Oncologists and Pumpkins

Halloween! I didn't even think about it until I had my oncologist appointment and the clinic staff were all dressed in costumes. I got a good report - my CEA levels, which have been hovering around 10 and 15, are now less than .5! Yeahhhhh! Blood work was good. I wonder if its the exercise? Now that's worth celebrating! She still won't give me a reprieve from the PET test though.

I really didn't give much thought to Halloween. We will not get trick or treaters since the buildings are all locked. That's a relief. So after work Kiel, Drew and I went to the pumpkin farm to select carving jack o'lanterns. They are getting too old for Halloween, I suspect this is probably the last year we will do pumpkins.

Unfortunately, Kiel had been invited to a concert and was in a hurry to get there, and Drew had rented a game to play, so no carving happened at all! I was left with memories of the amazing and intricate pumpkin designs the boys have carved over the years, especially Mark who did designs worthy of capturing for sale in some swanky art gallery. Truly remarkable scenes.

That and the peace to put my feet up and enjoy a chocolate chip cookie. And reflect on how grateful I am for the good report and for feeling better more often these days. And for being able to eat more things. And for getting a referral to the brand new nutritionist who will be starting at the clinic the end of November. And for not having to be stuck, stabbed, poked or prodded! Not bad. Not bad at all.

The Perfect Day

Ever have a day when you want to pull the covers over your head and refuse to do what you always have to do - all those things people are demanding of you? Today is like that. I don't want to be the Mama, don't want to be the bread winner, make the beds, bring home the food, take out the garbage, pay the bills, kiss the bumps, drag the kids to places they would rather not go, stick to the schedule, attend the meetings, and deal with problems.

I refuse to get up at the crack of dawn, step through an entire day doing things that are not of my design or particular interest. I'm gonna stay in bed until I want to get up, not answer the phone or any text messages, not tell anyone where I am, not open the mail or read my email, not answer the door, not look at my daytimer, not! I'm gonna do what I want to do for a change. (Does this sound like a temper tantrum?)


I'm plumb worn out with all the 'gottas.' I don't gotta. And I'm not gonna. Instead, I'm gonna dream about what my Perfect Day would look like. On my Perfect Day, I will get up when I awake, not because I have to be to work, but because the sun is shining and inviting me to come out and play.

On my Perfect Day, the kitchen will be spotless, not filled with dirty dishes strewn about after I went to bed by the gremlins living in my house. When I step into the kitchen, breakfast will be waiting - fresh cut and juicy fruit, hot ginger green tea, a bit of yogurt.


On my Perfect Day there will be no agenda, no schedule, no meetings, no appointments, no carpool, no demands. I will take a long leisurely walk in a beautiful park filled with flowers and green grass, then play the piano for an hour or so. I will sing in a huge choir, then direct my dream choir and they will sing every note perfectly, exactly as I want it to be sung.

On my Perfect Day, I will have lunch with my friends at a wonderful non frou-frou down home place where the menu has normal dishes to offer, not some exotic fare or culinary concoction. We will visit some exotic place we have always wanted to see (Vienna?) and then lay on a warm, sandy beach overlooking a cerulean blue ocean (yes, cerulean).

On my Perfect Day, the cat will not hack up furballs, nor the dog shed (and no, I don't have either of those pets at the moment). The kids will not be messy or noisy or needy. Just thoughtful and considerate.

There will be peace everywhere in the entire world and no one will be sick or tired or hungry or cold. Everyone will be happy and normal and loving - - -OK, enough. The alarm is going off and I gotta get up. Save the dream for another day. Today I have stuff to do.

Gulik Round Two

So the fluff of being away has begun to settle, and I need to pick up the pieces where I left off. That includes my second visit to the YMCA and establishing a routine for exercising while I still can. Problem is, I don't want to. I have lost the momentum.

I can think of a thousand excuses for not going in, all of them lame but huge roadblocks to overcome. I debated all day Monday whether to call and set up an appointment or whether to just play it by ear and see how things shake out - knowing full well that if I don't have a firm commitment, I will end up not going.

Yeah, you can tell me all the benefits until the cows come home, but like all good cancer survivors, I have more to overcome than the average joe. Most of us were not athletic before the cancer hit, so its not like we knew the ropes, so to speak. And our bodies have not only undergone severe pain and alterations, but now they function differently, and unpredictably. And their functionality changes over time, so we often don't know quite what to expect in a strange situation, like working out in a gym. What if we have an embarrassing accident? What if we trip over our untied shoes and fall on our faces? What if we can't sit well, can't move smoothly, cramp up?

Its risky, being with all those skinny, in shape people while I am not even sure I can make my body do what I tell it to. Its way easier to try to force myself to walk alone in the apartment complex than go through all that. Still, its cold outside now, and my trainer is SOOO nice and gentle and genuinely interested in helping me get in shape in the least painful way possible. Try but don't overdo. Try it and see. If it doesn't work, we have a dozen other things to try.

And I feel so much better afterwards.

And I REALLY want to be in good shape, especially stronger. Especially if I end up having to go through more stuff. Especially since I know I have those darn PET tests coming up again. OK.

I call and make the appointment.

Then the day I am supposed to go, I have a really hard time making myself go. There are a million reasons not to go. After all, I am a cancer survivor and have had a rough time of it. I deserve to take it easy (wow - I gotta get rid of THAT mentality!). Better to think - I am a cancer survivor - I need more work than anyone else to get in shape, I better not miss an opportunity!

And you know what? I went! I am proud of myself for going without anyone dragging me there or talking me into it. My trainer was wonderful. I told her how hard it was for me to get there. She listened with interest. They are having a hard time getting participants in the program. If they can get some feedback that gives them insight, maybe they can find ways to help others.

So I'm gonna tell you - if you are a cancer survivor, please contact the Lance Armstrong Foundation and see if they offer this program near you. THEN SIGN UP AND GO!!!! Really, they make it easy and private and work with you what ever shape you are in and whatever you can manage, even if its just moving your arms. Or legs. Or head. You will feel better. I promise. Where else can you get that kind of personal attention? So, thanks, Lance. Keep trying. This is a really good idea and if you hadn't offered it, I would not have found a way to do this.

SNOW!!!

It can't be possible! Who gave the sky permission to shed white flakes while the trees are faithfully hanging on to their beautiful leaves and the grass is a vibrant green? It isn't even Halloween much less Thanksgiving. Can't the weather read the calendar? It's still officially fall. It is definitely NOT time for winter.

And yet, driving home from class at 10:30 at night, seeing the little white flakes drifting down gently in the soft glow of the street lights, it's easy to wax nostalgic. After all, we have all been raised with that Currier and Ives romanticism - a horse drawn sleigh in the warm glow of light spilling from a church window, a faithful dog lopping along beside the sleigh runners. The family in the sleigh is intact and happy and headed home where a full turkey dinner with all the trimmings awaits them, all steamy and delicious. Cupboards are filled with abundant harvest. Bells are jingling, Christmas is about to happen. All is right with the world.

Snow is definitely part of that scene, portrayed not as an icy monster threatening our very existence, but as an artist of beautiful landscapes against which one needs no more than a cuddly blanket and a dear heart next to you. Or snow can be part of a great adventure like in the story of Narnia - at first gentle and surprising and refreshing and quaint as the children stumble upon the lamp post with the snow sifting lightly down, and then horrible as they encounter the white witch and see all the frozen beings. But it comes out alright in the end.

Tonight, I am touched by the memories and associations, wakened by the potential for a long and white winter. I am in a good place. My world is safely scotch taped in place, cracks are mending, no immediate threats. Maybe it will be a sleigh ride year.

Lasagna Dinner and Bumps

Before I ever came on the scene, the Library hosted a Lasagna dinner for their student workers. Sometimes they held it in a staff person's home, sometimes in a local church. All the Library workers baked lasagna or prepared some part of the meal, and students gladly came. It was a time of fellowship and making those important family connections.

Last year, what with the confusion of the move into the new facility, and general misunderstanding about our contract with food services concerning whether we could serve homecooked food or not, we didn't have a lasagna dinner. I, of course, did not miss it at all. But staff sure did. The topic came up repeatedly in all sorts of connections.

I had not realized that it was an embedded tradition of significance not to be lightly ignored. So I broached the idea of having one this year and was met with support. Feeling good about restoring an important piece of tradition, I circulated a sign up list at a staff meeting, also asking for ideas about other things to include that I might have been unaware of.

No one signed up. They thought I was just asking for planning input. But not to worry. I could post the sign up sheet on the break room fridge. Or at least, I should have. By the time I remembered, we were only ten days from the event date. I had polled the students for availability, and Monday night was the time slot of choice. But we had to do a come-and-go set up because not everyone was available at the same time. No sit down dinner, this!

