Giving Thanks in India

Have I mentioned there are goats everywhere?

Yoga this morning, windows open to the sounds of thunder, crows, and a barking dog or two. The yoga center smelled of lemongrass, and when we walked in, I saw a little white cat sneak in from the street.

During class, my body leaned into the positions, happy to be practicing. I watched my monkey mind making lists, planning, scheming--while my sky mind relaxed and remained steady above all the chatter.

During final relaxation, my body started to buzz. Suddenly, with ease, I slipped outside myself and observed me from above. There I was, lying on the mat. There I was, hovering near the ceiling. I wasn't separated into two parts but had expanded into a vast version of me. Perhaps the experience I had during surgery--where I became aware of my body and spirit conversing--has strengthened my out-of-body-experience mojo. Or maybe it's just the magic of India.

On our walk home, we stopped at a cart where a vendor sells delicious pekoras. He wrapped the deep-fried potato, onion and herb balls in newspaper. Fifty rupees (about 80 cents) bought us a heap. We ate them on the warm and drizzly walk along the beach. We passed a bunch of guys playing cricket, cows hanging out, and motorcycles dodging dogs and kids and goats.

As is Karen and Widi's Sunday ritual, we gave the remaining pekoras to the guard at the front gate, who accepted them with a smile.

Pondicherry

It was sweet to be back "home" in Chennai after a few days of travel. Over Thanksgiving, we went with Karen and Widi to Pondicherry, a couple hours south, for an amazing time at Dune Eco Resort and Spa.

This place is right on the Indian Ocean's Bay of Bengal. Our room was $111 a night (love those lucky ones!). It was a remarkable buy. Each "room" is really a cottage with a unique design. Ours was open air, with a palapa roof and outside wall for privacy. Surrounded by palm trees and lush vegetation, it was like luxurious camping in the middle of the rain forest. At night we were serenaded by crashing waves and insects and tropical birds.

Our room

Included in the price was a fantastic breakfast buffet. At the griddle they'll make you a dosa or omelette. They use eggs from the chickens that live on the premises. There are also cows; milk products (fabulous yogurt and milky drinks) are freshly made. Cow milking is one of the available afternoon activities!

There's an open-air yoga center, where we did yoga and an hour-long meditation. There's also an infinity pool with comfy lounge area, including day-beds tucked away under the trees close to the beach., which stretches for what looks like miles in both directions. The warm water was a joy to swim in.

With Karen in the Bay of Bengal

Hammock alternative

One of the best parts of the adventure was meeting Scott, his wife Tawan, and their as-adorable-as-they-come daughter Oceana, who's almost two. Before Dave and I came to India, Scott and I connected on Facebook. He's Karen and Widi's colleague, and through them he knew about my brain tumor. He, too, had a brain tumor and had to undergo not one craniotomy (like I did) but two.

When we finally met in person, I felt a special connection to him. He's a warm, gentle soul--and he's lived a fascinating life, having traveled and lived all over Asia. We all spent Thanksgiving together with dinner at the Dune open-air restaurant. I felt a poignancy wash over me as I reflected on the fragile, yet also resilient, beauty that is this life.

Scott, Oceana and Tawan

Outside of the resort, we explored other parts of Pondicherry. It's a picturesque, French-influenced beach town. Nearby is a unique community called Auroville, which is essentially a commune. The focus is on the arts and free-spirited education--as well as non-religious "concentration" (aka, meditation). They've built a striking three-story dome named Matrimandir--designed by a French architect--for group meditation. You can't just show up and walk in, however. We had to get passes in advance to be assigned an appointed day and time.

Not Logan's Run

First, our group of about fifty, was shown a film about the creation of Auroville and its visionary, a woman called The Mother. Then we were taken by various vehicles to the Matrimandir grounds. More waiting and orientation ensued. Finally we were led to the building. After removing our shoes and donning white socks, we walked up spiral ramps inside the impressively vast and quiet dome. Watching the people in front of me in flowing clothes move through this sci-fi-ish building brought to mind the dystopic film Logan's Run. With an eerie shudder, I briefly wondered if we'd been suckered into some kind of ritual group sacrifice.

But no, I lived to meditate on the dome's top floor before a shimmering crystal. I experienced a sense of floating. And I heard an inner voice remind me that this moment is perfect. Peace is where it's at. There's no need to try to wrangle things into being (are you listening monkey mind?).

