Counting crows

When I was a beginner yoga student, I despised cobra pose.  While it was one of the basic positions taught every week, I mightily struggled with it for more than three years.  Ironically, arching up into cobra made me feel as though I was choking, even though my throat and neck were lengthening upward, supported by my hands, arms, shoulders, and upper back. Yet practice after practice, I became more aware of how incredibly challenging it was to lift the front of my body off of the floor and extend the pose upward through my head.

I was stuck in my throat…literally.    

Over the years, I tried every variation, every modification.  Sometimes I pushed myself to do it.  Other times I skipped it altogether.  Even now I prefer to practice sphinx, or baby cobra, instead.  It’s much more stable to prop myself on my forearms and while my neck is in neutral position, I’m still able to stretch without feeling strangled.    

Having practiced for more than twenty years, I’m not surprised at all to recognize that my neck and upper back were incredibly tight, having held on to unspoken words for almost three decades.  And it’s not really a revelation to realize that through diligently working with a host of healing modalities, my ability to speak up for myself has been transformed.   While I’ve always been able to bang the drum for the underdog or any child in my care if I knew they needed a strong support system, I’ve not always been forthright in speaking my own truth. 

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I became a writer. 

Still, for a while now I’ve been practicing honesty…with myself and with others.  Not that it’s been a cake walk.  I’ve lost friends who couldn’t understand my reasons for setting boundaries.  I’ve lost work because I was outspoken enough to ask that my business policies be respected.  Like struggling to make peace with cobra pose, I’ve often grappled with the knowledge that, for me at least, it’s a risk every time I open my mouth to say how I feel.   To be really truthful, sometimes I have to push myself to find the courage to speak.  Other times, I still keep my mouth shut out of fear.

Conversations that begin with my saying to someone, “Can we talk?” are always like Forrest Gump’s proverbial box of chocolates.  I never, ever know what I’m going to get. 

A few weeks ago I noticed several crows circling over my neighborhood.  It had been a while since I had seen more than one, and that was years ago when a brazen bird angrily chased an unsuspecting cat out of my yard.  For days, three crows flew into the tall treetops across the street and silently sat there, fluttering their wings, surveying the territory.  One Sunday afternoon, I was sitting on my porch next to a friend with whom I had recently argued.  The spat ended quickly, but because I needed time to sift out my angry emotions to get to the heart of what I was feeling, a day later I was still a bit bruised and didn’t know what to say. 

So, like the crows, I said nothing.

They nestled together, not moving an inch the entire time we sat on the porch.  As the person talked about the plans we had made earlier in the day, I listened, but I also noticed the crows and their silent, stoic posture.  Moments later, just as I was getting up to cut the grass, the crows instantly flew away.

Later that evening, I pulled Animal Speak from my bookshelf and looked up “crow”, remembering that the feisty black bird had shown up in significant moments in the past.  I read in part:  Crow’s voice is a notable characteristic which reminds us to listen for the ways creation is continually calling out to us.  Wherever crows are, there is magic, for they are symbols of creation and spiritual strength. 

The next evening my friend and I were sitting on the porch after having hashed out the better part of our disagreement.  As another round of conversation started, I noticed the three crows sitting in the treetop, but this time, they were cawing loudly…over and over again.  I don’t remember exactly what I said to my friend, but I do recall firmly saying what I needed to say, even though it was incredibly difficult.  For a long while, the cawing of the crows echoed around us as we talked past twilight, finally creating some common ground.

Oddly enough, since then I’ve not seen or heard another crow, and these days I’m counting humming birds, robins, and rabbits. 

I believe that everything in nature continually speaks to us, and if we know how to truly listen, magic can be a constant presence in our lives.  While I was jolted to discover that a group of crows is called a “murder”, it doesn’t really surprise me, for whenever they show up in my life, I know that a part of me has to die in order for another part to be born.  This time around the trio of messengers reminded me that while my truth might not always be the same as another’s, I no longer need to stay silent out of fear or apprehension...and that miracles spontaneously arise when I’m being my most authentic self. 

In the fall, I’ll be re-introducing preparatory work for the crow pose in my yoga classes.  While I’m still not able to hold it for long, I have found that being in it, even for a split second, arching my neck upward toward the sky has never made me feel more alive and free.

 

Independence Day

I’ve been waxing nostalgic a bit this holiday weekend.  While thumbing through a host of magazines while relaxing in the sun, I’ve seen s’mores and sandcastles and sparklers galore.  Children have been riding their bikes through the neighborhood and just this afternoon, a little one who lives behind my house pitched a tantrum that could rival any I threw as a three year old.  I’ve thought of a boy who lived across the street when I was a kid and how we used to celebrate his July 5th birthday a day early every summer. 

This afternoon while hanging out in my baby pool, Steve squirted me with the hose.  “Too bad, I’m already wet,” I told him.

“I’m thirteen and a half,” he chuckled. 

“No kidding,” I laughed back. 

“The first love of my life was the girl next door,” he told me.  “She was eight years old when she moved in and gave me my first kiss.  At the time I thought girls were icky.  But she ruined me for life because I liked it.”

