Things that Make us Wince

I can hardly believe that I am writing this post on the last day of 2019.  It was a year that opened with such great promise.  I found what I hoped would be my dream work in a nonprofit devoted children's literacy.  Cliff and I biked in Sicily in the spring --arranged specifically to support an Italian rendezvous with Academy pals (and the cycling introduced us to the enchantment of Sicilia!).  We walked the amazing Offa's Dyke Path on the border between England and Wales (one of my favorite walks ever).  And then we found ourselves walking the path of the Unexpected Journey and life turned on its head . . . 

At times, on this path there is a sensation of walking blind.  The trail seems not to be illuminated by the lovely full-moon, rather shrouded in a darkness both unknown and unknowable.  Still, I am struck by how this journey comprises many of the characteristics fundamental to all treks.  Among those common trek attributes are things that make us flinch or wince in the moment.

And when, on treks, we've winced at rain-soaked gear, lack of water, a twisted ankle, rebelling gut, insect assault or horribly bruised gluteus maximus (like you've never seen -- from a slipped grip on the Haute Route between Chamonix and Zermatt that left me hurling, in complete surprise, onto an unforgiving boulder), we've found the remedy to managing our response is staying present.

Say what?  Yep, in the moment pain or discomfort may feel huge -- and settling into that moment is the place where we can cope, manage and carry on.  Because the real threat of any of these trail hazards is not what happening in the moment, it is whether we choose (or not) to project into the future our perceptions of how it could affect our ongoing journey.  And while, sure, there are those really big episodes that absolutely will pull a trekker off the trail, we never have experienced one (or chosen to give into a lesser event).

We trek aware that speculation of some (potential) future impact of any wincing moment, is to invite the harbinger of fear.  Rather than race to the future, I choose to stay in the moment (the wincing moment) and ask myself (in the words of professional marathoner Paul Tergat):  "Can I give more? The answer is usually yes."  These are words I used in training for my IronMan.  I believe we all can (1) dig deep in any moment (even painful moments), (2) choose not project (the what ifs) into the future and (3) then keep giving more -- power, hope, will, determination -- to keep us moving steadily toward our goals and objectives.  Sometimes it takes real effort to push back against the unknown and unknowable future.  For me presence is at the heart of resilience, grit and determination.

During my plebe summer ('78) at West point, the motto of my New Cadet Company was: "Soldier On!"  West Point was a challenge for me in many ways.  Some of my deep learning from my Academy experience (that which shines most brightly today) is my keen understanding of and appreciation for the rewards of perseverance.

And so, yesterday, I winced (hard) when my cancer fighting path revealed my cancer markers had increased -- not hugely, perhaps not even significantly as we know I still have cancer; however, up to that moment, every milestone since I started treatment in September had been favorable.  In the moment, it was tough information to receive.  And my monkey-brain immediately started to project what that information would mean going forward.  Could it affect my pending surgery?  Did it mean the cancer was spreading again?  Was it an entirely separate factor unrelated to the cancer?

I meditated.  I prayed.  I read NIH research.  I winced -- and I felt my anxiety increase as I whirled into the future -- and toward fear.

Finally (late in the evening), I took a breath -- actually one deep, slow breath after another and settled  into what is.  Then I chose to visit the past for experiences that could inform my present.  I remembered a sprained ankle that didn't slow a step along the 270+ miles of the Pennine Way.  I recalled a morning in Tibet when we hauled soaked gear, clothes and sleeping bags out of our sodden tent and onto a boggy high altitude pasture, where wind and sun dried them oh so beautifully.  I flashed back to traipsing the Haute Route with a purple butt and plenty of pain -- all forgotten in the beauty of the Alps.  In each case in my memory, in the moment, I allowed the discomfort.  I neither tried to ignore it, nor to determine how it would impact next steps.

It was only then, at the intersection of a fearful future and an efficacious past, that I returned to the moment.  No overthinking or worrying is of any value on this Unexpected Journey.  What has served me well here is my choice to Soldier On; is to hear my "I can give more," response -- and then get busy with what I can do in the moment.

This morning, my calm has returned.  I am choosing to feel the power of my progress.  I am basking in yesterday's exchange with Dr. Rixe, when he told us the path we are on is the absolute best for achieving our desired long-term result.

This last week, last day, of 2019, I winced.  I recalled that I have winced in the past.  I chose not to follow my wince into an unknown future.  I am soldiering on!  And in July of 2020, when I take those first steps along the Via Francigena, I'll smile and remind myself of that sweet spot in which we all live, the present.  I will take a deep breath, hold my head up, roll my shoulders back, smile, rejoice in the moment and move forward -- with complete certainty that what is ahead of me is unknown and unknowable.  Oh the blessing of life!

Progress:

• Day 2, Cycle 8.
• Another great meeting yesterday with our super-hero oncologist, Dr. Olivier Rixe.  All my labs remain normal (or as he says, "Great).  Dr. Rixe promises to join us half way along the Via Francigena to share the trail for awhile.
• With another drug removed from my treatment arsenal, I am feeling many fewer side-effects as we head toward the New Year.  No big celebration this New Year's Eve as Super Thor (my Flurouracil pump) is a bit of a party dud.
• With good energy, I am approaching some de-cluttering tasks and working on a hand-quilting project.
• I missed my 21s by one mile last cycle -- a shorter cycle (by one day) with tough side-effects.  I'll get 'em this cycle.
• Between Cliff and I, the holiday cards are ready to mail (this was mostly Cliff, I must say).

 Quote of the Day:

Life is always either no more or not yet. Like time, life comes from what is not yet, passes through what is without space, and disappears into what is no longer.  . . . It is only by calling past and future into the present of remembrance and expectation that times exists at all.  Hence the only valid tense is the present, the Now.  . . . (F)earlessness exists only in the complete calm that can no longer be shaken by events expected of the future.

                                                ~Hannah Arendt, combined extracts from Love and Saint Augustine

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

In the Wake of the Winter Solstice

Week One, Cycle Seven

When planning a trek, our slate of scheduling considerations always includes weather and light data.  We balance calendaring an adventure against factors of precipitation, temperatures and hours of daylight.  The light factor, in particular, we use to create our daily mileage projections.  How far can we move across a day's anticipated terrain -- counting on no other transport than our willing feet, trek-ready in double-knotted and well-worn boots -- between the rising and setting of the sun?