So on the heels of these last few adventurous days, we are packing today for the next leg of our journey: Sri Lanka. Everyone we've met in India lights up when we mention Sri Lanka. They all love it--and so we are prepared to as well.

"Something good is going to come from this."

 

Continuing our nomadic ways, we are housesitting in South Lake Tahoe. This wonderful house overlooks the lake. Out the front door are acres of trails, where we enjoy walking with the lovable, furry Ely.

In January, we are moving to a condo, also in South Lake, a house-swap for the whole month.

We've been planning this time in Tahoe for a while. So imagine our surprise when we went to Heavenly Valley Ski Resort to buy season passes--and were told we were three days too late. They'd stopped selling season passes. We were stunned. For the amount we wanted to ski, daily passes would cost an arm and a leg.

We asked to see a supervisor, pleading our case that we'd been visiting Heavenly's website for months and had seen no notification. He said sorry, there was nothing he could do, but he gave me the number of his higher-up.

On our way to the car, I said, "Dave, something good is going to come from this."

That's my mantra when things don't go as planned. I used it when our rental house went on the market. I've used it when we are stuck in traffic. I used it when I found out I had a brain tumor.

It's a reminder that whatever is happening isn't the end of the story.

I wasn't sure I believed it in this case, though. Heavenly is owned by Vail Corporation. I don't care what anyone says but corporations are not people.

As soon as we walked out, I left a message on the higher-up's voice mail: I'm a writer. I'll be writing about our time in Tahoe. Friends of ours are coming to visit who'll be buying day passes. It will be good for business. There was no warning about the deadline. Please have some compassion for our situation. Yadda, yadda.

I texted Suzanne, the woman we are housesitting for who's a big skier. She texted me back, "Well, maybe you could get passes at Sierra-at-Tahoe. It's not as close, but I love skiing there."

Sierra-at-Tahoe? Why was that familiar? Oh yes, we'd never skied there but we'd seen our favorite band play there a couple of years ago. The place was charming. I'd love the feel of it. It was small, tucked away, more of a local's resort. We'd been so Heavenly-focused (for the ease of location), we hadn't thought about that. Yet would it be a pain to drive 30 minutes to ski?

We walked around town and popped into the Visitor's Center to browse. I mentioned to the young woman behind the counter that we couldn't get Heavenly passes.

"You should go to Sierra-at-Tahoe!" she enthused, adding that she worked there for eight years and loves it. She whipped out a map of the resort, excitedly talking about her favorite runs.

Seemed like a thumb's up from the universe to me.

I had such a good feeling about Sierra-at-Tahoe that by the time the higher-up called me back, I almost hoped he'd say no.

And sure enough, he checked with his higher-ups, and there was a consensus: They didn't want our business or our money.

Dave went onto the Sierra-at-Tahoe website. Their passes were half the cost of Heavenly's!

And get this: We have good friends who will be skiing at Squaw in January. We were hoping to join them, all the while knowing we'd probably be paying a lot to do so. But our Sierra-at-Tahoe passes include two free days at Squaw!

The drive to Sierra-at Tahoe was easy. We immediately loved skiing there. There's a low-key vibe. And the runs are really, really long. Like over a mile. So fun.

It's funny. With big things--like my brain tumor and losing our house--I really did believe that something good was going to happen. That the journey would be expansive. But with something small, like this ski pass thing, I wasn't so sure. But that what a mantra's for: to interrupt a habitual pattern of thinking that doesn't serve you.

It serves me to believe that life is an adventure. That what's around the corner isn't determined by what's right in front of me. That whatever I face, something good can come.
 

Cosmic Roller Coaster

Cape Cod, with Dom, Charlie & Chris.

I figured on Cape Cod I'd experience lobster, clams, fishing, and beach fun with our fabulous friends.

I never considered, though, that I'd experience a seizure, resulting in diagnosis of a meningioma--a brain tumor.  

Steamers!

I'm so fortunate that the seizure took place while I was in bed--not driving or swimming, both of which I'd done quite a bit of in the previous days.

It was early morning of Dave's and my first wedding anniversary.  I was having a dream about my mentor and friend, Gabriele, who recently died.  She was telling me that the veil between worlds is even thinner than one could imagine.  

I was awakened by what at first felt like a Charlie horse. I then realized every single muscle--and my organs, including my skin--was seizing.  A roaring filled my head.  I thought, This is dying.  Part of me was terrified.  Incredibly, another part of me was at peace.  I was aware that I had no regrets, that I'd been living my life fully and authentically.

