An Easter Story

An Easter Story

Originally published on March 25, 2016

It's Good Friday, one of the most sacred days on the Christian calendar, but when I was a child I couldn't understand why it was named thus.  Why would a day when a holy man was crucified be called "good"?  Where was the logic in that?  Over time I came to understand that Jesus lived an incredible example by His incomparable courage in the Garden of Gethsemane, His calm forbearance of the betrayal of His friends, and the ultimate acceptance of His death, all of which were gateways to His subsequent resurrection.

As an adult, I've reframed Holy Week as a time not only for honoring events from the distant past, but also bringing to light what I need to learn in the present.  Now I fully accept that any rebirth in my life can only come through enduring something that's been uncommonly agonizing, accepting something I can't change, surrendering to the unknown, and ultimately trusting that even though I might lie in darkness for a while, Light always comes afterward.

When I was fourteen my life was in shambles.  Even though I was a straight "A" student, sang in musicals, participated in church events, and put on a brave face in public, I was also struggling with anorexia nervosa, chronic anxiety, and a budding addiction to over-the-counter stimulants that kept me awake at all hours so I wouldn't have to endure repetitious night terrors.   When I was in school, I could channel my nervous energy:  I helped my teachers after hours.  I rehearsed for plays and choir concerts.  I edited the yearbook  well after dark so I wouldn't have to go home and face another dinner that ultimately went to waste on my plate.

By the time summer rolled around, I was frantic.   Now where could I hide?  Most of the time, when I wasn't riding my bike or running at the park, I cocooned myself in the cool, dark basement, reading encyclopedias and paperback novels.  I hid my body in baggy clothes.  Hid my food in napkins, then deposited it into the trash when my mother wasn't looking.  Hid myself as best as I could, all the while knowing that no matter what, there would always be something wrong with me.

When we went on our annual beach vacation that year, it was a relief to spend most of the day outdoors, body surfing, building sandcastles, and crabbing in the lagoons around Kiawah Island.  But at night, I still couldn't sleep, couldn't stop wondering if anyone could really understand how it felt to be trapped in a body I hated.

On Friday, the last day of our vacation, I left the villa after dinner, telling my mother I was going for a run up the beach.  She didn't try to stop me, but her disconcerting look was code for don't you want to be with your family?  "We're going to play cards tonight, " she said.  "Don't you want to join us?"

"Maybe," I shrugged.

But I didn't. 

I'd rather run as fast as my legs could carry me to the south end of the beach where the inlet curled around the island and high tide often came in with pods of dolphin.  So I laced up my shoes and stepped out into the muggy southern air, both happy to be by myself and desperate for something I couldn't quite explain.  After running a mile up the coast, I started crying.  Tears fell down my face, blurring my vision, but I didn't care.  By the time I reached the edge of the island, I was physically, mentally, and emotionally spent.

I'm so tired of living like this, I thought, peeling off my shoes and tossing them near a sand dune.  As I walked in the sea foam that ebbed and flowed along the shoreline, I continued my silent conversation.   I can't live like this anymore.  I don't know where I belong.  I don't know who I am.  So God, please send me a sign that You hear me.  Please show me I'm not alone.  Please...I'm begging you.

For a while I stood and watched the sky, looking for a rainbow or a sundog or maybe even some God rays shimmering through the clouds.  But the sky was clear, the sun was sinking, and time was running out.  Looking back on that moment, I know I was desperate enough to walk into the ocean and let it claim me.  But I was also hopeful enough that my silent prayer would be answered, so I walked to the edge of the inlet and sat down, dipping my feet into the cool current.   For a long time I sat in silence, watching the waves, looking for dolphin, waiting for a sign.  There was nothing to buoy my faith.

Until I looked down. 

In the time I had been sitting there, the tide had gently washed away the sand and right next to me emerged a large, lovely conch shell.  I picked it up, then rinsed it in the cool water beneath my feet.  Turning it over to see if it was home for a little sea creature, I found that it housed a completely different kind of miracle.  For there, plain as day, embedded in a lush, lovely background of crimson and ginger was a bright, white cross.  I cradled the shell in my hands while I watched the horizon as the sun set behind the dunes.  The sky turned peachy pink, mirroring the interior of the precious gift I had just been given, mirroring a place that had miraculously opened up inside of me.