The longer the days, the happier we are.  So it's no surprise we revel in the Summer Solstice. 

Even on the longest summer afternoons, a trail can seduce us to linger over the dramatic theater of day's decline.  And though we know we'll more than likely pay for our dalliance with an in-the-dark stumble across unfamiliar terrain at the end of a bone-wrenching day, we'll happily stand together watching a sunset until we become shadows of the night.  It is this surrender to the moment that presented us with breathtaking views of Vernazza from the Cinque Terre trail along the Italian Riviera, in 2014.  In the moment we stood transfixed along a rocky trail high above the tiny village until the last sliver of the daylight slipped into the still, turquoise waters of the Ligurian Sea.  And in the succeeding darkness?  We held hands all the way down the rocky trail -- counting on one another as we always have for balance, surefooted progress and comfort.

Vernazza illuminated by the setting sun

We find giddy joy in twilight movement.  Even on the Unexpected Journey, where the length of trekking days are of no matter, and there were no scheduling options, we revel in the joy of light.  Today, post the arrival of the Winter Solstice, the Santa Fe dawn was served up like a perfect cup of coffee with a splash of clouds, which, when stirred along the horizon created a rich and creamy swirling sky of undulating folds -- falling away to reveal the promise of a new day. 

On our current path, threading our way through the days and nights of the Unexpected Journey, the Winter Solstice (in the wake of which daylight extends) had the effect of reinforcing my unshakable belief that I will, in the coming year, step off of this trail -- a little pale, a few pounds lighter, with much less hair, and much less care about the small stuff.  This journey neither will last forever, nor be defined by a fading light.  The solstice filled me with renewed energy and determination.

From the pages of Timothy Egan's book, A Pilgrimage to Eternity (about the author's journey along the Via Francigena from Canterbury, England to Rome), I was filled and inspired by the words of Pope Francis given in response to his secret of happiness.  The pontiff advises:  Slow down.  Take time off.  Live and let live.  Work for Peace.  Don't keep negative feelings bottled up.  And finally, "Don't see life from afar."

Every day of this journey brings me fully into the up-close of being present.  There is no "doing" cancer from afar.  This horrible disease is always up in my grill, Every. Single. Day.  From the physical conditions of the disease to the attention-demanding sideshow of treatment effects, there is no way to compress the journey or shorten the hours.  Then I ask myself: Really, is there a healing outcome greater than presence?  And I show up.  Whatever the terrain, grateful to be walking.

At our house, we never miss a sunrise or a sunset.  We delight in whatever shows up on our path, knowing that when the light slips below the horizon, we will join hands and carry on.  We acknowledge that we will pass this way but once (as on any life journey) -- and rejoice in a path filled with opportunities for learning and growth.  Our job is never to rush the passing of days but to walk aware -- eyes and minds open wide to new experiences and novel thought.  And in the celebration of each new day, we live gratefully -- for we have this moment.

Progress:

• The Winter Solstice served to energize my commitment to staying strong (and getting stronger).  I'm keeping the treadmill moving with longer workouts and the introduction of interval workouts.  And yes, I am so tempted to run on the tread -- but I hear Chip and Cliff reminding "all things in moderation."
• Dr. Rixe dropped Avastin (my targeted therapy) from this treatment cycle to allow my body's blood clotting abilities to repair and restore pre-surgery.
• After a typically "crappy" Day Four following Treatment Seven, I steeled my mind and resolve to buck up against the tentacles of nausea and malaise in the following days.  Ah, the power of the mind -- and the joys of fresh shrimp!
• We welcomed the medicine of laughter with Eddie Murphy's hosting of SNL and the creative animation of one of my darling nephews in a political spoof for the ages.
• And danced with gratitude - silly and and joyful -- to holiday tunes.
• We expanded our plant appreciation ritual with three floral arrangements, two poinsettias and a Norfolk Pine in the dining room (what did you expect, a pear tree? 😂).

Quote of the Day:

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.

                                                                                          ~Mark Twain


                                                                                            

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Moon With a View

Week Two, Cycle 6 (132 days since my diagnosis)

What a full week on the trail!

• Cliff celebrated another year of life.
• We decorated for the holidays.
• We received our new treadmill (and I got busy logging the miles!)
• We had our referral appointment with the hepatic surgeon in Albuquerque.
• We enjoyed many soul-nourishing visits with friends.
• And particularly notable: Wednesday was the night of the full moon, prompting another moon walk.  
• This time, Cliff and Illy walked the neighborhood loop by the light of the moon (too chilly at this point for my hyper-cold-sensitive self), while I put in my 3.5 miles on the treadmill by the light of the Christmas Tree.  Meanwhile Munro (coincidentally pronounced Moon-Row) dozed adorably inches from the tread.  From our respective moon walk locations, Cliff and I each reflected upon and reveled in our first, exciting view of a major (unexpected) journey objective, first glimpsed earlier that day.

Let me just say, I find that first view of a major trekking objective super significant.  For me, the first views of a mountain to be summited, an historical/cultural site to be explored, or the final day's destination on an ultra-long trek, all propel me forward with renewed enthusiasm and confidence.  The view confirms my full engagement to live my life with determination, joy, conviction and faith (no matter the path -- with all its obstacles).  And note: This is no trekker's reserve -- these views are available to all of us throughout our lives and journeys when we are present to perceive them. 

In our trekking lives ⇛ On our Kilimanjaro trek, our view of the objective was our first look at The Mountain herself (The Roof of Africa).  Above the Apurimac River in Peru (climbing our way out of a 3,000 meter gorge), our first views of the ruins came in bursts and snatches through the foliage and fog of the high-altitude rain forest.  On our cross-country UK excursions that view would be of the destination village at the end 100+ miles of walking (pub and bed ahead!).  In each case, that first view of the objective was exciting, route affirming, and personally motivating.  

And while we always know the views are there, it is the work (of the past) and the vision (of the future), which deliver them with delightful surprise (and often relief) in the present.

And so it happened that our meeting with the surgeon at The University of New Mexico Comprehensive Cancer Center on Wednesday delivered all the so appreciated view characteristics: Affirming our holistic treatment/care plan (and amazing medical team) as well as our progress and direction to date, and motivating us to stay the course (as Dr. Rixe says, "Do not change a thing!").  And a surprise?  Yep!

