Folding cranes for Clare and how talking about being bald is healing

The Beginning, Christian Schloe

His work. Find him on Facebook. 

I folded a paper crane today. It’s my 347^th.

I began folding them in February of 2011 when my sister-in-love Clare (thanks Harmony for this describer) called to say that her breast cancer metastasized. (Clare is my husband Terry's sister.)

That's the day I started.

I got the idea from Sadako Sasaki whose story is told in A Thousand Paper Cranes.

Sadako was two years old when the atomic bomb was dropped near her home in Hiroshima, Japan.  A few years later she was in the hospital with leukemia.

And her friend Chizuko Hamamoto visited and buoyed her spirits:

“Remember the ancient story about folding 1000 paper cranes? If you do, you get a wish.” Then Chizuko folded a gold crane for her.

Inspired, Sadako begins folding cranes for that big wish.

In a similar spirit, I fold.

Over the last three years I’ve folded and given the cranes away: to friends, to people in the grocery store, to people in the infusion rooms, to nurses and doctors, to support groups. I give each one with a silent peace wish for the person and for Clare.

She doesn't know. (I was waiting until I folded the 1000th which will be hers.)

I haven’t folded for a long time.

Until today.

Clare says scans show that the cancer is advancing—in her bones, lungs, liver. Significantly.

Clare already describes her cancer-eaten femur and hip as looking like delicate Belgium lace. That’s her choice of seeing the beauty in her being. (Writing that chokes me up.) 

I want to think and feel positive, breathing in those things I learn from Thich Nhat Hanh about acceptance, impermanence, and letting go around dying. I ponder the idea that there is no coming and no going, and that we carry those we love in our heart. I believe this.

At the same time I know about duality.

I can have strong faith (confidence + trust) and therefore peace, while at the same time feel deeply sad, and angry.

Clare tells how her doctors march her down to chemo after showing her the scans. No waiting. A new infusion drug must be administered. Time to treat. Now.

It’s hard news.

How to cope? Breathe, yell, laugh, cry.

And we text.

We deal with the news by talking about losing our hair. Back and forth.

Clare: You know what’s ironic: I haven’t even liked my hair in the last 15 years, until just recently. Currently, I love my hair! The cut, the streaky color, the growing fullness from 4 months of using Aveda’s products. Last time I took the parent drug to this one, I lost my hair. With this new drug, it’s about 50/50 they say. So we’ll see. Do you agree it’s hard to be beautiful without hair? Other thing: it’s illness gone public.

Me: The hair loss thing is like a flaming flag flapping the news that cancer rang the bell, and who invited it anyway?

Clare: Right!

Me: I felt beautiful bald.

Clare: Really?

Me: And I miss that hair-just-coming-back look. But then, Clare, I was a slave to my long hair and without it, I got to say, “I’m not my hair.”

Clare: I get that.

Me: Now I want hair. But mostly for Terry and others who, I believe, don’t want to be reminded that someone they love has cancer. Because I feel that way about you, Clare. I hate that you might lose your hair. Or more. 

Clare: I HATE IT TOO!!

Me: I am angry Clare. And sick and tired of you having to get scans and bad news.

Me: And now this.

Me: I’ll get to the positive. But now. Look out. I want to kick the cat.

Me: I mean. What the F kind of Christmas present is that

Me: Another port?

Me: F that

Clare: It’s helpful to me that you’re angry. It gives me permission to feel angry too.

Me: Yes. Tell Pio (her cat) to leave the room

Clare: F the port. Chemo on the December 23^rd—screw that!!!

Me: Really? Well sh*#t.

Clare: I need 2 more MRIs this week too—they can’t do them on the same day—Tuesday and Thursday!

Me: That takes the cake. Just for that, you get to keep your hair.

Clare: Agreed

Me: I do love your hair

Clare: And I do have to drive by Culvers each time, where a vanilla ice cream with fresh frozen raspberries…”

Me: You do? Torture. Or, let’s see. Make that delight. Yes. Perfect. (People with cancer avoid sugar.)

Clare: Oh yeah!

Me: Clare, you are a saint. I’m serious now. You are walking this path with such bravery and tenderness. I love your anger. I love you.

Clare: Aw. I dunno about sainthood. I’m just doing what I have to do, with the support of lovely tender companions to journey with.

Me: It’s how you’re living with it. Your courage and humility.

Clare: I love you very much!

Me: Night sweetie. My first prayer is for you. xoxo

Clare: xoxo visualize the hair hanging tight! J

Me: Will do. xo

Talking about our hair helps.

