Unfrozen

        For the past year I've been driving through south Toledo nearly every morning on my way to Perrysburg.  I pass the shopping center where Mr. Kregel, Bowsher High School's football coach, taught me to drive.  The place that used to be the Glenbyrne Theater where I watched Star Wars eleven times with my little sister.  The vacant lot where Byrnedale Junior High once stood, the building where my seventh grade language arts teacher, Miss Kurtz, taught me to love writing.  I drive by the convenience story that was once a 7-Eleven that provided eggs and milk and bread during the blizzard of 1978 (I still can't believe my mom let me pull a sled all by myself through the intersection of Eastgate and Glendale to get provisions for the family).  Right before I reach Front Street, I pass by the Rec Center where I swam in the summer and visited Children's Wonderland each Christmas. 

         Every morning I'm blocks away from the house I grew up in on Eastwick Drive and pass by landmarks of my childhood that bring back a treasure trove of memories:  six-year-old Katie enjoying a peach flavored ice cream cone at the UDF that was scooped by Mrs. Heumann, my next door neighbor.          Seven-year-old Katie playing softball in the Glendale Elementary backfield being yelled at by the coach for not getting in the game.  

        Ten-year-old Katie tooling around Southwyck Mall with my sisters, exploring Walden Books, Coach House Gifts and Old Towne.  

        Thirteen-year-old Katie singing a solo in the junior high school play "Wheels".  

        Seventeen-year-old Katie driving to school her senior year, grateful to escape taking the Tarta bus and the teenage boys who pinched and mocked her body.  

        Twenty-one-year-old Katie helping pack up the Eastwick house when her parents moved away.

       At first, all of those moments seemed frozen in time as if I was a different person who lived through the 70's and 80's in a middle class house on a middle class street in a middle class neighborhood.  Who I am now at fifty-five is a far cry from the kid who loved hearing the church bells ring through the field behind our street, telling me it was time to come home for dinner.  Still, over the past twelve months I've had the opportunity to drive day after day after day past places that are now vastly different than they used to be.

       Our world is now unlike anything we've ever experienced -- even more so since the pandemic started.  Yet long before the lockdowns and testing and divisions over what is best for the common good, there's been a crumbling of common ground.  Our culture has a long history, but a short memory, and so it seems do most people.

       It's been a unique blessing to have the opportunity to gently revisit my past in the early morning hours as darkness slowly turns to light.  Over the weeks and months, I've slowly realized that all the Katies of the past are still within me, the memories even easier to access since they've been unfrozen from the silent places inside.

        Seemingly insignificant moments come back like reading a book while waiting at the bus stop by Rudy's Hot Dog.  Other more dramatic ones resurface, too, like the time my mother walked away from the house when my sisters and I were fighting and I was scared she'd never come back.  She did an hour or so later, telling us she was at the same Rudy's having a cup of coffee to take a break from all the noise.  It used to be that I couldn't pass a Rudy's without bitterly thinking about my mom's escape, that moment lodged in my mind like an iceberg.  But now after driving by the restaurant a hundred times, it's become a neutral place as the memories have melted into a new awareness of why she left and why she came back.

        After all this time I can look back on my long history and find a common ground in everything I've remembered.  Even though I'm not the same person I was as a kid, in my teens, twenties and beyond, in many ways I've been able to see how seamlessly my past set the stage for what was to come.  Everything I experienced as a child informed who I became as an adult.

        For a long time I used to lock my memories away, compartmentalizing them in journals, thinking about them as if they happened to another person, someone I had long buried in the past.  Now as winter is slowly turning to spring, they've magically melted into the present during my morning drive.  In an instant I can recall the taste of a soft-serve cone with chocolate shot from Penguin Palace.  I can smell the corn and burgers roasting on a grill at the annual summer block party.  I can hear the echoing laughter of children playing Kick the Can and Red Light, Green Light.  As I drive by Rudy's Hot Dog, I can see in my mind's eye Glendale Elementary School that used to stand across the street, the place where Jimmy Marsh kissed me on the cheek in second grade. 

