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In Those Dreams

In a few days this place is going to be buzzing. Not that it’s not now. Just a different kind of buzz. On Saturday night the good people of Akumal will descend upon our dreamy little slice of heaven to see what we’ve been doing behind the giant gate, and hopefully, they will be as pleased as we all are to find contemporary art installations in the middle of the Mayan Jungle.

I have probably hosted more exhibitions than I’ve been a part of. The gallery had a good run while I was still feeling good. And if everything goes as planned, it will be back open this Spring and Summer. In the meantime,¬† I’m excited to be part of ONDARTE’s first exhibition of 2012. It’s an honor to be sharing this space with the artists here, and I’m beside myself every day with the amount of collaboration and effort we all put into each others projects. In fact, if I don’t hurry up and post this, I’m going to be late for my cameo appearance in a short film. I have to walk from the shore straight into the water and then disappear under the surface. I love how we tap each others strengths.

So, if you happen to be in Akumal, anywhere near Yal-Ku Lagoon, say around 6pm on Saturday, then you might want to find your way to the front gate of ONDARTE and into the palapa. There’s a sculpture by Karl Saliter. Hilarious and poignant photos by Ryan Walter Wagner. Beautiful paintings by Jaqueline Cole. Mixed media images and a short animation by Amy Clay, and an installation including sculpture and a projected film… in the POOL… by Marina Fomenko.

And what did I do? I’ve been spending a bit of time underwater with a camera trying to capture in images what it’s like to be in my water dreams. Yes, water dreams. I have them all the time.

And they look like this.

In Those Dreams, Awake

In Those Dreams, Awake - Photo installation 90" x70" - Ali Goodwin


It’s a dream to be here.¬† And we all hope, if you get the chance to be here too, you’ll stop by for a cocktail under the starry sky on the edge of the lagoon and see how hard we are working. Yes… Working.

(You try getting large format archival inkjet prints in the middle of the jungle in Mexico.)

In Those Dreams, Awake
Text & Photographs by Ali Goodwin

I open my eyes and look up through the surface as I reach for it. There is no sun, just grey swirling shadows of a markless sky. I break through at the bottom of a swell and gasp for air, another taking shape above me. I only have a moment before I will be under again. I know this. I accept the weight of water. I do not ever think of saving myself. I feel around me for the black shape, a tail, a foot. I must save him, my sweetest love, who never learned to swim. He struggles to reach me, snorting at the water. Biting it. I feel nothing.

There has never been land. There is never a boat. There is never anyone else. There is only water. There is only a wave washing over muffled ears. When I wake up, my arms will ache for hours from treading. My voice will be hoarse from silent cries for help. Phantom limbs will reappear for days. My heart will ache from remembering, and then remembering differently. This will be the only thing I can count on. In those dreams, awake.

©2012, All Rights Reserved.


ON SATURDAY NIGHT: 20% of the profits from sales of my editioned prints will go to support the PLAYA ANIMAL RESCUE.

“Mi Hijo” – Black and White Archival Inkjet Prints – 16 x24 ” Edition of 200
$300.00 USD



39 And Everything After

At the present moment, I am a little reluctant to go back in time, to recap the last little bit of my life. I am so very anxious to move forward from this madness of a year. But it’s not over yet. Not for a few more days anyways, so I will go back, just a little bit, if only for myself to read a year from now, when this really bad dream fast forwards into a really good book about a girl who had the craziest life of them all. Hell, crazier things have happened in a year.

I turned 39 a few weeks back. I woke up early to a cloudy sky over a churning sea and I was pulled sleepy-eyed by some otherworldly force out of bed and onto the rocks. I needed to be in that water. To wash off the last year, if not the last 39. So I did. I ran straight down to the beach and into the waves, a near-naked crazed girl, laughing and crying and embracing the whole gift of the day. My 39th year had come and I had arrived in my entirety, with all my wits and all my will, daring the sky to open wide and rain on my parade. Bring it, I said.

What’s a little water, after all.

