December 6, 2012 | Godspeed: A Story From James

Hello all. It's been an interesting time, and I'm not sure I know quite what to make of it all yet. But I thought maybe I could share my reflections in the best way I know how. I've written a story for you.

James

Godspeed Good Godwit

There is only one thing I can promise you when the night stretches beyond limit. You are not alone.

Deep in the darkest and mirkiest blues, the moon shone through a speck of cloud. That very same moon who hovered above the earth for seemingly days on end. Beaming, shining, and glowing, the moon didn't move. Like never before, he just towered above the wilderness in an endless midnight kingdom.

The animals began to gather along the ocean shore to stare at the marvel, there up above gleaming in giant ripples across the ocean. They wondered at this spectacle. How could he just sit there? Why wasn't he driving steadfast across the sky chased by the sun? Would she never return?

When the sempiternal night clenches white knuckle tight, Good Godwit must go, its time for flight.

When the sun hides away, abandoning her northern stay, Good Godwit must go, to save the day.

Soon everyone was congregated in a bewildered horde, muscling back and forth, arguing amongst one another. Worried seagulls fluttered about the heads of walruses, aimlessly diving for minnows amongst the brilliant puddles sparkling on the beach. Dark black crescents crashed around frightened heads as a moose stepped with long lanky strides over seal pups, in search of her daughter. The wolf family crowded the flanks, singing haunted choruses as they corralled the chaos. Ptarmigans bumped blindly into foxes before beating away in the knick of time. Salmon huddled in a pool of silver moonbeams, confused by the enormous bodies of orca and bowheads who glided past into shallow shores. The great commotion was deafening as brothers called to sisters and mothers calmed children.

Desperate cries of hunger and cold, plagued the eyes of younger and old.

They began to see, something must be done. For it was clear to all, they needed the sun.

Desperate cries of hunger and cold, plagued the eyes of the scared and bold.

They began to see, they needed someone. Who could search the darkness to find the sun.

The crowd began to argue, escalating the chaos with accusations and bickering. The orca began to shout at the bowheads. He blamed them for not paying proper respects to the sun, they should have left earlier to meet her where the ice grows. A long bearded mountain goat stepped forward, berating the caribou. Then the fox snipped at the wolves, and the wolves growled at the looming ice bears who peered in from the foggy depths. Soon the entire mass clashed with foaming teeth, howls, and bellows, a whirl of splashes and wingbeats, and gnashing antlers. The rapacious assaults and raucous retaliations could barely be made out in the darkness, but escalating yips and grunts, followed by squawks and roars bore the most horrific cacophony one could imagine. Just at the point where the rolling stones, splashing waves, and stumbling boulders were deafened by the violent gathering a giant beast appeared. Barreling forward out of the darkness, as if incarnated by the fury to calm the wreck of shoving masses.

This does no good to hurt one another, stop this instant my sisters and brothers.

Don't you see, something must be done. For it's clear to us all, we need the sun.

Stop, do no more harm to each other, I'll climb the mountain to find our mother.

They began to see, what must be done. Brother bear would go retrieve the sun.

A little voice in the back protested, claiming Great Grizzly could not find the sun, only her, Good Godwit, the small flighty one. The godwit came forward, landing near the bear's trunk of a leg, standing barely above his paw. Her beak was long and slender, leading back to a chestnut plume, poised with graceful and confident posture. The animals, now more confused than before, stared blankly at this bold character who stood on the shore. The silence fell unanimously like the whisper of morning, only to be shattered by delayed laughter bursting into devilish uproar. How could this small beast possibly believe she was the one to save them. Her? She was the one to end the endless night? No, certainly not her! What could she possibly do that the others could not? Good Godwit could not fly as high as Eagle, and he had never touched the sun. She could not swim like Gray Whale, who never found the sun's resting spot across all of the depths of the ocean. Good Godwit could not run like Caribou, and she certainly never found the sun in all of her treks beyond the tundra. They shouted at her, and belittled her. Even if she could find it, she would never be able to bring it back, they said. She's too little, too weak, they said. The wolves howled, loons laughed, foxes yipped, wales sang, and moose snorted. They all laughed and laughed until finally Good Godwit bursted into a flustered and defiant flight. She yelled down to them, to stay in their misery, to fear and moan in the darkness, to have no faith, it mattered not, for she would return, and bring all of the warmth, hope and good grace of the sun upon her shoulders. Rolling in a tortuous tangle of laughter below her they scoffed, and sneered. They yelled sarcastically behind her, godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed! Interrupted by bursts of cackling madness, they screeched, do come back and save us! Godspeed! She quickly vanished into the horizon.

Godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed! You've got to believe Godwit, believe!

Full speed ahead Godwit, full speed! Yo've got to succeed Godwit, succeed!

Because of his strength, his wisdom and prowess, the animals agreed the bear was their champion. Following their disparaging farewell to Good Godwit, they laid all of their trust into the old chief. And with that settled he lumbered off through the willows. Great Grizzly travelled through the cascading streams, gurgling quietly in the still valleys. He marched up hillsides, through the northern yarrow and mountain heather, past the pines. Up and up, over and over, through the deep night he journeyed. His powerful paws carried him farther than he had ever been before, continually headed east, where she rises to bring a new day's hope. He came to the base of the Mighty Mountains. He peered into the dancing emeralds and sapphires that twirled above the ebony peaks. He began to climb, higher and higher, until the winds whipped his hide. Great Grizzly's massive coat stayed true. He fought through the banshee gales, past the ice caverns, and glacial tombs.

At last, long awaited and hard to climb, the mountain is conquered at this precipitous time.

Now fast, where's the sun you came to find, through valleys, hills, and over mountain side?

Finally, with ice clinging to his fur, crystals in his breath, and a view above the clouds, he surveyed the horizon. Even at this peak the only light came from Moon, who sat pridefully above the world with his troop of ballerinas. Searching far in the east, along the horizon, he looked for even a sliver of light. Anything beyond a moonbeam. But no, there was nothing but boundless blackness. He turned to the south, back to where he came from, to the north, nothing. This couldn't be. Darkness, eternal, stifling darkness was all that could be seen from the highest peaks of the Mighty Mountains. Great Grizzly returned to the shore with his head bowed in sorrow, bowed in shame.

When he returned from whence he came, he bowed his head in perpetual shame.

The beasts spoke not a word of blame, not even to mention as much as his name.

The others said not, they knew what was found. All hope was forgot, there stirred not a sound.

The stillness of the mournful crowd was overbearing. After silence like glass the whales began to moan in agony, followed by the wolves. They cried up to the moon asking him to bring back the sun, together the families howled at the obstinate king of the night. The moose could muster not a single sound, petrified in worry of the future to come. The others wailed in their own ways. All of the animals huddled in tighter, forming a mass of solemn kinship against the bleak shoreline. They stared out into the ocean, each secretly asking, secretly hoping, but daring not to say a word. Their sullen faces longed to see Good Godwit return, to bring the sun upon her shoulders. Finally, Great Grizzly spoke.

All hope is not lost and we are not done, for we still have strength to find the sun.

You each have talents, unique unto you. Travel the darkness, follow through.

Those who swim, swim, and run, run, All of you like Good Godwit, find the sun.

You each have strengths, endowed unto you. Travel the darkness, may your hearts be true.

With that said they all took off. Each creature took to their own pathways. The orcas, bowheads, grays and other whales pushed out from the shore. The bison and caribou took to the arduous plains. The terns, eagles, and swans stormed the air in a flash of feathers. Mountain goats searched for the highest peak, as the vole looked for the deepest underground passageways. Everyone did their part. They bumped along through the darkness, forever they seemed to disperse. The birds flew farther than they ever had before, beyond their usual lakes, beyond the mountains, beyond the forests, where the weather was warmer, even hot and wet. It was of no use. Beaten and desperate the famished beasts returned. One by one, the hooves clattered back to that cobbled shore. The wings touched down, and paws padded over the logs and creeks. Each exhausted animal collapsed back into the huddled mass. The wolves smashed against the moose, the ptarmigans warming the fox. Not a beast even had the energy left to turn on another. Shrouded in the ink of the universe, with hides dowsed in sweat and ripped by wind, bleeding claws, hoofs, and talons, frozen coats, and sitting along the shore of deep and dark waters, the life of the world heaved from their failing lungs to gasp their remaining breaths. Afraid and weary, each began to retire. Each looked out unto the sea, each muttering their final words. They released their prideful desires with one last glance, finally unabashed, they whispered, godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed. Their oppressor stared down in flagrant apathy, beaming over the hope lost in his infinite kingdom, the joy that seeped into the darkness.

