Find Your Flow

If you had asked my twenty-one-year-old self what I would be doing in my sixties, I would not have said fly-fishing or fly-tying. I was more interested in a fashion statement than bugs and fish. Unfortunately, my fashion style now is about as ugly as it gets. Have you seen those bulky waders along with the galumphing boots and the gear that hangs off your body as a fly-fisher? Not a pretty sight.

It was volunteers who piloted me to a passion for fly-fishing and fly-tying. Unexpectedly, cancer also played a role. Just the diagnosis of cancer can be transformative. It often slaps mortality in your face like an auto accident. In my case, I was never troubled with either my diagnosis or the treatment. I found the tumor early and possessed great confidence in my doctor's capable hands.

With my breast cancer diagnosis, I was given the opportunity to participate in a fly-fishing cancer retreat. At this retreat, we learned that our prognosis comes with baggage we may not be aware of―PTSD. We were taught to cast, tie flies, catch and release, read the water, and most importantly, to find our flow when uncertainty reaches for us during three days of perfection. We learned how to remain calm when we get that feeling in our gut that the cancer has returned, or we have to step foot into the chemo area of any hospital. The smell alone can return survivors to a place of terror.

These volunteers give so much of their precious time. This gift was offered with patience, kindness, and dignity. These angels could be on the river fishing for their own catches. Instead, they were guiding us on technique, optimism, and the fullness of life with cancer. Fly-fishing is beyond a sport; it overflows into an art. When done correctly, it is as beautiful as ballet, with the river providing the music.

These angels understood that nature heals, that being with other survivors is magical. They recognized the healing power of music, and live music arrived for us at the Sit and Whittle cabin. They showed us that dance serves up happiness, so thirty women danced until exhausted with joy. We also learned how to deal with our PTSD, if and when it shows its ugly head. We returned home fully armed with the defenses needed to fight the unknown.

I learned on day one that being on the water isn't about the fish. It's about being outdoors and focusing on something other than your health. It's forgetting about the treatments you may face and the doctor's appointments on your calendar. So, we set those aside and poured ourselves into learning new skills and sharing our fears.

In a few days, I will again be in the oncologist's office facing my mortality. I have growths in odd places and had my second CT scan last week. The doctor will tell me if these nodules have grown. If they have, we may have a problem.

With the help of those angels, I am not alone. I will enter the doctor's office armed with knowledge empowered by our natural world and the peace offered as I craft flies. I know what to do. Yesterday I walked to the small lake in my neighborhood where I focused on my fly-casting, on the knots required to attach tippet to the leader and fly to the tippet. I took in the glorious day and forgot about tomorrow. The day before, I tied flies. Being new to this craft, my flies lack beauty and symmetry. I am in the process of making and naming flies for each of those beautiful volunteers who gave me this gift of distraction and wonder. I've decided my newest fly will be called Mary's Margarita after one of my angels. I study the recipe for a stimulator fly and select yellow chenille for the body, white deer fur for the tail, a feather for the fuzz, and a tiny silver bead for the head.

My favorite part of making flys is selecting the textures, colors, and names. Before I begin, I choose a name for my tiny bug. Typically searching for a humorous or spiritual name that represents one of my angels. Soon I have a few messy examples of what the bug should look like. But, just like the fish in the water, the result of my tying isn't important. It is the process, it is the creativity, it is snuggling down in my tiny office with buckets of snow outside. I get so immersed in the process that I lose track of time.

I refuse to give my cherished time to worry. Whatever happens, I will accept my reality and all that is possible within that reality. I instead look towards tomorrow and think up names and materials for bugs. I'll find a quiet space on the river, pull my hat down over my eyes and stand among the hearty pines. On the water, I see a riverbed of possibilities.

As I slip a hook in the vice, my cat is curled in the corner among the thread, beads, feathers, chenille, and my tools, including those Fiskars scissors, required of a craft that offers calm acceptance. When this is no longer enough, I will take a deep breath and find my flow.