Yes, I'm posting from HiveWorld. I have on girl shoes, my hair is styled, and I'm wearing cute clothes. I'm drinking ginger lemon tea, though the caffeine buzz from this morning's mugs of Newman's Own caramel and vanilla coffee are still singing arias in my CNS.
Life is good.
How good is it?
I'm up every morning at 5:30 am, as I have been for several weeks now, writing. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because if I have a spiritual practice at all anymore it is writing. And dang it's luscious to be banging away on my laptop as the sky lightens, the first bird of the day says hola, and kitties purr electromagnetic rumblings from their snuggles on my lap, on my desk, and the couch two feet away.
I went back to the 8-year grad school to get the official diagnosis. I'd had an ultrasound of my nether regions and as he perused the pics he said: you have such beautiful organs! Which was so nice to hear. Then we chatted a little about cancer (I don't like to call it cancer, I prefer to call it pre-cancer, he said), and the surgery, where he tried to upsell (while I'm in there, would you like a D&C or a tubal ligation with that removal of your cervix?). When I expressed my indecision to let him up my HooHah with a torching device, he began his flattering song and dance, but I cut him off and said you'll be much more effective with me if you get right to the hard science of it, show me exactly what you'll be doing, and why. He looked down at his desk for a moment and I wondered if he was even listening. Then he stood and began to ransack his office. Several minutes later he produced a brochure from a medical device company that showed in bright digital color the cancer covered cervix, the cutting tool, the cutting of the cervix, the cervix post-cut, and the happy pink puffy partial cervix six months post-cut. Sold! (well, not entirely as I haven't scheduled the surgery yet as you know, gotta wait for the Knowing . . .) On my way out the door he said to me: two months, I give you two months tops, then I want to see you on my operating table. So Life, you're on notice, you have a deadline . . .
Baby Wallace, the enormous fire puma behemoth that he is, and ever the petri dish, has developed an abscess in his left paw. The vet shot him up with all sorts of Pharmaceutical Whatnot, but it'll take a few days to kick in. In the meantime he holds his paw up like feng shui prosperity kitty. Thanks Baby Wallace!
Baby Malcolm has decided that there is great refuge to be found on my head. While I sleep, he rides my head like a horse, and if I'm lucky, he gives me one nostril as a blowhole for oxygen. Baby Emmaline still greets the day by sticking her tongue up my nose, though she has also discovered that the corner of my eyes and my open mouth are also great ways to say I Love You with a scratchy tongue. Jacinta growls, and purrs, and growls, and prrps, and growls, and blissfully naps. It's awesome. I love it all. I wouldn't change a thing.
The "spiritual retreat" is this weekend (when you follow the link, scroll down for presenters and pics). And after a couple of months of waffling, I'm almost positive I'm going. Dare I say I actually feel excitement? Good vibes? Echoes of future hilarity careening my way? I'm not sure what I'm more swerved about: meeting David Scoma (who helpfully dropped a bomb in my bulls*t this last go round of Open Your Eyes), meeting Bruce Rubin (screenwriter for Ghost, Jacob's Ladder, and The Time Traveler's Wife), or the fact that the retreat hosts have agreed to have gluten free food at Every Single Meal.
Seriously. Life is dang skippy flippin good . . .
PS - Nathan, dear Nathan, we were Feeding the Birds back in 1986 up at SUNY Purchase, and then in NYC. It's awesome that you wish to spread the goodness, yet you must give props to its roots. . . I hold my hand up, fingers dangling, in Yes and Howdy to you as you surf the lovely wave of Yessssssss your Twitter account is generating . . . :)