Integrity. Competence. Excellence. Kindness. The scientific process. Considering facts in decision-making. Not calling names (My mom taught me that before kindergarten. Didn’t yours?). And did I mention integrity?
My values are not for sale. Not for a tax cut. Not for a “drill, baby, drill” pennies-at-the-pump gas price decrease. Certainly not at the cost of destroying the democratic experiment we’ve been conducting in the U.S. for 248 years.
Unlike the stock market, which spiked at the prospect of bigger corporate tax cuts and loosening business regulations, my hopes are at an all-time low. They’re going at fire-sale prices. Make me an offer for them, as I’d love to believe hopes are worth something.
But my values, they are not for sale. Not now. Not on January 20, 2025. Not ever.
So, those are some thoughts. And feelings, well, let’s start with profound sadness. But what will I do? I’m working on that. What are your thoughts, feelings, and plans?
In the aftermath, I choose to put one foot in front of the other, to focus on the beauty and serenity of the natural world. I am privileged to live in a place filled with it, and also to travel to places that are truly spectacular, like the Grand Canyon. In my last post, I took you along on my recent four day backpacking trip there, and I choose to go there again in my mind and my heart.
I hope this short journey back down the canyon’s trails brings some light to your day, as it does to mine.
The canyon, grand, pulls me back. Nine times I have loaded a heavy pack and hiked—down, down, down for days. There is beauty, yes, but there is more. It is a journey through deep time. Reaching with my right hand, my fingers brush the fine sand of windblown dunes built hundreds of millions of years ago. And my left? On some of this canyon’s trails, my left hand extends over an abyss of hundreds of feet. That moment, right hand upon a carved crossbed, left in thin air, demands my attention be as firm as my boots upon the narrow track.
I must stop, if I’m to admire a mud crack preserved for more than a billion years. I must stop, if I’m to take in the dangerously steep and stunningly beautiful walls of sculpted schists formed nearly two billion years ago. I must stop, to let my heartrate slow from the climb, but quicken in amazement.
One partner, decades ago, was paralyzed by the realization that she could fall and disappear in the vastness. But for me, that realization—my smallness in the canyon’s immensity in space and time—feels freeing. Starting the descent, this ninth time, in the chill air of an October morning, I walked with two others. Partners who relished the realization as much as I. Those days with them, with our focus (on paths along precipices), with our awe (at the enormity), with our appetites (could reconstituted freeze-dried green chile mac and cheese taste so good anywhere else?), with our laughter and our sighs, along with the Canyon wrens’ songs and Canyon frogs’ chirps, a concerto of companionship of women walking together in this world.
Where the wind blows—something I think about a lot as a sailor. And something to be heeded during fire season here in the west. Where the wind blows, and how very hard, is fearsome this treacherous hurricane season. The wind can be violent, or a zephyr, and sometimes, for me, the wind can be a metaphor. In recent weeks, my mind seems to be wafting from one thought to another, shifting with the wind.
But this past Monday morning, the breeze blew toward Placitas, bringing these bright beautiful balloons to my neighborhood. Directly over my house at one point. Where the wind blows, where my mind goes—sometimes, like these balloons, I can drift. And I can hope, that we all find a safe place to land. Another metaphor? Perhaps. But for now, let’s just enjoy these pictures from my little corner of the 2024 Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.
For decades, maybe most of my life (since my father, an Earth Science teacher, started telling me about geomorphology when I was a kid), I’ve been an ardent student of landscapes. Part of that, as a professional geologist, was developing studies to characterize the geology of sites that would be developed in some way or needed to be remediated after being contaminated. In that capacity, I’m a big fan of phased investigations—do an initial study, take those results, then go deeper (figuratively, for sure, and in geology, oftentimes literally).
I was surprised to find myself thinking in that same way, while discussing the best course of action with the surgeon and oncologist when I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2010. It was then that I began to think of my body as a landscape. And the same sense of curiosity that drives me in geological studies, helped me through the cancer treatment process.
Because it was detected early and it was not an aggressive cancer, I felt I had some flexibility in the decision-making process. Which is not to say that I dithered about those decisions (as finding out I had cancer was motivation not to delay), but I felt I could take the days I needed to consider the options presented to me.
I had that time, due to early detection. So the message I want to convey, on the eve of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, is this—do monthly breast self-exams, get regular clinical breast exams, and get your mammograms—because the science shows that early detection increases breast cancer survival rates enormously. According to the American Cancer Society, when breast cancer is detected early (that is, early stage disease, in a localized state) the 5-year relative survival rate is 99%.
Holly:
As little as a year ago, I took my unbroken body for granted. I rarely thought about brokenness, disease, or mortality, at least with respect to me. Then a routine mammogram changed all that. It turned out not to be routine at all. Today, my reflection in the mirror shows scars as proof of how close we all can be to brokenness, but I also observe a body that has healed from surgeries and chemical bombardments. I see my scars and think of the Japanese art form of Kintsugi where broken pottery is mended with gold. Just like a broken vessel, our bodies, with the help of amazing medical treatments and caregivers, can be rendered into a new piece of art, more unique and exquisite than before the break. Wholly beautiful, in truth. My art is part of my healing.
So, Holly and I—both survivors of breast cancer, and both so much more than that—found the words and hope these words speak to you, in whatever way you need them to. Perhaps you’ll schedule an overdue mammogram, or get through another day of treatment just a bit easier, or feel more deeply that you are so much more than a diagnosis, or you’ll remember to call a friend who might need a ride to the doctor or just to hear your voice. We wish you health and wholeness this Breast Cancer Awareness Monthand always.
Geologists study the earth and the processes that shape it. Writers study the human heart and the processes that shape it. The GeologistWriter builds a bridge between the two. Come across it with me!
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