Saturday, September 17, 2022

Coming to You in Oneness

Hello All of you who are regular readers of this blog and its sporadic postings. It’s late on Friday evening, but I just spent a wee bit of time looking at Facebook and realized I needed to share with you some news about Elisa, the young woman who has become like a granddaughter to me and who has Stage 4 melanoma of the bone.

The most recent news about the melanoma has been that the only tumor left was at the original site on her lumbar spine. All her Facebook friends and her family got this news a few days ago.

However, tonight I saw on Facebook some concerning news about the cancer. 

First, let me explain that Elisa and I text one another nearly every day, wishing one another a good day and sending bushels and heaps of love. About every ten to fourteen days, we talk on the phone. I wait for  her to call because I never want to interrupt her naps. Resting, as we all know, is necessary for healing.

When we  talk, she brings me up to date on what is happening. However, we haven’t spoken for several days. Her text greetings have been as upbeat as usual and when pain or concern was mentioned, I missed the implications.

Thus, I was not aware of the intensity of the pain she’s been feeling for nearly two months. It must have been Tuesday night that her husband rushed her to the ER because the pain had become unbearable (my word, not hers). 

The ER discovery was that the cancer had attacked her gallbladder: the reason for her two months of intense pain. The next day, she drove down to Salt Lake City for her monthly scans and her infusion (immunotherapy). The doctors there confirmed that she needed to have her gallbladder removed.

However, because the meds for the cancer and for the tests and operation conflicted and also because the operation is “iffy” given the cancer, there has been much stress finding a way forward.

In her Facebook posting, which I read this evening, she spoke about “crying” and “sobbing” and simply feeling unequal to the test that was necessary today. She is, as many are, claustrophobic, and the test simply overwhelmed her senses and exacerbated her fears. 

She is so tired.

And so, I come to you again, to ask that in the Oneness that unites us all you will hold her and her life dear. 

That as you hike, weave, write, feed the cats, go for walks with the dogs, watch a favorite television show, explore the wonder of our world, rest within your own thoughts, or deal with your own health concerns (and I know that several of you are in the midst of your own cancer journey), you will at some moment hold her in Oneness.

That you will trust, as Julian of Norwich did during the Black Plague all those centuries ago, that “All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things shall be exceedingly well."

We have no control over much of anything—or so I believe—except for the way we respond to life: its hollows and hills, trauma and triumph, heartaches and happiness.

Moreover, none of us truly knows—despite our deepest fears or our abiding faith—what well means in Julian’s prayer . . . or in our own. The question is always, “In this situation, what is the best that might happen for all concerned?”

For myself, I simply trust that whatever happens will be for the good of the Universe and the people involved. A basic tenet of the way I live my life is that out of everything comes good. Always, there is good—maybe not immediately, but in the long run of the days, weeks, months, years that form the span of our lives. 

Still, I want to hold Elisa—and all those who are going through dark days—in Oneness for we are all, truly, One. We all unite in that which makes us most human—the desire to reach out and hold the hand of another with love, compassion, mercy, gentleness, and acceptance in our hearts. 

Thank you.


The three photographs are from Wikipedia.

Tuesday, September 13, 2022

Belated Responses

 Finally, finally, life has settled down, and I can respond to the comments several of you left on my last posting (8/30/22). I simply cannot figure out how to respond to your comments on my blog page. It’s the Google signing in that defeats me. So, I’m doing what I consider the next best thing: printing your comments here with your name and then responding. I hope this works for those of you who left a comment. 



Ruby is just precious, and your tattoo is perfect! I know you are enjoying it and all it stands for, along with the memories of the day you got it. Dee, you are truly amazing!



Dear Cynthia, I do continue to enjoy Arthur’s face on my forearm. As I type—even now—I can look down and see those eyes and feel that all is well in my world. Peace.



I love that Arthur is permanently a part of you - as he was from when you were first given him all those years ago. This is a delightful post, Dee. Thank you. And you ARE amazing.




He  truly was a gift when I was five and so lonely, missing my parents and brother. No one ever knew about him and his presence until 1976 when, inadvertently, I let his presence and that of the Three Presences from the convent, slip out. The memoir on which I’m working will talk about all this. I so hope I can do  justice to the four of them. Peace. 



