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Happy, and Writing

Long ago, a few weeks over a year, I said that I couldn't write because I was too happy. Well. That is just silly, I've come to realize. I'm drunk with optimism, and writing poetry like never before. The happy poet who I atheized back then is alive and well, and living inside of me. Thank you, God.

My dad, in a funk a few months ago, whining about the crops or the broken down tractor, asked, "What was good about you getting cancer?" "So many things," I said. "I feel closer to God than I ever could have imagined, I feel grateful, blessed, happier, kinder." Since then, I've also confessed to my sister that, some days, I'm gripped by fear. But then it's gone, and I am electric, feverish about the future.

I have surgery Dec. 2. The good one. One year, and my cancerversary that I couldn't really ignore like I'd originally planned came and went without pomp and circumstance, thank God, again. I'm blessed, blessed, blessed to no end that I can go without a big to-do about being alive. Nothing is sweeter, and I can hardly say what that means, just that I know how it feels to believe I would die – and then I didn't, and so I feel like sort of witness to a miracle, which changes you, good and bad. But much more good than bad, and nothing is ever the same as it was before, and so it's a milestone that was never intended, but a milestone nonetheless. A life changer, a game changer. Dec. 2 is another milestone. The last hurrah in this bittersweet party that celebrates the things you never really wanted to or should have to, but that's so alight and beautiful in spite of what started it all. It's all so simple: celebration, hope, faith, life, life, life, and this little one that's so full and fresh with it.

NJ after her very first Ring Pop, a blue one, as you can see – compliments of her Papa.

Reality Shows Are Cool

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