Snowy perspectives. 1019182430. Crowded loneliness. Are you listening or. . . ?
Snowy perspectives.
I stare off into the distance out of the window nearby trying to find the place to start for this month’s post. It’s snowing outside, a much bigger October snow than typical, and the thought that keeps coming back to me is how I get to see snow as beautiful, that I get to equate it to quiet reflection and warm hoodies and hot tea and rest. And I want to just sit with that for a moment. I want to sit with the perspective that some don’t see snow the same way I do… or that they can’t.
Before I go on, some might be thinking this is an ‘it could always be worse’ kinda thing. I do not subscribe to that sentiment because all that sentiment does is allow shame to take up residence and cause all sorts of pain and undermine, minimize, trivialize, and dehumanize lived experiences of every kind. I am not ever in agreement with pitting one’s suffering against another’s just for a dose of fake hope or empty encouragement. As I’ve always said, when a cliché is used, one must always consider what the “other side” of the cliché implies. In this case, both sides of the cliché are problematic. (And therefore, I’d encourage you to just stop saying it altogether.)
Anyhooo, now that I’ve cleared the air on that, here is what I am saying: There is so much to learn when listening to the lived experiences of others. It certainly might confront privilege. It likely will cause discomfort. It probably will challenge ideals. It will also offer: Depth of perspective. Capacity for empathy. Tendency toward gratitude. Leveling of humility. Aptitude for kindness. Exchange of grace. Reflection of value. Willingness for compassion. Regard for dignity. Elevation of humankind. Honor of others. Worthiness of taking up space.
So with that…
1019182430.
What is that number, you ask?
I’ll tell you. If you’ll listen. (see what I did there?) 😉
October is quintessentially me. I love fall. I love how October often ushers in the first snow because I also love winter. I love what these seasons represent, and the last 3 months of the year are my favorite of all. And for all that know me, they know how very much all of this is true. Think October, think Amber. 🙂
But, October is also quintessentially me because as I’m assuming you’ve noticed, it’s breast cancer awareness month (ugh, boobs everywhere all of the time) and that just so happens to be the cancer that has obliterated me to bits. Not only is the mere existence of this entire month in the calendar year a huge trauma trigger, but it also holds a vicious combination of traumatic anniversaries specific to my personal cancer story. I had chemo Round 1 of 18 (9th), Round 2 of 18 (30th) and round 18 of 18 (1st) all in this month, it’s the month where my head was shaved and I became officially bald because of the poison of treatment (24th), and it’s the month that holds one of my many traumatic surgeries (18th), as well. That’s a lot of gut-punches and upper cuts and TKOs without sufficient recovery time. And I’ll be honest – each of those massive moments only scratch the surface of the iceberg that has vastly more below the surface of the water. Think October, think Amber. 🙁
October is quintessentially me because it has fundamentally changed me. Literally and figuratively. I’ll never get to go back to the way it was. Some argue with me and tell me I shouldn’t think that way. Some don’t get why cancer has changed and defined me. Some wish I’d stop talking about it already because in their opinions, it’s time I move on. Yet, I wholeheartedly wish they’d understand why I’m so changed and why it’s such a vital definition of who I am and why I’ll never move on and why I’ll keep talking about it.
Why? Because the inside view of my story can offer an outsider invaluable perspective. So long as they listen.
Crowded loneliness.
Also, it’s because the more I share, the less lonely I feel. It’s wild to me that so many of us are in this same boat that has standing room only and yet, if you ask any of us in this stupid cancer boat how it feels, we’ll often say ‘it’s lonely here.’ How can there be such loneliness in such a crowded place?
Inside of cancer it feels lonely because though we have common ground, nothing is predictable. No one has walked our path before, so our path remains unknown…and the unknown itself is traumatic…and trauma responses create isolation. Here inside, we may be shoved into similar categories, but our individual details still set us apart and keep us separated. We may find relatability in some things but never all things. We may be left to fend for ourselves once ‘we’ve survived’ or once ‘we’ve gone terminal,’ both (and everyone in-between) unsure now where we fit. We may be forever changed and yet nothing around us has changed at the same magnitude so how then do we live changed? We do it alone.
Outside of cancer, I think it feels lonely because of its pervasiveness. I know, that’s confusing…. But cancer is such a word thrown around without the tug of the strings attached because it’s just easier to cut those strings. We turn the word into an adjective. We use it to label people or ideas we don’t like. Cut. Cut. Cut. We use it to describe the tragedy of rust on a collector’s edition classic car. Cut. Cut. Cut. We talk disconnectedly about it because we don’t want to tempt fate. Cut. Cut. Cut. We keep its truth in the dark, so that we don’t manifest it. Cut. Cut. Cut. We stop listening to stories of it because we don’t want to believe it…or be changed by it. Cut. Cut. Cut. We tell those that share about it to be quiet and grateful for it because that sounds nicer. Cut. Cut. Cut. We use pink to market our products rather than give to research or even the actual human themselves. Cut. Cut. Cut. Each time those strings are cut, the distance from the actuality of it becomes further and further making us feel safer and safer away from it. If we keep it an arm’s length away (and then some), we don’t have to touch it. And when we keep “it” at a safe distance, so, too, goes the human with “It.”
So goes me because I am “it.” Therefore, it’s lonely here. And I can only hope that by continually sharing, being persistent and authentic, inviting people into vicarious perspective, it might feel just a little less lonely.
Are you listening or. . . ?
Next time someone in your life is sharing something they think, feel, or believe…next time they are sharing opinions or learned perspectives…next time they are sharing something of themselves and their lived experiences… tune into how you receive what they are sharing. Are you listening with curiosity? Do you ask to hear more? Or is your mind looking for the nearest exit? Maybe even, you find you are silently arguing with them:
Nah, that can’t be right…
Hmmm, I doubt it’s really like that…
That’s not how I see it…
But what about…
You shouldn’t feel that way…
It takes effort to listen with curiosity. It’s much easier to argue your points.
It takes effort to offer space for someone to possibly teach you something. It’s much easier to think you know it all.
It takes effort to discern if someone’s experience can open your mind. It’s much easier to remain distant and protected behind “I know the answers.”
It takes effort to connect in empathy. It’s much easier to platitude sympathies.
But the effort is worth it if only you try.
October’s Message
Stop snuggling up with stagnation because you think it’s safer. Instead, allow yourself to change. Learn vicariously. Listen. Connect through curiosity. Let what you hear challenge you. Be open to the idea that someone different can teach you something different. Marvel at the power of story.
Thanks as always for reading (aka listening). I am so grateful. See you next month. 🤎
Here are a few images that I posted on social media for 10/9, 10/24, and 10/30. (I didn’t post for 10/1 or 10/18.)
