I haven't been this excited for a movie moment since Lina Lamont (pictured above) said, "I am a shimmering, glowing star, in the cinema firmament" in Singin' in the Rain.

Because this year, the #OscarsSoWhite controversy has been seemingly rectified. We for once don't feel like we're in the 1950s. At least for now. I'm usually not a huge proponent of awards shows in general (have you read Nick Cave's letter to MTV from 1996? Awesomely scathing, smart, still true). But this year I am psyched because there are people of color nominated across the board. This is the first time an African-American cinematographer, Bradford Young, is nominated, for his work on Arrival. Which, incidentally, is one of my favorite films this year. I love what Young says about filming the shadows and working for many years on filming dark skin. This Variety interview with Young goes into it more, which might interest you if you're a bit of a cinema nerd like me.

I am also thrilled that Ava DuVernay is making 13th available to watch in public spaces on Netflix so it can be screened in classrooms and the like. Everyone should see this film. If only documentaries could win Best Picture! Either way, 13th will blow your mind (and hopefully will win Best Documentary). I think it ought to be required watching. Which never got anyone to watch anything, but know I am strongly recommending it. If you see no other film this year, see 13th. It's about the 13th Amendment, which abolishes slavery, "except for punishment for a crime." It is our history and it explains a lot, including our own institutionalized racism. Seriously. See it.

Every year I write a piece for the Mercury about the Oscars. Here's this year's, "Oscar with purpose."

What are your favorite movies this year, or ever? I love how film makes us think and learn. And cry. What made you cry this year? Moonlight and 13th for me. The 89th Academy Awards, brought to you by Kleenex. 

Speaking of film and Kleenex and intense feelings, check out this bizarre Japanese Kleenex commercial that is rumored to be cursed. I think it's pretty. Ha! What do you think?

PS. To anyone who got my messy newsletter this week, I'm sorry for the fonts and the typos. Yeeeeesh. I blame this cursed Kleenex commercial. And my eyes. Time to back away from ALL the screens.

I wrote this just about a year ago. Not long after my lumpectomy, while I was going through radiation.

Yes, it sucks to have cancer. But cancer is not the end of joy, as I suspected before I went for a biopsy about a month ago after my first mammogram at age forty showed calcifications. I saw the door marked “Oncology” and figured that was a door other people walked through — people I felt for, of course, people I considered to be strong. And it was a door my mother walked through far too young. Could I really be even younger than she was and have to sit at that oncology desk where they answer the oncology phone and dole out oncology advice?

To say you feel lucky when you also have cancer might seem counterintuitive. But I feel lucky I got checked at all. My primary care nurse practitioner handed me a referral sheet and said, “Just walk over there to The Hoffman Breast Center and make an appointment. Just do it.” And I did — even though I, like most people, dislike going to the doctor. Who wants to get their breasts squeezed into mammography machine? Not me! I’m forty. That’s young. I’m fine, I thought. But I made the appointment and I went. It turns out having DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ) is the reality — the luck is that they found it so early.

For me, joy is the details. Joy is discussing the beer and Doritos (Nacho flavor) the nurse “dominated” the night before my biopsy — she tells me about it while cupping my breast to stop the bleeding. Joy is realizing you give so fewer shits about how you and your work are received because you’re in the midst of the existential mind-fuckery of a cancer diagnosis. Joy is having the time to go to Florida with friends and their two and a half year old the week before your surgery. Joy is not having a two and a half year old of your own to entertain in Disney World, especially when you have cancer.

Joy is unfurling your body into Warrior II in the morning and realizing you’ve set yourself up with a daily yoga practice months before your diagnosis, so you’ll be in the most prime shape you can be for recovery. Joy is “What we thought we saw on the breast MRI was probably just hormonal noise and the ultrasound shows there is no additional cancer we can see.” Joy is “You don’t have any additional cancer than the cancer you already have.” Joy is perspective.