“My first kiss was from a boy who lived up the street,” I told him, shading my eyes from the sun.  “We were in second grade together and Jimmy walked by my desk.  He said my name, and when I turned to look at him, he planted one right on my lips.   I really liked him because we were such great friends...it was sad when he moved away.”

It’s been years since I’ve thought of Jimmy.  Even longer since I remembered that first kiss.  Still, what an incredibly sweet thing to recall on the one day I have least looked forward to all year long…until now.

While I’m all well and good celebrating Independence Day, I’m not a big fan of fireworks…unless I’m at a professional display and know when the end is near.  Yet beginning in late June, folks in my neighborhood set them off at ever-increasing intervals until the 4^th, when it seems as though the loud explosions last all night long.  With every searing bottle rocket and imploding Roman candle, my cats freak out, except for Forest (bless him) who sits in the window sill watching for the sparks of light in the night sky.  The house shakes, the windows rattle, and my ears ring for hours.

Thankfully, this year I’ve spent the past few nights at Steve’s apartment, for I find that when I’m with him, the noise doesn’t rattle me as much.  When I was getting ready to go home on Sunday morning, I sheepishly asked, “Can I stay here tonight and tomorrow?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to,” he smiled.  “You can stay over whenever you like…I enjoy having you around.”

I let out a sigh of relief.  “Can I sleep over here until the 4^th of July?”

He looked down at his dog and smiled gleefully.  “How fortuitous.”

“Good,” I nodded.

Then Steve hugged me, saying, “I’m happy to have you stay ‘cause I know how much those fireworks scare you.”

“They don’t scare me,” I replied defiantly.

“You sound like a little kid,” Steve chuckled.

“Well, they don’t,” I said, hugging him back.  “They hurt my sensitive little ears.”

Then we both laughed out loud…because it’s absolutely true.

I’m sensitive to lots of things:  loud noise, strong emotions, and bright light…just to name a few.  Looking back on my childhood, I spent the lion’s share of my time in the cool, dark basement or the quiet sanctuary of my room in the northwest corner of the house.  Sure, I played outside, but preferred to hang out in the shaded corners of my backyard or the limbs of the tree in our front yard.  And while I sometimes enjoyed playing with the kids in the neighborhood, the memories that stick with me the most are the ones when I was on my own.

I imagine that part of my independent streak was due to my being overly sensitive to a lot of things I couldn’t control.  At the time, I figured that if I removed myself from the situation, I wouldn’t have to deal with it…or at least deal with my feelings about it.  I could hide from the world while riding my bike or enjoying a picnic by myself or a quiet walk in the woods where I talked to imaginary friends who lived in the tree trunks.   The pattern stuck and as an adult, I’ve spent the majority of my time in solitude.

But no longer. 

Steve and I give each other space all the time, although I admit that today I interrupted him more than I should to share a silly squirrel story or a slice of watermelon.  And of course, when his inner-devil wanted to come out and play, he ambushed me with the garden hose.  Still, I find that I have time for everything I used to do before we got together…and hope he feels the same way, too.  Both of us are independent, yet we’ve become more interdependent as the months go by.  I can lean on him when I need to, and he can lean on me, too.  We share moments from our past, stories of the present, and dreams for our future, all the while continuing to be authentically ourselves.  I suppose we’ve learned the beauty in what Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet:  Stand together, yet not too near together, for the pillars of the temple stand apart, and the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

I never thought I’d ever want to be with someone more than I have wanted to be alone, and yet that has been my one sign to know when a relationship is real.  For years I’ve been telling my friends, “I’ll know I’m with the right person when I’d rather be with him than alone in this peaceful life I've created.”

Just last night I sat on the couch, gazing out his living room window, in awe of the fireworks that exploded over the treetops in front of his duplex.  “Oh!  There’s another one!” I chirped.  “And another one!”

The sky darkened while Steve leaned over and looked out the window. 

“When I was kid, I’d sit in my bedroom window and watch the fireworks,” I told him.  “It was great to be safe in my room and watch from a distance.”

As Steve walked away to take care of stuff around the apartment, I marveled at how safe it felt to be with him, no matter how close the fireworks were being shot off, no matter how loud they were, or how I could never know when a loud boom would rattle the windows.  Later that night I went to bed while he watched TV and as I lay there listening to the crash and boom in the distance, surprisingly I didn’t mind at all…and was soon fast asleep. 

Tonight I’ll be writing while Steve goes to a meeting, but later on this evening I’m sure we’ll spend some quality time together.  The night sky will soon be lit up with light and I'll be snuggled in with Steve, quietly celebrating the uncommonly incredible life we're creating together.  

Pyromaniac

This week I thought I'd share one of Open Road's most-read blogs from 2014, written shortly after the Fourth of July.  This one’s for all of us who love to play with fire…in the healthiest of ways.  

Pyromaniac

Originally published on July 7, 2014

After a simply gorgeous holiday weekend, I'm enjoying a cool, cloudy morning here in Toledo, Ohio.  It's like the calm after the storm...because for the past couple of weeks I've gone to bed listening to the boom and pop of firecrackers, bottle rockets, and Roman candles.   Loud, explosive racket is not my cup of tea, so it's really not until the week after the Fourth of July that I really begin to enjoy the summer season.

