Liebe Liebster; a hard act to follow

Lisa Watts has outed me. Lisa writes Minding the Miles, a blog I think she writes while running. Lisa is my beloved sister Ellen's beloved friend and running partner, and in every story I hear about Lisa, she is running. I think maybe Lisa runs all the time, the way the rest of us walk around and open the fridge and then check email again. When Lisa crossed the finish line at the Cape Cod Marathon a few years ago, my memory says she took a swig of water, picked up one kid (hers) to pop on the breast, held another kid (also hers) on her hip, and had a couple of others (okay, I guess they were all hers) embracing her proudly. Lisa's sweet-as-that-swig-of-water blog is the only other blog I sort of know. Since I like it, I think it deserves the Liebster Blog Award, which spotlights good, small blogs. But the award accidentally outs the frauds among us. That may not be the overt purpose of the award, but in my case, that is the result. Because Lisa kindly nominated taotechu for the same award, a designation that means one small blogger (you can actually be fairly large, but the blog needs to be pretty small in terms of followers) (although Lisa happens to be sort of small, by chance) thinks another small blog is worthwhile. And now, like in an awkward game of tag where everyone else is older and runs faster than you do, it is my turn to pick five (5!) of my favorite small blogs and nominate them.

I don't follow any blogs. Unless -- weather.com doesn't count, does it? Sometimes I follow that.

I feel like a fraud, hoping for blog followers when I do not follow blogs myself.

I always felt like a bit of a fraud back when I was an English major in the 1970s, so I recognize the feeling. I could write papers well enough, but reading with a dried out highlighter and a dictionary wasn't as much fun as it sounds. 17th century poetry, as one fibrous example, was like eating unshelled seeds -- lots of parts passed through undigested, and the tiny kernel of meaning was small satisfaction for all the work it took to get at.

Sure. I cried when King Lear found Cordelia and began to outgrow his tight heart just before dying. And I have snorted over witty passages by Whatshisname and that other writer, too, that I wished in the moment of reading I would never forget. I like getting literary references that are meant to invoke only a secret, prideful smile among those in the know. But all that is easy, and came with the assigned syllabus. It does not make one a true reader. When given time to read for pleasure, back in college and to this day, I don't pick up one of the truly timeless novels that sits on the long list of books I should get to someday. If I were the real McCoy (ref. Macbeth, Act II, scene iii), I'd read all the time. I only read about half an hour a day (guess which one), unless you get me out of the house and onto an airplane, a guest bed, or a waiting room chair.

I can't imagine what I'm doing with my time, such that I don't know five blogs to introduce you to. It's not just blogs I'm not following - I'm not following anything. I couldn't tell you if the Superbowl has happened yet this year or not, or who might play or maybe did play in it. Until an alarming hoopla went off over some verdict, I hadn't heard about that woman who everyone thinks did something bad to her child but then got let off. I couldn't tell you her name. Baby Jessica?

I should follow more things, but I feel uncomfortable watching political debates, listening to stories of kidnappings and rescue missions. Or watching competitive figure skating; no thank you. I can wait for the replay or the summary; in the moment itself, I just want everyone to be okay. When others are guffawing at Whohe Perry for forgetting what federal department he plans to eliminate, I can hardly bear the embarrassment for him. And his family! Oh, God, poor things. Does he have a family? I wouldn't know.

I only skim the headlines to make sure the world isn't coming to an end, because I wouldn't want to be caught off guard if someone strikes up a conversation about it while I walk my daily loop. Every now and then I will ask my beloved son, T'ai, for a recap of the season's news, because though can be a serious flake, he is the real McCoy in terms of following and reading. "T'ai, what's going on in Egypt, really? What's this Cain stuff about? Just give me the gist."

Sometimes my clients think I am taking down a note about them, when actually I have picked up my pad to write down something they've said that sounds like they assume I know: L. Gaga, I'll scribble.

Authentic students of literature, authentic students of the world, spend their free time reading classics and blogs that aren't even assigned. I've never read Ulysses, and I've never read Middlemarch. Man, it feels good to get that off my flat chest. I have not actually read War and Peace. And though I am so grateful to Lisa for thinking of taotechu so kindly, I don't know how to pay-it-forward with names of other good, small blogs.

This is like it used to be taking off a tight bra on a hot day, coming clean about these things. It's freeing, but revealing in an awkward kind of way, too.

POSTSCRIPT: You MUST read Ellen's comment below to understand how DEEP MY AFFLICTION IS.

you have to be connected to be able to let go

Did we even get around to naming the storm that shook us by the scruff of the neck a few weeks ago? Around here we just call it "the storm." It was the most dramatic weather event I have experienced. The night of the storm, I was staying with Ting and Dave in Northampton. We lost power in the middle of stir-frying, and ate the half-cooked meal in the flicker of candlelight. Afterwards we stood by the window as the night darkened, listening, watching the heavy snow fall. We were captivated by one old oak tree: moving in the snow and the strong wind, the tree looked almost liquid, like seaweed moving under the ebb and flow of waves. Watching something so solid transformed into a fluid state was pretty trippy, like a dream. Nature had shifted into some unknown gear, and its usual laws didn't seem to apply.

Then, too, there were the sounds of the storm. How often do we, as adults, hear a truly new sound? None too often, my friend. A new ringtone, maybe. But not a new sound from the world itself. The creaks, then pops of tearing, breaking, exploding trees were all new and frightening. Trying to sleep that night, I felt like a deer must feel during hunting season -- unable to relax for a moment, alert to every sound. A heavy branch would hit the house with a new sound -- a blow from a roof-troll's sledgehammer -- and my heart raced for long minutes afterwards. In my mind, I knew we were likely safe. My body somehow thought differently.

Along with most people in our area, following that night we were nine days without power. Though I was glad for the eventual return of light, heat, and refrigerator, the truth is that I enjoyed the enforced pace of being without electricity. Laura was less chipper about the whole thing, and I can't blame her; for one thing, she had to evacuate the house while I saw clients in front of the roaring fire. She'd go off to West Hartford in search of a place to plug in and warm herself up. Meanwhile I heated water over the fire and stared at the dancing flames with my clients. Though chilly when two steps away from the fire, I was not unhappy. I liked feeling awake. It was like riding a bicycle on an unlit road on a moonless night. I was paying attention.

We are still navigating around the piles of fallen branches that line the streets. Wounded trees are everywhere. But here is the thing, now three weeks later, that captures my mind: once a branch has been broken, it stops receiving signals from its source. It doesn't know that it is time to let go of its leaves.
So I think of cancer, of course, when I see those dangling branches with their full loads of leaves that don't know how to let go. I think of how cancer cells don't know that it is time to stop. I think of how life, being connected to the Source, means being able to die. Cancer cells aren't connected enough to the Source to know that they should die. Those cells that are connected know enough to eventually bring us all to a natural death, by letting go when it is time. Somehow there is Grace in there, even though my mind wants to find a way to a cheerier conclusion.

This is one of the ways cancer changes you. I look at this broken branch and see veins, mammary ducts -- and a mirror of life.

peekaboo

What. What.

You thought I was ending taotechu? Guess I fooled, well, us -- all 54 of us, or the 5 that are still listening.