Then I walked back to the villa and into the rest of my childhood.

I kept the shell for almost two decades.  It sat on my bedside table all through high school.  It traveled back and forth to Miami through four years of college.  It was a harbinger of courage when I moved out on my own at twenty-one and rented a little apartment in Troy, Ohio where I felt like an adult for the first time in my life.  It was a talisman I held onto eight years later when I finally began to unravel the unhealthy motivations beneath my workaholism, eating disorders, and inability to have a meaningful relationship.  The shell more than buoyed my faith; it was a miracle that kept me mindful of the fact that I was never alone, never truly hopeless, never unloved.

When I turned thirty I knew that I no longer needed the shell to remind me of who I am or where I belong, so I gave it to one of my first grade students who was traveling to the Carolinas with his family that summer.  I asked Andy to throw the shell back into the sea, to return it to the place where it had found me sitting on the shoreline, lost and alone.  I knew that someday someone else would need to find it, just as I had all those years ago. 

Earlier this week I was running, and out of the blue, tears started to fall.  It's not been the easiest month and I've done a lot of soul searching about many things.  Why I seem to live a cyclical life.  Why I often make the same choices, albeit for different reasons.  I've had to surrender a lot of what I thought I wanted in order to accept what is, and I don't much like it.  But who does?  We've all got our proverbial crosses to bear and this year, I've discovered that I'm finally ready to put mine down, to allow a part of myself to die to the dreams I once had so that I can be reborn into a something new. 

I just made the difficult decision to delete a novel I started writing three years ago, a fifth book in a series, for it reminds me too much of a past I've already healed, and I no longer want to write about characters who have long since been put to rest.   I've been watchful for what will fill this void in my life, this place that was once occupied by drama and unrest and most recently by long nights lying awake in bed, waiting for a sign of things to come.

I didn't have to wait long.

A few days ago, I spent a glorious afternoon in my garden.  The trellises were anchored, the flower pots set on the porch to welcome the warm, spring rain.  The backyard swing was put back together so it can be ready for long, lazy summer afternoons, and the raised bed has been prepped for planting.  While I was raking some leaves out of one the beds, I found something that had gone missing a couple of years ago, a stone I had found on the beach in Big Sur on a gorgeous Friday in September, a speckled gray rock with a lovely white cross in the middle which has become an anchor in my garden and a reminder of quiet miracles

With every yoga class I teach, I'm reminded that even our human bodies create a cross, the most ancient of holly symbols. If we hold out our arms, they become the horizontal line; the space from the crown of our head to our feet, the vertical.  Where they intersect is in the heart, the place where everything begins and ends, the place of healing and love and grace.

And if we allow it, the place of infinite peace.

Kiss my bass

I like to do things my own way.  I suppose it comes naturally, for my mother often lamented about how stubborn I was once I learned to speak.  I had a temper, too, and combined with pigheadedness, it made for a volatile concoction.  Still, having been a strong-willed child served me well when I taught preschool children and habitually heard the mantra, “NO!  I do it myself!”  Understanding that independence is a trait to be encouraged with small children, I stood back and watched while they struggled with tying their shoes or zipping their coats. Eventually, they mastered those seemingly simple tasks and learned that small successes meant a lot, especially when perseverance was part of the process.

Even now, I still like to go my own way.  As an adult, I don’t ignore advice from trusted friends; I simply filter their subjective counsel and apply what works.  Over the years of giving requested guidance myself, I know that I can talk until I’ve exhausted every avenue of advice, but in the end, people are going to do exactly what they want.  Still, I respect that, for no matter what anyone else says, in the end I’m going to do what I feel is best for me, too.

Take learning to fish, for example.  My significant other has been an avid fisherman for decades, but I hadn’t a clue how to cast a line, let alone reel one in until we started dating.  A couple of years ago, Steve took me to a local park where he hooked a bluegill, then handed me the pole saying, “You bring it in, Kate.”  He gave me pointers about how to avoid the reeds so I wouldn’t break the line and how to give the fish a little slack when it struggled so I wouldn’t lose it.  It was fun, but not as entertaining as watching me…or so Steve said on the way home.

