A kiss for Kashti

Last Friday I sat in my doctor's outer office waiting for my annual physical.  As I updated the information on my medical forms, couples and families filtered in and out, chittering about due dates, baby weight, and the excitement of an imminent birth.  I sat alone on the other side of the room, completely surprised to feel the sting of being childless.  It's taken a while, but I no longer lament not having babies of my own, and it's been years since a precancerous diagnosis allowed me to re-evaluate my priorities and let go of the life I had planned in order to embrace the life that was waiting for me.  Those of you who know me well know I've done that more than once.

Or twice.

Or three times.

Still, while being surrounded by the energy of excited soon-to-be parents and grandparents, I thought about the weeks of packing before my move to Big Sur.  In the midst of labeling boxes and sorting stuff for Goodwill, I had come across a bin of books that had been stored since my teaching days...books I had kept in the hopes of reading them to a child of my own, my favorite being Maurice Sendak's A Kiss for Little Bear.  When I was little, I had read it over and over again, delighting in how Little Bear draws a picture for his grandmother, then sends it long distance to her house via a host of animals.  Upon receiving such a lovely gift, Grandmother sends a kiss for Little Bear which gets passed among the animals a la "the telephone game", and reaches its final destination, but not without some hilarious mix-ups.

It was back then, in an attempt to lighten the load of moving cross-country, that I finally let go of needing to have a child of my own, so I gave away nearly everything I had been saving...except a couple of hand-knitted sweater sets and a small collection of children's books that were too precious to part with, A Kiss for Little Bear being one of them.   At the time it felt like a freedom and a door opening, even though nothing in Big Sur turned out as I had anticipated.  Still, in the years since my return from California, I've been able to get on with my life in ways both meaningful and heart-opening.

So the unexpected twinge of wanting a child startled me...but this time, only for a moment.

Earlier that morning I was answering emails and received a link to YouTube from a friend who lives in India.  Kashyap and his wife, Kruti, are Satish and Danta's uncle and aunt.  There's no word for "cousin" in their culture, so Kashyap and Kruti's daughter, Kashti, is considered to be my pals' sister...and they are her brothers. 

We met on a sunny Saturday several years ago at the Sharma's where Kashti and I sat near the fireplace, playing with Legos and reading books.  Kashti soon joined my Yoga for Kids class at her Montessori school, so I was blessed to see her every week...and even on the weekends when she joined Satish, Danta, and me for a play date that was always filled with laugher.  One hot, sunny afternoon, everyone came over to my house for an ice cream party and Kashti squealed with delight when she met my kitten, Aditi (which means "Mother of the sun" in Hindi).  

We all celebrated birthdays and Easter, Christmas and Halloween, and everything in-between until it was time for her family to move back to Gujarat in June of 2014.   Since then we've stayed in touch via the Internet and snail mail, but it's not the same as holding Kashti on my lap while reading her a book or singing a song or listening to her tell me a story.  So when Kashyap sent the YouTube video of a now very-grown-up Kashti sharing a creation she had made with Legos (a little house for a black cat just like Aditi), I cried tears of joy to hear her sweet voice, for then and now, she's like a daughter to me. 

While I waited for my turn at the doctor's office, I thought of Kashti...and Satish and Danta and Neela and Amita...children who may not be mine by birth, but are in my life so I can give and receive love that knows no limits -- not even the 7,800 miles between Gujarat and Ohio.   Someday the little sweater sets I've saved will be gifted to the kids, and all of the books are still in rotation in the basket in the backseat of my car so Satish and Danta can enjoy them over and over again.  Alas...I cannot find my copy of A Kiss for Little Bear, so I must have passed it on to a child who loved it as much as I do; otherwise, I would be sending it to my little one across the ocean in India.  

So here's a kiss for Kashti who has opened my heart that much more to the realization that mothering can come in all forms...and while I may not give birth to a baby of my own, I can nurture and love all of the extraordinary children who come into my life.

What an incredible awareness.

With Kashti, June, 2014
You can view her darling video here.

Sweaty guy

On Friday night I was sitting between my pals, Satish and Danta, enjoying  a wonderful dinner of Indian cuisine when Danta asked, "Can you stay and watch Sweaty Guy tonight?"

We were celebrating a belated Christmas, so Danta was excited to pop The Year Without a Santa Claus into the DVD player.  When he was little, he couldn't remember the name of the show, but as the Heat Miser was a memorable character, Danta gave him a brand new nickname.  Thus, Sweaty Guy became the alternate moniker for one of our favorite holiday movies.

"Sure," I nodded.  "I can stay as long as you'd like."