The anticipation of the holiday weekend is over.  Crickets and cicadas now serenade the city with their rhythmic cadence.  And I can fall asleep without the scent of sulfur and smoke drifting through my open windows.  There seems to be a peace that permeates the energy around my little house in the Heartland that's hard to describe now that the crash and boom of the fireworks is over.

Not that I don't like a small inferno now and again, mind you. 

Ever since I was little I've been fascinated by fire.  I can remember Sunday afternoons in the middle of winter when my mother would let my sisters and me light a candle in the middle of the kitchen table.  We'd meticulously peel back the wrappers of old crayons and melt them in the flickering flame to create colorful, waxy pictures on a paper plate.  I wasn't all that interested in what I was making; I'd much rather gaze at the transformation of something once solid into a gooey liquid that could burn my fingers if I let it.  And sometimes I did -- just to see what it would feel like.

Years later when my life was chaotic and unstable, I'd come home in the evening, turn off all the lamps and light a white candle on the coffee table, then sit and stare at the flame...studying the blue center...marveling at the way it would turn the tangible wax into vapor.

When I lived at Esalen Institute, a friend of mine casually observed the fact that I've always been attracted to fiery men.  "I don't know if that's what you really need," he said.  "You've got enough fire power for ten people." 

It was true.  I worked like a horse.  Plodded through a task with the tenacity to plow through and overcome any adversity.  Like the wildfires that slowly charred the Santa Lucia mountains during my stay in Big Sur, I was persistent enough to burn through old patterns of being in order to allow new growth to emerge from the ashes.

After all, I was born with Mars in Leo -- and for those of you who don't know much about astrology, that's a pretty powerful placement.  To combine the energy of the planet of ambition, fire, and power with the drive and determination of needing to be creative, no matter how many obstacles are in my way, I can understand why I was a workaholic for so many years.  It took a long, long time to transform my innate tendency from a raging bonfire to a hospitable hearth.

         

Now I realize the reason I'm attracted to fire is not for the heat and intensity of what it appears to be at first sight...but for the transformative power it has to create complete and utter change.  No other element can instantly reduce a stack of paper into ashes.  Water will take a while to dissolve it.  Earth will take even longer to create the pressure necessary to change paper into pulp.  Air may rip it to shreds, but even though it may take a different form and shape, it's still inherently what it is. 

Fire changes anything instantly.  It's one of the reasons I choose to use it as a ritual when I need to let go of something or want to create something new.  When I need to rid myself of old baggage or open the door to an alternate way of being.  I've burned old cards and letters.  Journal entries.  I've ceremoniously written out lists of what I want and then burned them, sending a silent prayer along with the smoke that an unseen force will get the message and deliver the goods.

Word to the wise:  like that old adage says, "Be careful what you wish for."  I'd amend it to "be careful what you write and transform with fire" because on several occasions, I've wished for something too specific and the results blew up in my face, burning me one too many times because I set an intention with too many parameters.  After all, fire knows no boundaries and can easily change direction as the wind blows. 

Every culture uses fire in celebration.  In honoring the dead.  As a symbol for light or enlightenment.  Fire is perhaps the most primitive element in our transformation toolbox.  And it's by far my favorite one. 

During this past deep-freeze of a winter, I was imminently thankful every time my furnace roared to life.  Thankful the hot water tank hummed along so I could take warm showers after shoveling mountains of snow.   As springtime emerged, I delighted in the rising sun, the warmer days, the return of brighter solar energy to our hemisphere.  And I'm certain as fall approaches, I'll light more candles in the evening and relax in my living room while the flames flicker and reflect off of the walls and hardwood. 

But today I have other plans. 

For a few weeks I've felt as though I'm on the cusp of something I can't quite describe.  Something's imminent and I can see my old hesitation to trust in the unknown.  To trust something new.  It's in moments like these that I'm reminded of a simple rite of passage that I use in times like these. 

A few years ago, I wrote someone a much-needed letter.  I said everything I didn't say when we were together.  Everything I needed to say to him now.  I opened a vein and bled my heart dry on the pages, draining myself of whatever sorrow still trickled through my veins. 

At the end I wrote, "I need to burn this so that I can have the freedom to move on.  To forgive.  To let go."

That night I took the letter outside and burned it in a glass bowl on the edge of my flower gardens.  Burned it until the paper had crinkled and curled.  Burned it until there was nothing left but a small pile of ashes.

Or so I thought.

The next morning I went outside to get the bowl and noticed that in the tiny heap of cinders, there were two minuscule scraps of paper.  One was blank.  The other had been charred, but not completely destroyed.  Browned around the edges, only one word could be easily seen:  "free." 

         

I'm not a pyromaniac in the literal sense, although I love the freedom fire allows me to embrace as I transform that which has been into that which is no more.  So tonight I'll write a few pages sitting at the very same table at which I used to melt crayons as a child, then burn them surrounded by the gardens in my backyard.  I'll be celebrating freedom on my own, and it will be a quiet, simple Independence Day.

One that will surely outlast any fireworks display on the block.

I am the vortex

"Follow your bliss and the universe will 

open doors for you where there were only walls."