This is the end of the world. This is the end of all things. When shadows consume all hope, and joy is lost. Death is no evil, no looming cretin waiting to devour the hearts of all those that love, all those who pump fiery passion into the springs of life. Death is no monster, slashing and burning, casting lots into the ovens, cutting throats, and milling through the souls of those lost. All of the heartless and deranged misfortunes of an erratic and unstable universe, are mere vehicles. They are the deliveries, dumping bodies at the feet of eternity. They are not death. Death is deep, cold, hollow, and alone. Huddled in our masses of hope, we are slowly ripped away, one by one, by one. Death is eternal night and endless shade, it is the obstinate misgivings of an oppressive kingdom.

As the last beast closed his eyes, he felt the most intense joy he had ever dreamed, warm and calming. It stilled his massive heart and brought peace to the wounds and worries of an incredibly tired old bear. Great Grizzly felt the fire of life warming his coat as he drifted, further away into hidden memories, the best ones. Those special moments he saved for himself. His first salmon. The willow patch next to the two pronged log. The view of storms barraging the range. Those moments, the ones that remind him of how happy he is to have lived his life. As the memories stirred, so did his blood. The giant heart lurched piping blood through his veins as he felt himself floating into the warmest pools and brooks. He thought of his cubs with their mother, drifting through the meadows, splashing with the minnows. For the first time in his entire life, he realized how truly happy he was to have it. He did well.

Death is not a choice.

But time is. And this, my friends, is not that time.

As Great Grizzly drifted into the warm springs, the others experienced this sensation as well. Their eyelids warmed as they thought of the love and joy they knew, the happiness of arctic squalls crashing an ice bed from deep below, the spring flowers dotting an endless expanse, the pups, cubs, and kids. Life was more beautiful in their moment of death than they ever knew. The warmth spread, tingling throughout as they relived their individual worlds. This is the beginning of the world. The heat grew and grew into a raging wave of immense pleasure, until they opened their eyes to see the golden brim of the sun crowning over the sea, blasting rays of hope, disintegrating black to blue, to purple, with cascading oranges and yellows of a reborn meadow. The ocean radiated in scales of golden and silver embers, blinding the moon, and relegating him to a fleeting existence forever amongst his troop of twirling sisters. Eagle began to screech, look there! Look there! All eyes awake, all in awe, the animals stared in amazement, as Good Godwit pulled ahead. Starting a speck, just a silhouette, dashing ahead of the incredible chariot, she came streaming towards them, sun on her back. Brought to their feet, cheering, barking, and screaming, the animals strained into the sun to see their hero. The livelier pulled the weaker, the big helped the small, all working together, renewed with hope and faith in the world. She did it. She truly did it! That brave and beautiful little bird did it!

Godspeed Good Godwit, godspeed! You've believed Godwit, and succeeded!

Full speed ahead Godwit, full speed! You've found the sun Godwit, and retrieved!

The creatures were ecstatic, jumping and splashing, diving and dashing, and running all about. She truly pulled it off. They were saved. That is, all except one. The great bear still lay where he rested, smiling and thinking of fresh flowers in the glen, cubs, and salmon. For Great Grizzly was ready, he had been to the mountain and back. He had grown old, and seen his cubs. He was ready. For Godwit however, she needed to know that there was still a world full of love and beauty. She had more to see, more to do. She had a choice. She knew it was worth fighting for, traveling to the ends of the earth for. Good Godwit flew nonstop to the ends of the world, to pluck the sun from its hiding place. Her graceful wings carried her with confidence, despite the fears and doubts of others. She was unbeatable and courageous, gorgeous and passionate. She launched herself through an endless night to find the one she loved. She needed the sun.

Godspeed Good Godwit, Carry on!

Godspeed Good Godwit, be strong!

