crows and other things we wait for

I have been trying to make friends with the crows in my yard. I watch videos of people slowly drawing them in with peanuts and other food. I talk to them, “Good morning, Crows! I have some peanuts for you.”

Sometimes it is just like that. You put out the call. And you wait. This morning, after I put the peanuts out and welcomed the crows in, I saw one land on the porch and look in the window. Later, I noticed my dogs eating every peanut they could reach. I just watched them as I drank coffee and laughed. Sometimes life is just like that and you have to laugh.

Today is exactly six months since the day of my double mastectomy.

I woke that morning, September 15th, like always, sitting with the children while they got ready for school. I just wanted to feel normal one last time, because I had no idea what life would be like after surgery. I wondered how I would feel 24 hours later, or even a month after. Would I like my body? Would I be in so much pain I couldn’t sit up? Would my cancer be invasive after all? Would I need chemo and radiation? What was my life going to look like? I remember thinking, “By the end of the year, this part will be over.” That didn’t seem that far away. The end of the year. I had endured so many things in my life. Three months didn’t seem that long.

And yet as I went through those three months, it felt long. I couldn’t remember not being in pain, not being totally fatigued or experiencing tightness and discomfort, not having open wounds. I had the surgery, then developed an infection in early November and had to have my wounds reopened to drain and drain and drain and drain, packing my own chest wall with gauze. I felt faint the first time I did it. Not from the pain, but the idea of it—stuffing my heart chakra with soft things so it would heal. It sounds like a metaphor. Maybe it is a metaphor.

There is something profound about opening the chest. I can remember in one of my Medical Anthropology courses at university learning about heart surgery and the profound changes people went through after a doctor “fixed” their heart. I thought about that a lot in the last eight months, about how my doctor was taking the small hard balls of cancer out of my body and what’s more, she was taking out these large breasts only really here to serve others—my babies, my lovers, strangers who gawk on the street. She gave me a body that was healed of cancer. A flat-chested, Buddha-bellied and healed body.

I have often said that this surgery felt like the end of the work, not the beginning. There is a freedom in the idea of being healed. My cancer was so early and contained that taking the breasts quite literally cured me of cancer. “If only emotional healing were as easy as this,” I thought many times. And truly, removing my breasts, while incredibly painful, exhausting, and intense, has been so much easier than trauma work.

Healing and uncovering trauma felt endless. Trauma laid in wait in my body, readying for a time when I felt safe enough to see it, when I had done enough work to really reparent myself in a healthy ways. In the last six years of discussing and working actively on my trauma in therapy and in my spiritual work has been so exceptionally difficult. I never had a moment where I thought—one day, this will be over. Healing trauma seemed to be a never-ending cycle of uncovering and uncovering and uncovering I felt stripped of all ego, of all identity, of all that made me me. And Me, it seemed, was simply a conglomeration of defenses, disassociation, and survival, which, when pared away, simply left me a wounded child who needed parenting.

The word I chose for 2021 was Healed. It was the process of being done with reliving and understanding my trauma and their responses, of being actively engaged in the processing part. I was ready to be in the moved-on part. I thought I might be there, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t until I got the call that my biopsy was positive for cancer that I had to reckon with what healed meant. Because it was at that moment that I said, “How do you want to approach this thing?” And I thought about my clients and what I tell them when life falls apart. It’s not one thing to do. It is an entire mindset shift and a reframing away from “This is happening to me” to “. Gratitude. Ritual. Asking for help. Energy work. Prayers. Herbs. Grieving. Connection. Community. Laughing.

And I laughed so very much.

I had appointments with my breast surgeon every week for two months after I had developed the infection in my chest. I asked her about her life and her education. While I lay back on the table, she tended to my wounds. We are the same age—the surgeon and I. And I developed a deep feeling of kinship and love for her that I never felt for a healthcare provider. Maybe it was because she is so kind, patient, non-judgmental. Or maybe it is because I trusted her and trust has been a hard one for me. Or maybe it was because she wore a Blue Kyanite and Amethyst pendant at the appointment before my surgery. I told her then that I was a crystal healer and Reiki master. She said, “You are? Great. You will be fine. You will have no trouble healing then. Do you want me to wear this for your surgery?” And I nodded, tearing up. And she wore it. She believed I could heal. I believed I could heal. And now I have healed.

Six months ago as I lie in my hospital bed, only a nightlight illuminating the room, I allowed myself to be surrounded by the love and prayers people were sending me. I could see the faces in my mind’s eye and I felt like I was floating, absorbing love into my cells. My chest felt like I had an iron bra on and constricted in a way that was both comforting and disconcerting. A very clear voice said:

Angie, there is going to be a time when you feel no pain and simply have a scar. You will be healed.

It was a mantra I said to myself this autumn and early winter. When I developed an infection, I thought:

Angie, there is going to be a time when you feel no pain and do not have open wounds. You will be healed.

When I developed COVID in the midst of the open wound situation, I thought:

Angie, there is going to be a time when you feel no pain and no illness. You will have closed wounds and no cough. There is going to be a time when you feel no pain and no illness. You will be healed.

So, I wanted to share this on the anniversary of my six months post-surgery if you are struggling. There will be a time when you will feel no pain and have no illness. There will be a time when your trauma work is done or when your depression has lightened, or your addiction is in remission, or your heart is not so broken. There is going to be a time when you feel no pain and do not have open wounds. You will be healed.

