Into the Quiet

One year ago, my life exploded. It wasn’t just falling apart, it was in a million pieces. All of my carefully made plans disintegrated. All of my hope for the future fell onto the floor. And I was thrown into chaos. Doctor’s appointments, medications, therapy, lung tests, heart tests, x-rays, CT scans, bone density tests, chemo, radiation… the list is endless. It was a whirlwind of treatment and the most extreme of emotions. And while I had lots of rest, I never felt rested. My mind was never quiet. What did I regret? What did I treasure? Would I die? Would I be chronically ill or disabled? And if I didn’t die, what would I do next?

With the one year anniversary of my diagnosis now passed, I have a pressing, urgent need to get quiet. Something was lost during my cancer battle, an innocent, optimistic, invincible part of me that I would like to get back. But another part was also lost, the busy part of me, the driven part, the part that wanted success at all costs. And I don’t miss her.

So I’m going into the quiet.

Part of the reason that I wanted to do my yoga teacher training was to have something to strive for. I flounder when I don’t have a goal, but I wanted a goal that was gentle, achievable and, yes, quiet. I have a tendency towards overachieving, and I know that diving back into my PhD at this stage of healing would almost surely kill me. Now that I’ve survived this year of diagnosis and treatment, a year that left very little room for self-reflection, I want a year of true healing. This might mean different things to different people. For me, it means yoga, running, nutrition, family, friends, and God. And not much else.

But there is a problem with being quiet. I’m loud. I am an unapologetic extrovert. I eat too fast. I like running hard. I love being busy and I love to talk. Being quiet is not in my nature. My mom used to say: “We’re right here, Rachel, you don’t need to shout.” Now I say the same thing to my son.

And yet, in these days after cancer, all I want is to be quiet. Truly against type, I would love to go to one of those spiritual retreats where you don’t speak for an entire weekend. It must be my donor’s immune system taking over – maybe he is an introvert.

But in my search for quiet, I discovered that I’m terrible at meditating. Really terrible. I sit down and try to meditate and my mind jumps around like a chattering monkey, latching onto any thought and bouncing it around my head like a pinball. I may not be speaking, but I am certainly not quiet. This is where yoga comes in. With the right teacher, I don’t think during a yoga class. I breathe, I adjust my body, I work through the flow, and my head clears. It is a moving meditation, and I get into the quiet spaces that have eluded me since the doctors said the word leukemia.

So doing the yoga teacher training wasn’t really a career decision – I don’t know what I’ll do once I’m done. I still haven’t ruled out the PhD. Rather, the yoga training was a spiritual decision. A decision made to support my healing, my quest for quiet, and my longing for true rest after a year of total hell.

Who knows? Maybe after all of this zen I’ll turn out to be a quiet person after all.

But I doubt it.