Some people say that “God/Goddess speaks through other people.” I like that notion. I prefer to believe that we are all aware-ized sparks of the Uni-Verse (the Creator’s Epic Poem) that prod and encourage each other to grow, rather than that God’s voice is remote & rare and heard only through burning bushes, on mountain tops, or as interpreted by special folk in collars and long robes. I also believe that Mother Earth and All of Creation communicates to us, that All That Is is energy that attracts or repels and offers information on various frequencies, and that people are transmitters of God (Good Orderly Direction) to each other all the live long day; and, therefore, the 3rd dimension is profoundly interesting. I want to know what God/Goddess has to say and so I try to pay attention to happenstance. I notice the hawk overhead & the five crows on the fence & the swarm of dragonflies in the yard & the heart-shaped cloud & the heads up penny & the feathers in my path; and, although I don’t always know what things mean, my heart is lifted by some sense of a plan. Plus, I love to play detective, to search for clues, particularly if I’m anxious about outcomes like whether or not my healing path is apt to include chemo therapy. So, during the testing and waiting and wondering phases of this journey, my sniffer was primed for the pertinent tales on the wind. 
One morning, out of the blue, my tennis buddy, Ann Bell, called. Ann is an artist and generally busy in the AM as am I so neither of us are given to chit-chat, and only likely to call each other if setting up a game. Since the courts weren’t open yet, when I heard her distinctive voice – a hybrid mix of breathy vamp & Glinda the Good Witch – my ears perked up.
“Hi, Honey. I didn’t know you were ill,” said Ann.
“I’m not ill. Except for a common cold, I feel fine. I just have a breast cancer diagnosis,” I said and went on to tell her about my surgery and the tests that should determine the course of treatment.
Ann then shared with me the story of her mother’s mastectomy followed by radiation, and said that her mom lived long and was fine, and then told more stories of the many friends in her former home D.C. with breast cancer, and the one friend with ovarian cancer who had a rough time with chemo treatments. “But everyone is doing quite well,” she said.
“Wonderful,” I said and then bemoaned the numbers of women that she and I have known with cancer diagnoses.
“Yes, breast cancer has effected so many lives,” she agreed.
We commiserated, and I kept saying, “What’s up with that?” until I finally let loose a small typhoon of WHY?! “Why are so many 10’s of thousands of women getting diagnosed and treated for breast cancer? Is it the environment? Pesticides in food? Synthetic this or that? Stress? Underwire bras? The disconnect from nature? A disconnect from Self? Challenges, anxieties, and increased demands to be everything for everybody at home and in the work sector while still feeling less than in a man’s world? Why is cancer attacking the breasts?”
We concluded the conversation with well wishes, pledged to play tennis as often as possible in the summer, then hung up; and I picked up a pen to growl some more in my journal. I was so angry, and, underneath that anger was fear. The word mastectomy had rubbed a soft spot, and then the other cancer stories, rub rub rubbed until I burst. Thank you, Ann. I needed the rub. And after the channel that was blocked by fear and anger was cleared, I could hear the message that Ann had intended: All of those women are doing well today. 
A day or so later, I had my first real therapy session with my new therapist. I arrived at Jean’s door angry from some inciting incident involving my husband, and I felt confident that I knew what I needed to talk about and how I needed to release through expressions of anger. Jean listened while I described the incident that triggered my anger that had something to do with Reade feeding my daughter junk food, and my frustrations about my inability to control his enabling and my powerlessness over her overeating which quickly segued into my food issues, and my hands were gesticulating and my tongue was wagging and spitting fire; and Jean gently suggested that, since this is my first visit, she get to know me better through a genogram a.k.a. a family tree.
The non sequitur made me pause. But, then, I got it! and said, “Isn’t that wild? You want to explore my gene pool at the same time that I’m waiting for the laboratory ‘s story from the tumors’ genes. Coincidence – eh?”
So, Jean (gene – ha), poised her pen over her notebook and began by asking about my paternal grandparents, maternal grandparents, parents, siblings, and so forth. She asked for brief descriptions of each character, my relationship to them, and how they died. Cancer was repeated so often that it seemed to be the chorus in my family song; although, there were no deaths from breast cancer, I was quick to point out. And the salient theme that Jean lifted up from my gene tale was that I was not nurtured by any of these adults. This was not news to me given all the time I’d already spent on a therapist’s couch. What did surprise me was the quick flow of tears.
Again, I was impressed that I met the proper rub to help me to release, to cleanse, to clear the channels. I wasn’t purposely sniffing out tales of woe, and, yet, I believe that these tales were needed and thus provided since I petitioned the Universe to be healed. Whether the release would rearrange the energetic molecular structure of the tumor genes was doubtful – the story was already set in motion and well underway. However, I did feel that the emotional detoxes would help me to better cope with whatever plot twists lay ahead, as well as to enable me to better hear all the stories meant for me.
Tempestuously Yours,
L.
ElleKelly's Blog 