Now. That is Freedom.

 One time, my therapist asked me . . . 

(I am wondering how many blog entries I could begin with this line!)

Anyway, she asked, "and Katie, can you expect that you made the perfect decision at every turn in your life?" 

(Just to provide some context, I had recently been diagnosed with cancer and was going over my life like a movie critic, looking for all of the possible bad choices that I had made. In other words, I was suffering.) 

It was such a great question for me at the time. It dd that thing where it allowed me to face myself as a human being. It gave me some perspective and also showed me more clearly how I was being so hard on myself. And that that was not sustainable for me to survive nonetheless thrive.

Well, a little over four years have passed since this question was posed in that ample space that I shared with my therapist. I live in a different place now but the cool thing about having a great therapist (or teacher of any kind) is that, even if you don't share physical space with them anymore, their questions continue; their lessons unending. 

And it was in the glow of early morning yesterday; with coffee piping hot and the promise of daylight certain that the question re-emerged, seemingly out of the thin air surrounding me and I wrote . . . 

What if I just loved all of the aspects of my life? . . .This pen that I hold. This hair that I have. The woodpecker pecking away in the early morning light.

What if everyone who entered my life was an absolute gift? No questions asked. And every single interaction a deliberate part of my path? 

What if every decision that I have ever made was perfect? Even more, what if I was completely in love with every decision that I have ever made? And I am talking every . . .

I went on to wax poetic about not only dropping story lines, but loving the story lines before the dropping; about ambition and moving beyond it into true action and purpose and on and on. 

I write every day, but some days the content of my writing sticks with me more than others and this was the case yesterday. A certain freedom held hands with this radical questioning that was prompted by my therapist some years ago, but that ultimately had to come from myself. 

I was in my daughters' bedroom last night; two out of three were in there and I just spoke this message out to them. It was my eight year old who went, "huh, yea." These two sounds matched with an intent facial expression showed me that she got this. I laid back on her pillow and said, "Now. That is freedom." She seemingly got that too. And she snuggled in. 

To match this message, a quote came to mind that we used to joke about at Kripalu during my 200 hour training. The legend was that when it was an ashram, there was a huge banner in the entranceway that read, "Everything is Already Ok." 

Since then there have been moments when I want to shout, "I don't get it!" Or, as my husband once said, "everything is already ok . . .sort of." 

But today, I would like to hang that banner in my hallway. And share a laugh with my daughters.

Thought-Feeling

 Roll with me here. This is completely unedited. Basically: mind to paper with nothing in between. 

Yesterday, I responded to a text. 

(I am laughing outloud thinking about the topic of a workshop; something like, "spiritual growth through texting.") 

The response was sarcastic in my book. Not "typical" for me. 

Historically, I can really obsess about these kinds of things. Am I alone in this? 

But somewhere in between sending the text and wiping down the kitchen counters, I had this thought/feeling (you know, one of those things that you can't fit so neatly into either category?) It was something like this, yes, you said that. That was then. And here we are now. We are constantly changing.

This thought/feeling (which certainly didn't require so many words as above) brought with it the refreshing air of self-forgiveness. 

These moments when I am just an ounce more out of my head and in my body, even if that means wiping down the counters, often leads to a greater sense of understanding for me. in other words, I feel as though I extend beyond a rational or intellectual understanding and this feels, well, more whole.

Now, I am not saying that I love the sarcastic comment that I wrote. But somehow it is less personal and more fluid. Somehow I love myself just an inch more by seeing that I can be lots of things; that I too am constantly changing and growing and that perfection is by no means my middle name. 

The Day After

 Last night I cleaned like a machine. Nothing could stand in my path; not toys or people or even thoughts. It was reminiscent of the hours just before I went into labor with Blair; I don't think my living space has been that clean since. 

It is not lost on me that yesterday was Inauguration Day. You see, this interesting thing has been happening to me lately. It happened the day after Biden was elected. It happened the day after I had my first dose of the Covid-19 vaccine. Perhaps my cleaning last night was a coping mechanism, my mind noticing the pattern and saying, "hmmm, let's do something about this." 

I was so confused when I felt challenged and sad the day after Biden was elected. "What is going on, love? Why so blue? Biden just became President!" Of course, these "second arrows" as I have intimately come to know them did not help matters. When I was evenutally able to walk out into the sunlight of my experience, I realized: well, you/we have all been through a lot; you/we have been holding it together and now the promise of something different is almost too much to take in; this transition itself a goal post that also sheds light on our collective trauma. 