Thinking we were meeting with Dr. Nir (hepatic surgeon) to "develop a relationship" for continuing assessments, we were blown away when he opined that I am ready for surgery now (to remove the large metastatic tumor from my liver).  The only thing stopping that today are the drugs (chemo and targeted) in my system (my targeted therapy in particular carries with it bleeding risks).  A quick, real time discussion between Doctors Nir and Rixe resulted in a surgery date of 30 January.  Say what?  Getting to a point where surgery would be an option for me always has been a major objective of this journey -- still there was that delightful surprise when it came into view. 

If you've been with this blog from the start, you already know that surgery is my greatest chance for a cure.  I am over-the-moon happy to secure that view. 

Progress:

• I am loving my treadmill and easily will exceed my 21s for this cycle.
• We are dancing still (Every. Single. Day., this month, to Christmas Carols.).  Finding dance-worthy variations is a blast:
• Jingle Bells (James Taylor)
• Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer (Lynard Skynard)
• Feliz Navidad (Mannheim Steam Roller -- although Jose Feliciano's original is more than dance worthy and remains my all-time favorite)
• Let it Snow (Pentatonix) 
• All I Want For Christmas (Mariah Carey) -- of course!
• We continually are grounding in "No Mud No Lotus" -- acknowledging and respecting the essential coexistence of joy and sorrow, harmony and conflict, relief and pain, movement and (grace-filled) pauses, the known and the unknown . . ..   We are oh-so-human!
• We'll find out in the coming week (next treatment is Tuesday) how my treatment regimen/schedule will be modified as we head toward surgery. 

Quote of the Day:

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

                                                                                          ~Henry David Thoreau

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

"How long has it been since we saw a sign?"

"A what?  Oh gosh, I haven't even been looking."  Cliff's question brought my mind back to the trail.  How long had I been walking in mindlessness?  How much trail time had I lost while burrowing deeper and deeper into my own mind, and drifting further and further from the present?

Sign at the bottom of the Grand Canyon

It happens to all of us, right?  How many times have you arrived at work with no awareness of the drive?  Lost in our own thoughts and preoccupations, we somehow come untethered from awareness in the present moment; cruising instead toward the future or lingering in the past.  All the while, missing the experience in the only moment in which we actually exist.

Ah, signs!  They bring us back to the trail -- to the present moment. A mountain flash on a tree confirms our way.  A distance marker assures our progress to destination.  Signs give important safety information, mark our elevation and advise on essential services.  Best of all, they nudge us back to full awareness when needed -- even their absence can be a wake up.  How long has it been since you've seen a sign?"

~Thich Nhat Hanh

Our job is the travel with our eyes open wide looking, and with our ears tuned in and listening (really listening), for the signs.  They are there -- when we are.

Even the Unexpected Journey has signs --  both subtle and posted.

• For direction: Low white blood cell count directs a chemo vacation.  
• For safety: The addition of Neulasta and dropping the Fluorouracil bolus to safely resume chemo.
• For grounding:  The words of Thich Nhat Hanh for daily mediation and my daily practice of presence.

And as Cycle Six began (yesterday) we got a progress sign.  Really our first feedback on this journey that informed us of the effectiveness of my treatment path toward kicking stage four (advanced) colon cancer to the curb.  And the news is good -- really, really GOOD!  The treatment has stopped cold the progression of my fast-growing cancer.  There are NO new lesions or masses on my liver.  All previously identified lesions and masses are reduced in size or GONE.  The affected lymph nodes are cancer-free and there is NO compromise of my liver function.  The largest, and first, tumor in my liver has shrunk in volume by more than 50% (leading us (a direction sign) toward a local measure for a cure -- surgery, ablation, cryotherapy, etc.). 

We are so grateful!  Grateful for this news.  Grateful for our community of support. Grateful for the love of family and friends. Grateful for the luck, blessings, opportunities and choices afforded us.  Grateful for signs.  We trust the process.  We are trekkers.  We are warriors.  We keep moving.  We believe.  We love our lives - Every. Single. Day. 

Progress:

• For now, we stay the path with chemo/targeted therapy.  Re-scan early in 2020.  
• Our consult with the hepatic surgeon is in coordination.
• I hit and surpassed my 21s for Cycle Five (logged 30 miles -- although weather drove me to the Peloton Cycle for 12 of those miles).  I made it to base camp -- Marty is home and we got to catch up (so thrilled for the achievement of this trekking hero).
• I'm still regaining to my pre-treatment weight at the end of each treatment cycle.  
• As outdoor walking is no longer an option (hyper-sensitivity to cold), and mall walking is getting questionable amid holiday crowds and flu season -- a treadmill is inbound (to be delivered next week -- I am beyond excited!)).
• And this month, we are dancing to Christmas songs -- Every. Single. Day.  So joyful!

Quote of the Day:

If there is no struggle, there is no progress.

                                              ~Frederick Douglass
 Bonus Quote:

We don't have to see the whole road ahead of us to assure that we're going in the right direction. We take it in stride by staying positive, having faith, and maintaining that vision of happiness.

Sometimes I obsess over trying to control the circumstances and wanting to always know the outcome, but the truth is, it is created all along the way. We aid it by our choices.

The guidance is there. As soon as we take that single first step in the direction of our Destiny, signs are posted all along the way. All we have to do is keep our eyes peeled! If you want your life filled with abundance, be grateful for what you have. When you realize how abundant your life is already, you attract further abundance.

                                                ~Jason Micheal Ratliff 

Exercising the brain in the chemo suite yesterday -- Treatment Cycle Six

 

 

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Holidays on the Trail

Happy Thanksgiving

The life experiences of two trekkers and soldiers include holidays observed around the world -- most times together (absent deployments), sometimes solemn, often humorous, always grateful. 

This year we are recalling birthdays celebrated in the Andes and the Himalayas; two funny/ironic Independence Days in the United Kingdom; an anniversary (our second) on a field exercise in Germany that was supported by a couple of crusty but compassionate commanders who enabled shared pizza on the hood of a quarter-ton jeep (the vehicle preceding the now ubiquitous Humvee -- says how old we are . . .), a Y2K New Year's Eve in Korea (Remember the concern of what would happen at the stroke of midnight as we entered the 2000s?), and Thanksgivings (the many fabulous Thanksgivings shared with our Army Family for more than half of our adult/married lives) in Germany, Korea, Guantanamo Bay, Alaska and around the contiguous U.S.A..  Through it all we have been blessed with a life that is good, experiences that fill and inspire us, and an abundance of love and support from our communities, friends and families.  For all of that we are grateful.