        I've never longed to go back in time, to stay eternally twenty-nine.  I've yearned to be separate from the past, to pretend events never happened, to forget moments in time that were filled with fear, embarrassment, and shame.  How fascinating that a daily drive through the south end of town has given me the time to remember in the safe space of solitude.  It's a meditation to allow those memories to melt, then float downstream into the ocean of the present moment, knowing every experience is a part of who I am now.

        

First grade school picture from Glendale Elementary, 1972

        

Snow White...revisited

Snow White…revisited

 

 

         My mother kept meticulous records in my baby book.  In the "Famous Firsts" section, she wrote:  "First cartoon movie:  April, '69 Snow White."  I was two at the time and, of course, have no memory of the event.  But when I turned six, Mom insisted that I have a birthday party and invite some girls from the neighborhood.  Not wanting any attention focused solely on me, I balked endlessly.  Finally, after some cajoling, Mom promised the party could be any theme I wanted.

         Now satisfied that I could have some choice in the matter, I replied, "I want a Snow White birthday party." 

         "What's that?" Mom asked.

         "I want you to find a Snow White at the store and put it on the dining room table with all your little ceramic animals." 

         My mother had a delightful collection of birds and fauna that decorated the corner shelves of our kitchen and living room.  I cheerfully explained that they could be like all the animals Snow White met in the forest before she discovered the seven dwarves. 

         There's only a brief mention of this party in my baby book, accompanied by a short list of the girls who attended.  What I remember most is that I absolutely did not want to play games, so we went to the movies instead.  And I can also remember sitting in the darkened theater at Southwyck Mall relieved that everyone was paying attention to something other than the fact that it was my birthday.  Yet, I also felt disgusted that the movie I had chosen ("What's Up Doc?") was not about Bugs Bunny at all, but a tedious love story between Ryan O'Neil and Barbra Streisand. 

         Enter the pattern of my life:  I can ask for what I want, but it rarely turns out as I imagined or hoped it would be.

 

         Still, my favorite memory of that birthday is standing in the doorway of the dining room, looking at the table where Mom had carefully assembled Snow White in a makeshift forest surrounded by her collection of little animals.  Even now, I can see myself as a young girl, wondering what those animals would say if they could speak. 

         What would Snow White say? 

         What would I say?

         Longing to discover my own voice, I started keeping a journal in my adolescence and eventually became a novelist.  In the process, I've created dozens of characters who marginally personify pieces of myself.  Many of them have been written into a life I had once planned, yet never experienced.  None of them reveal my own life as it has truly been.  

         Through it all, I've been amazed that the story of Snow White continues to shape my life's lessons.  Like her, I have encountered wicked, green-eyed queens who have wanted to diminish or silence my existence.  I have escaped to the silence of a solitary forest in order to recreate myself beyond what I had been taught to be.  I have spent decades as a teacher, working with little people of all ages, unearthing jewels of learning while they mine their own talents and abilities.  I have been terrified of the unknown, the unfamiliar, and the endless search for who I am and where I belong. 

        

         Naturally, my favorite part of the story of Snow White is when she enters the forest and all the animals befriend her.  They take her to a little cottage in the heart of the woods where she will be safe.  Where she will eventually meet the seven dwarves and face the trials of being the object of the Queen's wrath.  Deep in the forest, Snow White is nurtured by the natural world and it is through being in nature that I am continually healed.  Like Snow White, I live in a little cottage and tend to the lovely gardens which surround it.  What a blessing to touch the earth and experience more clearly the unspoken, yet profound life lessons flourishing in my own back yard.

         Throughout this conscious awakening, the tale of Snow White keeps me ever mindful to listen carefully to that which sparks my attention, which engages me beyond words or thought.  Which allows me to feel my authentic heart that has never been stolen.  This journey echoes a message I have spent a lifetime trying to decipher: my truth, my own enchantment is not what I had been taught to want, but rather a new reality that has risen from its ashes. 

