2020. Vision. Not Hindsight.

If “hindsight is 20/20,” then 2020 is the infamous year for which we’ve all been waiting. For those too young – or smart – to know this phrase: hindsight means “thinking about things after they’ve happened” and 20/20 means “perfect vision.”

The more optimistic, glass-half-full version of this phrase would be, “I always seem to grow smarter in retrospect.” The glass, half empty, would be, “I should have known better.”

THIS is the year when it all comes together, because our hinder will be in clear sight. Hinder, as in “belonging to that part or end which is in the rear,” as in our rear with no regrets to follow, as in no one’s butt to kiss but our own. WooHoo. 🙂

We are heading straight into 2020, the heavily prophesied, magical year when the rear view mirror is replaced with a crystal ball. The year when wisdom is harvested in advance, like low-hanging fruit in an orchard, ripe and ready for the picking.

Let’s take a nice, deep breath here while we imagine the possibilities.

Breast Cancer. Kissing My Breast Goodbye.

Written for every woman who lost, or is losing this intimate partner.

—–Originally posted, August 17, 2017, on my old website. Re-post worthy.—–

I find myself on the merging ramp to a mastectomy and wishing to yield, for just a moment, before this breast becomes a blurred memory in the traffic flow of life.

She is the part I must release to protect the whole, but she will not go without notice or appreciation for what she held space.

There is a body of experience in this sweet breast of mine. She and her sister were late bloomers. No doubt, I got that premature training bra because my mother was tired of fielding questions that always started with a whiny “When…”

As intimate partners go, both breasts have been first class. But she is the one that held space over my heart. For that I grieve her loss. I would love to kiss her for all that we’ve gone through together – but she is not that large nor I that agile.

Sound strange?

Our bodies are living, breathing temples that hold space for a fusion of body, mind, and spirit – from the most elemental level to the most sublimely sacred that life has to offer. And each part speaks to aspects of experience that leave imprints – clues – as to how we maneuver through and integrate events from the significant to the mundane.

Cut And Paste Beyond Breast Cancer. When Art Heals.

Stitched and stretched. That’s what I’ve titled this piece because that’s what breast cancer ushered in with every decision I had to make. Cut it. Stitch it. Now, stretch it beyond anything recognizable as you.

Life flew apart like confetti without a party. Not unlike my private-moment, mixed medium attempts at depicting this most bizarre journey. (And so shortly after losing Ray to cancer.) Countless bits and pieces of paper – glued, splattered, pealed back up, and reassembled with the best of intentions – were tossed in the trashcan next to me because they did not fit the picture as I had imagined.

The writer-me has freely spoken about her journey with breast cancer. The artist-me had not taken her shot at it. Quite frankly, she couldn’t get the writer to shut up long enough for the artist to quietly seat herself in the studio and ask, “How do you heal through this with art – not words?”

Bots. Bandwidth. Blah-Blah-Blah. Bots are Booting Me Out of My Messy Room.

As I stare at this forced-upon-me blank canvas on this new website platform — not sure what to write — Bernadette’s Musings from the Messy Room is under what they call “brute force attack.” The bots are squeezing me out, using up the bandwidth, and banging on the door trying to get my password. I feel like I am in an episode of The Walking Dead where the zombies take over the town and more just keep coming … and coming …

When I was told the fixes weren’t diverting them and chances were not looking good for restoring the site, it broke my heart. There is so much history in those pages: creative projects, collaborations, heart-felt exchanges. My spirit is humbled when I read the hundreds of comments left there. I am sad to have to let them go.

Plus, closing the door on the Messy Room so soon after losing Ray — and my breast — to cancer feels like giving up another piece of us. The timing of this good-bye is surreal but my gut says something new — and necessary — is around the corner.