February 7, 2013 | James: A Godless Communist

A Godless Communist

There's something about home cooked meals, hours of sleep, and conversations with loved ones that resets an inner compass. This essay is no more political than a love note. Granted, love can be a controversial subject at times.

After a battery of debates with my father regarding different 'hot button' issues, the most recent of which was my stance against civilians owning military grade fifty caliber sniper rifles able to tear a hole through the side of armored vehicles. I was described in jest to my mother as a Godless Communist. Now obviously, there's some truth to his statement, despite the love backing this portrayal. Despite the brevity of my escape to the motherland of red mud, cowboy hats, and barbeque joints, I was able to pull to the surface some much needed strands of insight from their dormant abyss. Ben warned me about his trip back to Oklahoma. He said that it was the best conversations he had ever had with the parental units. In fact, it persuaded him to stop running – at least for now. It always seems that reflecting on my values, and seeing my roots, tends to make problems shrink.

My father and I went back and forth every chance my mother wasn't there to intervene. Father - son bonding time I reckon. Whether we were discussing homosexual rights in regards to the Boy Scouts of America, gun control, socialized medicine, homicide rates in the 'developed world', the importance of a standing army, abortion, or taxes, two themes continued to circle like vultures as we realized we were arguing in a similar direction, with different solutions. People should have incentive and accountability. Why is food service in New Zealand often abysmal? Because they don't treat front of house staff as well respected members of society. Commission and percentages speak a hell of a lot louder than wages. Why do you have to be extremely cautious when picking your favorite saltena vendor in Bolivia? Because you're not getting a dime out of anyone in court for losing three weeks of your life to the oral and anal flood that will ensue if you choose poorly. People must have accountability for their actions, and they need incentives to perform immaculately.

Of course it seems like I'm derailing this blog, but I can assure you there is a legitimate point I'm trying to build. Through the midnight hours of discussing possible solutions to the myriad of issues that are continuously thrown into simple yes/no bins of patriotic conservatism, or flaming liberal propaganda I began to realize this isn't so different from the issues I'm facing in my life. I don't honestly give a shit if someone wants to call themselves a member of the Tea Party, or a libertarian, or a progressive. It doesn't really mean much to me. Secondly, I don't think it really means much to the progression of solutions for our society. It's easy to get worked up about things that seem awful in our lives. It's easy to join the ranks of some new hope, fighting the villainy of past transgressions. It's easy to do nothing in your life while you scream bloody murder on Facebook. It's a lot harder to sit down and think about realistic options available in the wake of grief or chaos.

I've been trying to dig into my own issues with this affinity for accountability and incentive. There has to be a way to pull myself back on course. Back to the love I know is within me, and the strength to be a good steward, while maintaining an optimistic and realistic view of the future. Of course there is, and I believe, finally, I'm headed back to the right path. What is a Godless Communist after all? An indirect compliment? I think it's probably a way of describing my love for life on earth, and passion for strength in our families and communities. Obviously, it's a bit of a false moniker, as I would describe myself as more of an agnostic who finds serenity in the sacred tabernacles of nature, and a capitalist with heavy socialist leanings as far as community outreach and general standards of living are concerned, but I think he was on the right track. It has become clear to me that disappointment is directly related to expectations and goals. Bethany and my quality of life are products of our accountability to one another and the incentives to reach our expectations. Our incentive is a product of the expectations of our goals, which are completely up to us to decide. Furthermore, the accountability to remain dedicated to achieving our goals is also completely up to us. So perhaps redefining my goals is in order. I know I've convoluted a relatively simple argument for apparently no reason. But I suppose it's therapeutic for me to work out all of the little twists the rabbit takes in my mind. The elevator pitch of this entire essay is straightforward.

Bethany, I started to find myself lost without the clear goals we had spent so much time establishing, and subsequently eased my grip on my own accountability towards such goals, which threw me into quite a spiral. But I see once again, so many of those goals we once set are truly subsidiary. The only priority I absolutely have to work on right now is getting the two of us through this mess as smoothly as possible. Everything else can wait. And, in due time, bit by bit, we'll start building our empire once again. After all, as a Godless Communist, I'm only here to survive, there are no pearly gates for me. So I'd better make the best of it then, and I need you for that. So what do you say babe? How bout we get back to basics, and start focusing on just you and me? I'll see you in the morning.