November 27, 2011

And a few days after skidding on my knees into 39, a rogue wave hit my broken heart through a pane of glass and sent me reeling back to the beach in the dark of night to throw rocks into the howling wind. As loud as I could, I begged the stars to align themselves in some fashion that I might for once come to understand this misaligned life of mine. Teary-eyed anger turned to sleep, and in the morning presented me with the horizon line of clarity I had wished for with all my might as 39 candles went out. I sent an email back to Mexico, accepting the photo residency invitation I had declined months before. I had to go. For so many reasons if not just to spite the one monkey that held me back. My back was already so broken. So why not go headlong into the Mayan jungle and face it? But what if I couldn’t do it. Oh, Worse! What if I didn’t do it. Que onda, mono?! Ya me voy.

So for the last little bit I have been making my lists and checking them twice, preparing to depart for Quintana Roo. Not as easy as it sounds for this girl, my poor wings having so recently been soaked in gallons of chemo. I am easily overwhelmed by the laundry, never mind packing for a 5 week stay anywhere but my couch. This past weekend I did a test run, traveling far and wide outside my current comfort zone, getting on a bus bound for NYC to celebrate Ezra’s 38th birthday. It was not without it’s moments of undoing for me, but it was a trip worth taking. As it goes, the lost and found can be lost and found again and again. Six months after we found each other in barely one piece, me, lost without my boobs and he, lost without his bike seat, the two of us sicker than any two friends have a right to be, combined, were found again in otherwise good health, in our new birthday suits.

May 8, 2011 | December 18, 2011

And then there was this morning. I missed my return flight back to Berlin. Instead, I shook off the memory of those icy Adriatic winds, brushed a thousand wishes off my pillow, and got my first real haircut. Because next Saturday morning, December 31st, a minute to the year when the phone rang with the new year’s news that I had cancer, I will be stepping off a different plane and into the jungle. I will look up at the new moon and count constellations over a sea a whole world away from this time last year. It is the very next thing to happen, which will indeed lead to the very next thing after that. 39 years and I think I finally understand this forward feeling.

December 12, 2010 | December 12, 2011

It’s the beginning of everything after.

Waking Up

As the Crow Flies

October 27th, 2010

Very early in the morning on October 27th, 2010, I was laying in bed, my head swirling with all the day was about to bring. Bags and clothes and supplies and photography equipment were scattered all over my room at my family’s farm in Eliot, Maine. Outside, the sun was coming up, and a balmy fog blanketed the field next to the farm house, suspending itself in perfect light between the high tension lines. Birds were flying. The house was stirring. I was waking up.

Very early in the morning on October 27th, 2010, I felt the lump in my chest. I felt the heaviness in my heart. A sinking in the pit of my stomach. But there was no time, it seemed, to think the worst. I had worked too hard getting myself into an upright and locked position to be able to finally take flight. There were only a few more hours, a million things to do, before I could stop to take a breath. Life was starting over thousands of miles away. I was waking up.

Very early this morning, on October 27th, 2011, I was laying in bed, my head swirling with all the day was about to bring. Bags and clothes and supplies and photography equipment scattered all over my seaside cottage in Kittery Point, Maine. Dim rays of rain-soaked light suspended themselves over a deep blue sea. Thousands of miles away from this day last year, I could no longer feel my chest. I couldn’t feel my arm. But I could feel my lungs fill under the heavy blankets with chilly morning air as I took a breath. I was waking up.

Sometimes Words Fall Short

There haven’t been many words here in the last few months. Up until the last post, I had been pretty honest about how I was doing, what it felt like to be trapped in this sick body. But in this last little bit, while I was finishing up the second round of chemo, healing up from my surgery, gearing up for another one, and spending every last possible moment I could out on the water, I couldn’t find the words in me to talk about it. The chemo had finally won, I gave in to it, as body and brain squeezed through a meat grinder of physical and emotional agony. It took everything I had just to do it. To get from one end of the day to the other. To endure myself. And I wouldn’t have done myself justice trying to explain it all anyways. Sometimes, words just fall short. Instead, I set out to sea with all the force of a spent wave and let the wind and water make all the noise for awhile.