         Everything I’ve ever written has become a literary phoenix.  

Through my books and blogs, I hope you see yourself, a friend, a sister or an aunt, a lover or a wife.  Most of all, may you discover you are not alone in your journey, neither before nor after this moment in time. 

         Those of us who are creating new paradigms are blessed to find each other along the way.

The actual Snow White centerpiece my mother used
for my sixth birthday party.  What a keepsake!

Sweaty guy

 Sweaty guy

Originally published on January 17, 2016

 

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.

Open Road - a life worth waiting for

 

Open Road - a life worth waiting for

It’s a rainy afternoon in the summer of 1999.  I’m having tea with a good friend and we’re discussing the ups and downs of major life choices.  I recently left teaching and still don’t know what's on the horizon.  What seemed like a great leap of faith a few months ago has turned into a free fall into panic.  It's as if my life is stuck in a nonstop squeaky hamster wheel, going around and around and around with no end in sight.

I tell Olivia, “I really need to do something tangible to help me move past this fear of what’s coming next.  It’s going to kill me if I don’t let it go.”

My friend looks at me and grins.  “I was leaving the house today and three times I had the intuition to go back inside and get something for you.” 

I anxiously wait on pins and needles while she goes to her car to get whatever this “thing” is.  Will it be the golden ticket to calm my fears?  Right now, I’m willing to try anything.

When Olivia returns, she hands me a tiny, white vial saying, “Put that in your purse and take it outside tonight when the moon is full.  Don’t open it until then.”

“What’s it for?” I ask, turning it over in my hand, desperate to have all my questions answered instantly.

“You’ll know when you open it, Katie,” Olivia says. “Trust me.  Don’t think about it too much.”

“What is it?  Something I’m supposed to drink or what?”  

She smiles knowingly.  “I’m not telling you.  You’ll know exactly what to do.  And don’t come back inside until that bottle is empty.”

In the past, I’ve always despised mysteries, but in that moment I start to believe in magic potions…or at least in the potential for one to magically appear in my life. 

I trust Olivia. 

I trust the moment.

 

It rains most of that evening, so the night air is moist and fluid.   As I step outside my back door, a full moon shines over the south side of my garden.  Walking barefoot through the dewy grass, I drag one of the lawn chairs into the middle of the yard so that I can open the vial under the radiant glow.

When I twist off the cap, I realize the bottle is filled with bubbles.  In the lid is a wand to dip into the soapy solution.  I laugh, realizing what my friend had meant for me to do.  I’m supposed to name my fears, one by one, then gently send them away as I blow the bubbles into the humid night air.

I take a deep breath and began. 

"I’m afraid I’ll never find a job," I whisper.  I blow dozens of tiny bubbles into the air.

"I’m afraid of falling in love with someone new because I’ll lose my identity again."  More bubbles fly over my head.  

"I’m afraid of making the wrong choices with my life." 

As I watch the luminescent spheres of light float through the moist nighttime air, I find the courage to name all the fears that come to mind.  The simple ones.  The complex ones.  The ones that have haunted me since childhood.  The ones that have just emerged in that moment.  My heart becomes lighter and lighter as I release them all with childlike abandon.

And then…one more surfaces. 

Tears come to my eyes as I say aloud, “I’m afraid to be happy because then all the bubbles will burst.”

As I blow a multitude of orbs into the air, I close my eyes and allow silent tears to fall down my cheeks.  A moment later I take a deep breath, open my eyes, then look around the yard.  Surrounding me like a carpet of shining crystal balls, all of the bubbles are lovingly cradled in the dewy grass. 

Every one reflects the light of the full moon, whole and unbroken.