March 13, 2013 | Farewelling the Old Path

I guess when you look at the facts of it, my entire life as I knew it was suddenly gone.
Gone was the grad school application and plans to move to Maryland. Gone is the
wedding plan. Gone were the hours spent studying – they were suddenly rendered futile.
Gone was the sweet little house we planned to stay in until leaving Moscow, gone are my
friends. Gone are the late nights and crazy morning hairstyles.

With simply the bare facts, I should feel empty.

But I don’t.

There’s something about being home that makes one feel somewhat fulfilled. Wait, that’s
not quite the right word, fulfilled implies going off and following your dreams. Breaking
free. No, there’s something about home that makes one feel somewhat ‘filled’. That’s
better. Whole. Comfortable. At Ease.

James and I are staying at my dad’s house this week, the old country home with
sprawling flower gardens and multitudes of birds singing that I grew up in. That familiar
trampoline that I have spent countless hours flying high above the earth on, into the vast
blue sky that at night is speckled with millions of stars. The lounging cows out the front
that stretch their necks over the fence and nibble on dad’s native trees, the sheep named
Bruce, and my old grey cat daisy who has survived 18 years on only fish and refusing anything else.

While mum and Guy are holidaying at a beach paradise up north, Whangapoua, with it’s
golden sands and perfect weather, I couldn't be happier to sit in the living room writing
this with a few clouds floating around the mountain, black sands and rugged
coastlines just a few minutes away. I couldn't be happier to snack on toast as we always
did, daydreaming and cooking for the guys within walls brimming with memories.

Yes, that old life is gone. But in a way, I’m happy it has. Because it’s given us a clean
slate; a future which we can begin painting once again. It took me a while to come around
to it; for a month or so after surgery, still in a slight state of shock, I would smile and nod
when James would begin talking of future plans. But all I’ve needed was a dash of belief
and a dollop of hope, and we’re back on track. Now, the future is one of my favorite
topics.

I know when we’re on a certain trajectory, it’s so easy to feel locked into that and there’s nothing you can do about it. I wish I had known sooner that no, I didn't have to continue in Anthropology, I didn't have to be an academic, I didn't have to be ‘the best’ at everything I did. Everything was a choice. You see it so often – someone who followed that same trajectory until it wore out, then at 50 realized “I wanted to be a school teacher all along, who was I kidding?”

It’s as if we are laying our entire lives in the hand of the seventeen-year-old us (which we
would never do otherwise), trusting them and saying, “yes, self-conscious, confused teen,
I will follow this choice you made to study at university until it wears me down”.


For much of my degree, I considered myself more of a writer than an anthropologist. I
knew I would write someday, but I had to continue, I had to get a sensible, successful,
internationally focused job. I did all the right things – ticked the international experience
box, work experience, volunteering, grades, whatever they needed. All so that someday,
after multitudes of academic publications, I would have the freedom and respect to write
whatever I wanted.

I've enrolled for a journalism diploma beginning this July. It’s a one-year multimedia
course, consisting of writing, photography, television and film, and radio. I know, I’ll be
in the middle of chemotherapy, but with a cohort consisting of many high-school leavers,
I think I’ll be able to do it. Plus, the medical warnings of side effects are always the
worst–case scenarios. When I told my dad, he was pleased, saying that although
‘journalism’ seems a little below my capabilities and training, I’ll be able to do it well. It’s an
interesting stage in life, this early-twenties thing. Pick a way to go and you’d better hope
you've picked the right path…

Nicola and I were talking about an old friend of ours, Alice, who gave university a go for
a couple of years knowing it wasn't for her, but was too afraid to pull out. Nicola had
signed a lease with her, and a month before they were about to move in together for the
next year of study, she received a call from Alice, in tears. She told Nic that she
was so sorry; she was going to pursue hairdressing and couldn't come back. Nic was
ecstatic, as she had known Alice had always wanted to be a hairdresser, yet had been afraid of
the societal analysis of the job.