She did an amazing job with your Arthur tattoo. I'm happy for you that you got it, and it was a memorable experience.




Dear Jean, it truly was memorable. Ruby didn’t talk while she was working except to explain anything I asked. She’d made a template of her drawing of Arthur—from the figurine—and pressed that template on my skin and then did something I didn’t see and then began with the ink and the needle. I felt nothing but deep contentment as Arthur’s face slowly revealed itself. Peace. 



What a wonderful experience! And you shared it so well. I especially like the third from the last photo, not just of the tattoo but of you, too. Thank you for sharing this with me!!!




Dear DJan, thanks for mentioning the photo you liked. To be truthful, that’s the photo in which I thought I looked as if I were “three sheets to the wind”!!!! Also, I see that I posted that photo twice! But perhaps I miscounted and the photo you are talking about is the one of Ruby and me. She is such a love. Peace. 




What a great experience, I would love another tattoo.




Dear Jo-Anne: And I’d love to read a posting about your tattoos! Or at least see photographs of them. Hint! Hint! Peace.



That's a very good reproduction of Arthur -- always with you now.




Dear Joared, yes, she captured him. And I find myself looking at him as I type or wash my hands or prepare a sandwich. The truth is, and this may sound strange, but I seem to have plunged into a pool of serenity in the last few months since Arthur came to be imprinted on my arm. Peace. 



Arthur is a fine fellow, and now lives on your arm as well as in your heart. Elisa and Ruby as point and counterpoint made for a lovely afternoon. Job well done, all.




Dear Joanne, I so like your terms “point” and “counterpoint.” I hadn’t thought of that, and it just tickles my fancy. And, yes, the afternoon was lovely. Meeting her mentors was a delight. One of them will appear in my next posting—about a motorcycle ride. Peace. 



I am delighted that Arthur is now with you wherever you go. Ruby nailed the image and I love how you entertained the other artists and clients. Bet they are still talking about that neat lady they met and her cool tattoo.



Dear Patti, I’m not sure about their continuing to talk about our conversation in the tattoo parlor, but I bet that they do shake their heads every time they think of meeting a nun who laughed loudly, belly shaking, and shared stories of riotous times in the convent. Peace. 



Good for you! I got my first tattoo when I was 70, and the second-and-final one at 72.



Dear Linda, so good to find a comment from you. It’s been a long time since I’ve visited your blog, but I will do that sometime soon. I’ve truly been an on-again/off-again blogger for the last several years. 


I’d love to see photos of your two tattoos and hear the stories behind them. I plan on getting one more also—it will be written—in my mother’s script--on my left forearm and say, “Dolores, you find what you look for.” That was one of the most instructive legacies she left me. In some ways, it is the bedrock of my life. Peace. 



Love the pictures, Dee... and the tattoo. I do have a question (just curious), when you decided you wanted the tattoo, how did you decide where you wanted it?



Dear Rian, I knew that the entire body could be and has been for many the canvas for tattoos. However, I have for the past two years been trying to write a memoir, and the threads that hold it together have eluded me. 


When Ruby began her career, the thought came that perhaps being able to sit here at the computer and type and look down at my right arm and see Arthur’s gentle eyes and his abiding love for me would help me find the way through this labyrinth of a memoir. Peace.





Ruby did a great job. I love the pictures, #6 of 14 is my favorite. It's so wonderful to see you all together and having such a great time.



Dear Inger, I, too, especially like that photograph. My long-sleeved t-shirt with the stained-glass window effect also pleases me mightily! Peace.



Dee’s Comment on the Posting:

You know, one question didn’t come up in these welcomed responses from you, the readers who are so dear to me in Oneness. That question is, “Why no color to the tattoo?” The answer is that I have a form of cutaneous T-cell lymphoma—a skin cancer labeled “mycosis fungoides.” In its early stage, this cancer reveals itself in pale pink patches on my skin. These patches are sometimes active and sometimes not. When they are, I do light treatments three times a week and/or use a cream medication. When active, the patches are seen because of the pale color. 


When I spoke to the dermatologist whom I see every few months about getting a tattoo, she was enthusiastic, but said that I couldn’t have color because that would hide the active stage of the cancer. 


Ruby’s artistic ability, I think, truly shows in Arthur’s tattoo because the black seems shaded, in some places, and thus “colored.” Peace.