Big Mind. Big Heart. Big Body.

For several years now I've admired the work of Genpo Roshi. The way I see it, his Big Mind exercise is an elegant mash-up of voice dialogue therapy, basic meditation technique and Tozan's Five Ranks of Consciousness. In a few short intense hours Genpo and those trained in Big Mind can lead a group of people inexorably to a Kensho--a brief enlightenment experience-- a sense of unity with the Absolute. Big Mind. And along with it Big Heart. I've done the exercise three times and each time it's been a lovely expansive experience. I have noticed however that, to me, there was a "body part" missing from the experience. Afterward, upon reflection, Big Mind seemed somewhat cerebral, not really anchored in the body nor available in a somatic way.

All that changed last night.

As I was falling asleep last night I felt an enormous sense of gratitude for being given the gift of life for another day. At the same time I felt some fear around my projection that my gift of life may be foreshortened. I reached for Paula and my hand found hers under the covers. My fingertips came to rest on her wrist. Very quickly I noticed that our pulses were in perfect rhythm. In a moment the beating of our hearts became the beating of the pulse of the whole universe. Our bodies were merged not just with each other but with the total energy of the absolute. My small besieged relative body fell away and I became, I identified with, the vast spaceless, timeless blissful body of Buddha--awakening. Big Mind. Big Heart. Big Body.

Buddhism has some esoteric teachings about my experience. Specifically the ones pertaining to sambhogakaya and I find these moderately useful. What was far more helpful about the experience was the end of the fear. The realization that my true body was never born and will therefore never die. My relative body will eventually pass away as do all manifestations of reality. But this Life lives on forever.

Medical update. I'm finally feeling really good. Energy levels are about 80%. Got out and walked briskly for a couple miles this morning. Less than three weeks to the surgery. Then 6 weeks recovery. Then ordination. Then watching carefully every month to see if I'm going to beat this thing. Thank you all for your kind comments, your prayers and support.

I love you all,

phil

The Threads That Connect Us

Sorry its been a while since my last post. But I've gotten through my fourth and final round of chemo and I have until October 26th to recover. That's the day of my surgery. Along the way, I've found out that I don't have cancer in growing my bones and the most recent biopsy showed no lymphatic invasion. But I still have the microscopic cancer cells that are probably circulating in my system to worry about. Hopefully the chemo got 'em. On top of that relatively good news, I got some really good news.

I have a date set for my ordination as a Zen priest. December 12th at AZC in Austin. This is the culmination of 18 years of steady practice and working with a teacher. Prior to the date being set I was told to start sewing my priests robes. (actually I restarted for the third time in ten years :-)

This is an enormously complicated project. A piece of black cloth about the size of a bed sheet is measured and cut into 21 pieces. Those pieces are then pinned and sewn back together in a quilt like pattern requiring thousands of hand stitches--each put in with a chant. The success of each stitch is measured in millimeters. Stitches that don't meet the sewing teacher's approval are taken out and re-sewn. The robe is called an Okesa. To put this in perspective, my sewing teacher and I worked three hours this afternoon squaring the okesa and pinning the short side borders. Normally we allow a year for this whole project to be completed. In addition to the Okesa there is the Zagu a bowing cloth that while not large is very complicated to sew. Then there is the Rakasu a recreation of the Okesa scaled down to about 10"x12" and worn around the neck. Finally, the envelopes for each of these need to be cut and sewn.

When I began this project the Tempter of Delusion Mara came to me and told me I would become the next great Zen sewing artisan. That I would go from a guy who could barely thread a needle to a priest with full expertise in this arcane craft. Then the Buddha came along and gifted me with this cancer. (This too is for my benefit :-) and everything changed. Suddenly I my hands shook too badly, my body needed more and more rest, sewing time was replaced with hours and hours of infusions and trips to MDA. Most importantly I had to learn how to go from "the strong one" the "one who is there for others" to the vulnerable one. The one who needs help, who needs to be held and to accept compassion.

