kahht

Bread in The Time of War

By Kat Dornian

I can name the metrics of violence:
Bullets, bombs, blood shed
Blast
After blast
Echoing in my head

You tell me I could measure love too
But I don’t know what to count
You said count the loaves of bread

Remembrance Day feels extra difficult this year as I watch more catastrophic acts of violence, power, and greed unleash their fury. I feel powerless; Many of us do.

This morning, I read Wendell Barry’s speech from 2013, titled “On Receiving One of the Dayton Literary Peace Prizes.” It seems appropriate that it is today when this chapter was where my bookmark took me. Some of his closing words struck me: “Peace comes from freedom, real freedom. It comes from responsibility, real acceptance of responsibility.” The line reminded me of the way bell hooks talks about the work of love. I’ve been enjoying both of these contemporary philosophers this year.

I don’t have much to offer in terms of answers for peace and responsibility. What I am finding to be true, again and again, is that the compassion and care we show for each other through acts like giving time, space, skill, and creativity (of which I include such acts as baking bread) make life livable. History shows us that our collaborative, collective, connective caring leads to flourishing, so that is what I chose to practice if only to make my own, little community lighter.

Thanks-giving

I’ve returned from a short birthday “vacation,” full of waterfalls, cedars, and lakes. Although side effects from my current chemo regime afflicted me, Rod and I were able to enjoy the peaceful days together (except maybe the part where I took us up a daunting service road in our tiny civic to see a cedar grove. I think the adrenaline of the drive added to our eventual enjoyment. Also, not the first time I’ve taken civics on such inadvisable drives).

I’ve been reading John O’Donohue’s Anam Cara (a Celtic word, meaning soul friend). Early on, he introduces the idea that the soul holds the body within it, rather than the soul being an entity within the body [Amazingly, when I asked Rod where his soul was, he said everywhere! For me, this was a bit of a revelation]. I loved the practice he offers of breathing in the soul, feeling the relationships I share with all that is around me, and how nourishing–maybe even healing–this is.

Beyond all else, I am immensely grateful for my friends and community. The walks and chats I’ve had with you have been so invigorating, and kept my optimism alive. Reading books, taking courses and doing workshops with you has fed my soul. The peaceful and reflective times where we’ve merely just soaked in each other’s presence has been nourishing. Your gifts of company, conversation, care giving, food, money, art and books [if you’ve lent me books, I will get them back to you, promise] have all been so appreciated. I keep many of these gifts in my living room with me so I am regularly reminded of you. Thank you thank you thank you!

In this exercise of gratitude, I am also extending these words to myself and to my more-than-human companions (the saskatoon bushes, the strawberry plants, the bluff and its grasses, the rivers, the squirrels…). I realize how fortunate I have been to find great friends in myself and in the landscapes, for with these friends I am never alone.

I am not hosting a gathering this year for my birthday, I have tried to schedule various one-on-one hangouts instead. Last year’s gathering–in the days before my liver and colon surgery–was hosted in appreciation of all that you’ve done for me. Although there’s no formal gathering this year, I just want to send everyone a big hug of gratitude, some nice pictures, and these closing words by John O’Donohue:

“A Friendship Blessing

May you be blessed with good friends.
May you learn to be a good friend to yourself.
May you be able to journey to that place in your soul where there is great love, warmth, feeling, and forgiveness.

May this change you.
May it transfigure that which is negative, distant, or cold in you.
May you be brought in to the real passion, kinship, and affinity of belonging.

May you treasure your friends.
May you be good to them and may you be there for them; may they bring you all the blessings, challenges, truth, and light that you need for your journey.

May you never be isolated.
May you always be in the gentle nest of belonging with your anam ċara.”

― John O’Donohue

Give Me Dust

By Kat Dornian

Give me dust
Give me soil
Give me grubby knees
grass stains
and bruises
Give me sand in my hair
and bugs on my shirt
Fruit flies
butterflies
ladybugs and ants
The caterpillars falling from trees
The bumbles and buzzes of bees
Give me berries
to dry in my pocket
Give me rose hips
fresh peas
and oak leaves
Leave an acorn
a half-chewed cherry
a sunflower seed
Leave a feather
and give me a song
call the crickets
nocturnal cats
and chirpy bats
Give me the full moon
the blue moon
and the harvest moon
Give me clouds
when I’m out
Sunshine
when I’m in
Give me rain
and snow
and long nights
filled with stars
Give me wool
and warmth
and a cup of tea
from fallen leaves
And when it melts
Give me dust

This poem carries a lot of the same rhythm as Lemm Sissay’s “Some Things I Like” from his book Listener. Why is that? Well, I’ve been memorizing that poem because a poetry video I watched recommended memorizing a poem or two. I repeat the poem multiple times a day as I’m working on storing it, so when this call for dust came to me, the rest of the poem unfolded in the familiar rhythm.