So when I went to get my vaccine last weekend I was curious if the same sort of thing would happen. Sure enough, I felt "graspy" the next day as much as I tried to shift my mind to gratitude. Coupled with this graspiness was a sort of empty quality; not necessarily good or bad . . . but perhaps a little scary. I noticed the second arrows more quickly this time, "I know what you are going to say, mind, why aren't you just grateful for the vaccine?" 

Because I noticed these glimmers before they became full blown thoughts, I was able to let them pass by with greater ease. I was able to be with my ironic down-ness and perhaps I was even able to relax into for a moment while I looked out my kitchen window. With hand-to-heart, I knew this: I was getting vaccinated not just for myself but for the health of the whole world from a disease that has caused suffering on every touchpoint on the spectrum of our current human existence. 

So last night I literally cleared space for myself after the inauguration of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. Through cleaning I also got into my body and out of my mind, although when the tears presented themselves I did indeed allow them to roll. 

Thousands of Stories

 I sat,

I did,

On the 

glacial rock

Scattered with 

Green lichen

The water

Three feet 

Down reflecting,

It did, 

The already

Blue morning

Sky scattered

With pillowy

Clouds of

White, cut, 

And this

I Know

For sure,  

By a 

Duck’s wake-

An acute 

Angle - as

My eyes

Capture the

Flight, I 

Swear, of 

A heron - 

Oh so 

Regal in 

Her wingspan!

The sound 

Of her 

Body moving 

Through the 

July air

Reminding me - 

Drop the 

Thousands of 

Stories. Smile, 

And be 

Right here.

Wings of Freedom

There you are, 

Sweet child, 

Drinking your morning

Coffee. Cream no

Sugar, you used 

The same mug

Every morning

(Except for those

Mornings you met

Your friends at

The shop - I

Can see you - 

Your broad shoulders

Caving in

Towards the center

Of things not

Unlike my shoulders

While I weep - 

Laughing. God knows

I know there 

Is nothing 

Like sharing coffee

With friends, those 

White paper cups

Flags of freedom;

I can see

The shop owner, 

Too greeting

 

You with those 

Big eyes that 

You did not

Shy away from

Because you knew

Truth when you 

Saw it - 

And you knew

Why the coffee 

Tasted better under 

The awnings of 

The shop - like 

Wings of

freedom.)

And let go

This topic - this experience of letting go - is every changing.

A few nights ago, I was legit playing with Blair.  To be completely frank, this doesn't happen all too often because I end up feeling as though I have been taken hostage by a four year old and will never return to the adult land of dishes and laundry.  And this provokes fear.  But on this night I could not say no when Blair said, "Mommy, will you play jungle with me?"  To my surprise, jungle involved me laying on a carefully laid out "bridge" of pillows and blankets which was both a surprise and a delight.  I secretly pretended I was in a restorative yoga class while Blair collected items from the jungle.  She told me to stay put.  Soon, however, we moved on to the desk and were now playing, "desk."  I was instructed to sit on a meditation cushion as close to her as possible.  Again, I obliged jumping on the opportunity to catch a little meditation action.  And there they were!  Worry thoughts sky-rocketing through my brain...."why does Blair always have cell phones in her play?...where is she learning this?...she is actually pausing her play to respond to a "text"...what is the world going to be like when she is an adult?  who will she become?  what have I don't wrong?  and what are we going to do about global warming? . . . " (the latter is currently attached to every worry thought that I have.  You?)

With my meditation cushion as support, I noticed all of these thoughts and I wondered if I could just let them go.  Each thought.  Notice it.  Let it go.  Each worry.  See you.  Float away.  I, in fact, became a bit lighter.  I was able to carry on with my play and continue this as a practice long after "jungle" and "desk."

Sometimes letting go can be misinterpreted in my own mind as not caring.  Like I don't care about cell phone usage with kids or what Blair will be when she grows up (this one, I might actually not care about, I just want her to feel fulfilled and alive).  And so I believe that it is exactly the touching in to the thought/worry/feeling that is vital.  The noticing.  Letting go cannot happen without the noticing.

I was reminded of a quote from Gandhi that has to do with right action and moving on.  In other words, do the next right thing.  And don't get too caught up in the fruit of your actions.  I brought this to my yoga students this morning.  As we practiced, I encouraged them to pause after effort had been put forth.  To rest in the body.  And let go.

Just The Right Speed

It is as vivid as ever: walking down O Street in Washington DC with my first born baby.  She was probably about six months old and it was a beautiful fall day. I was hot from the long walk with the stroller and had paused for a moment to gear up to carry my daughter, her carseat, the stroller, some groceries and myself up three flights of steep stairs.  I wouldn’t say I was happy or sad; but tiredness was a given. A soft and generous man, probably about twice my age, strolled by with his bouncy five year old granddaughter. He stopped at the foot of my stairs, gazing adoringly at my daughter.

