My Third Skin Cancer

First, let me stress that my 3 skin cancers have all been the non-life-threatening kind.  No melanomas yet.  I also feel lucky that they haven't been on my face.  I've had 2 on my left arm, the arm that hung out of the window for years while I drove under a relentless Southern sun.  And now, a basal cell cancer on my collarbone, also on the left.

There it is in the picture above, between pearl and pencil eraser.  It first appeared a few months ago.  I know the drill:  any new, mole-like thing deserves a visit to the dermatologist.  It seemed to grow, but it didn't get crusty and/or bloody.  I've had people tell me not to worry, that it's just some kind of tag-like thing, that I can expect these as I age.

I ignored these people.  Still, it was a bit of a shock when the dermatologist said, "Yep, that's a basal cell cancer."

I'm used to my dermatologist saying things like "Nope, that's a freckle."  "Nope that's just an age spot."

But occasionally, the dermatologist takes things off my skin, sends them off to be biopsied, and I come back for a bit more scraping.  As recurring medical conditions go, I could have worse problems.

It's interesting to me to see people's reactions.  Some people are horrified at the idea of a cancer of any kind.  Even if I explain that it's not life threatening, I can still see the pity on their faces.

But frankly, I've been on the lookout for skin cancer my whole life.  I'm the first generation to grow up aware of the lack of an ozone layer.  And yes, I spent years tanning anyway.

Before that, I spent my childhood being sent outside to play.  My mom was a big believer in the values of fresh air and sunshine.

They say that one of the predictors of skin cancer is a blistering sunburn.  I can't even count the number of times I've had a blistering sunburn.  And then there are all the sunburns that didn't blister . . .

When my dermatologist first met me, he said, "Why are you living here?"  For a moment, my mind reeled at the existential questions in the dermatologist question.

But of course, he was wondering why I live in a place that placed me at such risk of high exposure to dangerous UV rays.  The whole planet poses that kind of risk, of course, but the closer we get to the equator, the more days of dangerous sunshine we'll likely experience.

And I'm blonde and fair-skinned and freckled. 

So, the fact that I get skin cancers shouldn't exactly surprise anybody.  And yet, it's still a bit of a shock each time I find out that I have one.

Not so much of a shock that I can't write poems.  Tomorrow, I'll share my new poem that's based on Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess."  In case you want to play along, I've pasted the Robert Browning poem below.  My first bit came to me in the parking lot after my visit with the dermatologist: 

"That’s my third cancer, lurking near my neck,"

My Last Duchess

By Robert Browning


That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,


Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

Frà Pandolf chanced to say 'Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much,' or, 'Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart – how shall I say – too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace - all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked

Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark' - and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

- E'en that would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Come back tomorrow for the rest of my poem!

Transforming Youth into Poets

Last night, at a planning meeting for a new kind of worship service we're launching at church.  We want a more interactive experience, something that gets the children and youth more involved.  For more on this initiative, today's post at my theology blog will give you more insight.

As we talked last night, we talked about the experimental/family service that our pastor designed for Easter Sunday.  The "children's sermon" fascinated me, and it seemed to have larger applications.  I particularly loved how it might start young people down the symbol/metaphor road.

Our "children's sermon" time is traditional in that it has part of the church population come forward.  It's non-traditional in that parents often come up, as do adolescents of all ages.

For Easter, our pastor had a basket of everyday objects.  Each child participant chose an object and went back to the pew to discuss what this object could teach us about God and about the Easter message.  Then 10 minutes later, the participants came forward to report.

For those of you who are having trouble picturing this, here's an example:  one child took a roll of tape back to the pew.  What does tape have to do with God or Easter?  Easter is the event that sticks us to God.  That's one possibility.

It seems to me that this exercise would have secular applications too, a great way of teaching metaphor and figurative language.  And it would work with everyday objects that you have around the house/school/office.

Here are some prompts:

--what does this hammer have to teach us about vacation?  (any object could take the place of a hammer, and of course, you could fill in that vacation side of the metaphor with anything you like:  love, family, social justice, addictive behavior . . .)

--what does this object have to teach us about history?  about modern life?

--if this object was a religious object, describe the religious rituals that could spring up around it.

--choose 2 objects and come up with some connections.  Once you've written down the obvious, go deeper.

--if you wanted to go down a different road, an object could lead to reports of all kinds, to research papers, to oral history projects.

My Essay in "Her Circle"

You may have thought that I couldn't possibly have more to say about Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, but you'd be wrong.

I've written an essay  for Her Circle which explains what this book has to teach us as individuals, as activists, and as artists--and much more cogently than past blog posts.

I'm so impressed with the photos and pictures that the magazine used with my essay.  Let me give credit where credit is due:  I wrote the essay, but other talented people did the layout and found the accompanying photos and illustrations.  What a beautiful presentation.

I hope you'll go here to read my essay!

The Feast of the Visitation and Its Meanings for Moderns

Today, some of us will celebrate the Feast of the Visitation, the day that celebrates the joyful reunion of Mary, pregnant with Jesus, and Elizabeth, pregnant with John the Baptist.  If you're in the mood for a religious kind of meditation, see this post on my theology blog.

