An excerpt from another one-word writing...Break... Grateful to be a part of this issue...

Survivor's Review: The Color of Cancer, by Virginia Grove

Distance

distance: (noun) the length of the space between two points; a far-off point; the more remote part of what is visible or discernible; an interval of time; the full length of a race; the avoidance of familiarity; reserve (verb) make someone or something far off or remote in position or nature; http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/distance

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Remove space
where I've constructed
distance immeasurable
miles, minutes might,
as well as years, keep
family far
for forgiving
faults, even my own,
calls shotgun

I'm not there
yet
not standing prepared
triptik handy
choosing I-statement
phrases
feeling clips snipped
separating hurt and
OK
it really isn't, you,
out there, it really
isn't OK this way
I fort off fearing
offending

evident distancing
plugs tubs
I float fear
anger hurt
distrust love
in and there
isn't room
enough to swim
I'm already drained

Expose

expose: make visible by uncovering; unprotected; cause someone to be vulnerable or at risk; to introduce someone to a subject or area of knowledge; leave (a child) in the open to die; reveal the true, objectionable nature of someone or something; subject photographic film to light when operating a camera

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/expose?q=expose

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Panic-- absolute panic-- throws a bag over my head, ties it tight enough so that if I move, striving to ease the tug, it gathers tighter still and there is no moving air.  I lose vision and light.  My head is removed from my body and I'm forced to choose between staying in my head or feeling what's in my body.  I've spent too much time in my head.  I've felt too many things I don't like in my body-- particularly the ones that send mixed 'like/don't like' messages.  I don't want to be in my head.  I don't want to be in my body.  I don't like either option.

My hands shake, my shoulders twitch.  The tip of my nose and fingers are suddenly cold. Pale and flush come with each other.   I'm picturing myself--an old poem--crumpled into a tight ball.  Blinking ceases with the cessation of movement from any other visible part of my body.  My pulse pounds in my neck, my toes, my forearms, along my spine, and from its normal pledge-of-allegiance location.  I'm certain bystanders would be able to see the pounding if they were close enough.

The feeling of exposure and the state of panicked anxiety bus beside each other, from stop to stop, and have for years.  Depression either squishes into the same seat or sits very close behind, resting its head on the seat-back, waiting for the shaking to stop long enough to wiggle in.  It sneaks in where there’s stillness--when I've stopped singing in the car, when I no longer wish to talk, when I watch people and things move around and, quite possibly, pass through me without affecting anything.

I am afraid.

I'd been on a high two Fridays ago, riding on synchronicity.  The snowflakes, growing larger in fifteen minute intervals, convinced me that going home rather than to the gym was the best plan.  In the quiet of the house and snow, the coming down from the high landed me higher than where I'd been previously. The day--the week, really- was wonderful.  Dinner was warm, filling, comforting, and healthy.

Later that evening, I had a call with my new health coach.  I was pleased with how I'd done over the course of the week-- I’d eaten healthier, the new gym membership was established and I'd had the chance to try it out the day before.  We talked about a number of focus places for the coming week and some strategies for sneaking in gym time when time was short.  One suggestion, one that makes absolute sense, was to do some on-machine/off-machine interval work for closer to 30 minutes than the typical 45-60 I'm there-- so, treadmill for 2 minutes, followed by something like squats or weights for a minute...rinse and repeat.

I felt the panic.  As soon as I named the panic as a fear of feeling/being exposed, I moved into full-blown anxiety. 

I try to self-protect and do not expect protection from anyone or anything outside of myself.  I'm not sure I'd want that, even if I believed it could be.  The issues I have conversing with people and letting words and eye-contact coexist, while they've improved, haven't gone.  I don't expect they will.   I'm afraid of being seen--someone else recognizing the evil bred and fostered within me.  I'm afraid my bad will leak out and be absorbed by someone else.  I'm afraid of seeing that same evil in someone else.  I'm afraid of anything someone else sees in me as a positive standing out.  I'm afraid of attention because I don't want to be an obvious target.  I am the classroom student refusing to look at the teacher who's asked a question, knowing eye contact means I'll be called on.

 Keep your head down--keep your head down--

I'm afraid of being visible--afraid of the child-sized person lost somewhere under the nearly 300 pound fat costume and the 30 or so years of 'stuff.'  I am and am not this person.  I'm afraid of the fat costume and I'm afraid to take it off.  I'm afraid to keep the 'stuff' and afraid to let it go.  I'm scared to try to integrate all of it, if choosing between one and the other isn't healthy. 