Dave was awakened by my moaning. He said I was curled up awkwardly on my side, my eyes open.  (I'm sure I was much lovelier a year prior in my wedding dress on a Hawaiian beach!)

Dave said the seizure seemed to last 15-20 seconds, and then I fell asleep.  He leaned into me, making sure I was breathing normally.  I slept for a little while, which I don't remember.  But I do remember waking up with an empty brain.  I didn't know where we were or why.  I wasn't sure who I was--and yet part of me knew I had a history to remember.  I vaguely understood Dave was my husband.  The one thing I knew for sure:  I needed to go the emergency room.

Fresh tuna dinner with Charlie and Lois.

So we spent our first wedding anniversary in Cape Cod hospital. It took about 30 minutes for my memory to return. An MRI confirmed I have a 2.5 centimeter meningioma on my front-left meninges, the tissue that covers the brain.  These tumors are usually benign and slow-growing.  But I need further testing to determine my status.

My brother-in-law put me in touch with his good friend who's a neurologist.  Generously, he talked to me on the phone and told me I will probably need to have the tumor surgically removed.  

I certainly never imagined I'd add "seizure" and "brain surgery" to my list of new life experiences.  But I can see how my interest in the past few years in spirituality, quantum physics, and near-death experiences has prepared me for this.  My friend Mark said I'm "surfing on the leading edge of human experience" and enthused, "Wow, darling, you are really a thrill seeker!!!!"

Charlie's striper.

I do suddenly feel like I'm on a cosmic roller coaster ride. The day after the seizure, we went to a Robert Plant concert. How beautiful to hear that uber-powerful, familiar voice live. I knew he wouldn't sing "Stairway to Heaven" (which would have been fun since I use the song in my novel For the May Queen).  But he did sing the next song on my wish-list: "Going to California."

And that's where we are now.  Mark picked us up last night at the San Jose airport and took us right to our favorite BBQ joint where we celebrated our "return" with great food and awesome live blues. How many incredible friends am I to be allotted in this life?  As we slept in a super-comfy bed in Mark's guest room, I felt wrapped up in love.

Lobster extravaganza.

This morning as I stood in line at Starbucks, a weathered-looking man asked me if I'd buy him a coffee.  I told him I'd be happy to--and anything he might like to eat, too.  He introduced himself, shook my hand, and chatted with me in line.  I knew he thought I was doing him a favor.  But he was doing me one.  I was grateful for the human connection.  And I was grateful to be able to give a little back for all that has been given me.

Cape Cod sunrise.

Eat A Peach

You know you're back in California when you wake up, pull a peach from a backyard tree, and eat it before jumping into the pool.

This paradise is the home of my longtime friends Janelle and Bobby. Right around the time Dave and I decided to give up our house and live a traveling life, Janelle and Bobby decided to focus on home. They wanted space to host friends, kids, and grandkids. They love to cook and garden and lovingly populate space with the perfect thrift-store find.

So they sold their Santa Cruz condo and bought this sweet Hollister house that rims a golf course--one of Bobby's favorite past-times. Talk about expert manifesters:  They knew they wanted a fireplace, and they ended up with three!

It's hard to imagine a better place to be right now as Dave and I navigate the medical derailment of our travel plans.  And yet a derailment doesn't mean an end to the journey; it's part of the journey, and we're already experiencing the incredible power of this detour. Much of the power is surfacing as serendipity, synchronicity, stars aligning--call it what you will.

Start with the fact that the other day our doctor friend Garry mentioned to us the name of a highly-regarded Stanford-affiliated Santa Cruz neurosurgeon, Dr. Ciara Harraher.  An hour later, Dave and I were sitting in the Santa Cruz office of my general practitioner. He was writing me a referral to a neuro guy when I said, "Do you know Dr. Ciara Harraher?"  And he said smooth as buttah, "I can write you a referral to her too, if you like."

Turns out my insurance covers her! Turns out she had an appointment available the very next day.  Turns out she specializes in the type of tumor I have and has performed many of these surgeries. Turns out she can do the surgery next Thursday, August 8.

I loved her immediately. Probably in her early 40s, she was kind and warm but no-nonsense. Wearing lime-green pants and a matching necklace, she vibed highly competent yet caring energy.  She reminded me of a number of my friends.  Her office is run by women, and in a subtle way it recalled being aboard the Piko Kai at this time last year--a woman-staffed dolphin boat in Hawaii. 