Joseph Campbell

Familiar with the old saying,  Be careful what you wish for because you might just get it?   I learned a long time ago to let go of specifics when it comes to making requests of an unlimited Universe.  Before I figured out that to get exactly what I wanted often came with way too many strings attached, I struggled mightily with my limiting, self-imposed parameters. Yeah, I may have been able to learn how to knit an incredibly intricate sweater, but in the end, when I tried it on, it still looked like a burlap sack.  Sure, I may have gotten the job I thought I wanted, but didn’t earn the salary and benefits I needed.  I may have garnered the attention of some object of my desire only to soon discover that what he really wanted was less than desirable.  Still, if what Joseph Campbell says is true, that translates into an ever-evolving awareness of the intentions I put out into the world.

Because God knows that’s what I’ll receive in return.

I’m all good with how karma works, both positively and negatively.  In fact, it’s easier for me to let go of circumstances I can't control by simply telling myself that in time more will be revealed.  That whatever I'm struggling with now could mean I'm due for a little attitude adjustment.  Perhaps I've called it in because I need to look more closely at the way I live my life, the things I say or do, all of the day-to-day choices I make.

In my late twenties, I used to tell my friends, “I want to have a partner, be a parent, and get published by the time I turn thirty-five.”  When that didn’t happen, no matter how many times I tried to push the river, I took a different tack.  In my early forties, having a child no longer appealed to me as it once did, so I focused on writing…and left the door open for the possibility of partner appearing in my life.

“You’ll never find anyone hanging around your house writing books and teaching yoga,” some friends would tell me.  “You need to get out and meet people.”

“I don’t want to,” I’d always reply.  “I’m not a bar person…and I hate the idea of going to a single’s mixer.”

“How about internet dating?” someone inevitably asked. 

“Been there…done that,” I shot back.  “Ick.  No, thank you.”

Last year, one of my friends sighed, “Well Kate, you’re going to have to do something different if you really want a relationship.  How else are you going to meet a good man?”

Not deterred in the slightest, I replied, “I’m going to take care of myself.  I’m going to do what I love.  I’m going to go places that resonate with me.  When I’m ready and when he’s ready, he’ll just show up at my door.”

“How often does that happen?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied.  “Just watch and see.”

Shortly thereafter, that’s exactly what happened…although I didn’t know it at the time.

I spent the better part of 2015 writing and promoting THE LACE MAKERS, all the while working out, teaching yoga, reading books, meditating, gardening, and a host of other things that allowed me to create much-needed balance in my life.  I didn’t think much about finding The One; I was more interested in staying open to whatever was right in front of me.  Opportunities came and went, yet none of the men sparked more than another lesson to file under “never again”.

This past August, I spent a week hiking in Sedona.  On the first glorious morning, my friend and I made our way up the craggy sides of Boyton Canyon to find the energy vortex near the apex.  As our planet is a living thing, a vortex is a place in nature where the Earth is exceptionally alive and healthy.  It can also be a place where there's increased energy and vitality.  Acting as an amplifier, a vortex will magnify whatever we bring to it whether it be on a physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual level.  In other words, being in close proximity to a vortex is instant karma in action.

When Sandy and I climbed higher, feeling the surge of energy in the red rocks of Boyton Canyon, I knew we had found the vortex.  Standing on the precipice, I spontaneously opened my arms like a tuning fork and turned in every direction, marveling at the incredible beauty of the cornflower blue sky, a backdrop to the vast landscape that surrounded us.  Breathing deeply, I silently asked that whatever I truly needed might be brought into my life, and that I might have the awareness to recognize and appreciate it.  Then I said a prayer of humble gratitude for the opportunity to be in that moment, knowing full well that what I intended would magically appear. 

Little did I know it already had six months earlier, and that shortly after my return from Sedona, the little seed that had been planted in March would quickly sprout above the earth.  The man I’m now seeing arrived in my life last spring, and our friendship grew and blossomed throughout the summer months.  The week after my return from Sedona, we made a date to attend a local concert together.  Six weeks later, I realized I was in love with him.  

How did we meet you ask?  I was sitting in my office, happily writing with the window open when he walked by with a mutual friend.  My beloved didn’t even need to show up at the front door, for it was clandestinely fortuitous to meet him while I was doing what I love best…well, what I now love second-best. 

At Thanskgiving I told him, “Now I can finally find my way into the publishing world.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because you’re here,” I replied.  “No matter what happens in my professional life, I’ll always have you.  My priorities are straight…so that door can finally open because I know I’ll never be able to write a sentence or a blog or a book that means more to me than you do.”

Sure enough, a week later I heard from an agent in NYC who requested the full manuscript of THE LACE MAKERS.  I eagerly sent him a copy, then soon after discovered his personal Facebook page.  I wasn’t all that surprised to know that his first name is the same as my sweetheart’s, but I was amused to find that his wife’s name is Kate.  He has two daughters, just like my beloved.  He plays electric guitar and enjoys fishing…just like my dear one.  

Coincidence or not?  

You decide. 