In a text exchange with a pal this morning, I noted how this year the thanks and gratitude of the day seem particularly poignant and strong for me.  There is no doubt that an especially challenging trek heightens appreciation -- for life, for opportunities and challenges and for the ability to do.  This unexpected journey has raised my awareness of all that is good and positive and plentiful to new heights.

And as I give thanks this year, I want to single out my hero.  The greatest blessing in my life is my partner, Cliff.  Through four decades he has challenged, inspired, championed and loved me without condition.  On this journey, he is ever present: By me in medical appointments and treatments, with me through the post-treatment wonky side effects, and the blessedly calm and strong recovery weeks.  He is humorous and kind when the craziness threatens to skid out of control.  He becomes the "warm-up chef" when I can't face the kitchen and has assumed the mantle of vacuum king without complaint (hustling to clear our floors of the dog hair, dirty paw prints and dust that characterize the high-desert life in New Mexico).  He's a powerhouse; and I only hope I am thanking him enough. 

On this Thanksgiving I want to say publicly, thank you, darling Cliff, for dancing with me  -- Every. Single. Day.  Thank you for the flowers.  Thank you for your practice of patience and presence on this unexpected journey.  We have many songs still to dance to and many trails still to travel.  And we'll do it together.  Because on my list of reasons I'm living -- right at the top -- is because TeamBoltz takes two.

Progress Report:  Week Two, Cycle Five. 

• This cycle has been an adventure.  I'm doing great and feeling positive about our medical way ahead.  Weather has forced some of my walking inside (yep, mall walking -- no shame, just getting it done).  

• Today I'll Peloton cycle my miles toward base camp.  Marty, I'm almost there. 

• My hair situation can best be described as a Chia Pet having a David Bowie bad hair day.  Loving my hats and scarves! 

• Appetite is sketchy -- shrimp are my current fave food.  Still eating through it all.  Still able to gain back my pre-treatment weight every cycle.

• I'm reading up a storm (fifteen books since my diagnosis).  Currently I'm reading my way along the Via Francigena with Timothy Egan, A Pilgrimage to Eternity.  Don't buy it, Marianne, it's headed your way! 

Quote of the Day:

If you only say one prayer in a day, make it thank you.

                                                          ~Rumi 

An exhausted Munro (after plowing through a snowy field on a White Thanksgiving in Santa Fe)

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

And the Joy of a Goal Achieved

Ah, the joy of reaching a summit, crossing a tough pass, completing an ultra-long trek -- a goal achieved.  It is the satisfying award of much hard work, gritty determination and often, a good dose of inspiration we carry in our hearts.  For many years, I ran long-distance races in honor of the daughter (gone too soon) of one of my USMA classmates.  It was inspiring to run for Jill.  Her challenges dwarfed my effort, and kept pain, doubt and exhaustion at bay.  If she could face every day with a smile -- and she could -- I could dig deep to honor her spirit.  Inspiration is a major part of this unexpected journey too.  So this morning, I was thrilled to get a text from our trekking pal (and dear, dear friend) Marty who is at Everest Base Camp!!

Marty at Base Camp (17,600') with Everest in the background

Marty has been an inspiration for my Rule of 21s.  And last treatment cycle while Marty was on his high-altitude approach, I logged 21.5 miles of walking in his honor.  This cycle, of course, I have to keep walking to (virtually) meet Marty there -- and by the time I arrive, he'll be home in California.  But his inspiration carries on.  Congratulations, Marty.  You are fierce!!!

Chemo Week One, Cycle Five, is underway.  I am feeling strong and positive.  Marty's text communication super-powered my morning; and this blog honors his achievement.  Hooah, Marty!

Progress: I'm nearly halfway through my (12) prescribed chemo/targeted treatments.  Dr. Rixe is pleased with my progress and on Monday even told us as part of the Mediterranean diet, I can have a "glass of good red wine" every day.  While it is less appealing right now (I'm in that nothing really sounds appetizing period of Week One), we did toast (from NM to FL (my sis)) on Monday evening.  Little things like this, which make life feel more "normal," are a nice boost. Last night we danced to Celebration, by Kool and the Gang (Come on . . . ♫. . .)

Quote of the Day:

Believe in yourself.  You are braver than you think, more talented than you know, and capable of more than you can imagine.

                                                                                    Roy T. Bennett

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Moon Walking

This blog is about the exercise of remaining present:  How staying in the moment can take some doing and how creating highlight experiences can help.

**********************************************

On what we would characterize as a "normal" TeamBoltz trek, we've always had the luxury (and fun) of extensive planning.  We've enjoyed our training (all the while working toward a ready-to-trek confirmation goal).  We've enjoyed pre-trek cultural immersions of reading and research that enliven our journeys.  Landing on the trail mid-stride on our unexpected journey means we hopped past those actions.  What we haven't, and don't have to, skip are the multitude of incredible opportunities and rich experiences that every journey guarantees, when we are aware and noticing.  One of our missions, therefore, is to step into the opportunities and revel in the experiences available on our unexpected journey by leveraging the power of presence.

For sure, the absolute unknown (assumed to occur at some point in the future) of the unexpected journey taunts the imagination with distracting, vacuous daymares -- hungry to be filled anxiety and fear.  We see the shadows.  We recognize the seductive pull.  We even have days when we walk the rim of the void.  Resisting that oh-so-scary place is not as simple as, "Don't think about it," (a surprisingly recurring encouragement). 

We have a little magic, though, that keeps us on our path when we are plagued by sinister musings that beg us to stray from our path of strength and determination.  To remain (and at times to return) to the present moment, where we can relish in the highlights of the unexpected journey, we sometimes have to create a highlight opportunity to kick-start awareness.  Being aware and noticing the beauty and goodness of life is is our soul-quenching reminder that we cannot truly live in any other moment but this moment (so why go there?).

Every trek has its highlights -- those in-the-moment experiences that are so demanding, engaging, and joyous, that they leave no space for pain or doubt or regret.  They are unique in their power to fill the spirit and steel the muscles, neither teasing a future outcome, nor begging a step into the past.  These highlights inform a way of being that is energizing, strong and positive.  I think we all have these highlight experiences.  I also believe our visceral knowledge of them (more feeling than recollection) can empower our awareness and keep us solidly present to live them fully.   These highlights are, for me, prized imprints that release a flood of endorphins, refresh my knowing and prompt my battle cry: "I'm here!  I can do this!"