Then of course, I got called out of town unexpectedly and couldn't follow through as I needed to. Things wobbled from bad to worse, and by the time I returned, staff were in an uproar. This was not the lasagna dinner they remembered fondly. Not even close. I fielded tight lipped comments and flaming emails. Well, shoot. Even the best of intentions go awry. Besides, I am far from a consummate hostess.

Fortunately, the dinner went well despite the bumps. And also fortunately, not all the students came! We had just the right amount of food and mouths to feed, and the students who did come enjoyed the home cooked meal.

Afterwards, the clean up included much more than plates and silverware. We unpacked what happened at a staff meeting. I had much to learn, and they had some adjustments to make as well. After all, fifty is much more than three.

Next year, we will try again. If I am lucky, I will have learned enough from this event to do a much better job of it. Ah, me. Live and learn. Its hard to get an accurate picture from goosebumps and a warm glow in someone else's heart.

Unexpected Grace

Have you ever stepped in mud up over your ankles and halfway to your knees? I have. When I was a student at Houghton College, they were in the process of building a student center. It was the most marvelous project and a much needed facility. That year I worked (where else?) in the library - shelving books, usually during the opening shift being the morning person I am.

I had piddled around in my dorm room until I was running perilously late. My dorm was at the bottom of a huge hill (half a mountain really) and there were two ways to the top of that hill where the Library was situated. One was to walk up the road. It wasn't too steep, but enough of a climb to make you huff and puff. And you had to step off the road whenever a car came, so it wasn't exactly safe.

The other was to climb about 300 stairs straight up the steepest angle of the hill. The steps were concrete and edged with a green pipe handrail. It took a lot of muscle power to maneuver those stairs, and students avoided them if possible. But it was the shortest way. So on a morning when you are running late, despite the physical stamina required, you take the stairs. With a backpack loaded with books for your day's classes because there is no sense heading back down that hill until you have to.

And that is what I did. Before I reached the first landing, I was breathing heavily. By the third landing, I was hauling myself hand over hand by the railing. By the mid landing, I had to stop for a few minutes, mindful of my watch and panicky that I would be late punching in for work. So I pushed myself. Pump those legs past the point of pain, shift the backpack, let your heart pound, climb those steps.

After what seemed an eternity, with my pulse pounding threats into my ears, I reached the top. The Library was across the road, past the mounds of dirt excavated from the basement site of the new building. I glanced at my watch as I tried to catch my breath. I could make it just in time if I walked over the dirt piles instead of all the way around. So I ran - literally ran - pell mell up the first mound, backpack in tow. I got about halfway through the second mound before I realized how soft the dirt was. These were not solidly packed hills, just piles of loose dirt.

To make matters worse, it had rained in the night and the dirt wasn't really dirt, but mud. With each step I could feel my shoes globbing with mud and sinking further into the ground. I tried to hurry, to step lightly and quickly. I was making good progress. But the last pile was pure oozy mud. My forward progress was halted completely as my feet sunk into the muck. It was cold and thick and awful. I lifted my left foot and heard a sickening slurping sound. Three steps later I was free of the construction mud, wiping my shoes off on the grass as I bolted for the Library door.

With dismay, I realized that I was covered in black slimy mud from about my knees down and my shoes were completely disguised by the stuff. There was no way I could enter the building like that. There was no help for it, I was going to be late. Gingerly, I stripped off my shoes and socks, my frozen feet numb against the frost covered sidewalk. I headed for the downstairs bathroom where I slung my shoes in one sink and grabbed reams of paper towels.

I mopped and daubed and scrubbed and smeared that gunky mud until I had a royal mess going on in there. Some girl poked her head in, took one look, and screamed as she backed hastily out of the door. With the mud mostly cleaned up and my shoes sopping wet, I pulled my socks back on and punched in. My poor feet were so cold I wasn't sure I could push the bookcart. And worse yet, my shoes were so wet that I knew I was going to have to trek back down that hill in my sock feet and get another pair of shoes as soon as I was finished shelving books. I was miserable.

What a horrible way to start a day! I tried to stay out of sight of everyone. The Library Director had a reputation of fierceness, and I knew if she saw me in my sock feet I would catch it for sure. I tiptoed quietly down the L section of the stacks, hoping to shelve the last three books and make a dash for my room before my first class.

Suddenly, there she was, glaring at me over her glasses, her sweater neatly chained in place, her black hair swept back in its usual proper place. I froze mid arm stretch, my mouth stuck open in surprise. "Get your stuff and come with me," she hissed. I near about died. I slunk along behind her to the back room where I gathered up my sopping wet shoes and slightly muddy backpack and followed here obediently out the back door to her car.

Without a word, she drove me down the hill to my dorm. "Change your clothes and hurry back," she said. I wasted no time complying, sure she was about to fire me. Quick as I could, I washed up, changed my skirt, got clean socks and different shoes and scrambled back into her car. We drove up the hill in total silence. I glanced sideways at her discreetly, trying to read her emotions. Her face was void of all emotions and I had no idea what she was thinking.

She parked in her designated spot behind the library and got out, locking the door as she shut it. I followed suit. We both entered by the back door and at the top of the stairs, she disappeared into her office without a word. I stood there a few minutes pondering what to do, then realized my first class was about to start and I had to go. With a worried look at her closed door, I scooted out the front door to Fancher Hall and tried to focus on Poetry for the next fifty minutes.

She never spoke of the incident, never really paid my any attention afterwards. I finally realized that her office window overlooked the construction dirt piles and she must have observed my predicament. I was grateful for her kind gesture and assistance and never betrayed the soft spot she had revealed that morning.

And I NEVER took the short cut to work or was late again! Now that I'm a librarian, I repay that favor everytime I get a chance. It's nice to catch a break once in awhile.

On Track with Chicken Soup

It had been a long and demanding four days in Saratoga. I had put in a lot of work and done what I could, but I was ready - more than ready - to go home and sink into a tub of hot water, slip into my flannel jammies, and hit the sheets. My son took me to the Amtrak station in Schenectady in time for the 2:55 Lake Shore Limited to all points West and sat with me until the train arrived, pretty much on time.

We watched a few other passengers struggle with their luggage, listened to a very young man carry on a lengthy conversation with his girl friend, repeating the same sentences until I was ready to shake the girl on the other end of the conversation. I read through a little history kiosk listing famous presidents and people who had stopped in Schenectady via train (Lincoln, Eisenhower, Teddy Roosevelt etal) and several stories of stupid people who got run over by trains after being warned to get off the tracks (why would anyone put that in print?).

Mark tried to help me up the winding stairs with my bag, and got too winded to talk (asthma), so we stood on the platform for a few minutes, saying our goodbyes, then I stepped up the skinny metal stairs and was whisked out of site on my way to home and rest. I listened to my iPod most of the way, leaning my head against the pillow I shoved between the arm of the chair and the cold dirty window, letting the gentle rocking of the car bear my weight like a swinging hammock.

I was nearing home when Kiel texted me to see where I was. I had made arrangements with a friend's husband to take care of fixing my car brakes that badly needed attention, and I was expecting Kiel to pick me up with the newly fixed car (gulp, hope I have enough to cover the repairs that I have been putting off for well over a year) and ferry me home to bath and bed. I was so tired my eyelids hurt.

Turns out my friend's husband, who had overseen the brake job had invited us to his place for a home made dinner which my friend was preparing as Kiel and I talked. At first, I was so tired, my spirit sank. I was filthy from having done so much scrubbing and cleaning, my clothes were a mess, my hair hadn't been washed in days. I sighed. I just want to go home. I appreciate their thoughtfulness, but I am not up to visiting anyone. In fact, I would rather no one saw me in this disheveled condition.

Still, she is an excellent cook, and the decision had already been made and I was not given the option of backing out, gracefully or otherwise. Only one glitch to overcome - some kids were playing on the tracks near the station in Rochester and we sat prisoners on the train for a good half hour while the police cleared the problem up.

By the time we arrived for dinner, it was dark. Maybe no one would notice my appearance. We entered the house and the patient cook came to greet us. It smelled so delicious and was so warm and cozy inside that I forgot my tiredness and welcomed the opportunity to break bread with friends and family. I didn't even realize I was so hungry. She had made chicken soup and bread - wholesome, hearty and perfect.

I slurped it down gratefully. I hadn't even considered what I was going to do about dinner. What a treat to have a down-home cooked meal with uplifting conversation. A touch of normalcy after days of heartbreak and brokenness. It was a tonic in so many ways. Thank God for thoughtful people who know what you need even before you know yourself.

