I moved back to the northern latitudes (from San Salvador to NYC) almost two decades ago. At the time, I loved the constant warmth and large daily doses of sunlight of the tropical region, so much so I declared that my move to the U.S. was just a test. I would see if I could live with winter again. It was a few years after that – maybe when I realized I loved Burke so much I wanted to start a family with him and, despite all that drove me bananas about this country, I loved being home in the U.S. – when I started deliberately reflecting on how I could embrace the dark of winter. We threw a winter solstice party once in D.C., and everyone shared things we loved about winter (I still remember Burke describing his joy at riding his bike, fast and down the long hills of D.C., in the crisp, crisp chill). Every winter, my body misses the light, the heat, the ease of running into friends and neighbors without so much planning. I’ve repeated the question over the years to anyone who will listen: how do you embrace the cold and dark of winter?

Tomorrow is my third round of chemo. I am hoping that my slowly evolving embrace of winter will help me also rest and be gentle with myself this round. Because I have tried all sorts of ways to avoid accepting cancer affects me: pretending I could keep teaching yoga (appointments and then surgery recovery and then exhaustion got in the way), pretending I could keep running (it was good for a while, and then it was too much), pretending I would be able to go snow shoeing (by buying waterproof winter boots). This week I tried going for a 4 mile hike in the mountains, and my usually strong heart vehemently said no. Within a minute of leaving the parking lot I had to stop and rest, and eventually I had to try an easier spur, then found that amount of climb was still too hard. My body says NO MOUNTAINS for me right now. It is humbling. (I also really wanted to host a winter solstice party and invite you all over, but I have been falling asleep so early that I talked myself out of it. But if you’re up for it, I’d love to hear how you welcome/embrace/accept the dark and cold?)

One piece of fun news for me and cancer: I submitted a short essay on grief and acceptance (in which I may have overemphasize my acceptance) to Wildfire, a literary journal featuring writing by people who have/have had breast cancer, and they published it! The magazine just came out this week. When I got my diagnosis, I bought two back issues — it was so helpful for me to have short, personal stories and poems that illustrated that vast range of experiences of people with breast cancer under 50 (what a specific subgroup, I know! And yet, there are enough of us to warrant a literary magazine.) The magazine is also beautiful, with great layout and gorgeous photos. If you have or have had breast cancer, I highly recommend it! (I can’t tell you what it’s like to read if you don’t have breast cancer – maybe you’ll love it, too? You probably know someone who has breast cancer – you can buy it and then pass it on?) If you want to read and can support the journal, you can shop here (If you mention my name under “how did you find out about Wildfire” at check out, I get a small portion of the payment. I am learning how little most writers earn for their writing, so props to Wildfire for sharing minimal profits with writers.) My writing is in the issue called “New Normal.” You can use code WILDFIRE15 gets you a 15% discount as my friend or family. And if you don’t feel like reading anything but my essay, let me know and I’ll email it to you.

I’ll close coming back to winter. In “Love Letter to A Season I Never Loved When I Was Young,” Margaret Renkl writes, “I can find such irritants entirely demoralizing, but in winter I am filled with tenderness for the foolish and the broken, for the contours of this tired land. Darkness falls early now, but I don’t fight it. Late in the day, before my husband gets home, I sit with my book and my dog, and I treasure the quiet. The earth is resting, and I am in need of rest, too. In winter, I feel at home in the silences of the world.” I, too, am in need of rest. And I, too, am working on finding tenderness for the foolish and the broken, especially when that is me.

(photos by me — from a mid-winter meditation retreat in northern CA in 2018; a sunrise over Lake Washington along my regular running-now-walking route on Friday; and the coots, lake birds I love who come to Seattle for the winter.)