healing journey – Kat Dornian

Dark Days

Content warning: still about terminal cancer.

The dark is getting to me this year—persistent, cold, bitter. But, I’ll be damned if I let it stop me. One thing I know about the dark, is it must be faced. Not feared. Not ignored. Not fought. Not run from. And, for goodness sake, not given into.

That’s my weakness—giving in. I’m captivated by the dark. The stars, that milky stroke across the sky, the fleeting shadows, and the mystery draw me in. I could easily fall into the dark and let it consume me. Indeed, for much of the last four years I’ve had to hide in the dark to protect my skin, sanity, and immune system—staying away from sun and people.

Rod and I went to Dinosaur Provincial Park in September.

A month ago, I sat in my doctor’s office and tears trickled down my cheeks, my breath caught in my throat, and sobs rang from my chest. I held my heart like a hug—a way to comfort myself. My onocologist handed me the tissue box. I’d just been told that the treatment I’m on usually extends survival by about 10 months. It’s a hard thing to hear. I’d just turned 39 and the laughter of my best friend’s first child still rang in my ears from the day before. There’s always light in the darkness, those stars that make the shadows flicker.

It’s not easy getting bad news as the nights grow longer and days become colder. There’s fewer activities to distract me and I’m forced to stay still, to nest… and ruminate. Furthermore, my new treatment makes me quite fatigued, which suits the 16 hour-long nights, but not keeping busy. Still, I get up the next day and make a grocery list because, goodness, I’ve dealt with everything else ad nauseam.

But this is what I’m talking about. I can give in too easy. I can plan so much for darkness that may never come (some darkness always does though). But my weakness is also my strength, because I can also plan for miserable things that need to be planned for. Not that I think death is miserable or dark, per se. But, to be honest, I still like life quite a lot and want to get the full experience—the good and bad, the sublime and imperfect, the light and dark—before I become dust and soil. And, so, I am looking at options. I may be going to the States next year for treatment, if I qualify. There’s a clinical trial coming to Calgary that may be a strong option for me.

And so, I dwell in the darkness of the season, for a bit. I go for walks when the low-hanging sun hits my face. I let stars guide me to new horizons and opportunities, being ready for what may come.

Still Here

It’s hard to believe I have cancer. Four years ago I had a port implanted in my chest and started chemotherapy. Four years later, I’m still here. I’m still on chemotherapy. It still feels surreal. Nonetheless, I am here.

I joked with my dermatologist that I’ve had cancer for as long as it takes to do an undergraduate degree. Although many of the feelings of grief, disbelief, wonder, and passion for living echo what I felt four years ago, there is also the journey I have been on and growth I have had in this time. Surprisingly, the hardest lessons have not been the innumerable drug names or what these drugs are doing or what all the different proteins and enzymes in my bloodwork are showing. The hardest lessons are what I’ve learned about cancer and the profound impacts of ableism on us—all of us. To this latter point, I’ll say that I still struggle with the ableist notions from which my understanding of the world grew, but I’m improving.

I’ve touched on my ableist belief system and my relationship with wellness culture before in my writing. Ableism is so ubiquitous and entrenched in society that it is a hard to shake. However, I’m becoming more adept at spotting ableist ideas and phrases now. This practice of spotting has allowed me to deepen my imagining of a world that’s possible if we treated disability differently.

I have much work to do toward this imagining. First, I must stop blaming myself for cancer. At least weekly, I see a post on social media or read an article or overhear a conversation where the individual with cancer is blamed for their cancer or rewarded for their remission: “if only they had been more healthy…”, “if only they had eaten better…”, “if only they had decided to do a complete 180 on their life to fight cancer…”. I understand how blame—or, to say it more gently, a cause and effect story—can give a sense of control and safety. And while I often think of myself as someone who is able to dwell in uncertainty, it is a draining practice. And so, I resort to ableism and the blaming of my imperfect body and my imperfect will: for skipping a workout, or eating a slice of cake, or staying out late for a few more songs to dance to.

I imagine, in a less ableist world, we see more grey areas—the magic in the liminal spaces—and are able to dwell in that uncertainty. We are not afraid of the vast differences in bodies and minds, allowing us to be gentler with “imperfections.” Perhaps we don’t use the words ‘perfection’ or ‘imperfection’ anymore. Perhaps, as our need for control gently dissolves, we see our connections to one another rather than the us-versus-them that’s awakened by fear and blame. Perhaps we feel our shared responsibility to care for our collective wellbeing. Cancer is not caused or reversed or worsened by the sole actions of an individual—it takes a community. It really does. And I am so thankful for mine.