Joy is a sense of humor. Joy is being able to say “no.” Joy is being able to say “yes.” Joy is believing you are worthy of saying “no” and “yes.” Joy is realizing you’ll never put yourself in the position again to say “no” or “yes” against your will. Joy is seeing your own light and believing it. Joy is having people around who show you that light. Joy is having a huge cry because you realize what they’re saying is true and you never want to forget your own light again.

My mother had breast cancer before she was diagnosed with the ovarian cancer that killed her. And she was terrified. To be diagnosed with breast cancer while writing a book about your mother’s cancer presents its own slew of oddness:

What if I follow the same fate? What if cancer is all over my body already? What if I test positive for the genetic markers, BRCA1 and BRCA2? And then you ask these questions out loud to people you trust. And joy is allowing yourself to be vulnerable enough to ask because the answers you get are “Your path is your own path and cannot be the same path as your mother’s,” “Cancer is not all over your body already — you were diagnosed with this specific cancer and it is ‘in situ,’ which means ‘in place,’” “There are management options for testing positive for the genetic markers and I know people who have gone through both radical hysterectomies and bilateral mastectomies and live great, full, healthy lives, and their reconstructed breasts look beautiful, and I can put you in touch with them (the people themselves, not their reconstructed breasts).” Joy is perspective, again.

Joy is telling the mammography technicians after they help the radiologist place the wire for your lumpectomy, “Thank you for this work you do. You are in here every day and people like me come in and we can’t wait to get out of here as fast as we can. It’s good work you do, and I appreciate it.” And joy is hearing, “Thank you for saying that. It feels really good to be appreciated and acknowledged once in a while.”

You can take a break from the joy when the radiologist chooses too short a wire for your ample bosom and has to stick you twice and acts like the most bruised thing in the room is her ego because she chose incorrectly. Joy is not Lidocaine, but Lidocaine helps. Joy is knowing you can air your grievances later on the page.

Joy is the chicken dinner your husband cooks you and your sisters after you come home from surgery. Joy is the wabi-sabi-style light your hypnotherapist sister suggests you inject into the site of your lumpectomy while meditating. Joy is your family being able to take time away to come support you in your healing. Joy is the breast surgeon saying “not life threatening.” 

Joy is having the outlet of writing to be able to focus on details, like how the anxious intake nurse’s braces shone in the bright sunlight of the OR waiting room and how she looked so much like a fifty-nine-year-old female version of your banjo-playing friend, Todd. 

Joy is a practice. Joy is more likely to flood in if you let yourself cry.

Joy is waking up after a long, twilight-anesthesia-fueled night’s sleep in your funny pale pink hospital bra to Facebook posts from people you’ve known forever and people you’ve only just met telling you how touched they are by you sharing your story and how you’ve always felt “full of light” to them. Joy is letting yourself cry some tears of gratitude over that while sniffing your Maine Coon cat’s head as your husband snores next to you with his black sleep mask on to keep out the rays coming through the many windows in your bedroom. Joy is having many windows in your bedroom. Joy is letting him sleep. Joy is noticing the one white whisker in his beard because he cares so much for you and this time has been difficult, but here you are, breathing and warm in bed, together.

If someone had pointed a bony finger at me a year ago and said, “You’re going to get cancer and you’re going to be happy,” I would have woken up thinking about it in the middle of the night, gasping and sweating. If they had said, “It is going to feel impossible and then you’re going to look into the face of mortality and surprise yourself,” I would have put my hands over my ears. But the good news is, I’m telling you, from this side of the line, it is possible. We’re extraordinary beasts — as amazing as we are shitty at times. We can find joy anywhere and we do.

It was one year ago today! Dr. Pories took my lump away!

​February 17 is my DCIS surgery anniversary. One year ago today I was having a lumpectomy. It wasn’t too bad. The shit they slathered from my chest to my rib cage to clean me off pre-surgery turned out to be something I’m allergic too — Chloraprep — so I had a rash for a good month after that. But I walked into that room in my surgery gowns and socks wheeling an IV like a queen with my sisters and husband trying not to cry while watching me pad down the corridor. 