Which reminds me of a story. Last week, Laura was trying to figure out how big a turkey you need to get in order to feed the crowd we are hosting on Thanksgiving. She found her way to a website that had a little trivia quiz. "How many Pilgrims were at the first Thanksgiving?" it asks. She reads the question to me at the breakfast table. "Hey, let's guess," she says. We each take a few seconds. "Gee, I dunno," I say. "Could be like 100. Or maybe 12."

I'm breaking walnuts and sprinkling them over my Grape Nuts. She is staring at the screen. "How about 43?" I say between bites. "43," she types in.
"What's the real answer?" I ask.
"Huh. It doesn't say," she says, searching the site. "Oh, here it is. 43! Oh. That's us. Huh."

It turns out she was on a page asking for an expert answer to someone's sincere question. Some kid typed in her homework question, waited for the answer, and then put our stab-in-the-dark response into her little essay. It's somewhere out on the web, and other kids in other Novembers will no doubt have the same question asked of them: "How many Pilgrims were at the first Thanksgiving?" They'll be pleased to so easily find our definitive, authoritative-sounding "43." They'll write that down and hand it in.

This is how history is formed and recorded.

Mind you, it is only now, as I take a picture of our pronouncement, that I see that the question is about "pilgrams." I like to think that would have tipped me off.

Now I can't figure out how to segue back to the entry I intended to make about all the broken trees the storm left behind.

I will post this and see if anyone is still here with me. Then, I want to say something about broken trees.
And about cancer, too.

So long from taotechu

Dear Readers:

Oh, how I have been stalling on this.

It is time to take taotechu off the shelf where it has been gathering dust, spider webs, and spider veins. But instead of wiping it off and setting it back in place, I am wrapping it in this rag of a note to you all and storing taotechu in the attic.

This is sad for me. I've wanted to keep taotechu going. It wrapped me in a soft, warm layer of comfort and cheer throughout the WTF of breast cancer. But when I made the shift away from cancer and posted a few letters, those trial balloons just seemed to float away. I watched them shrink in the sky. They weren't connected enough to you or to me. And it turns out that letters that are more connected, more personal, belong to the person I have written. They don't belong to a blog. I felt like I ran out of balloons. Or maybe they were that kind that are so hard to blow up your cheeks hurt.

The letters drifted off, but cancer is still on my mind. I think I am probably okay, that it will not return. But there are reminders, all the time. A dear friend, who went through an identical course of chemotherapy at the same time I did, has been stricken with a raging recurrence and is fighting for her life. I have half a dozen clients who have had cancer, and believe me, they continually have a creepy feeling that something is going to jump out and grab them, whether they are eating organic or not.

I can't keep writing about that creepy feeling, and I can't keep writing as if I don't have that creepy feeling. It has been a little eddy in which I am spinning, the way Eeyore did after falling into the stream when Tigger took him by surprise. Eeyore floated on his back for a long time, as I recall -- and not in the sweet way you do on a summer afternoon in a clean lake under a cloudless sky. He was morose about it.

I don't feel morose. But I recognize that I am in an eddy, and that it's time to climb out. Because the blog I so love has come to feel like pressure instead of release. Maybe that is a good thing; maybe there is less to release. I appreciate that, but I don't want to trade it in, homeostasis-like, for pressure.

The blog is an audience on the shore. They watch in beach chairs, the sun setting in their eyes. They are long, long bored with watching me float. Is she going to do anything else? they ask each other. Last year she dove in and then did a handstand underwater, says one person. They yawn politely, shade their eyes with a hand, try to make out my flat form on the surface of the water.

I still want to sculpt some of the blog into a little memoir, and I am bringing that down from the attic to see how it looks after a year of storage. But breast cancer memoirs are a ha'penny a dozen, and I am no longer optimistic that my little story of little breasts and a lotta luck and love can, well, float.

There you have it. Attics, cobwebs, balloons, Eeyore, a squinting audience, a book and a blog getting waterlogged. What a soggy mess.

Pass me a towel? I'm all wrinkly, and I want to watch the sunset with you.

Dear Readers, you will be relieved to know I have no adequate metaphor to express the gratitude I feel.

Love,
p

P.S. Will take taotechu down sometime before Thanksgiving. By that time, I'll be wrinkly and cold.

An insight crystalizes

Dear Staff at the Kaua'i Wildlife Refuge Complex:

I was among the many people who came last month to gaze at the plunging cliffs and the crashing Pacific near the Kilauea Lighthouse. I cannot remember the date, so I can't help you identify which person was on duty. That's how relaxed things are in Kaua'i -- hours, days, and dates blurred quickly. In fact, breathless beauty aside, my favorite part of Kaua'i was its slowed pace, its informality and ease. Going barefoot in the grocery story was the highpoint of my long and otherwise humdrum food shopping career; I am likely never to have that experience again.

I am writing to thank one of your staff members for the brief conversation she and I had. I imagine it has been eroded from her memory by now, but it has stayed with me, and I will refresh the memory often. I will address her directly, in the hopes that you can find her for me and pass her this message:

I had questions about the volcanic rock -- the many, many layers of dark, igneous rock. I knew they came from repeated eruptions, but so many? How could it be? And all the same? Did some cool more quickly than others? There were so many layers it looked like black sedimentary rock. And what is that even darker intrusion over there, in that outcropping? You weren't sure, but you loved the question. You asked me what kind of work I did -- was I a scientist? A geologist?

I made a sheepish, scrunched face. Gosh, no, no, I confessed with a small smile. My childhood dream was to become a geologist, but no. I am a psychotherapist. A counselor. I felt small.

You didn't miss a beat. "Same thing," you said, with conviction. I cocked my head. "Totally the same thing," you repeated. "You look at layers within someone. You try to figure out how they got there. Why did one layer cool more quickly than another, and why did crystals form here and not there? And what is that dark intrusion I see? How did that get there? You are still a scientist, doing the same kind of exploration, except your field is the person you are sitting with."

Can I tell you, dear Naturalist? Can I tell you how my heart thumped with joy when you said these things to me? I have always wondered what would have happened if I had stayed with my passion of science, and  a part of me -- a dark intrusion -- has long felt cowardly for not having taken that path. Your words showed me that -- from the distance of a telescope, a microscope, or a metaphor -- what looked like two paths might actually be one: simply, mine.

You helped me spot a crystal deep within the bedrock of me.

Thank you and aloha,

paula chu

FYI

Dear Followers:

Laura and I got legally hitched yesterday, July 20th. It would have also been my parents' anniversary, their 64th, though I suppose there must be a time when you stop counting such things after someone has died. C.J., the best dog ever, would have turned 32 this year, for example.

We actually got married back in 1999 -- Laura and I, not C.J. and I. C.J. was already dead, but would have been turning 20 in 1999. Laura and I had a fabulous ceremony with song and sunshine and lots of happy brouhaha. We have the certificate signed by friends and family to prove it:

 but the State wouldn't recognize our marriage at the time. We drove away with the three kids and a "just married" sign on the car. People honked at us and waved, and then looked in the car to see two women and three kids waving back. Oh! We loved the double-takes we got.

Now twelve years later, we decided that since Laura is going to be looking for a new job, and probably a fairly schmancy one at that, where it might matter to search committees and such that we be legally married, we should bite the bullet and get the State's seal of approval on our marriage.

