Rituals for Inner Balance in Multiple Myeloma

As you navigate the challenges of living with multiple myeloma, have you found any daily practices or habits that help you maintain a sense of stability or peace?

When the world feels chaotic and unpredictable, rituals offer a bridge between mind and body — a way to ground yourself in something tangible and meaningful. These intentional practices, repeated with presence and awareness, become anchors that steady your breathing when anxiety rises. Each deliberate movement or sound creates a sanctuary where, for a moment, the noise of uncertainty fades and you can hear yourself again.

To quiet my mind and find my center, I turn to my Tibetan bells. I discovered them years ago while studying Feng Shui abroad, wandering through a crowded bazaar where merchants' voices competed with the sounds of the street. I tested dozens, waiting for one whose vibrations would resonate through my fingertips and into my heart. Tibetan Buddhist monks strike together these small, thick cymbals — tingshas — during their most sacred prayers and ceremonies. No larger than the palm of your hand, the bronze discs hang from either end of a leather cord, waiting to release their signature high, pure ring. The sound lingers in the air, especially from the antique pieces, cast from a mix of bronze alloys that shimmer with otherworldly harmonics long after the metal has stopped touching metal.

Now, before important moments — like last week's Zoom introduction for a major project — I strike them gently. Their clear tone ripples outward, creating a moment of perfect stillness in which I can center myself before the meeting.

The kitchen counter becomes my sanctuary. As I stand there, my thoughts become the monkey mind —family issues, emails and texts to answer, new projects. But then my hands find rhythm: the cool splash of water over vegetables, the papery crackle of garlic skin peeling away, the steady percussion of my knife against the cutting board. With each deliberate motion, my attention returns to this moment, this bowl of finely chopped ginger, crispy bok choy, and diced orange carrots. The act of preparing a meal transforms into a meditation, each ingredient handled with intention, each dish prepared not just for sustenance but as an offering for good health.

Every Saturday at 11:30 a.m., I teach a Qigong session on Zoom. This simple yet profound practice grounds me, strengthens my body, and fills me with gratitude that I can teach again after these years of debilitation from fractures in my lower spine. I still see Nancy's gentle smile as she coaxed me from my hospital bed, guiding me through those first hundred steps on the soft mat on the kitchen floor. "Left arm rises with right foot, right arm rises with the left foot," she would whisper as I felt the warm floor beneath me. Though Nancy has passed on, her spirit moves with me through each flowing motion.

Each day, I guide my daily group, the Bells of Hope, through a closing meditation — a ritual that centers us collectively. I invite everyone to visualize standing on warm sand, transforming into lighthouses with foundations deep into the earth and beams that radiate outward. "Imagine your light of compassion, wisdom, and strength beaming to yourself, your family, your friends, and our global community,” I'll say with a soft voice. We end with the ancient Sanskrit chant, “Om mani padme hum," its syllables vibrating through the room as we open ourselves and our hearts to peace and harmony.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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