Satish gave me a sly smile.  "Okay...well, only for three years."

I turned to him.  "Oh, how sweet!  Is that all?  How about five?"

"It could be for only three seconds," Satish deadpanned.

I laughed out loud, wistfully acknowledging that my sassy friend will soon be a pre-teenager. 

Later on, after the boys had opened the sweaters I had made for them (in U of M and Michigan State colors), their mother wanted to take a picture of the three of us.

Satish threw his arms around me and beamed, "Let's pretend we like each other!" 

What a joy to see both the little boy he used to be mingled with the young man he's slowly becoming.  It's the first time I've been able to watch the slow, steady progression of growth in children I cherish, and I'm often surprised by how the little changes in both of the boys only make me love them that much more.

Once Danta and Satish had donned their pajamas, they created a little nest on the floor with blankets and pillows, then invited me to join them like I did when they were little.  It's been a couple of years since we've been able to find some downtime to chill out in front of the television, so I enjoyed every single moment, knowing that the years will pass by all-too-soon and someday they'll be more interested in hanging out with their friends.

 I've been delighted to spend more time with the Sharmas this year.  Satish's soccer games are on my winter calendar and I'll be picking him up from school in a couple of weeks to celebrate his eleventh birthday.  Nine-year-old Danta and I enjoy working on puzzles and reading books and making each other laugh until we snort.  His big sister, Neela, and I are looking forward to spending some time together in early February and when the oldest, Amita, comes back from an overseas trip, I'm sure we'll have plenty to talk about. 

The girls are both in high school and busy with band and lacrosse and a host of other activities, so I've spent most of my time over the years with the boys...kicking a soccer ball, teaching them how to play tennis, and shooting baskets in their backyard.  We've played countless games of chess, read dozens of books, and had sleepovers when we talked long past bedtime.  I've driven them to soccer practice and cheered them on during their matches.  As I grew up with sisters who didn't really like to get sweaty, it's been a unique pleasure to enjoy the often rough and tumble world of little boys who don't mind getting dirty.

I don't either...as long as I can clean up afterwards. 

When Danta was in kindergarten, I spent the night when his parents went out for the evening.   After a boisterous day of playing in the snow and a lively evening wrestling in the living room, the fellas were due for a quick clean-up before bedtime.  

Satish and I were sitting in the hallway playing "Hangman" outside of the bathroom while Danta took a bucket bath. ("It's an Indian thing," Satish explained.  "To save water.")  

"Hey, Katie!" Danta exclaimed.  "Come look at me!"

I stepped into the bathroom and saw that he had tightly wedged his little body into the bucket that was overflowing with soapy water.  Delighted with his antics, I giggled, “Am I going to need a shoehorn to get you out of there?”

“A what?” he asked, his eyes wide.

Satish came in to see why I was laughing.  His face turned serious.  “Danta!  You need to use that bucket properly!  We don’t have another one and if you break it, Mummy and Papa will have to go to the store and buy one!”

Pressing my lips together, I turned away to squelch my laughter.  Satish was right, of course, but it was still hilarious to see Danta in the bucket, his knees pulled tightly to his chest.  Only he would think to do something so impish.  And naturally, it’s exactly the kind of thing my inner Ramona finds hilarious. 

Later that night when it was time to go to sleep, the boys curled up with their blankets on the floor of the guest room so we could all be together.  Once the lights were turned out, Danta took a shuddering breath, asking,  “When’s Mummy coming home?”

I could instantly hear the tears in his voice, knowing bedtime would be hard for Danta.  While he was fine to play and have fun during the day without his mother, nighttime was when he most wanted her near.

Glancing at the clock radio, I said, “She should be home in about an hour or so.”

“Is that long?”

“Not really,” I told him gently.  “And I’ll be right here.”

I turned on the nightlight and the room was bathed in the soft, orange glow of a tiny plastic basketball.  When I climbed into the twin bed and got comfortable, Satish was well on his way to falling asleep, but I could hear Danta whimpering.

“Mummy,” he softly cried.  “I want Mummy.”

Leaning down to stroke the hair away from his forehead, damp with sweat, I whispered, “Do you want to come up here with me until she gets home?”

He nodded eagerly.  Leaving his blankets and stuffed animals behind, Danta climbed into the small bed and cuddled close.  “Mummy,” he cried again.   

I soothingly rubbed his head.  “I know you miss Mummy,” I whispered.  “She’ll be back soon.  And I’m right here…I’m right here.” 