As for me, I live by the truth that what I meaningfully sow, I’ll most definitely reap.  This winter, I’m overjoyed to embrace the fruitful gifts of following my heart, living with integrity, and never giving up hope that if I plant optimistic seeds of intention, then let go of the outcome, a bouquet of beautiful blessings will certainly follow.  

You can find digital and paperback versions of
STILL HERE on Amazon.com.

All things new

It’s been quite a while since I’ve written an original blog.  Curiously enough, the last 2016 essay I published is dated November 11^th, the day I decided to take a leap of faith and perhaps change my life for the better.  I’m infinitely thankful that I summoned the courage, because for the past couple of months I’ve been happily preoccupied by diving into an incredibly loving relationship.  It wasn’t what I was expecting or even looking for, but since last spring, time has slowly evolved a captivating friendship into something I can’t quite put into words.  That’s why I’ve put my journal and laptop aside, allowing myself to be immersed in living life…not just writing about it. 

I used to think that once I found a man with whom I could fully be myself, everything would change.  I imagined it to be like a lightning bolt of realization that would blow everything out of the water so that I could begin again, brand new and utterly transformed.  But that didn’t happen.  The day-to-day responsibilities of life are still the same.  I work, I pay the bills, I enjoy time with friends.  Yet what I’ve discovered is that the reality of loving someone…and being loved in return…is wholly unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. 

Now I find that everything is brand new.  When I wake up in the morning, there’s another person in my life and in my heart.  Someone else to pray and care for.  Someone with whom I laugh until our sides ache.  Someone who came into my life so magically, I almost missed it.  Since we met last March, I’ve slowly discovered that all things are brand new, for my beloved allows me to open myself that much more, to expand my horizons, to experience even the most ordinary aspects of life on a deeper level because he’s standing right next to me, revealing himself as well. 

Neither one of us can define what we’re creating, for there’s no definite way to describe how we feel.  Love doesn’t even being to scratch the surface.  Last week, my dear told me that the oneness he feels between us in unlike anything he’s ever known and I simply nodded, knowing I couldn't describe it any better.  It’s not a fairytale we’re living, but a real-life, moment-to-moment encounter with each other.  It doesn’t matter if we’re playing Trivial Pursuit, watching a movie, or walking through the grocery store.  Any moment is extraordinary because we make it so…and because I’m wise enough to appreciate the remarkable man who is blessing my life with so much love and laughter, I find I’m overflowing with happiness.

On New Year’s Eve, we spent most of the day together taking care of our collective responsibilities while looking forward to a quiet evening at home.  As my car turned into the neighborhood, I noticed the odometer ticking from 9,999 miles to 10,000.  I brightly smiled.  “That’s a good omen for the new year, right honey?” 

My beloved good-naturedly agreed, saying, “Optimistic in spirit you are.  Positive insight you have.  Happy you will be.”

Laughing heartily, I replied, “Love you I do...there is no try.”

(Did I mention my sweetheart and I enjoy exchanging Yoda-speak?)

Close to midnight, decked out in black sweats and a dapper new hat, he strapped on his electric guitar and played me a little Jimi Hendrix, then some of his original compositions.  Relaxing on the couch, I was lost in the moment, thankful that I had finally come home to myself so that I can share my life with a man who surprises me more each day with his exceptionally hilarious humor, his unique perspective on the gifts of grace and inner peace, his ability to spread love to anyone and everyone he meets.

When 12:00 arrived, my beloved said, “You know, we could think of this moment as a brand-new beginning, but I kinda do that every morning, you know?”

“I do,” I replied.  "Every single day since we got together has been a new beginning."

The new year heralds a clean slate, another chance to set things right, an opportunity to stretch ourselves beyond who we think we are into something that might be challenging, but hopefully worth the work.   As 2017 dawns, I’m happily closing the door on a solitary life that was necessary to lead me to a man who has allowed me to finally leave the past behind so that we can walk hand-in-hand into whatever the present moment holds. 

Now more than ever, I'm infinitely and incredibly blessed.

Persephone

Persephone

Originally published on October 16, 2014

I love Autumn. 

Everything about it is enticing:  the brightly colored leaves, the crisp and cool air, the beautiful fall flowers that bloom in my garden.  I enjoy wearing a comfy sweater while hiking at the park and I'll often pull on a pair of handwarmers to hang around on the sun porch as the days I'll be able to enjoy it rapidly dwindle.  This is the time of year I bake cookies and apple dumplings and quick breads of all kinds.  My cats cuddle more and rekindle their friendships as they stroll around the house looking for a warm sunbeam.

Yes, there's much to revel in this time of year, but this time around, I find myself a bit melancholy.  Like many Midwesterners I know, I'm experiencing a bit of PTSD related to last winter's howling winds, sub-zero temperatures, and a record-breaking eighty-five inches of snow.  Yes, I love autumn, but this year...for the first time in my life...I'm not looking forward to what will follow.

This past spring, it took a long time before I put my snow boots and mittens and shovel away, before I knew for certain it was safe to really believe warmer weather was here to stay.  For weeks I worked in my garden, remembering daily the endless hours of shoveling, the kindness of neighbors who helped me dig the ice and drifts from my downspouts, and the horrifying nights I sat up worrying about my furnace when the temperatures dipped to -17 degrees. 

