Like the deepest wind, the unnameable miracle will move us all and remain unseen. I know this siege is over. We are being rocked into the days. And I know already that just as everyone wanted to blame this illness on their partial understanding of disease: it’s in your bones, in your food, in the synthetics of your home, the vinyl of your Pontiac, in the emptiness of your life; it’s in your protein, in your spinal fluid, in your lack of vitamins; it’s in your sexuality, in your stress, in your family, your century; it’s in your water, in your air.

Just so, already, I can foresee that everyone will claim the tumor’s disappearance for their partial understanding of wellness: it was Jesus; it was Moses; it was our collective prayers; it was the strength of your mind; it was your visualization, your writing, your goodness returning to you; it was the technology of the day, the medicine of the day, the expertise of your doctors, your change in diet, your change in outlook, your ability to endure, your ability to submit, your ability to take charge, your capacity to accept; it was our love for you; it was your love of life.

Just so. It has been our lot since the conception of consciousness to praise what we are and blame what we are not. Yet I have been blessed to have a Catholic priest lay his brooding hands on my Jewish head. I have had a woman I’ve never met lead a Sufi meditation weekly on my behalf. I have had an artist paint his version of Michelangelo to give me strength. And a poet made a bookmark of sweet grass meant to heal. And I have had deep friends pull crystals from the earth and wash them for me to carry as protection. And yet another has given us a petal from the Philippines which appeared in a miracle in 1948. And old friends in New Hampshire have designed a cancer-free diet, which they are assuming with us. And my brother is insisting that I exercise and consume vast quantities of vitamin C. And a kind woman who has loved us from afar enrolled us both in the daily prayers of yet another religious order in Massachusetts. And a sweet friend who does not believe in God sits with me in silence when I have nothing left to say. And still another dear soul is praying to her dead mother and to Thomas Merton that we be healed. And I even talk to Grandma sometimes or visualize my cells repairing as I sit in her golden chairs.

Just so. I am blessed that all these efforts carry me. For each is indispensable. Just so. I need Catholic, Jew, Mystic, Sweet Grass, Sufi, Herbs, Crystal, Dead Mother, Dead Grandmother, Dead Monk, and Golden Chairs to heal.