In the summer of 2017, we spent a week at Posey Lake which is filled with all kinds of fish --  bluegills and walleye, trout and crappie, but mostly bass.  Smallmouth, largemouth, white, striped, and spotted, bass is plentiful if you know where to look…and Steve intuitively knew exactly where to find them.  Every morning he took the boat out before sunrise and returned mid-morning with a bucket filled with fish.  One afternoon while relaxing on the dock, I noticed burbling in the water.

“Look, honey,” I pointed.  “Is that a school of fish?”

Steve squinted in the sunlight.  “It’s bass…that’s for sure.”  Then he showed me how to cast my line using a floppy rubber worm.  “Come get in the boat and practice casting overhead, Kate,” he told me.  “Aim for the bubbles.”

After Steve headed for the house, I switched tactics and cast the line off to the side, finding I had much better control, landing the worm exactly where I had aimed.  Cast after cast after cast, I hit the mark dead on, but alas…didn’t hook a fish.  Fifteen minutes later I was still practicing, but boredom slowly crept in.  Steve sat in the distance, talking on the phone while I scanned the nearby water in search of movement.  Suddenly I saw a ripple in the distance and cast my line, not how Steve had taught me, but how I had figured it out for myself.  Sure enough, a fish tugged on the worm and I hooked him.

“Steve!” I shouted.  “STEVE!  I got one!”  Reeling it in as best as I could, it was difficult to keep the line tight with the bass thrashing and fighting the hook.

Moments later, Steve jumped in the boat, shouting, “Point the tip up so you don’t break the pole.”

“Hurry…get the net!” I shouted back, elated to have finally caught one all by myself. 

Steve took a picture of me with my first catch.  “That’s a respectable bass.  Good job, Kate.”

Alas…the victory was short lived.  After casting out a while longer, I soon lost interest.  “Catch one and I’m done,” I laughed, handing him the pole so I could go hiking.

As you can see, I’m not what you’d call an avid fisherwoman.

When I turned fifty time became more precious.  A lot of women have told me that there’s a freedom in aging because we no longer feel we have to answer to everybody else, that our life becomes more about what we want to create for ourselves.  Lately, growing older has shown me the value in doing things my own way all of these years.  Sure, I’ve made mistakes and I’ve suffered the consequences of stubbornly sticking to my guns.  But in the end, I wouldn’t change a thing.

It’s rewarding to know that all of the difficult choices I’ve made have given me the confidence to keep growing…and catch a fish or two along the way. 

Inside out

Inside out

Originally published on June 27, 2013

  I have a decision to make.  It's not important to give you the details, but suffice it to say, I've lost some sleep over this one.  While not earth shattering or difficult, it would be joyfully life changing if I tipped the scales in one direction.  And yet, if I leave well enough alone, life would still be comfortable.  For now, I'm sitting in the middle of two realities, both of which are desirable.  It's in moments like this that I have the opportunity to walk my talk.  To sit back and detach.  To see the bigger picture, let it breathe and then when the timing is right, make my move.  

Or not. 

           

When I was younger, I needed to have all my ducks in a row -- the sooner, the better.  I made quick decisions, pivoted easily toward one direction or another and moved on.  Looking back, it's no wonder I was often faced with the same type of choice again and again.  Which job should I take?  Which group should I join?  Which person should I become involved with this time around?  I often made a choice so quickly, I missed the clarity within the details and because steps were missed, I needed to go back and retrace them in order to make more conscious assessments.

I still like to have some sense of structure in my life, but am more content to let things rise, to wait for the eggs to hatch, and to live in the mystery of "what next?"  I just came in from gardening and needed to prune back a lot of growth that's sprouted up this past week.  We've had a lot of rainfall in the Midwest and along with it, a plethora of beautiful blossoms.  The day lilies surprised me this morning, their trumpets wide open, ready to soak in the sun while it lasts.  As I was clipped errant trumpet vine that loves to gnarl its way around their long stems, I told them, "It's your turn to bloom."  For I know they only get one opportunity a year to strut their stuff and shine.  Next month the hydrangea will flourish, and then the lavender and then the sedum in August.  

Everything has its time.

The same is true for many of the choices we all must make.  Life's circumstances are often thrust upon us and we have to respond instantly -- in a traffic jam, when dealing with home repairs, or enduring power loss during a thunderstorm.  And so I find it comforting to be visited once again with a down-to-earth life decision that doesn't need immediate response, that can evolve over time.  I can sit with both sides of the coin, knowing that if I allow it, more will be revealed so that I can make a wiser choice.