We whispered about all of the fun we had that day, the snow angels he and Satish had made, the silly snowman whose eyes kept falling off, no matter how many times Danta tried to fix them.  He soon relaxed and fell asleep in my arms, but by morning, had found his way back to his parents' room while Satish and I dozed as sunlight slowly filtered into the room.  I lay there remembering the scrappy little girl I used to be who was often afraid when my mother was gone, who didn't want to be upstairs in our house alone, who was often frightened of the unfamiliar, the inexperienced.  

After all of these years, I find that Danta and I are still very much alike.  Even though we're getting better at sweating through the challenges, it's still a comfort to know that we're surrounded by people who understand us, who don't mind our quirks and silly sense of humor.  Who love us unconditionally, no matter what.

So here's to my little sweaty guy who brings so much joy to my life...and teaches me that to be childlike is a doorway to the divine.

My little sweaty guy, Danta, making snow angels in his backyard.

Confessions of an outgoing introvert

As the new year dawned yesterday morning, I woke up and did what I've been doing nearly every day since Christmas Eve: exactly nothing.  It's been a wonderful week and a half of peace and quiet, save for the fireworks that woke me up at midnight on January first.  I had been out and about for the better part of New Year's Eve, so after a late dinner, I was in bed by ten-thirty.  I'm no party pooper, just enjoying the best part of wintertime -- sustained silence.

I could get used to not working.  In fact, I've absolutely surprised myself by staying out of my yoga studio and away from the computer for the better part of a week.  This time last year I had already made and wrapped presents for the 2015 holiday season, cleaned the house from top to bottom, and spent a couple dozen hours researching at the library.

But not this year...and the best part is I don't feel guilty at all for fully enjoying my "stay-cation" at home. 

As many of you know, I love, love, love to talk.  In fact, nearly every day this past week, I've had coffee dates with friends and run into folks at the gym where we chat while lifting weights or trotting on the treadmill.  Even complete strangers engage me in curiously fascinating conversations and I come home pondering a host of ideas and opportunities.  I enjoy it all.

But it wears me out.

Over coffee last week, a friend suggested a fascinating book called Quiet:  The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking.  I immediately picked up a copy and have been reading it ever since.  Thoroughly researched and articulately written, the author, Susan Cain, describes me to a "T".  So far, the quote with which I resonate the most is: It's okay to cross the street to avoid making small talk.  Yes, I'm a talker, but I cannot stand talking with someone just to hear myself speak...and vice versa. 

I suppose I've always been this way.  In first grade, I clearly remember talking to Billy Klatt when I was supposed to be finishing a writing assignment.  He was a year older than me and lived a few houses away from mine, so we knew each other better than the other kids in class.  I have no memory of what we were chatting about, but I do remember that he was as interested in talking with me as I was with him, which resulted in Mrs. Bureau assigning us a writing penalty because, even though we kept our voices down, we were supposed to be quiet. 

Even then, I preferred the intimacy of one-on-one conversations to the boisterous back-and-forth on the playground.   While the girls were jumping rope and the boys were playing tag, I sat as far away from the mayhem on a cement cinder-block, writing in a three-ring-notebook, imagining I was Harriet the Spy.  Surprisingly enough, I was joined not by the girls, but by a few quiet boys who made me laugh.  In the classroom, they were shy and didn't raise their hands at all, but with me on the playground, they talked about GI Joes and baseball and how they hoped we wouldn't have to get on the trampoline in gym class because that was the worst:  being up there by yourself while the whole class stood around watching you bounce around and try not to twist your ankle. 

I couldn't agree more.

As time went on, I became know as "Katie the Bookworm" or "Katie the Goody-Goody", which made me want to cloister even more.  Sure, I was friendly and chatty with my friends.  I raised my hand and answered questions in the classroom.  Still, any kind of group setting mortified me.  And sometimes it still does.

It's ironic that I've spent the better part of my adult life in front of a classroom.  I teach and nurture and guide my students.  I listen to their questions, then try to provide a clear answer.  I'm often called upon for advice or suggestions, which is just fine with me...except that it hasn't made me the listener I want to be because I'm always at the ready with a response. 

It's my intention that this year will manifest many things, the greatest of which will be the shedding of what my friend, Kendall, calls "the people I used to be".  In September I'll hit my Chiron return, which means that if I've learned the lessons from the past, I'll be able to move forward into that which I've been imagining for the past decade.  After all I've experienced in the past four years in particular, I'm hopeful that will be the case.  In any event, I'm working toward being a different kind of teacher, allowing the writer in me to move forward and stand side-by-side with the instructor.  For it's in these quiet moments alone in my creativity that I find the greatest solace.  Perhaps then I'll be able to let go of my tendency to have a response for everything and simply listen for the answer inherent in my students' questions.

