Writing prompt - "What's in Front of You"

Write what's in front of your face. Begin with the most ordinary. If something not in front of you comes to mind, jot it down. Try it. Ten minutes.

Directly in front of my face is my computer. A new laptop, though only new to me. A pink flash drive is in one of the USB ports, and I mean pink. I named it Galinda. On my right is my sewing machine. I can't believe I've had it for a full year now. I got it for Christmas last year and I've put a lot of miles on it since then. Lots of quilts, lots of other crafty projects. It was the kind of gift that could have sat prettily on a table or desk but instead, I've made it an indispensable and favorite tool. I love that.

On my left is the book of writing prompts held open to this prompt with a pair of red-handled scissors. Under the book are two spreadsheets from work and lots of paper scraps and strips. I've finally been working on our wedding photo album and I decided to use the cards we got from our wedding to decorate the pages with more than just pictures. (I got the idea from my sister-in-law Chelsea.)

Around the laptop on my white desk there is tape, adhesive squares, a glue stick, two (more) pairs of scissors, bobby pins, two pens, some ribbon, and a round tub of white citrus body butter. There is a box of scrapbooking markers and a plastic case of my sewing supplies leaning up against my cutting mat, which is leaning up against our blue couch. My friend Jen burned me a copy of a new Marianas Trench album and it's on top of the clear plastic case.

And just peeking from behind my laptop is a jumbled stack of Everything Else - games, papers, a notepad, my old writing journal, a photo envelope, a few wedding cards, and more tape. Normally I like a clean working space but there's something I really enjoy about the desk I see in front of me. It's in process. Beyond it, there are quilt squares waiting to be sewn, rice bags waiting to be filled with rice, and two bins full of material and crafting supplies. It all speaks to the possibility of making something new, of creation, of discovery. Instead of wanting to clean it up, I want to work with it. I love it.

Writing prompt - "Ring"

Write about your mother's jewelry. Go. Ten minutes.

My mother doesn't wear a lot of jewelry. She's not an ostentatious person at all, very down to earth. She knows how to look nice but it's never loud or flashy. And clearly, if my first thoughts about jewelry are all connected with the words "ostentatious" and "flashy," she passed some of that down-to-earthness on to me. It's not that she doesn't wear jewelry. She does, and quite lovely jewelry too; she just doesn't make it a big deal.

I can only remember a few pieces of her jewelry from when I was growing up. Pearl earrings and necklaces. Her a diamond engagement ring - a simple gold band and single diamond. She usually just wore (and still wears) her gold wedding band, completely unadorned and lovely. I remember when my dad gave her a beautiful set of deep blue sapphire earrings and a ring for one of their anniversaries, or maybe it was her birthday. When she isn't wearing her precious, beautiful jewelry, she keeps it in a small wooden box with delicate flowers painted on the lid. I remember peering into the box and admiring the bits of gold and jewel inside when I was little. The lid fit back on the box the way a nesting doll fits together, with a sharp snap.

Write about her shoes. Go. Another ten.

My mom's shoes are all very comfortable. She had (has?) a pair of red-brown textured rubber sandals from Hawaii that she loves loves loves loves. In fact, she had a pair that broke and she commissioned a family member going to Hawaii to bring her back another pair. She also only buys shoes for work that she can stand to wear all day. Funny, that's probably where I get my fashion priorities, too - comfort, then style. Ironically, I think my main exception to those priorities are when I'm buying shoes. How else would I end up with a pair of deep pink, four-inch heels?

I remember my mom's church shoes from when I was growing up. Modest, neutral colors like white and black. A gently pointed toe and low heel. I remember them piled on the wooden boards of her closet floor and trying them on, my little feet several inches away from being "grown up." I also think of my mom's exercise shoes. She's by far the most athletic person in our family, and I've always been proud of her for that. She swims and bikes and is running now, too. She has new running shoes that are silver with what in my mind are neon green laces and trim. (It might be neon blue, though.) Those exercise and hiking and running shoes have always been a part of who she is.

Writing prompt - "Mind"

What's been on your mind? What have you carried and gnawed over? Go. Ten minutes.

My dad's cancer has been on my mind a lot lately. I find myself mulling over the eventual possibilities of its reality a lot. Wondering. Wishing. Making plans. Focusing on the good. Avoiding too much speculation. This is actually something of a breakthrough for me; in the five years since he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, I've spent a lot of time avoiding this mental subject. Last week when I suddenly found the words I needed to articulate what this experience has been like, I also found a measure of freedom.

I think that's why I write. Words bubble up inside of me and until I get them out in some way - on paper, on the blog, out loud - I can feel them hovering and buzzing. Not being able to vocalize something is terrifying for me. The nightmares I still remember from my childhood are the ones where I was scared but couldn't scream. An inability to communicate everything inside me...well, I would lose myself pretty quickly.

The more I think about this, the more I realize how true it is. Last summer I had something weighing on me until it became almost an obsession. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I finally broke and told my best friend everything, and almost instantly, I felt monumentally better. Strange as it sounds, articulating what cancer means to me has brought me relief, even though I am finally facing the pain of it. I have stopped thinking about it all the time. I think I was afraid of what would come out when I finally talked about it, and afraid I wouldn't be able to say the truth. I'm not afraid anymore. Well, less afraid.