Until then, watch the birds come back to the feeders. Cry. Create a ritual. Use some crystals and herbs. Write about it in your journal. Scream in the woods. And laugh.

thanksgiving

Two years ago, the snow gently fell all day, as I cuddled next to the fire with my newest little one, Zachary Michael. Though I was scheduled for induction, our little crystal baby decided to arrive early. My water broke and I labored for over thirty hours until he finally made his appearance. In distress, fluid in his lungs, they admitted my son into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for a few days until his breathing calmed, his x-rays showing his lung strong and clear again. My arms ached for him. I held myself for fear of falling apart, sending him Reiki from chair outside of his little plastic crib. To say I was in constant prayer was not an understatement. I called all the angels, the saints, the goddesses. I sat still in meditation and asked for Reiki and prayers on Facebook. I placed my hands on this crown and feet--soul and earth stars--helping incarnate. That is what it felt like--he hadn't quite figured out how this body thing worked yet. My friend Jack said, "It is hard for a spiritual being to become human. May the rest of his adjustment be easier than mine." And we laughed. 

As I sat in the NICU, watching my son struggle to breathe, I just kept thinking, "Scream, baby." They told me that the fluid in his lungs may have been caused from his easy birth--three strong pushes. That is what I prayed for after all and focused on--for my baby to just come quickly. He didn't scream right away, expelling that fluid in his lungs. He was content, lying on my bare breast after an easy delivery. But all that struggle down the birth canal serves its beautiful purpose of pushing out all the fluid in the lungs and pissing those little babies off enough to scream out the rest of the fluid that may cause pneumonia or infection in the lungs down the line.

I thought about that so much as I sat in the huge room of the NICU with all those very little sick babies. We have to scream and struggle against our own contentness sometimes. One of my Religion professors, my mentor really, used to say that babies cry and scream because they want justice. We come into the world knowing we deserve comfort, love, food, heat, people to care for us. No baby feels unworthy. No baby hates themselves. Babies scream because they won't settle for being ignored and unloved. And they stop screaming when people prove them wrong. 

The world talks about gratitude so much at this time of the year. But in this community, it is one of those spiritual principles we talk about all year. It is the elevator of vibration, carrying it up and open. Gratitude elevates our energy, opens us to healing. It is the gateway to forgiveness, love, and spiritual awareness. But I find that blanket statements of gratitude and platitude frustratingly miss the point. I think most of us recognize that we can say, "I am grateful for everything" and be done with it. But listing each of those things, appreciating the gift of them, the work we put into achieving and keeping them in our lives, recognizing their impermanence, focusing on those quiet moments of absolute thankfulness, are more the point. 

Gratitude isn't simple. We often have grief, sadness, suffering, illness, death, depression and other circumstances that create a stuckness in our own story. This stuckness can be an essential part of healing. It is the point before the scream. It inspires us to say, "I am worthy of NOT suffering." Think of the baby and mama pushing to get him out for longer than three pushes. They are suffering, pissed off. They are stuck in this tight space, ready for the world. If you have birthed a child, you know, this is the time when you are distinctly NOT thinking about how awesome it is to have a gigantic baby head stuck in your vaginal canal. You are thinking, "GET OUT." And the baby isn't contemplating how much fluid will be pushed out of his lungs. They are in stuckness, and feeling overwhelmed and can't really see the light at the end of the proverbial and literal tunnel. I think we do a huge disservice to tell people to be thankful when they are in that place of suffering. I believe with all my heart that all our suffering is there for a purpose, and yet it is not so helpful to be reminded of that during the suffering.

Struggling with gratitude IS the practice of gratitude. All we have to do is trust that our feelings when they arise are right and important and valuable to the next phase of our healing, even if our contemporaries shame us when we feel negative or sad or self-pitying. So the suffering--the feeling less than, unworthy, stuck--let this be the gateway to the scream that gets it all out. Let it be the catalyst for feeling worthy of not suffering. Can you find gratitude in your own screaming? In your own declaration of your worthiness? Can your suffering be a prayer of gratitude? 

When I am suffering, grief stricken or sick, I keep it simple. I look out the window, and find myself grateful for the beauty of a leaf twirling to the ground, for the air, and for my own miserable suffering, which reminds me that I am human and not a Buddha. For me, gratitude is an important spiritual practice, but our holiday of Thanksgiving transcends this individual daily practice. We gather our tribe and not gift each other things, not celebrate an achievement, or a person, or a God, but to collectively appreciate what we share as a family, or group of friends. We take inventory of those values we hold dear, and really appreciate what we have. As a society, we take this time to quiet and focus on home.

That is remarkable. It is wonderful to have this yearly community ritual of gratitude rather than just our personal daily practice of gratitude. And yet, I get why the holidays are challenging for so many who face dysfunctional families, estrangement, divorce, or grief. A few years ago, I took the opportunity of Thanksgiving to talk about grief during the holidays. I republished it yesterday, because I know so many of us revisit grief and suffering during this time. It resonated with so many at the time, and if you face difficulties during the holidays, it might be a helpful read. 

But I wonder if we can't reinvent this space of gratitude for those of us who are suffering this year. Rather than shaming those who struggle with gratitude, allow them to scream, abide their stuckness, marvel at their own righteous indignation of their suffering. It is our birthright after all to scream. It lets out the fluid stuck in our lungs. Helps us to take in fresh clear air, filling our heart chakra with the love for ourselves that we deserve.

My son's second birthday was on the 22nd. He turned two and is a bouncy, funny, silly boy who bring joy. I have so much to be grateful for, but I found myself grateful for all the screaming I have done in my life. 

So, on this Thanksgiving night, here is my blessing. It is the same blessing I gave two years ago after bringing my baby home. 

Scream, babies, and I will be dancing to your beautiful siren song of healing.