Habits, Sunflowers, Gratitude, and A Poem
why perseverance matters and other thoughts
Most of us begin our journey equally: we crawl before we walk, babble and gurgle before we speak, and walk before we run.
When we become adults, some think we can go from writing a draft to a best-selling novel without putting in the work. This idea that we can achieve something grand (conduct a symphony, develop the cure for cancer, become a rock star) without daily practice is incredible, yet it prevails.
I aspire to be my best version and have goals, but I don’t have over-the-top illusions about my art. Of course, I want to be recognized for my artistic expression as much as the next creative, but at this point, I’m still working to find my voice.
Practice and perseverance are the only ways I know how to get ahead. And I have a long history with a sharp learning curve behind me.
I had a there’s nowhere to go but up kind of schooling. I watched my mom persevere through the worst despair—a dead husband at forty-three, no income, and twelve mouths to feed. Thirteen, if she counted herself, which she often didn’t. That evolved into a lesson I eventually learned—self-love, above all.
Despite a rebellious streak in my early teens, I learned healthy lifelong habits and became a responsible adult—flossing daily, exercising consistently, drinking water, studying, and making the bed. Good habits work.
Later in life, as my dream to publish and photograph a cookbook became reality, I practiced photographing food. At first, the lighting was wrong, my angle was off, and the composition was wonky. Within a year or so, after practicing daily and attending several webinars and conferences, I embraced the golden hour at dusk and dawn. I applied what I knew about composition from art classes, and my food photos looked mouthwatering.
When I was diagnosed with rare, life-threatening stage IV dedifferentiated liposarcoma, and throughout recovery, once I embraced my reality—this cancer may or may not kill me, I relied on small, daily habits to sustain me. Breathing intentionally, light yoga, writing, reading, resting, and drawing, coupled with chemotherapy treatments (which threatened my life numerous times), but eventually, these combined intentions led to less pain and narcotics, more food, and long walks. Surviving a life-threatening cancer wasn’t only because I’d created solid habits, but my thoughts and feelings were also powerful tools. I had a community of supporters, my husband, our families and friends, my social media community, and strangers. It takes a village, which is a cliche that is worth repeating.
After I recovered in 2020, I employed my tried-and-true habits when I decided to create and sell watercolor art. I created a designated space in my office, an inexpensive 22x30” desk. I took courses and practiced daily.
Take the image above: a quick pencil and marker doodle study for a larger watercolor for a cancer patient survivor exhibit, Expressions of Courage, at Longship Club at Kroger Field, University of Kentucky campus, June 2023. This is a self-portrait with the sunflower representing sarcoma, and the falling petals representing those who didn’t survive this horrible disease.
Until my cancer diagnosis in 2019, I didn’t know the sunflower symbolized sarcoma. Before that, I knew little about sunflower symbolism or my disease. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve never heard of dedifferentiated liposarcoma—it’s a rare, soft tissue cancer. Today I’m NED (no evidence of disease). I take it one day at a time and practice the most valuable habit of all, gratitude. And some days I forget I had cancer.
Some Days I Forget
Where is my phone? I ask myself At least twice a day. Before I broke down and bought Turquoise eyeglasses, I wandered from room to room In search of my reading glasses. Cheaters, I called them. They were invariably perched on the top of my head. Some days I forget words, birthdays, and anniversaries. I sip my cappuccino, wincing at the bitterness. No vanilla sweetener. Some days I forget piles of sheets in the washing machine, clumped together, discovering them days later, rancid smelling, needing another wash, rinse, and spin. Then the process repeats itself. I forget to weed the flower garden, check the mailbox, and water the topiary trees on the front porch. Some days I forget to schedule Cooper for a groom, only remembering when his wiry coat is thick and matted. I forget to eat lunch. Some days I forget to say please and thank you. I forget to say no. And some days...some days...I forget I had cancer.
Stay Curious. Stay safe. Make an Impact.