One of my favorite responsibilities while working in the garden at Esalen was taking care of the chickens.  Each morning I would arrive early so I could let them scamper around the hen house with Henry, the cocky old rooster, calling the shots.  If there were any eggs laid overnight, I would carefully gather them and take them to the lodge where they would be stockpiled in the walk-in refrigerator until we had enough to feed the whole garden crew. 

In the summer, my boss allowed us to leave a few eggs in the nests and see what would happen.  We were blessed with several tiny fuzz balls that hatched, then celebrated their new life by making "bee bee bee bee bee" sounds all day long.  We were never quite sure if an egg would result in a chick, but it was always exciting to feel the anticipation as I walked through the farm and across the bridge every morning on my way to the garden to see if a new baby had arrived.  Perhaps it was then that I learned to enjoy the spaces in-between an initial intention and the providential result.

As for now, I'm content to sit in the middle.  To let things evolve.  To cradle both eggs in my hands and watch for signs of possibility and new life.  I'm curious to see which one will emerge first to guide me onward.

For it's in moving from the inside out that I make my best choices.

Popcorn and jellybeans

Popcorn and jellybeans

Originally published on November 6, 2014

One of the most lovely and haunting sights at the park this season is the bittersweet bursting with oranges, reds, and yellows as it finally has the opportunity to show off a little.  Autumnal weather has withered my garden and with it, my chores have changed.  No longer needing to weed and water, I've been pruning and purging and raking for the past several weeks. 

This season, I saved the biggest job for last, or rather, I waited for the bitter north winds to do half of the job for me, transforming the wild trumpet vine that grows along the backyard fence from a lush and vibrant privacy hedge into spindly twigs and woody stems.

Last year I was incredibly busy, so my neighbor, Dean, was kind enough to do the honors of taking the vine down to the studs.  This year, I repaid his kindness and did the job myself.  After two and a half days, the work is finally done, and I've said a sad good-night to my gardens which are ready to sleep the winter away until next spring.

Still, November has its charms as my favorite holiday is just around the corner.

At the grocery this past Friday I happened past an older woman who was perusing the Christmas displays.  "I'm all for getting my shopping done early," I admitted.  "But I sure do wish there was more attention paid to Thanksgiving."

"I do, too," the woman nodded.  "It seems like it's just getting swept more under the rug each year.  Too bad our culture can't take even one day to be truly thankful."

"I couldn't agree more," I smiled.

The woman patted my hand.  "It's good to see young people with that attitude," she said.  "It seems everyone nowadays is only interested in buying more of this or that instead of taking time to just enjoy what they already have."

The United States was the first country in the world to establish a national holiday to give thanks.  But it seems our country's great expectations for Thanksgiving have shifted from "Where's the turkey, stuffing, and yams?" to "How many stores are going to be opening early so I can get Black Friday deals that much earlier?"

Over the weekend I watched A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.  Curled up in bed with the electric blanket toasting my toes and a mug of hot tea on the bedside table, I had much to be thankful for already.  Yoga classes are going well.  The novel I started this fall is beginning to take shape.  My health is good.  I have a warm and comfortable home.  I'm content with who and where I am in life, so in watching this show from my past (I was only seven when it was first broadcast on CBS), it was effortless to see it from a different perspective and still enjoy the whimsical story of Charlie Brown sharing an unusual holiday dinner with his friends.              

Then and now, it's great fun to watch Snoopy commandeer the kitchen, joyfully toasting up bread and enthusiastically popping a mountain of popcorn.  When he proudly serves the non-traditional meal to a bewildered Peppermint Patty, I feel for him when she bitterly complains, "Look at this! Is this what you call a Thanksgiving day dinner?"

Of course, the message of the show is to be thankful for friends and for what we already have.  To know that our expectations of what a holiday is "supposed to look like" can't truly be met, particularly if we put no effort into the process.  And perhaps most importantly, to understand that while Norman Rockwell might have meant well, I doubt that even his family had the type of fictional holiday experiences he often painted on canvas. 

Like the wild and gnarly trumpet vine that needs a thorough pruning every autumn, my expectations of who I am and what I should be doing this time of year have had to be taken down to the studs...again and again and again.  There have been those who don't understand my choices.  Those who pity me or project how they might feel if they had to face the holiday season alone.  But I don't know any different, and over the years, I've redefined what this time of year means to me.