Let me know what you think. What does “Give Me Dust” evoke or bring up for you?

The Roar Within

I wrote this micro fiction a few months ago. Fantasy isn’t a genre I tend towards, but it was fun to explore in a tiny way like this. Enjoy!

A fierce growl rippled from the cave where Merrybevin was to gather lion-seed for next week’s ceremony. Her knees shook as she reached for her spell vial. She sprinkled the contents and hummed Grandfather’s spell. Her shaking knees unlocked. She squinted into the inky depths to see gleaming teeth. Merrybevin inched towards the roar within.

She hummed the spell again. The creature growled, “I don’t want to eat you, but I’m… starving.”

Merrybevin fumbled for a portion of meat. “This is all I have. Take it!”

A toothy grin formed, “You’re kind. This will do.” The tiny cat stepped out of the shadows, and delicately ate.

Grieving

I want to share a bit of cancer-related grief I’ve been feeling recently. It might not seem huge, but grief doesn’t revolve around the ominous losses alone.

I’ve been a swimmer since before I have conscious memory. My grandparents and parents would take me to the pool at Village Square every Sunday until I started swimming competitively with the Dinos around age 12. Swimming was an escape for me during a couple particularly traumatic events in my childhood—a house fire and the sudden loss of my father. It was the only place I didn’t talk much about my life, allowing me to simply exist. Being in the water felt stabilizing in those tumultuous times, and I insisted on attending every practice I could.

A white-skinned, brunette man with red swim trunks and trucker's tan holds up a tiny human in a red bathing suit. They're in shallow water of a pool. Other swimmers can be seen in the background. — My dad and I in the pool. I’ve been swimming since I was a baby!

After I retired from competition, I always bought gym memberships with access to a pool. Covid and cancer have changed that. Obviously, pools were closed with so much else when Covid struck in 2020. But, with my cancer diagnosis in the summer of 2021, I have only been able to take a few measured risks even though pools have reopened. Namely, a dip in the ocean and a visit to the Radium Hot Springs, both with ready access to showers and small, off-season crowds. The thing is, I have low neutrophils (a white blood cell key to fighting infections and healing tissue), and I can’t justify putting myself at increased risk from pools and water.

Low neutrophils have probably been my most impactful side effect. Yes, I detest all the hair on my bathroom floor, but thinning hair hasn’t bothered me too much since I prefer shorter hairstyles. Neuropathy (numbness in hands and feet) is mild in my case. I dislike the fatigue and chemo-brain, but it generally lasts only a few days. But low neutrophils (aka neutropenia) have delayed my treatments numerous times. Neutropenia makes me cautious in crowds and poorly ventilated areas. I take extra precautions when doing chores. My husband and I still wear masks almost everywhere. But even these adjustments don’t feel as significant as losing my access to swimming. I’ve felt less choice in letting go of swimming.

In the spirit of change and adaptation, I have found kayaking and canoeing a welcome return to the water, albeit no replacement for swimming. I still miss being in the water, gliding smoothly with a concentration on my stroke alone, enjoying my solitude. I can’t wait for kayak rentals to reopen for the season—only a week away! (Maybe I’ll buy a foldeable kayak this year.) Plus, I’m diving headfirst into a supportive three-day canoe expidition for young adults with cancer at Poisson-Blanc Reservoir in Québec next week. Nonetheless, the extended absence from water since last summer has contributed to my grief around swimming these past few months.

A short-haired (almost bald), peach-skinned person in sunglasses smirks into the camera while a blue-life jacketed man with a black cap paddles the canoe. They float above turquoise water with a rocky mountain and spruce forest in the background. — My BFF and I canoeing on the Bow River in Banff last summer.

Just a bit of mourning for the swimmer I am/was. Loss is loss in all its forms. I welcome change as I attend to the grief.