"Piko Kai" means "umbilical cord to the world." That's a comforting thought right now, thinking of how I'm being held in the warm womb of life blessed by the expertise of this surgeon, and the love of my family and friends.

Bobby and Janelle making peach and berry cobbler.

I was in awe of the vast world inside me when Dr. Harraher showed me images of my brain. It was easy to see the walnut-sized meningioma nestled into the left hemisphere in the "pre-motor region." She said that most of these types of tumors scoop right out, but that some are more adhered to the tissues.  So the surgery could take anywhere from 3 to 6 hours.  She discussed with me some possible complications but is pretty optimistic that things will go well since I'm in excellent health and this type of tumor is 95% likely to be benign.

Afterward, Dave drove us to the beach. We sat a few blocks from the house we'd left just a few months ago. Even though being with Janelle and Bobby is perfect right now, we knew that before and after my surgery, we'd need to be in Santa Cruz. We floated a few ideas, including finding a place to rent or staying in a hotel.

Santa Cruz

Then I picked up the phone and called my longtime friend Stacey who lives in Santa Cruz. We'd been playing phone tag all week; she was concerned and wanted to know what was going on. Just a few sentences into our conversation, she asked what she could do for us and said we could come stay. I was concerned because I didn't want to put more on Stacey's plate, as she's the mother of twin 11-year-old boys and she's preparing to teach fall classes.

But here go the stars aligning again! We'll get to spend three days with them. And then, right after my surgery, they happen to be going away on vacation. We'll be staying alone in their beautiful home, nestled in the redwoods. The perfect place for me to heal.

When we decided to live a house-free, traveling life, I hadn't thought about what might happen should one of us fall ill. After my seizure and brain tumor diagnosis last week, I've discovered the answer:  We have been enfolded in the loving arms of our friends.

Guardian Angel

My guardian angel.

Since so many of you wonderful people are asking:  My surgery is Thursday August 8 at 7:30 a.m. at Dominican Hospital in Santa Cruz. All loving thoughts of healing, ease, and flow accepted!

I'm clearer than ever that it's not only the living who are looking out for me. As I mentioned before, when I awoke to a seizure last week, I'd been dreaming that my recently departed friend and mentor, Gabriele Rico, had been talking to me. She was telling me that the veil between life and death is thinner than we think. This was a comforting conversation. She was saying there's nothing to be afraid of. She was saying that moving from one state to the next is like lifting a gauze curtain. She was saying if we relax and allow it, we can experience more of the mystery than we might imagine.

These reassuring, beautiful sentiments resonated with me even as my body was seizing, even as part of me was thinking I was certainly dying.

A hummingbird, one of Gabriele's favorite creatures, at her bird feeder.

Fast-forward a week. Dave and I are not in Hawaii as planned, but in California for my medical treatment. Because of this change in schedule, we are able to attend the gathering to scatter Gabriele's ashes.

Gabriele's family and friends are assembled in her magnificent house in the Cupertino hills, a place imbued with her loving energy and creative spirit. I'm talking to one of her daughters about my brain tumor, when a women standing right next to us says, "Did you say you have a meningioma? I had one of those!"

With Eddi Lynn, wearing scarves made by Gabriele.

Turns out her name is Eddi Lynn.  She's also a longtime friend of Gabriele's and a writer. Her tumor was diagnosed when she was 50, just like me. She had the tumor removed five years ago and quickly was able to get back to her normal life.

Watching Gabriele's ashes being buried
from the deck overlooking her beloved canyon.

So there I am, reeling at this synchronicity, when Gabriele's husband, Rich, pulls me aside.  He asks me if, as part of the evening's ceremony, I'd read a poem. I say I'd be honored, and here's what he hands me:

Let Evening Come (by Jane Kenyon)

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

This poem is like another version of Gabriele's message in the dream. When the night comes, the stars appear. Allow the rhythms of life to unfold. Do not be afraid.

She told me this in my dream, right before the seizure. She told it to me in her home, on the day of the scattering of her ashes, through her longtime friend. She told me through a poem. If those aren't the actions of a guardian angel, I don't know what are.

Wandering Spirit

Staples out.

The funniest thing someone said to me during my whole seizure-brain-tumor ordeal came from my reliably hilarious friend Scott. He said: "Sweetie, your life is just like Knots Landing these days."

As I was wheeled down the bright hospital hall, I saw looming over me Dave's loving face, a medical guy in scrubs, and the white institutional ceiling--like one of those point-of-view shots designed so you empathize with a doomed character. I laughed and said, "Wow, this really IS like Knots Landing!"