Yes, I'm an outgoing introvert, but I'm also shifting into someone who now understands she cannot change the world, but can transform my little one day by day...quiet choice by quiet choice. 

Kitten for rent

          Kitten season is well upon us with hundreds of little ones needing forever homes in northwest Ohio.  A couple of summers ago I adopted a little sprite I named Aditi and let me tell you...if she were my first kitten, she would have been the last.  Her never-ending shenanigans were notorious for the first year and half, but she's turned out to be a most wonderful adult.  So hang in there new pet owners!  Kittenhood doesn't last for long.

          And if you're lucky, you'll end up with a cat who just might melt your heart...and can write a funny little blog, too!

Kitten for rent

Originally published on January 31, 2014

Hi, I'm Aditi!  My mom is beat after a long week of 18 hour days in her office so she asked me to write this week-end's blog.  I'm pretty young and can't get the hang of this keyboard, so let me be brief:

Kitten for Rent

Cute and feisty black, short hair kitten for rent.

For an hour.

For a day.

For a week.

Rates are variable, depending on length of stay.

Mom says to make sure you know the following guidelines:

1.  I like to jump into things like full laundry baskets, garbage cans, a sink.  I even tried to get into the oven once when she was baking cookies.

2.  I like to escape out of open doors, so you have to come and go quickly!  Who cares if it's minus seven degrees outside!  There were snow drifts to climb and I have a built-in fur coat.

3.  I can teach your other pets things like how to open the dryer door and climb on the precarious edges of cornices. 

4.  I eat like a horse and complain mightily if I don't get fed on time.  My specialty is chewing computer cords until Mom gives up and gets out the catnip so I'll take a nap.

5.  I am an insatiable playmate and will keep you up until all hours of the night as I gallop through your house.

6.  I don't sleep through the night.  Well...that's not entirely true.  Since Mom brought me home last July, I slept through the night FOUR times!  

7.  I am extremely curious.  Mom says I must be on my seventh life by now.

8.  I'm a real handful, but lots of fun.  I love to cuddle when I'm tired, but when I'm not, look out!

9.  Dog owners: I met my first dog this week and while I was startled at first, I wasn't too intimidated to corner him in the basement and wouldn't let him up the stairs.  He was six times bigger than me, but what does that matter?  I can hold my own...always.

Mom says that rates are variable, but she'll pay you whatever you want at this point.  All she wants is good night's sleep.  She thinks I'll grow out of it as I get bigger.  Tee hee!  Little does she know my biorhythms don't work that way.  I love the night life.

Oh wait...here she comes!  What's that, Mom?  Oh...sorry, but she says to scrap the whole thing 'cause she'd miss me too much.  I think she knows I'm "Kate in a Kitten Suit" and the result of her mother saying, "Oh, how I wish you'll have a daughter like you someday."

Isn't karma great?

Sister Catherine kicks the habit

          While on a quick jaunt at the Home Depot to pick up some paint, the man behind the counter overheard a conversation I was having with a young girl.  She was giving her mother a hard time while we were waiting for our paint to mix, so I cajoled her into telling me all about the color she had just chosen that would soon grace the walls of her bedroom.

"I really want pink, but I have to get purple," the girl said glumly.

"Purple's more soothing," replied her mother.  "You'll calm down and sleep better."

I nodded.  "My bedroom was a cool green when I little."

"Green's my favorite color!" the girl piped up.

"Mine, too!"  After discovering she was heading into second grade, I winked at her.  "I used to teach first graders!"

"Yeah?"

"Yep," I nodded. "And my aunt was a teacher, too...she even had a purple bathtub in her classroom where the kids could curl up and read."            

The man behind the counter handed me my can of paint along with a couple of small stirring sticks.  "Good luck with your project," he said.  "And since I hear you're a teacher, take one of these."  He handed me a longer stick.  "Just in case you need to use it."

It took me a moment to realize what he meant, then I shook my head and frowned.  "Oh, I'd never use this on my kids!"

He grinned.  "Well, maybe for your husband then."

I just laughed and wished the girl and her mother good luck with her new room.

As I walked away I thought about all the challenging situations I've had to deal with this week, the businesses who have been less than professional, the neighbors who have shot off fireworks until my nerves were shot.  In another lifetime I might have channeled a nasty nun wielding a ruler like the ones in my friends' horror stories, but these days I'm finding there are better ways to express myself. 