So along with the cancer, the Buddha also sent me Sangha--the Zen communities with whom I have practiced. One of our previous sewing teachers undertook to sew the Zagu. My wife Paula picked up the needle and began putting in lines. My current teacher allows me spend as much time watching and learning as actually sewing and pinning. My former teacher Dai En Bennage from Mount Equity in Pennsylvania and her group undertook the Rakasu---sewing it with thread left over from one of DaiEn's robes. So the threads that connect us became not just metaphorical but actual. The whole project will be done ahead of time.

I guess I'm just really sensitive right now but I well up every time I think of how all these people some of whom I haven't seen in almost a decade rallied to support me. And I reflect on how being "the strong one" is really just another defense put up by my ego. A defense that was long overdue to be torn down. I'm discovering the joy in vulnerability. The peace that comes with surrender. Reminds me of a sign in the AZC kitchen: "Barn's burnt down. Now I can see the moon."

"I love you." "I know."

I remember the times in my youthful romantic relationships, the ones full of limerence and lust, when I would wait for the right moment to look at her to say "I love you" for the first time. Then wait anxiously for the response I so longed to hear: "I love you, too." I remember the devastating feeling that washed over me when the response was: "I know." I had hung all my feelings, hopes and dreams out there only to be crushed by a polite acknowledgment that committed to nothing.

I remember the times in my middle years in my long term covenanted relationships, the ones sometimes frayed, and bruised and threatening to come undone, when I would look at her and and say "I love you." and then anxiously await the accustomed response, the one we had practiced for years: "I love you too." I remember the sadness and sense of loss when the response was: "I know." I had made a peace offering, given a reminder of our history together and my hopes for our future, only to be rebuffed by a vague expression that committed nothing.

Over the past six weeks as Paula and I have plunged headlong into this medical nightmare, there have been many occasions when we have comforted one another with our habituated somewhat casual responses: "I love you. I love you too." But there have also been times when "I love you." has been met with "I know." Only now, in my mature years and probably more mature love, "I know" has taken on a whole new and profound meaning. It is an affirmation of commitment, a recognition of 15 beautiful years plus six weeks of hell, spent serving each other without asking anything in return. "I know." means I've somehow succeeded in cherishing and supporting another in the way they want to be loved.

I've been signing these blogs with "I love you all." Tonight, I want to say to all of you who have verbally and implicitly expressed your love and support for me---tonight I want to say:

"I know."

Intimacy

I'm writing this post in order to clarify something that has been a bit vague and unintegrated for me. So please don't take this as me teaching anyone but myself.

"First there is a mountain, then no mountain, then there is." I am coming to understand this old zen saying as a description of three stages of intimacy. Three stages that give rise to three levels or perhaps states of a decreasing sense of separation between our felt sense of "self" and our felt sense of "other."

This observation arose for me during my stay this week for the second round of chemo at MDA. My infusions began at 10:30 pm. The night nurse who greeted me seemed perhaps not as experienced or confident as the other nurses who have tended to me. She got a bit defensive when I reminded her to write the schedule of my doses on the schedule board. She got more irritated when I pointed out that I believed she had scheduled the anti-nausea medicine too early. Instead of checking, she went ahead with what she thought was right. We saw each other as "other." We divided the our worlds into two. Nurse and patient. The one in charge. The one not in charge. Me here. Mountain there.

15 hours later it was time to take a four hour dose of Cisblatine--the chemo that is primarily responsible for causing severe nausea. By now the anti-nausea dose I had been given had worn off and I was faced with the prospect of receiving only post infusion remedies for sickness instead of prophylactically addressing the issue. I explained my problem to my new nurse and her first response was "I'm sorry. You're right, we should have waited until now. But we can't really re-administer the medicine." In that moment as our eyes met and she saw the anxiety and fear in my face, something softened. Some line between us blurred. "Well, she said, "I suppose we could give you one of the two you were supposed to receive because it will be out of your system by now." Call it empathy, call it nurturing, I call it intimacy. She really understood, could put herself in my place. We were not mountains opposing each other. Those mountains were gone for the time and in their place was a state experience of not being separate.