In the pre-op room, the anesthesiologist--looking like a hungover surfer--introduced himself and asked me a few questions. He then said, "I'm going to put a little in here to begin" and injected something into my IV. My eyes closed then opened. I thought, When are they going to get started? 

And then I saw Dr. Harraher, my surgeon, who told me the surgery was done. She said it went well except that she had to leave behind a microscopic "skin" of tumor attached to an artery (can't cut into that!). That's not really a problem since the tumor is benign, but if the little piece grows, she might recommend radiation.

I detected a tightness in my scalp, the former location of my little walnut. In its place, beneath the plate-reinforced skull, was now a hole slowly filling with spinal fluid, remarkably adapting to the new normal. I knew this because I heard creaks and groans and pops in my head, like a house settling.

Incredibly, a memory came to me--of something that happened during surgery. The best way I can describe it is this: My body was stoically enduring the breaking open of my head. And my spirit said something like, I'm outta here. I could be anywhere right now. I want to be free!

And my body--like a dog trainer, like a parent who knows best--sternly said to my spirit: "Stay!"

There I was, in post-op, giggling at the notion of my body ordering my spirit around. I suddenly understood myself more deeply. I've always had a wandering spirit and a pragmatic streak. They are very real parts of who I am. But I never realized my body had a mind of its own. 

And now I can see that there isn't a hierarchy of mind/body/spirit. They are more like interlinked circles. Even though the body eventually perishes, it's a super-duper space suit that allows for all kinds of groovy sensory experience that isn't possible without fingers and skulls and colons and noses and skin. And it's through sensory experience our spirit expands until it's onto the next thing. So at a key time, my body reminded my spirit of that: Hang around. You might get something out of this!

And oh yeah, my spirit is getting it. Its awe at what humans are capable of has expanded tenfold in the 10 days since my surgery. That post-op room was filled with medical technology and experience that had initiated from someone's thoughts. And then there was the energy directed to me that was palpable over the last weeks--thoughts, prayers, texts, emails, Facebook, you name it. The physical presence of doctors, nurses, aids, my husband, my sister...

I think what I'm getting at is this: What's been most striking about my experience has been the intricate interconnection of everything. The dazzling, pulsing design.

I spent one night in the hospital. After 14 hours, Dave went home for some well-deserved rest, and my friend Ellen came to spend the night with me. A woman with a gift for healing and soothing, she gave me an incredible foot rub. My sister Crystal had also given me one earlier in the day. People kept coming in and out of the room, checking me and the zillions of attached bodily tubes. 

All these ministrations made me feel like a queen--not of the soap opera type, but genuine royalty. Especially the sponge bath an angel of a night nurse gave to me at 6 a.m. She handled me so tenderly. 

I liked the idea that my body--so militaristic in standing up to my wandering spirit--could be vulnerable, could accept the gift of compassion, could relax and be home.

My spirit was happy. It curled in my body like a dog at the hearth.

Operation: Seize the Day

“Illness can be a catalyst for developing self-compassion, softening our egos, 

trusting our intuition, defining what’s truly important to us. 

It sets the stage for the opening of our hearts.” - Judith Orloff

Another lovely dinner at Janelle and Bobby's.

This tumor is old news.  It’s time to get rid of it.  It’s been growing in my noggin for a long time, apparently.  It started in response to something that happened a long time ago--who knows what? I’m not worried about a cause. Because worry never solved a problem.  I don’t want to try to “get to the bottom of this.”  Because there is no bottom. Besides, trying to get to the bottom means facing backward.  I want to face forward.  That means being firmly planted in the here and now, in this beautiful eternal moment.

Getting rid of no-longer-necessary stuff seems to be a theme of Dave’s and my life recently. First, I decided to retire. Then we decided to let go of our house and live a traveling life.  Getting rid of many of our things was an adventure within the adventure.

A couple of months before we hit the road, Dave experienced two bodily castings-off of his own. First, a cherry angioma (one of those little red dots) on his inner lower lip began to bleed profusely and spontaneously at inopportune times, like at a party or while eating a big sandwich. After the surgical removal, he was reminiscent of an Amazonian with a lip plate. His lip was barely healed when he need to have a patch of basal cell skin cancer removed from his scalp. The zealous doctor cut out quite a chunk (gotta get those margins). Then he plunked the offending flesh in a basin right next to my face where I sat in wifely support.  