The operating room was sunnier and brighter than I had expected, everyone was nice, I went to sleep. I woke up and was OK. Dr. Susan Pories injected me with a shit ton of lidocaine to keep me comfortable for a long time.

They went in at the nipple and my stitches made it look like my boobs were winking, and I liked to think they resembled Marlene Dietrich.

During that time I wrote this piece called "Joy and Cancer Can Coexist — Sniff My Cat’s Head While I Tell You About It" (and submitted it to Creative Nonfiction), and I think now is as good a time as any to share it.

Also — anniversaries. It seems the longer we live and the more we experience and the stronger we love the more dates we accrue that move us and give us pause. It’s funny and poignant, our linear existence here on earth. Not that I remember (in any cognizant way) other existences. 

Maybe I have alternate dimensions and non-linear time on the mind because I recently watched The Arrival with Amy Adams and Jeremy Renner, which has some time-bending elements to it I loved. It was an excellent film — one of the best sci-fi movies I’ve ever seen. I’m a sucker for a big sci-fi story that manages to carry an important message, like 2001: A Space Odyssey, or any season of MTV’s The Real World. ;-) 

Anyway, I’ve had some mild PTSD (my therapist said it’s OK to call it that) soft-shoeing my way back or forward into a life gently pulling for more ease. It’s been a hard year. Who wouldn’t say that? But when I look back on last year and feel into my experience I can say the general timbre of it is positive. I see light and I see love. That is not the case when I think back to other times that were not in line with who I am and when I bent to what others were expecting. So it feels wonderful to be able to say I did everything in line with who I am. I stretched more than kvetched. ​

​I love this quote that Sharon Ramel, my web-based Shamanic healing teacher (yes, I have one of those), mentioned in a recent email. Thich Nhat Hanh says, “We carry many seeds in our hearts – the seeds of fear, the seeds of love, the seeds of past hurts, the seeds of peace, the seeds of hopelessness, the seeds of trust, and so many more. Which seeds are we watering? Which seeds do we spend time with, which do we nurture, encourage, support? We always have a choice.” Sharon goes on to write, “Water the seeds of Love and Peace. We are changing the world. Uplifting our vibrations for the good of all.”

What seeds are you sowing? Which ones are you watering? I’m hoping to literally grow Skyrocket Junipers this spring and their spiritual counterpart in my heart. Why not? Weird and fucked up things happen to us. Do the awesome while we can.

Do they say "rlvnt"? Prolls not. (Was thinking about the shortening of words because one of my editors asked me what "AF" meant.)

Anyway, this has nothing to do with that. I was just thinking ah, a simpler time. And Valentine's Day. And that scene in Pump Up the Volume when Samantha Mathis takes off her loose-knit roomy sweater and she and Christian Slater circle each other outside of the sliding glass door set to Ivan Neville's "Why Can't I Fall In Love." Too good. Yes. A sweet and lovely time (full of cigarettes). And boobs. #talkhard

I found it!

A love jam in the key of #RESIST! Chords below if you want to play along. But don't play along with fascism!