I begin to blow more bubbles just for the sheer joy of it.  They float up into the air, descend to the ground, and land on the grass…the chair…my skin.  I realize that my fear of happiness, of change, the fear of bubbles bursting is just an illusion I had created to keep me safe inside myself. 

When the bottle is nearly empty, I dip the wand inside it one last time and wonder, “How much happiness can I hold now?”

                                                                         ***

I used to pray to be broken.  Pray to be shown my shadows so that I might better learn the ways of humility and mercy.

Then life took me to my knees.

Next, I prayed for understanding and wisdom so that I might allow more space for healing.

Again, I was taken to my knees.

Now I no longer pray without first kneeling on the ground. 

And I no longer need to be broken, for my scar tissue is stronger than the original skin it has replaced.  What once had been shattered has now been recreated.  Not as it once was, for there are pieces missing from my life that I can never reclaim...and I have paid a high price for that which remains.

Through it all, I have learned to trust in the mysterious ways of grace.  Like the wind that blows through the leaves, it is unseen in one form, but its movement creates visible transformation.  And yet, the incredible revelation I have embodied is more than mysterious.

It has been miraculous.

When Michelangelo was asked how he created The Pieta, he said, “I saw the angel in the marble and I carved until I set him free."

What a glorious thing to know that God could see an angel within the stone walls I had built to hide my true nature...my authentic spirit.  Then, when I prayed for guidance, lovingly provided me with the tools to set myself free. 

Mary lovingly holds her son, Jesus, in The Pieta.  I, too, have been held by people who love me.  They are instruments of hope, sent by grace, who held me when I was wounded and when I was thriving.  When I was in despair and when I was joyous. 

Who hold me now as I celebrate the open road before me...the beginning of a new life that I trust will be filled with peace and love and joy. 

This is a life worth working for. 

A life worth healing for.

A life worth waiting for.

Splash!

Originally published on January 12, 2016

From "Still Here" - a compilation of Open Road blogs, 2016

 

I just got home from taking my little pals to school.  For over a week Satish, Danta, and I had looked forward to spending a little quality morning time together before I dropped them off on my way to run errands.  A little snow won't get me down...especially when it comes to those two fellas.  By the time I arrived at the house, their sister's school had already cancelled for the day, but the boys didn't mind that she got to sleep in while they had to get up and get dressed.  Over chocolate chip pancakes, we talked about the NFL games we had watched over the weekend and who they think might make it to the Super Bowl this year.

Danta has high hopes for the Carolina Panthers.  Satish is rooting for the Patriots.  And while I listened carefully to everything they told me about the stats for each team, I really don't understand it all.  Still, as the boys grow older (Satish will be eleven in two weeks!), it's great to be able to talk with them about sports and school and everything in-between.  As they gobbled up the last few bites, I thought about the Monday nights when they were little and I would put them to bed after reading a storybook or two.

"Satish...do you remember the time I read you Froggy Learns to Swim and I asked you what your favorite word was?"

He shook his head.

"You said it was poof as in making something disappear when you're doing a magic trick."

"That's not my favorite word now," he said, shoveling in another bite of pancake.  "It's SPLASH!"

"Hey!" I beamed.  "That's my favorite word, too!  And it has been ever since I was a kid."

Satish smiled as if that was no surprise to him at all.

"I like it because when you say it, splash sounds like what it does," I explained.

"Yeah...that's right," he nodded.  "Spl...a...sh!"

Onomatopoeia never sounded so sweet. 

 

Last Friday I had my very first swim lesson.  Sure I've been in and out of the water since I was a kid, hanging out at the local pool, body surfing in the ocean, or dangling my feet over a dock whenever I've been lucky enough to visit a lake.  I can backstroke and sidestroke and dive.  But I didn't know how to simultaneously freestyle and breathe...until my friend, Melissa (who's a swimmer extraordinaire) took some time to show me a few pointers.

After we had warmed up at bit, she said, "Okay...show me what you've got."

I laughed.  "I got nothin'."

"Really?"