“It goes by so fast,” he said, looking me in the eyes.  “Enjoy it while you can.”

I got hotter.  This phrase, so frequently doled out to new parents, had begun to nearly make my blood boil.  

“So I have heard,” I retorted and went on with the work directly in front of me but now with slightly less energy and a nagging question, “am I not enjoying this ENOUGH?”

Now this daughter is seven and I have two more, five and three and this statement has nagged me through it all.  I have rolled this statement around in my head, felt agitated by it numerous times, wondered why it agitates me so, and discussed it undoubtedly at nauseum with my husband and friend.  

A response arrived completely out of the blue the other evening as I lay in the darkness just before sleep, “we are all growing and changing at just the right speed.”  I felt so delighted as I basked in the warmth of this perspective shift and I imagined all of my children, “growing at just the right speed.”  

I saw my three year old cuddling into the crook of my neck alongside having hot-blooded tantrums; 

my five year old learning to blow bubbles with her gum alongside testing the waters of the difference between joking and lying; 

my seven year old still needing hugs while simultaneously pushing me aside in front of peers.

There are such joys and challenges at every stage that it would be quite miserable to stay in any one stage forever. The change might be hard, but it is what makes us human and the growth is a strong symbol of our aliveness.

So, to all of the people who ever said to me, “it goes by so fast,” I thank you because you have led me to this new perspective of, “right on time.”  And I vow on my knees that the only thing I will say to new parents is this, “it is all happening at just the right speed.”

The Barn

The barn,

     although young, 

sloped into herself.  

Where most barns

    crumble in straight 

lines, she softened 

    in curves.  

And although the fall 

     undoubtedly occurred in 

an instant, 

the appearance was such 

    that it had happened 

over many years of

    gently letting go.  

Certainly she didn't look like barns should.  

But her beauty 

    would make any 

warm body weep

   and draw them into 

The tender earth surrounding her.  

Tender Angles

The snow
             flake, so
                       soft, melts
                                      right through

The misplaced
              skin where
                           there used
                                        to be
                                              a breast

"Easier access
                   to the
                         heart," she
                                        says, floating

inward to
             the beating
                           and with
                                   first contact
                                                  expands, wrapping

Her angles
               around the
                             tenderness becoming
                                                              one
                                                                   with her.

The Most Daringest Thing

Is looking straight
into your eyes
the daringest thing
I have ever
done?

Perhaps.
Yes.

Because not turning
away from your eyes
roots courage and
now I look
into my own
eyes.

And I don't
turn away from
these soul windows.
Which is precisely
the same daringest
thing.

Perhaps.
Yes.

Prayer Leaves

The leaves
fall like
prayers, filling
my spiritual
inbox with

messages from
my teachers

and as
the rusted
yellow and
burnt red
soften into
the grassy

fingers of
the earth

my heart
expands into
the soil
of my
own body

with a
knowing gratitude
that is
the surest
and gentlest
confidence I

have yet
to know.

Your Voice

I scrinch my eyes and try to will your voice into my consciousness.
 - - -
But all that comes up is my own.
- - -
I could be sad.
And at times I have been.
Desperate, really.
- - -
And then gratitude
enters my head through way of my heart
and it surely wins.

I Look

I Look

I
Look
For
You

Every

Where

But
Then
Realize
The

You

I 

Am 

Searching
For
Is
In

Every

One

On A Tuesday

On Tuesday, yes, Tuesday, I will drive myself to Rhinebeck, New York.  I will enter into a new building - a retreat center.  I will meet strangers and I will sing with them; chant with them.  For the whole day.  This will be prayer and joy and space and connection.  I will listen to and join beloved voices: Krishna Das and Nina Rao; individuals who have given the greater part of their lives to devotion through song.

Last year, undoubtedly around this very same day, I went to a yoga class.  I don't think I had been in some time, it being summer.  During this particular yoga class, a voice came into my being.  A voice of compassion and unwavering love.  I was shocked by this and my ego was full of doubtful protest: "no way.  This is made up.  Listen to ME!"  

But the voice persisted and she said things like,

"I have been here all along and I will always be here.
No matter what.
I love being with you;
I have always loved being with you..."

I kid you not, in this very same class, while I was in shavasana my right hand moved over my left breast and I felt something that did not feel right.  My knowing body went into a different kind of shock - that of deep fear.  I cried then.  And I called the doctor the very next morning with a shaking hand.