I am within days of the anniversary of my departure to Berlin. A year ago I packed my bags, found the lump, boarded the plane. For a few months in Europe I was a sponge. I soaked up every moment as if it could be snatched away at any moment. I took chances on things that would have had me thinking twice back home. I met interesting, wonderful people, I danced, I ate crepes every day. In the early mornings, in my studio in Berlin, I would photograph myself. I didn’t know for sure what was wrong, but I had a gut feeling, as the dots began to align and German doctors ranted, and I wanted to capture myself in photographs before my life, my body, was potentially altered for good. I allowed myself to see what was coming only through the lens. I tucked each days photos away, I tucked the worry away, and went on living. There was no need to talk about it. The morning was over.

But there is something to tell this morning.

A year after I looked at myself through the lens of my camera, decidedly a different girl, I AM a different girl. I beat breast cancer. I have been declared free to go. The cancer is in remission, last week’s ancillary node dissection surgery revealing 13 out of 13 lymph nodes negative for cancer cells (unlike the last surgery)! And… I woke up with the most beautiful set of knockers a girl with cancer could ever ask for.

I won this round.

And still, sometimes words fall very, very short. There are so many things I want to say. There was a winter of such discontent, the depths of which no chart would dare mark. And as these depths changed with the tide, so too, did the course. On shore, the hard choices were riddled with the flotsam and jetsam of doubt and fear. But out there, an invincible summer began. Saltwater snuck it’s way past the poison, back into my veins. A sailboat appeared on the horizon, with crisp white sails gasping for fresh salt air. My hair came back in whisps then, curls. Wool was traded for silk. With a co-conspirator at my side and plenty of rum at the ready, we cast off on a permanent starboard tack to find secret beaches, breath-stealing sunsets and rising moons, constellations in the quiet, rocking dark of sea-damp nights. With fish jumping and seagulls squawking, we floated away whole days in the seaweed of Smuttynose, arms outstretched, the sun and saltwater righting us, healing wounds our blue-green eyes couldn’t see. Laughing our salty heads off at the very notion of peril. Where the waves whispered wild and sweet, I wasn’t sick. If words fail you now, sailor, blame the halyards. We did everything right.

And this morning, as I lay here in my bed by the sea, Asher beside me, the rain on the roof, leaves on the ground, the waves crashing within earshot, the Isles of Shoals floating within sight, in a house built by the Thaxter’s themselves, I am a soul in division from itself. Heriocally lost. Heriocally found. And I can tell you with absolute certainty these next few words…

I wouldn’t have traded this last year for anything.

Not one precious salty drop of it.

And this probably makes no sense to anyone at all.

Like when they tell you that you’re 38 years old and you have cancer.

And then they tell you that you don’t.

Sometimes words fall short.

~ Ali

I’d like to thank my friend, artist Dennis Michael Jones, for inspiring this post. Sometimes your words get me thinking.

Sometimes Words… by Dennis Michael Jones


It’s a little like a first kiss. A plane ride to a new place. A taste of something exotically delicious. Jumping in to find the water is warmer than you thought. It’s a little like that, I think. Or maybe even a little bit better. It’s the last day before my last chemo treatment.

It was October of last year when I discovered the tumor. It was a few months of denial in Berlin, tasting the most delicious parts of a new life, plane rides to new places, with an inevitable return to find that the truth is unexpected. It has been 7 months of daily doctors, chemo, surgeries, sickness. It has been choice after hard choice from a short list of few options. It has been a gift and a curse and the beginning of something that never should have started in the first place.

Those of us who have made it this far all ask of each other, of our friends, our families, “So What Now?” It is perhaps the hardest question yet to be asked, because we have survived thus far, this particular lifeboat having actually made it to shore. A little worse for the wear, the worst supposedly behind us. Are we to wake up tomorrow and go back to the way things were? What do we do with this new perspective, when everything is different and normal isn’t normal, forever? I don’t know the answer yet, but things have a way of righting themselves, and if there is one thing I’ve come to understand, it is that it might take some time to figure out. I’ll take it.