Babies

I haven't seen my grandson since he was a month old. That was only two months ago, yet he has changed so much. He is a happy and undemanding child who knows what he wants and just asks for it when he is ready. He sits contentedly in his car seat or lays in his crib quietly, not fussing or thrashing about, not caring if he is looking at the ceiling or someone's face.

If he is hungry, he gives you a quiet warning cry. If you don't respond right away, he gets louder. Same with a messy diaper. You have lots of time to respond, and once you take care of his need, he is happy again.

More rewarding is the smile and singing you get if you read him a book or talk to him or take him someplace interesting. He drinks it all in, his eyes wide open. When he is extraordinarily satisfied, like right after a bottle or if you have played with him for a bit, he sings and coos from some snuggly place deep inside. His response is so natural it reminds me of the purring of a cat when you pet it properly.

I don't know what this child's future holds, but I suspect he will get along well with people. He will be one of those rare individuals who will be easy to please and content with wherever he finds himself. How fascinating that babies exhibit their distinct personalities almost from the womb, if not before. I am glad for the opportunity to get to know this young one and look forward to spending more time with him as he grows.

Kindness

They sat with their backs to me, chatting intermittently while they waited for the train to arrive. She was older - maybe a decade more than I - a grandmotherly type with white hair pulled up into a bun, her short, slightly rotund figure tucked into a full length tan rain coat, her feet puffing a bit over the tops of her comfortable shoes. He was Asian, young, slim and rather tall, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather jacket, his short black hair neat and trim, his glasses octagonal and frameless.

I couldn't hear their conversation from where I sat on the far side of the lobby, especially when the freight trains rumbled past the huge glass windows facing the double tracks beyond the platform outside. But I could see their faces when they turned to speak to each other over the empty chair between them. There was lots of smiling and nodding.

"How kind," I thought. Here is this mannerly young man, so polite, taking an interest in this stranger, offering to help her move her bag, listening to her stories with genuine interest - not just a brief interchange born of nicety, but a bona fide and ongoing conversation. Does your heart good to see the positive side of diversity and cultural exchange.

After the two minute warning about the arrival of the Empire Service Train 280 bound for Syracuse, Rome, Utica, Schenectady and points east, the station attendant came out from behind the gun proofed and barricaded ticket window and offered to assist the lady, and the young Asian man also jumped to her aid. Again, I was pleased to see their eagerness to be of service to the "elderly" - thinking that I would someday want such assistance as I travel, and hoping I would find equally kind help.

It was only after we boarded the train that I realized the woman had a broken arm and actually did need assistance, not because of her age, but because she couldn't carry her bag. As we waited for the train to pull out, she leaned across me to look out the window on my side of the train. "I just want to say good-bye to my grandson," she explained in a melodious southern drawl. "I have been visiting and now I am headed back to Ge-ahh-gah."

I glanced out the window as she waved her good-byes, and sure enough, there was the nice Asian fellow grinning up at us. I'll be darned. Way more to that diversity angle than I had realized! I glanced at the brave woman now settling in across the aisle from me, realizing she would have a long ride to get home, and with a broken wing. How difficult it must be for her to leave her family behind. What was that young man thinking putting her on a train! (though admittedly I suspect she was afraid of flying, hence the willingness to endure the long jolting trip).

Not ten minutes after we pulled out of Rochester, her cell phone rang (kudos to her!). It was obvious from her conversation that her charming grandson was checking up on her. He must have had a direct link to the phoneline letting people know whether the train was ontime for the various stops because everytime we stopped at a station from Syracuse straight through to Schenectady, he called her and regaled her with a story or put someone else on the phone to chat.

I imagine he kept it up until she arrived in sunny Georgia, good for him. It was as close to traveling with her as he could get. That's on beyond kind. That's downright thoughtful.

Hallmark Moment Perspective

I usually enjoy train travel, especially shorter, direct trips like the Rochester to Schenectady run I am on this morning. While I don't particularly relish getting up at 4:30 am to make a 5:00 am train (and there are other options, but I want as much time there as I can carve out), the three and a half hour trip is pleasant and the car not crowded.

Every once in awhile we slowed to let cargo trains pass on the adjacent rails, and it was during one of those moments just the other side of Rome that I was blessed by the most amazing scene - it could have come straight out of an Ideals magazine (if you have never seen a copy of Ideals, you should definitely look at one - they have gorgeous photography and memorable scenic displays accompanied by nostalgic stories and poems).

To the right of my window lay huge circles of baled hay, yellow and wire bound and ready for animal consumption. To the left was an apple orchard, the red apples peeking through the green leaves. At the back of the meadow that lay between the hay field on one side and the apple orchard on the other was a rustling corn field awaiting silage. Fall harvest at it most promising. But what capped the scene, brought that feeling of hearth and home, was the flock of wild turkey grazing in the open meadow, surrounded by so much goodness. There were 30 or 40 of them strutting and waddling about, as if all the relatives had come together for one last meal before scattering in light of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.

You could almost smell the cranberry sauce and feel the warmth of a steamy kitchen filled with apple pies and roasted fowl and simmering squash. For several long minutes I watched these gentle birds pecking the grass, feeling every bit the hidden observer of something ephemeral and precious. Later as I related the scene to my parents, I started to say I wished I had a camera to capture the picture. Before I could get the words out, my Dad interjected with, "Yes, you wish you had a gun! Free dinner!"

Ah, the generational divide.

Man in a Hole

Traffic was starting to slow. How irritating! I need to get to back to work after straightening out a bit of confusion on my power bill (don't get me started). Ah, I see ahead the reason for the slowdown. The inevitable construction, the narrowing of three lanes into one. Phooey.

I glance about for an alternate route, but there is nothing in the immediate vicinity. I will have to "ride it out." We creep along slowly at barely 2 mph, sometimes coming to a complete standstill. I glance at my watch. There is no help for it. I am going to be late. Fortunately, I do not have a meeting until 2pm, so I will merely have to stay a bit later at the end of the day.

OK, I relax. The radio is consoling me with a bit of Brahms. Might as well enjoy the scenery too. I find there is still plenty of yellow color in the autumn trees, and even though it is quite cold, the grass is green yet. I watch the driver in the car ahead of me fuddling with his mirror. The driver in the car behind me is chatting on a cell phone (shame!). I follow an arrow of geese flying overhead until they pass out of sight behind the buildings.

At last, I turn my head towards the red and yellow cones separating us from the construction paraphernalia, beeping county trucks, and jeans clad workmen just as we roll to a complete stop for the umpteenth time. I nearly burst out laughing. There in a manhole up to his neck stood (I assume he was standing) a workman complete with yellow hardhat sipping a cup of coffee.

I would be frightened to be eye level with car tires and mufflers, but he seemed non plussed - relaxed actually. I would have been ducking my head everytime a car or truck or workman passed me for fear I would lose my head. Brave man. Our eyes met, and for a brief moment we stared at each other - me from my lofty car seat perch, he from the depths of the bowels of the earth. He nodded and smiled. I waved back. And then I was moving again.

What an odd encounter! I've heard of being in the pits, but this is ridiculous.

SOS Kid in Distress

Its one of those calls that a parent hates to get - the one with the voice at the other end of the line pleading desperately for help. What's a parent to do but respond best they can? It had already been something of a Job week - not that my troubles are anywhere near as severe as what Job went through, but all my boys seemed to be in distress. Physical difficulties, emotional difficulties, financial difficulties - it makes you feel so helpless when you don't have the resources or power to fix the broken places.


But this call was one I could not ignore. When I heard the angst in the timbre of the words, I knew I had to be there. My relationship with this son has been somewhat rocky. I am not sure if he knows just how much I love him, how amazed I am at his giftings, how proud I am of his tenderheartedness. Sometimes loving your kids is about being there even when you can't change anything or fix the problem or provide for the need or understand what is really happening. Its awfully hard to hug the hurting long distance. And "I love you" on the phone is not quite as meaningful as the little touches you can do in person that say it for you.


Its also hard to extricate yourself from schedules and commitments where you are! Thank goodness for the unselfish compassion of my colleagues who not only offered to cover my duties here, but promised to faithfully prayed for my son and for my trip. So I am making arrangements to go be with him, to find a way to his heart even though I already know I cannot make things right. I have no idea what to expect, I just know I have to go.

Naked Tree

At first, I didn't realize there was a naked tree on campus, standing between Garlock Dining Hall and the Library. When you are walking up the sidewalk, it looks like a fully leafed hardwood in the glorious yellow of autumnal splendor. It wasn't until I was practically on top of it that I saw the bare limbs brushing against the sky and that the beautiful yellow leaves actually belonged to its neighbor tree standing behind it.

