THE INKWELL SOUL

Author: Elizabeth

  • An Ode to the Autumn Hunt (Dedicated to DP)

    The year’s grand cycle crests and begins its slow, golden decline. This is the Fall, not merely a season, but a spiritual transition – a collective drawing-in of breath before the great white silence of winter. There is a sense of purpose in the air, a final, vibrant burst of energy that makes the world feel intensely alive.

    The fields, once green and towering, now lie shorn and rich with the scent of turned earth, a testament to the farmer’s toil. Yet, it is in the woods where a different, more ancient ritual unfolds. It is here the hunter finds their sacred space.

    To speak of the hunt is to speak of patience, reverence, and a profound humility. It is not about the weapon, but the connection. To choose the bow is to choose the most intimate form of engagement, demanding an almost impossible closeness. This skill is not learned through books; it is etched into the soul by the whispers of the wind and the silent, waiting earth.

    The true work of the bow hunter is blending. It is a deliberate act of shedding the self, of becoming a stillness among the moving shadows. To witness the forest come alive is the reward – the silent diplomacy of the squirrels, the cautious passage of the deer, the fleeting moments of animal interaction that are rarely seen by the hurried eye. The hunter is not an intruder; they are a temporarily accepted fixture of the landscape, a sentient stump that the forest decides to ignore.

    This immersion fosters a deep, elemental appreciation for the circle of life. The sacredness of the hunt lies not in the final act, but in the long, quiet hours of being present. It is that understanding that life is sustained by life, a simple, undeniable truth often obscured in the modern world.

    And when the moment of harvest arrives, it is met with a gravity that transcends mere victory. A life has been given, and for that, there is profound gratitude. It is thanks for the nourishment that will sustain; thanks for the warmth of the hide; thanks for the reminder that we, too, are animals dependent on the generous bounty of the earth. This offering closes the circle, restoring the dignity of the animal and sanctifying the purpose of the hunter.

    This connection – this deep, humbling respect for the life that feeds your own – is a sacred legacy that many have lost. To be given a glimpse into this space is a gift, a chance to reclaim a vital, soulful understanding of our place in the natural order. It is a reminder that in the woods, the greatest harvest is not the game itself, but the renewed reverence for life, death, and the beautiful, continuous motion between them.

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  • Embracing the Buffalo: Strength in the Storm

    The cancer journey often feels like being caught in an endless storm – a relentless blizzard of appointments, tough treatments, and emotional turbulence. It’s natural, even human, to want to hunker down, turn away, or simply endure the cold and wait for it to pass.

    But a new friend Craig G. offered a different, more powerful path: the path of the buffalo.

    He sent me the message: “The Buffalo is the only animal that does not hunker down to ride out a storm or endure a blizzard. It walks or runs straight into a storm. Just like charging headlong into a cancer diagnosis and treatment. Be the Buffalo!”

    This image of the magnificent creature, head lowered and deliberately walking or running straight into the heart of the storm, is a striking metaphor for how I now choose to meet this challenge. Craig’s analogy reminds me that the buffalo’s strategy is one of pure, forward-moving efficiency. By charging directly toward the storm’s center, they pass through if faster, minimizing the time they spend exposed to the worst of the elements. They know the quickest way to the calm on the other side is a direct line.

    My Commitment to Be the Buffalo

    To “Be the buffalo” in my cancer journey is to harness this unique, fierce strength. It’s not about ignoring the fear or pretending this isn’t difficult; it’s about accepting the diagnosis and treatment as my current reality and choosing forward motion through it.

    *Acknowledge and Advance: Instead of feeling paralyzed, I am choosing to walk straight into the treatment plan, the tough conversations, and the emotional work required. This is me lowering my head and taking the first step.

    *Efficiency in Courage: Every challenging appointment, every difficult recovery day is a step through the storm. By meeting these challenges head-on, I am actively moving toward the finish line, refusing to be stalled by fear or avoidance.

    *Focus on the Goal: The buffalo’s goal isn’t to fight the storm itself – it’s to reach the clear, sunny pasture that lies beyond. My goal is the healthy, peaceful future I am fighting for. Keeping my eyes focused on that “calm after the storm” gives me the purpose to push through the present difficulty.