When I was a Senior I was voted second most likely to become a nun...and I'm not even Catholic.  There were days when I couldn't walk down the halls of Bowsher High School without being called Sister Catherine at least once.  I was a square, a bookworm, and the person everyone wanted as their study partner the night before an English exam.  And even though I had friends who were boys, I never had a boyfriend.  Still, I did hide myself in loose clothes that resembled a habit:  tent dresses or jumpers or baggy Forenza sweaters...and I suppose nobody wanted to date a girl who wore stuff like that.

 As the resident goody-goody, I went to church every Sunday and taught Bible School in the summer.  I sang in the choir and attended Youth Group every week.  In private I could be a hellion in the first degree, but to the world at large I tried to live up to what most people thought of me and never raised my voice, never started an argument, was always agreeable, deferring to the needs and desires of others.

As a teacher I tried to set a good example for my kids.  I modulated my voice, modeled kind behavior, and always used good manners.  And yet, after eleven years in the classroom, it was getting increasingly more difficult to set the real Kate aside every time I stood up as Miss Ingersoll in front of my kids.  I never faked it, but I often pretended away who I really was out of the necessity of decorum or responsibility.  Once I started taking better care of myself, everything eventually changed.  It was time to hang up my denim jumpers (yes, I was still wearing them) and dive into an unknown existence as a writer and yoga instructor.

When I started teaching yoga in 1999, I was often introduced to people thus:  "This is Kate my guru" or "This is Kate...she does yoga!"  Yoga wasn't the hot commodity it is today and I was regularly considered to be a nut or a novelty by people who didn't know me very well.  But those who did lovingly said, "It's nice to know you do yoga, but also have problems like the rest of us."  

"Oh, yes," I'd reply.  "Yoga gave me a whole new way of being."

But as I've mentioned in other blogs, there are still those who think that because I've been practicing for so long, because I'm a vegan, or because I meditate, I should always be peaceful, always loving, always kind and gentle and forgiving.  I might not be called Sister Catherine anymore, but Yoga Kate can still carry the same connotation.

Well, if those folks lived with me for a week, they'd be in for a big surprise.

This summer I'm revisiting the wonderful BBC series "Call the Midwife."  Set in an Anglican nunnery in the late 1950's, this delightful show blends the lives of bright-eyed young women and seasoned sisters of the cloth who work side by side delivering babies all over the Poplar district in London.  While I admire Sister Julienne, the calm, cool, and collected mother superior, my favorite character is salty Sister Evangelina who tells it like it is and whose bawdy antics often make me laugh until my sides hurt.

She's seen enough to know how to relate to the poor in her district, but is never at a loss for words or kindness in the face of adversity.  I'm not so sure Sister Evangelina would slap someone with a ruler, but she's hit the mark with many of her acerbic comments that tell the truth yet also try to mask her tender heart.  No wonder I perk up every time she's in a scene, for I've finally figured out that's not the only thing we have in common. 

I may not wear a habit, but I've had a bad habit of keeping my deepest feelings hidden, particularly the ones that are the most vulnerable or uncomfortable.  It's only been in recent months that I can be honest with myself about how I really feel in the moment without trying to minimize or justify it...and sharing my feelings with others has certainly taken some practice.  Somehow it doesn't matter what's going on in my heart.   My head always wants to take over so it can analyze and proselytize and compromise by short-changing my emotions through intellect. 

These days it never works for long...and I'm infinitely thankful that I no longer wish to "yoga" or "meditate" my feelings away.  Those can be wonderful tools in helping me move through them, but I've learned that pushing something aside instead of really seeing it for what it is and how it can open me up is simply another form of denial.

And I've denied myself enough for a dozen lifetimes. 

A couple of weeks ago I dreamt that I was getting ready to go out to dinner with a man who was waiting in my living room.  It's not like me at all to be late for anything...or to be unprepared while someone else has to bide their time.  So as I hurriedly searched through my closet for something to match the denim jumper I was wearing, I hastily snatched a green fleece vest from its hanger.  It was much too large, so I walked out to give it to Mr. Dinner Date.

"Do you want this?" I asked.  "It's too big for me now."

He tried it on and it fit perfectly.  "It's summertime," he said.  "I don't know when I'd wear it."

"You could save for when you go running this winter," I suggested.

He smiled.  "Okay." 

I headed back to my bedroom and tried on a blouse with a Peter Pan collar, then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  "Oh, man!" I sighed, looking down at my clothes.  "I look just like a nun!  I don't wear stuff like this anymore!"  Without hesitation I tossed the blouse and jumper on the floor and slipped on a pair of straight-leg jeans, a tank top, and a green and blue gauzy top.

