansies

Pansies are trembling in the chill April rain, but they like cool weather. Their adorable little faces look out at each April day, whether sunny or gray, no matter the adversity, and say, I'm happy to be alive. Aren't you?

I have to agree.  This morning, I listened to 2 cancer survivors talk with each other about how darn grateful they are for every single day. The grass is greener, right in their own backyard. Really! They feel more alive now than they did before their cancer diagnosis. Life is a miracle.

Isn't that odd? You stare death in the face and feel more alive than ever.
Contemplate your death today.
While the pansies are smiling at you.


Listen to this song about The Holy Now.

A Flower Friend Dies

My flower friend, Lou, died Wednesday night. Since i mostly see her in the summer at Perennial Swappers, i was surprised to learn 2 weeks ago that she had cancer. She had been on the downhill slide since October.

Lou often thanked me for the flowers in her flowerbeds--several of them came from my garden. Now, like those flowers, she has withered and died.

Dear sweet Lou.

Squash to Pie

In the basement, while putting away extension cords from the holidays, i discovered 2 butternut squashes going south. I brought them up to the chopping block in the kitchen, cut off the brown parts, and soon had 3 bags of cubed squash for the freezer, as well as sauteed squash-apples-onions for dinner. My sweetie had been begging for a pumpkin pie, so i made a squash pie instead. (It looks the same.)

Illness surprises us. We go to the doctor for a check-up and find something not quite right. My 47-year-old step-daughter just emerged from a week in the hospital and a bout with inflamed colitis. My 96-year-old hospice client has leukemia, but she subsists on a diet of Pepperidge Farm cookies and Boost, a nutritional drink.

My middle-aged winter squashes had begun to bruise and brown. Most of my friends in their 60s have had skin cancers removed. The women almost all have osteopenia, the predecessor of osteoporosis. Bones begin to weaken inside, unnoticed.

The body only lasts so long. And what it does is beyond our control, no matter how well we take care of it.

Knowing this, knowing that Life consumes Life, what's the harvest of our life? What do we make of our "one wild and precious life"?

Pie photo from farmersdaughterct.wordpress.com

Annuals Face Certain Death

I overwinter several annuals: begonias and geraniums bloom indoors throughout the snowy months. Rosemary and lemongrass add flavor to cooking.

In May, i plant these tender plants into a flower bed or into the herb garden. While i'm at it, i plant other houseplants as ornamental edgings into various flowerbeds--spider plant babies, purple wandering jew, and Zebrina, a burgundy and green striped wandering jew.

Now, it's time to dig them up, put them in pots, and bring them indoors. I select one or two of each variety for indoors; the rest stay outdoors to face certain death in less than a month.

I saw a 53-year-old gardening friend yesterday who looks about 93. She has given her third diagnosis of cancer a good long run, but her body faces certain death in less than a month. I know her meditation practice sustains her. She follows instruction from a Buddhist monk, whom she calls frequently.

Friends, such as i, have fallen by the wayside as her energy reserves run close to empty. One meditating friend sees her every day.

What shall we bring indoors to be close to us when we face an imminent and certain killing frost?

Frost Tonight

The forecast of frost tonight puts me in high gear to bring in all the tender things today. Pick the last of the basil and the tomatillos. Pot up the last begonia or impatiens. For tomorrow they will all be dead.

Friends who have cancer and the prognosis of death take care of business: will, living will, durable power of attorney for health care, and power of attorney for financial matters.

I have taken care of most of this business, but i lack the Power of Attorney for financial matters, which a friend just brought to my attention last week. I've called the lawyer to make an appointment.

Hopefully, the "frost" won't fall on me for a long time, but stories of friends having sudden collisions with distracted drivers lights the fire under my intention.

Let's act as if the frost is coming tonight.

The Ever-Changing Garden

A Thai friend who has beautiful gardens and who arranges flowers and leaves so artfully has received her third diagnosis of cancer.

I emailed her a note of sympathy, and she responded:
"No birth. No death. It's the anatta [not-self]. I am not holding on to the notion of existence. Life itself is an illusion. We are passing, evolving, changing, and transforming away from the illusion."

Just like our gardens that evolve, change, and transform from day to day, from hour to hour, and, if we can apply the microscope of our attention, from minute to minute.

A noun is simply a slow-moving verb. The noun "garden," for instance.

We may like or dislike the changes, but what's the use of liking/disliking? The changes simply happen. The garden, the elements of the garden, move on.

Pronouns are faster-changing verbs. "I," "me," "mine" change from moment to moment. The in-breath is completely different molecules from the out-breath (CO2). The "I" is born minute after minute, second after second. Pay attention. Notice moments of not-I, maybe when you are quite relaxed. Those "not-I" moments are moments of no birth, no death either. When we hold on to the notion of existence, we perish.

Just life unfolding.