Fortunately blood doesn't bother me that much. It actually kind of fascinates me. I thought about that yesterday when the friendly phlebotomist drew three vials for my pre-surgical tests. Fascinating that what had just been inside was now outside. Fascinating that inside our bodies blood is black, while outside it’s red. Fascinating that a certain amount of blood can be removed from a body without much effect.

Although yesterday it seemed to affect me more than usual. I was tired and had a raging headache, so I honored my body by spending most of the afternoon and a long night in bed. Here’s the funny part: I think the headache had nothing to do with my brain tumor. I think it had to do with a triple whammy of:  

a) killer period cramps (what, at age 50?!)

b) the sadistic medical directive disallowing me from taking pain-killers until after surgery, and

c) caffeine withdrawal, also a pre-surgery requirement.

I’m not a lay-around-in-bed-all-day kind of person. But it sure felt like the right thing to do. And I’m so fortunate: I don’t have kids or a job to tend to so I can actually respond to my body’s requests. I mean, really, my blessings are beyond counting. Right now I’m writing on my laptop poolside while Dave does yoga and Janelle works on her novel in her office. In a few minutes I’ll be floating dreamily in that azure water.

The number of people who have emailed, texted, called, Facebooked, and visited me to offer their love, healing energy, and practical support is staggering. Life is taking on a precious glow. It’s like my seizure opened up an even greater carpe diem capacity in me. A greater desire to be in this moment, facing forward. This is why my friends and I are calling this experience  “Operation:  Seize the Day."

My literal and symbolic operation is about living fully. It's also about not living in fear. We will all have our time to transition to the next thing--and who knows when? So why not be right here, right now, cherishing this. The past is old news. Now is where it's at: the beauty, the love, the unfolding possibility. The choice to love it is ours.

What I Learned This Epic Year

Swimmable water in Cerritos Beach, Baja California Sur

Breathe in the precious moments and love fiercely.

This has become my mantra during an epic year--a year in which I stared down life and death.

It was a year that reminded me how way leads onto way. How everything is a catalyst. How what we focus on blossoms. How it's not about what happens--but what we think about (and do with) what happens.

Funny how I thought retiring after spending my whole life in schools would be 2013's "big event." But then my mentor, friend and "other mother" died. I was blessed to witness her profoundly graceful transition.

And then months later--when I myself was perched on the edge of dying during my seizure--she visited me. She told me that the veil between this world and the next is thinner than we think. She said if we look closely, we can penetrate the mystery's deepest beauty. She said never to be afraid of death. There's nothing to fear. Even from the next realm, she continued to teach me.

Even though I've been witness to the death of many beloveds--including my parents--the thought of my own death seemed theoretical. But 2013 brought me this gift: a deep, bodily knowledge that I'm transitory in this form. That everything changes. That I will die.

So what to do with this gift? Breathe in the precious moments and love fiercely! I was already on this path in August when my brain tumor was discovered. Months before, Dave and I had packed up everything we owned and traveled to Australia, Southern California, Boston, Cape Cod.

And then the experience of brain surgery and healing--enveloped in vast love and support from family and friends--intensified my desire to live my most authentic life. I launched Operation: Seize the Day!

Living your truth is not for wimps. It involves taking risks: emotionally, physically, financially. It involves being comfortable with spontaneity, with unknowing.

It requires loosing the moorings. When I let go of my job, my house, my neighborhood, my town--indeed, my identity as a Santa Cruzian writing professor--I plunged into a free-float.

I decided to embrace the fertile void.

I decided to reside in a rich space of unknowing.

In this space, I watched my monkey mind. It scrambled around like a kid desperate for a parent's attention: Hey! What are you doing? You're no longer a teacher, you're not a parent, you're not anything! What are you contributing? Aren't you being aimless and irresponsible?

When that happened, I'd gently turn toward my larger self, the sky mind, the god-voice in me who is always deeply present when I open my heart. It always says:  No need to worry, no need to fear. You're valuable, just like everyone else, because you exist. And the more you're YOU, living your truth, the more you inspire. Don't set out to have an effect--just be it. Trust that the fertile void will reveal your answers.

Because we no longer had a house, I was curious what my experience with "home" would be. My deepest realization so far: my home for this lifetime is my body. If I want to be truly alive, I must unconditionally love this marvelous, self-healing spacesuit.

