Threads of Hope
It’s a Sunday afternoon and I am sitting on my bed, the sunlight is spilling through the blinds and the cool winter breeze slips in through an open window. There is a quiet kind of tranquility in watching the shadows dance quietly across my bedroom.
Next to me is an untouched book: The Language of Houseplants by Cheralyn Darcey. I bought it out of hope, that maybe, just maybe bringing the right plants into my room will create a small sanctuary of healing as I move through the next steps of my cancer treatment.
It sits there quietly, still waiting to be opened. Like so many things lately, it holds intention, possibility, and the quiet hope that there is still more life for me to live.
In three days I will start my second round of chemotherapy.
I have been told I am a good writer when I want to be, and lately I have felt the need for an outlet that goes beyond journaling, something more than just my private thoughts on a page.
I want to create a space where I can bring my dreams to life, to be open and honest, but, also something that one day, I might share with the people I love. In doing so I hope they might find a deeper understanding of this chapter of my life, one that is often harder to speak out loud.
Maybe somewhere out in this big, beautiful world, a kind soul will stumble across my words and feel a little less alone. Or maybe they will find a deeper understanding for someone they love who is on a similar path.
If nothing else, my ramblings will simply sit with someone for a moment, a little reminder that none of us are truly alone, and that is enough.
Still dreaming, still writing, always with hope…
Sarah