Gilda Radner, Saturday Night Live comedienne who died of ovarian cancer in 1989, had this to say about life:
Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what’s going to happen next.
Six years after her death, a center to provide social and emotional support for cancer patients and caregivers opened in New York City. It was the first of several Gilda’s Clubs in honor of Ms. Radner — all with brilliant red doors.
Photo credit: Panoramio
Sometimes when things hit hard and fast — like loss of health or financial security, loss of a home or a way of life, or loss of a loved one — there can be a tendency to wrap our lives tightly around ourselves like a security blanket and stay put; a tendency to not venture out because venturing out doesn’t feel very safe any more.
Photo credit: Pixabay
In a week of walks along the Deschutes River, I snapped several photos (is it snapped if you’re using a cell phone? shouldn’t it be tapped?). Photos of young guitar player on large boulder; beautifully-choreographed fly fisherman’s cast; fallen tree growing its own green lawn.
As many times as I’ve walked this portion of the river trail—hundreds of times—it seems there’s always something new to photograph. Like this rock sculpture.
Deschutes River trail
I have two crazy friends—well, I actually have more than two, but these particular two are married to each other—who decided to run a first-ever marathon (Jim) and take on Pole Pedal Paddle alone (Michelle) as a way of celebrating milestone birthdays this year.
Photo credit: Unsplash
It hung around way too late in the day before I recognized this no-energy-no-interest-in-anything blahness. That’s when I got out my script pad and wrote a prescription for mild depression: Go take a hike. Near a body of water.
Tumalo Creek in Shevlin Park (Photo: Marlys Johnson)
Part of the cure requires that the patient stop somewhere along the path to contemplate all there is to be grateful for: in my case, sound of water rushing over rocks, warmth of sunshine, the ability to move on my own two legs, family and friends to love, family and friends who love me.
I remember the nurse — after the surgery where we learned the cancer had already spread — who brought blankets and pillows so I could sleep in the recliner next to Hubby’s hospital bed. Because I didn’t have the courage to go home and sleep alone in our bed that night.
Photo credit: Slideshare.net
These words from a 2014 Mother’s Day blog post when Gary was still here to make Mother’s Day — and every other day of the world — extraordinarily special:
Hubby said those five magic words that made my heart beat more quickly: ‘Reservations at Kokanee Café at 5:30.’ (Or is that six words? Is 5:30 a word?)
Raise your hand if you’re patient by nature. (My hand isn’t raised either.) I’m the world’s worst waiter. It’s because I usually want what I want when I want it.
Photo credit: Pixabay
What we didn’t realize during our *wilderness years* — that season of time from Hubby’s job loss through cancer — was this: The paring down and simplifying of our lives was for a larger purpose, for lighter travel over mountain trails and barren places.
Photo credit: Gary Johnson
Back in February, I wrote a blog about why you should tell your story. Today, April 27, happens to be National Tell A Story Day. But what if your story didn’t turn out the way you wanted?
Photo credit: Pixabay
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