Especially after having my skull cracked open and resealed with glue and staples, I can feel myself reaching new levels of bodily appreciation. While I don't have this love-thy-body-thing totally in the bag, I find it easier and easier to release criticism of my body. To relax into myself and feel life from the inside out. As a result, I'm experiencing new levels of sensory bliss (as well as relief from my occasional claustrophobia).

And wow was that infinite intelligence right-on when it said to trust that answers will appear. In late August, a thought popped into my head:

I want to live within walking distance of swimmable water.

That thought wasn't a conscious creation of my construction. It was a fully formed object like a stone, a heartbeat, a breath.

I have always loved water. I'm a spiritual mermaid, a former synchronized swimmer, a snorkeler, a lover of boats and kayaks and plunging into seas and lakes.

When I pondered my "swimmable water" revelation, I found myself wrangling with it: Did this mean when we decide to settle down again that I'd want a swimming pool? Did I need to join a gym with a pool? Was it a call to buy a place in our beloved Hawaii? But we'd have to win the lottery to afford a Hawaii pad within walking distance of the beach!

I decided to let it go. To trust. To allow the answer to appear as easily as the desire did.

All I have to say is this: releasing to the universe is magic!

Organically, the perfect opportunity arose: to buy an outrageously affordable casita in El Pescadero Mexico (near Todos Santos in Baja California Sur). Yes, it's walking distance to a lovely, swimmable beach. And it's in a small resort that has a swimming pool and a jacuzzi. Water, water everywhere!

The icing on the cake is that some close friends have bought the place next to ours. Built-in community.

We don't know if this will be our temporary or permanent residence. We don't have the details nailed down. We are trusting our guts. We want to ride the wave of the unfolding.

As 2013 comes to a close, we are back in California after a trip to Hong Kong, India and Sri Lanka. I'm looking forward to processing that transformative adventure while I focus on writing in the new year.

It looks like we will be headed to Mexico in May. Before that--for the first four months of 2014--we will live in Tahoe. We are thrilled we can host family and friends there who have opened their homes and lives to us.

In a cozy house sheltered from the Sierra cold, I intend to write the first draft of my memoir about transformation. During that time, this blog will be on hiatus, and I will be less of a presence on Facebook.

I will also improve my skiing and yoga, practice my Spanish, work online with my writing clients, judge a book contest, and allow whatever else rolls my way to perfectly unfold.

Happy New Year to all of you. May you breathe in your precious moments and love fiercely.

"I navigated my own path in life."

An American woman who spent time in Afghanistan and other warn-torn regions? Who loved both men and women? Who sought a spiritual path? I knew I had to read her book, My Journey Through War and Peace: Explorations of a Young Filmmaker, Feminist and Spiritual Seeker, for my Books That Inspire series.  Currently available for pre-order, it’s coming out March 1. I was able to get my hands on an advanced copy and had a lot of questions for Melissa.

Melissa in Afghanistan, 1982

You've had a pretty amazing life. You spent time as a photojournalist in war-torn Afghanistan and the then-U.S.S.R. You were involved in love relationships with an Afghani fighter and, later, a woman artist-activist. Action was a kind of drug that medicated your anxiety. You also talk about using food for a similar reason. How do you deal with anxiety these days?

Now I don’t have anywhere near the level of anxiety I had in my twenties. Maybe I was at a 10-plus then. Now it comes and goes around 1 or 2. So I notice it, sense it, sometimes give a mantra like “Blessings on all beings” then let it go.
 
Why do you think you have less anxiety now than you did in your twenties? What would you say to your younger self?
 
Lots of emotional and spiritual work. And doing what feels right. Joseph Campbell said "follow your bliss." I did this, even when it didn't feel blissful after I chose it! I navigated my own path in life, didn't follow anybody else's idea of what success is. I would tell all 20-year-olds to do what feels right—and teach them how to pay attention to their senses in their bodies so that they can start having a trustworthy feedback loop for life.
 
In the book, you write about affairs you had while you were engaged to George. You've now been married to him for 25 years. Did you worry about revealing those things to him and/or anyone else? What does George think of your book?
 
He knew from the beginning. We’ve always had a very transparent relationship. He’s been a big fan and supporter since the beginning when it was at the shitty first draft stage. He read all the drafts except the final final version! He says he loves it.
 

Melissa and George in Tinos, Greece, where they now live.

 
When you were in Pakistan in your twenties, you had an ecstatic awakening, a kind of a merging with (or sudden awareness) of the Divine. Why do you think that happened at that time?