Aden never went to University, in fact, he never finished high school. Yet here he is,
doing his grocery shopping with us and talking about his saving goals in his job, which he loves.
Yes, he picked fruit and trapped possums for a while, but I couldn't have been prouder.
It’s so important to do what fits you well and not cave in to judgment, and my little
brother has taught me this.

We’re also working on a short film for a festival at the moment, which has a deadline of
just before the journalism course begins. I won’t give the plot away now but plan on publishing
the script and film here once we have submitted it.

With these new directions in jobs, plans and lifestyle, I guess ‘fulfilled’ is the right word
for this unexpected stage in life. Although not as 'successful' by societies standards, hanging out with my parents while on the sickness benefit and wanting to write, it just feels right.

Six months

"So are you in remission?"

"Yeah, pretty much," I have always replied, despite never hearing the word uttered to me at all. 

But I've never really believed my answer, either. 

"Remission," according to the great Wikipedia, is the "state of absence of disease activity in patients known to have a chronic illness that cannot be cured. It is commonly used to refer to absence of active cancer... when expected to manifest again in the future."

The average time it takes for an anaplastic ologidendroglioma to creep its way back into one's mind (sorry, brain) is five to thirteen years. So I've been told. 

On Wednesday night I had my six-months-post-treatement MRI. Being back in the tube was a surreal experience, forcing back memories I had shoved aside into the dark abyss of cancer memories. Yet it was also extremely hopeful; I knew it was gone. I lay there knowing that the past year or so has been an experience to never forget, yet not always remember. One to put in the past, yet inspire a bolder, more understanding future. 

In a couple of weeks I'll likely hear my oncologist utter the R word, and I'll smile. It's just a safety word. A word that makes "we have no idea" sound medical. It's not coming back.

What I already know

There are certain things we know consciously, and a whole lot more we know. The two can even conflict with one another at times -

I know the tumour I had typically comes back in five to twelve years, and that I am never technically healed from cancer, living in an unknown state of remission.

However, I also know that odds can be defied, that the power of the human spirit can conquer physical ailments and disease.

As I fell apart in front of him, James gently reminded me last night that I have recently been letting the burden of expecting to live a normal successful life weigh me down.

With all the love I have ever seen in a human’s eyes (it humbles me), he noted that I’ve been planning for a ‘regular’ career path. “Think about what you want to do in your life, and take action,” he said.

“If, in five years, the tumour comes back, do you want to have lived 100% of your life by that point, or just 5%? It’s not that I think it will, but you have to keep it in your mind as a possibility. You can’t just live in denial of it.”

It was my lover who has been the spark in reminding me what I already knew, but had forgotten. He reminded me that life is ephemeral; we never know how long we have, or which precious moments we may miss the joy of fully experiencing.

It’s an interesting dichotomy, choosing between believing I will conquer this thing and harnessing my confidence in the future to do so, or letting cancer be a reminder of the impermanence of life.

On one hand, the power of positive imagery is certainly something I know, albeit subconsciously a lot of the time. Mental projections of a long and happy future surely can’t be bad, right...?

That’s what I’ve thought, up until today. However I’ve noticed that because of this belief, I’ve been slipping into a thought pattern that is afraid, that plans and waits, that thinks getting a typical journalist’s newsroom job could be a ‘good starting place’ for a career.

The other option may not sound so positive, in fact, it may seem mildly depressing. However when I feel it - feel the affect it has on me - it feels exciting and healing.

If you only had five years, what would you do differently?

This question has been turning over in my mind today, thanks to the timely reminder I had last night.

I would love, give, write, forgive, and be grateful. I would take more risks. I wouldn’t work in a low-paying, high stress job - financially, I would work to build assets for James and I (and our family) rather than rely on an income. I would share what I have learned. I would live more in the present moment, because that is the only life I have left.  

Interestingly, I picked up an old diary of mine this morning as I woke with the light streaming in. In it was written a New Year’s resolution from a couple of years ago -

To love unboundedly

Live consciously

Breathe slowly

Feel passionately

Know deeply

Listen wholeheartedly

Move freely

Speak sincerely

Laugh wholly

Grow constantly

…this I had forgotten. It’s so easy to forget.

It’s time to remember the fragility of time, the value of each moment, and forget fear.  

Fear and creating a life here

I’ve jumped out of a plane again.