For those who have stuck with me, thank you. Enough philosophizing; here’s an update of happenings since my last post to this site: I completed my creative writing certificate from the University of Calgary and am continuing to create and submit words. I pursued a liver transplant, but have decided that it is not right for me at this time. This is a tough decision to make; liver transplants do offer some patients many years of survival. However, recurrence rates are high (in my opinion), the surgery is risky, and I’d have more chronic health issues to manage for the rest of my life. I continued the chemotherapy treatment that caused skin irritation until June, at which point my health team and I decided it best to look at other treatments. Now, I am back on the chemotherapy regimen I had four years ago, with the hopes that it will be as effective as it was then and that the associated neuropathy holds off for a while. I also went to Iceland with my friend in March, which was an extraordinary adventure to an absolutely unique place. While travel was stressful for me, I somehow managed not to get sick and enjoy much of Icelandic culture and scenery.

I’m looking forward to the rest of 2025 and to being able to enjoy the outdoors a bit more now that my skin is not as sensitive to the sun. I’ll continue to write and learn (for another four years, at least, hopefully). And I’m continuing to look for emerging cancer treatments that might work for me; there are some promising therapies on the way to Canada, so stay tuned.

It’s hard to believe this is my life. It’s hard to accept my illness. But I’m getting better at that too!

References

Lorde, Audre. The cancer journals. Penguin, 2020.

Air

Here’s a poem I wrote a year and a half ago. It feels time to release it from the annals of submission purgatory and share it with the world:

“Air”
By Kat Dornian

August 24, 2023
Tunnel mountain,
Banff National Park.
Fog shrouds the river view
as moss cascades off rocks.
Pine and spruce creak
in the gentle mountain breeze.

June 19, 2023
CT scan, enhanced,
reveals three nodules
in my right lung.
The doctor says,
‘We all have nodules,
it’s the pollution and the smoke.’

May 30, 2023
Camp Air-Eau-Bois,
Lac Poisson Blanc.
I breathe new air and
dip my legs in the reservoir
that’s drowning eighty-five
square kilometers of Indigenous land.

May 15, 2023
Air quality index
reaches eleven.
Five hundred and thirty-two
thousand hectares
of Alberta land burned.
We stay indoors and run air purifiers.

October 30, 2022
CT scan shows
‘pleural effusions…
lungs otherwise appear clear.’
I’ve been in the hospital
sixteen days and counting,
breathing oxygen from tubes.

August 29, 2022
Uclulet, B.C.
A two-day drive from home
after summer fires
subsided. I’m on my own,
breathing the ocean
that summons redwood and seaweed air.

Good Work

[All the ancient wisdom] tells us that work is necessary to us, as much a part of our condition as mortality; that good work is our salvation and our joy; that shoddy or dishonest or self-serving work is our curse and our doom.

― Wendell Berry, The Unsettling of America

By many accounts, I’ve had a productive year. I don’t know how to feel about this. Since my cancer diagnosis, I sought to find value in myself without the badge of outward accomplishments. At one point, my therapist told me, “You are a human being first, not a human doing.” Yet, I am writing a year-end wrap-up highlighting the launch of three projects in which I played significant roles. Not to mention, I had my first piece of creative writing published in Wishbone Words, Issue 14.

Spiritual thinkers like Wendell Berry and Thich Nhat Hanh offer wisdom to this question I pose to myself about productivity. Both saw value in good work. That’s the work I hope I did this year: Work that was honest, compassionate, and helped my community.

It feels strange to be busy while going to chemo every two weeks and managing the strain of type 1 diabetes while my endocrine system acts up—perhaps from steroids, perhaps from the strains of chemo. It is not easy, and it means having to be very intentional about my work. Like many disabled people, I find myself on the fringes of work—needing work that allows me the time I need for self-care and prioritizing my needs.

Unfortunately, I decided to depart from my pre-cancer career. I couldn’t do it when extreme medical side effects made it difficult to show up in an office and commit to five hours of solid work. I loved the routine and the connections with people that I gained by returning to work, and the project I was working on was interesting. However, I also realized how my priorities have changed in the past three years of treatment. Nonetheless, it was an honour to contribute to Quantum Sandbox 2.0.