It took me up short and I confess I stopped in mid stride, my head tilted to one side in puzzlement as I tried to discern which branches belonged to the naked tree and which to the gloriously colored tree. It was difficult to tell. And curious. So unusual that I glanced around as far as I could see, checking the other trees on campus for leaf coverage or lack thereof. No, every tree I could see had most of their leaves intact, sporting the most vivid reds, oranges, and yellows imaginable. Truly peak season if ever I have seen one.

Why was this one tree alone of all the trees on campus totally leafless? I can't imagine it has anything to do with location since its sister tree is fully leafed. Nor can it have anything to do with age since it is neither young nor old. Other trees of the same type were all still in leaf, and I could not discern any sign of insect infestation or fungi damage. Notwithstanding, the poor thing stands bereft of all vestiges of leafery despite being ensconced in the arms of another healthy tree.

I shall not solve this puzzle, but I find it a wonderful picture of what I experienced at the height of my cancer devastations. Though I cannot tell you why I got cancer, I can testify to the wonderful nurture and caring of my sisters - related and not - as I underwent a season of nakedness brought on by chemo, radiation, cancer, and distress. My caring friends and family wrapped their arms about me and sheltered me just as surely as the golden tree is sheltering the naked one.

No one truly saw my ugliness because of the amazing beauty surrounding me. It still touches me deeply to think of all the help, all the prayer, all the love poured out for me when I was naked and alone. By comparison, the cancer stuff I deal with these days is very mild. But I do brush elbows with those who are naked and alone. I pray that they have the same wonderful sisters I had, covering them with love.

Next spring, I expect the naked tree will once again be in full leaf, green and glorious and full of shade for the hot and weary. Just as I expect I will also be renewed and able to providing arms of comfort for others going through the wilderness.

Mum's the Word

In front of the B Thomas Golisano Library, gracefully tucked along the curve of the plaza area, stand five large plant urns. They probably hold a ton of dirt and are too heavy for student "moving about" pranks. In shape they resemble those quaint handle-less Japanese teacups - round and deep, but with a squareness about them that speaks of sturdy daintiness.



At the beginning of the fall semester, the grounds people exchanged the colorful summer flowers for leafy foliage and ivy vines surrounding a center clump of white mums. When first I saw them, I immediately disliked them. It was just too odd to see these clumps of snow while the sky was so blue and the weather so warm. But I am not in charge of such things, and for the most part the grounds people do a marvelous job maintaining the flowerbeds and walkways hereabouts. So I tucked my taste back in my pocket and tried not to look at them as I came and went via the front entrance.



Buzzing about preparing for homecoming, I suddenly realized those white mums had turned purple! It was extraordinary. I had no idea white mums could suddenly blush with such deep color! I loved them. Purple is one of my favorite colors, and they set off the ivy vines so cozily. I was just about to tell someone about the now-purple mums when they disappeared altogether! What?? Where on earth did they go? I never saw anyone root them up. Why would anyone take planted mums? Before I could mention the mumless pots to my colleagues, the ivy vines also disappeared.



It was mysterious magic. The next day I left for a voice lesson in the morning and by the time I returned a half hour later, even the pots were gone, leaving dark brown mud circles where once the containers stood. I don't know what kind of games the grounds people are playing, but it wrecks havoc with my equilibrium - I never know quite what to expect. This morning the empty pots are back, sans dirt altogether vacated for the onslaught of winter.



This is mummery of the most curious kind. I shall not tell my colleagues of this strange sequence of events. I mentioned it to a couple of people who looked at me strangely, not having noticed the change of flora out front. So Mum's the word. But I shall be watching. Just in case something else appears out there!

Gulik Gym

Today I met with my assigned personal trainer at the YMCA for the Lance Armstrong Cancer Survivor strength program. My doctor had whole heartedly signed the permission to participate form and was very much in support of my joining. So I took my forms in hand and drove up Long Pond Road to the Northwest Branch of the Y for my 'intake' session.

The parking lot and the facility was packed. Once again I was impressed by how happy and friendly everyone is, how caring and attentive the instructors are. Its not the Y of my youth where I learned to both swim and be afraid of the water! I asked for my trainer at the front desk and she appeared before I barely had time to sit down.

We went to her office in the back for a brief conversation and signing of papers, then began with the initial assessment of where I am. First I had to walk on a treadmill for 6 minutes, and I could select the speed. The speed it started at was so slow I could walk faster standing still! Piece of cake. I didn't push hard, just did what felt reasonable to me.

Then we did a flexibility measurement. We stretched out a bit, and I had three chances to stretch while sitting on a mat with a yard stick attached to it, legs in front of me, my heels on the marked line. I reached up with my arms, breathed in and then out as I bent my face towards my knees and touched the mat. I was surprised to find that I can actually reach beyond where my toes are!

Then we were supposed to do 2 machines - one a chest press and one a leg press - to see how much weight was comfortable for me to lift. I declined the chest press as I was concerned about aggravating the pinched nerve in my neck. Measurements done, we headed to the Gulik Gym.

What an odd name! I'm not sure what it means, but when we entered the room, it was in full swing. Catchy dance music was playing, and people were at different stations (there are 16 altogether) doing different activities. Every other station is a machine of some sort that will work muscles. The inbetween stations were movement activities for cardio workout - stepping and bending etc.

My trainer walked me through the different stations, showing me how to do the activities, asking the instructor to advise when she wanted me to have a better understanding. It was a bit awkward. Every minute (yes, 60 seconds) a bell would sound and you move to the next station. The idea is to do all the stations twice, but not get bored or overwhelmed. We set all the machines on 2 (just a little resistance, not much) to get a feel for whether I would need to just do the motion without the resistance, or whether I should add more resistance, make it a bit more challenging.

After we had worked through it once (and I was encouraged by the others working out), she asked me if I wanted to do it again, but I declined. Still a bit wary of overdoing. We made an appointment for next week to meet again, and in the meantime, she encouraged me to come try other things. I can walk on treadmills to my heart's content (and condition), swim, sit in the whirlpool, participate in classes.

Monday evening I am planning to try a Tai Chi class. You don't have to sign up, just show up. That is, providing I recover from today! Such a little bit of movement, but already on the drive to work I could feel muscles I haven't talked to in awhile. They weren't complaining, mind you. Just letting me know they are there. Kiel tells me I will really feel stiff tomorrow. I'll see. I mean really, it was just a half hour of working out. And not with any kind of heavy weights or anything. It seemed easy and my trainer was watching out for me to make sure I didn't do anything wrong, damaging or stupid. Of course, I haven't done anything but walk (slowly) in a long time, and some days I can't even manage to do that (like the last week). So we will see how it goes.

I'm actually hoping I can keep with it and that I end up stronger and healthier and maybe even make some progress with the chemobrain issues. I think I like being a statistic in this study. Its way better than the drug ones!

Chili

During fall break, the staff association organized a chili cookoff in Garlock Dining Commons. Anyone could enter their special chili, and everyone was invited to come test and vote. I wasn't too keen on going since chili has not been one of those foods I tolerate well, but my friends were all going, and I was asked to join, so I went with the caveat that I might not eat too much.

We entered the door and were handed three uncooked dried beans and a plastic spoon. The beans were our voting 'chips.' The line was long but once you got to the first table, you were happy it was moving slowly. Each contestant offered you a small sample of their wares in a tiny plastic cup. They had a glass canning jar in front of their crockpot, and if you liked theirs the best, you 'voted' for them by dropping your bean in their jar.

I took the first sample. It was small - no more than a spoonful or two. And it was good! So was the next one. Then I discovered the baskets of fresh Wegman's Italian bread sliced up and thoughtfully placed so you could cleanse your palate between spoonfuls. Still concerned that I would regret it later, I carefully avoided anything with corn or onions in it. What a delightful variety from white bean chicken chili to white tail venison chili to salsa chili (I didn't try that one). Before I realized it, I had eaten the equivalent of a whopping sized bowl of a mixture of different concoctions. This could be bad.

There was also a table of cornbread so moist it was like dessert cake. I tried a piece, all the while telling myself that it was corn based and likely not to set too well. We sat around the table seriously discussing the merits of each entry. I took my time deciding where to cast my ballots. The venison one definitely got my vote - I haven't had a good venison steak in ages! And I liked the white bean chicken one with its big chunks of white meat. I cast my final vote for the first chili - just the right amount of vinegary sweet taste, not too hot, good texture.

It was nice to see people from other buildings on campus laughing and catching up with changes and each other. Definitely an activity I will attend again next year. I just hope I don't have the piper to pay tomorrow! Yikes!