A few such TeamBoltz trekking highlights come to mind:

• The four-limbed scramble up the Barranco Wall en route to our Kilimanjaro summit (exhilarating!).
• Meeting a kid (goat) on our descent from the Gosiankund in Nepal (so innocent and fearless it was).
• Our first view of the ruins of Choquequirao in Peru (in 2008, still mostly undiscovered by trekkers).
• Reaching Robin Hood's Bay at the end of Wainwright's Coast-to-Coast (Oh the celebration . . . and our immediate thought, "Let's not stop walking.").
• And one of my personal favorites -- bungee jumping off the Karawau Bridge in New Zealand (one incredible swan dive into full presence).

Most, but not all, highlight experiences are spontaneous (bungee jumping -- not spontaneous 😉).  And I daresay, when we are preoccupied (less than present), we risk missing some highlights entirely.  Sometimes (these days in particular for me) it takes creating a highlight opportunity to reset my journey azimuth.  Once reset, I can see highlights all around me -- twinkling like a sky full of stars -- that true my path.

So wonderfully, on Tuesday evening of this Week Two, (the night of the full moon) Cliff and I created an incredible highlight experience when we chose to log our routine three-and-a-half mile walk (along the dirt road that rings a significant portion of our equestrian neighborhood where street lights are nonexistent and dark sky lighting rules prevail) along a path illuminated only by the moonlight.  Along the way, in the moment, we were rewarded by the sound of wing beats that drew our gaze to the silhouettes of two owls passing just over our heads.  We marveled at the changing night shadows playing off the ridge lines, pinon and juniper as the moon cleared the horizon and headed high into the sky.  Hushed by the quiet of the night, we were fully alive, charmed and charged by the magic of the moment.  The present powered us forward, far from the void of the known.  Had our minds been crammed with fearsome worry, the preoccupation no doubt would have delivered a very different (mindless) experience.  This conditional shift (from daylight to moonlight for our walk) created a highlight that anchored us in the present.  What we could know fully (and choose to embrace) in the moment was the mindful moon walk -- a highlight experience ON our path, which we chose not to miss.

Santa Fe Full Moon -- Perfect for Moon Walking

Listen, it simply would not be truthful for me to suggest that the unknown (rimmed with fear and anxiety) does not loom larger for us on some days than others.  In truth, that can be every minute of every day for any of us, whatever the journey.  And we (each of us) can choose to acknowledge the unknown, without diverting to its shadowy fork -- lined with rows of gremlin worry and goblin foreboding.  Creating highlight opportunities can super boost awareness, which then powers us along so that we don't miss the sights, smells, sounds, tastes and touches of today.  Noticing, creating, rejoicing in our very present experiences, fortifies our ability to stay true to our path (and ourselves).  The future will no longer be the future when we arrive. And worrying about the future at the expense of today is a waste of the moment  -- the only moment -- in which we are truly alive. 

Progress Report: Week Two of Cycle Four is coming to a close.  It has been an active and enjoyable week filled with friends, reading, cooking, exploring, dancing, and walks (I'll exceed my 21-mile cycle goal and I've met my 21 minute daily exercise goal -- Every. Single. Day.).  I'm heading into Treatment Cycle Five strong and positive.  Tomorrow, we meet with our super-hero oncologist.  Round five chemo begins Tuesday.

Quote of the Day:

Whether it is the best of times or the worst of times, it is the only time we have.

                                                                                              ~Art Buchwald
Bonus Quote:

Because I'm not giving up!  I'm here and I'm stayin'!

                                                                                             ~Kermit the Frog 

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Base Camp Trekking and the Rule of 21s

It's Day Five, Week One, Cycle Four and I'm blogging!  And I'm giving my increased understanding of cycle rhythm, continued attention to build/peak phases, the inspiration of Kikkan Randall, Marty's Everest Base Camp Trek, and my new Rule of 21s tons of credit for this breakthrough.

Marty's what?  

So, one of our dear friends and trekking pals (Marty) is in Nepal as I type, trekking to Everest Base Camp (South) over the next two weeks -- and I'm going with him, at least in spirit.  While Marty's base camp adventure will take him to 17,600 feet, my base camp is pretty much established right here in Santa Fe and defined by a refrigerator and freezer adorned with large bows to remind me NOT to touch/consume anything cold, a note snuggled next to my place at the table that warns, "SMALL BITES" (large bites blow out my chemo'ed taste buds with excruciating pain), and a wide variety of different flavored teas, proteins drinks, bone broths and snacks that encourage me to eat, eat, eat.  And from my southwestern perspective, I constantly am considering what I can do to maintain and increase my strength and determination through treatment cycles (at least eight more). Well, Marty has 65 high-altitude kilometers (40.3 miles) of trekking to reach base camp.  And I'm walking those 40+ miles over this and my next treatment cycle, during which he'll be gone.  And yep, I'll still owe him the 40+ miles back to his start point over my next two treatments.  No problem -- walking "with" Marty (and certainly, he is walking with me too) holds me accountable to my new Rule of 21s.

The Rule of 21s

Since reading Kikkan Randall's inspirational cancer-fighting story, I've been thinking about what it will take to keep me active every day of each treatment cycle (Kikkan committed to 10 minutes of movement everyday) . Starting with the current research on exercise and cancer patients, I found multiple studies on the National Institute of Health website, documenting how exercise reduces treatment-related fatigue and nausea, reduces weight loss (builds muscle, stimulates appetite), increases patient safety through improved balance and functional fitness. and supports cardiac fitness.

So with this feedback and encouragement from Dr. Rixe  "Do what you can -- and if you can do that, do more! " --  I've decided to amp up my treatment fitness routine.  Previously I focused on an every cycle achievement of two, one-hour Peloton sessions and one, four-mile walk. Now, using the recommendation of the Clinical Oncology Society of Australia (as reported by the Harvard Medical School) and the American College of Sports Medicine that cancer patients get 150 minutes of aerobic exercise each week (and mindful of my own pre-diagnosis fitness level) I am exercising (walking this week) for at least 21 minutes each day (yep, even on Day Four) and turning in at least 21 walking miles each treatment cycle -- and on top of my yoga, (and dancing, of course), I'm adding strength training days (3/7, set/reps). 