Which leads me to the third stage of intimacy where mountains are mountains again, but not seen in the same way. I have experienced this stage as repeated states of non-dual consciousness. Shikantaza, my meditation practice, has afforded me sometimes prolonged glimpses of a greater Unity. Of "things as they is" as Suzuki Roshi is reported to have said.

In this state/stage body and mind drop away completely. Life is just life without anything added. No stories are necessary. Genpo Roshi calls this "Big Mind/Big Heart." Recently I've experienced it another way as "being the Light" This stage transcends and includes the previous two. So Mountains are Mountains again--I am aware of the sense of separation and yet I know simultaneously at another level that there are no boundaries save the ones my mind creates. In this way compassion arises. I am able to feel compassion for all who do not have life threatening cancer because I can see clearly that we are all in free fall. I can have compassion for the cancer itself which is not separate from me.

My learning from this is two-fold: First we can and do occupy all three state/stages everyday to one degree or another. They are in a sense not really separate either. That's an abstract learning. The more practical learning is that these three stages correspond roughly to certain dynamics of interpersonal relationships.

For example: Sympathy/Empathy/Compassion.

Also: "I treat you the way you the way I think is right" vs. "I treat you the way I would want to be treated." vs "I treat you the way you want to be treated."

The subject matter is explored thoroughly in the book Paula and I are publishing: The Source: A Journal of Mindful Relationship. (First drafts available upon request)

I love you all,

phil

Confidence

Getting ready for round 2 of the chemo. (Cue the ring card girl :-) I tolerated the first round quite well. I feel great. Energized, focused and upbeat. Met with Dr Siefker today. Came away feeling really confident. I got a clear sense from her manner and forthrightness that she expects to win. She has a real presence, a directness and concentrated attention that I really appreciate. I even invited her to check out my "woo-woo" posts and she said that research shows that people with community support, family support, faith, and a positive attitude tend to have better outcomes. I think her jury is still out on healing vision while in a deep meditative state :-)

In any event, those experiences of "being Light" continue. Some have become quite animated. I'm resisting making too much meaning of it all. Just grateful that when it happens I come away refreshed, renewed and in high spirits.

Today, I got to meet with the team from work by teleconference. I got to feel the kind of caring and support that Dr Siefker spoke of. Thank so much!

I love you all,

The light of peace

Fair warning:

For those of you who have an allergic reaction to anything you might deem "woo-woo" or "New Age" I suggest that you skip this post. And, to be candid, if I hadn't personally experienced what I did this morning, and I were a follower of this blog instead of its originator, I fully expect I would be heeding this preamble myself and finding something far more valuable to do with my time--like cleaning the fish tanks. Yet, when I undertook to begin these entries, I vowed that I would report honestly and directly what I was experiencing and then offer some reflection.

So here goes:

This morning, about 10:15, a business meeting I was expecting to attend didn't happen, and I felt a need to go rest. I went to our room and lay down, gently closing my eyes but not sleeping. Within a few moments I experienced what I can only describe as a kind of healing light energy flowing not so much over me or around me or through me but as me. I had no sense of my "self" being separate from this light energy, or that it was "working on me." I did not feel bathed in it, warmed by it or infused with it. The experience was more like I was the light. Eyes open or eyes closed, everything appeared bright and exceptionally clear. Visual contrasts were sharp but not unpleasant. As if all of a sudden, I had perfect vision--even with my glasses off.

More remarkable than the physical manifestations of this experience though were the sentient ones. I felt completely at ease, comfortable, safe, non-anxious--neither "grounded" nor "floating" but just fully, fully present. I felt at peace. I felt not so much loved as love itself. I remained in this state for an hour and a half. When I arose to attend my next meeting, there was no reluctance. It was simply time to move. As I stood up, I felt a knowing in my body that my healing has begun.

It is now over nine hours later. I haven't slowed down or needed to rest since. I've had two extensive client meetings, driven 30 miles or so, had dinner with friends and I'm still going strong. I am not experiencing nausea--my appetite is robust. I'm not feeling tired---I feel really really energized. I don't feel sick at all. I feel very,very healthy. I feel Alive.