"Yeah.  I have no clue what to do," I told her.  "We can start at the beginning...I'm a blank slate."

When she told me to keep my arms up overhead, put my face in the water, and push off from the wall to see how far I could go, I pulled on my goggles and did what she asked, making frothy waves with my feet until I ran out of breath.

"Man, you've got a strong kick!" she laughed.  "Let's see if you can relax a little more and stroke."

I picked up on that pretty easily, then moved on to learning the breathwork.  Not an easy thing, especially since I'm not quite sure where to put my head when I turn my neck (something I'm learning both inside and outside of the pool).  Melissa was patient, kind, and encouraging, so before I knew it, I was able to go back and forth a few times with moderate success.

"Keep your eyes on the bottom of the pool or on the side when you breathe," she explained.  "That will help you float a little more, so your legs don't have to do so much work."

I thought, Focus on the vertical line and horizontal line...just like I do on my yoga mat.  While it wasn't easy, freestyling felt more natural when I let my body float on the surface and my arms gently guide me forward. 

Yesterday I spent part of the afternoon practicing at the gym and even though I still don't completely understand the movement, I love the freedom of being completely surrounded by water...no splashing necessary.  Over time, I imagine my inner-mermaid will come to life, and swimming will become a moving meditation.  But until then, I'll keep reminding myself what I often say to new clients:  You've only been doing this for a few hours out of your whole life.  Be patient...don't rush...it'll come along.

 

Two years ago this month I self-published my memoir, then the backlog of books I've been writing since 2000.  Last spring I published The Lace Makers and while it's been well received by readers who are familiar with my work, there's been no real interest from the world at large.  When I was younger, I had hoped that one or more of my books would make a big splash in the literary community, that an agent or a publishing house would read my work and offer me the opportunity of a lifetime. 

Alas, that hasn't come to pass...yet.

Thank God.

For I've learned that to make a big splash may be a lot of fun and rock the waters for a moment, but one small drop in a pond can create never-ending ripples that float on the surface and gently stir the waters beneath.  It's been a lesson of a lifetime to learn patience, to discover how to wait for circumstances to change, to accept that the process of life is often more important than the end result. 

As 2016 dawns, I've been given the rare opportunity to write a book with my friend, Tony, about his nearly four decades of experience as a Rolfer.  We started this past weekend after he told me the prognosis for his cancer treatment.  A lengthy surgery is planned that will result in a twelve-month recovery.  Hopefully by this time next year, we'll be opening up a smaller office in which he can continue to work with clients and teach classic Rolfing.  In the meantime, I'll be interviewing Tony about everything from Jujitsu principles to the experience of working with over a thousand people, watching their continual and often miraculous evolution. 

At the onset, I was incredibly intrigued.  Now that we've started, I'm humbled by the knowledge and wisdom I'll be privy to as the manuscript unfolds into something neither of us can quite explain right now.

When I asked Tony if he had any ideas about the format, he replied, "Why don't you just ask me questions, although I don't know if I'll be able to answer them.  All I can think about is the surgery."

I nodded, turning on the tape recorder.  Gently I said, "Why don't we start at the beginning.  How did you first become introduced to Rolfing?"

Tony began to speak effortlessly about grad school, his mentors, his first meeting with Ida Rolf.  His voice shifted, became more calm and clear.  I stopped taking notes and sat in silence, for I trusted that everything I needed to know would be captured on tape, and I didn't want to miss a moment of listening to Tony unfold this incredibly dynamic part of his life.

Later, when he was talking about training at the Rolf Institute, I asked, "What was it like to touch your first client and feel the work beneath your hands?"

Tony's response brought tears to my eyes, and it was then that I knew I wouldn't have to write a word of his book.  I would simply turn the transcripts into something akin to Joseph Campbell's masterpiece, A Joseph Campbell Companion:  Reflections on the Art of Living.

At one point Tony was talking about how our society has atrophied into mayhem.  "The end of civilization as we know it is near," he told me. 