Last week, one of my friends asked, "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

I smiled.  "Well, I'll probably take a walk at the park and then sit in silence for a while.  I may write in my journal or do a little yoga.  Usually I think about the year gone by...and all of the things that have happened and not happened.  All of the things I have to be thankful for -- mostly the things you can't really see with your eyes."

"That's really what the day's all about, isn't it?" my friend said kindheartedly.

I don't eat a traditional Thanksgiving meal anyway...and haven't for years, so when friends invite me to their homes for dinner, I gently decline, saying I'm perfectly content to be alone.  However, I do remember a Thanksgiving meal I shared with my friend, Sandy, in the late nineties.  Colleagues at Greenwood, we had just finished the very long and tedious process of putting together the annual First Grade Feast.  The celebration went off without a hitch on Wednesday and we decided to spend a quiet day on Thanksgiving sipping tea and talking about anything but schoolwork.  Sitting in Sandy's kitchen, we watched the sunset through the darkening window.

"Do you want anything for dinner?" she asked.

The year before I had made a pot of vegetarian chili and this time it was her turn to cook, although we had been having so much fun doing nothing, the day slipped by.

"Sure...but don't bother to make anything," I said, grabbing my coat.  "Let's head over to Food Town and see what they've got left."

Fifteen minutes later we were back in her home.  Sandy enjoyed a warm and wonderful meal of turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing.  And what did I have?  A very memorable meal of baby carrots, hummus, and a little bag of chocolate-covered almonds.  It was the best Thanksgiving Feast imaginable.  At least for me.

"Spending time with good friends...and sharing a quiet day," I said, smiling at Sandy.  "This is what Thanksgiving is all about."

Sandy's since moved away, but sometimes my friend, Barb, comes over for Thanksgiving breakfast.  I'm not sure what I made the last time around, but while I'm writing this blog, a loaf of gluten-free banana bread is baking in the oven -- a test run for the big day in a couple of weeks.  I'm trying out a new brand of flour and pray the bread turns out a lot better than the hard-as-shoe-leather cookies I made a month ago that my friend ended up feeding to her dogs.  

But even if it's not perfect, I'm sure Barb won't mind.

I look forward to decorating the table with simple place settings.  Brewing a pot of tea.  Creating a light, delicious breakfast for a friend who has been a great support this past year.  We may not be sitting at a ping-pong table enjoying a plate of popcorn and jellybeans, but the sentiment will be the same.  For as Marcie said to Charlie Brown, "We should just be thankful for being together. I think that's what they mean by Thanksgiving."

So this year, I'm thankful for Dean who took the time last November to do an incredibly difficult job that made this year's fall clean-up that much easier.  I'm thankful for yoga students who grace my own house with love and light.  For my health and my pets and work that allows me to heal and become more whole.  For all the quiet, unseen aspects of my life that I no longer take for granted.

Mostly I'm thankful for my friends.  Near and far, they're all a part of my wonderfully eclectic extended family. 

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.

First memory

First Memory

from Open Road:  a life worth waiting for 

           

This is my first memory. 

It's the summer of my fourth year.  A huge truck rumbles in the driveway while I sit on the front lawn eating Oreos, twisting them apart and scraping my teeth along the white icing.  I watch my parents direct the movers who carry furniture and boxes into the truck.  Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, our next door neighbors, are nearby, watching over my sisters and me.   I'm vigilant as I observe the countless boxes that contain all of our things, wondering, "What does it mean to move away?"

It's not until we say our good-byes and I climb into my mother's car that I begin to understand.  We are leaving our little house on Richland Street in Maumee, Ohio -- forever.

"Say 'bye-bye' to the house, Katie," Mom chimes. 

I look over my shoulder and squint at its rapidly retreating silhouette.  "How come?"

"We won't live there anymore."

"Why?"

"Because we're moving to Virginia for Daddy's work."

"Why?"

"Because that's where he needs to be."

"Where's all our stuff?"

"In the van...I told you."

That night we stay in a motel and moments after being tucked into bed, the movers knock softly on our door so they can wish my sisters and me a good night.  They are kind and friendly.  I'm glad they will protect all of my toys, books, and dolls which are right there in the parking lot, tucked away in boxes we will soon open in our new house.