When I woke up moments later, the dream wasn't lost on me at all.  I do tend to keep the best of my emotions close to the vest, and now they've grown too big for me to keep for just myself.  Perhaps by sharing them with another, I might just find the right fit.  Mr. Dinner Date may turn out to be the male version of Cinderella, but instead of donning a glass slipper, he might be running around this winter, warm and well-loved.

In any case, I find that all these years later, I'm still peeling off the layers of modest, yet outdated Sister Catherine, kicking the old habit of keeping my feelings hidden, and wondering where all of this might lead.  And yet, an endearing conversation from "Shakespeare in Love" keeps echoing in my head, one that reminds me of the often-bumpy road-less-traveled that I've traversed for more than fifteen years.

Theater owner Philip Henslowe tells his benefactor, "Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about theater business.  The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster."

Mr. Fennyman asks, "So what do we do?"

"Nothing," Henslowe replies.  "Strangely enough, it all turns out well."

"How?"

"I don't know...it's a mystery."       

Losing my mind...finding my soul

"Losing my mind...finding my soul"

Originally published on April 22, 2014

I'm really struggling with writing a synopsis for SEVEN GENERATIONS this morning.  The old one I used to pitch to literary agencies feels stale and stiff.  The one I edited last week doesn't work either as it's too wordy and watery.  I can't find the right tenor, the most accurate way to describe a novel that reflects the experience of a woman who struggles with ongoing feelings of abandonment and rejection.  Who pushes through to the other side, albeit while making choices some might think are simultaneously reckless and circumspect.   

How to find the right words that describe one ordinary woman's journey into consciousness?  Ten years after writing this one, you'd think I'd have a grip on it by now.

But no.

For years my dear friend and former teaching colleague, Sandy, traveled every summer and I was fortunate enough to take care of her house and yard, which included a gorgeous circular in-ground pool.  For over a decade I spent many wonderfully warm afternoons hanging out in her backyard.  Floating in the pool.  Editing early drafts of my novels.  Wondering when my life would start moving forward.

Still for much of that time, I felt like I was losing my mind...literally.  I was in flux between teaching first grade and building a yoga business.  In the middle of ending therapy and beginning a different way of being.  To help the process along, every summer I'd schedule a series of Rolfing sessions.  During the time between putting the dates in my planner and actually getting on the table to endure the often painful work of transformation, my psyche always seemed to split wide open and out poured a host of unresolved personal issues.  Cyclic relationships ramped up their drama.  I became bored with everything I knew to be true...everything that was slowly, but surely revealing itself to be an illusion.  

One year I turned into a complete klutz and within a few weeks' time, fell down the stairs, fell out of a headstand onto a concrete floor, then fell off a ladder while cleaning the gutters.  I didn't sleep or eat well for long periods of time.  Teaching yoga was often an agony and I couldn't clearly articulate what I was enduring.  At one point out of frustration, I said to my Rolfer, "It's like my body feels as if someone rearranged all the furniture in my living room without telling me and I'm walking around in the dark in an unfamiliar space."

Tony nodded.  "That sounds about right.  When you're ready to get rolfed all your stuff comes up from the center of your spine so I can see it."

"Well, if you can see it, let's go to work," I replied.  "Turn the lights on, will you?"

With every Rolfing session, I got better.   Became more integrated.  Was able to move forward with calm assurance that the inner psychic housecleaning was worth what had been hiding beneath the layers of dust and dirt.\Every summer I returned to the Rolfing table while Sandy traveled.  Every season a horrible blessing of going through a dark tunnel, not knowing if I would make it to the other side.  But I always did.  And by the time Sandy returned, we had lots to share about our journeys-- both inner and outer.

Once, after a trip to Custar State Park, Sandy returned wearing a light blue t-shirt with the quote, "Lose your mind" on the front and "Find your soul" on the back.  I loved that shirt...coveted it really.  It represented for me the jewel in mining the dark recesses of my consciousness in order to be able to hear my soul speaking more clearly.

Sandy wore her shirt through the last years of her teaching career.    Through the first few years of retirement.  Through her plans for moving to Alberta, Canada.  Through the sifting and sorting of her own life as she prepared and packed and practiced patience while waiting for her landed immigrant status to arrive. 

As moving day approached, I was helping with the final house cleaning as new owners had just closed on their escrow.  Sandy stuffed a box into the trunk of her car, then turned to me.  "I have something for you."  And with that she came back into the house and went into her bedroom.  Moments later she returned with the "Lose your mind" t-shirt.  "I've made it to my journey now," she smiled.  "It's time you had this."