Like all states the experience this morning is temporary. I may very well feel terrible tomorrow. But I don't expect to. However, I now have a clear sense that while the sense of health I currently feel may come and go, rise and fall, the Reality underlying my experience is constant, infinite, vast and lacking nothing.

As I re-read what I've just written, I expect that many are wondering what on earth I am reporting. I agree. It defies rationale, explanation. Invites skepticism. And some small part of me stands right there with the skeptics saying "Yeah right." And yet my experience was real. The aftermath fully observable by friends, family and clients.

For now, I'm going to say that I experienced something like "Big MInd/Big Heart" but in a very expanded, profound way. Whatever it was, its enough.

And it's now available to me.

I love you all,

Gassho

In Zen practice, we have a way of placing our hands in a prayerful position called "gassho" and then bowing from the waist. This gesture is used primarily to show gratitude or respect but is rather ubiquitous and can also mean anything from "pardon me" to "pass the salt." During silent retreats we gassho to one another as a means of greeting.

I've just received my first round of fours rounds of chemo and among the post infusion instructions I've received are to avoid handshakes and hugs as my T-cells will be low and I'll be very susceptible to infection. No problem! You all can just expect to see me "gassho" when we meet. I kind of like that idea. Mainstreaming "gassho" could change our whole society (lol)

My first gassho (bow of gratitude) today is for everyone at MD Anderson who worked so flawlessly to help me and Paula get through this first round of chemo.

I had 31 continuous hours of chemicals administered into a blood source near my heart through a "pick line" a catheter that starts near my elbow and follows a vein into my chest. The pick line will be with me for the duration of the chemo. I am Borg. Resistance is futile.

The chemo ended at 4 pm Thursday. We stayed over with Cindy Wigglesworth (God bless you Cindy!) and I drove home Friday. Yes, I drove. I'm feeling fine so far. Spirits are still high. And something has shifted. I've got a brave new confident attitude about this thing. I used to wake up 3-4 times a night in a sweat with the thoughts of premature death. Paula would hold me until they passed. Last night she got an uninterrupted 8 hours of sleep. I woke up 3 times but each time my thoughts were powerful and positive. I'm going to beat this thing.

I've scheduled calls with all my clients for next week and am really looking forward to getting back to what fills my life with so much purpose and meaning.

Bring it on Life! Let me see what you got.

Love you all,

phil

50/50 now 60/40

Today my odds got better but the scenario got scarier. And then, yet another possibility opened up. Met with my Oncologist today Dr Arlene Sierfker-Radtke. Wow. Another straight shooter who let me know in no uncertain terms that I'm dealing with a very serious, very nasty form of cancer. I'm looking at the following scenario: 4 rounds of chemo in two months with the last one taking place on August 31st. Then a six week wait until I'm well enough to have the bladder/prostate surgery. After the surgery they will do another biopsy looking for even microscopic cancer cells. If they find them--and here's where the odds went up in my favor from an earlier 50/50 to 60/40--then the cancer is considered incurable. Historically, within 18 months new cancers will appear in random places and that will be all he wrote.

If the chemo gets what's there now--all of it--then they scan me monthly for 18 months to see if any cancers appear. If none appear, I go up to 80/20. If I get five years out, I'm considered cured. Okay that's the scary part. I can look forward to a day in October when I'll awake in the recovery room with or without a more or less imminent death sentence. Except....

Dr Arlene is running a clinical trial for an FDA approved (for other cancers) drug called Avastin. She has had 27 patients in this trial for about two years, I think. I signed on. If I can do anything to help others who have this condition then I feel very strongly about doing it.

So I was talking with the nurse who is managing the trial for the drug company who is providing Avastin. She told me that if I get bad news after the surgery she can offer me the option of continuing with the Avastin on a monthly basis. It does not have the deleterious side effects of other chemos. Essentially once a month I go to MDA for an overnight visit. She told me that three people had been offered the option. Two turned it down, preferring to take their chances. However, one person, a 70 year old woman with my diagnosis had accepted the option and is still tumor free after a year, feels great and is living a vibrant life.