"Then why do you still Rolf people?" I asked, intuitively knowing what he might say.

"Because I can't change the whole world," he said.  "But I can help people change one at a time."

I smiled.  "Yes...I remember you told me years ago how you quietly, but persistently do some pretty subversive stuff in that little office of yours."

Tony laughed.

"I think I do the same thing in my yoga studio...and in my office," I said.  "One student, one blog, one book at a time."

 

It's not splashy, but it's honest and enduring, this life I now lead...and not at all as I had imagined it might be when I was younger.  But as Joseph Campbell wrote, We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

Now I find the joy in embracing quiet moments of kindness.  The sweetness in an email that completely takes me by surprise.  The laughter of a little boy who I love as if he were my own.  An enchanted snowfall that covers my home in silent beauty.

And the grace in knowing that these quiet moments are all incomparable parts of a life worth waiting for.

Another silent night

           Somehow it’s hard to believe today is Christmas Eve.  Sure, all of the presents have been wrapped and delivered to doorsteps around the city.  The baking is done, the stockings are hung and carols are playing on Pandora.  Still, there’s a quiet sadness that permeates the season for all of us.  Nearly everyone I know is missing someone they’ve lost this year, either through Covid or disease or estrangement.  Some are missing their grandchildren.  All are missing the human touch of loved ones near and far.   

           Yet even in the midst of grief, Christmas always comes…no matter the state of our world, our nation, our hearts and minds.  And like the great conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn on the winter solstice, the holiday season shines through the darkness and lights the way through this unprecedented time in our lives. 

 When I was seven, I performed in a children’s choir at Zion Methodist Church.  Matthew Swora was our enthusiastic, charismatic director who led us in song on Sunday mornings.  Woe the child who misbehaved during rehearsals, for the punishment was a seat directly beneath his podium.  “And my nose runs,” he said with a mischievous grin.  “So don’t blame me if you go home with a wet head.”

In the fall of 1973, Mr. Swora pulled out Christmas sheet music, just in time for Halloween.  “This one is going to sound familiar,” he smiled, nodding to the pianist who gently plodded out the chords for Silent Night.  “But I’m going to teach it to you in German...and if we do it right, we’ll make your mothers cry on Christmas Eve.”

I remember wondering why we would want to make our mothers sad on the most special night of the year, but didn’t question Mr. Swora for fear of having to take my place in front of the choir – and right beneath his dripping nose. 

Mr. Swora meticulously taught us the song line-by-line to make sure we understood the lyrics and to polish our diction so every syllable was pronounced with a perfect German accent.  Every week he would remind us that our Christmas Eve performance was much anticipated by the whole church, but all I could picture in my mind was a bunch of sobbing women, dabbing their eyes with tissues. 

By mid-December, we were ready to practice on the altar.  Being one of the youngest, I stood in front and sang my heart out to the empty pews.  “That’s just wonderful!” Mr. Swora beamed after we sang it twice for good measure.  “You will be the hit of the Christmas Eve service.”

On the night of our final performance, Mr. Swora silently invited the children’s choir to the altar, then gave us wink and a smile.  The sanctuary was dark, except for candles lit behind us and in the hands of the congregation as they sat in quiet anticipation.  Tapping his baton on the podium, Mr. Swora nodded to the pianist who softly played the introduction.  I looked at the people staring at us, their eyes shining in the candlelight, and waited for the waterworks to begin. 

Sure enough, by the last strains of “Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh” I saw many adults wiping away tears.  But they were smiling, too, and that didn’t make any sense.  How could you be both happy and sad at the same time?  It would take years before I could understand that tears represent a host of emotions…and that Christmastime often stirs us all to experience more than we bargain for. 

This year especially. 

Christmas Eve holds a magic all of its own.  For me it’s a time of quiet reflection and relaxation after all the holiday work has been done.  Every year I spend this evening in meditation, in silence, in stillness…in anticipation of the light yet to come. 