Identity

I don’t want to talk about cancer all the time, yet it pervades so much of what I share here. I expect the new year to bring a shift into more expansive writing. Here’s why:

At this time last year, I was settling into the cycles of chemo. The grief of diagnosis gave way to an urge to reconnect with myself and my community. Although treatment and my body’s healing still demanded much of my time throughout the year, I gradually sunk into connecting with my passions and giving what I had to offer. Over time, I spent more energy being me than worrying about cancer.

“No Self stands alone. Behind it stretches an immense chain of physical and—as a special class within the whole—mental events, to which it belongs as a reacting member and which it carries on.”
Erwin Schrödinger, My View of the World

I have found throughout the last year that cancer has undeniably shaped me and yet not become the sole definition of who I am, as I once feared it would. I don’t push away or deny cancer as part of my identity. I like to think I’ve been learning how to let cancer identity take the space it needs, no more and no less. In doing so, I’ve also found the parts of me that shine—an outdoor enthusiast, an active person, an art lover, an educator, and a designer. Oddly, as I’ve seen these parts, I’ve been drawn to the simple question of “who am I,” exactly? Like the Earth shifting from season to season, the “I” is so constantly in motion with the world around it that the question is not so simple.

As I tried to answer this question and connect with the threads woven throughout my life, I observed how the cancer thread integrates with them. I wish these threads wove into a tight braid because that would be an easy and narratively clean answer to that “who am I” question. In reality, these threads loosen into a fabric lovingly woven with odds, ends, and beginnings—an “I” entwined with a messy whole. First, I find I cannot be defined by cancer alone, nor by any single part. So, while cancer happened to me and the self which sits here today has undoubtedly been shaped by the experience, I am still me. Second, there is no single identity in cancer. For each person, cancer’s impact takes a different shape. I notice that while I have the same experiences as others in the community, there is much I don’t relate to also. I am still that piece of fabric so different than the others and still sharing threads. Instead of denying this new part of my identity, I allowed it in, which has led to healing and for myself to come forth. In this healing, I have affirmed that I love being outdoors, moving, preparing food to share, learning, and helping others to learn by designing experiences. These activities have happily appeared throughout my life and have made me feel settled in who I am.

“There is no single entity whose identity is changeless. All things are constantly changing. Nothing endures forever or contains a changeless element called a ‘self.'”
Thich Nhat Hanh, Thundering Silence: Sutra on Knowing the Better Way to Catch a Snake

As I’ve dove more into systems practice, the most astounding realization of the year has surfaced. Since I was a teenager, a piece of advice has clung to me: If you want to change the world, you must first change yourself. Before 2022, I interpreted this to mean that one needed to be perfect before entering into service work for others. If you know me, you know I didn’t take this entirely literally, but it still nagged at me and led me toward constant self-improvement. It’s only been over the last few seasons that I’ve understood how simply changing oneself changes the larger whole one is part of. As the fabric of the self changes, it pulls on the threads of the entire universe. Likewise, as the cancer experience integrates, it shifts the other parts of me and all to which I am connected.

So, I see how I have been shaped by every experience that has brought my consciousness here, and no one else shares that. This experience—reaching back to eternity—makes a self so incredibly unique and at once impossible without the whole. As I shift like the seasons, I change my future and all I am connected to. It sounds grandiose, but with the perspective of my size in the immensity of time and space, it also seems remarkably insignificant.

All this reflection and what I want to say is I’ll write more over the coming year as I continue to explore. I’m unsure if I’ll share it on this blog, but if I do and you follow me, you will likely find more stories and thoughts without cancer as a feature.

For now, know that I am recovering well from surgery (a colon and liver resection). My bowels have pulled through for me and are 95% up to pre-surgery function—amazing. I have a big scar running through my abdomen, and I am excited for summer weather to show it off. I’ll hopefully have another surgery in the next few months for the rest of my liver. If all goes well, I’ll be able to ease back into doing those things I love more full-time and reliably.

A dark collage of space elements and shapes. A small ethereal figure with short ruddy hair is reaching out to a bright sun-like object. — Artist Unknown

Surgery

I had surgery on October 14th. The surgeons removed the tumors in my colon and from the left side of my liver. Recovery has been slow and challenging: Tubes, pokes, and hospital misadventures.

