The other day I went to Hyde Park and I wondered threw its endless weaving paths. I had a bag of stale bread and I was heading for the octagon by Kensington palace. Before I reached my destination I took a short cut across the green and I came across what I call a moaning tree. I chuckled at its expression and tried to imagine if this old tree could talk what stories would it reveal, maybe the odd romance amongst royal staff with an affair or two.
This tree stood out from all the rest and seemed to have a personality despite the damage it has received through the years, but the damage has given the tree the character I see and I walk around the tree asking myself, why is life so focused hard on perfection? That maybe my past arrogance is being rewarded with the scars that are hidden from view.
I have tried to avoid the pink confetti of breast cancer month this year, but no matter where I go the reminder is there. I mean Kylie Minogue received an honorary degree this month and to be honest I was annoyed at the commotion she received. It had been perfectly timed for breast cancer awareness month. Kylie is a celebrity with a PR team supporting and advising her on every move, but to me there are plenty women out there who deserve the same recognition. The women I speak of do not have the luxury of advisors. They sit at a computer night after night sifting through information and sharing it out as best they can. Their tireless efforts are rewarded with a thank you not a piece of paper with a title.
Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer I actually was not aware of the bureaucracy that surrounded October. Each year post diagnosis the only day that was of importance was the 31st due to the work I was involved with. Yes I did my bit and bought the badges or slipped the odd pound into a collection box, but I personally was ignorant to breast cancer and its red tape. We give small tokens hoping in some way that ignorance will be a blessing and cancer will not darken our door. So two years on from diagnosis, and my perception of breast cancer has changed, but is it for the better?
My frustration of the conveyor belt I am on is only an echo of what others feel. I am trying to make sense of memories past that are now starting to fade. Yet the daunting shadow does not fade like the scars that remain. I feel my concerns are not solely expressed by me alone either. Many past conversations I have had have left questions unanswered. The only issue I have with my moaning tree is if that moaning tree grows amongst other trees that don’t bare the scars it can be easily hidden away.