Some feast days come with a whole passel of traditions, including all sorts of food traditions.  This feast day doesn't appear to have those associations.  So all morning, my mind has spiraled about the kinds of traditions I'd create, if the Pope appointed me the one in charge.

Yes, I know, I'm a Lutheran and a woman, and thus, the Pope is not likely to appoint me in charge of anything.  But it's fun to play.

And yes, I hear my inner 19 year old howling with her fierce, feminist rage.  She would protest this feast day with its emphasis on pregnant women.  She would insist that biology is not destiny.  She would want a feast day that celebrated women making advances in male-dominated fields.

My middle-aged self is willing to admit that biology is often destiny, although not in the womb-centric way that the phrase is often bandied about.  I'm seeing too many people at the mercy of bodies that they have increasingly less control over. 

So, today, let's think about Mary and Elizabeth, two women at the center of miraculous fertility.  Let us think about what new life is in us, waiting to be born.

I'd encourage us to think beyond babies and future generations.  What creative work haunts your dreams?  What visions for the future make your innards leap for joy?  What social justice work remains to be done and done by us?

Every feast day needs food traditions, so today, I'd encourage us to nourish ourselves as if we're pregnant with a child who will go on to save the world, and thus needs a good head start.  Today is a great day to eat lots of fresh fruit and vegetables.  Enjoy the finest protein.  Drink an extra glass of milk--but because it's a festival day, make it a milkshake in your favorite flavor.

Then ask yourself why you don't show this level of self-care every day.  And be gentle and realistic with yourself.  Buy some multi-vitamins for future days when you don't have time to stock up on nourishing food or when you don't have time to eat.

Today is a good day to make a resolution that those days will be few and far between.

And when you get to the end of the day, take a few minutes to think about all the elders who have guided you along your path.  Who has been Elizabeth to your Mary?  You might even write a thank you note or e-mail to those people.  You might think about the younger generation who looks to you for similar guidance.  Write an encouraging note, e-mail, Facebook post, or Tweet.  Think of other ways you might serve as a shepherd for the next generation:  tutoring, reading in the schools, leading a Scout troop, getting involved with a group that speaks to your heart, donating money to a group that does good work--the list is as varied as we humans.

And at the end of today, this day of honoring all the ways we can nurture ourselves, our dreams, our potential, and others, take a few minutes to make a gratitude list.  Put on the list everything for which you're grateful.  Carry it with you into the days and weeks to come.  Remember that you are blessed in so many ways.  Remember that the world desperately needs what only you can offer.

Great Ones Passing Away

Yesterday, the world lost another great master:  Doc Watson died at the age of 89.  Earlier this year, I wrote this post about the loss of another legend, Earl Scruggs.  Just as Earl Scruggs changed the world with his banjo picking, so did Doc Watson change the world with his guitar.

You may say you've never heard of Doc Watson, but his guitar techniques changed the worlds of country music and bluegrass--and perhaps all popular music.  Before Doc Watson came along, the guitar was thought of as a back-up instrument.  Before Doc Watson, you'd never see the lead musician in a group playing a guitar--the thought was just ridiculous!

I would guess that more people now know how to play the guitar than just about any other instrument.  I wish I knew how to play the guitar.

But when Doc Watson was first playing the mountain music that would make him famous, the instrument to know would be the fiddle.  He played with a group that had no fiddle player, and he could never master that particular instrument.  So, he started playing the fiddle parts on his guitar.  And the world would never be the same.  He showed that the guitar was capable of complicated melodies.  His flair with the flat pick inspired generations of guitarists.

I love these stories of artists coping with a situation that at its face would seem limiting, like not having a fiddle player at a time when gigs required the fiddle.  I love these stories of artists exploding the boundaries of what's been done before, taking a liability and transforming it into a benefit.

Doc Watson was blind, but he did more than most sighted people will ever contemplate.  He mastered instruments, he toured, he created a music festival, he remained committed to the old mountain music and hymns while exploring new music too.  He supported younger generations of artists; one of my all-time favorite CDs is Michelle Shocked's Arkansas Traveler, which has the influence of Doc Watson braided through it (and in places, the actual playing of Doc Watson).  I also love The Three Pickers, a CD which features Watson, Scruggs, and Ricky Skaggs.  The Three Pickers and Arkansas Traveler have provided the soundtrack to many a road trip.

I love that Doc Watson continued to honor those that had gone before him, while being innovative.  I love that he preserved an American heritage--Appalachian music--that so many of us have come to value.  I love that he supported younger artists.  I love that he never forgot his roots, but that he didn't let those roots hem him in.

He died at 89, so at least he had a good, long life.  Still, how quickly it seems that these great ones are leaving us:  Earl Scruggs, Levon Helm, Doc Watson . . . and that's only the musicians that come to mind.  Many of the artists who have meant so much to me will not be far behind, but I shall continue to wish for them a long life, well into their late old age, with ever-increasing mental acuity and a physical body that holds together. 