So many tubes. Tubes that send pain relief through my spine, one that carries out urine, another that drains my stomach, a tube for oxygen, tubes delivering nutrition and a tube for medicine. These tubes have stuck around for days and days. Most are gone now, but not all. I make the same joke to the nurses: I’m a meatball in spaghetti.

I’ve been poked with needles so many times. Every night another draw of blood. I have small veins that reject the use of IV tubes. For every new IV placement, there are probably three probing needles. Yikes. The bloody dots mark my arms and hands like constellations. I can count seven dots, forming what may be a dolphin with a ball.

I’ve been in the weirdest sectors of the hospital. Driven into what felt like a closet in the basement where they drained litres of fluid from my lung and belly. Where I nearly held my breath as I stared at shelves of various N95 masks and wondered what was going on.

More adventures to come but I’m almost out.

Community Care

I don’t feel qualified to write this post. I’ve rewritten and revised it over half-a-dozen times. Despite my hesitation, I’m compelled to share. Why? Because community is an essential part of well-being and deepening community is one of the most immediate actions one can take to improve survival in this world. Bold statement, I know.

One of the greatest helps since being diagnosed with cancer has been community. Community has been a significant part of my life for a long time, even if I didn’t always acknowledge it.

In my teens and twenties, I placed a high value on independence. I got a car shortly after turning sixteen, and loved being able to get myself around. At some point in those years of discovering my independence, I found myself less interested in the clothes and entertainment my “popular” peers were interested in. I would go to the mall, movies and coffee-shops on my own if I wanted. I even read up on living off the land, how to grow soy and hemp, and how to forage. I never needed to ask for help, and thought that doing so was a weakness. I saw it as an asset that I didn’t need to rely on anyone else.

Truth be told, I relied heavily on others. Not just material reliance, but reliance on the acceptance from others too. I didn’t realize it.

But with time has come a different understanding of the world. While I am grateful for those years spent getting to know myself through the search for independence, my values have shifted much more towards community and interdependence. By this, I mean the various clusters of beings who are connected by a common root and grow together. These beings, some of whom I know deeply and others whom I barely know, have helped navigate these difficult and magnificent times of my life.

There are communities of shared interests, like that which I found in community radio and music. Without fully realizing at the time, working in radio was about community more than anything else. Here, a diverse mix of people come together to share something they love. I wouldn’t (still don’t) consider myself a community builder, but moving into this community space at a young age showed me so much about listening, sharing, gathering, and showing up.

There are communities of shared geography, like the beautiful neighbourhoods I’ve chosen to live in. These vibrant communities are home to friends and familiar faces. Like I said, I’m no community builder, but I do benefit from the work others have done to create exciting community spaces where I can participate in building community. I love participating. I love going to my neighbourhood coffee shop and making small talk. I’ve followed the stories of babies being born to starting school, and so much more. I frequently run into neighbours and friends on my walks and it is one of the most magical feelings. Admittedly, sometimes I’m too caught up in my own thoughts to say hi, sometimes it’s just a smile and wave, and sometimes it turns into a half-hour conversation. My body bubbles with joy after even the smallest encounters. I’m amazed at the generosity of people I hardly know extending their help to me this last year.

There are communities of shared struggle, like the cancer community. A close community that allows the sharing of personal stories, struggles, and successes.

As I’ve been appreciating community more and more over previous years, I’ve come to make some observations. I’ve noticed how communities shift, change, and adapt to be what’s needed in the moment. People come, stay, go, and return at different frequencies. Communities form and dissolve, ebb and flow, like tides. I’ve noticed the way everyone contributes in different ways to holding and weaving the space. I’ve noticed the benefits of showing up, and creating a welcoming environment for others to do so too. I’ve noticed that it helps to throw out the scorecard: to give what I can when I can without needing the deed returned, and to accept help graciously. Most importantly, I’ve noticed the brilliance with which communities emerge over time spent caring and sharing together. It doesn’t always have to be heavy, and nor should it be. But it does take time.

I’m heading in for surgery very soon. In some ways, I feel like I’m stepping away from my communities as I recover. I’ve put volunteering on hold and won’t be stopping into my neighbourhood coffee shop. But, in other ways, I am deepening into my community by allowing friends and neighbours to support me when I need help. It’s a very strange feeling for someone who’s valued independence for so long, but I’m doing my best to get more comfortable.