Corn Fields

Every morning on my way to work I drive past several cornfields that march right up to the edge of Buffalo Road, their long stalks saluting commuters, tassels nodding knowingly in the early light. Over the course of the summer I watched the rich brown earth birth tiny green shoots that quickly grew to full height, the sturdy stalks groaning to produce their quota of 2 pods of seed, nurturing them to maturity as a good mother should.

The rows of tall, rustling, yellow-beige cornstalks, midsections bedecked with husk-swaddled cobs, give you a sense of satisfaction and "all's right with the world." You can almost taste soup simmering in the pot, feel the warm fire on the hearth awaiting the weary traveler. Somewhere just over the next hill the deer are grazing contentedly, a promise that the world is not desolate, the planets still revolve. We decorate our porches and decks with harvested stalks as a reminder that summer was good, our cupboards groan with sustenance, we are ready to weather the hard winter, whatever that may bring. In this uncertain economic landscape, we need to hold on to the constancy of the seasons, everchanging, yet ever the same. Years come and go, each one bringing its own set of yahoos and boo-hoos, but the sun is still in the sky, the ground still brings forth fruit, the world still turns on its axis.

Every morning on my way to work, I thank God for those fields of corn, reminding me that I have a decent roof over my head, healthy food to eat for the day, a satisfying job, family and friends. I return the salute of the soldiers standing watch by the edge of Buffalo Road to let them know I am grateful to be alive.

Christmas Lights

Sigh. I hate slow mornings. My poor body has been plagued by swollen glands, joint aches, tiredness for the last few days. All part of the game, this irritating piece that flares up now and again. I am moving s-l-o-w-l-y. Mornings like this are an exercise in resurrecting dead limbs and resuscitating sluggish systems. More often than not it means I just don't have my act together and I will leave the house slightly late and without having prepared to meet the needs of the day. In this case, no breakfast or lunch.

Forgoing breakfast isn't all that big a deal. I am nauseous anyways, so skipping my usual half a banana, half a cup of fruited yogurt and half a cup of carefully selected low fiber dry cereal is no big deal. But by the time I got to lunch, I was definitely ready for something more than the cup of ginger tea I had sipped throughout the morning. Time for a trip to Timmy's. They have pretty good soup there, and today the chicken noodle felt comfortable, especially with the crumbled crackers floating about offering an extra dose of salt. The warmth alone was worth the trip.

I rarely ever eat in restaurants over lunch, preferring to huddle over substance intake in my office while weeding through emails. Today, I need to be in an unstressful environment, so I take my tray to an isolated table in the far corner where the sun shines through the window, and sit with my back to the world, lingering over the nourishment and allowing myself the luxury of not thinking, just relaxing. It feels good. The warm sun caresses my hair (what little there is of it) and with my tummy full of warm soup, I doze a bit, leaning against the wall.

Strength is returning, this spell will pass in a bit (they have their own time frames, these physical drain days). Somewhat rejuvenated, I sling my purse over my shoulder, empty my tray and head for the car. I know I can manage the afternoon better than the morning. But I will be glad when the day ends and I can go home. I slide behind the wheel of my wonderful little Malibu and pull onto Buffalo Road.

I pass Family Video and Jitters as I head back to the library. Suddenly, I see the employees of the landscaping business huddled around a bush STRINGING CHRISTMAS LIGHTS!!!! No way! I can't believe it! Its enough to jolt you wide awake, chicken soup notwithstanding. Sure enough, they are wrapping each perfect bush in a covering of white lights, plugging each one in to make sure it works. For one brief moment I am shocked.

But as I wait to turn onto Orchard Street, I smile at the twinkling lights holding out their promise of good times to come, of important family togetherness, of pleasant surprises and good friends and caroling music and, yes, even snow. It will come whether we begin in October or on December 24th. It will come every year until the end of time. Its a good sign. Don't think about your tired aching body today. Think about making this a year of excellent holiday celebrations. Its been a good year. Think about that. Yes. Think about that.

Genealogies

He comes in the Library just about every day, this quiet gentleman with the baseball cap, long white sideburns and silver glasses, and sits quietly in front of a computer for hours. I never really gave it much thought. We have a number of community people who are early risers and come to have a cup of coffee and read the newspapers. We call them our regulars. You get to know them after awhile. Yesterday, a colleague raised the question of what they are doing online half the day, these elderly people. I must confess, I had no idea what would rivet them to the screen for hours on end.

Today I was at the helm (aka Circulation Desk) from 8 to 1 because it was break and quiet and the rest of the staff were either off or coming in later. As this gentleman came in, I nodded hello, and he remarked on how quiet it was. "October break," I mentioned. It opened up an engaging conversation about his life's careers - yes, multiple - and how he now is retired even though he would rather be working. Now he spends his time doing genealogical research about his family and his wife's family. He had traced his own family back to the 1200's and his wife's family back to the 1400's - quite an accomplishment!

He had been surprised to learn along the way that he had fairly close relatives living just down the road from his house, and that his wife's family had been Free Methodist before coming to this country. The world is a smaller place than we realize. I have a friend in Illinois who also enjoys the hunt of connecting the dots, figuring out people's pasts, tying things together. Last time I visited, he took a look at my family's history, picking through scads of information to follow the clues of names, dates, occupations.

My Mom did a family history for us kids back when computers were less viable. She didn't have the benefit of ancestry.com to help out. Nonetheless, I have a beautiful scrawling family tree tucked carefully among my important papers, preserving them for my children and grandchildren.

What is there about looking at our past that is so intriguing? We say its fun to dig around and see what skeletons fall out of our closets. Really, its much more than that. It is about being connected, about belonging, learning about ourselves through our family connections. Good, bad, or indifferent, it is who we are.

Of course, the other side of that is what picture we will leave for our great great greats when they dig us up in whatever format the future allows. I hope I leave a legacy worth reading!

Webcams

Webcams can be wonderful! Yesterday DJ hooked up a webcam he had bought awhile back and never got around to using. They contacted Kiel to tell him to log on to Yahoo since he is the one with a Yahoo account and since his laptop has a built in webcam.

Boy, did I want to shout Yahoo! There were my darling grand daughters, dancing and twirling and playing the piano and throwing kisses to Gramma. I blew kisses right back. It was so nice to see them, to remark about how big Katie is getting and how long Kelly's hair has grown. I got to see the new puppy, Grace (a birthday gift to DJ), and even got a glimpse of the busy parents who are both looking hale and hearty despite the demands of two young daughters full of zip and dazzle.

While it wasn't quite as smooth as real life, and there was a bit of delay between talking and hearing, it was still way better than phone. At one point, Kiel held up a picture on his cell phone to the webcam so DJ could see it - and he did see it! How amazing that we made a call on a cell phone to do a live video viewing via internet on a computer driven by cell phone access! It was almost as good as a visit. Ain't technology grand! I can't wait until they make the process smoother and easier to navigate. DJ plans to branch out and visit the Great Grammas! Hope they can make it work.

Homecoming

Really, its just another soccer game, right? So why does Drew have to be there from 10 am until well after 6? OK, so he should support the other teams, and there is the tradition that the boys soccer team presents the girls' team with a flower after their game (the 10 am one) is over [they won]. But really, it shoots the whole day. Its not like I have time to do much of anything before and after his game. I find it hard not to resent the huge investment of my time just for one game.

But wait. This is my son, and my youngest at that. I do not have many more days of going to soccer games to watch my sons play. I missed already so many of DJ's, Kiel's, Drew's because I could not go. Today I can take my reading with me, sit outside and enjoy the beautiful weather, and still get work done. Stop seeing things through the eyes of an adult and see them again through the eyes of a young person just beginning to explore life! This is a BIG deal! Exciting! Connecting with people, showing your skills, bonding with alumni and friends. Yes, a moment I do want to share with Drew.

It didn't help that I had to pay to get in or that Drew injured his shoulder during warm ups and sat the bench the entire game or that I forgot to bring sunblock and burned the side of my face and arm badly or that I was constantly overhearing gossip about the players from sideline groupies. But the sun was warm and the day pleasant and the game well played even though we lost 2 to 1. The athletes' enthusiasm was solid and the fall decorations well displayed.

Even though soccer is not the premiere event (that would be football), the game was well attended. There were many alums reliving their days of glory, cheering our team on. It was nice to have a large crowd milling about, shouting with joy when a goal was made, groaning with sympathy when one was missed by a hair. The smell of grilling hotdogs and hamburgs filled the air, and younger brothers and sisters ran about yelling and laughing. The festive atmosphere brought back memories of high school and college games I had been part of. Those were good memories.

Afterwards, we stopped at Dunkin Donuts for a flatbread sandwich and a strawberry smoothie to celebrate Drew's homecoming game. Drew was a bit crestfallen both about not being able to play and about losing, but he handled it well. Next year I will plan better, make a bigger fuss about homecoming, be more connected. This year was OK, but I can do a lot more in spite of the fact that Drew tells me he would rather I didn't come to his games. What is he thinking! Its my God given right as MOM and I'm taking full advantage.