What cancer means

A few days ago, I found out that a friend's sister has cancer. She was diagnosed one day, in surgery the next, only to find out the tumor was inoperable. It's the worst kind of news. I don't know what the prognosis is; I don't know what the biopsy revealed; I don't know how much time there is. I do know that anything short of a literal miracle won't be enough. It's not that I don't fervently believe in miracles, I just know what it's like to not get one.

My mom asked me once what I felt I had learned since my dad's diagnosis. Or maybe she asked how I felt like I had changed. Either way, I don't remember what I said to her, only what I wanted to say: I've learned how to be afraid.

What will my dad miss - birthdays, babies, weddings, graduations? What will we miss because he's not here? How can we do anything without him? What won't ever be the same? How could anything be? And sooner than that, what will my dad have to endure? Will he suffer? Will we? Will I?

I don't know what it's like to be told that you have cancer, but I know what cancer means. It means fear and uncertainty and all your plans fracturing. It means hospitals and doctors, unending treatments and surgery. It means bad news and facing the worst while hoping for the best. It means lots of prayers. It means dying. Just the word "cancer" makes you want to hold on tighter to everything you have, but what becomes very clear very quickly is that you no longer have any control. Things are going to happen whether you want them to or not, and you have to search for the choices you can still make.

I'm no longer angry that my dad has cancer; I've made my peace with what seemed to me for a long time to be a lack of miracles. Well, mostly. It's not fair; it never was and it never will be. But I've found a few things I can control and I cling to those. For most of the past five years since my dad was diagnosed, I thought that cancer meant grieving. Not just grief, but active, ongoing grieving, and I couldn't handle that. I chose to put it away and never look at it for too long or too hard. I thought I had come to terms with it, but really I had just found a balance between denial and acceptance - one foot in each camp.

What I understand now is that cancer is a process. The process of coming to terms, of learning to cope, of overcoming anger and fear, of loving more deeply, of finding support, of growing closer to God. For most cancer patients, it's the process of dying, but I've come to believe it's also the process of living and of making life meaningful.

"Love is stronger than cancer." That's what our shirts said. We made them and wore them proudly, but I wrestled with that phrase because no matter how much I love my dad, cancer will eventually take him away from me. I understand now that cancer can't ever take away how much I love him or how much he loves me. That doesn't change. Love, family strength, memories - cancer can't touch those. In fact, during the first few months after the diagnosis, I remember feeling like our little family was closer and stronger than ever.

Cancer is hard. The realities of cancer have always been hard. There is faith and hope and love and life, but there is also disappointment and pain and fear and death. Mostly, there is just hard. It's the kind of hard that hammers at you, especially when you least expect it to. It weighs you down with wondering; it wears on you; it wearies you. Truthfully, it is awful every single day.

In the meantime, there is life that has to be lived and choices still to be made. Finding strength to make those choices - deliberately, consciously - can be the hardest part of all, but it's also what can save us. We can choose to spend our time meaningfully, to cherish the people we have, to love unreservedly. We can choose to make room for pain and disappointment instead of trying to shut it out, and we can choose faith in spite of our fears. We can choose not to dwell on the end or let the cancer take control. These are choices that have to be made and re-made every day; sometimes circumstances force you back to square one with all the grief and pain of a new diagnosis, but the choices are still ours to make. If my mom asked me that same question today, what have you learned?, I would still say that I've learned how to be afraid, but I've also learned how to choose faith and love over fear and death.

That is what cancer means.

How to remember

Tonight I spent some time remembering my trip to England. I mean, really remembering. Not just looking at the photos I arranged in a book, but taking time to examine the pictures and see if they match up with the memories in my head. Filling in the scene just beyond the borders of the frame and specifically naming each location, each event. Sometimes I worry that my memories have been reduced to what was captured on film (or rather, on a digital memory card) but tonight, I forced myself beyond what I had brought back and focused on what I experienced there. And for a few fleeting moments, I was breathless with wonder at what I saw. I was grasping for the words to describe the natural beauty around me. I was lonely and tired and weary of hiking. I was silly and chatty. I was hungry - both for my lunch (which never came, that first day) and for the adventure I knew was coming. My eyes were dazzled as I squinted into the first second of daylight and my skin was cooled by the rough touch of ancient stone. For those few moments, I let each picture take me back.

Isn't that what remembering should be? Not just reminding ourselves of what happened and when and where, but more of a personal interaction with the experiences that touched us in some way? I have a pretty good memory; I'm good at "remembering" dates, names, sequences, details. But how often do I connect those details with something deeper? Not nearly enough.

I was a little bit lonely tonight. Not because Tim was doing something else (believe me, I understand the pull of a new book) but because I was at a loss at what to do with myself. After frantically working on Christmas quilts every free second I had for three months, I wasn't sure how to fill my time tonight. A new project? A book? A bubble bath? I like to be busy; I like to have work and lists and a concrete set of accomplishments at the end of the day. Free time is usually something to be filled, not wasted. Lately, I have been reminded that busyness is different from progress, and if we are too busy to enjoy what we do, we aren't getting anywhere.

Looking at my photos and actually remembering what it was like to be in England woke up the part of me that finds - and then takes - time to think and feel. And now? I've connected with moments that changed who I am and all of a sudden, I am writing again. I'm enjoying not just what I'm doing right now, but what it is that I do. Should I be surprised? Probably not. I'm remembering who I am - not just the list, but the person.