Gratefully accepting it, I wore the shirt during my own transition from Ohio to California.  I wore it as a work shirt when I hoed and weeded in the gardens at Esalen.  And when I returned, I wore it to practice yoga and when I sat in silent meditation.  Every autumn, I carefully fold the shirt and store it with my spring and summer clothes. 

Just last Sunday night, after a warm Easter evening, I went downstairs to pull it from the bin to wear as a night shirt.  For weeks, I have been feeling my inner moorings shift and the untethering of my mind.  Of course, Rolfing sessions have been scheduled for July so this is no surprise.  Still, I'm familiar with the process of losing my mind.  Now, at this point in my life, finding my soul is something more important to focus on as I once again navigate the murky waters of unseen changes.  

Sandy and I had lost touch over the winter as she's been traveling to places here, there, and everywhere and I've been writing and teaching and learning lessons of my own.  Still I felt Sandy's presence in that shirt, in the awareness of how much she's been a witness to the past twenty-six odd years.  Who has given me the space and support to continue this journey of discovery.  So I wasn't surprised at all to find a long and lovely email from her in my inbox on Monday morning.  Perhaps tangible things can more readily send a prayer of love to a friend...a thought of Thanksgiving for someone who's touched my life in ways I cannot clearly articulate.

So maybe that's why I'm having trouble writing Grace's synopsis today.  I'm not quite sure how creating her story has changed my life or allowed me to integrate more fully the healing of past hurts.  The opening of new doors of awareness.

Maybe I need to not think about it for a while...to lose my pre-conceived ideas of what it's supposed to be.  How it's supposed to sound.  What it's supposed to convey.  To let my mind relax and simply enjoy this lovely spring day.  

To trust that when I'm meant to find the words, my soul will wisely whisper them into my ear. 

         

         

         

With Sandy on a trip to Yellowstone National Park, 2010

          

A writer's "roots"

          Last week I was perusing the DVD's at my local library when I came across the 30th Anniversary Edition of "Roots."  Remembering the first time I watched the mini-series, I was eager to revisit the multi-generational story of Alex Haley's family traced to Kunte Kinte, his grandfather six generations back, who was captured in Africa and sold into slavery.  Mesmerized by the multitude of ways the writing and acting has stood the test of time, I also had visceral memories of watching the show as a child and how it positively influenced me on a very profound level.  Lessons that, to this day, continue to evolve as life brings me ever-changing opportunities to deepen my awareness.

          I was thinking last night that roots are not only through bloodlines, but also heart lines as well.  I became the person I am today through the influence of a host of people, many of whom I write about in the "Planting the Seeds" chapter in my memoir.  Not all family members, their presence in my childhood modeled for me a love of reading, writing, and language that I am proud to embody today. 

          So here are my writing "roots"...and long over-due thanks to those who helped me carve out a path to the life I'm now creating.

Victor Miller, maternal grandfather

            Kudos to Pa-Pal for creating his own language full of babbling that often bubbled over with my name so that I'd stay interested enough to try and figure out what the story was about.  He kept my sisters and me enthralled with a host of "Pa-Pal Adventures."  And I loved to listen to him read us stories from start to finish and then back for another round.  From Pa-pal I learned that re-reading a book allows me to enjoy it that much more!

 John Ingersoll, paternal grandfather

            Granddaddy's rec room had shelves and shelves of books from Shakespeare to Andy Rooney.  Whenever we'd come for a visit (after sitting on his lap for a while), I'd peruse his vast library and always learn something new.  It was from Granddaddy that I developed a love of all things diverse and expansive.  I am overjoyed to have inherited his leather-bound copies of the sonnets and several Shakespearean plays...along with his appreciation for wit and dry humor.  

My mother

            An avid reader, Mom always had a book (or two) in progress and filled our family room with stacks of magazines ranging from Reader's Digest to Tennis.  From Better Homes and Gardens to Family Circle.  She taught me how to use her old Smith Corona when I was in second grade and encouraged my love of typing by giving me boxes of note cards and old envelopes.   A word-enthusiast, Mom can do a crossword faster than anyone I know and always knows how to find the right word for the right occasion.  From her I learned the didactic use of vernacular (and even called her once to define those words in context).

Joyce Kurtz-Yarnell, 7th Grade Language Arts teacher

Editor for Open Road:  a life worth waiting for

            If you've read my memoir, you already know how influential Joyce has been in my life, both as an avid lover of metaphor and as an eagle-eye editor.  From her very first lesson, she engaged me in the inner exploration of how books can open doors for self-awareness and integration.  No wonder I was blessed to have her serendipitously enter my life as I began to write the first draft of what would become Open Road.