What do I "make visible by uncovering" me?  If it's more vulnerability-- if it's more risk-- if it's more opportunity to be left unprotected, I cannot be exposed.  I still expect to be hurt.  I try to trust that my expectation and reality aren't one in the same.

When I'm here, more hurt feels right.  I might eat horribly bad food in mass quantities. I might force myself to read something that disturbs me or think about something that falls in line with how I'm feeling.  I might imagine ways out-- develop plans ranging from simple to complex--worrying Google with the suicide search.  I might watch large trees, ditches, or rock cliffs as I drive, trying to imagine heading straight at them.  I recognize that this is wrong. 

Do I listen to the head in the bag or to the body I hate?  If I have to pick, what should I listen to?  I can't trust deep enough to move elsewhere.  And I'm still shaking-- still feeling off-- still feeling exposed and silly for writing or thinking I can write or breathe or expose myself to the light I'm told exists...though I've felt it, unexpectedly, at various times, I still try to forget.  I've known it is out there and that a present moment can warm my need out of crumpling--out of folding in--out of hiding.

I am an anxious photographer, trying to compose images, determining if there is an amount of exposure--a correct exposure--an over or under--capable of turning the vision into the picture.  I don't want this overexposure continually washing me out...I don't want underexposure leaving me lost in shadows.

I want control of my shutter speed.

 

 

 

Alchemy

Alchemy: a seemingly magical process of transformation, creation, or combination

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/alchemy?q=alchemy
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"Litter"

Mine is an alchemic
culture of play
curiosity come
across creeks
under  waves

stones thrown in
pools form
rings pulsing out
to where
I'm without
traditional tools

I create
drip castles
from straws
of wet sand my
band whistles bottle caps
lips pursed
placed hands

I am play
in a way to fall
into the child
I wasn't I
resign my mother's
therapist no more

Intentional costumes
for the alchemic child
I was
but will not be
at odds with 'grow up'

Free

free: able to act or be done as one wishes; not under the control of another; not or no longer confined or imprisoned; not subject to engagements or obligations; not subject to or affected by; (of the wind) blowing from a favourable direction to the side or aft of a vessel

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/free?q=free

++above picture was originally titled "Hair Watch-2010" Fresh scars, fuzzy hair, minimal eyebrows, and the start of a new journey I still consider new

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This week I marked the 3rd anniversary of my final chemotherapy treatment. At the time of diagnosis with Stage IV Hogdkins disease, I was 31 years old, working full time and only about a month into pursuing my M.A. degree in Creative Writing. Three years later, I've completed that M.A. degree and my M.F.A. degree. This semester marks the fourth consecutive semester I've been lucky enough to teach at Misericordia University in Dallas, PA while still working full time at Prudential. On February 5th, the actual anniversary date, I also celebrated 9 months of of my marriage-- a marriage courtesy of the great state of New York, warm-hearted, level-headed friends and family, and the best-spent tax returns in the history of the universe. Oh, and my wife.

When I woke on Tuesday morning, though I've tried to break myself of the habit, I grabbed my cell phone, opened Facebook, and updated my status to reflect the importance of the day.

6:15 AM-- 2/5: 9 months married and 3 years cancer free.

Cancer FREE.

Free is the assumption.

The last bloodwork drawn and analyzed for my primary and my oncologist pointed towards free. My last scan was this past June and the next will be this coming June. It is the first time I've gone longer than 3-6 months between scans in 3 years.

As every anniversary--every significant day--approaches, I am not free from cancer. As I sneak towards my surgery and diagnosis dates in July, or my bone marrow biopsy or PET scan dates in August, cancer reminds me it is still a part of me, regardless of what a scan or white blood cell count might say. My bones ache in just the same way, my head hurts, I feel sickness creeping into my gut and up into my mouth. And I'm lucky, because once these dates pass, the aches generally do too.

Yet, I cross paths with cancer more frequently, it seems. I see and recognize the woman at work or on the street, a scarf pulled around her head, and instead of trying to turn away as I had before people turned away from me, I look at her and smile and the smile is because I felt so much more grounded when I had cancer, so much more connected to the simplicity that comes from the routine of appointments and tests and naps. I was, in the midst of treatment when I had cancer, more free from cancer than I am now.

