My Wobbly Bicycle, 13

I’m on my back. The red laser-beams have me in their cross-hairs. I’m staring up at where four ceiling tiles have been replaced with light-permeable photographs of an autumn scene, a creek flowing around a rock, rocks on the bank with yellow leaves plastered against them, a yellow forest behind. All is in flux. Or, this too will pass. I try to think what’s meant, who chose this yellow autumn scene instead of green spring or high summer. The autumn of life, maybe. Nah.The foot-thick door is shut with only me inside. The machine circles and steadies itself before it starts up with its soft noise that says deadly radiation is penetrating at precise angles intended to avoid major organs as much as possible. Fifteen minutes, every day, five days a week, for five weeks. I calm my outrage by reminding myself why I have to do this.Did I mention that I don’t feel well? I don’t feel well. The effects of last week’s chemo are still with me—vague, sickish nausea, fatigue. I started all this with a certain bravado. I would do this well, as well as possible. But now I feel tired and sick.  My bravado has morphed into a kind of malaise. At least for now. Maybe a few days more away from chemo will help.This painting of suffering is by an 85-year-old  friend, Sally Mitchell. I think about people with chronic illnesses, and those who take care of them. The ones who day after day get up with the same aches, same nausea, same worries they went to bed with. Anyone can endure with an end in sight. But to slog on and on. People have so many ways of working with the mind, to keep from spiraling downward: “It’s God’s will,” “I’m tough and I’ll battle this thing and win,” “I’ll use my sickness to gain sympathy for others who’re sick.” The mind wants to have some control, even if it’s the control of submission.I’m grateful, I repeat, for my meditation practice. I sit every day, unless I feel too nauseous. I do this because it seems that none of us can get out of anything, anyway. We’re going to be sick, we’re going to hurt (psychologically and/or physically) and we’re going to die. I want to do those things fully, look straight into what is the case, not turn away into platitudes. It seems to me the most honor (attentiveness? recognition?)  I can give this life is to live it fully, all its seemingly dark and light corners.Oh, doesn’t that all sound great? Truthfully, I meditate partly because I’m in the habit. I slog on just like anyone else, I write what I can every day because this is what I do. I tell myself the same platitudes that everyone else does—“Come on, Fleda, make an effort to make life easier for those around you,” or “Buck up, you’ll get better later,” or “Smile and you’ll feel better.”  My wobbly bicycle stays upright by use of whatever training wheels I can think of.Bonus:  Wally's koan for today: Since birds eat worms, and you eat birds, do you eat worms?