That's my story so far. A little more apprehension today than yesterday. But also a lot more clarity. I should be able to work, to meet clients around my chemo schedule and the surgery schedule. I'll probably regain my high spirits again after a few nights good sleep. My equanimity is pretty good right now. Nothing bad is happening in this moment. In fact, just reaching out to all of you and feeling you reach back is very sustaining.

Saw a t-shirt at Zen Center one day that helped me put all this in perspective. It said:

Eat right. Exercise. Meditate. Still die.

I'm okay. I'm okay with this. And I love you all.

Phil

Change of Plan, Change of Mind

Turns out my second opinion was worse than the first. And yet my spirits are high, my equanimity generally restored. Thursday I met with Dr. John Ward III at MD Anderson. He was terrific. Clear, Cogent, Cognitively brilliant, and Compassionate. I got to experience all the wonderful "C" words after almost three weeks of dealing with the dreaded one. He explained to me that my tumor had micro-pappillary (sp?) features meaning it had very likely sent free floating cancer cells throughout my body where they will eventually hook-up with a million of their buddies and grow another cancer somewhere. He told me that MDA has a relatively new method of dealing with this situation which is to do two months of intensive chemo first. Then take the bladder and build me a new one. Then watch me closely for signs of new cancers. This was, at first, very disorienting and shocking. Especially when I learned that the 5 year survival rate for this is 50%. Yet as direct and confident as Dr Ward was when he told me his opinion, he was equally direct and confident when he said "This thing is beatable." He then left the room for about fifteen minutes and when he came back he told me that he had gotten me an appointment with Dr Arlene Silve-Ratke who he described as one of the world's most highly regarded experts in treating exactly the kind of cancer I have. When I asked about a physical/cardio regime to rebuild and sustain my body after chemo and surgery he said that I could consult with one of the physicians who was on Lance Armstrong's team. Shortly after that Randy Eisenman emailed the name of his cousin who works as a dietician at MDA. In just a few amazing hours I went from uncertainty and fear to having confidence, clarity and renewed courage. More good "C" words.

Suddenly I have an all-star team, a best of the best group of physicians who seem very interested in helping me beat this thing. My spirits have been high all day. I did a half day silent retreat this morning and my meditations were still and deep. I met with two different Zen teachers this morning in private interview and actually found myself, authentically in-the-moment describing my situation to one of them as "kind of cool."

It seems that in addition to changing my plans, I've changed my mind:

I am no longer "dying of cancer" I'm "living with cancer." My dying will only take a moment. It will be that moment when I expel my last breath. Everything else before that is living. I intend to do it wholeheartedly.

I am no longer afraid of the ravages this disease and its treatment will inflict on my body. I will treat them as the necessary conditions for transformation. I'm going to research what Lance Armstrong did and use that as my model.

To the best of my intentions, I will no longer allow these circumstances to pull me into a "self-centered" way of approaching life. Being other-centered makes life work for me. My relationships with my wife, my friends, my family, my clients, the work that we do together sustains me, fulfills me, keeps me sane. That doesn't mean I won't indulge in self care. When I'm tired I'll rest. When its time to exercise and eat right, I'll do that. Whole-heartedly. But the first day after chemo that I can take calls, I'll want to be on the phone. Fully present.

Part of this self-authoring move that I'm attempting, this shift from victim to creator is the "gift for Mac" entry earlier in this series. I really love that little guy. And now that the odds are about even that I'll see him graduate kindergarten, my project to collect your wisdom for him is of even greater priority. Please post whatever you can, whenever you are so moved.

I love you all,

Phil

PS Good real time Zen joke: I'm due to be ordained as a priest this year. As a traditional part of the ceremony a monk's head is shaved except for a small circular patch called a "shira" That last patch is shaved off as the defining moment of the ceremony. Well, my crazy immune system has prevented me from growing hair for the past 15 years and my teacher was trying to figure out how to alter the ceremony as a work-around. Not much came to mind. Now, there's a good chance that my chemo compromised immune system will actually allow me to grow hair in time for the ceremony. When I pointed out that at the very least this situation had "solved the shira problem" my teacher burst out in hearty laughter. In loss there is gain lol.

