Ach, just as little hairs are sprouting on my head and my eyebrows are almost visible, I’ll be starting chemo again on Tuesday! At least now I have proof that spring comes, even though the chemo will again blast away my body’s current efforts toward regeneration. Of course that’s the idea.
I feel quite a bit better. It’s been nearly three weeks since my last daily radiation. Friday I have my last internal radiation. I’ve cut down on the array of pills I take to control nausea. There are still faint whisps of it, but less every day. I feel less weak, though I wouldn’t say strong. Yesterday I walked for 30 minutes, which seems to be my limit.
In the midst of our personal troubles, there’s this horrible bombing in Boston. After 9/11, I was asked to write a piece for the newspaper, as Delaware poet laureate, about why people turn to poetry at such times—which we do. We quote poems to each other; we write poems. Poetry, even for those who wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole otherwise, is our communal way of speaking of mystery, of what we can’t understand, of grief there are no words for. Poetry can point toward what we mean, can at least touch the hem of what we feel.
Sometimes I read back through the cards and poems I’ve gotten this winter. I keep them in this basket (well, they've spilled over) which was also a gift, filled with chemo-type foods, gum, lotions, etc.
When the winter chrysanthemums go, there is nothing to write about but radishes —Basho (1644-1694)
Coming back—there are so many pathways through the spring grass —Buson (1716-1783)
Basho and Buson knew that what is, is simply what is. Celebrate that.
And:
With a love like thatyou know you should be gl---adyeah, yeah, yeah, yee-aaaaahhhhh —McCartney/Lennon, The Beatles, 1963
And these, each a hand-made postcard. Click on them if you want to see them larger. One I didn’t include, “I know that / hope is the hardest/ love we carry.” –Jane Hirshfield. How much is inside those few words, different from the Zen pure-seeing. We know the truth of this, “hard” and “hope” in the same line. Nothing is harder than to hope for someone we love. 
And this Brickmobile, with a full description on the back and the note, "Wishing you 900 lbs. of endurance and a V8 spirit."
And this, one of several photos of historic places. The note on the back begins, “Thank you for telling the truth—whether in poetry or prose. . .” Well, the truth is what we want to point toward, isn’t it? If we could pin it down, it wouldn’t be the truth, but we keep on circling it.
And these loons (Jerry and me) from friends who send a hand-made card every week. And dozens of cards from my sister, who for several months sent a card every single day. I have never been much of a card-sender,. But indeed, it means more than I thought, to get that actual, physical object with actual handwriting on it. Someone thought of me, not just fleetingly, but deeply enough to find a card, or make a card, and write a note on it, and put it in an envelope and mail it. That lovely act of attention. Thank you.