Recently, I took a two-day training in the fundamentals of tai chi. While I never realized how exhausting and sore one can become through such a slow, meditative practice, it also made me realize how much I had started rushing through life again.
One part of that training required everyone to eat lunch mindfully – no talking, no devices, no reading. Only you, your thoughts and your food.
After I was diagnosed with melanoma that was how I ate my meals. Mindfully. I sat with the intent of enjoying the food in front of me and little else. Occasionally I might page through a magazine or book, but my sole purpose was to be present in the moment of each bite.
Then work and life gradually flooded back over me and I started working through lunch, eating while I finished a story or got ready for the next task at hand. Dinner became a rush of food stuffed between events or tasks. Even breakfast was gobbled down while getting ready for work.
What had happened?
I looked back at those days after my diagnosis and surgery when everything in life jumped out in living Technicolor.
As I struggled to find balance with the new fatigue treatment handed me, my mantra was, “it is what it is” and I got to things when my energy allowed. I wasn’t worried about balancing ten spinning plates at once like I used to before diagnosis. One spinning plate kept me mesmerized – and it was fine.
But suddenly, I had multiple plates spinning again, some faster than others, and I didn’t want any to fall to the ground and crash.
The tai chi instructor kept telling us we weren’t relaxed enough – you can never be too relaxed, she chided. Maybe that’s why I was exhausted after each day. Instead of relaxing and being mindful of each movement, I was trying to gain control, only to realize, it’s not mine to gain.
If I could control my life, I never would have gotten melanoma. True, I had control of aspects earlier in life that could have prevented my diagnosis, but then I wouldn’t be talking to seventh graders in a few days about the importance of sun safety. If I could control my life the way I thought it should be run, heaven knows where I’d be, but I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Part of being mindful to me is seeing and accepting subtle signs along the way. Those subtle signs led me to Beat Cancer Boot Camp, which led me to be a group fitness instructor, which led me to the YMCA, which led me to the tai chi class and many other things.
All those things have become part of the plates currently spinning in my life, along with family and my full-time job.
As I watch those plates spin, I have to be mindful of their rhythm and the energy needed to keep each in orbit. Within that rhythm, I’m sure there is space to sit and eat quietly, mindfully, restfully. I’m sure there is space to watch the robin sing outside my door each day, see the hummingbird dart back and forth for food and wait for the dragonflies to fill the sky.
Mindfullness requires breathing, following the rise and fall of your chest and abdomen with each breath. Letting that rhythm fill you, calm you. It’s the only way I have found to come close to the relaxed state needed for tai chi, needed to reduce stress, to survive.
While I am only a beginner in tai chi, I knew mindfullness when I was the sickest I’d ever been in my life. Why did I forget how amazing it felt to be alive when I was terrified of dying?
Tai chi involves achieving a relaxed state of awareness. My muscles haven’t forgotten how sore they were after those two days of training. However, as my leg muscles continue to heal, that big muscle in my head, lingers on the lost art of mindfulness and longs to find that relaxed state of awareness.