The World, and I

Sunday morning at the Callanish cancer retreat began at 7:45, before breakfast, with chanting, followed by mindful meditation. We continued with a Qigong practice and ended with a crystal bowl meditation—the part I liked most, because I’m fascinated by the way the vibrations seem to entwine and linger in the air.

Afterward, we gathered in a circle to talk about our individual experiences—coping with cancer, or, for the lucky ones, navigating recovery. Then came a group activity: working with clay. As a tactile person, I’ve always preferred petting moss when it’s soft and green after the rain. Clay, on the other hand, is either wet and sticky or hard and cold. The instructions were to create something unconsciously, without worrying about aesthetics.

As an analytical overthinker, I suspect my piece had the most details. I called it The World, and I. Most of the canvas was devoted to an idyllic, naive, childlike depiction of happiness: a flamboyant butterfly, a smiling yellow sun, baby-blue skies, a tree, and a moss-covered rock. Then, set apart in the corner, there I am—a whisper in monochrome. White, like the lung cancer ribbon that marks me. Black, like the shadow that follows.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​