Yesterday was a notable day for me.

Friday, January 6th, was the second anniversary of my breast cancer surgery and diagnosis.

The abnormal mammogram was on Halloween, over two months before. It took a couple of weeks to get an appointment with a surgeon, and then the surgery couldn't be scheduled until after the holidays because all the necessary people were on vacation. Since the tumor was only 9mm, no doubt they all thought it wouldn't matter. But breast cancer's a tricky thing, and it doesn't pay to assume anything about it.

Thank--somebody, Goddess maybe--I had an appointment with my therapist. Pat is retired, but still does therapy for practically no money for those who need her. The sessions are sort of a combination of Gestalt therapy and spirituality, for which I'm very grateful. The last half dozen or so therapists I had were so predictable that there was no point in going. Write the script, read it over to get the main points, save the gas and the money. But Pat is different. I never know what she's going to say. So she leads me places I don't ordinarily go by myself.

We talked about death, of course. I fear I'm a hypocrite because I experience ecstasy when I read poetry about death, and because I sometimes feel that death is a transformation, rather than an ending. When it gets right down to the nitty-gritty, however, I feel fear, anger, resentment, bitterness--all because my little life will most likely end a couple of decades short of threescore and ten.

I'm human, as Pat pointed out. It's all true, it's all right...none of it's a lie. Our cosmos and our lives are paradox, as I used to know, and I hope will know again.

Namaste.