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.

Freestyle

Earlier this morning I swam up from sleep remembering a vivid moment from my days at Esalen Institute.  I was standing just outside the greenhouse shielding my eyes from the sun rising over the Sierra Mountains.  The air was thick and humid as I had just watered all of the seedlings which had not quite poked their heads above the soil.  My friend, Benoit, was tying up tomatoes we had planted weeks before, so I joined him and we talked until it was time to go to Dance Church.

Every Sunday morning after a cup of coffee in the lodge, I walked next door where a group of us gathered to dance the day into being.  Whenever J.J. was the D.J., I made it a point to get there early, kick off my shoes, and eagerly listen while J.J. sampled music that he would be playing during our time together.  He had the most eclectic mix of ethnic, multi-cultural, and Eurasian CD's which filled the air with harmonies I had never heard before. 

On one particular morning, I was dancing by myself in the corner while everyone else swirled and wove their way around the room.  It's not that I wanted to be anti-social; I simply wanted some space to myself before I went back to work in the garden.  Completely entranced by the music, I closed my eyes and moved my body in whatever way it led me.  That's was the whole point of Dance Church:  to freestyle and free up our bodies for a brand new day.

Afterward, while I pulled on my work boots, one of the women I knew well came over and whispered, "I love to watch you dance, Katie.  It's so hypnotic."

I looked up at Bianka and smiled.  "Really?"

"Yes," she nodded.  "Just like the way you tend the flower gardens.  There's a rhythm to everything you do."

As I walked back to the greenhouse, I thought about what she said.  While I tended the chickens and thinned out the seedlings and hoed the chard, I noticed there was indeed a gentle cadence to the way I moved my feet, my hands, my entire body.  I felt strong and steady, flexible and flowing.  Even now I'm infinitely grateful for Bianka's kindness in mirroring for me something I might have missed had I not allowed myself to dance in front of people.

And I'm infinitely thankful for the year I spent in Big Sur which grounded me in my body in ways I can't quite explain.

These days I'm pretty stable.  I lift weights and run and practice yoga nearly every day.  I no longer fall down the stairs (or up them for that matter, as I used to do in my years pre-Esalen).   While I prefer to be barefoot, I'm perfectly content wearing a host of footwear that reflects the life I'm now leading.  I've kept my gardening boots from Esalen, but rarely wear them as I prefer to don flip-flops in the backyard while I weed and prune and water.

Yet with springtime still more than a month away, I've put my flip-flops to good use this winter.  In January, I learned how to freestyle and spend a few days a week practicing in the indoor pool at the gym.  Usually I'm a pretty quick study when it comes to new patterns of movement, but I have to say, I'm struggling with this one.  I can backstroke and sidestroke and breaststroke.  I'm not afraid of putting my face in the water or diving deep for that matter.  With my nifty goggles I can even open my eyes and not worry about drowning my contacts in the chlorinated water.  I've got the form of freestyle down, no problem.

It's the breathing pattern that's got me skunked.

I find it's easy to either be completely submerged beneath the surface or float on top, but to find the balance between the two has been an ongoing challenge, for I'm afraid of breathing in a wave of water instead of a quick intake of air.  It doesn't help when I'm in the lane next to a swimmer who slaps the water with their arms as they move past, making waves and splashing my face just as I turn my head to breathe.  The other night I was surrounded by men who were all moving at a different pace, and no matter how hard I tried, their often-overlapping wakes rocked my body from side to side and it was hard to stay afloat, let alone breathe.

So I did what I usually do when I don't want to get out of the pool, but I also don't want to be affected by someone else's momentum:  I dove deep and channeled my inner mermaid, eventually increasing my lung capacity to cross the length of the pool in two breaths.

Still, that doesn't do much for helping me get the rhythm of freestyling.

All of this has got me thinking about the times when I've been either in the game of life or out of it.  Actually, on any given day I can be completely submerged in my spirituality through writing or yoga or diving deep into my subconscious through dreamwork and other forms of meditation.  Then, in the blink of an eye, I'm out and about in the world, teaching or running errands or spending time with friends.  Actually, I find it's pretty easy to slip in and out of the pool of life, never missing a beat...or a breath.  So I've often wondered why it's so hard to strike a balance between the two. 

I suppose it's because I'm not used to it yet. 

Since the new year began, the Universe looked down on me and said, "Kate...it's your turn to be happy."   I've been given a host of opportunities to learn, grow, and move forward, many of them being completely foreign, yet completely welcome.  I'm still trying to find my feet in many ways, but I've learned, that like the seedlings in the Esalen greenhouse, I can't expect them to sprout overnight.  After all, growing strong roots is essential to creating a stable structure later on, and I've learned that anything worth having is worth waiting for.

In the meantime, I'm not pushing the river (or the pool water) when it comes to learning freestyle swimming, for I've decided to walk my talk and take it one stroke at a time.  I always tell new yoga students, "Don't worry about the breathing patterns just yet.  Learn the physical movement and trust that the breath will come along in time when it's ready."

So these days when I get in the pool, I do what comes naturally.  I backstroke and breaststroke and sidestroke to get a rhythm going.  Eventually I practice my freestyle form, stopping when I need a breath and taking my time with the process.  Usually I let it go after a few laps and just go under to feel myself completely surrounded by the peace and silence of the water.

But in the end, I always finish floating, resting my head and arms on a kickboard.  It's then that I remember all those mornings in Dance Church and allow myself to be carried by the rhythm of my breath while I feel the waves of all the other swimmers gently move my body from side to side.  What an amazing thing to know that I can let go into that space of being balanced between water and air...between myself and others.

Between heaven and earth.

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."