Knee-deep in crystal clear water, the view is not the same as what you see from the bank. There are glimpses of golden flecks on the creek bed. Light ripples along the surface, and you can feel its reflection on your face. Once you leave the side and step into the current, you can see upriver, where the water rushing over your feet has been, and where it’s heading. All the way down to the next bend.

We built our house in this particular spot to take advantage of the views. We are blessed with a great view in every direction. The first thing I do in the morning is stare out windows, just to breathe in the world and center myself.

This has become such a habit, I even do it when I travel. I find myself searching for a way to open the heavy room-darkening curtain panels, then peeling back layers of window covering, hoping to see what waits for me on the other side. I know that peering from a hotel window is not always rewarding. Looking down at the garbage bins or the AC unit on the building next door doesn’t exactly provide inspiration to step into my day like watching the deer down at the creek.

But right now, I can’t see the creek.

When it comes down to it, the science behind the wind is not what matters to me today. What matters is that instead of working in the garden, I’m confined indoors. That’s my reality. And when the wind blows and the clouds pile in, I just want to eat. Bread. Steaming, homemade bread spread with butter and homemade jam. Okay, so I’ll make soup to go with it. Maybe tortellini soup, or chicken noodle. It doesn’t matter. Soup is just a way to legitimize the bread I’ll serve it with.

An empty coffee cup sits beside my silenced phone, and legal pads full of notes perch on the far corner of my desk. If I try to add one more thing to this writing desk, it will all crash to the floor. My body aches, and my thoughts tangle like a mass of roots.

I leave my desk, grab my hat and my jacket, and go to the garden. Kneeling in the dirt, with the sun on my back and my hands deep in the flowers, serenity seeps into my system like moisture sinking into the soil, to be absorbed through roots and drawn into stems and leaves, giving life.

Not so very long ago, I walked into the room, closed the door and sat down. Took a deep, deep breath and realized that it was the first time all day that I had taken a moment to breathe deeply, and be still. My body vibrated from ceaseless motion, my feet tingled, my ears rang in the silent room. I rolled my neck and massaged my shoulders. Wow. So tight.

Did I need to slow down for a minute, drag my focus from the grindstone and look up?

Yes. Definitely. Because sometimes my compass points in so many directions I lose track of my destination.

Anais Nin said, “We write to taste life twice: in the moment, and in retrospect.” Sometimes, I write in an attempt to process events or emotions I would really rather not experience twice.

I wrote this piece in the midst of my husband’s chemo treatments and blood tests, after a nearly fatal complication, trying to gain insight into the way his illness both broadened and focused my perspective on life. 

Cancer affects so much more than the physical.

I’m sharing these words with you from the other end of a path I had not been prepared to travel, in honor of six subsequent years of normal blood tests. It’s dedicated to anyone who has or is taking that journey now, and all those who walk beside them…

If I had to pick something that best symbolizes me, I’d pick green-colored glasses. You’ve heard of people who wear rose-colored glasses. Those people for whom life tends to come up roses. The perpetual optimists. That’s not me.

In the heart of Colorado, at 8000 feet elevation, we receive more than three hundred days of sunshine a year. But we have no springtime. Springtime in the Rockies is an oxymoron where we live.

The cost of living is high here.

The cold, the wind, the heating bills. Icy roads, late-season blizzards, worn-out wool socks. By the end of March, my batteries are empty. I need spring.

I’m that person.

The one who wrote a speech in high school about working to turn dreams into reality. How dreams are the beacons leading us forward, but we still need to grab the oars and row for all we are worth.

I would not row. I would write.

My oar was a pen.

If I was waiting for a sign, there it is. The green letters scrolling across the display on the microwave could not be less subtle. Sometimes that’s how the universe has to speak to me. No hints allowed. If I’m supposed to do something, I need it spelled out in black and white.

Or green lights placed right in front of my face.