Time Is Precious; Waste It Wisely

Time. Where is it? Where does it go? And, how can I get more? It's my excuse for everything: I don't have enough time. If only I didn't have to do this, or that. But, it's time to stop complaining and time to remind myself that there is plenty of it. I think I got a check-mark among pluses on my elementary school report card for "uses time wisely," and I wasn't very happy about it. But, there's always time to change.

Here's what I'm going to do, for starters:
1. Make a schedule. For real. I'm only going to do things that matter, and plan for the things that do. (I'll have to pencil in an hour or two for some bad TV, but no more late-night marathons of Kim and Kourtney Take New York!
2. Stop doing things that don’t make me happy or make things happen.
3. Cancel a commitment, or two, and not feel guilty about it – no more feeling bad about not doing things that I don't really want to do. I only need to show up for things that matter.
4. Say no when I feel like it.
5. Let things be – messy! Schedule a certain amount of time for chores. After that, whatever isn't finished will have to wait!

Speaking of time, isn't it springtime yet? I need this shirt, from J. Crew, for spring. Dang, I love a pretty oxford.

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” ~Annie Dillard

Reality Shows Are Cool

Oh man, I can't believe it's been almost two months since I last wrote. I've been laying low, recovering, relaxing. My surgery was rescheduled and happened on Dec. 12. It was a walk in the park compared to the first time around, and now I have brand new squishy boobs, which are slightly lopsided but awesome nonetheless.

So, I have a confession. I was watching this show, "Sweet Home Alabama," it's like "The Bachelor," but for a southern dude and southern gals, with a few city slickers thrown in. Who knew this guy would say something I love: "You have to be all in. It's when you let your guard down that you see the miracles of life." So cool, and so true. That boy will make some gal a lucky lady knowing that. Wish I'd known that a long time ago. But, I do now, and that's all that matters.

Now, it's a brand new year, and I think this one will be even more exceptional than the last, with more miracles, blessings, health, and green juice. Jon was even excited about the juice part for about a day, until he tried it. But, trust me, he was being dramatic – that's what happens when your palate is used to stuff like Doritoes, Mike & Ike's and cheeseburgers. I find it refreshing and delicious, no joke. It makes me feel like I'm at a spa, and it's sweeter than I expected, too. Never been so excited to be "all in" to life.

Make Juice Not War (Kris Karr/Crazy Sexy Diet) 
5 stalks kale
5 stalks romaine
4 stalks celery
2 large cucumbers (peeled if they're not organic)
2 big broccoli stems
2 pears or apples
1 inch piece of gingerroot

Happy, and Writing

Long ago, a few weeks over a year, I said that I couldn't write because I was too happy. Well. That is just silly, I've come to realize. I'm drunk with optimism, and writing poetry like never before. The happy poet who I atheized back then is alive and well, and living inside of me. Thank you, God.

My dad, in a funk a few months ago, whining about the crops or the broken down tractor, asked, "What was good about you getting cancer?" "So many things," I said. "I feel closer to God than I ever could have imagined, I feel grateful, blessed, happier, kinder." Since then, I've also confessed to my sister that, some days, I'm gripped by fear. But then it's gone, and I am electric, feverish about the future.

I have surgery Dec. 2. The good one. One year, and my cancerversary that I couldn't really ignore like I'd originally planned came and went without pomp and circumstance, thank God, again. I'm blessed, blessed, blessed to no end that I can go without a big to-do about being alive. Nothing is sweeter, and I can hardly say what that means, just that I know how it feels to believe I would die – and then I didn't, and so I feel like sort of witness to a miracle, which changes you, good and bad. But much more good than bad, and nothing is ever the same as it was before, and so it's a milestone that was never intended, but a milestone nonetheless. A life changer, a game changer. Dec. 2 is another milestone. The last hurrah in this bittersweet party that celebrates the things you never really wanted to or should have to, but that's so alight and beautiful in spite of what started it all. It's all so simple: celebration, hope, faith, life, life, life, and this little one that's so full and fresh with it.

NJ after her very first Ring Pop, a blue one, as you can see – compliments of her Papa.

How Many Miles Does It Take?

During the breast cancer walk, we asked why in God's name is this thing 60 long freakin torturous miles. What's up with that? Haven't we suffered enough? I mean, everyone here pretty much has suffered in one way or another, from breast cancer, of course. And now we have to walk 60 miles on top of that? Why not 40 miles? Why not 30? But now I get it, and maybe it should have been obvious from the start.

It's supposed to be a little torturous and hard and slightly misery-inducing, because that's how it feels to have cancer. This is as close as it gets to walking in the shoes of those who've had to take the walk unwillingly, a measure of the tedium, the dreariness, the struggle to take one more step, to wake up to another day of uncertainty – besides the knowing that you'll have a hard time just getting out of bed from muscles and joints sore from chemo drugs; stiff, tight skin from surgeries in inconvenient places; looking again at that strange body you're living in and trying to get down with. Wanting to get back into bed and forget about it. 

After Day One of the walk, it seemed preposterous that we'd go back the next day and do it all over again, and then again. But, like cancer too, there is grace in the struggle, humility, an abundance of love, gratitude and support. How many miles does it take to get you to that place? Fifty-nine just might not be enough.

Is Worry Worth Writing About?

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."  Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I haven't been writing as much lately and have been trying to figure out what the deal is. I mean, this is normal for writers, I suppose. Writer's block, and all that jazz. Or, for anyone who does anything creative. Sometimes the juices just aren't a-flowin'. But, I think it's more that I've caught the worry bug, and I just don't like to put negative vibes out there, anywhere, for anyone. Today I realized though that if I don't put them out there, then they're just in here, in me, and that's the worst place of all.

Yesterday, there was a horrifying photograph in the Washington Post of a little girl who was burned in a Pakistani suicide bombing. I thought of NJ, of course, as any parent would think of their child. Anything that devalues the preciousness of life is disturbing to me now more than ever – sickening, paralyzing nearly. Yesterday when the train got to my stop, some drowning, heavy sadness physically overtook my body. I felt nauseous, and started crying as I was walking through the parking lot. Couldn't even wait until I got to my car. I hoped no one saw me.

The image of the little girl was awful, but it set free some oppressive heap in me that's been there for weeks – fear of anything bad happening to NJ, or my family, or, basically – me. What if I'm working too much, and not spending enough time with my family and that makes me sick, again? What if I'm not eating enough good stuff, and that makes me sick again? What if I need to exercise more (um, I mean, exercise at all, and yes, I do!), or give more, create more, love more, pray more? What if I'm waiting too long to get my ovaries out of my body, and that makes me sick? What if I can't have another baby and NJ never gets to have a brother or sister? What if I'm breathing wrong (not even joking)? What if it comes back? What if, what if, what if? This worry itself will make make me sick.

My friend, Ash, told me I should see a therapist after my surgery. It would be a lot to deal with, maybe more than I could prepare for, mentally. Maybe she was right. But can a therapist heal me better than God can? Talking is talking, and I'm being much too quiet. I know God is listening, and well, He's free.

A little Xanax never hurt anybody, either.

Bless This Home Sweet Home

Buy this pretty picture from Spread the Love.

Buy this one from Spread the Love, too.

Show Some Love, As If You Haven't Already Shown Enough

I'm doing the 3-Day walk in DC. Sixty freakin' miles. 6-0. Soo excited, and nervous. I know I'll cry so hard when I see all of the gorgeous ladies and families and friends who have been affected by breast cancer. What's a few blisters for a good cause, right? I hope I raise millions of dollars, just me – with the help of you.