Finally, around Flag Day, I began to enjoy what has been a lovely, if not cooler-than-normal summer.  But I'll take that.  It's been a joy to create a darling fairy garden near my front porch.  To sit in the back yard and swing to my heart's content while I read books and research a new novel.  To ride my bike here, there, and everywhere around town.  But now, it doesn't seem like it was nearly long enough, and I long to stave off what's coming next, if only for another month or so.

When I was in eighth grade, my Language Arts teacher introduced me to the Iliad and the Odyssey, two books that opened my eyes to the cycles of life, death, war, peace, and everything in-between.  Mrs. Peterson graciously spent many a lunch hour in her classroom with me, eagerly answering my questions about the plot, the plethora of gods and goddesses and their roles and lessons in our modern life.

My favorite was the story of Persephone, the goddess often called "Kore" in her youth, who was stolen by Hades one afternoon as she frolicked in the flowers while her mother, Demeter, stood by helpless to save her.  Hades took Persephone as his intended wife to his land in the Underworld and Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, left her responsibilities to the earth behind while she frantically searched for her daughter.  Preoccupied with her grief, Demeter left the land to desiccate and die.

In the meantime, although Persephone was horrified to be separated from her mother, she eventually grew accustomed to her marriage and to the Underworld, finding that she was a benevolent greeter of those who entered death and darkness at the end of their lives.  Eventually her father sent a messenger to Hades and demanded the release of Persephone, and Hades agreed, but with a price to be paid.  Before setting his wife free, he gave her some pomegranate seeds to eat which magically bound Persephone to the Underworld for a portion of the year.  So Persephone returned to her mother who in turn rejoiced and the earth awakened and flourished.  Then six months later, when Demeter had to relinquish her daughter to fate, the harvest withered and winter came once again.

Persephone's story represents the cycle of birth and death and the ability to embrace and celebrate them both.  Each year, I'm reminded of the mystery of the little deaths in my own garden -- the wilting leaves, the yellowing stalks, the energy of the plants returning to the earth, to the underworld where their roots remain steadfast and strong.

And I know that some of the deepest transformations, the most powerful growth comes from what lies beneath the surface...beyond what our eyes can see or our hands can measure. 

A couple of weeks ago, a friend and neighbor gave me an exquisite clay flower pot in the shape of a Greek woman's head.  She's a delicate reminder of Persephone, who, in the summer will hang on my house near the side door I use the most, and in the winter will rest on a shelf in my basement near the treadmill where I will run to keep warm during the long, dark winter months.

Seeing her calmly waiting for spring will remind me that all things will change eventually.  The snow, the ice, the bitter winds.  My fear of death in any sense of the word.  The loneliness that can creep in when I struggle with cabin fever. 

In the end, all things must pass.

In the midst of winter, each day will be what it is meant to be, just as each day in the springtime and summer is destined for its own joy and beauty.  I can embrace both life and death, knowing that as the seasons change and bring new growth, so too does my own quiet life in the Heartland.

Still here

Eight years ago I was contemplating my next move.  I had just turned forty-two and was living in Big Sur, California.  After a long, drawn-out process, Esalen Institute had offered me a position as the Garden Manager and I was eager to start a new chapter in my life.  Alas, there were too many strings attached in order to make it work.  I spent many sleepless nights lying on the deck outside of my hut, listening to the ocean dash against the cliffs, wondering if I should stay or if I should leave.  The consequences for each choice would mean an incredible leap into the unknown, but by then I was no stranger to risk-taking.

On a sunny afternoon, I walked back to my place on the farm to rest in the sun.  The garden shift had been exhausting and I was too tired to hike in the canyon.  Too tired to talk with my friends.  Too tired to think.  Instead, I spent an hour gazing at my surroundings, memorizing the aromatic scent of the pine trees, the majestic shape of the Santa Lucia mountains, the pounding cadence of the surf. 

Remember this, I told myself.  Remember this moment, so that no matter what happens, no matter what you decide to do, this place and time will be yours…always.

Three weeks later I left Esalen, but not before I had carefully placed a sand dollar in the lap of a peaceful Buddha statue where the garden crew gathered every morning before the harvest.  On the back I had written, I’m right here, knowing that a part of me would still remain in Big Sur long after I had returned to Toledo.  

It took three long years before I was able to finally cut the cord on my hopes of returning to Esalen.  Three years to finally understand that to leave pieces of myself scattered in the past across time and space was like splintering my soul.  It was time to call every part of me more fully into the present so that I could finally move forward and embrace a new way of being.

Last week, Danta and I celebrated landmark birthdays as we both entered new decades.  He turned ten on Thursday and I turned fifty on Friday.  To celebrate, I picked up Danta and Satish after school, then drove to meet their mom and older sister at Cold Stone for some ice cream. 

Along the way, I mentioned to Satish, “I’m really excited about what you told me a couple of days ago.”

“What?” he asked, looking up from his book.

“That you only have to grow one inch and gain six pounds before you can sit in the front seat,” I smiled.  “You’ll be up here with me before you know it.”

He gave me a shy smile.

“I know I often say how much I miss the fun things we did when you were younger,” I told them both.  “But I really like it that you’re getting older and we can talk about all kinds of things.”