Why 21?  Because 150 minutes/7 days = ~21 minutes a day.  Because our circuit walk is 3.5 miles and if I do that most days of Week Two, I'll log 21 miles, easy.  Because I like 21 as an accountability tab (heck, it's even our house number).  I can check-off my 21s -- and after starting to rack them up, I'll be motivated to keep those 21s coming.  And perhaps most importantly -- those 21s will get me to base camp with Marty!

Progress report: Day Five and I've not missed a day of activity.  While I continue to lose some weight each cycle -- and Cycle Four is no different -- I have been able to regain my weight lost during each cycle before the next treatment.   And as always, I continue to look forward to what I can do to stay strong, active and connected.  I'm in this to win it.  Pain is temporary -- quitting is forever (Lance Armstrong quote written on my tri-bike aero bars).

Super Cool Note:  Yesterday my darling sister of the perennially long and lustrous hair sent me a photo of her with an adorable ultra-short haircut in sister solidarity.  And she donated a 13" ponytail to Locks of Love.  How cool is that?

Quote of the Day:

Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must -- but never give up.

                ~ Dean Karnazes (ultra-marathoner and master of mental and physical endurance)

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020

Walking the Plateau

Day Two, Week One, Cycle Four

*******************

The following is a short flashback blog from Week Two, Cycle Three:

One of my favorite pleasures of trekking's big climbs is walking the high plateaus.  It's that fabulous reward when the heart-pumping climb evens off to the lofty, level path where the walking becomes fluid, the view extends beyond the next foot placement to the glorious surrounds and the trail ahead is a long forgiving stretch that says, "Job well done, now let's even the breathing and swing loose the legs before the next climb."  I never think of a plateau as a "stuck point" to rush through.  Trekking has taught me to never to take plateaus for granted.  They are present throughout our lives -- on any journey.  And I find that rushing to the next climb without experiencing fully the plateau cheats reflection, awareness, growth and presence itself.  Savoring each climb as well as the culminating rewards and opportunities of the plateau is a gift. Since we can be nowhere else but right where we are, why speed- or sleepwalk the moment?  Better to breathe deeply, be aware, smile -- and notice (just notice) what comes.

Plateau Walking in Tibet

Plateau Walking in Wales (Offa's Dyke)

Week Two of treatment Cycle Three was for me an incredible plateau that urged an even rhythmic gait.  Relaxing into the terrain of the moment revealed an amazing landscape that supported connections with friends (telephonic and visits), a long Santa Fe downtown walk for more re-connecting with pals (and a little shopping), organizing our new pantry and laundry rooms, prepping our downtown space and greeting new Airbnb guests (two sets), getting in my Peloton sessions and 14+ walking miles.

It was a fabulous Week Two.  My busiest Week Two so far.  And in welcoming the gifts of the plateau, I became aware of and was inspired by Olympic Gold Medalist (and Anchorage Alaska hometown girl) Kikkan Randall's approach to managing breast cancer.  Her fight plan gave life to my new fight plan, which I'll blog about later this week (just the idea of blogging in Week One instead of getting quiet hints at a plateau-inspired change).  I'm calling it my Rule of 21s.  Stay tuned!  And by the way, this weekend Kikkan Randall met and exceeded her personal goal in her post-cancer battle running of the NYC marathon; where she turned in a time of 2:55:12 (her goal was to best a 3:00:00 finish).  You can read about Kikkan's approach to her cancer fight via the link, below.  It's awesome.

A plateau read: Kikkan Randall beats breast cancer

Progress Report: Neulasta worked and my white blood cells rebounded!  I arrived for the start of Cycle Four yesterday feeling great.  And to top off great, my USMA roommate and 40+year pal, Deb (Chip) and her amazing hubby, Mark, made a second visit in as many months and supported me through my chemo suite appointment.  I am grateful.

Quote of the Day:

A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions.

                                                               ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

Chip and Dale head to Chemo Four

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

No Weather Delays

It's snowing in Santa Fe this morning.  Swirling flakes coming down so fast on ground so cold that we're actually seeing accumulation in this first real storm of the season.  Still this afternoon, the forecast is for sunny skies and calm winds.  I love this weather . . . all weather really.  The dramatic changes create a stir of excitement for me.  And posting the words I drafted last week, but got too busy to review and post, seems particularly fitting today . . .

Date written: 24 October:

• Day 80 since my cancer diagnosis
• Day Seven, Cycle Three (the last day of Week 1, this treatment cycle)

As I consider my trekker's heart today, I am recalling one tiny piece of how I evolved to become this lover of mountains, challenging ascents and long-distance pursuits.  This post pays homage to the   southern girl who came from a world of perpetual summer and eventually landed on this unexpected journey of unpredictable climes.  The memory of younger days ultimately reminds me that opportunities and gifts reside in the full environment along any path any of us may walk.  We need only set forth regardless of the weather . . .

When I was young, newly commissioned and newly married (yes, there was such a time, some 37 years ago), I joined my newly-minted husband (only slightly older and less-newly commissioned than I) at our first home on assignment in Schweinfurt, Germany.  A Florida girl who had just endured four years at West Point -- a colder (gasp, it snows here) and far less sunny spot than my deep south peninsular home (unless it was an endlessly steamy summer day at the academy, even then with no cooling shoreline in sight . . . ), I was disappointed to find more cool and damp weather in Germany.

On duty days, weather was "nothing but a thing," (We used to say things like that, ha!).  Soldiering was soldiering.  I never blinked at any kind of weather through predawn physical training, firing ranges or extended field exercises.  But the weekends?  Really, this country couldn't offer up a warm and sunny weekend day?  In truth, ever-so-seldom the weather was delightful in Schweinfurt, but mostly not.  My choices seemed either to become an off-duty (wimpy) recluse who shrank from drab, drizzly days or (quite simply) to don rain gear and live my whole life -- experiencing the thrill of living in a foreign country as a newlywed with a rewarding career in service to my nation, and oh-so-few cares in the world (in retrospect, really oh-so-few cares).