PPS: I feel such incredible gratitude for Randy Eisenman, his family and their friends who went to bat to get me into MDA. I spent about fifteen totally choked up minutes trying to express my sentiments to Randy on Friday. I told him he had probably added years to my life. He said "that's okay, you've added a lot of life to my years." Sweet.

This too, is for your benefit

When my surgery was rescheduled I felt a sense of loss. Loss of time. Loss of opportunity. Loss of preparedness. And yet, there were a number of things that came up around the rescheduling that could be seen as gain. Thanks to the heroic efforts of Randy Eisenman and his powerful network of friends, I was able to get shortlisted for a second opinion at MD Anderson. I now have an appointment with Dr. John Ward III, a surgeon recommended to me by Dani Decell, CEO of Las Colinas Medical Center.

Right now, I'm thinking that in this loss there is gain. That all of this is somehow for my benefit and the benefit of those whose respond. If not for this disease, I would not have felt the outpouring of love and affection from so many people. My grandson Mac would not have been introduced to so many wonderful people offering him their wisdom. I would not have been able to reconnect with my good friend and colleague Cindy Wigglesworth or some old friends of our in the Woodlands this week. I would not have found the energy to complete the first draft of our book: The Source: A Journal of MIndful Relationship. (Copies for comment available upon request)

I am not really very concerned about legacy. That's just what people will say about me after I'm dead. And, well, I'll be dead so how will I know what people say:-) But I am concerned that people find a learning in their response to my situation. As you all read or contribute to this blog a certain kind of learning takes place. I'm grateful for that.

Right now my intention is to fight this thing. I have a number of things I want to get done before I check out. So I'm going to put every last bit of chi I have into surviving long enough to get them done. Or not.

Hurry up, wait.

Just when I think I can actually see through the illusion of personal power, something really surprising comes along and forces me to see how much I was relying on my plans and strategies to deal cope with life. I had spent the last five days getting myself ready for the projected ordeal of major surgery/five days in the hospital/one month recovery at home. I was all set. Clients taken care of. Had a small going away party set up for Sunday night. Had convinced myself that I was strong and would be able to live through this transition, maybe even realize its transformative potential. Thank you Mara.* Your comforting delusion actually worked for a while. I was ready. 

Then Dr. Williamson called to tell me the surgery has to be put off for a week. The fellow surgeon who was to help him perform the operation had a death in the family and had to postpone. It felt so weird to notice my disappointment at not going into the hospital three days from now. To see my shock and dismay that now that I had so carefully prepared myself, I might have to hold onto that preparation for another 10 days. Somehow the idea of "psyching" myself for that long seems like too much work, now. And kind of pointless. This next week, I'm recommitting to letting go of plans and ideas that will save me. I'm recommitting to just supporting Life completely. Moment by moment. Thy will be done.

*in Buddhism, the demon that tempts us through egoism.

The hundred foot pole

There is a question sometimes asked in Zen practice: A man climbs to the top of a hundred foot pole. What does he do now? Jump off! 

Several kind people have commented to me that my Zen training must have prepared me well for what I'm facing. That notion is lovely but I have a sense that if I start believing it, my suffering will become greater. I fully expect that I will fail to keep my sense of self as victim in conscious perspective at all times. In those moments, I'll hopefully want to avoid the gaining idea that somehow I didn't train hard enough, or I wasn't a good enough Zen student. Between now and Monday I will focus on doing what's right in front of me. Right now that doesn't include much bodily pain. When I wake up from surgery, I expect the pain will provide a powerful focus for my mind just as it does during extended meditation periods. 

Sometimes I think we are like the guy who falls off the top of the 10 story building and about half way down the people on the fifth floor hear him exclaim: So far, so good! I've spent a good part of my life ignoring the ground rushing up to meet me. Can't ignore it anymore. I've jumped off the top of the hundred foot pole. Nothing to do but trust the universe completely. Nothing to do but live this life I've been given. 