Soundscapes

I once read a book about the changes happening to the sound environment, how London streets once reverberated with the sound of horses hooves clopping against cobblestones, a sound now extinct from everyday experience. It spoke of changes in technology and living styles affecting the background noise to which we are accustomed, how living in a city blocks nature sounds from filling our ears (and I would add how the haze of city lights at night has affected our night vision to such an extent that we are no longer able to see in true darkness).

I thought about how the soundscape differs from my last apartment location to my current location. Some sounds are alike - in both places I lived between two churches who ring bells and play steeple music. In the old apartment, I was located between a Catholic Church who's bell simply tolled the hours and Pearce Memorial that rang Westminster Chimes on the quarter hours and sometimes their carillon played hymns. In my current apartment, I am between a Catholic Church that rings the Westminster Chimes along with occasional tunes, and a Presbyterian church that tolls the hours.

In my former apartment I didn't really hear any traffic noise because I was so far back. I could hear birdsong clearly, and insect noises though. In my current place, I begin to hear traffic noise starting around 6:30am and lasting until at least 10pm. I only hear the insect and bird sounds when I walk towards the back of the complex.

There is not the same angst about sound extinction as there is about species extinction, but I wonder if we should be concerned. For me the changes in soundscape include incessant ringing of phones that do not sound like phones. At work, we can program our phones to sound like just about anything we choose from a star wars sci-fi sound to buzzing and rhythmic beeping to an "old-fashioned" phone ring.

Cell phones allow you to program the ring of your phone to reflect your personal tastes be that music or a male voice shouting "Answer the phone, stupid." (no thanks - my phone rings with Bach's Fugue in D minor). Once the sound of a phone ringing used to be limited to a building where there were phones; now you hear phones ringing just about anywhere, including in bathrooms, cars, outside, in concert halls, churches, you name it.

Laptops provide their own access to sounds not normally heard outside a living room. You get to hear movies and music wherever you go (what's that old nursery rhyme? "Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady upon a white horse. With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes.") We are never without sound.

While I don't advocate spending time in an anechoic chamber (I once stood in one at an organ manufacturer's plant, a room where they recorded pure instrumental sound to use as their electronic stops), I can't help but wonder how all this noise is affecting us in our ability to hear, to respond, in our physical condition. Not only is silence rare, but it has become uncomfortable.

I have come to believe that our bodies and our souls need silence, times to relax, times to be free of outside stimulus. In healing from cancer (or any other devastating illness), I found it especially necessary to carve out times of walking in nature not only to surround myself with beauty, but also to escape from the incessant noise of the world.

It often felt as if it took at least a half hour for the noises jammed up in my ears to slowly fall out and clear my head. Once the blockage was removed, my body could move on to concentrate on other necessities, healing actions, calming jangled nerves, restoring peace. I resent noise pollution and combat it as often as I can. It is not just that the changes in our soundscapes surprise us or affect us in ways of loss. It is that we are forced to endure so much unwanted sound, so much ugly sound, so much constant noise.

If you are feeling a bit overwhelmed, a bit stirred up, a bit at loose ends without knowing quite why, if you are tired all the time for no apparent reason, on edge, find yourself snapping at people, I encourage you to find a quiet place - a truly quiet place - and spend some time there. For some it may be a nature trail, for others a library, for others, your bedroom closet. Whatever the place, go there and stay there until the excess sound falls out of your ears and your body relaxes. Then stay awhile longer, listen for silence, for peace, for your own breathing, for nothing. Close your eyes and be quiet.

If you do that, maybe, just maybe, you will be able to hear the Truth. And maybe you will be able to take that peace with you back into the noisy world.

Mmmmm Apples

There I was living in Tulsa, far from home, surrounded by four small boys, yearning for a touch of something familiar. It wasn't just that I missed all my family and friends, though of course I did. I had not lived home in years, but always close enough to visit whenever I wished. Tulsa, however, was another matter. The 23 hour drive was too daunting to undertake even for a long weekend.

Perhaps I should have been ready for the culture shock, having lived at various times in Texas, but I still hadn't learned to appreciate each area for the goodness it presented and to forgive it for not seeing things the way I had been raised. I did develop a fine appreciation for the one-mile square grid layout of the city, making every destination easy to locate. And I continued to appreciate the vast blue skies and gentle winter weather, though for the life of me I could not adjust to rattlesnakes on the patio or the vividness of dead grass painted green.

It was in the food department however that I felt most bereft. Perhaps it was because our family always had a vegetable garden, as did my Grandmother. There is nothing like the flavor of a fresh vegetable picked just seconds before devouring. Or perhaps I have always taken comfort in foods that played a major role in all of our family activities and celebrations. After all the years of tables laden with opulent foods encountered only during holidays, who would not equate good times with eating?

So in the fall, my thoughts naturally turned to apples, remembering all the family outings to pick up seconds (apples fallen to the ground and bruised) in the local fruit orchards, the smell of the rotting squished fruit on the grass beneath the trees, dodging bees that hovered expectantly around the cider press, inhaling the tantalizing smell of doughnuts fresh from the hot grease that were inevitably linked with fresh cider and sold at all respectable fruit stands.

I went to the local Piggly-Wiggly and perused the bins stacked with several types of apples. Pickings were slim compared with the bountiful menu of an actual fruit orchard. Piggly-Wiggly only offered a few varieties - delicious, macs and jonagolds. Where were the spies, cortlands, empires, galas, granny smiths, wolf rivers, macouns, greenings, romes, winesaps and jonathans to name but a few?

Well, an apple is an apple, I sighed. I selected macs - you can't go wrong with a macintosh, can you? I carried my prize home, thinking how wonderful they would taste. After carefully putting the groceries away, I opened the plastic bag, selected the biggest, reddest apple and carefully sliced it in fours. Juice spattered on the counter, tantalizingly. A faint scent of apple wafted up from the cutting board. I doled out the cored slices to the three older boys and took one for myself. If I were frugal, I could make the bag last a whole week.

I watched the boys eat, then bit my own quarter, expecting the familiar tangy apply flavor. The texture was as I remembered it - chewy and soft. Where was the juice running down my chin? How disappointing the taste! Nothing like I had grown up with. The whole experience was rather like chewing cardboard, a sham, an exercise in futility. This was definitely NOT an apple.

It may well be that the healthy vitamins and minerals were there, but the experience did not make you crave another. In fact, it was the same with apple pies and applesauce and cider. There just wasn't any real flavor. I guess they never heard of my father's secret recipe for cider where he mixed just the right blend of apple varieties to get that special distinct apple taste. We always froze a few gallons to pull out for special occasions. Nor did they have my Mother's applesauce recipe, the one where you cook the apples whole then sieve out the skins and seeds. The color of the skin makes the applesauce a delightful pink, and the flavor of the warm ambrosia is out of this world. You couldn't even begin to put together that kind of treat from the varieties offered in most grocery stores (except maybe Wegmans).

I suppose part of the experience was being around when the apples were cooking, watching the steam rise from the deep 8 quart stock pot and fog the windows, smelling the aroma for hours, impatiently waiting for that first taste - you just can't get that out of opening a store bought jar of applesauce.

Now that we are back in NY, Kiel was chomping at the bit to go apple picking. But my sisters beat us to the punch and while Deb was up visiting from Tennessee, she determined to get some REAL apples to take back with her (having experienced the same taste challenges that I did in Oklahoma), and she very kindly delivered a huge sack of all different kinds of apples before she left town.

I'm not sure they will make it into applesauce. I am enjoying eating them raw - what a treat to select the flavor I want and bite into succulent, amazing, tangy apple flavor. I am careful to eat no more than a half an apple a day, giving the other half to Drew in an effort to encourage him to eat healthy. Perhaps I will succumb this weekend and make just a small batch of applesauce. Kiel is threatening to make an apple pie, and I hope he actually does! I'm not sure if it will keep the doctor away, but at very least I hope not to have any health incidents related to suddenly ingesting a boatload of fiber.

Hurray for Lance

FINALLY! Something concrete. I have been signed up for the Lance Armstrong email service and gotten his publications Heal and Cure ever since I first found one of his magazines in my Yale oncologists' waiting area. It has been mildly helpful, encouraging to read that others are going through similar experiences, a bit scary to hear the complete story about the potential side effects. Some of their conferences sounded interesting, but they were always too far away or at a bad time.

