Category Archives: The Seasons

Blessed Beltane – Biopsy

Widdershins Mask1st May – Beltane – I had my second biopsy on that golf ball in my thyroid. For those who came in late, in March this year I discovered I had a lump in my thyroid that was cancerous.  I blogged about the ‘cone of surrealness’ of that time and got on with life … until today.

Today was biopsy #2, wherein we hope to find some more definitive ‘anomalous cells’ that will give my throat-cutting guy a better idea of where we go next. It’s a fair bet that my golf ball has to relocate, and sooner rather than later. The rest is up for discussion. I’ll let you know how it all goes.

But here’s an interesting thing. Today I got to see the ultrasound image the biopsy-taking guy used to guide a very long needle into my throat. I’ve seen gazillions of x-rays of my knee in it’s various incarnations, from completely busted up to staples, screws and other hardware, but seeing inside myself in real time (in glorious black-and-white video) was … weird. I gotta be honest, it felt a little squicky, (like a slow-motion punch in the throat) but also absolutely fascinating. I took notes, mentally that is. It’s hard to write in my notebook, flat on my back with a needle in my neck. (It wasn’t really that long, but it felt like it, so therefore it was!)

There’s a story somewhere in this … maybe something about ‘google glass’  that sees in all sorts of different ways, infra-red, untra-violet, see-through, (like non-dangerous ultrasounds or x-rays)  … and what would become of the people who couldn’t afford it … and what would happen to art if people only saw through the google glass? Who would clean the streets if no-one saw the mess? (sounds a bit like that Bruce Willis movie ‘Surrogates’) I’ll work with it.

So, that was my Beltane. A little different, eh?

Blessed Be – Let’s kick the tires and light the fires! … and finish out the night with a bracing cuppa tea!

*

P.S. Next post will be Episode 4 of ‘Identical’.

*

“When tea becomes ritual, it takes its place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things” – Muriel Babery,  from her novel, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

The Seasons: Autumn

We live on the third floor of an old apartment building on a quiet street lined with decades old chestnut trees. There are two slightly younger birch trees in our front yard that display their most gorgeous plumage right outside out windows. From late Spring to early Autumn we are hidden from the world within a canopy of green.

This time of the year the canopy is turning into the colours poets swoon over, the kind of colours that can be seen from the International Space Station about 387 kilometers above us. (an average between its perigee 376 km, and apogee 398 km, AMSL-Above Mean Sea Level)

It’s raining here in Vancouver today. About a meter from my window is a tiny olive green bird hanging upside down on a branch so thin it’s bent vertically with her weight. She’s no bigger than a half-grown mouse and yet she has this wisdom about her that encompasses the whole tree, all the trees on our block, and perhaps the one next to it as well.

There’s something that happens to the undersides of the tree’s leaves when it rains. It’s too small an event for the naked eye to see, but whatever it is, this little bird and her extended family are of the opinion that it’s a tasty treat.

There they are, dancing among the leaves, small enough to dodge the splats of water from the rain soaked sky that trickle down through the canopy. They flit from tree to tree making their way along the street until I can’t see them anymore, no matter how far out the window I lean to catch that last glimpse of their industry.

Autumn rain is a fickle thing here. The sun will shine out from the west and highlight the undersides of the clouds in liquid fire. There might even be a rainbow, and I might see a part of it beyond the city’s rooftops, if I’m lucky enough.

And . . . enjoy.

*

“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns” – George Eliot