Swinging doors.

Falling from a high wire - 

now’s a good time 

to learn to fly. 

-Rosemary Wahtola Trommer, One Impossible Act? 

I could be a poet. I’d apply for the University of Iowa writer’s program, #2 in the country. There, I will meet other poets and dreamers, novel writers and recluses. We’ll pontificate on character development, debate the oxford comma, stay up all night hunched over thesaurus’ - what is a more feeling word than lost? On Monday mornings, we’d read to one another through caffeinated pitches and bloodshot eyes facing the judgment of strangers, even if they were friends. It may be hard to resist smoking again - or maybe poets don’t exist in the smoky late-night living rooms of my imagination. I’d be published in a zine or two, sending the clippings to my mom, who struggles to find the rhythm of poetry but knows beauty when she sees it, and that beauty is me. 

I could be a high school advisor. Dressed in the fashions of the day, the kids would feel like I’m one of them, although they have it much harder. Every day I’d go home glad I was not 16, with an overworked body, a chest full of heart. Here I’d hone my questions until the fewest words peel back the most layers. I’d never break eye contact when the student was talking. I’d use the words “you belong” until they became my catchphrase. I’m a hawk, observing, squared up in the swarm of the youth moving between periods, searching for eyes to smile at, high fives all around. I’d be the thorn of my peers, a fearless ally that all kids are people, that all kids can be reached. If we can’t believe that, is there any hope for us? 

I could be a spiritual leader. I’d study theology, perhaps divinity school, live with a Native American tribe, or travel to India and wander until led to my guru. Transformed by spirit (or better yet enlightened), destiny would place me in the center of the circles I ran in. Teaching, studying, writing, locking myself away for months to sit in stillness, listening inward, listening for the Great Spirit to beam me wisdom to serve on my mission. There would be no fear of sitting with the dying - I’m honored to - I’m built for this. I’d build a community of like-minded believers who would volunteer to plant vegetable gardens for the poor and paint rocks with inspirational sayings that we’d leave around office parks and public spaces. My closet would be uncomplicated, flowy garments to match my uncomplicated, flowy disposition. 

I could own a tiny retail shop downtown. Opening late, closed two days a week, I’d have time to catch a coffee with friends next door on my bike ride to work. All day would be filled chatting with strangers, helping them shop for beautiful things, and solving no major problems besides the one of having more simple beauty in the world. Evan and I would work together, a bright-eyed high schooler helping out on days we wanted to escape in our van for an outdoor adventure. We’d feel part of a thriving community of creatives, entrepreneurs, and dreamers who work together on building events that draw eyes to our shops. We’d ride home at twilight, leftover baked goods in our baskets from bakeries that know our love of pastry. 

If I get to live. If I get longer than the prognosis. If I get to live, I get to choose a fresh start with fresh blood, with a fresh perspective on life. I hope I get to make the difficult choices on how to give of myself to the world - but that is not my job right now. I am a cancer patient. Time is oriented around this physical body and the quality of each day around my mental state. I’m in a time of profound practice, practicing aliveness through physical pain, practicing patience in waiting rooms, practicing looking for ways to serve others to elevate out of self, and above all, practicing profound, deep listening to my body, what it wants and needs. 

I could be anything, and for now, I am this. It’s an honor. It’s enough.