So my beloved brother, Lee, who is a Justice of the Peace, ran us through a little ceremony on Saturday. It was come-as-you-are; shorts and t-shirts. Three other people were there -- Ting, her partner Dave, and our niece Emily. We skyped in an assortment of siblings, plus Yani and T'ai. Actually, T'ai was in a Starbucks in New York, listening by phone. We repeated our vows of yesteryear, including Laura's vow to T'ai, Ting, and Yani. Laura spoke toward the phone so that T'ai could hear over the Starbucks din. We took off our rings and put them on again. Ting and Dave sang us a lovely song, and we waved goodbye to everyone who was watching electronically. When we pulled out the paper that Laura had picked up from the town so that Lee could make it official, it turned out that we had the "worksheet," not the license. I think maybe straight couples do not make this mistake. So the ceremony was another close-but-no-cigar event.
Yesterday we picked up the right form after handing in our "worksheet." The town clerk's office had to redo their original version of the license, because they had typed me in as Paul. Paul. I think they felt kind of bad about the Freudian slip, and they were extra nice to us after that.

Lee had to come back to Farmington yesterday to do it all over again. The "ceremony" had to be conducted in Farmington, so we thought of meeting him on the side of the road on the town line to save him a few minutes. He was running late, and I had a client in the waiting room. Hurry! Lee walks into the house and says, "all the stuff you said on Saturday, is it still true?" "Yes! Yes!" "Okay, you're married."
It would cost another twenty bucks to get a copy of the license. No thanks! This receipt is good enough.

But as soon as we cross the state line, we're not married anymore, says our uncle, Sam. If Laura gets a job in New York, we'll have to do the whole thing all over again. The good thing, though, is that the process is getting shorter and shorter. "Stuff you said still true?" "Yes!"
Okay then! Okay.

Dear ConnectiCare

Dear Folks at ConnectiCare:
     Thank you for the new member card that arrived in yesterday's mail. Actually, two cards came, right? The second is a perfectly intact card that says simply: "This side of the card left BLANK intentionally." Then, for mysterious reasons, the back has the same information as the back of the other card.
     Would someone be willing to explain to me why we do this? Why use the extra plastic to make an intentionally blank card? What do you hope we are all doing with our intentionally blank cards?
     I'm eager to know. Thank you for taking the time to respond to my inquiry.

paula chu, Farmington

     Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding your ConnectiCare identification card.

     The cards are printed on a template that has space for two cards.  You received a blank card because you are the only one on your policy.  If you would have had a dependent on your policy, their card would have been printed on the front of the other card.

      If you have any additional questions or concerns, please contact us either via email or call toll-free at 1-800-251-7722.

Sincerely,

ConnectiCare Member Services

Dear ConnectiCare Member Services:

     That makes sense. Thank you. 

     I had double mastectomies last year -- but you know that: you're ConnectiCare! Anyway, I wanted to make sure I wouldn't be saying something untoward if I made myself a few t-shirts that say "this side left blank intentionally." Sounds like I'm good to go.

     Thanks again.

paula chu

Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg

Dear People at Lelanite:
I drove behind one of your trucks for a good stretch of Route 84 in eastern Connecticut earlier today. Painted around much of the truck is a  crazy long name of a lake. I tried to write down some of it as I stared down the back of the truck, but only got a few scrawled syllables. Please tell me, what's with the lake's loooooooooong name?
I await your response with great eagerness and curiosity.
paula chu, Farmington CT


Paula: It's an old Indian word and is actually the longest place name in the world. "They" say that it means "I fish on my side, you fish on your side, no one fishes in the middle." It's a point of pride for nerdy middle school kids to be able to spell it, but it's pretty universally known as Webster Lake.
Tom Morris
Lelanite
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Chaubunagungamaug

PS - Thanks for the most interesting question I'll be asked today! :)

Dear Tom: Fabulous! Thank you. You'll be pleased to know that everyone in our household has the song stuck in our heads now.

I'll do my best to spread the word about the lake, perhaps even to have others get the song stuck. 

I want to say, though, that learning to spell its name would be more impressive if accomplished by those of us with shrinking, rather than growing, brains.
No disrespect whatsoever to nerdy middle schoolers and their clever brains. 

paula

P.S. Thank you for letting me fish in the middle, Tom.

Dear Dr. Duxin

The Imaging Center

65 Memorial Rd, Suite 510

West Hartford, CT   06107                       

Dear Dr. Duxin:

When I got called back for a repeat mammogram, I snorted with annoyance. What a hassle. Cancel meetings, drive to town, strip down, squish, squeeeeeze, hold your breath, okay breathe. Whatever.

Even when they showed me the spot on the what-the-heck-am-I-looking-at film, I thought little of it.  A little troubling, sure. But I have no risk factors that might lead to cancer. I am healthy and am an excellent steward of my consistently reliable body. Family members have lived to 105 in good health! This will be nothing.

Then the second mammogram quickly morphed into an ultrasound. Then a biopsy. Then cancer. 

I picture you, of unknown age, gender, background, and hue. Your desk is covered with gray and whitish pictures of flattened breast tissue. You are eating your lunch, perhaps. Maybe sipping some coffee. My films are next in the pile. There is a faintest of shadows on the right breast – hardly distinguishable from all the other splotches and spots and specks on the film. You take another bite of your sandwich, another sip of your coffee, and stare at the shadow. You circle it.

You saved my life. Thank you, from the heart of my heart.

I miss having breasts, and sometimes that is hard. Sometimes I am afraid. But the truth is: I feel like one of the luckiest people I know, because you noticed a shadow.

I hope this finds you well, and living a life populated by friends and family who love you and care deeply about your well-being. I hope you laugh often. That the coffee tastes rich and delicious, that your memories are happy. That you and those you love live long and well. 

paula chu

Farmington Fire Department

Dearest Members of the Farmington Volunteer Fire Department:

First and foremost, I am always grateful that you are there. I wholly admire your willingness to drop your forks and run to the aid of someone, anyone in need. Though I hope for your sake and ours that such a situation will never come to pass, we who live under the roof of 15 Main Street are humbled in knowing you would risk your lives to save ours.

A couple of Decembers ago, our family bundled up as we do every year and made the rounds of the neighborhood, caroling in the snow. We stopped in at the firehouse to sing to two young men who greeted us and stood grinning in the cold as we sang. As we walked back into the night, one of us shouted merrily, "If there's any way to wait to turn on your sirens until you get to the intersection when you go out in the middle of the night, that would be great!" One of the firemen said jovially, "We'll try to remember!"

It's true -- we have often been woken by sirens as you go about your noble work. We are two houses from the intersection of 4 and 10, and for years sirens announced your approach all the way from the firehouse. It's an awkward thing to mention: someone is in desperate need and we're grumbling about lying awake. But we thought we'd be bold and ask, merrily.

To our wonder you've been true to your word. Much more often than not, when there is an emergency in the middle of the night, your trucks head down Main Street with only the unavoidable growl of the engine announcing your passing by. It is not until the very last moment that you turn on the siren. When you're in an urgent hurry and you have both adrenaline and a siren at your disposal, it must take self-control to wait to turn on an electronic scream.

