Who are you when you stop doing? Leaving the shelter of a healthy physical body for one threatened by multiple myeloma led me to stop doing. Then I found myself doing different things—medical appointments, hospitals, and treatments. Stepping back from “doing” into “being” helped me heal.

Quiet and private surroundings seemed to compensate for the uncertainty of my disease. There are no problems or illness in the stillness of the present moment of now—until movement of body and mind allows pain to arise.

I am in the process of packing and moving. Along with illness, death, and job loss, leaving one home for another is regarded as one of life’s most stress-filled events. Home is our protection and refuge from the harshness of the world—our stage for self-expression. Any alteration in this core of comfort shakes our sense of wellbeing.

Once we integrate the reality of diagnosis and attempt to get well, the days of recovery after that can be a surprising challenge. Once I left the critical zone and drifted further away from serious illness into the terrain of daily life, I gradually returned to the world of doing. The good fortune of remission has invited me to move beyond surviving to thriving by leaping out of my comfort zone.

Moving is a perfect metaphor for the process of change and the experience of living with myeloma.

I read somewhere that zest for life is integral to healing. For me, this involves a balance between doing and being. Trading some of my daily calm for more engaged living offers new directions.

Moving to a new living space is a labor-intensive task that requires mindfulness not to strain myself too much. “Be careful,” I tell myself. I am reminded that myeloma has given me an annoying sense of fragility. For fifty years, I never thought much about my bones—out of sight, out of mind. Now, I wonder about them every day.

The poet, Mary Oliver, posed an inquiry to the human condition. “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” My strategy for wellness has been to steer away from big dreams and plans—the few moments or hours ahead seem to offer plenty of a plan. Still, the beauty of the poet’s expansive idea stirs pondering.

I have many bags and boxes to move from here to there. Rearranging my place in the world inspires new ways of being. As I shopped for a shower curtain the other day, I walked by a box of sparkling hula hoops—one of my favorite summertime childhood toys. I actually stopped to look over the color choices. I have no young children in my life, but the hoop image lingers in my mind like a fragrant flower.

I plan to return to the store to purchase a silver hoop, and I will try to make it spin around my waist.

That is my plan for now.