This new (for young me) concept of accepting the weather (all weather) as a condition, versus a mandate; for action, versus inaction, would help propel me from Florida Girl to global citizen.  Whatever the conditions, my mission would continue.  Whether on duty or off, environmental circumstances enriched my life without tempering it.  I missed nothing.  I never waited for rain to abate or winds to calm (in both the literal and the figurative sense).  And in this practice, I marveled in the magic of the rain: Leaving glistening streets and grateful flowers (needing the rain as much as the sun to thrive); and of the snow: The heart-pumping goodness of exploring a silent wood on snowshoes or cross-country skis; and of the winds: Whistling music that gave rise to the shimmying dance of trees.  Eventually, that acceptance would help shape my trekking perspective: Stepping out not in spite but in awareness of the weather as a gift! 

No matter what the journey, against the backdrop of history, life is short, with wholly unpredictable weather (cancer, me?).  No amount of grousing, complaining or waiting for the perfect day will add stability, reduce unpredictability or extend my time on earth.  What I can do is choose to live my whole life embracing my appreciation of how external conditions empower the open mind and heart to move forward (perhaps with adjustments), to explore, to learn, to grow, to see more and become more grateful along the way -- to become more resilient and more capable of taking on the next thing (and there always will be next things) life throws. 

These days, I often am asked if I am getting enough rest, and the answer is yes.  I rest when my body signals the need.  But mostly this body remains a body in motion.  I don't want to sleep through these days.  There is so much to learn from the uncertainty of the process.  I am encouraged by my awareness that I will emerge from this unexpected journey more-tested and stronger than ever before.  So every day, I put on the right-minded gear for each moment and move along this unknowable path curious and determined.

And while  I rarely get a (figuratively) funky-weather-free day, I remain mindful of my choice to step into the present -- whatever micro-climate exists -- to live fully, joyfully, gratefully.  It's my choice (yours too).  Every.  Single.  Day.

Progress:  Week One of Cycle Three is over.  Each cycle, I better manage my mind, body and spirit through immediate post-treatment days -- wobbly, nauseated and ever aware of the transitory nature of the phase.  Reliably, I am supported by my amazing partner who has mastered an attitude of dignified and kind care partnering in our determination to live Week One -- no matter the rugged terrain and crazy weather -- and arrive at Week Two ready to rebuild and soldier on.  So this week, I'll get in my long walk and two, one-hour Peloton sessions, you can be sure.  In fact, I'm walking this afternoon . . . in any weather 😁.  Next chemo: 4 November.  And last night's dance tune?  Movin' Right Along! (All hail the Muppets!)

Quote of the Day:

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

                                                                                                       ~John Ruskin

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Dances With Dogs . . .

So I had a thought to blog from a chemo treatment.

Blogging from chemo

And here I am (blogging) in Chemo Three  -- after a ten-day chemo vacation to give my white blood cells a chance to rebound from treatments so far.   And I just want to follow up on a promise from my last blog that I would dedicate a blog to our dancing ritual.

Dances With Wolves? Big Deal.

First of all, let me be clear: Kevin Costner's got nothing on us.  We Dance With Dogs -- Every. Single. Day!🐶

It's true, our joyful dancing includes our pups, Munro and Illy.  Munro (for anyone who doesn't already know) is our seven-year-old Pomeranian and Illy is our two-year-old Spinone Italiano.  To memorialize our joy, we videoed an evening dance session, and captured a few mirthful frames for the blog:

 

I find a joyous mindset (and a little silliness) can fuel me for most any challenge.  On a long uphill (against the wind and in the rain) on the Pennine Way, Cliff and I repeatedly sang Jim Croce's "Leroy Brown" (or what we could remember of it) to cascades of laughter that had the effect of washing away the drudgery of the climb.  Because of our joy in the moment, that memory still is among my most vibrant of our 270-mile trek along the ridge of England and into Scotland (rain, wind, elevation notwithstanding).

And yes. I still record our dance music choices.  A sample from our recent string of hits:

• Some Nights (Because we all have them (and who can resist music by a band named Fun?))
• After Midnight (Although it was well before midnight, Eric Clapton is Cliff's favorite)
• Hot and Cold (Yep, chemo can affect thermo regulation, and Katie Perry can make us laugh about it)
• Heart-to-Heart ('Cause this battle takes two and Kenny Loggins, my favorite, recorded this song in 1982 (the year TeamBoltz became official))
• Alive and Kickin' (Kenny Loggins again -- and yes I am!)
• I'm Still Standing (We all can use a little Sir Elton John inspiration)
• So What (Thanks, Pink.  We ARE still rock stars)
• I'm Alive (If you think you are detecting a trend here, it's true - and a little Michael Franti is the perfect vibe to celebrate life!)

So my intent for today -- as we joyously resumed chemo is to share a little laughter, a little silliness and a tremendous breath of gratitude for staying the chemo course.

Not at all surprising (to us) is that my superhero oncologist met us at the chemo suite this morning  before 8:00 a.m., anticipating the results of my morning blood test, WBC count being the threshold for my chemo today.  And when the results came in, he was back to deliver the good news in person with a big thumbs up and a winning smile.  Once again, we are so grateful for Dr. Rixe.

Progress: After this treatment (still a couple of hours to go) of chemo (FOLFOX) and targeted therapy (Avastin), I'll get a Neulasta injection when the Fluorouracil pump comes off on Sunday (to boost my WBC for future treatments).  And it looks like Dr. Rixe is going to redo my scans after treatment five (so we'll know progress before Christmas -- yay!).

Quote for the Day:

Find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing.  For to miss joy is to miss all.                                                        ~Robert Louis Stevenson 

At home with Munro and Illy

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Rest Days

Essential to every journey, is a plan for rest.  At high altitude, rest days are essential for acclimatization.  On long treks (>100 miles) rest days are all about doing laundry.  We can carry less, if we can bulk launder (versus sink launder and air dry) a time or two along the way.  Sometimes rests are engineered to spend time with pals, extend the pleasure of a stunning vista,  or enable "We may never pass this way again," cultural experiences.  And sometimes, rests are extemporaneous celebrations of life on the trail.  Regardless, rest happens.  Rest is good.  And rested, we resume our journeys with balanced bodies and minds (and definitely less stinky packs 😉). 

This week we gained awareness that this unexpected journey, like its well-planned and trained for counterparts, will include some rest days.  Upon review of my routine pre-treatment blood tests on Wednesday, Dr. Rixe mandated a chemo rest.  While my blood tests remained astoundingly normal overall, my white blood cell count had ebbed to a point (pretty normal for chemo patients on Flouracil, among other treatments) that prompted a chemo vacation of one week to allow those blood cells time to rebound.