I think being out of normal routine, adrenaline, and I think I had a born leaning (in homeopathy it would be called susceptibility) to mystical experiences.

Do you still get "shot with a blissfulness" at surprising times?

Yes, now there is more knowing of the experience then the dramatic first time.

I was especially struck by the scene in Afghanistan where instead of being afraid of death in one dangerous situation, you felt peacefully accepting of it. Why do you think that happened?

I think part of it is adrenaline, the other is there is often a pause, a peacefulness others have shared in near death experiences. My theory is that the right brain kicks in. Maybe it’s a form of survival, or maybe again my susceptibility.

Interesting you’d say this because that calmness came over me—after the initial terror—when I was having a seizure caused by a brain tumor in my right hemisphere. So, do you still have that type of relationship with mortality?

Even more so. I took 5-MeO-DMT for my 50th birthday. As described in this article about the shaman I worked with, it’s a “spiritual medicine from the Amazon, used shamanically by indigenous peoples there to contact the spirit world.” I never really did drugs—once pot at a party in high school and hashish on the border of Afghanistan, and didn’t feel anything both times. But with 5-MeO-DMT I experienced an intense going into a tunnel of light and merging with an intense energy source beyond anything I could imagine or had experienced before. I was that drop in the ocean of energy, and there was me like a garment I could put on, comforting and familiar. This gives me a deep insight into what death could be.

Now that you had such an experience, does it make you want to do the drug again?

No, it was really a one-time thing, truly intense and lesson learned!

What do you wish Americans knew about Afghanistan today?

We are causing extreme suffering over there. The invasion, bombings, drones, torture are hurting people.

The book also deals with your time after Afghanistan. I enjoyed reading about your creative life in New York, where you and a group of women decided to work together to make art and independent films with complete freedom of expression—beholden to no gatekeepers. Can you say more about where you stand with this notion today?

I think writing has a similar freedom. It’s low cost and a way to get out ideas quickly and with depth. I’m also interested in the collective process. I lived in community most of my adult life. I’m interested in both the challenges and benefits of working together and how to make that work better, with more diversity and authentically.

What advice would you give to people who want to write a memoir?

I think journal writing is the best place to begin and then see where that leads. Write everything, all the memories. For my second memoir I was more organized. I typed and wrote on index cards every memory/story and then saw what themes appeared and how it all connects.

Melissa Burch is an author, filmmaker, producer and former war journalist for the BBC and CBS. She is also a spiritual practitioner. For more information and a special gift visit www.melissa-burch.com
 

Upon Not Returning to School

With Candice (a former student who became
a friend and colleague) at her housewarming party.

My whole life I've been either a teacher or a student. As my friends fill their Facebook pages with pictures and stories of the return to school, I've become acutely aware that this is the first fall in more than forty years I'm not returning too.

Yes, at 50 it's an early retirement. I'm not retiring in the classic sense, though, which is reflected in the word's etymology: French for withdrawing into safety and seclusion.

In fact, my leap into retirement has been the opposite: relinquishing our home to live a traveling life. Not seclusion but reaching out into the world by immersing in experiences and writing about them.

And then the unexpected: seizure, brain tumor, surgery, healing. What timing. If I'd been going through all of this while having to think about what to do with my classes ... and to make sure my medical benefits stayed in tact ... and to plan to enter the semester partway through ... Well, that just would have been no fun for me or the students.

This timing has been amazing for other reasons. Instead of being in Hawaii this fall, we are in the Bay Area for my treatment and recovery. So I'm getting to spend time with some of my colleagues, who are also good friends. This is softening the transition of leaving the professorial tribe.

The other thing that has happened is this: As news has spread about my health, former students have been inspired to contact me, flooding me with appreciation. Many didn't even know I'd planned to retire. This conversion of forces is a thing of beauty. I'm feeling the love. Big time. I've received many special messages.  Here's one that especially touched my heart:

Dear Kate,

I don't get on Facebook much, so please forgive me for being behind, but I now understand you've been through quite an experience. I'm glad you are healing well and hope you continue to do so.

You might not remember me, as you've probably had hundreds of students since we were last in touch, but to this day I cherish having had you in my life. To borrow from The Artist's Way, you were a champion of my creative self-worth, and to borrow from a credit card commercial, that's priceless! All the while, you were always a model on how to soak up life, even in hard times, of which you've had more than your fair share. I don't understand life, but because of you I better understand how to love it.

If I inspired one person to love life, I'd say my days of teaching have been well spent.