This week I got an email telling me about a free program for cancer survivors at the local YMCA - a fitness program geared especially for your personal needs. I bit. I emailed the Y to ask for further information. This is a terrific program where you meet with a trainer, they ask about your personal experience with cancer and what you would like to do to deal with the leftover symptoms to get back into shape.

Best part is, not only is the 12 week time free for you, but also for your immediate family. I made an appointment for the initial conversation that would determine whether I am eligible, what my needs are, how it works. I liked the place right away, even though I had never been there. There's a Y closer to our apartment, but it doesn't have this program.

How delightful to meet so many morning people! It restores my faith in mankind. The place was buzzing and everyone was talking and laughing and greeting each other. After taking down my information and assessing that I was in fact eligible, I got the tour. The room of special interest for me was the Gulik Gym. Here were simple exercises designed to slowly work you back into shape in a holistic way without aggravating anything that might be tender or sensitive for your body.

Water aerobics were also suggested along with heated whirlpool for achy joints. They keep the pool temperatures in the 80s! Interesting change of pace. She also showed me the "regular" equipment, but we both recognized that I was not ready for such stuff. A long term goal perhaps, but well beyond the 12 weeks.

Next step, get my doctor to sign the approval form stating that I am Ok to do this. Then I get measured and documented. They put me in their system, and everytime I come, I log in for each area I do something. They keep track of what I have done so they can guide and direct along the way. Then I get to bring the boys who can do whatever they would like while I am working on my turtle-paced stuff, but still get to support and encourage me to be there. Nice.

My guide told me they are working on this program slowly and don't have a lot of people enrolled yet. As we chatted about the after effects of cancer, I mentioned that I needed to find a nutrition program like this physical fitness program because I have the most amount of trouble figuring out how to get the nutrition I need but not blow my body up with too much fiber etc. Well, turns out she is going to Chicago just this week to learn about that from the Lance Armstrong foundation clinic. Yeah!

Maybe I will really find the right help to put the pieces of Humpty-Dumpty back together again. Wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake!

Frost

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window as I brewed my cup of morning tea. The whole apartment was bathed in bright, warm light and a glance out the window revealed a joyous blue sky as wide and clear as any Texas morning vista. Who would have thought I would wade through chilly 34 degree temperatures on my way to the car. Brrrrr! I had heard the weather forecast, knew it was cold, wore my black leather jacket.

I slung my ergonomic bookbag over one shoulder and, energized by the bracing air, stepped lively toward the car, purposely breathing heavily and watching the little clouds of my steamy breath quickly evaporate. I love fall. I walked across the lawn instead of sticking to the sidewalks so I could scuffle through the thin layer of leaves papering the feet of the various trees.

A glorious morning to be alive - the morning after the first frost of the season. Still at 8am the grass was covered by a fragile coating of whiteness here and there, turning the grass a light green, dulling the purples and yellows of the wildflowers alongside the road, assisting leaves in their plunge to the ground. I drove along, noting the subtle changes here and there as the world woke to the approaching autumnal changes.

Suddenly, to my right, a huge field glared into view, lying a bit lower than the ground about it, just past a pinetree ensconced farm house, right before the little Baptist Church with the golf course in the side yard. It was totally engulfed in white frost, thick enough to be mistaken for snow, looking for all the world like an ice skating rink. Not a soul stirred there, not a leaf nor a blade of grass. Everything was completely motionless, unmoving, frozen.

"Winter is next," it warned me. "Beware. Soon all the world will follow my lead." I sailed by silently, staring at the glare of the sun reflecting from the whiteness. "Not yet," I respond. "Winter is not here yet. Today I chose to shuffle through leaves and twirl in the bright sun. You shall not encroach so soon. You will have to wait your turn." And I drove on to work.

Blondie and the LunchTruck

There I was driving up Union Street minding my own business, following a state dump truck. The speed limit on that street varies depending on what neighborhood and town you are traveling through, but generally it doesn't go over 45 mph. The day was warm and sunny, the air kissed with coolness just enough to be comfortable. I was in no particular hurry.

Suddenly a silver roach coach (patty wagon, lunch bucket, sandwich salon) appeared in my rear view mirror. I had not seen it approach, wasn't sure where it had come from. But it was entirely too close to my back bumper. It felt like there was hardly a hair's breadth between us. "Hey! Back off!" I wanted to yell, gazing in my mirror, craning my neck to see who was driving.

Instead of some big burly construction type that I was expecting to see, I discovered a diminutive young girl. She was probably in her mid twenties and could barely see over the steering wheel. She was obviously in a hurry, likely late for coffee break business somewhere. I could read the anxiety on her face, see her gesturing wildly for me to get out of her way.

"Not gonna help if I move, blondie," I thought. "I can't go any faster than the truck in front of me and neither can you." That apparently made no difference to her. The hand gestures were becoming a bit obscene as she nosed closer to the line in the middle of the road, trying to see if she could pass me despite the solid line. Now I was more than a bit worried. She was driving dangerously - the kind of person you want to let by you so they don't cause an accident.

We were coming up to a light. Surely she would just have to wait it out. But no - she pulled into the turn lane and gunned it, zipping past me, past the dump truck and past the pick up in front of that, swooshing straight through the red light without turning just before oncoming traffic would have wiped her out. I could see her blond hair flipping back and forth as she gripped the steering wheel, gritting her teeth, determined to meet whatever deadline was driving her.

Surely one touch from her tense hands would curdle the cream and sour the milk in her lunch basket. What on earth! I reached my turnoff not a block later, glad to be rid of such a nuisance. As I tooled along on Spencerport Road, a car pulled out right in front of me, going slow. "Hey buddy," I thought. "The speed limit here is 45, not 20. Push that foot down on the pedal and get your jalopy moving." I edged closer, thinking to wake him up and encourage him to go faster. After all, I do have a doctor's appointment. At this rate I will be late.

I nosed my car towards the middle line in the road to see if I could pass the old cout when suddenly I realized *I* was blondie! How horrible! What I detest in someone else had reared its ugly head in me. Ashamed, I pulled back in place and slowed down, backing off. Three speed demons zipped by the two of us, crossing a solid line to do so, and I waved and smiled at them all. Today, I will not be rude, no sir. After all, doctors often keep me waiting, so if I am a wee bit late, what does it matter? At least I will not irritate this person in front of me.

I flipped my definitely un-blonde hair and turned on the radio. We will get there when we get there and not a moment before. No sense making everyone miserable along the way.

Compline

At last the season has begun. The downtown church faithfully presents their compline services starting with the first Sunday in October - today. I look forward to this treat, though I cannot convince my boys to try it. It is better than drugs (my friend's description of true religion!), this blessing, this reminder of God's grace, goodness and provision, this pronouncement of uplifting words that remind us we are not alone, alleviates our anxieties, brings us into the presence of God. It is good.

Once again the sanctuary is lighted by a hundred candles, the soft light accenting beauty and hiding scariness. Once again the singers in their long brown monk's robes silently file onto the platform, form a circle, lay their music folders on stands surrounded by flickering candles. Once again the music begins from nothing, first one voice, then joined by others, repeating familiar and yet strange words, joining us with medieval monasteries and futuristic sacred places, calling out to God to remember His children.

We are here Lord. Do not forget us. Give us peaceful sleep and quiet nights. Take our burdens. Unite us with your other children. Now let your servant go in peace. Our Father. Ave Maria. The sounds float in and out of unity, filling the entire vaulted ceiling, reverberating throughout the entire building, a beacon straight up towards heaven, like shining a flashlight into the darkness.

The church is filled. People have discovered Compline and flock together for the comfort, the blessing. They are all ages, in all stages of life. They come to seek God. They come to seek the comfort of music. They come to hear the Words of the Lord. They sit quietly, drinking it in, some praying, some resting, some numb from life's blows. We add our heart to the singers' song, hear us O Lord.

Too quickly the time disappears, the music barely begun floats upwards and away, the service concludes as singers swish silently from the platform, music folders closed, eyes downcast. The ethereal vibrations still hold us transfixed as the priests slowly make their way to the singers' stands and begin extinguishing the candles. We are loathe to leave, awaiting every last crumb of comfort.

I tiptoe silently outside, filled with the wonder of the glorious sounds, the ancient texts, the opulence of the architecture. It was good. I am glad they have not given up on this service. I will come again.

The Seagull and the Apple

I had been craving a scone for the longest time, and refusing to give in to the desire because I often can't properly digest them and end up having to walk it off literally. Today, I just needed a bit of something, so I stopped at Starbucks to get one.

You never know what flavor they may have, and there are a number of them that I won't even try - no cinnamon, no maple syrup (yuck), no raspberry (seeds), the frosted ones are too sweet, and I don't really care for the pumpkin. They have yet to discover peach, but they do a decent cherry and blueberry.