I understand and accept dying issues around my life. But with Clare, my grief swells.

Maybe it’s easier to leave than be left.

One of Clare’s favorite music pieces is The Servant Song by Richard Gillard. She's even asked her son Tim to learn it on his guitar. There’s a line in it that goes, “We are here to help each other, walk the mile and bear the load.” That fits her.

I know that thinking of Clare in a light of wellness is a way to “help each other” (the wisher and the receiver). So I’m inviting you to join me in thinking of and holding her in your thoughts.

Now to fold a paper crane.

Sitting in my chair and along comes a memory of the time a black racer snake visited Erin

Tippi Degréi, from Tippi of Africa. 

Tippi was born in Nambia where her parents, 

Alain Degré and Sylvie Robert, worked as freelance wildlife photographers. 

I sit in my chair more than usual this Thanksgiving.

I look out the window at the red and yellow oak leaves and marvel at how the feathery cypress leaves, emerald green just weeks ago, are now deep rust.

And memories appear. And they're of Florida when I lived there in the 70s and 80s. (Maybe they're appearing now because we'll move there soon.) Visual remembrances. 

Like this one.

I see (in my mind) my daughter Erin. She’s about seven years young, and she’s crafting play hospitals out of shoeboxes.

In the boxes are barely alive lizards.

Found lizards that anyone else might whisper a “poor thing” to and pass by.

Not Erin.

Wounded lizards (we had two cats) lie still with matchbook size blankets made from her pillowcase. (Yes, she cut it up.  And no, she didn’t ask permission.) And believe me, she can work a miracle with an eye dropper, a little water, and tireless care.

But that’s not the memory I’m pondering.

I’m thinking about her attraction to animals and they to her and that time in the backyard.

She’s sitting on the grass. I’m seated in a chair on the screened porch.

Suddenly I notice swift movement at a spot in the wedelia near her. (The perimeter of our yard is wildly natural—pampass grass, ground cover, and sea grape trees loaded with tasty fruit. It’s a water setting: a small island of mangroves is in the distance and then Sarasota Bay.)

It’s Fred Anderson.

Fred Anderson is our pet snake. Well, he’s not really a pet, unless you call every wild animal you see scurry or fly by your house a pet.  He’s an adult southern black racer snake. Friendly, non-venomous.  About three feet. The first time I saw him, I told the kids we had a black snake in the yard. Michael (Erin’s brother) said, “Yeah, I know. His name is Fred Anderson.”

He had a name.

Well, Erin is sitting still, and to this day, I still shake my head in wonder, seeing what happened. Fred Anderson slithered up to and on her. He explored her chest, back, neck and arm. But here’s the incredible part. She calmly embraced his visit. It’s as if she and Fred Anderson were pals. After a few minutes (not seconds), he left.

Afterward Erin got up, and ran off to play.

Unbelievable.

I think visits from nature are sacred. (I’ve had a few myself.) Indigenous people say visits from snakes express transformation and healing. If a snake visits, your creative forces are awakening.

Some of my favorite stories are those Erin tells from her surfing experiences. Visits of loggerhead turtles, porpoise, schools of fish. Even shark. 

Here’s what I think. Animals know innate reverence. Fred Anderson knew Erin was a safe “friend” in the sense that her energy was calm. She gave off a safe vibe.

How about you? Have you ever had a sacred visit from the wild? If you'd care to share, I'd love to hear.

Wonder Anew project: a personal invitation to you

Terry Barrett, artist

Pals! I have news.

I’ve started (along with a team of collaborators) a new project called Wonder Anew.

On the surface? It’s a question to answer.

But really? It’s a call to inspire personal positive change.

Already you’ll find common and gasp-worthy responses to this question: “Is there a positive change you’ve made in your life? What is it and how did you do it?

The idea of Wonder Anew arose after I attended a silent retreat in September 2013 titled “Heal Yourself, Heal the World” with Thich Nhat Hanh and 900 people. I experienced and saw the power of transformative change when participants practiced changing simple things in their lives like consciously breathing in and out to calm, eating slowly, meditating, and walking silently together. 

Motivation to develop the project furthered after a conversation with Liv Lane.

I began to wonder about the affect of sharing personal changes as I witnessed people beginning anew. So, it’s an experiment. Wanna be part?

Anyone may participate. Responses can be written or visually inventive.

Email (wonderanewproject@gmail.com) or mail (1409 Oxford Lane, Denton, TX 76209) your responses. 

There's a Facebook Fan page and in December we'll be tweeting. If you're a teacher, this link is for you.