    I am pulling on the power of this buffalo image that Craig shared. It reminds me that the fastest, most courageous way through this difficult time is straight ahead. I have already taken the first steps, and with every subsequent one, I am proving that I possess that unwavering incredible strength.

  • The Malleable Heart: Finding Light in My Shadow

    My heart is not a simple battlefield. It is a place of perpetual, exhausting motion, an endless oscillation between hope and despair.

    I was taught to see these as opposites, but I’ve learned they are merely two faces of the same fragile truth. There is a terrifying wisdom I’ve begun to grasp: that hope, unchecked and untethered, can become a disguise for despair. It’s the mistake of waiting for the grand, sweeping miracle that leaves me devastated when it doesn’t arrive. It is the setting of a rigid expectation that only prepares me for a crushing fall.

    But here, in the crucible of this experience, I have discovered the secret: I must stay malleable. I refuse to be hardened by the blows. I let the despair wash over me, recognizing it as natural, and then, slowly, I allow myself to be reshaped by the currents. I am not a statue; I am a river stone, worn and smooth and strong by the struggle, forever changing, forever moving.

    The overall scenario of my life may indeed seem disparaging – a landscape shrouded in fog and fear. Yet I force myself to look closer. I hold my gaze steady, not on the vast, overwhelming mountain, but on the small, brilliant things scattered at its base:

    The pure sound of my children’s laughter.

    The unexpected warmth of a hand holding mine.

    The strength I mustered just to get out of bed this morning.

    The small, scientific victory on the doctor’s report.

    These are not trivialities; they are small, fierce pockets of hope. They are the necessary proof that life persists and that my own profound strength continues to radiate.

    This is my fight, and it is a sacred one. So I take this truth and hold it tight: I must hold tightly onto what I believe in. I cling to my inner knowing, my faith, and to the people who are my anchors. I will not wait for the perfect moment or the perfect feeling.

    I know what must be done. I do the small things. I take the breath. I make the next phone call. I attend the next appointment. This is the work of a warrior with a malleable heart: one who accepts the darkness, honors the despair, and then, with quiet, unyielding power, uses the smallest fragment of light – the memory of a kind word, the effectiveness of a medicine, the strength of the day before – to illuminate the path forward.

    That fragment is all the light I need right now. I am strong, I am human, and I am finding my way through the beautiful, terrible complexity of this journey.

  • A New Dawn: Finding Grace in the Recurrence

    The whisper of recurrence, though a cruel sound, has become a startling call to a deeper way of living. There is a peculiar clarity that comes when one stands face – to – face with a stark biological truth: an adversary within. This awareness, sharp and immediate, has not diminished life, but intensified it – coloring every moment with a profound, almost startling grace.

    This journey is not one I walk alone. It has illuminated the preciousness of my “army” – the loved ones who stand guard around my well-being. Their commitment is the truest form of love, manifesting in hours spent researching, in nourishing meals prepared with meticulous care, and in the sheer constancy of their presence. They are the earthly anchors who refuse to let me drift.

    The changes within my daily life are testaments to this fight, but they are also acts of self-reclamation. Eating choices have transformed from casual decisions into mindful commitments to healing. My mental fortitude is not a given; it is a muscle I work daily, building resilience through intentional positive thinking. The collective effort – the fusion of personal discipline and the inspiring research poured over by everyone in my circle – has created a shield of knowledge.

    I am carried on the wings of this support, a dual face of the tangible and the spiritual. The army of this earth provides the strength to face the daily treatment, the fears, and the shifts. The army from the heavens provides an ethereal peace and unwavering hope.

    Without this incredible outpouring – this collective well of strength, wisdom, and love, I know I would falter. Instead, I stand today, not merely fighting a “dis-ease”, but thriving through a renewed appreciation for life’s beautiful fragility. For this unparalleled, abundant support, my heart overflows with eternal gratitude. It is, in every sense, a blessing.

  • A New Chapter: Standing Strong on Shifting Ground

    A few weeks ago, I shared the anxiety of waiting. The routine blood work that was anything but routine. The CAT scan that showed unsettling spots. The liquid biopsy and the PET scan that followed felt like a countdown to a moment I desperately hoped wouldn’t arrive.

