Morning light, Snowmass, Colorado.

On June 8, I took, what to me seemed at the time, a huge risk. I published a post about having cancer.

And I asked for your love and support.

The post went up about 4:00 am mountain time, which is, of course, 6:00 am in the east. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I opened my email as the sun was rising and found a message from a skier in Maine.

Here is what it said.

Friends have a phrase they use, which is a nuanced Quakerly version of “we are praying for you.” They say, “we are holding you in the light.” I am holding you in the light.

It was the first, of many, many messages that day that made me cry (in a good way).

Sunset over Lake Arenal, Costa Rica.

For on that day, and in the days that followed, so very many of you reached out with similar sentiments.

Texts, voice mails, Facebook likes and posts, comments on my website: every time someone would reach out, I’d feel bolstered against my fear, and later, against my pain.

With each contact, I was overwhelmed – both by the caring and the generosity of so many who were praying, chanting, sending positive thoughts, projecting healing energy – and by the love each person expressed.

I’d feel myself in the light, supported by a cast of thousands. And as the light of so many combined prayers grew brighter, I grew stronger, physically and mentally.

Morning sun at Sunlight Mountain Resort, Colorado

Never Alone

Once upon a time, in a land before kids, I was a student at a mid-Atlantic university, studying for a graduate degree in Political Science (I know…what was I thinking?)

During this time, we were assigned a book that bemoaned the fracturing of American society and predicted a dystopian society in which people would be isolated in their homes, devoid of human fellowship, sitting alone in front of their TVs and computers.

Looking back at that thesis, it’s laughable.

Yes, I, like so many people, spend many hours in my office, in front of a computer. But these hours are never spent in isolation or loneliness.

Rather, many of them are spent in the expanded company of more friends than I can count, and quite possibly, more than I deserve.

While I may be the only one in the room, I know I’m never really alone.

The sun goes down early in December  at Silver Star Mountain Resort, British Columbia. But every afternoon, there is a golden hour when the sun falls beneath the cloud layer.

Generous Love

So with that, I want to once again thank each of you who have prayed, chanted, sent energy and positive thoughts to me over the past month. I know what you did and I know that it helped.

Not even two weeks out of surgery, I had sad news from a friend who had just received a cancer diagnosis of his own. (If I didn’t know it before, I know it now: this disease is relentless.)

Thanks to the example of so many friends and so many strangers, I knew how to react.

I am holding him and his family in the light.

Sunset over Santa Cruz Island, California.

And I’m here for you, too. Should you find yourself in need of prayers, of being held in the light, reach out.

You’ll be amazed at what you receive. Not from just from me, but from all who hold you dear, whether you know them or not.

It’s an amazing world out there, filled with incredibly generous people, and boundless loving light.

And when we all work together, we’re miraculous.

Thank you for being on my team. I will gladly be on yours.

Just ask.

Dappled snow in a forest clearing, Snowmass, Colorado.

Related Posts:

• The Rock in My Way, June 8, 2015.
• The Not at All Brave (Ski) Mom, June 22, 2015.
• Lessons Learned, August 3, 2015.

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