The absolute best scone I have ever had was at a cactus park in Arizona, of all places! Who would have thought you would find a real English tearoom in the middle of the desert??!!! I was not expecting it at all. I had thoroughly enjoyed walking around the paths, seeing the hundreds of varieties of cacti, feeling the warm sun in winter, enjoying the mild climate, taking in the grandeur of the mountains.

I was mostly thirsty, but also a bit hungry, though my tummy wasn't in a mood for anything heavy or greasy. As I perused the menu, it was the fresh fruit that caught my attention. The scone and fresh cream didn't mean anything to me until it arrived and I suddenly realized what a treat was set before me.

I have to admit, I didn't bother to stand on ceremony, just gobbled it down hungrily, practically moaning with every bite of sumptuous delectable delicacy. The tangyness of the strawberries and succulence of the blueberries and melon were such a sharp contrast to the light whipped cream and the moist texture of the scone it made your mouth water before during and after each bite. Starbucks can't hold a candle to that. I am told there is a real English tearoom here in Rochester, but the $35 price tag is a bit much to get past.

Anyway, I lucked out and Starbucks had one blueberry scone left. Unusual for them, the berries were plump and filled with moisture. I was a bit sad that they didn't have the capacity to warm it up (listen to me, what a spoiled brat!), but I thankfully took the little brown sack and headed to the car to do the "drive the kids to the next event" thing.

As I stepped off the curb, I was startled by a flutter of wings on the ground next to me. A rusty brown seagull was making a ruckus over a mid-sized green apple rolling about on the ground. As I watched, the bird pecked the apple, trying to gouge off a piece. The apple merely rolled to one side and the little bit dropped to the ground. Apparently the bird couldn't pick it up off the ground because of its hooked beak and it squawked and spluttered and hopped about madly (maybe not as mad as a wet hen, but definitely riled).

Again and again it attacked the rolling apple. Again and again a tiny shred splattered on the ground, out of reach. Juice from the apple was spattering all over, wetting the blacktop, releasing its pungent fragrance. Two other birds flew down to see what the commotion was about. As soon as they discovered the apple fracas, they swooped away, as if they knew the hopelessness of the situation.

I watched this peculiar dance for awhile, amazed at the bird's determination, rooting for the successful consumption of at least one little piece. That crazy apple dodged and darted and dashed about as if trying to avoid the razor stabs of the seagull's sharp beak. What a bizarre game, this hopping and pecking and squawking was. Just as I was about to give up and get in my car, the apple rolled over a drain and got stuck between the slats of the iron slots.

The bird went wild pecking at the now stationary apple, tossing bits and pieces everywhere but into its mouth. It was practically raining cider and the gull kept flapping its wings wildly to keep from getting stuck to itself. At last it managed to break off a fairly sizable chunk which landed on its foot. After flapping about a bit, the chunk was tossed onto the grass where the wily bird tipped its head sideways and scooped the piece into its mouth.

Such cawing and crowing you have never heard. You would have thought an olympic medal had been won. The other birds fluttered back down, hopping about and chattering, pecking gingerly at the stuck apple, but not managing to get anything out of it. The victorious bird sailed away triumphant, content with one taste.

I shook my head and climbed in the car. Good thing I don't have to work that hard for one bite of apple! Maybe Eve should have taken a lesson.

Smorgasbord

I stood by a table beautifully appointed with the most exquisite desserts you can imagine - chocolate raspberry cake, cream puffs with real custard, lime cranberry cheesecake - things outside the realm of usual dessert fare. How to decide?

I stepped back to think it over, admiring the cream colored candles embracing the well arranged serving platters and fall decor so nicely draped and placed thoughtfully about, while others approached the table and gazed at the extraordinary confections. The tables were gracefully situated in the center of the room with lots of space on both sides of the two tables. Scattered about the room were smaller round tables and groupings of chairs for intimate conversation and comfort of chatting with friends or meeting new people. We had all just attended a delightful ten year celebration of the seminary I attend. We were not in a hurry to leave, preferring to bask in the candlelit glow of accomplishment of something greater than merely the sum of each of us.

Ten years ago, a handful of faculty (three to be exact) and an administrator got together with little more than a vision and a plan, and began Northeastern Seminary. Their first class was a small group of interested people who had no idea what they had signed up for. In ten years, they have graduated over 200 students who live across the world doing God's work of caring for the spiritual needs of people.

In celebration of ten years, the Seminary invited speaker Leith Anderson to bring words of encouragement in moving forward. This year we celebrate the appointment of a new Vice President and a new Dean along with a second round of accreditation approval. The foundation is solid, now its time to continue building.

The courses I have taken so far have been a delightful repast, the list of application to life long and enlightening. Artfully served in bite sized chunks, carefully thought out and gently presented, they too are a wonderful smorgasbord of learning and growth. I am working my way through the raspberry of history, the limelight of early writers, the chocolate of spiritual formation. It is enjoyable, this feast. While I know all good banquets come to an end, I shall relish every moment of this one, and not be in a hurry to leave.

Toadstools and Rainbows

Thursday night. A long day at the library comes to an end, longer than usual because its my day to open, so I arrive at 7:30 am. I work the Circulation Desk all morning until 1 or later, then try to catch up with my usual projects. After I turn the Reference Desk over to the evening person, I pack up my bag of music and head for church, relishing the opportunity to walk the long block to the other end of campus, get outside a bit, enjoy the fresh air.

I wrap my raincoat about me and pull the hood over my head to protect against the light spatter of rain. It reminds me of a cloak I owned back in my early college days, a wonderful blue and gray plaid with a full hood that I had waterproofed with a can of spray-on ScotchGuard, a novelty at the time. On Sunday afternoons when I was attending both Houghton and Nyack I would walk all afternoon, rain or shine, wrapped in that warm cloak, shaking off the rigors of studying and being cooped up inside.

I am surprised to find that at heart I am really an outdoors girl. I have always known I must have windows and sunlight in my life, else I shrivel up. But as I think back, I spent most of my time as a young girl playing outside or gardening or harvesting. I didn't realize how much I enjoy being outside, how it feeds my soul as well as my body.

This little walk is a highlight of my week. I thoroughly enjoy the quiet street that divides dorms from dining hall, athletic center from private homes. There is just enough traffic to keep you safe, just enough grassy curb to soften your footsteps, just enough breeze to freshen the air. I can feel the tiredness begin to slip away, my shoulders not so achy, my brain waking up.

Today, after so much rain, I am surprised to find tall puffy toadstools growing on the lawns, tempting you to take a nibble (though I don't) and tantalizing the local critters. I gaze at the ground as I walk along, amazed at how many there are of all sizes and shapes - tall and skinny with little caps, short and squat with wide umbrellas and ruffly gills, little thimble sized brown ones and pure white capped ones bending gracefully. I am so intent on watching for them that I almost missed it.

The widest, most shimmery rainbow I have ever seen! Just a half one that came straight down with only the hint of a curve to it. I am sure it fell just the other side of Westside Drive. As I watched, the colors seemed to merge and smear together until there were just two colors really - blue and red. Then the colors separated again into at least six distinct ones. It seemed to grow fatter, then thinner, brighter then lighter.

I finally had to just stand still and watch for a few minutes, fearful that I would trod a toadstool as I looked up at the rainbow. What an amazing afternoon jaunt. I am ready - ready to sing and make music in my heart and with my voice. I hope my choir saw the rainbow and that they will bring its brilliance with them to rehearsal!

Sunflowers

Halfway between the Library and the Church on Westside Drive stands a utility pole surrounded by a dozen leggy sunflowers, their bright yellow faces now bent towards the ground as if in prayer for the coming winter, their visage weeping seeds for the birds to tuck away against the coming banks of snow that will lock their larders tightly. They encircle the pole, holding leaves like young girls hold hands when they play Ring Around the Rosy, though the only thing falling down are their brown husks and skinny leaves.

They appear bold against the landscape, the brightness of their lowered heads still attracting attention. I marvel at their strength, how so thin a stalk can support so huge and weighty a head. I wonder the piepan head doesn't fall off and smack the ground, but they are stubborn hangers-on. It matters not to them that the stalk is brittle and dry, that the life force has ceased to flow up the column. They are still hard at work, shelter their seeds, passing life on for others to benefit from, giving in their dying gasp a full blown and effective effort to finish the race set before them.

I note their tenacity, determination, strength. Next time I am in the trenches, hanging on by a thread, I will think of that circle of sunflowers, think of their commitment and providence for others. Yes, I can do that. I can continue to draw sustenance even though my resources are thin, continue to hang in there until my work is done. Perhaps I will put a picture of a sunflower near my desk as a gentle reminder. Bow your head in prayer, give it your all.