So, tomorrow there is the last of the chemo. But tonight! Tonight there is bread pudding with the best of friends. And that means only one thing.
I picked the right boat.

Until Tomorrow,
~ Ali

Almost But Not Quite

The title of this blog post answers every question that’s been tossed at me over the last month. Am I better? Am I done? Do I have a place to live? Am I working? Is the gallery open? Am I eating? The list goes on… Last night, at a huge party, I had to explain myself so many times, I realized, I better write something. Even if it’s just the answer.

I have been fairly MIA on the computer over the last month or so. Fairly noncommittal to anything or anyone anywhere, really. The only thing that gets an immediate YES from me these days is, “are you feeling sick?” So I have a pretty good excuse for disappearing, I suppose. I will ask for your forgiveness for not keeping you better informed, even though you’ll tell me it’s no big deal because I’m sick, and I’ll go on to tell you that’s not a good enough excuse, and then I’ll realize in about 2 hours that I AM still sick and I must immediately climb back into bed still insisting that I haven’t kept up my end of the deal. I know.

Now that we have that out of the way….


I’m almost done chemo, but not quite. Just THREE MORE WEEKS! It’s been 7 months since this show went on the road. Three more weeks is like telling me it’s a 45 minute wait for my favorite table. No problem. I’m almost done with cancer treatments, but not quite. I’ve got a bit more to do before I can walk away from this wiping my hands on my pants and calling it done. Actually, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to do that, but I do know that after chemo, there’s a proposed surgery to snag more nodes (which probably still have some cancer in them), and then maybe a couple of months of radiation, and then 5 years of hormone therapy. It’s still a ways to go, but it’s like telling me it takes 5 hours to drive to NYC and feels a little bit like I’ve just hit the Connecticut border. Almost there but not quite and if I can just make it through Connecticut…

There have been some pretty big things in my tiny little world lately. There was an incredible, and I do mean INCREDIBLE fundraising event for me back in May that I STILL have not rightfully acknowledged here. I don’t even know where to start with that one. It was called ALIVE! and if you were lucky enough to attend, it needs no explanation. In fact, those same friends are still working tirelessly to help me and again, I am at a loss for words about the whole affair. There was a spectacular iron pour in my honor at Green Foundry. And in June, two brand new babies were added to my family! My brother in arms Ezra, and his lovely wife and pup, spent the 4th of July eating lobsters with me on the deck at Morrision’s after a failed attempt at sailing. Thank goodness we had shrimp cocktail. And gin. There have been overnights at the Isles of Shoals with domino tournaments and seagull attacks and general nothing-doing. And the ~Best~Wedding~Ever~ (sing it, Stacey!) of two of my nearest and dearest friends just a few evenings ago. Oh jeez, and last night there was a birthday party for Amylyn. A BIG, happy party. And some yoga. Have I gotten out of bed yet today? Almost but not quite.

Peter gets excited about marrying Kierstyn in the garden.

OK, blah blah, getting around to answering, wait, filling you in… I’ve been living life hard and I’m paying for it. I’m exhausted. I mean flat out, can’t lift my arms, going to puke I’m so tired, tired. Its the most prevalent thing going, and there are OK days, and not OK days. Never great days. And no, I can’t tell you that in a few days after chemo I’ll feel much better. Because I’ll probably feel worse, and then I’ll feel even worse, and for 5 whole minutes I might feel half decent and then I’m back in chemo. So, do I feel good? Almost but not quite. My nose bleeds all the time. My joints are killing me. My back is killing me. My hands shake, my right arm throbs and swells, and my stomach never stops churning. I sunburn like the dickens. I can’t sleep at night, and I wake up from naps feeling worse then when I went down. I am completely overwhelmed in crowds of people. Grocery stores. Conversations are torturous. My bloody toenails look like they all got slammed in a car door. Everything smells terrible. I have hot flashes and it’s 100 degrees already outside. And perhaps the very very very worst of it all, I can’t stay focused or remember a goddamn thing. Not your name. Your face. Where I was 3 days ago. Where I’m supposed to be in 3 hours. Nada. Am I complaining. Almost but not quite. So in a nutshell, that’s how I feel. Like crap. Most of the time. Thanks for asking.


