When I was a fraction of myself. When the anchor of cancer pulled me so far underwater I was sure I would never reach the surface again. When I felt the ache of hopelessness.
There was always this unbreakable thread that kept me just shy of the bottom.
And each prayer you sent me, each thought, and well wish. Each time you said my name, or squeezed your eyes closed and sent me love, or read my words and ached with me for just a moment. Each time you extended your energy in my direction, or folded your fingers together, or kneeled down at your place of worship. Each time. Every. Single. Time.
It moved me.
Those prayers. That energy. Those connections. They were balloons. And I held on to each one. And they lifted me.
Are you a believer? Do you believe? Can you see what can’t be seen?
Can you picture those balloons carrying me into Spring?
After my first round of chemo, I wrote this:
I kept thinking about a retreat I attended in college. A nun asked us to lay down on the floor in a way that represented our relationship to prayer, and God. It was a strange request, but I remember laying down on my back with my arms spread wide open, and my eyes closed. I felt vulnerable, but safe. I felt open, and free. If I had to do the same thing right now- I would chose the fetal position. Because I feel scared, and hesitant.
Here I am, nine months later, and my arms are open again. There were days when I could barely crawl. Days where I would stumble to the couch and barely move. And tonight as I was walking in the cool, early fall air– I noticed them. My arms. They are open. My fists are not clenched. I am ready to run.
Thank you. Thank you for those balloons. Even the tiniest ones mattered. They swirled together and lifted me up.