“Like Harry Potter books!” Danta beamed.

“That’s right!” I nodded.  Then I smiled at Satish.  “And I’m so thankful you taught me how to use Power Point.  Can I show you my project when I’m done so you can help me tweak it?”

“Sure!” he replied. 

As we headed west toward Cold Stone, I remembered something I had said to Satish a few years previous: "You know what I love most about being with you on your eighth birthday?"

"What?" he asked.

 I hugged him close.  "Knowing that I'll still be here for your ninth birthday...and your tenth...and your eleventh...and your twentieth and thirtieth and fortieth..."

Satish joined in and we counted by tens up to one hundred.

"How old will you be when I'm a hundred?" he asked, tilting his head so he could see my face.

"One hundred and thirty-seven," I said, lifting my brows in amazement.

Without missing a beat, Satish shook his head.  "You'll be dead by then."

I chuckled, loving how clearly realistic my little friend can be.  "You never know...I could come back as one of your kids.  No...I'd like to be around and see your kids," I said, winking.  "Maybe I'll be one of your grandkids."

Satish shrugged.  "Or you could be a cow."

Now, chuckling to myself as we pulled into the parking lot, I thought about the sacredness of cows in the Hindu culture, as they are symbolic of the earth.  A cow gives and feeds, representing and supporting all life, so in many ways, they also represent all animals.  What a compliment from a child who I consider to be much wiser than myself. 

Later on, over bowls of mint-chocolate-chip and cookie-dough ice cream, I said to Danta, “From now on you and I will always have the same last number in our ages!  Welcome to double digits!”

“Oh, yeah!” he brightened.

What a joy and a blessing to know that as the years go by, I’ll still be here to watch Satish and Danta grow from soccer balls to car keys to high school diplomas to their freshman years in college.   To know that every step of the way, I’ll give what I can, supporting them with my presence, my enthusiasm, and my love. 

Even when I’m 137.

A few weeks ago I was talking about my trip to Sedona with a group of friends.  “Eventually I’d love to spend part of the year there, and part of it here,” I smiled.  “Who knew I could love the southwest so much?”

“When would you want to be in Ohio?” Brenda asked.

“I’d go to Arizona from February through August and come home for autumn and early winter.”

Brenda nodded.  “I’d never want to live anywhere that didn’t have a change of seasons.”

“Me, too,” I said.  “Living in California in the fall was strange.  The only way I knew it was autumn was when someone put pumpkins in the lodge.”

“Living where there’s a change of seasons reminds us of the passing of time,” Brenda replied.  “It gives you a perspective that other places can’t.”

“That’s so true,” I smiled.  “Surviving long Midwestern winters makes me so much more appreciative of springtime.  And after this long, hot summer, I’m truly going to enjoy every moment when the days get shorter and the nights are cooler.”

These days I sure am. 

Bar none, it’s the most wonderful time of the year…for me at least.  Like that afternoon on the deck at Esalen, I’ve been soaking in every single moment I can be outside before the season quickly changes and autumn breezes blow through my hometown.  Yesterday I took the time to quietly sit in the backyard, enjoying the bright colors of everything in full bloom, the cornflower blue sky, the crickets chirping all day long.  As twilight fell, the air changed and I went inside to grab a light jacket for the first time since last May.

Sitting on my swing, I thought about all the things that have happened in the past several years, things that have led to my desire to enter a new decade with an open heart.  I thought about the people and places I’ve let go of, the ones who’ve let go of me.  I thought about how the past fifty years have molded my life experiences and how I now want to break the mold in order to create a life that’s more open, spontaneous, and whole.  I thought about the sand dollar I had left in Big Sur all those years ago and know that the words I had once written have long since faded into white.  After all this time, I'm finally home.

Then again, I never really left.  I’m still here, walking peacefully on this earth.

Thankful.

Joyous.

Resurrected.

  

It takes a garden

Happy belated May Day…although I still wake up every morning wondering, What season will it be today?  A lot of folks have asked if I’ve been doing much gardening this spring, and I reply that I spent a lot of hours in my yard last fall, so when warmer weather arrives (whenever that will be), all I have to do is sit back and enjoy the new growth.  Sure, I’ve cut my grass a couple of times and pulled dandelions out of the turf, but for the most part, it’s been wonderful to sit on the back porch or stroll through the north forty (a.k.a. my teeny tiny backyard), watching the perennials do their thing.

I’ve been gardening for the better part of twenty-five years, but to be honest, I’ve loved puttering around in flower beds since I was a kid.  My mom had a green thumb and while it took some time before I developed mine, I was no stranger to weeding, watering, and harvesting blossoms to bring into the house.  Once I bought my own home, it was hit or miss for a few years.  Then, once I started practicing yoga and began to innately experience the rhythm of the seasons, something primordial took over.

Last night I said to a friend, “The front yard is pretty eclectic, colorful, and lush, but it still has some structure because I want it to look well-manicured.  But the backyard…well, that I let grow a little wild.”

Joyce laughed.

“I suppose my gardens reflect who I am in more ways than one,” I continued.  “What I show to the world is pretty well put together, but what’s behind closed doors is still….”

