6–9 minutes

Yoga Through Cancer: A Sacred Return to Self – A companion series by Leora
Reflections released in rhythm with recovery

The following piece, “The dharma of survival” was written over time, journaled in notebooks, written on scapes of paper during the thick of chemotherapy, when my body ached, my mind quieted, and survival became a sacred yet very human vocation.

I chose to go through treatment alone.
I took myself to each chemo session, walked myself into the chemo lounge, and sat quietly alone, with the drip of toxic, yet essential medicine (a dharma warrior) entering my veins, without a friend or family member.
Not because I had no one to call, but because I knew I needed to be with myself.
To hear the quiet.
To feel what was happening.
To write, reflect, and daydream my way through it.

It was during those hours, often with music in my ears, and a mystified gaze at the world around me, that I began to write.

While siting in the “chemo lounge” I began to see my body as a battlefield, my spirit as the steady ground beneath it all, and faith as both warrior and witness… not to escape, but to frame what I was living through.

I began to think of Arjuna, standing on the edge of the field in the Bhagavad Gita. I thought of the Camino, and the long pilgrim road I once walked. I thought of dragons, of faith, of the quiet power of sentinels, those who guard and watch without being seen.

These stories gave shape to the wordless places inside me.

It is not a heroic tale, but a record of staying in a privileged moment. Of breathing through bone deep exhaustion. Of creating and surrendering to the smallest rituals..naps, warm baths, the scent of lavender and roses, whispered prayers, as if they were lifelines.

The dharma of survival is not about a transcendent experience. It’s about choosing to stay in the experience of cancer. To be real. To be alive. To see the beauty in the otherwise ugly and uncomfortable.

I offer this piece as part of the Yoga Through Cancer: A Sacred Return to Self ~ A Companion Series

And if it meets you where you are, perhaps the questions below will invite your own reflections.

The dharma of survival

~ By Leora

I do not claim to be a warrior,
nor a goddess…
not today.

Today, the warriors, the knights and the sentinels are smaller than myth.
Divinity beyond my understanding.

They are on the wings of whispered prayers and love of friends and family,
They are the chemo drugs running through my blood…
warriors tasked with the brutal kindness
of killing what needs to go – cancer

I do not command them, these warriors, knights or sentinels.
I don’t even fully comprehend them.
But I receive them…
not always willingly.
There is fear. There is resistance.
Yet still, they come,
these warriors of love, science and the Sacred,

warriors of healing and destruction,
destroying and rebuilding,

The fight is not always mine to lead.
My dharma, for now,
is to simply be.
To endure the battleground
where breath continues,
even in the discomfort.

The battleground is here,
in the body that aches
and the mind that wiggles.
But beneath them both,
my spirit is the ground that I do not lose.
It is the part of me that does not flinch
the solid place within,
where knowledge and grace gather like star dust on cosmic wind
Not untouched, but unwavering.
It steadies me when all else quakes.

I honor the medicine
and the mystery.
The trained hands of nurses,
and the unseen hands of grace
both are present.
both are real.

Perhaps Divinity is not the warrior at all,
but the Sentinel
the watchful presence at the periphery of knowing.
Not here to intervene,
but to witness.

I am not above the pain
physical, mental, emotional.
I’m not pretending to transcend any of it… I cannot.
I am walking with it,
one fragile, faithful step at a time.

This is not blind faith.
It is a battered, questioning, weeping faith
faith with scars and doubts,
like a pilgrim’s knight in worn armor,
no longer in need of certainty.
It is faith…
Still walking.
Still unsure.
Still rising.

Faith,
both warrior and sentinel
rising in the dark,
staying when nothing makes sense,
its only dharma is to remain steady.

Somewhere inside this body,
something quiet and fierce is at work.
Not in the name of conquest,
but in it’s devotion to life
not just my life
but in the depth of the body’s own ecology is its own sacred will to live,

this quiet and fierce something is too
in the care of those helping it along the way
the doctors, the nurses, the counselors,
and the friends and family who check in,
who stay close even when I seem so far.

They send warmth in small ways
a call, a message,
a shared laugh or memory.
Present, even when I pull back to rest

This, too, is part of my healing
learning to receive care,
to say no when I need to,
to step away without guilt,
to protect my quiet.

Even the little rituals of care
are sacred warriors in disguise
tethering me to the world
when I just want to drift on by.

Their dharma, these little rituals, are not for glory.
It is a gentleness.
A warm bath.
The familiar scent of lavender.
The distant whisper of my name

They do not storm the gates.
They wait by the threshold
Knights in soft clothes,
arms open,
eyes kind, warm with smile.

Their dharma is care without display or ego
to keep my soul from unraveling
in the quiet hours of the night,
when only the Sentinels are keeping watch.

They are the white blood cells, the body’s resilience rising again after being knocked down… each one, an ancient force of resilience, coiled like a dragon, waiting to rise

And somewhere beneath the burn of treatment,
something new begins
a rising from the ash.
The slow, searing rebirth
of a body’s Sacred return

My dharma is not grandeur
it’s breakfast and hydration when I’d rather sleep,
it’s calling my own name
when I feel like forgetting who I am

It’s the unsettled cry of sharing when I’ve been pained.
It’s the humility of saying no..”stop”!
” I cannot right now “,
even if it risks hurting someone I love.

It’s the small but essential ritual of rest
the beauty of naps,
letting the body surrender
so the soul can remember its weightlessness.

In the end,
it may not be the battle that saves me…
but the Sentinel
who is ever watching.

Reflective Journal Invitation

Take a breath. Let your body soften.

These questions are not for solving, but for listening. Let them meet you wherever you are in your own story:

What have been the quiet warriors in your life…the ones that showed up not with noise, but with presence?
When have you needed to pull back in order to heal? What did it feel like to protect your quiet?
Is there a part of you right now that is waiting, coiled like a dragon?
What does faith mean to you in this season? Is it fierce? Fragile? Faithful in its stillness?
What small rituals have tethered you to the world when you were drifting?

And perhaps this, too

Think of a story that’s lived inside you for years, a myth, a poem, a sacred text, a fable, a memory.
Place yourself gently within it.
What happens when you place your body into the landscape of that story?
What healing is revealed when you walk through it, not as an observer, but as the one inside the tale?

Write slowly. You don’t need to finish. Just begin.