When this happens, when I notice that you've waited, I still lie awake for awhile, except now I am awake thinking that I should thank you. I  hope this letter will alleviate one source of my occasional sleeplessness.

Thanks so much for all you do, including tiptoeing as you drive down Main Street in the middle of the night. You are my heroes.

coming clean

Combination

1000·CA

"Constitution State" legend; "COMB" embossed vertically at right.

Previously CA·1234, C·12345, 12345, 123·CAB, 1C·2345, 12C·345 on past bases remade on the current base; 12345·C, 1CA·234, and 12C·A34 on the current base.

Ting is right. 1CU. Gee whiz. Now I feel like the Universe is kind of clumsy with its messages of reassurance, and death is just not witty at all.

1 or I

Dear followers: It has never, in my hundreds of sightings, occurred to me that the license plate referenced in the post below might be a 1, as Ting, who tends to be right, suggests. My sense of Connecticut license plates is that one set of figures are generally letters, and one tends to be 3 numbers. Please scout as you drive and report statistical findings as you develop them.

I C U and appreciate you.

Also, several people have said they are having trouble posting a comment. Me, too. Google Chrome says there's a problem they're working on. Posting this from another browser, where you may also have more luck.

p

Riverside Cemetery

Dear Matt:

You were so good to indulge me yesterday. I've been wanting to get a picture of your license plate for a long time. I see the truck there nearly every time I walk through the cemetery, but rarely see you, and even more rarely have my camera with me.

While I was undergoing treatment for cancer last year, I was determined to keep my 3-mile walking route intact, and that meant going through the cemetery. Lovely as Riverside Cemetery is, a walk through it still makes you think about life, death, disappearing from the earth as we all will. When you've got cancer, it doesn't take much to get the mind really working on that little knot.

Your license plate has on many occasions set into motion a train of thought -- sometimes it heads toward a dark tunnel, and sometimes it heads toward light. Sometimes I feel like death is just rubbing it in by having a cemetery truck bear this license number, and sometimes I feel like the Universe is saying something friendly, reassuring. I always notice the plate, and watch to see where my imagination will take me.

Thanks so much for dropping what you were doing and backing the truck up for one shot, then backing up again for another. I think our brief encounter qualifies as a random act, and your part in it certainly qualifies as one of kindness.

paula chu, alive and kicking (for now)

New Jersey Turnpike

Dear People of the New Jersey Turnpike Authority:

Maybe you haven't heard, and maybe you hear it all too often: no one likes driving through New Jersey on the New Jersey Turnpike. It's clogged with traffic and tolls. Some of the view is clogged, too, and so, alas, is some of the air.

On a recent trip to deliver offspring and belongings to a college outside Philadelphia, I geared myself up to Go the Distance on the New Jersey Turnpike. As I arrived at the first tollbooth, I handed my money to a member of your staff who greeted me with warmth and sent me off with a wave. That brief moment gave me a little boost. The next tollbooth experience was equally pleasant; this person seemed genuinely pleased to have my car finally reach his booth, as if he had been watching the horizon for our arrival.

Every single tollbooth stop -- all the way to Philly and all the way back home -- was the same: each tollbooth operator looked me in the eye, asked me how I was doing, added some friendly tidbit of commentary or news, and sent me off with good wishes and a wave. These periodic encounters punctuated my trip with sips of delight, and made the whole trip so much more pleasant than it might otherwise have been.

Please thank your tollbooth operators for these small acts of kindness. Let them know they made a difference in my day, and that each time they were so friendly they sent out a ripple of light.

paula chu

these letters

The first two letters I've posted are essentially the same letter. Both have virtually the same message to large companies: Hooray for your creativity and fearlessless! And then -- where did it go?

I imagine this repeated message says something about my own struggles with creativity, with going off script. It is easy to coach others in living large.

Having fun with letters to people I will never meet has something to do with how I resolve the tension between my need for connection and my need for boundaries. Even being a counselor is relationship-over-fence. My clients and I go as deep as we can in our time together -- but that time limit is clear. I walk them to the gate - sometimes literally - at the end of the session.

The letter to Walter Chronkite, well, I like to shrink the world like that, to wave across the fence with vim and affection. But the fence -- a lovely, inviting fence, with flowers around it -- is still there.

Walter Chronkite

August 1968
Dear Walter Chronkite:
     You must be very tired, now that the Democratic National Convention is finally over. I could tell while watching you that you were getting tired. I hope you can find time to rest now that you are back home. I'll bet you have lots of stories to tell after Chicago, and I hope your family wants to hear them.
     My parents have been watching the CBS News since we got a TV. Through this summer I've been watching with my godfather, who is visiting and says to tell you hello. My parents will only watch you, and I guess we have all come to trust things you tell us about. We trust you, Walter Chronkite.
     Things seem pretty complicated right now. I know I am only 12, but other people seem to think it is a complicated time, too. I wanted to write to thank you for being someone that brings comfort each night, and a little courage, too.

Paula Chu, New London, Connecticut


Dear Paula,
     Mr. Chronkite has asked me to write to thank you very much for the kind letter you sent him. He is grateful for your message of support, and hopes you and your grandfather [sic] are both well.
     Sincerely,
     Mrs. R. Mankiewicz, Assistant to Walter Chronkite

September 1980
Dear Walter Chronkite:

     I wrote to you when I was, I think, maybe thirteen. It was a typical precocious fan letter, as I recall. You were in Chicago for the '68 convention, and your secretary wrote a brief and friendly reply for you.
     That was the extent of our contact -- until the other night, when I had the following GREAT dream:
     It's hard to begin where I should probably begin, but I need to get a running start for the sake of continuity and memory. The dream began with me counseling a friend (I am, by profession, a counselor). I had a superb session -- a "cure" as we half-jokingly call it.  I note the ego strength of the dream so far (and throughout, I suppose) with some embarrassment.
     Just then the phone rings. I answer it, and you say, "paula, hi! How're you doing? It's been a long time since we've been in touch."
     I say, "Walter Chronkite, well goddamn, how ARE you?"
     We begin to talk about the pressures of your job, as do two old friends.
     I hear you say, "I don't know. The pressure is kind of getting to me. All this election stuff is too much. And it made me uncomfortable when they came up with that idea about me running for president. Sheesh!"
     I empathize and say, "Well, Walter, you know they really mean well. I know you don't want the job, but what they're saying is that you have a real lot of influence in this country. Next to the president, you have perhaps the greatest influence on the people, in terms of getting information to them, explaining things to them, and all that. You know what I mean?"
     "Yeah, I guess," you say, kind of humbly.
     We talk on and on like this for quite awhile, and I am walking down the street with the phone, now and then noticing with delight how far my phone cord stretches, and being really pleased that I ordered one so long. Suddenly my arm jerks back, and I realize that the cord has come to its end.
     "Walter, the cord won't reach any further. I've got to turn back."
     "Okay, sure" you say.
     Then, who should come on the line but (get this) ELDRIDGE CLEAVER. Eldridge says, "How're you folks doin'?" and chats a bit in his friendly way.
    We talk only a minute, and then I notice that you've been quiet. I say, "Walter? Did you hear all that?"
     "No, who was it?"
     "Eldridge Cleaver!"
     "Wow. Eldridge. I haven't talked with him in a long time," you say with warmth and some nostalgia in your voice.
     I finally reach the source of the cord, and we close the conversation.
     "Well, paula," you say, "I'm glad we had this contact. You be in touch."
     "You bet, Walter. I promise I'll write to you. It's so nice of you to call. You take care of yourself. Bye, Walter."
     "Bye, paula."