Much to the disappointment of my parents – who thought I had given up that reckless habit – I jumped as soon as I physically could.

In a skydive you have to trust the air, trust the gear, but most importantly, trust yourself. Your life is in your hands, and only yours.

I haven’t got to the point yet where I feel fearless on the ride up, but I was surprised by how natural it felt to throw myself out after twenty months bound to the ground.

Yet the bright lights of Wellington twinkle and I am afraid.

Up until now, I’ve been hiding in my hole up in Cluny lodge. It was safe, comfortable and nurturing. That existence understood that I was ‘sick’, and therefore less able to be adjectives such as “fun”, “adventurous” and the like.

There was always something. Some reason to be different, some reason to stay in my safe little hideaway. First it was recovery from brain surgery, then IVF, then radiation sapping my energy, then chemotherapy.

But now what?

I find myself living with my incredible husband in a little studio in a city called Wellington, the capital city of New Zealand - a city with a soul and a mind. Yet I find myself feeling alone, feeling old and worn. Yes, even introverts can feel alone.

Hang on a minute – old and worn?! Bethany, you’re twenty-one for God’s sake! Have you not you just learnt that life is precious, that it may expire at any time, that every moment is a gift to be grabbed and lived to the fullest and fanciest?

Let me begin the next chapter by deeply apologising to you if you have viewed me as a valiant heroine fearlessly kicking the ass out of cancer. I’m far from it.

I’ve been afraid, stumbling along the road of life and following its twists and turns because there are no other roads to take.

The journey is certainly not over. 

***

So, enough theorising. I went to Adrenalin Forest with James and his workmates over the weekend, and had fun. 

Yes, fun! Is it strange that someone my age is having to make goals to have fun?! Well, that's what I'm doing. With my lack of excuses and increases in energy, I am going to share my goals. It's a little scary making them public...but for the sake of holding myself accountable to fun, I'm trusting you with them.

- Learn to be an acrobat with Leonela
- Learn to Poledance (have already taken one class) - make a friend
- Take an art class and make a friend there
- Have dinner with at least one girlfriend every week
- Have a glass of wine with dinner every night
- Dance with James each day
- Read fiction for pure enjoyment - always have a book on the go. 

Identity and learning

(I wrote this a couple of weeks ago - sorry I only am just getting around to posting it!)

  ...

I think I’m having an identity crisis.

Alton, a wonderful mentor and professor at the University of Idaho, asked me before we left Moscow what my main lesson had been over the three years. I told him with sureness, “I have learned to love.”

Despite love being something I’ve since found that you can’t “know” once and for all and you can never fully learn it, it’s probably a fair statement considering the anti-love, anti-commitment girl that started at the university in January 2010.

I took a big exam this a while ago. I didn’t do very well. In fact, I left before anyone else, leaving multiple blank answers. It was something I thought I was “good at” – general knowledge, writing, basic grammar and numeracy, and last but not least, exams. I thought that stuff came naturally.

I thought journalism stuff comes naturally, that’s one of the main reasons I’m doing it.

In Idaho I studied Anthropology and International Studies. Of course, despite all that training, I didn’t come away telling Alton, “I learned to be an anthropologist.” No, I learned about love.

What on earth am I learning about now? I wonder, as I lie on our bed with a headache and barely energy to type.

Perhaps it is to learn. That’s what I’ve been wondering today anyway.  “Learning to learn” was the catch-phrase when I went to school. I should have taken that more seriously.

Now, faced with my own inadequacies, I see that I can’t, and don’t want to, just float on by doing things last minute and still getting “good grades” (quotation marks implying I don’t know what the worth of those really were in the end). I want to, and need to, truly learn things. Repeat. Visualise. Discuss. Articulate. Question. Repeat.

Or perhaps it is to say sorry. That’s something I’ve always struggled with, that humility thing. I may say it was the cancer that has “brought me to my knees,” but don’t believe it.

The cancer was only a trigger. It was a situation I found myself in that required me to rely on others, and that made me act out of character and have to apologise for it. I didn’t want it to be an excuse, ever.

I guess time will tell what I’m learning from this stage of life. I hope, and am sure; it’s not just journalism.