F     G       C
Rainbow unicorns and puppies 
G 
Bubblegum and fancy guppies 
       Am
Are decreed by the state of the union 
      G
To bring too much joy 
F    G         C
Cottage cheese and other things of that shade
G 
What you might find on a three-year-old's plate 
             Am
Are the only acceptable colors 
            G
Except gold for the rich 
                  Am                  F
But I can look into your colorful eyes 
                   Am                             F
Until they're gouged out by the in control guys 
                   C                           Am
And I can love you with my American thighs  
​F
Right up to the edge 
           G
Of our imminent civil war 
Am                  F           G
What will be next to be nixed?
F   G      C
Purple kittens and pink mountains  
G
People of various colors sharing water fountains  
Am
Restrooms for everyone 
                     G
And who the rainbow represents
F      G              C
I can think of worse things than snowflakes
     G 
At least they're unique 
                   Am
And I can catch them on my tongue 
                            G 
Which could be ripped out 
For loving people more than money 
F     G       C
Rainbow unicorns and puppies 
G 
Bubblegum and fancy guppies 
       Am
Are decreed by the state of the union 
      G
To bring too much joy 
F    G         C
Cottage cheese and other things of that shade
G 
What you might find on a three-year-old's plate 
             Am
Are the only acceptable colors 
            G
Except gold for the rich 
                  Am                  F
But I can look into your colorful eyes 
                   Am                             F
Until they're gouged out by the in control guys 
                   C                           Am
And I can love you with my American thighs  
F
Right up to the edge 
           G
Of our imminent civil war 
                        Am 
God save the poor  
F                    Am                       F
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free 
Am   F
And you 
C
And me
Am      F            C      G
Red white and blue aren't the only colors that 
C  Am F G C
don't run 

The great thing about yoni steaming, besides it being cozy and good for your body, is that it’s kind of a funny departure from regular life. Nothing says love like the hot breath of steaming rose petals on your swimsuit area!

While looking for remedies for ovarian cysts I came across some cool stuff — castor oil packs and yoni steams are now going to be a regular self-care tool for me — and any time is a good time to remind yourself to take care of yourself. And then some times are even more important times to love yourself up (like the winter of our discontent as our country suddenly becomes a fascist regime).

Instead of buying an expensive seat (that takes a while to ship from Korea) that turns into a facial steamer thing, I read that you can use a lawn chair. So that’s what I did.

It was quite a cold day, so I warmed it up with my hairdryer as I simmered my concoction of rose and lavender flowers (don’t use essential oils — they are too strong for your sweet, gentle yoni!). I got great instructions, too, from Lorin Purifoy, whose flower/tree/gem essences I’ve been using for some time.

I wrapped a blanket around the bottom part of my body and the chair (after putting the steaming herbs beneath the chair on a pile of what I had lying around to get them close enough to the seat.) I sat and relaxed and did a meditation I’d been meaning to do. 

I found a lot of women of color with tutorials on yoni steams, which I appreciate. I learned some practical methods for yoni steaming (and more!!) from the XONecole.com article, “I Vagina Steam Religiously With This DIY Method,” by Andrea Imafidon.

This: “Many women each year are diagnosed with cervical cancer, fibroids, PCOS and other gynecological issues. On top of that, women of color don’t receive quality and equal treatment from physicians. Physicians perform early hysterectomies, push clinical trial treatment drugs and other unethical treatment on women of color. Our bodies have been used as science experiments for eons. Hence, why we must start advocating for equality and quality of holistic health especially womb care. We have to really take the time to care for ourselves holistically, and have honest conversations about our inner care. Now is the time to start healing ourselves and wombs.”

I really like Namaste Moore’s DIY video, too:

And then this madness:

The above photo from a product sold at Walmart reminds me of a recent photo I saw of Tom Brady in a giant jacket thing. I guess Trump supporters really are letting it all hang out right now, including steaming their genitals in public. 

God, I need jokes (and vaginal steaming) right now.

This is pretty cute, too, from Etsy:

Yoni steaming — if it’s good enough for Sister, Sister (as evidenced by this photo of Tia and Tamera Mowry at the Yoni Steam Wellness Center in Birmingham, Alabama), it’s good enough for me!

I think it’s appropriate that as I was writing this I got the phone call from the nurse practitioner at my Boise OB/GYN, Angela, who told me my uterine lining biopsy was totally benign! Phew. Also, yesterday at lunch I told my husband’s parents of my plans to have my ovaries and fallopian tubes removed for my 50th birthday (or sooner), which is still some years off. But if that ain’t adulting, I don’t know what is! 

Also, it’s no coincidence that I’ve had Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power” in my head for a few weeks now. Here’s that. Maybe not the perfect yoni steaming music, but not bad for dancing it out.