     I am someone who keeps agreements. I said I would write and, by gum, I am mailing this letter to you.
     I hope you are well, and that you are dealing well with the pressures of your job. From what you said in the dream, "retirement" in November will be both a relief and a difficult transition for you. At least that part sounds plausible and likely accurate. May the relief carry you smoothly through the challenges. Thanks for everything, truly.

paula chu, Harwinton CT

Boroleum

Dear Makers of Boroleum:

     My parents first introduced me to your great product over 30 years ago. The tube said it was manufactured on Fisher's Island, a short ferry ride from their home in New London. I figured they were buying their nasal comfort products locally, and I was happy to support what I thought might be a cottage industry over there on your very small island. I envisioned a family cooking up Boroleum in a little factory in their backyard, perhaps, creating this fabulous product that only a few know about. By now I understand that you are a bigger operation, but I retain the feeling of familiarity with Boroleum and with you, its manufacturers, whenever I buy a new tube for my family's lips and noses.
     It was always a bonus to read the part of the instructions on the tube that encouraged us to "put product well up into the nose." I thought that directive was so bracing, so no-nonsense -- so understanding of what needs to be done when one's nose is too dry. I felt like you were with me and my nose on this adventure called winter -- like we were all in this together.
     When I bought a new tube last week, I looked for the familiar print that would encourage me to do what needed to be done. Alas, it's gone. Instead, the new tube says: "place product at the base of each nostril."*
     What happened? Why suddenly squeamish? I feel like a kid whose parents used to say, "Go out and play -- and have fun!" but now send me out with an anxious warning about cars and strangers and my untied shoe laces.
     If these new instructions are marking a trial period for Boroleum users, please register my vote to change back to the bolder instructions. My family and I will not trip over our laces or push the tube itself well up into the nose. And if we were to, it would be our responsibility. We will not hold you accountable for any over-zealous application of Boroleum.
     Thank you for your kind attention.

paula chu

Dear Ms. Chu:
     Thank you so much for your letter about Boroleum. We love getting mail letting us know our product is valued and has been enjoyed by you and your family for so long.
     We were sorry to learn that you are disappointed with our new packaging and slightly modified instructions. Sinclair Pharmacal was advised recently to update the usage instructions for Boroleum to make them clearer to product users and to eliminate any confusion about how Boroleum is meant to be applied. Please rest assured that we will continue to offer you and your family many winters to come of Boroleum's soothing comfort!
     Thank you for your loyalty, and thank you for writing with your feedback.


Sincerely,
L.S.

P.S. [this is written in her own hand in the corner of the page] My family and I continue to place Boroleum well up into our noses :-)

Dear L:

     Thank you, thank you for your letter. It saddens me that Sinclair has been advised that the risk is too great to instruct Boroleum users as if we were sensible owners of noses. But I do understand.
     I very much appreciated your handwritten note as well. I am glad to have your family in the closet with mine.

Yours in subversion,
paula chu

*I wrote this letter several years and many tubes ago. The directions now say merely: "Apply to affected area not more than 3 to 4 times daily."

Dear People at Tropicana

Dear People at Tropicana:
Could you please let me know how I can contact the very person who designed the new caps that are shaped like tiny oranges? Thank you in advance.

paula chu, Farmington CT

Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for contacting Tropicana. Please let me know the nature of your concern regarding the new caps on some of our products.

Dear Jill:
Thank you for getting back to me. You're worried that I swallowed a cap? It's nothing like that. I simply want to tell the person who designed the clever new cap that I so appreciate that extra bit of creativity. Someone thought of it, and I would love to write a brief note of positive feedback to that individual. Is there any way I could have the contact information for that person? Thanks so much!

Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you again for your inquiry. Such decisions are made by teams of product design personnel at Tropicana, and as such there is not an individual responsible for the new caps. We are pleased that you like them, and I will be sure to send along your feedback to the design team. Thank you for your interest in Tropicana and its products.

Dear Jill:
I am so grateful for your patience with me. But I find it hard to believe that a team of people came up with the idea of an orange-shaped cap for your orange juice containers. I see instead some man or woman who thought of it, perhaps while pouring his or her morning juice, holding the ordinary cap in hand and having a little vitamin C-induced brainstorm. I would like to thank that individual. Could you ask the "team" to please direct my feedback to the individual whose idea it was originally?

Here is what I would like to say to that person:  Thank you for the cute little new orange-shaped caps on the half gallon orange juice containers. It's brilliant! I love that there is no "need" for this clever idea; it is just a wink to the world. I get it. Thank you. Here is a wink in return.

Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for your most recent email. Tropicana is pleased that you have been enjoying the new caps. I do apologize if my initial response seemed unduly cautious. We often receive feedback from customers that have a concern underneath, and my intent is to direct feedback along the proper channels. We hope you and your family continue to enjoy Tropicana products.


Dear Jill:
I would not expect you to remember me, but I wrote to Tropicana several months ago to throw happy confetti in the general direction of the person who designed the dimpled, orange-shaped cap on the orange juice containers. I was forlorn to see while shopping this week that Tropicana has gone back to the regular caps! What happened? I thought it was such a great idea.

Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for your interest in Tropicana and its products. The rounded caps were discontinued as a result of safety concerns. While no injuries occurred, there was a concern that the caps might appeal to small children, posing a potential hazard.
We hope you and your family continue to enjoy Tropicana products.


Dear Jill:
I realize that mine may be a voice in the consumer wilderness, but please convey to the individual  that designed the short-lived, dimpled, orange-shaped cap, that I'm sorry that we seem unable to cope with bright, rounded caps on our orange juice containers. It was a very creative idea, and made my o.j. pouring ritual a bit more delightful. I hope the designer is not discouraged and continues to think outside the box, as it were. Thank you, Jill, for your efficiency and patience as go-between in my little conversation with Tropicana. We will try to continue to enjoy Tropicana products, though I confess already I'm enjoying them a few drops less.