In the weeks that followed, I recall a crisis of my mind/body.  The only things that could calm me were laying on the earth, doing a walking meditation where I would count 1-10 and then backwards 1-10, or washing the dishes.  And in the cracks between fear, there was just enough space for that sweet yet strong voice to emerge again.  Over the next nine months or so, I would both intentionally and unintentionally create space for this voice which required work and trust and patience and forgiveness for forgetting that she was there.  Always.  No matter what.  As she kept telling me.

I have read and could write many cliche things about this voice, but rather I will just stick with this: s/he is in all of us.  I know this for sure.  And we must make space for her in whatever way works for us.

And, sometimes, we must honor her; we must bow down to her.  For me, I will do this through singing to her and with her for a day.  And by singing to her, I will also be singing to the voice within every single one of us.  

Which is what I plan to do on Tuesday.

Soft As Water

Soft As Water

Dear One,

One day
you will
sit in
a storm

and the
waves will
crash over
you, one

by one,
and you
will watch
each wave

come and
go - some
fierce, some
gentle - and

although you
are a
rock, you

will also
be soft
as water.

My 42nd Year

I have never done this before but as my 42nd birthday approached I started coming up with a mental list of what had transpired.  This year seemed like a solid one to reflect back on the lessons and doings, big and small.  So, here I go...

NOTE: this list is certainly not exhaustive, linear nor do they imply that I have "mastered" such skills or insights; for many of them, it is just the beginning!

My 42nd year, I...

*  started wearing rubber gloves to wash the dishes.

*  practiced and practiced and practiced and practice . . . listening to my own heart.

*  began drinking shots of 100% cranberry juice.

*  had my left breast removed.  And, day by day, got/get closer to my heart (but you don't have to have a breast removed to get closer to your heart . . . its just how I have had to flip it for myself.)

*  had many bonfires in the Fall and, in connection with the previous star, had a spontaneous bonfire ceremony honoring my left breast the night before my mastectomy surgery.

*  sat (literally) with my girls more than ever.

*  found my voice in an unexpected way through sharing my journey with breast cancer via video messages on FaceBook.

*  got the shortest haircut of my life.

*  took seriously the job of opening my heart (on my yoga mat) so that I could receive all of the goodness that was coming my way.

*  heard from friends from all different stages of my life and from years ago and was so deeply touched and dare I say transformed by people's goodness and generosity.

*  cried in public settings more than ever and was so ok with it; in fact, I invited it in.  One day I said to Matt, "I may just cry the whole day."  And I pretty much did.

*  hiked a mountain in the winter.

*  took an exorbitant amount of medication and laughed at times when I would work to convince myself that I was just going through a really hardcore detox.

*  threw three birthday parties for my three girls: a 2nd birthday, a 4th and a 7th (a little early.)

*  found a prayer that really suites me: "om mani padme hum."  (the jewel of the heart of the lotus.)  And, although I probably sat less, prayed more than ever in unexpected places like on various medical scanning devices or radiation beds or my very own bed.

*  allowed myself to experience the raw emotion of anger.  And noticed how very close it lives to sadness.

*  let my husband put my kids to bed most nights for four months or maybe more.  And do the dishes after.  With a grateful (and tired) heart.

*  weaned my third daughter in a way that I never expected.  God, was she gracious.

*  wore my pajamas during the day (this was harder than it sounds.)

*  brought on tears in other people just by my sheer presence.

*  read one beautiful novel.

*  put my barefeet in the earth (and laid down on the earth) more than ever before.  In fact, I felt a slight panic come on in anticipation of the first snow.

*  watched a couple of movies during the day (once I accepted the pajamas thing.)

*  experienced feeling alone and was also aware that this is undoubtedly and ironically the most common of human sufferings.

*  created huge hearts in the snow and traced them while praying when my dear friend tragically lost her husband.  It was all I knew how to do.

*  became an aunt three times over.  And each time a well of joy and hope for new life.

* began learning that the capacity to give love and to receive love has absolutely nothing to do with being perfect.

*  said thank you and meant it probably more than ever in my life.

*  made snow angels.

*  had days when the only thing that would get me out of bed was the promise and purpose of a walk in the snow.

*  let my family and friends take care of me and experienced the power of a strong support system (including my own practice of yoga and meditation and a darn good therapist.)

*  Missed most of my girls' school events.  And cried when I realized that I could go to my youngest daughter's pizza party at her school without fearing germs.

*  got better at noticing the mental "pits" that can lead to great suffering (any thought that may begin with..."I should have...: if only I had . . . ; maybe it was the . . .")

*  planned a cross-country road trip in my mind.

*  began understanding that being with my own suffering (and delight) has the potential to widen my circle of compassion for other beings.

*  found that it is often the grandiosity of nature that can bellow, "No.  Big.  Deal."

*  started using a neti pot (albeit not religiously.)