saturn.

I recently received one of the best gifts of my life--a letter from one of my beloved professors.

Last July--before I left for China--I learned that my professor/friend was diagnosed with stage IV breast caner. This February I learned that the cancer had spread into other vital organs.

In July, I was heartbroken. In February, I was livid. In April, I received a second letter.

She talked about her daughter, her recent family visit, and our relationship. Only two letters have brought me to tears in my life: the one my father gave me before I left for college and this one:

I see people like you as my legacy not because I take any credit for your accomplishments but because you live with such integrity, something I have always tried to do and what I want for my own daughter. It's not an easy way to live, but it has its own undeniable rewards and once it becomes part of your life it can never be stripped away, not even by death.

But then, I'm not dead. I'm still alive: still writing, still enjoying clothes and music and the occasional People magazine, still getting angry and hopeful (by turns) at politics, still bickering with my husband over silly things; still brushing and flossing my teeth and eating healthy foods for no reason but that it feels good and normal to do them. And on and on and on.

After she closed her letter, she wrote a tiny note at the bottom of the page:

We recently bought a telescope--one of those things I've always wanted--and have spent the past several nights looking at Saturn. It is far away and very tiny, but otherwise looks exactly as you'd expect it to look. It's pretty amazing--I can't help but think that it's been hanging up there patiently waiting for me to finally see it. Silly, I know!

And so, on April 2nd in the middle of the teacher's cafeteria, I felt small and empowered. I felt the scale of my past twenty-two years; I felt the scale of my next twenty-three.

Although I have felt the intrinsic drive to do something good with my life, I have never fully imagined it materialized. Although I say I do not want to take things for granted, I am never fully able to appreciate every little thing.

My current fears are stimulated by the desire to find my Saturn: the tiny, but amazing thing that patiently awaits my discovery. My current desires are aroused by hope--the hope that I can learn to live simply: aware of everything around me, grateful for every little thing. My hope is inspired by integrity: my ability to know and do what is right by myself and others.

My professor gave me a great gift--her insight. The power we possess is--far too often--masked by our fears, lack of intuitiveness, and failure to live with integrity. Sometimes we simply need one person--whom we love and admire--to show us our capabilities...to conceive our goodness and believe it will transpire into something bigger than ourselves.

I still get angry and upset when I pray for my professor or think about her cancer. But, I am starting to realize that she is still alive--in more ways than most "healthy" people ever are. She still enjoys clothes, music, and her family. She still searches and finds her Saturn. She still lives with integrity and strength.

Her letter will be framed and placed next to my father's. It will serve as a constant reminder of who I am and what I wish to become. And when I'm scared, I'll remember Saturn and I'll remember Dr. Ervin.