 Wherever we will live next, I feel more secure knowing that all of my safety nets are coming with me.

Transitions have been a part of my life since I was young.  It seems I was destined for perpetual movement since I was born in the heart of the Year of the Fire Horse.   September 9, 1966.  If my birth date is inverted, it's still the same: 9-9-66.  Either way, I'm destined to be a free spirit, uninhibited by the mores of society, by the constraints of that which my culture believes to be normal or desirable.  Like many Fire Horses, I'm independent, hardworking, and fierce enough to bounce back from all types of adversity.          

I can also be incredibly reclusive and often sensitive to over-stimulating environments, desperately needing to escape the deafening echo of senseless noise.  Having lived alone for more than twenty-five years, I know how to keep my own counsel -- particularly when surrounded by the safety nets of my books, gardens, and a variety of creative projects. 

Mine was once a life of contradictory energies, a consistent push and pull of simultaneously wanting two incongruous things, all the while recognizing that, in the end, neither is completely satisfying.  In midlife, I've come to understand the incredible power in finding the reality that is somewhere in-between.

I came to it naturally as I was born into a generation caught between the conflicting mores of the fifties and the revolution of the women's movement.  No wonder I sometimes find myself longing to have it both ways...the proverbial "having my cake and eating it, too."  Only this time, after decades of self-discovery, I now intentionally long for the decadence of a homemade vegan chocolate soufflé instead of a boxed Betty Crocker mix. 

I've learned that quality transcends quantity...every time.

My mother loved to tell a story about my sister's kindergarten woes.  An older boy waited for her at the bus stop and teased her mercilessly.  Sometimes she would come home crying; on other days, Patricia refused to ride the bus to school.  I gave her suggestions about how to get him to stop, but with no success.  One day, I asked Mom if I could go with Patricia to the bus stop and show her how to take care of the problem. 

"Don't worry, Mommy," I said.  "I'll make him stop."

When I came back home, I told my mother that the boy would never bother Patricia again. 

"What happened?" she asked.  "What did you do?"

"I told him to stop teasing my sister," I said bluntly.  "Then I kicked him in the shins."

Sure enough, from then on, Patricia could ride the bus, free from the taunts of the little boy who must have been terrified I would do worse than kick him if he ever dared to bother my sister again. 

Yes, I was sassy and I was naughty.  But I was also in need of the assertive protection I provided for my older sister.  Ironically enough, as the years went by, it was Patricia who would taunt and tease me.  And when kicking her in the shins merely earned me a spanking, I used other ways of protecting myself.

I became a master at disappearing.

Even now I love the shielding harbor of my home.  The silence of my yoga studio.  The peacefulness of an early morning spent in the garden.  When I am alone I am safe.  Safe to be all that I am...all that I've unearthed...all that still needs tilling. 

I can be more than a Fire Horse. 

More than my mother's strong-willed daughter. 

More than what this world can see.

I can be free.

Circa 1971, in the kitchen of the Richland Street house.

  

My mother's hands

I turned fifty-two a couple of weeks ago.  Like so many of my friends, I mentally feel like I'm still in my mid-thirties, but experientially, especially the past few years, my body is showing signs of aging.  My hair is streaked with more strands of white.  The lines on my face are deeper.  The weather is starting to forecast itself via old injuries.  And my hands are rapidly changing.

I've been a gardener for more than a quarter century, a knitter even longer than that.  I've spent tens of thousands of hours at the keyboard, first a typewriter, then a computer.  Now all that work is showing up as mild to moderate arthritis, especially in my right hand.  Long ago, I sat at my mother's side, massaging her sore knuckles and wrists, thinking about all the things she herself had knitted.  All the clothes she had made.  The meals she had cooked.  The flower beds she had weeded.  And I recall thinking that if I took good care of my body, if I ate well and practiced yoga, if I meditated and motivated myself to keep moving, I could avoid aging.

Now that mindset seems hilarious, if not incredibly naive.  

Five years ago I wrote an essay about my hands and included it a memoir which is no longer in print.  A nine year estrangement with my mother has ended, my life has been transformed, and I am seeing the whole of it more clearly.  Still, my hands are, now more than ever, another version of my mother's.  And that reality is still a blessing.