From home, I helped with two community projects this year: The ElevateUP Career Mentorship Program with The Dollar Detectives and Imagine—Reshaping Adolescent and Young Adult Cancer Care Through Immersive Experience with Anew Research Collaborative. These projects were filled with incredible learning about community engagement and leadership. I feel honoured to have seen these projects flourish alongside the dozens of co-creators and collaborators.

In this community spirit, I recognize how different each of us is. How meaningful, honest, and compassionate work looks different for everyone. I saw how our ability to work—or not—does not diminish our basic humanity and right to live a joyful life, and how society’s view of productivity is not a measure of our worth. I am thankful to my friends who show up in many ways: compassionately, joyfully, and in service to their families and communities. It is so beautiful to watch the diversity of ways we do the good, necessary work—even and especially when it doesn’t fit society’s definition.

Thank you, my friends, new and old!

Do not live with a vocation that is harmful to humans and nature. Do not invest in companies that deprive others of their chance to live. Select a vocation that helps realize your ideal of compassion.

― Thich Nhat Hanh, The Fourteen Precepts of Engaged Buddhism

Quotes:

Berry, Wendell. The unsettling of America: Culture & agriculture. Catapult, 2015.

Hanh, Thich Nhat. “The Fourteen Precepts of Engaged Buddhism.” Social Policy 33, no. 1 (2002).

Gratitude

Another milestone approaches, one I’d never thought I’d reach: my fiftieth round of chemo. Honestly, I thought I’d have left cancer well behind me by this point. There’s a small chance I have; there’s many chances I haven’t. I’m choosing a practical optimism at every opportunity I get, but to be honest, it’s difficult to deal with the uncertainty of what this actually means.

The remaining three tumors in my liver (each the size of dice) appear to be largely calcified—like little skeletons buried in the vibrant ecosystem of my liver. I’m so grateful and awed by the ways the body strives to live. And, I’m grateful for medicine, and the ongoing development of new and better tests and therapies. The thought of going off of the treatment that has kept me alive for the last thirty-two months is frightening, while also relieving (two seemingly competing truths existing together). But even to be here is amazing. Even just fifteen years ago, I wouldn’t have had access to the same drugs I have today.

This got me thinking. I looked up causes of death through history. The first thing I saw was that only a century ago almost fifty percent of people died before they were adults. Nowadays, that number is below one percent. Frankly, I’d be dead if I was born a century earlier. I had pneumonia when I was around eight years old. It would have killed me a hundred years ago, and it could have killed me had I not been born in a wealthy country even now. Type 1 diabetes was a miserable death sentence a century ago. It’s frankly amazing that discoveries and innovations, combined with a handful of other close calls, have given me as much life as I have. And this is probably true for nearly half of the people reading this, half of your friends, half of your coworkers, half of the brilliant people making these discoveries.

I have a lot of gratitude these days. It keeps me uplifted and hopeful. It helps me see all beings as caring and giving of their best. It helps me see and feel my place in the web of being. Basically, it helps me just to see so much. I think about being a kid, and writing thank you cards to family members after Christmas gifts were exchanged. It was a simple practice of gratitude that informed my inclination to the practice later in life. And am I ever thankful for that too.

I remember (perhaps inaccurately, but to the best of my knowledge) being part of the health and safety committee at work, and as part of a mental health strategy, we implemented a thank you board in the office. It was largely a success, but concerns were raised that we shouldn’t be thanking people just for doing their jobs. I get where people are coming from with this argument, but I put forth that thanking someone is a rather simple action in comparison to the meaningful effect it can have. And who knows, some people struggle to get out of bed in the morning, how does some recognition change their morning? Others may feel like an imposter, or face any other struggles that plague us in the workplace, how does some appreciation change their work? I think about how differently I show up to conversations when someone simply shows appreciation for the effort I have put into a piece of work, even if my efforts turn out to be misinformed or otherwise shit.

In this spirit of appreciation, I’ll stop with the sappy, self-helpy vibes and say that the best thing these days is my hair. Although there is chemo-induced thinning, there is also chemo-induced curls. After getting over the initial confusion of coping with this newfound mess, I found a style that I adore. I honestly think that this is the first time in my life that I’m genuinely pleased with how my hair looks. It’s a funny fluff on the top of my head, which is perfect for my face shape, looks the perfect amount of androgynous, actually requires very minimal styling, and the curl shampoo and conditioner moisturizes my scalp so no more dry skin flakes! It’s a bit weird to be overjoyed with a hairstyle that was caused by cancer treatment, but there you have it. Thanks chemo!