A chemo vacation!  I simultaneously felt a surge of relief and a pounding curiosity around how this impacts my progress.  My resolution of these somewhat conflicted feelings arrived mid-stride (where else?).  Chemo is not about chemo.  Chemo is about getting 100% well (versus feeling 98% well).  While this may seem intuitive to the reader, from the perspective of this being who is going through treatment, the cure often feels worse than the cancer. 

Putting it in perspective: It is pretty natural, in anyone's development of goals (in my case, beating cancer), to get focused on one's measurable objectives (in this instance, successful chemo progress) as a way to gauge strategic achievement.  Aha (my mid-stride brain elbows me), this unexpected journey proceeds on a path paved with objectives -- to include 12 treatment cycles.  And these objectives, which move me toward my goal of  beating cancer and hitting the Via Francigena healthful and joyful, are where the give and take, the acclimatization, the laundering and opportunities for expansion live.  They are the flex for success.  They happen and they are good.

Surviving chemo is not my goal, surviving cancer is.  Keeping my greater focus on my triumphant end state is hugely motivating and grounding.  In this way, while the treatment cycles are no less onerous,  I find it easier to keep them in context.  Visualizing my big picture sightline,  I am filled with purpose and fired by potential.  After all, I've never traveled any trail (even those previously trod) knowing beforehand every inch of terrain and premniscient of every turn of the weather.  I feel powered by each present-moment step that confirms, yes I can -- and with that, I can do more!

Without question, objectives are important milestones to progress.  Objective achievements award us with self-efficacy super powers.  Still, objectives are not all-consuming, must-have accomplishments in and of themselves.  This awareness helps me to make sense of my week-long chemo vacation; to enjoy fully these days of beautiful sunrises and sunsets, time with pals, space to move our home remodeling projects forward without the post-treatment malaise and yes, to continue dance.  Every. Single. Day.

On dancing: A friend asked me this week if we really are dancing, or if dancing is a metaphor for our way of being on the path.  Well, yep, we really are dancing -- Every. Single. Day.  In fact, my next blog will be all about the dancing.

Progress: Chemo vacay: One week.  Next appointment with Dr. Rixe, 16 October.  Expect to resume chemo, 17 October.

Quote of the day:

 Take a rest; a field that has rested gives a beautiful crop.

                                                                           ~ Ovid

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

With the Wind at My Back

More than once in my life I've been called a Pollyanna.  And, at times, I suppose I've been aggravated by the characterization.  Pollyanna, the title character of a series of books written by Eleanor Porter in the early 20th Century, is (to some readers) saccharine.  Now a days though, I relish the description -- thinking that the fictional orphaned character actually had a very strong practice of gratitude.  And on this path, gratitude is the strong and sustained wind this unexpected journey trekker needs at her back to push forward, one step, one day at a time.

Week Two, Cycle Two, was full of those amazing winds of positivity.  That's not to say Week Two was a snap, which I suppose made these winds -- from gentle breezes to full-blown gusts -- all the more powerful.  The contrast of the challenges, which begged a negativity bias to rule the day and my way of being, seemed for me to magnify the good.

 And what came in on the winds:

• Continued birthday wishes that made the "I suppose this wasn't the best birthday . . . " thoughts evaporate.  My Pollyanna said, "Hey, you're here!"  OK, really basic, but given the choice, damned good.   Every kind and healthful zephyr wish created an updraft -- lightening the load of my backpack, and moving me along with joy.

• The challenges of pals.  It's easy, I suppose, to begin to see a cancer fighter as too busy, too consumed in her fight, or (heaven forbid) too sick to continue to be a friend, confidant, sounding board or mentor.  Two of my delightfully amazing friends met tough challenges this week; and they came to me to be heard, to hold safe space, to weigh in with brainstorming and/or to advise.  That's a huge huff of propelling wind.  I double-tied my laces and headed up a rocky path knowing I am not my cancer.  I am me, there for you like always.

• The magic of a haircut.  What could have been a sad, torturous event was made wonderful by the authentic kindness of my hairstylist, Christopher, who came in two hours early to be with me and Cliff, shampoo and cut my (shedding) hair, not charge me (salon policy, no charge for clients in treatment (I didn't know)), and then present me with pampering gifts - topped with an Hermès scarf to cover and conceal my balding head.  And best of all was the lively, engaging and impassioned conversation between the three of us.  The near hurricane-force winds whipped up from that experience left my feet barely touching the path.  I double-checked my speed and distance, and skipped forward feeling loved, respected and yep, even a little bit beautiful.  

 Before

After (me and Christopher)

• The power of Guardian Spirits.  In 1992, Cliff and I began collecting the work of Western artist, Bev Doolittle.  Her watercolor design, embedded with "hidden" natural images spoke to our love of the out-of-doors and inspired our growing romance with the American West.  And as the universe brings so much good and powerful into our lives on every trail, in 2018 life's currents brought Marj and Bob into our lives.  Strong, good, kind friends with abundant spirits matching our love for art, the west and meaningful connection, this couple stirred the winds at our backs to typhoon strength this week when they gifted us Bev Doolittle's "Guardian Spirits" prints.  The images remind us we have the powerful protection of family and friends, the stamina to stay true to our path, the wisdom of many journeys past, the ferocity to tackle this trail and the vision to look forward to the next.

Progress:

So sure, Avastin (my targeted therapy) combined with my chemo in Cycle Two to accelerate hair loss, introduce a skull-pounding headache, accentuate nausea and prompt nose bleeds.  This cycle, Week One effects seemed to drag their nasty little feet into Week Two more than in Cycle One.  And I thought, there is a purpose to this process.  I summoned my subconscious reminder that "I can do this."  I remembered, "No mud, no lotus." I practiced gratitude for the new, the unknown and the less-than-comfortable, which served to remind me how blessed I am and how very much I love this life.

And yes, Cliff and I still danced (Every. Single. Day. -- and the week's hit list of songs really did include Hakuna Matata 😊).  I enjoyed each sunrise and sunset.  I am here, now  -- the only place and time in which any of us truly ever exist.  I am practicing my Pollyanna gratitude -- strengthened by the wind at my back.

Quote of the Day:

Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously.  And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.

                                                                                  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!