    Well, the wait is over. The results are in. And with a profound, deep sadness that I’m allowing myself to feel, I have to share that the unwelcomed guest has returned. The scans confirm that the Invasive Lobular Carcinoma has metastasized, and I now have bone cancer.

    It is a heavy blow. It’s a moment that steels your breath and makes the world pause. After all the fighting – the mastectomy, the chemo, the radiation – I find myself standing at the beginning of yet another battle. The scans show there are many compromised areas, and the road ahead will be complex.

    But here is where the story shifts.

    I have faced this beast before, and I will face it again. And this time, I am armed with five extra years of strength, experience, and an even deeper well of gratitude.

    My heart is absolutely hopeful for the treatment plan ahead. I truly believe that gratitude and a positive attitude are key to navigating the complexities of this disease. My focus is not on the darkness of the diagnosis, but on the bright possibility of the future. I believe with every fiber of my being that I have decades of new adventures ahead of me.

    How do I find this courage? I look around.

    My support group – my amazing friends and family – are my bedrock. My children are my living, breathing reason to fight. My beau offers a new love and future to grow into. And my faith is the unwavering, solid ground beneath my feet. Without this incredible circle of love, I know I would not have the strength and courage to be this brave and this hopeful right now.

    This is a new chapter in my life. It is not the one I would have written, but I will read it, live it, and approach it with fierce determination. I am ready to fight again. I am ready to live again.

    Thank you for holding hope with me.

  • In the Face of Fear

    Today marks five years since I started treatment for stage 3 Invasive Lobular Carcinoma ( breast cancer). It was a life-altering experience, one that forced me to face my own mortality before I was even 50. I chose to fight with everything I had – a double mastectomy, dose-dense chemotherapy, and weeks of radiation. I won that battle, and for five years, I have been blessed with the gift of health.

    But my cancer is metastatic. It has a reputation for returning, and in these past five years, I have lived with the ghost of that possibility. You live your life, you build, you grow, but a part of you is always looking back, hoping it never comes again.

    A week ago, I had some routine blood work done, and the results brought a moment of pause. A subsequent CAT scan revealed some spots on my spine. Now I’m waiting for a liquid biopsy and a PET scan to get a clearer picture. It’s a moment of truth, and a part of me has just gone numb. You put on a brave face, but you freeze. The quiet hope you’ve been holding onto for years is suddenly tested.

    I am trying so hard not to let fear take over. There is still a chance that it’s nothing, and I’m holding onto that hope with both hands. I’m focusing on gratitude. I am grateful for my life, for the people in it, and for every experience I have been blessed with. I have children to live for, grandchildren to hope for, and a new love to cherish. I am choosing to keep the dark thoughts at bay. I am begging for healing. There is so much life left to live, and I am not done fighting for it!

  • Learning from the Lived-In Life

    Growing up in a small farming community, my understanding of the world was shaped by the rhythm of the seasons and the close-knit bonds of rural life. Church gatherings and school events weren’t just for my peers; they were a chance to be with everyone, including the older generation. I cherished those moments, sitting with them and listening to their stories. Even the grumpy ones and a well of wisdom. These cherished memories laid the foundation for my deep respect and appreciation for the elderly and their calm strength.

    In a world of constant motion and unending digital chatter, where minds are racing and opinions are shouted into the void, there’s a profound sense of peace to be found in the quiet strength of the older generation. It’s a different kind of calm, not the kind that comes from silence, but the kind that comes from stillness.

    When you’re with people in their 70’s and older, you can feel their inner peace. They’ve weathered life’s storms and navigated its winding paths, and in doing so, they’ve arrived at a state of grace. Their minds aren’t filled with the frantic noise of what-ifs and what-nows. They’ve let go of the need to prove themselves or chase fleeting trends. They simply are.

    There’s a beautiful, quiet knowing in their eyes – the result of a life well-lived. They’ve seen joy and sorrow, success and failure, and through it all, they’ve found an acceptance of themselves and the world around them. Their stories aren’t just entertainment; they’re a tapestry of wisdom and resilience. They remind us that the frantic pace of youth isn’t the final destination. Life, it you’re lucky, unfolds into something calmer and more accepting. We can learn a great deal from their experiences and grace, finding in their quiet strength a road map to our own inner peace.

