I am very much alive and mostly well, and as far as these things go, I have been on the receiving end of all sorts of good news. The nodules that appeared in a December CT scan of my lungs disappeared by a February follow-up, and I had a successful and clean colonoscopy. My oncologist fired me on March 11, citing the lack of any need for an oncologist, and I officially lost my status as a cancer patient. Shortly after that, as I waited for the other shoe to fall (figuratively speaking), I walked into my closet and one of my favorite shoes — a blue suede ankle strap — fell onto my head (literally speaking).

As happy as all of these events have been, I have found it difficult to think. Don’t get me wrong: I successfully work, drive a car, make impulse purchases, get 38% of the Jeopardy! questions right, and complete the Wednesday New York Times crossword puzzle in pen — just like before. But I sort of reached a conclusion that perhaps the unexamined life was worth living, at least for the moment, and once I started down that path, it was bye-bye blog. I began to berate myself, and then I remembered my surgeon’s advice: Avoid heavy lifting for a while. I followed her counsel when it applied to my body, gingerly lifting five pound dumbbells in the weeks following surgery, and it got me through. Flush with that success, I decided to apply the advice to my mind.

When one historically thinks too much, where does one go when thinking is not the answer? On Valentine’s Day, I signed myself up for a class that violates everything I hold dear: Hot Pilates. What type of sick mind corrupts Pilates with 95 degree heat? Years ago, I made it through a single hot yoga session with a solemn vow never to do that again, and when I read someone else’s assessment of that type of class — if someone breaks wind, we’re all dead — I felt positively vindicated. But now, my sick mind drags my battered body to Hot Pilates three days a week, and practically delirious from the oppressive heat, I leave happy. On March 26, when I found myself for the first time since surgery holding a full plank, and then full side planks on each side, I started crying. Thanks to the pouring sweat, no one could tell.

I have also spent a lot of time making things. I am knitting an oversized fucshia sweater that I fear will be too small:

And a shawl made from yarn that I purchased in Bozeman, Montana, in a colorway named Bozeman:

And a wool hat for my daughter, who faces cold nights even in April sleeping outside in her conservation job:

I have been sewing, including this dress that I made for wedding where Chris and I danced all night, the skirt twirling pleasingly around me:

The garden is being overhauled:

And for Lent, I decided to paint each of the 40 days, which really turned out to be painting more often than not. (I know, I know. The good Lord and I will have to sort it out.) I have painted two things I really like, an abstract of a view from a boat ride a few years ago:

And this almost completed commemoration of the rarest of all rarities, a grocery store orchid that rebloomed on the study’s windowsill in my negligent care:

I do all of these things, and I go to bed tired every night, and I wonder when I will return to the old me. It has finally begun to dawn on me that I will not. The old me is a ship that has sailed.

I talked to my daughter last night. She had a few days off from her conservation job in Arizona and loaded into her Mini Cooper with a couple of friends and drove to San Diego. These days I cannot even imagine the delicious freedom of being 20 years old, with meager needs and wants, on a road trip to a beautiful city with perfect weather while in possession of an indulgent parent’s Visa card to defray the cost of $5 a gallon gas. She tells me she is doing these things, and while I worry about her, I tell her to go. She, in turn, appreciates how supportive I am. How can I not be? Children are the gangsters of love. So I face a Hobson’s Choice: either wish her well and marvel in her independence, or discourage her and wonder why she resents me. I am comfortable in my roles as the financier of this expedition and as her #1 fan, hopeful that it will lead to her adult life either near me (unlikely) or near a major, easily accessible airport (slightly more likely).

My reward is that she calls. In last night’s dispatch from the front, she told me that she had had so many good memories lately that she worried she was losing the old memories — of Montana, of home, of summer camp, of childhood. It is a wonderful problem to have, this overload of happiness, and although she does not know it, she will not lose all of the old memories: Some will filter through the cracks, some will be insistent, some will await years to rediscover. There will be a song, a person, a smell, a situation that will open the vault, and she will have to deal with what she remembers. I am thankful for her for the good.

While I am not officially thinking yet, not now, I hope to remember this time by its artifacts. I can point to the scars on my belly. But I will be able to point to a too-small sweater, a shawl, a hat, a few paintings, a garden, a dress. While the rest is there (and not going anywhere), these are the things I want to remember about myself from this long winter: the color, the motion, the industry, the joy.

ALC