letter composer

     Some of you know that a few weeks ago I launched a lead balloon called The Letter Composer. Go ahead; check it out. Because it features some of my dad's painting, it's a pretty site. And it's so quiet, too, because you're the only one there.
     Eh, that's not quite true. A number of "unique visitors" have gone onto the site, I am told by Google Analytics. I like that: unique visitors. Everyone is special. They spend a bit of time at thelettercomposer.com, looking around, going through the drawers, taking a couple of mints from the coffee table. Then they wander back to eBay, or Facebook, or Amazon.
     I've helped lots of people write this and that over the years, and letters are my favorite assignment. When I'm in session with a client who needs to write a letter, I have to bite my knuckle so I don't volunteer to write it for them. I put on my compassionate face and leave it there nodding encouragingly, but in truth my mind has wandered away and is scribbling the perfect letter.
     So I wanted to see if I could actually do it and get paid. It appears not. Oh! Sure. I could charge a lot less. Sure. But my time is worth a lot to me, and so is a good letter. I want to have a conversation with the person about the letter they need, and I want the process itself to be useful, meaningful. I don't want to write thank you letters for ten bucks a pop.
     One person hired me early on. The assignment was too tragic, too personal to tell here. The situation was so sad that I felt rotten charging for my time. She liked the letter, but what could save that impossible situation? 
     Yesterday, after my little advertisement appeared on "The Stranger's Slog" site (slog.thestranger.com/blogs/slog, where it will have an expensive five-day heyday), I got a second inquiry.
     Google analytics tells me this one came from someone in Egypt. His (this I know by the name) letter request was simple: "my aim is to thankfull my teachers and my class mattes my you know teach is like a second father when look the respect because every time or every day he teaches as what we don,t know he told as whats good and whats bad and Iwanna thankfull the lady that is prepared to correct our writting and our mistakess and Iam saying to thank you madam."
     The form asks for more information about the requested letter, and his response was:  "madam if I ask you some question do you know how to curre some diseas"
     The form asks: "How long would you like this letter to be?" The answer: "one days or two days."
     I wrote back a kind letter welcoming his inquiry, asking for clarification on his letter needs, and explaining how payment works. I haven't heard from him again, and didn't expect to. But now I am left feeling worried about this guy in Egypt who is suffering some kind of disease. He wants to thank his teacher, someone who has been like a second father. I got attached just reading his trampled little inquiry.
     Anyway, I'm not sure what's going to happen with thelettercomposer.com. I've got that egg of a project (with no one to fertilize it) and this dead phoenix of a blog. That's two dead birds more than I want. They start to smell.
     And then I found myself wondering if they are supposed to join together somehow -- the egg and the bird. Maybe they just smell dead.
     So tonight I am wondering, dear followers, if you would be interested in occasionally reading the letters that I write for myself. The ones I would share are not so much the personal letters I send. They'd be the ones I send to the World-At-Large -- hoping to make it a bit more of a World-at-Small, I suppose.
     I am thinking of a letter I once wrote to the Boroleum factory on Fisher's Island. Boroleum is a fabulous product for "nasal soreness," made more fabulous by the instructions on the tube which used to say, "place product well up into the nose." I just loved that. Don't hold back! Get it well up into the nose. A few years ago, the tubes stopped giving those bracing instructions, advising instead to place the product at the outer edge of the nostrils. I wrote to the factory to object to their succumbing to pressure from their party-pooper legal advisors -- all of whom (I would bet you anything) place Boroleum well up into their noses in the privacy of their own homes.
     It had to be said. I got a nice letter back, too, explaining the company's fears about Boroleum users misinterpreting the instructions and disaster ensuing if, say, someone tried to cram the tube itself well up into the nose. There was a nice postscript, though, from the woman who wrote to me. In the corner of the page, outside the typed official response, she confessed in pencil: "P.S. My family and I continue to put Boroleum well up into our noses." It was so good of her to come clean like that, even in pencil.
     I invite you to comment (or send me an email: paula@paulachu.com) about this idea of posting my strange letters now and then. If you don't think that would make for a good blog-rebirth, say so. Don't hold back. Place your feedback well up into my nose. 

By the time I get to Phoenix, I'll be a booby

Tao Te Chu shouldn't be a breast cancer blog anymore. Sure, all the descriptors still hold: I'm still introverted, still concave-chested, still got my little shadow of breast cancer following me around. But I don't want the shadow to define me; it comes and goes, like any shadow, depending on where I stand in relation to the light. Sometimes I can't even find it for long moments at a time.

And I don't think readers need to keep hearing about it. It's me again: Still in remission! Still think about it! Still run into people who give me grisly accounts of their sister's death by breast cancer! Kvetch, kvetch.

I need to let the phoenix die so it can come back anew. Right now, I know, I know. The blog looks pretty dead, a pile of ashes in a raggedy birdy mess of a nest. But if I'm very still and very quiet, I sometimes see a twig move here, a feather appear there. I am getting the sense that my blog's rebirth won't be the glorious Feng Wen phoenix of Chinese lore -- wings spread in an iridescent spectacle of power and renewal. I see it as maybe more like a blue-footed booby.

lost donkey, not coming back

You know the saying: when God wants to make a poor man happy, He has him lose his donkey, and then find it again.
Tonight I feel like I have lost my donkey for good.

Not long ago, Skinner's auction house had their semi-annual Asian Art sale. It's a very big deal, with bidders calling in from all over the world. My siblings and I sold off a good portion of my father's stunning, irreplaceable collection of Chinese art. Deciding to sell the art he had collected over the years was a tough call; agonizing, actually. None of us wanted to take care of the collection in the way it merited, but then again, we knew that my dad would have wanted us to keep it for posterity. This piece sell for million someday! Keep for grandchildren.

We did not keep for grandchildren. Or more accurately, we sold so we could send grandchildren to college. Above is a large, beautiful painting of donkeys by Huang Zhou. This was one of my mom's favorite paintings; donkeys were her spirit animal. Mom always thought that her body was a donkey in its willfullness and laziness. She'd often dream about trying to get donkeys to cross a bridge, to leave a fenced area, to climb over a hill.

We have a video of Skinner's auctioning off these donkeys in rapid-fire bidding. Let's start the bidding at 8,000. Do I hear 8,000? 8,000. 10,000? We have 10,000. Do I hear 15,000? The gentleman in the back; thank you. 15,000. And on up to $23,000. The donkeys are gone in under a minute, and I will never see them again, except for here, this crummy shot of them hanging in my parents' hallway.

This week we sold my parents' condo, and the last of the boxes migrated to my beloved brother Lee's garage. I took home the box of art materials that sat on my dad's painting desk. Tonight I began to make my way through these treasures. I am a grieving child tonight.

Here is a box of some of my dad's chops, signature seals with bright vermillion ink pressed into the carved end.

And here is the carved end of one of those beautiful chops. I see the Chu character in there, but there are other things I can't read -- sometimes it is "man from northern China," or "father of four," or "little frog." Things like that. Just writing those things here makes me cry.

I know I am very, very lucky to have a significant collection of my dad's paintings on the walls of my home. I know my beloved siblings feel the same way. But as his treasures scatter, and I send a packet of paintbrushes to one student of my dad's, an ink grinding stone to another, I feel only grief.

I feel like my dad is disappearing from the world. I feel like he should be famous, that his art should hang everywhere, that everyone should recognize his work at a glance, like I do. I feel like everyone should walk around missing him, missing him, missing him.

still with the weak chi

I went to a new acupuncturist this afternoon: Dr. Gao, the Real McCoy. That's what his sign should say.

I've been bothered by chemo-exacerbated arthritis in my hands, and I don't want to get steroid shots or have surgery unless I really have to. Dr. Gao did the usual Chinese medicine things: he spent a long time listening to my pulses, checking out my tongue, then rechecking it awhile later. He seemed kind of fascinated by my dry lips, and mentioned them a few times in our two hours together. Your lip dry, he says. Most people don't point out anything about my lips, ever.

He says my system is depleted. All of this he tells me in very broken English, which makes my heart pump with warmth. I just love a good Pekingese-filtered English, and I begin to fall into a mirroring cadence, too.