Mr. John Beck (second row, first picture), English teacher, freshman year of high school

            All hail to Mr. Beck for his stringent teaching methods that had his students memorizing parts of speech, lists of prepositions (I can still name them all) and then reciting them verbatim.  Mr. Beck would ask, "How long will you remember that, Miss Ingersoll?"  The proper response was, "'Til the day I die, sir."

            We read To Kill a Mockingbird and I was enthralled by the way Mr. Beck made Boo Radley come alive as he read passages to us.  He taught me how to diagram sentences until my eyes blurred.  But the best moment came the day after winter break when Mr. Beck said to us in his ominous monotone, "I have spent the better part of the year teaching you all the rules of grammar."  He lifted a brow mischievously.  "Now I will teach you how to break them for effect."

            To this day, every single time I sit down to write, I thank Mr. Beck for his attention to detail and his ability to set my writing maverick's heart afire. 

Mrs. Frankel, English and Speech teacher, Sophomore year of high school

            Mrs. Frankel taught me the meaning of "stalwart" when I took her speech class as the only girl in a sea of Junior and Senior football players who wanted nothing more than to sleep after lunch instead of working on their oratory skills.  Hilarious and often anti-establishment, Mrs. Frankel introduced me to Shakespeare and encouraged me to embrace the idea that being another version of "Kate" in "The Taming of the Shrew" was something to proudly celebrate.

            "No one can bend you to their will unless you let them," she often reminded me.  Wise words to ponder as I venture into the publishing world this year.

Miss Elizabeth Papps (top row, third picture), Honors English teacher, Senior year of high school

            Miss Papps began every 8:00 AM class with open-ended journaling which taught me how to keep writing even when I was stuck.  When I had nothing to say.  When I was frustrated with syntax and jargon.  When I didn't feel like writing. 

            She told us on the first day of school, "At the end of this quarter all of you will receive a 'C,' so don't worry about failure."  I was used to getting "A's" in English, so this horrified me.  I soon learned that the "C" was a generous gift as she was uncommonly hard on all of us in her honors class.  But her diligence in making me work harder helped me clean up some awful writing habits and earn a year's worth of college English in the process when I took the A.P. test in the spring. 

            I still have some of the papers I wrote that year which earned me a "5" (the equivalent to an "A") and am more proud of them than anything else I accomplished in high school.  Miss Papps passed away a few years ago, and I'm sorry I was never able to thank her for her profound influence in my life.  But I imagine she's still out there somewhere encouraging others to better themselves in order to better their prospects in life and within their own spirits.

My first grade class, Greenwood Elementary 1994-95

            If a teacher is blessed to have a magical class in their career, I can't imagine it would be better than this group of wise and winsome souls I had the pleasure of teaching twenty years ago.  They were so sharp and savvy, I had to throw out everything I knew about instruction and discover new ways of encouraging them to "show what they know" and continue developing their skills as lifetime learners. 

            Oddly enough, it was this class that silently revealed the awareness that I didn't want to spend my whole career as a classroom teacher because, through their influence, I was able to tap into my own spirit and began writing short stories.  It would take four more years to find the courage to move into the unknown and work toward a career as a novelist and writer, but these kids set me on the path to freedom. 

            On the last day of school, I asked them to tell me things they had learned that year and once everyone had their turn, Kaitlin asked, "What have you learned, Miss Ingersoll?"

            "Oh, too much to say now," I said, tears standing in my eyes.  "I learned so much from all of you."

            "I know," she said gently.  "We taught you how to listen to your heart."

           

Kinga, my dear friend at Esalen Institute, 2007

            Kinga and I met in Big Sur in the summer of 2006 and spent a wonderful Wednesday night chatting in lodge about writing and the process I had endured in trying to find an agent but to no avail.  She was captivated when I told her the plotline for my first novel and encouraged me to continue trying. 

            "You're meant to be published, Katie," she smiled.  "Just give it time."

            "I've given it over a decade," I said sadly.

            "Time doesn't matter when it's real," she replied.

            Thanks for helping me keep it real, Kinga...then, now, and always.

All the children in my life, past, present, and future

            You're the ones who've modeled for me the joy of being alive.  Of telling the truth.  Of giving me the opportunity to live with integrity so that I can write from the heart.  You've listened to me read thousands of books with expression.  You laughed out loud when I read Junie B. Jones.  Cried when I read the final pages of Charlotte's Web.  And encouraged me to keep honing my skills as a storyteller and novelist.

            Each one of you has been a gift and a blessing and I hope to pass on a love of reading.  A love of writing.  And a love of language....so that you can live out your own story with grace and hope and truth.

            May you live it well.