  • The Art of Being

    There are moments when the very structure of a life – its obligations, its expectations, its definition – feels like a cage. The body, worn and seasoned, carries a heavy coat of stories, each one a thread woven into a tapestry that feels too….tight. In those moments, the deepest yearning isn’t for more or less, but for “just to be”.

    It is a longing to shed the rigid form of self, to unlearn the habits of a mind that constantly categorizes and names. To let the guards fall, stone by lonely stone, until there is only an empty frame for the air to pass through. It is an act of trust, a quiet and profound surrender to the flow of the moment.

    This is the state of being we see in liquid. It has no ego, no rigid definition of what it should be. It simply exists, taking the shape of whatever holds it. A river carving a canyon over centuries, or a single drop of dew clinging to a petal. It is a part of its environment, not separate from it. It is at once powerful and utterly yielding, content to be contained by a cupped hand or to fill the vastness of an ocean.

    To exist in this way is to find our place in the space around us, not as a solitary entity, but as a silent participant. It is to let thoughts cease and to let only the senses exist – the cool air on the skin, the quiet hum of the earth, the scent of pine after a storm. It is a practice of profound release, where we become a river without banks or destination, simply flowing.

  • A Poem: Just To Be

  • The Quiet Strength in the Fog

    Strength, we often mistakenly believe, is a fortress impervious to the storms. We picture a stoic figure, unyielding and untouched by the harsh winds of life. But true strength, the kind that anchors us through the deepest gales, is not the absence of difficulty. It is the ability to bend without breaking, to absorb the impact and still find the resilience to rise again.

    Life, in its unpredictable wisdom, throws us into the thick of it. Health falters, relationships shift, dreams dissolve like morning mist. These are not signs of weakness on our part, but the inherent nature of existence – a constant flux, a dance between order and chaos. In these moments, the urge to fight, to push back against the discomfort, can be overwhelming. We crave clarity, a roadmap out of the uncertainty. But sometimes, the most profound act of strength is not to struggle against the unknown, but to sit with it.

    This “sitting” is not passive resignation. It is an active engagement. It is allowing the uncertainty to be, without the frantic need to resolve it immediately. It is breathing through the anxiety, acknowledging the fear, and trusting in the inherent process of life. The fog of confusion, of grief, of transition, can feel suffocating. Our minds race, trying to find answers where none are readily available. But like a natural fog, this mental and emotional haze will eventually dissipate. It requires patience, a willingness to be in the murkiness, knowing that clarity often emerges not through force, but through gentle persistence and the passage of time.

    There’s a poignant truth in the statement: “We can only measure what we lose, but cannot measure what we will gain.” Loss is tangible. We can count the empty chairs, the silent phone, the diminished health. The pain of what is gone is immediate and measurable. But the gains that arise from these experiences are often intangible, unfolding in ways we cannot predict. The resilience we build through hardship, the deeper empathy we cultivate through loss, the unexpected opportunities that emerge from closed doors – these are immeasurable at the moment of suffering. To focus solely on what we have lost is to limit our vision, to blind ourselves to the potential for growth and transformation that lies within the very challenges we face.

    This brings us to the profound question: “Do we have to die to see heaven?” If we equate “heaven” with a state of ultimate peace, joy, and understanding, then idea of it being solely an afterlife destination feels limiting. Perhaps “heaven” is not a place we arrive at after death, but a state of being we can cultivate within ourselves, even amidst the complexities of life.

    The struggles we endure, the uncertainties we navigate, the losses we grieve – these can be the very crucibles that forge our inner “heaven”. By sitting with discomfort, by embracing the unknown, by finding strength not in the absence of difficulty but in our response to it, we begin to glimpse moments of profound peace and clarity. These moments might be fleeting, but they offer a taste of that deeper understanding, that sense of connection and meaning that we often associate with a heavenly realm.

    Perhaps the “heaven” we seek is not the destination beyond the veil, but a state of inner grace attained through the conscious navigation of our earthly journey. It is the ability to find beauty in the brokenness, strength in vulnerability and hope in the face of despair. It is the wisdom gained by allowing the fog to clear on its own time, trusting that even in the darkest moments, the potential for profound growth and unexpected blessings remains, immeasurably yet undeniably present. We don’t necessarily need to die to experience a form of heaven; we need to learn how to truly live, with all its uncertainties and challenges, and find the quiet strength within to embrace it all.