"My Mother’s Hands"

from Open Road: a life worth waiting for

My mother and I sit on the loveseat, watching television on a rainy Saturday afternoon.   “Wild Kingdom” is on and I love this show.  I love animals.  More than that, I love that I have nothing to do but sit with Mom…just her and me.  My sisters are running errands with Dad.  They need new shoes.  I don’t.  So I get to rest with Mom and watch a lioness give her little cubs a bath while they laze by the Tanzania River.

I’m seven now.  Too old to be held on her lap, so I lean against her side and feel her breath move with mine.  We breathe in together.  We breathe out together.

A commercial break comes on and Mom takes a deeper breath, then sighs.  I’m surprised…then astonished.  In a split second, my mother separates her breath from mine as if she’s untying my shoes.  The laces of our breathing patterns are undone.  Suddenly I realize that what I’ve always believed to be true is false.

My mother and I don't breathe at the same time.  

I thought that since I once lived inside of her, we would always inhale together…exhale together.  But we don't.  And we never did.  Not really.

I try to catch the rhythm of Mom’s breath…to match mine with hers, but I can’t.  I am now separate from her – completely.  And that scares me.  I don’t want to be separate.  I don’t want to breathe on my own.  I want to stay connected to my mother for the rest of my life. 

But, of course, I know I can’t.

Years later I’m working in the gardens at Esalen.  My hands sift the chickweed and thistle, freeing the chard from those invaders that will choke the life out of them.  I’ve lived in Big Sur for nearly a year and I’ve come to love the garden as if it were my own.  Instead of jeans and t-shirts, I often wear jumpers and flowing dresses to work.  I paint my fingernails.  I wear a bit of make-up and some pretty earrings.

Ken walks by and tells me it’s almost time for group process.  “I’ll gather the work-scholars,” he says.

I finish the bed I’m working, then carry the weed bin to the compost pile behind the rose garden.  Jhoti frolics at my heels, batting at the hem of my dress.  I bend down and scoop her up, rubbing my face against hers.  An image tumbles through my memory and I see a photograph of my mother holding her tiger cat, Andy, in front of the house where she grew up.  I see her smiling face.  Her impeccable manicure.  Her quaint hairstyle.  Her stylish sweater set.  

I wonder what she’s doing right now.  Is she out watering her own garden?  Is she having a cup of coffee and doing the crossword puzzle?  Is she chatting on the phone with my sister?  

As I head toward the sprout house, I see Ken in the distance talking to Margie and Eva.  Margie laughs out loud and I think of my mother’s laughter.  I think of her witty sense of humor.  Washing my hands at the sink, I marvel at the crevices in my skin that never quite seem to come clean.  The way the soil has imbedded itself into my fingerprints and stays there, no matter how long I soak in the baths.  The memory of my mother’s laughter is the same…embedded forever in my heart.

During check-in I study my hands while the rest of the garden crew talks about their day.  How they’re feeling.  What they want to work on in group process.  I listen to Carl talk about his plans to move north and start a farm of his own.  Then Margie talks about her twin daughters and how excited she is that they will soon visit Esalen.  

Next it’s my turn and I softly say, “I’m noticing that my hands look just like my mother’s.  My fingernails, my knuckles, the way my little fingers are slightly crooked…even the veins on the back of my hands…they’re hers.  I’m noticing that the older I am, the more I see her in me.  And I miss her.”

Now I sit here, watching my hands on the keyboard as they write these words.  Watching as the images form in my imagination, then drift to my fingertips and onto the screen in front of me.  I see my mother’s hands writing these sentences…writing these stories.            

But are they truly hers?  Or are they mine?

My mother and I are very much alike.  She’s taught me lessons I will never forget…lessons about love and mercy, betrayal and forgiveness.  Lessons that have taken me far from where I came.  Lessons that will move me well beyond where I am now.

And yet, we are also different.

As I make my way into the second half of my life, it’s my turn to undo the laces of my past.  Now I often walk barefoot into the joy my life has become these past few years.  My hands are unshackled from my fear and trepidation, ready to touch the world with whatever grace can be channeled though me.  

When I was in first grade, my mother taught me how to type letters on her old grey Olympia.  When I was seven, she taught me how to knit mittens with a simple gusset.  At eight, she taught me how to meticulously weed her garden.  When I was thirteen, Mom taught me how to apply mascara and lipstick.