“In process?”

“Yep,” I laughed.  “But in many ways I love that part just as much.” 

Even though I truly miss all of the friends I made Big Sur, I miss the work as well.  Imagine starting the day at sunrise, opening up the screen door of a little hut that sits on a cliff overlooking the ocean, feeling the ocean breeze on your face, breathing in the cool, salty sea air, and walking through a field of ruby, red strawberries all the while knowing you’re going to spend the entire day outside playing in the dirt.  Even though much of it was labor intensive and the garden crew was consistently changing hands as work scholars came and went, I loved it all:  the planting and harvesting, taking care of seedlings in the greenhouse, nurturing our passel of ornery chickens, and teaching new arrivals the joy of being immersed in a “slow food” environment. 

Now the only chicks who skitter around my yard are the kids who come over for yoga classes, but I still practice much of what I learned living on the edge of the earth in California. Before I moved to Big Sur, I had a string of accidents in which I fell down the stairs, fell out of a headstand onto a concrete floor (twice), tripped over a threshold, and tumbled into a ravine where I landed on a rock that was way bigger than a breadbasket.  The irony of being a yoga instructor and being way off balance is not lost on me, but I teach what I need to learn over and over again.  So it’s no surprise that after spending nearly a year tending the earth, I returned to Toledo much more grounded and stable.  Now I no longer trip and fall.  I can lift heavy weights at the gym with steadiness, if not yet with grace.   And I’m able to teach a wide variety of balancing poses and find some modicum of success in every class. 

Not that I push it anymore, for I’ve discovered over the years that our bodies are just like a garden.  Sometimes it takes a while for a seed to sprout, for a plant to mature, for an idea or a thought to properly propagate before I can enjoy a long-awaited harvest.  I’m often reminded that stability needs to be in place before flexibility can be truly developed or appreciated.  A plant can’t grow without strong roots and our body-mind-spirit connection can’t really awaken until we have our feet firmly rooted in a place that feels healthy and supportive, be it in our homes, work environment, or in our relationships.  Sometimes it can take years for any progress to be seen, but as Marie Forleo so brilliantly states:  All progress begins with a brave decision.

In the same way a seed needs to have the courage to split itself open in order to release its full potential, so do each one of us.  In order to grow, we often have to tear open those places that have remained rigidly in place due to fear, habit, or an unwillingness to let go.  Yet, in my experience, the incredible liberation and joy that follow the uncertainly is infinitely worth the turmoil.  After all, to be brave doesn’t mean we’re not afraid.  It simply means we allow our courage to walk hand in hand with our fear and lead the way forward. 

What better way to learn the ways of overcoming obstacles than to tend a garden?

I’m always amazed at the brilliance of nature to withstand even the coldest of winters and still bring forth lilac blossoms in the springtime. Just this morning on my way to teach, I noticed the Solomon Seal blooming in the south corner of my yard.  Wanting to get a closer look, I passed by the raised bed where I’ll soon plant chard and kale and cilantro.  There, tucked in neat rows of every hue of green I could image were tiny spinach and lettuce leaves, leftovers from last year’s harvest.  Here, there, and everywhere along the fence, tiny Morning Glories are sprouting up from the cool, moist Earth.  Even though it might seem like March in Toledo these days, my garden is still growing…slowly this year, but that’s the way I like it.

For anything worth having often takes a bit more time.

During the last few months I spent in Big Sur, my advisor’s daughter would walk through the garden on her way to breakfast.  I always kept a pair of scissors nearby, so whenever I saw Logan, I could clip a flower or two for her to take on the way.  Day by day, she asked me the names of each of the blossoms, quickly learning the difference between the lavender and dahlias, poppies and day lilies, jasmine and passion flowers. 

“Garden Katie!” Logan beamed when she arrived each morning.  “What flower can you teach me today?”

Although she couldn’t have known it back then, when I clipped each blossom, a memory often came back to me, something that each flower stirred up inside:  the regret I had felt when I planted the sunflowers the previous spring, the contentment I experienced while weeding the sedum, the overwhelming sorrow that came from tending the basil, the incomparable love I felt while pruning the rose bushes.  For Logan, the garden was a source of unique treasures to be discovered.  For me it was a channel through which I discovered the hidden treasures within myself that were revealed through tending a place that was both my sanctuary and my salvation. 

On the morning I left Esalen, I had breakfast with Logan and her parents.  The day previous I had arranged little bouquets of flowers in mugs and set them on the tables in the lodge.  Logan eagerly sat up in her chair and started pointing at each of them saying, “That’s a lily…that’s a eucalyptus…that’s a little lavender.”

“You know every single one,” I smiled.  “How about that?”

They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I believe that’s true for it takes all kinds of people with different talents and abilities to nurture a little one into adulthood.  But it also takes a garden to remind us of where we came from, where we’ll return when this life is over.   We all start out as little seeds, then grow into sprouts.  Over time our lives come into full bloom.  Then, when one harvest is over, we can plant new seeds with the hope of a new one to come.

Over and over again, each one of us can become both the gardener and the growth, trusting the seasons of our lives to lead the way onward.

With adorable Logan, admiring a gorgeous Big Sur bouquet.