The Art of Mel-being: a cancer retreat in France

Yoga, vegan feasts, massage, friendship, laughter, nature

July 2022: 15 months after surgery, chemotherapy and radiotherapy, I am in southwest France on a retreat with seven other souls who have, have had or have been affected by cancer. Cancer kin. We are here to begin to restore, to land back in our changed bodies, to revitalise our fragile selves. To slowly reactivate our energy (our chi), our identities after shock and fear. We feel privileged to be here, to be cared for, to be together.

We are in a chateau built between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, surrounded by sunflower fields. No traffic, no noise or light pollution. The conductors of the alchemy that takes place here, Angela and DK; two wise, holistically wired humans. We are in good hands.

Marco expertly prepares macrobiotic, vegan food with love and care. A creative curation: platters of grains, fermented vegetables, pulses that have slept overnight in juice, oils, gentle spices and woken to be transformed into healing, nourishing feasts. We learn that what we feed our blood, our cells, ourselves helps our immunity, our cellular well-being. Our emotional well-being. We meet the meatless menus with enthusiasm and gratitude. Chi without cheese.

We wake up to zen meditation in the yoga barn. A breakfast of miso soup (miso happy) and brown rice porridge with seeds, apples stewed gently with cinnamon, chubby raisins soaked in water. Vegetables are bathed, massaged and sometimes pressed by the chef with the attention of a lover. Soft dhosas stuffed with spiced sweet potato, tofu tarts, pancakes of carob, buckwheat and spelt. Sometimes a sugar free strawberry tart or chocolate pot that we ooh and ahh over. All is soft, nourishing, balanced, personalised. A far cry from the harsh metallic edges, the nausea, the spiked cortisol and heart rate, the depersonalisation that many of us feel after what writer and artist Suleika Jaouad calls ‘incanceration’.

On a stroll we spot a lone sunflower in a field of not yet blossomed plants. I am reminded of the cold loneliness of diagnosis and treatment. Here, we unite; speak the same thoughts, think the same words. We need to share our stories. After all, one in two of us will be diagnosed with cancer in our lifetimes. We are not alone.

On this, my first visit, I feel vulnerable. I am wearing my invisible, weighty cancer cloak. Yet my skin is onion skin thin. I have unconsciously kept my distress locked away in an unreachable fairy tale tower surrounded by dense brambles. Slowly, the experienced, oh so kind team are reaching up to the cloaked version of myself. It’s a long way down to earth. They smile up; ‘You don’t need to talk but know that we are here. We got you. You are safe’.

We are offered body treatments, shiatsu and Thai yoga massage, reflexology to help us reconnect with our bodies. Tables, beds, trolleys for us have meant the bee sting of a needle; a swaying bag of noxious, acid yellow chemicals to enter our blood stream; a need to detach from our bodies to endure the invasive procedure, the prodding, the poking. Change is a-coming.

During a massage on my second visit, in 2023, there is a body-shaking shift. Without a conscious choice, nerves awaken, my body sighs and surrenders. As my left arm is stretched safely and with careful purpose over to the right side of my body to touch the ground, my cloak slips away. Ria’s kindness, her wordless insight into the dark matter within, releases a wave of trust. My body. This woman that I trust. Together we reach the shore. Tears drip down my face. She hugs me. I am unfurled. Untangled. 

In daily yoga, our wonderful bodies are all shapes, sizes, ages; at varying stages of recovery, of health. We have hidden wounds, limitations and are carefully led to poses that harmonise with each of us. We lean in and out. We reach up to the heavens, down to earth. We balance, wobble, laugh; we are downward dogs, cosmic eggs, happy babies. We learn to observe and explore our breath. Its potency. How it opens us and connects us to ourselves and each other. And now, in July 2024, we chant too. New for many of us. Barbara calls, we respond. My body sways to this collective hallowed sound. I sob as it ends. My heart is both broken and mended. Many of us have tears. To be held in this unifying chorus, to feel the profound beauty and pain. To sing ensemble after the isolation of cancer. To sing! To sing! We are lifted, united, soothed. Our nervous systems shift down from red alert to amber; down, down to the lush greens that surround us. 

I will never be the same me. I am forever changed. Learning to accept this, to live in the new version of me is sticky, vital work. But, as songwriter Ella Clayton writes; ‘I am on my way back to me’. 

This place contains magic within its stone walls for it has witnessed wars, famines, plagues, disasters national and domestic. Marriages, unions, births, deaths. We are merely passing through. We are safe and equally we are temporary visitors on Earth and this is of comfort. The gardens offer up angelica, alliums, artichokes, acanthus in various life stages; some reach two metres, some decaying and yet beautiful. Just like us. We are insignificant. We are essential. We are in ecstasy. We are in pain. We are here. It is brief. Make it wonderful.

I got my arms, I got my hands

I got my fingers, got my legs

I got my feet, I got my toes

I got my liver, got my blood

Got life, I got my life

Nina Simone 1968

About lung cancer

Anyone can develop lung cancer. Men and women, young and old, smokers and non-smokers. Be aware of lung cancer signs and symptoms. It is the most common cause of cancer death for men and women.

An early lung cancer diagnosis can make a big difference.

Find links to useful websites on my About page.