I’ll leave it there for now. I’ve been changing and learning (and being grateful for my consistently curious self) these last thirty-two months. Perhaps I’ll say more next time. Be well and be grateful!

Winter Solstice

The longest night is approaching for those of us who reside in the northern hemisphere. After the winter solstice, we will begin our journey of turning closer to the sun once again. I’m sure many are looking forward to more light and longer days. But there are also special opportunities that come with the long nights (back to that in a second).

The waning of sunny hours has been difficult, bringing with it seasonal malaise and melancholy. The body longs to nest and sleep, but the deadlines of year-end and holiday stresses do not allow us to follow circadian inclinations, nor allow us to truly savour the community warmth and signs of life we crave. Perhaps, after the fires are lit, food is baked, and tea is steeped, there will be time to nestle into a blanket in the cozy company of others.

The opportunities to be near others, rest, and dream are important. Dreaming, in particular, is a chance to process and internalize memories as well as create and envision something new from the embers of the past. (Isn’t dreaming fascinating?) I love taking time during these long nights to reflect on the year and set plans for the new one.

Over the last year, my hope and optimism has continued to flourish despite the escalating tragedies around the world. I am finding and continuing to nurture the relationships with the many lovely people in my life who are infusing the world with good. I don’t know if I tell you, my friends, how valuable and important you are to this planet, but I think it every day and it gives me so much hope and inspiration. Although it often feels like our influences are small, I can see the good that comes from our being together, practicing gratitude, processing our pain, sharing, shifting, changing, and acting. Even though these gatherings often focus on efforts larger than myself, they’ve been immensely helpful in keeping my personal spirits lifted and getting me out of bed each day. I am eternally grateful for my friends and community.

I’ve had twenty-one rounds of chemo this year and have one left before 2023 wraps up. When I was first diagnosed, hearing this would have terrified me. I’m grateful for my body for putting up with the drugs, but it’s been difficult. I started a new medication in July, whose side effects included acne and rashes. To combat the acne, I was put on an antibiotic that caused sun sensitivity. By August I had developed such a severe rash that I’d spend entire days researching anything that would alleviate the pain. The rash turned out to be a severe sunburn with an area of infected skin as well, so I stopped the antibiotic and switched to something else. I have to maintain ongoing care for my skin, as well as everything else, but I’ve still had two more infections in the last few months. I’ve gone through about 2 liters of moisturizer in this time, and hundreds of bandages for my splitting skin. This past week has been a much needed respite. My face is a normal shade of pink, although I still have purple scarring from the acne down my arms, which seems to be slowly healing. I’m able to go to sleep without the fear of waking up in utter discomfort. I’m so grateful for my care team and dermatologist for helping me through this.

As things were getting better in September (after seeing a dermatologist), I enrolled in a creative writing program. One of my new year’s resolutions was to write 80,000 words and submit something to a magazine. I’m much behind on my word count (about 40,000 at the end of November), but I have sent out a few proposals, manuscripts and poems. So far, nothing published, but I’m enjoying the process immensely and learning a lot. At the end of this post, I’ve included a poem I wrote as a “talk-back” to John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s Imagine (a song that I’ve found myself humming a lot this year as I witness what humans can do to their kin).

One of my favourite memories from the year was the canoe expedition I got to go on in May with the Fondation Sur La Pointe Des Pieds. We canoed along Lac Poisson-Blanc in Quebec, guided and assisted by an incredible team, and accompanied by fellow cancer survivors. The power of this trip was unexpected. While I went in thinking the outdoor experience would be transformative, I less expected to be transformed by the people as well. The joy, camaraderie, and selflessness shared infused me with hope.

I realize there’s a lot I could say about this year. So many fantastic things have been happening. For next year, I’m still optimistic about getting another surgery to remove the remaining tumors. But here and now, on this long night in the tail of autumn, Rod and I are still here, cozy, and laughing a lot.

Winter Solstice

by Kat Dornian

Give yourself to slumber
under ink black clouds.
Moon below the horizon,
light for when it’s dark.
Lie in peaceful presence.
Silhouette of the trees
mythologies reverberate
of songs, put us to sleep.
Dream of all the beings,
our kin gathered around,
flames flicker in shadows
mysteries of living found.
Maybe someday you’ll join us
under the sky’s moonlight.
Stories, song and dancing
long into the warm night.
I hope someday you’ll join us
maybe for just one tale.
World quiet from the fighting
a chance to just exhale.

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?