I rarely say a word unless provoked. It doesn’t seem very useful to me. It’s not like anyone can do anything, and nobody likes a whiner. So I’ll dump some of it here, and then I’ll spend the rest of my time pretending that I am just fine and leave it to you to feel sorry or not as you detect the circles under my eyes or the shades of gray in my cheeks. I’ve been told that I look fantastic. That I am the healthiest looking sick person ever. Thank you for that. It helps me with the pretending. My hair is growing back, slowly but surely. It is thick and dark red and a tiny bit curly and almost but not quite useful as hair so I do not feel very much like a girl at the moment. Many of you have been kind enough to tell me I’m “rockin’ the look.” Ok. Maybe. But just so we’re clear, I would not have ever rocked this on purpose, but thank you for helping me pretend a little more.

And that brings me to this. It is July. If I’m going to be sick, then I’m going to at the very least try to enjoy it. I spend quite a bit of time these days waiting this mess out aboard a ship parked in the ocean. There are triscuits there. And rum. And my book. And sometimes there are other people there, but mostly there are not. I can go there and stare at the water all day long if that’s what I feel like doing. Spy on the fisherman through portholes. Talk to the terns. I listen to music and try to remember what I had for breakfast. I climb into my berth with my seahorse pillows and listen to the water slosh against the hull. It’s safe. I look back at the shore and I think about all the things I’ve given up this last year. I make plans to do them again and then forget them just as quickly as I had to first let them go. When I am there I close my eyes and pretend. Just a little bit more. For just a little bit longer.


Almost but not quite,

Lucky Enough

I took the oars, I got in my rowboat and I did it. I did it.
Do you know what that means?

I have been writing this post for 2 days and here I am. Still right at the very beginning. Not a word I’ve put down seems adequate enough to describe these last few weeks, this living with sickness, this tide of emotion that blows through me. The days that swallow me up and spit me back out laughing and crying and gasping for water and wind all over again. For every drop of miserable poison they push through my veins, I manage to muster that much more will power to stay afloat and I push back. Hard.

I’m exhausted. I ache all over. I’m still sick. But I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time. Might seem an odd thing to say in the midst of this mess, but if I had the energy to write it all down, you’d be pretty happy about things, too. Tomorrow marks the halfway point in this second round of chemo. I’ll row right through it, and maybe in a few days more I’ll be Lucky Enough to make my way to the Shoals in the sunshine. Knowing full well, no matter how overwhelming, I can (and will) do this. Lucky Enough to be surrounded by what matters most.

~ Ali

5 Weeks Ago Today

I’m sitting here in my mom’s comfy chair, wrapped in a bathrobe, with a steaming hot cup of coffee. My dad just handed me a fresh donut. Asher is at my feet, with the sliding door open so we can smell the sea air, and listen to a million birds chirp their way from one blossoming tree to the next. It all seems so positively normal, doesn’t it?

5 weeks ago today I woke up delirious, sick, happy, in terrific pain, asking for mashed potatoes and socks. I was soaked in sweat and didn’t dare move a muscle because even though I had no recollection at that moment as to what I was doing in that bed, in that room, I could tell by my best friend’s face, and the puffy eyes of my parents, that I had undoubtedly just suffered some terrible trauma like a drive-by shooting, or a car accident, and that it would be in my best interest to check in with all my limbs before doing something silly like, oh, I don’t know, smiling. But I did, and remarked to everyone’s humor, how FAST the whole bi-lateral nipple-sparing mastectomy thingy had gone down (8 hours later). To my (and everyone else’s) surprise, I shoveled those most god-awful mashed potatoes into my mouth like a robot with tiny arms. A couple of blood transfusions, a risky fever, several panic attacks, 10 inches of stitches, four days and two new boobs later, I walked myself out of the hospital wrapped in the same bathrobe I’m sitting in now.