Abundance

Took a quick road trip to the coast. I wish I could stay, erase the cancer cells in my body, and breathe in the continuous flow of rainforest air forever.

Unfortunately, nature doesn’t erase cancer. It does soothe my nervous system. It calms my breathing. It puts things in perspective.

I should be heading into surgery, round one, sometime in September to erase the cancer cells, so to speak. A date is to be determined. Before that, I hope to soak up as much nature as possible in these waning days of summer. Hence, a trip to the magnificent Pacific Ocean and the North American temperate rainforest.

Way Point Beach at sunrise, on Yuułuʔiłʔatḥ territory

Before taking this trip, I wanted to explore some apps that facilitated connections with nature. I played with a few of them throughout my travels. My favourites have been Roots: Connect with Nature (nature meditations and soundscapes) and Seek by iNaturalist (identify and find wildlife). Both offer experiences that seem to enhance time in nature rather than detract from it.

During my explorations, I thought a lot about abundance. The forests are so rich in life. I thought about how there could be enough for everyone, especially now. Our wisdom, knowledge, and technological advancements can eliminate hunger, poverty, and much disease. Yet, the fear of scarcity is baked into our bones and synapsis. It began before we became humans; from the millennia we spent running and fighting; from the times before we built walls and locks and the times after, up to today. These learned behaviours are ancient. So we hoard and control resources from minerals to the carbon of dead beings to seeds to people. Instead of happiness, the resources require more walls, more locks, more protection, more fighting, more resources… And we never say, “Enough!” Despite all the advances, we’re forcing ourselves back into scarcity. Heat waves are drying out massive rivers. Wars are destroying staple crops. Rapid extinctions are collapsing ecosystems that maintain our (and many others) lives. These are just a few of the issues bearing down on us as we simultaneously have the know-how to stop them and continue to ignore the warnings about what brought us here.

I wish pictures could bring the experience of abundance to everyone. Even the closest facsimiles seem to fall short. (However, I’ve experienced some pretty good ones like iMax nature documentaries and—very oddly—that Avatar ride at Disney.) Luckily, I don’t think one needs to travel to distant places to feel that wonder: Gazing at the night sky, watching the clouds, waking up early for a sunrise, catching the murmurations of birds, enjoying a rain shower, going into a forest near where one lives and just soaking it all in.

Maybe technology can help. So, I’m curious: what technology connects you more to nature?

From the book I packed for the trip: “Dub: Finding Ceremony” by alexis pauline gumbs

Love

I’ve been wanting to write an update to my blog for sometime about my treatments. Not today though. What I can say for now is that I’m still flowing with the ups and downs of treatment. Or, at least, trying. Figuring out how to be myself, how to slip back into creativity after fatigue, and still manage all the appointments, prescription pickups, self-care etc. This week has been exhausting.

I’ve had some really good laughs though.
Belly laughing.
Laughs from resonating hearts.

This year I’ve been thinking a lot about love. I am awestruck by love. I remember first being in love and feeling my soul open up so wide, seeing life so vividly, the earth shaking, my being rooting so deep into the universe that nothing seemed to matter while at the same time every cell of every being seemed so sacred. It was awkward love as young love is, but it was really good love. It was love that saw me and wanted me as I was. An eros love, but an eros love that truly valued the life in me. It shocked me—and I don’t mean that lightly. It was life changing. Even thinking about it now I can feel my centre shaking like those days love washed over me.

I’d thought I’d been in love years before this. But, when I realized love does not impose rules on how one must be, I realized how one-sided my love had been. False love like this became easy to spot and it is abundant, unfortunately. The love I felt gave me purpose. But that purpose was just to be. And that purpose made me want the world to be well, if not flourishing.

“The transformative power of love is not fully embraced in our society because we often wrongly believe that torment and anguish are our ‘natural’ condition.”
bell hooks

I don’t know how I’ve been so blessed in my life. To have had that experience. To have met that person who cared so much for me that I wanted to ensure everything that makes life is thriving for them, for us, for me. I have been feeling so loved over this past year. I hope it is due in part to having loved well more than not; And I also hope that love can enter less hospitable places too… even if I am that place at times.

There’s so much to say about love. bell hooks is a good start. I may write more about it too. I love love.

The reason I wrote this: I was listening to a podcast the other day and the co-host, Autumn Brown, said, “love is what makes surviving worth it.” So true.