He goes to move my boots under the table. "I get, I get," I say as he says, "I get, I get." He gets.

He looks at my intake form. "You have the cancer."

"Yes. Bress. Lass year. I lose both bress. I had the chemo, too," I say.

"Aiya, the chemo is bad-very-bad," he says. "Bad for body."

I can't give one of my standard responses, like "True, but it sure as heck beats the alternative," because I know he wouldn't follow me through that sentence. I say, "The chemo was bad for my body."

He puts a bunch of needles in my hands, plus several on my face and scalp. He connects some of the needles to a machine that sends electrical pulses my way, and my hands twitch while I rest. Dr. Gao's hands are warm and dry, and are shaped like my dad's. I resist the impulse to ask him if I could just hold his hand for a minute, or maybe just look at it closely, smell it. I'll bet there's some garlic within it, just under the skin.

He tells me I should not do detox. Too deplete. Detox only have excess chi. You have deficient. Need protein. Need get a stronger.

I just want to hear him talk. I want to hear the broken sentences. They are like protein to my heart.

Your mama American? Waah! You look Chinese! I think you not 55. I think you young. You just deficient in body. Chi stagnant. I think maybe body missing part cut off. Herb maybe help.

I am taking all this in. He is hurting my hand, actually, pushing my tender joints with his strong, brown, dry thumbs. He presses hard where my joint is swollen, and I try to be stoic. I call on the Lamaze breathing techniques. He is both brutal and tender with my hand. He wants me rest hand, get a strong, too. Then he asks with concern, "You do hand job?"

No, I tell him. I don't really use my hands very much in my work. But somehow the question? Little bit break spell.

bad mall moment

What a mistake. When T'ai went to the mall to get a quick haircut today, I tagged along thinking what the heck.
Was everyone there? Were you all there? I'm guessing you were, but I couldn't have found you if I tried. The crowd was just too massive. Did they add a new holiday? Is there something coming up that I should know about?
At one point I was walking alongside a man and his three-year-old. We were all moving slowly, like so much cattle. The man's wife must have been well ahead of us in the herd. When she started to gain too much ground, the man said to the child, "Shout for Mommy."
"MOMMY!" the kid shouted, with impressive force.
"Louder," ordered the dad.
"MOMMY!!" the kid shouted. This was loud, like you'd shout on a remote Kansas farm when there's a twister coming and the kid and her dog still haven't come home.
"Louder," said the dad.
"MOMMY!!!!!" the kid shrieked. People threw smoothies into the air, The Gap's windows rattled, and every woman who had ever had a child turned her head -- except for Mommy.
"Ach, Jeez," the dad scoffed. "Never mind."
That wasn't the bad mall moment, though it will stick with me for awhile. No, the bad mall moment came when I tried on a couple of sweaters.
Last winter I had the bald head to distract the eye. It's like those perception tests where you tell people to focus on the basketball being tossed around and while they're doing that, half of all viewers fail to see that a gorilla is walking through the scene. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vFAQC7FvKc Last year, my head was the basketball (in more ways than one) and my concave chest was the gorilla that you could easily miss. 
Now all I have is this freaking gorilla suit. 
Sweaters (other than the heavy winter ones) and shirts are cut not just to make room for breasts, but to point a tiny neon arrow toward them. Trying on a simple sweater in the dressing room was both depressing and comical. I don't know how to describe how it looked, but it felt like being caught in the rain in a thin t-shirt, in a bad way. Only without nipples or breasts. Or rain. It just felt like being caught.
Suddenly I was not looking forward to spring, which I think may be a sign of insanity at this point.
I know! I know! No one is looking. That helps the head, but not, well, the ego. Tell a 55-year-old woman "No one looks at you anyway," and, though true, it is not much comfort.
I got kind of choked up on the way home, and talked to newly-shorn T'ai about today's dressing room failure and the likely wardrobe malfunctions in all my tomorrows. He held my hand. 
"That stinks, Mom," he said. And somehow I felt comforted. It turns out that when my heart is comforted, my ego pipes down.
That's a good thing, because the gorilla suit is here to stay, for as long as I am. I just need to figure out how to love it.

in some important ways

In some important ways, it's easier to be the driver. You know how aware you are of the stopped car in front of you; you've got it all under control. You see the black ice. You've already spotted the pedestrian. The passenger has to decide what to point out, and usually waits until she can't stand the suspense anymore -- this may be a matter of a second, but still, it's stressful.

And if the passenger is generally a more cautious driver herself, well, she might occasionally, reflexively, grab the armrest when the other person is at the wheel. The passenger's right foot may press the floor. Since the driver generally does have everything under control after all, the passenger has learned how to pretend she was going to shift toward the armrest anyway. She was going to take that sharp, deep breath. Ahhhh, that air feels good.

Laura is leaving her job in June and is going to work on her own. You know her. Laura, the major breadwinner in the house. The one who actually receives a paycheck at the same time each month.

The one whose job has provided us with healthcare.

I'm sure Laura, who is driving along singing "Ohh, Freedom! Ohh, Freedom!" at the top of her lungs, sees the nails scattered across the pavement, the flock of geese waddling through the traffic, and the mattress that just flew out of the car up ahead. But I, strapped into the passenger seat and nervously humming "buddy, can you spare a dime," am quietly gripping the armrest and taking lots of sharp, deep breaths.

It's not just money I'm worried about. I'm sure she'll find coaching and consulting gigs, and I'm sure we'll learn how to live without a paycheck. Hey! I was going to take that sharp breath anyway.

But the search for healthcare on our own has brought up old, dark, sad feelings for me. When Laura called USAA to inquire about their insurance (she qualifies because her dad was in the Air Force), she explained our relationship and my health situation.

Their response was, "Ma'am, we wouldn't touch paula until 10 years after the end of her treatment."

You know, you feel pretty vulnerable after a cancer diagnosis. Sort of forever, somewhere inside. The idea that this insurance company would rather insure a 65-year-old me than a 55-year-old-possibly-with-a-target-on-my-back me is hard to take in.

The dark feelings were right under the surface. How could I possibly have demonstrated more of a commitment to beating the cancer, beyond sacrificing both breasts? Did it matter to the insurance company that my nodes were clear? If that doesn't matter to them, does it matter to my prognosis? Why wouldn't the insurance company bet on me?  It stings that they bet on the cancer instead.

So we have some things to figure out, and you know how I feel about incomplete puzzles, incomplete anything. But I feel like I owe it to Laura to be as supportive as possible as she makes this long-awaited change in her life. If I decided I wanted to open up a practice on the moon, she would be supportive of me. She'd have her doubts, but she'd want me to have what I wanted. She'd also know I could charge a gazillion dollars for ten minutes of therapy to anyone who showed up in my office on the moon. She believes in me.

And the truth is, Laura has had to sit in the passenger seat, gripping the armrest, while I steer as carefully as I can through the creepy villages of Cancerland. It's been hard on her. I really do think that in some ways, it's harder for the families of people with cancer than for the cancer patient herself. Not in all ways, but in some really important ways.

It's Laura's turn to drive.