I won’t go into too much gory detail about how the last 5 weeks have gone. Had I written a post shortly after arriving home, you, the poor reader, would have slit your wrists after the first few sentences. It wasn’t fun or funny. In fact, it was downright awful. Healing has been an arduous task, that has required much patience on my part (And my family’s). This wasn’t a pretty breast augmentation, people, and brand new boobies don’t just grow themselves. My entire upper body was completely deconstructed. Right on down to the chest wall. Then, it was reconstructed using lots of foreign material. Lymph nodes were dissected through my armpit. My muscles were reconfigured from back to front to accommodate for all the missing tissue (which has made for some interesting postures and some downright intense PT sessions). Every square inch of my body has had to relearn itself in a whole new way. To describe it in a fashion you might be able to understand, imagine a giant rubber band has been cinched around your chest. It’s so tight that everything has gone completely numb. Now. Snap It.

Yes, yes, it hurts and all that, but what about the stupid boob cancer?? Um. Well. Um. Ya. About that…

A day or so after surgery, in a stuffy hospital room full of nurses and doctors and friends and family it was announced with lots of cheering and clapping and downright carrying-on, that my margins were clear, my nipple tissue was alive and well, and my lymph nodes were cancer-free. The ground-breaking surgery was a success. The weight of a thousand elephants was lifted off my chest. It was out of me. For all intents and purposes, the pathology at the time of surgery told everyone in the room what they wanted to hear. All Clear. A week later, however, the same faces walked sullenly out of the surgical office with a new set of pathology.

The cancer had formed nice little tumors in my lymph nodes, and precancerous lesions were already forming in my “healthy” left breast. Are you kidding me?? Nope. And so the last few weeks have been filled with consulting, discussing, weighing options, outlining scenarios, statistics, asking questions, crying, begging for it to just go away, propped awkwardly on pillows exhausted and awake in the wee hours of the night wondering where it would pop up next (My bones? My brain? My lungs?) and concluding that cancer is a bitch that needs a good slap, and so I will continue with a new 3-month weekly dose of chemo, followed by yet another surgery, and then maybe even dip my new nips in a nice dose of radiation. My hair will fall out again, my mouth will fill up with sores, my toe nails will crack open, I will not sleep or eat much, and I will ache, but I will be doing what I need to do to make sure that I stay on the right side of the dirt. You can see how perhaps it was good that I waited until now to write this little post of mine. It’s been a touch messy over here.

Hey! Hey you! It’s still me!
And would you be surprised if I told you a week after surgery I was enjoying a lovely baby shower for my cousin, or shopping for shoes? (I blame good drugs and my mother for those couple of outings). And wouldn’t you be so pleased to know that I have gone from crying every day over a body image so ravaged by this experience to taking photos of myself with awe and amazement at how good I actually look? To know that walking 3-5 miles a day does more damage to the poor dog than me? Can you also get excited about my delightful month’s break from chemo that has given me the energy to curate an exhibition for June at Drift Gallery with my friend Ezra Caldwell, a photographer and bicycle builder from NYC? ‘Truth & Consequences’ stands to explain a whole lot more in pictures about what it’s like to spend the best years of your life with a terrifying disease that has everyone throwing pots and pans at you to keep you from croaking. You might be even more excited to learn that I put 6 fresh Maine lobsters and a bottle of champagne in a cooler and drove them all the way to Harlem by myself last weekend to celebrate the end of my dear friend Ezra’s treatment for “Ass Cancer.” I started chemo again just this past Tuesday and still made it to the PMA opening on Wednesday night. (Allez! Allez! Allez!)

Ez & Putney ~ Harlem, May 2011


Hey! HEY! It’s still me! And for as long as I’m still on this side of the dirt things will stay more or less the same. I will continue to scheme on what comes after all of this healing is done. I will not give up. Ever. I have too many people working tirelessly at this very moment to make sure I don’t have to worry about the small stuff while I’m working on the big stuff. I’ve made some pretty fat promises to these people that I intend to make good on.

If you would like to meet the amazing people in my life and see what they have been up to these last few months then please join us on Friday, May 20th for one of the most incredible events I’ve ever seen on the Seacoast.