A gift for Mac

I have a beautiful one year old grandson named Carter MacAllen, who goes by "Mac."I always imagined that I would have 20 years or so to be his Opa and teach him what I could about life. Now that may not be the case. So I'm inviting all of you who have offered your best wishes to support me in creating a gift for Mac. Please write a comment to this blog introducing yourself to Mac and telling him how you know me. Then tell him one thing that you have learned from being in association with me that he might find useful later in life. Anything from the mundane to the deeply philosophical is greatly welcomed. And Mac has already demonstrated a good sense of humor so feel free to make him laugh. Thank you one and all for your contribution.

Update. My surgery is scheduled for Monday the 13th. I'll be in the hospital all week. I expect that the following week of the 20th will not allow me to resume my calls or participate in workshops. But I should be able to start scheduling calls the week of the 27th. That's the plan so far. If I need chemo then I'll probably need to add another week.

Knower vs Learner

In the Integral Leadership Program we teach about the Knower vs the Learner mindset. For the most part we valorize the Learner and paint the Knower as someone not quite as evolved. From the perspective of wanting to scale a business this is a helpful frame, a useful model. And like nearly all polarities there comes a time to hold the other pole. In the case of deciding what treatment to receive, I find myself relying on the Knower who is my surgeon. He has been dealing with this type of cancer for over 25 years. He is certain what needs to be done and feels some urgency around doing it. I could get a second opinion and maybe that will be possible before the surgery, but I'm not prioritizing it any longer. I have a kind of "knowing" around this too. I'm pretty certain that I don't have a lot of time before this cancer grows into something very nasty.

A question I have asked Zen teachers and others over the past year or so comes to mind again in a new way. My question was: "Is there any one thing of which I can be completely certain." Most people including, I noticed most Zen teachers tried to answer the question from the perspective of something they could be certain of. Death. Taxes. The present moment. Etc. Etc.

And yet the question is really unanswerable from that perspective. It produces only a list of things the person being questioned feels certain of...Knows. All of which are open to question, to some uncertainty no matter how small. A powerful answer to the question is: How could I know what you can be certain of? You can be certain that the moon is made of green cheese if you want.

Certainty then is a choice. We can decide when we have learned enough and choose to act on our current certainty. Of course, like all things, that certainty will change. That's okay. If I am non-attached to the outcome of my choice then I have no problems only decisions. 

Today I am choosing to be certain that my doctor is right in his radical remedy. The bad news is that means that I will spend the rest of my life peeing in a bag. The good news is that I get to spend the rest of my life peeing in a bag :-) 

So today at 4 pm I've got a consult scheduled and will opt for the surgery. As certain as I can be that this is the best option. And okay if some time later I discover that I had another.

The love in my life

When I first announced that I had been diagnosed with bladder cancer I expected the usual flurry of "get wells" and "best wishes" all the usual Hallmark greeting card expressions that I'll admit I've often relied on over the years. After all, what do we say to someone who is contemplating a possibly imminent death sentence? "Well, good luck with that."? The response in my case was something I found quite surprising. Over and over, I've heard: "I love you."  

At first I thought it was just some sort of Texas/Southern acculturated response. Like the way we say "God Bless him" when we mean something quite different. Then one of my good friends and clients Pete Carlsen sent me a message and demonstrated once again his knack for summing things up in a cogent way. Pete pointed out that I had given out so much love over the years that I could expect it to be returned to me. Ok, I knew that. :-)

I can't begin to tell all of you how much it has meant to feel the outpouring of kindness, good will, compassion and love that I've received over the past couple of weeks. The Beatles had it right.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. 

Update: tomorrow morning I'll try to connect with my Austin Doctor: John Williamson. He isn't inclined to wait two weeks to get a second opinion from MD Anderson. Wants to do the resection as soon as possible. The fear in me agrees. Another part of me senses that surgeons tend to privilege what they are good at. That if the only tool one has is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail. Still, I won't wait long to give the green light. Probably this week.