January

It's January 7th, 2011, and I had thought that by now we would all be zipping around with solar-powered jet-packs on our backs. Or riding along in trains that take you to places where there are shared electrical vehicles waiting to get you to each other's houses. Or traveling through a pneumatic tube network where you climb in and snonk out at any given destination. It is a disappointment to me that we are still tootling around burning oil and crashing into each other at high speeds on corroding highways.

Still, I am profoundly grateful to be here on January 7th, 2011.

Back in January 7th, 2010, I am having my first chemotherapy infusion, hooked up to receive a concoction that I hope will allow me to revisit the memory for many years to come. I am not more frightened in January 2010 than I will be, in my secret heart, in January 2011. Back in 2010 it is good to know that I have ammo. In 2011 most of what I have is hope -- though I'm glad for the gift, I liked having those chemical bullies on my side a year ago.

January 7th, 2009, and my sister-in-law, Ruthie, is still alive as the sun rises. She can no longer speak to us, but is visibly working through something in her mind. In her final days, she seems to be staring at the face of Mystery, examining it with both wonder and consternation. She dies in her sister's arms late this morning.

I pause from this writing to tell my beloved sister Ellen that I would feel lucky to die in her arms. May it happen many years from now.

January 2009, and my mom is still alive, though she will take us all by surprise by dying of a stroke next month. She tells me she isn't sure what her "assignment' is now that Pop is gone. She says she is not lonely, as she talks to Pop all the time -- but that for the first time in her life she is bored. I do not grasp how important that is, how much it conveys her readiness to go.

January 2008, and both parents are still here. We are taking a slow walk around their neighborhood, bundled against the cold. I am holding Pop's arm, and he is talking about how tired he is getting lately. He stops to sketch a goose floating on the cold river.

The years go by, and in memory they can go forward or backward. 2007, 2002, 2006, 2005, 2003, 2004, 2001. There are bright spots of a remembered moments, but even the most recent decade is already blurring. At the age of 85, my mom wrote an autobiographical essay. There is all of one byte devoted to raising us: "The honeymoon cost 37 dollars and we took a week of side trips into New Hampshire and Vermont," she writes. "The next era was the fastest. . . . A blaze of babies, diapers (I thought I'd never outgrow them.) PTA meetings, 4H club, winding up with teaching and College loans. Some day I may embroider this, but now it's a blur that has passed in the time it takes to type it. The grandchildren trooped along so close behind that I sometimes confuse the generations."

Ellen and I read Mom's essay together. Our response is in unison: "What the heck!?" It's like playing a major role in a movie that runs for 50 years and then finding out you've been edited down to a walk-by cameo.

January 2000, and I will turn 45 in the fall. Since I was a child, I have been imagining the arrival of the year 2000 and the strangeness of the possibility of being 45. The only strangeness as it happens is that it is not strange.

January 1993, and I am falling in love with Laura. I am terrified of what this may mean for my life. Glen and I can't find each other in the howling storm of feelings. That we lose our bearings so quickly stuns me, and I re-experience that shock for many years to come. I learn through this that all relationships are vulnerable. Not fragile: vulnerable.

January 1990, and Yani will be born this month. Ting is not yet three years old, and as we cuddle together in front of a fire she tells me what she remembers of her birth. There are vivid details she recounts that I never told her about. She looks at me and asks if she can go back in there once the baby comes out.

The kids and I are all home in January 1990 because I have left Trinity after 8 years. I leave Trinity because I am not sure who I am if I am not a dean there. That feels like such a hazardous sandtrap that I decide I ought to leave. Around this time I cut my long hair and the president of the college asks me why. "I felt too attached to it," I tell him. He tells me that is the most absurd thing he has ever heard. It still feels right to me.

January 1984, and T'ai is a newborn. I am terrified to feel the depth of love I have for this child, to realize that for the first time in my life something, someone is carrying around the entirety of my heart. That my life, my sanity, my connection to the world seems to be in someone else's hands, and that if I were to lose him I would likely lose my mind. In 2011, I am still trying to figure out how to take my children off this hook, how to disentangle my happiness from theirs.

January 1979, and I am in Guatemala. Edmer's family gives me a beautiful wool poncho for Christmas. I am desperately homesick. I don't know how to get out of my relationship with Edmer, so I bring him home. He speaks very little English, is entirely dependent on me and loves me, too. Within weeks I see my mistake, see the brick wall I am steering toward. But I keep moving forward, driven by my fear of hurting him. It takes me a year and a half to find the courage to speak my truth. I begin to actively study courage and try to figure out how to nurture it in myself. Developing courage becomes a lifelong effort. I feel like it is remedial work.

January 1976, I am doing a work term in Cincinnati. I live by myself in a tiny apartment and get by for months on barley and cheese, cooked together on a small burner. Each night it is delicious. I walk home in the wintry dark from the Planned Parenthood where I am doing an internship. I have no phone and know no one in Cincinnati. Most evenings I do not speak a word. I sleep like a bear.

January 1973, and I have just finished high school a semester early. I am working at a bakery, and pride myself on not having a single bite of the goods. The last hour I work there, I pop a danish into my mouth, then a cookie. I walk home mad at myself for giving in to this small pleasure and theft.

January 1972, and I am in my bedroom listening to music and playing with the dripping wax of a candle. I do this for hours, and it is only in the retrospect of adulthood that I understand it as my first deliberate experience with trance.

January 1970, and I am a bopper hippie, wearing a black armband, marching against the war, and deep into Quakerism. This cold night I am playing ping-pong in the basement with Ellen and two friends. Between ping and pong, we are talking about life. I say that I love Everyone. Peter scoffs. "That's impossible," he says. He is so clearly my superior in verbal prowess, and I tearfully flounder as he challenges me, hard. Soon he sees his moment and says, "Do you love me, Paula?" I run out of the basement crying, "I HATE YOU!" I am so frustrated that I can't hang onto my little seed of conviction.

January 1967, I am 12 and have a wicked crush on Charlie Reyburn. I join the Episcopal church choir just to be near him, to hear his soprano solos. He never returns my interest. When we move my parents out of their house in January 2006, I see a day-glow heart with "P.C. + C.R." on my old bedroom ceiling. Some time in my 30s I see Charlie get off a train and kiss a woman. I feel a pang of longing that takes me by surprise.

January 1964, and we still live on the old farm. Mom asks us to polish the newly waxed floor by sliding around in our socks. Ellen and I put on Tchaikovsky's Italian Symphony and skid across the piano room floor. It is our favorite chore.

January 1963, I am eating small balls of snow that have matted my mittens. I am at the edge of the Joyces' pond, using a stick to get the ice out from the double blades of my skates. Soon I will graduate to single-bladed skates. I will miss the double-bladed ones for the rest of my life.

January 1960, and Ellen and I are playing "Bettie and Joan" in our adjacent twin beds as the snow falls outside. Joan is our mom's best friend. Ellen is so good to always let me be Bettie. Even at five years old, I realize her kindness, but I am unwilling to reciprocate and let her be Bettie now and then. It is the first time I am aware of hoping no one notices how selfish I am.

January 1955, and 6-year-old Lee, 4-year-old Kevie, and little Ellen are sleeping in the house. My parents are snuggling under the wool blanket in their double bed. This is as good a night to make another baby as any, and they do. That January night I am as tiny as can be, but already I hope to live.