ALIVE! A Swanky Night of Art, Auctions, Food, Music and a debut performance by Lady Luck Burlesque

There are not enough adjectives in the world to describe how moved I am by the collaboration, the donations, the community, the LOVE that has come together on my behalf. Everyone should be so lucky. Everyone. I am so freaking lucky. An aside… if you walk up to me the night of the event and I have to ask you your name, I’m not trying to be silly. Chemo has blessed me with a forgetful memory and I’m really struggling. So, help a girl out. Introduce yourself. Again.

I know, I’ve dragged this post out into a novel, my coffee is less than steamy now, and it’s that time of day when still being in your bathrobe becomes a questionable lifestyle choice. I just can’t let this one go without acknowledging the team at York Hospital who are also working tirelessly to save my life. My dream team surgeons, Dr. Edwards and Dr. Holland (Oh, Girls!), my oncologist Dr. Eneman (who poisons me regularly but I like him anyways), my PT guru Elisa Frasier (who knows herself how hard this is), and all the nurses who have made this awful nightmare pleasantly tolerable with a little humor, lidocaine and a lot of compassion.

It’s still me!
~ Ali






Your grief for what you’ve lost lifts a mirror
up to where you’re bravely working.

Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here’s the joyful face you’ve been wanting to see.

Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.

Your deepest presence is in every small contracting
and expanding,

The two as beautifully balanced and coordinated
as birdwings.

~ Rumi

The worst of the surgery is behind me now. I am working hard to heal. Much love to my friend, Geneve Hoffman, for her beautiful photographs of my life. They are my mirror, my reminder. Thank you.

With gratitude,

Believe Me

When I say I’m OK, I need you to believe me. I’ve been practicing for this my whole life. Building on one experience after another. The good, the bad, the ugly. It all adds up to one tough girl. And when I tell you this you have to believe me – I’ve never been more ready for anything in my whole life. Of course I’m scared. I’m 38 years old and I have cancer and I’m about to undergo a procedure at York Hospital that’s never been done there before. A nipple sparing bi-lateral mastectomy with full reconstruction, all in one day. Wha??! But you know, tomorrow, I’d like to think of it this way… By this time tomorrow, I won’t have breast cancer anymore. And that’s something. BIG. (34 C’s to be exact.)

I’ve felt almost normal in these last few weeks. Better than I’ve felt since I left Berlin. I walked 5 miles on Sunday with Asher. And went to yoga this week for the first time since the New Year, chest port be damned. I’m eating again! My last chemo treatment was the 8th, and since the 22nd, when I decided to throw everyone a little curve ball and ask if we could do this differently (they said YES!), they’ve given me a few weeks reprieve to prepare for surgery. Last week, the chemo fog lifted just enough for me to finally have the presence of mind after 2 months of living hell to realize something… HOLY SHIT I HAVE CANCER!! And I had to take a few days off of being OK to grieve a little. I know, I know, I still have to heal and then start another 3 months of weekly chemo. But here I am on the eve of it all, confident in my surgeons (these gals rock!), and knowing without doubt that this will save my life. (Basically, I don’t have a choice so I better just get OK with it.) Believe me.

I’ve had a lot of people ask me over the last few weeks how the hell I’m walking around like I’m on a cloud, smiling, laughing, joking. It’s pretty easy, actually. I am surrounded by people who love me and want me to live, and they tell me all the time. How can you be upset about that? I am so loved and it’s an unreal feeling. Humbling, really. I also have a lot of friends with fantastic senses of humor, and this whole entire mess is one of the funniest things we’ve ever encountered. The whole of it. None of it makes any sense, and things that don’t make sense can almost always be found comical (for starters, I’m bald! Ha!). Looking at this any other way would be a terrible waste of precious time.
Believe me.

So to get right down to it, in a few more hours my amazing team will roll me under the big bright lights and get to the business of saving my life. I can’t wait.
Believe me.

So much love,
~ Ali

Many thanks to Geneve Hoffman for giving me a few much needed days of pampering with the amazing gals at Glow Bodywork, and then taking me out to the sea. XO