I don't say any of this in any way trying to minimize someone else's battle...particularly an active battle. I do, however, recognize that while my body may not show signs of the disease, freedom from the effects and far-reaching fingers dipping into daily duties may never come. And this is OK. This is a welcome present...most of the time.

I carry cancer tucked into my other days. I carry lots of hurts and experiences responsible for their own timely illuminations. I have hurt and I will continue to hurt. Yet, I am blessed to see the many opportunities, relations, discussions, and presents snuck into my world.

Perhaps that is how one becomes free.

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Mute

mute: (adjective) refraining from speech or temporarily speechless, not expressed in speech, (noun) a person lacking the faculty of speech, a clamp placed over the bridge of a stringed instrument to deaden the resonance without affecting the vibration of the strings

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/mute?q=mute
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This week, four of my doodles provide a visual response...

Shift

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/shift?q=shift

Shift: (verb) move or cause to move from one place to another, especially over a small distance; change the position of one's body, especially because one is nervous or uncomfortable; change the emphasis, direction or focus of; (noun) a slight change in position, direction, or tendency; a key on a typewriter or computer keyboard used to switch between two sets of characters or functions, principally between lower- and upper-case letters; the gear lever or gear-changing mechanism in a vehicle; American Football- a change of position by two or more players before the ball is put into play; each of two or more recurring periods in which different groups of workers do the same jobs in relay

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Two themes surface over and over in the definition of shift: change and the size of that change (small, slight). For all the time I've worked at change--the really deep, impactful, sweeping kind of change that impacts the whole range of an individual's life--I might have served myself more, had I focussed on shift, both the activeness of the verb form and the being-ness of its noun form.

Unlike a keyboard, I don't have a key which regularly enables that shift nor, as in a vehicle, do I have a reliable lever. Are there keys or levers which when turned, depressed, pushed, or pulled advance the whole of me in increments or enable me to advance myself in a flip book of forward movement? Probably. On the flip, there are keys and levers which when turned, depressed, pushed, or pulled stop me--which disable my momentum--which restrain me.

Keys and Levers
cool air in
to warm air out
of bed before
you're up since
seven isn't time
enough to think
on nothing in
particular
circumstances
warm air in
with warm air
out ties
and gags
bags me
a casual
corpse depressed
buttons held
down steady
myself
shiftless 

I can recognize the keys and levers, but they shift...there isn't a safe bet, and I like safe bets.

While I may meditate on any given image for what it is in that moment, in a flip book I am not fascinated by the individual pages-- in an animated movie I'm not drawn to individual drawings. What I am interested in is the story and the story is about the movement, or more specifically, about recognizing the movement. To recognize the movement, you must see a previous state and you must see a present state. To understand the movement, you must see states in-between previous and present. You need to pause long enough to see the individual page, and then the next page, and the next.

In our first class this week, I asked my students to share their name, what they prefer to be called if that is different from their given name, what they are majoring in, and what they hope to do with that major OR why they were drawn to the major in the first place. What happened next left me feeling like a priest at confession or an AA meeting facilitator. "I am ___. You can call me ___. I am majoring in ____. I'm here because I failed the writing proficiency exam ___ times." Better than half the class confessed the number of times they'd failed the test, or that they were taking the course because they didn't want to take the test. I never asked for any kind of confession, and told them, mid-way through the group of 20, that I certainly didn't expect to be told. Clearly, many of these students come to the class feeling less than warm and fuzzy about writing. But they don't know what they've done wrong. The exam is pass/fail and, if they speak the truth, they aren't told why they fail when they do...and so far, I also don't know what errors in proficiency have pushed them towards my classroom. In a survey of what things they want to learn from the course, the majority mentioned grammar (or, as it is on their cards 'grammer'), spelling, and punctuation.  So how are we going to work together to move them to a different place? In increments...with shift...

It is likely that, over the course of a 15-week semester, I will not be able to teach them over all their struggles and challenges with the written word, despite how badly I want to give that to them. I try to focus too big, that is a part of my nature. I want to move them from one place to another, though, because they are uncomfortable. So let's nail down to, too, and two. Let's work on our 'grammer' and spelling. Let's talk about punctuation using the 'Let's eat Grandma" versus "Let's eat, Grandma" example. If they walk away shifted forward, I have made a lasting change and I have helped to fan their flip-book.  They help to shift me.