All my life I have watched her hands cook meals, sign permission slips, do the crossword, and make the beds.  They held books and dolls and packages at Christmastime.  Throughout the seasons, they shoveled snow and planted flowers and raked leaves.  Mom’s hands rolled out cookie dough, then rolled my hair up in curlers.  They ironed our clothes and mended the holes in the knees of my jeans.  They angrily spanked me when I misbehaved, but also gently rubbed my back when I was anxious or sleepy. 

My memory is steeped in my mother’s hands.  More than her face.  More than her voice.  More than the things she’s told me.  More than the things she’s left unsaid.  I’m certain it’s one of the reasons I notice a person’s eyes first…and their hands second.  

When I was little, I loved to trace Mom’s brightly lacquered fingernails with the pad of my thumb.  As I constantly chewed my nails and cuticles until they were bloody, I figured my fingers would never look like Mom’s with their delicate curves, their shiny tips.  I marveled at the ease with which she painted them a different color every week.  Her collection of nail polish was amazing.  Fuchsia pinks and rose reds.  Purpley plums and soft tans.  

Clear polish (that I thought looked like spit when applied) was the only choice Mom gave me until I was in junior high.  But there was an episode when I was in third grade when I swiped a soft pink bottle from her stash and took it to school.  It was a rainy day, so I sat at my desk during indoor recess and sloppily polished my half-bitten nails.   The results were messy, but foreshadowed what my hands might look like if I took better care of them.

When I got home, I dashed to the bathroom and quickly removed the polish, leaving a residue of color around my cuticles.  Slipping the bottle back into my mother’s drawer, I thought I was so slick.  Then she saw my nails at the dinner table and chided me for blatantly disobeying her.  I learned the hard way how nail polish remover stings when it comes into contact with chewed-open skin.  Much like my mother’s spankings would sting whenever I defied her.

 Years later, I was able to grow my own set of lovely nails and polished them regularly.  French Tip was my favorite, although it took forever to accomplish.  Still, every Saturday afternoon, I would give myself a manicure and look in wonder at the beauty of my hands.  At that time, it was rare that I would think of any part of my body as beautiful.  But this was before yoga or Esalen.  Before all the real work I was about to embark upon in my quest for healing.

 In the early nineties when I taught first grade, my workaholism was full blown.  Arriving at school around seven-thirty, I worked most days until nearly 5:00.  I took papers home every evening and spent most of my Sunday nights planning lessons or preparing materials for the week ahead.  Since I was constantly shuffling paper and school supplies, my hands took a real beating.  My skin soon became chapped and bloody, as I was also constantly washing them to avoid getting sick.

On a cold winter day, one of my students' mothers visited the classroom with a small bag.  “This is for you, Miss Ingersoll,” Mrs. Ellis said to me.  “I noticed how sad your hands look…and I thought you might want to use this.”

Inside the bag was a jar of super-emollient hand cream.

Mrs. Ellis nodded to her son.  “Can you remind Miss Ingersoll if she forgets to put it on?”

Jonathon nodded.  

I smiled at both of them.  “Thank you so much,” I said, giving Mrs. Ellis a hug.  “I know I need to take better care of my hands.”

And so it was that every morning and every afternoon when recess was over, Jonathon or one of the other students would remind me, “Miss I…use your hand lotion!”

I did and soon my hands were healed.  It was a memorable seed, a first step in being mindful of my own self-care that would one day bloom into a life-changing path of yoga, Rolfing, and massage.  

To this day, I still take good care of my hands, for they are the vehicles through which I create my novels.  They knit toys for my friends' children.  They tend my magical gardens.  My hands demonstrate yoga poses for my students and gently assist them when needed.  They provide steadiness as I ride my bike all over the city.  They turn pages in books and gently stroke whichever cat is purring on my lap while I read.  My hands cradle the faces of the children I love and applaud for them when I’m present at a recital or a ball game.   

Now my hands are ready to gently harvest the seeds of all that has bloomed in the wake of the trials and misfortunes I have endured.  Ready to glean that which can be planted in the future to yield even more awakening and abundance.

They are a catalyst for all that is yet to be seen...

A channel for the mysteries of my life unfolding.