In fact, I wish that for us all, along with a life's journey where we transform obstacles into opportunities, where we continue to treasure what has nourished us, a life that stretches us without breaking us and a world transformed by our creativity!

The Movie Theatre Is the New Sports Stadium

The movie theatre is the new sports stadium--by which, I mean that I have no idea how a regular middle-class family takes their group to the movies.  I'm guessing that normal middle-class families long ago gave up going to professional sports stadiums.

My spouse and I went to see Dark Shadows yesterday.  It's the rare movie ad where we look at each other and say, "That could be fun to see in the theatre."  Yesterday, I was reminded of why we go so rarely.

We went to the bargain matinee.  Now, I knew it wouldn't cost $3.00, like the bargain matinees of my youth.*  Still, I was shocked to find that the bargain price is now $9. 

And of course, we bought concessions--yes, that's our own stupid fault.  I justified it by saying, "Well, we go to movies so rarely.  Let's do the full treatment."

I bought the large size soda and popcorn--they came with free refills, so even though I didn't want but a few more handfuls of popcorn, I got the refill anyway.

I spent the whole night with a tummy ache.  Again, my own stupid fault.  I was so annoyed with how much we spent on concessions that I ate more than I had planned.

And I must say that I was annoyed with the movie too.  It's one of those all-too-common movies where by the time you've seen the ads trying to entice you to the theatre, you've seen the best bits.  I felt restless, and dare I admit it?  Somewhat bored.  At least my fellow movie-goers weren't as awful as they sometimes are.  No cell phones, no people acting like they're in their own private living rooms.

Last night, we watched reruns of M*A*S*H.  It seemed a fitting way to end Memorial Day.  And contrasting that writing to the writing for Dark Shadows, I couldn't help but notice that the writing for M*A*S*H was SO much better.  And free, broadcast to my non-cable TV.

Every so often, I have to learn this expensive lesson over again:  sometimes, the best entertainment is free.  Or at least, cheaper than the manufactured entertainments that our cultural institutions would like me to buy (movies, professional sports games, concerts, and the like).  And serendipitous.  My favorite recent memory is of a few weeks ago.  My spouse and I went to the beach with no clear plan except to wander down the Broadwalk.  We noticed that the organic brewery had finally opened.  We tried an ounce of each of the 4 beers brewed on site.  We shared a pint of the wheat beer, which was the freshest beer I've ever had.  It had a non-bitter taste, light and bubbly, with a pleasantly grassy undertone.  We drank it after walking two miles on a hot afternoon.   It was the perfect refreshment. 

And much cheaper than the movie refreshments we had yesterday.


*Does anyone but me remember the dollar movies?  I used to say, "Everything comes to the dollar movies, if you wait long enough."  I had a writer friend who heard me say that; he said, "I'm going to use that as the title of my first book."  I said, "You can't.  That's going to be the title of my first book."  Neither of us used it, and now we can't, since they don't seem to exist anymore, at least not where I live.

The Many Meanings of Memorial Day

Last week I talked to a co-worker who was mourning the fact that Memorial Day is so different down here.  I nodded.  But then she went in a direction I didn't anticipate.

She said, "It used to be a time when we'd go and open up our beach houses and summer homes."  On and on she went with these memories which are completely outside of my frame of reference.  It became clear to me that she'd owned at least one beach home, in addition to some sort of home in the vicinity of New York City. 

I was raised to be polite, so I didn't blurt out the question that seemed obvious to me:  "You come from wealth.  How did you come to be working here?" 

I come from a middle-class existence; if we were lucky and times were good, maybe we could afford to rent a house for a week.  And it wouldn't be at the Hamptons either.  It would be at some low-rent place, like Myrtle Beach, in an unairconditioned house with indoor-outdoor carpeting or linoleum.

No, what I miss about Memorial Day is the sense of gratitude towards military people who gave their lives for freedom.  I've tried writing that sentence in several ways, and it's hard to find a way that doesn't feel overused.

My favorite Memorial Day memory is going to the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C., shortly after it opened.  More than any parade, that Memorial makes clear the price of war.  And it only has the names of the dead.  So many names.

Of course I yearn for a time when we beat our swords into ploughshares.  Of course I can admit that many wars are misguided.  But I also understand that few of us have much influence over the larger policy issues.  We can still feel gratitude for those who have served.

On Friday night, we watched that show where famous people find out more about their ancestors.  We watched the last bit, where Rob Lowe found out about his German ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War.  It was oddly moving to watch Rob Lowe get teary over this ancestor who took all sorts of risks and to see Rob Lowe get an invitation to join the Sons of the American Revolution.  It seemed a fitting way to start Memorial Day week-end.

I don't think of Memorial Day as the start of summer.  I've always lived places where summer begins long before late May.  In fact, before we moved to South Florida, I didn't even have Memorial Day off.  Before moving here, I worked in community colleges in South Carolina, which didn't have the kind of generous holiday schedules that others enjoyed (no Memorial Day, no President's Day, no week of Spring Break).

It's good to have a day off.  It's good to take a few moments today to remember the people who don't get time off.  It's good to remember those who died so that we can enjoy our summer barbecues and beach trips.