This season, my mind often wanders to that Christmas Eve long ago, when I stood in wonder at the power of children’s voices singing so beautifully in another language that it moved our mothers to tears.  The tears we shed this year are more than sentimental.  At best they’re bittersweet, but I imagine the collective grief we feel for our world leaves us feeling as though we have to learn a new language in order to understand it all.  And for many, there are no words to describe our sorrow.

In the silence of this night, may you and your family and circle of friends be surrounded by peace.  May you know you are loved and held close in my thoughts.  May we all awaken from this darkness and create new light. 

May you all be blessed.

 

 

 

 

The Lace Makers - Chapter 2 - Karin

Karin

 

At four o'clock in the morning Aufseherin Grese kicks my bunk.  I struggle to get up quickly because when I don't wake fast enough, she hits the bottoms of my feet with her baton so bruises won't show on my body.  Kapitan Dieter would beat her if she left a mark that he could see, but he doesn't seem to take notice when I hobble around for days with swollen feet. 

"Number 811993, get up!" Grese growls.  "Kapitan Dieter wants you!  NOW!"  She sharply pokes me in the ribs and shines a flashlight in my eyes.  I hate her...everyone does...and not only because she smiles when she thrashes one of us for not moving faster.  For not washing thoroughly. 

For still being alive.

Kapitan Dieter always calls for me before Appellplatz where I must stand and be counted, sometimes waiting for hours to make sure all of the calculations are correct.  The dead must be accounted for, the bodies hauled from the barracks by unlucky prisoners while I wait in agony.  But this morning I'm not sure what will happen, if we will have to meet for roll call or not.  There's been gunfire in the distance, and everything is different since the S.S. ordered most of the prisoners to be evacuated, since the officers started packing their belongings, rushing around the camp yelling, "Schnell!  Schnell!"

Faster, faster. 

Even the executions are done hastily, then the bodies piled up near open pits or stacked in wagons.  For weeks the unholy flames of the crematorium never seem to stop and cannot keep up with the countless corpses littering the camp. 

When Grese pokes me once more, I rub my eyes and rise to my feet, careful not to wake Simka, my friend who traveled with Mutti and me from Buchenwald a few months ago.  We share the bunk, one of the better ones that's lined with straw, yet filled with bugs.  Mutti says I'm lucky to have it.  Lucky to be near the door where I can breathe better air, unlike so many others crammed into their bunks where the air is dank and rotten and heavy. 

I don't sleep well anymore as I dream of steam whistles screaming in the distance that startle me awake.  I dream of boxcars crammed with too many men, women, and children all crying out for water, for bread, for air.  I have nightmares in which spruce and pine trees are set afire, their elongated branches bursting into flames so the endless piles of corpses can keep burning.  I used to love the scent of the forest, but now the sweet smell of evergreen will be forever tangled with the odor of death.

Before Grese can stomp on my feet, I quickly shove them into a pair of worn-out wooden shoes and follow her out of the barracks.  I don't say a word, don't make a sound as we pass the piles of corpses, left to rot in the open air.  I pretend I'm walking past vegetables harvested from Mutti's vegetable garden, that the corpses rotting on the earth are piles of corn she will soon grind into flour. 

The stench is unbearable.  The sight, even more so.  I no longer remember the smell of clean air as the cloying odor of burning flesh remains lodged in my throat, smothering me with a relentless warning.  I know that with one swift decision, my life could also be snuffed out.  Every night, I close my eyes and say to myself, If God wills it, I will wake again tomorrow.  But I don't know what is the real nightmare...what I see in my dreams or what I experience upon waking. 

As we pass the Appellplatz, corpses still hang in the gallows - a warning to us all about the dangers of escape.  Leah's body swings from the rope and I remember what she had told me last week...that she would rather die trying to escape than die waiting for the war to end.  But death is an every day occurrence here and my mind has become as tough as shoe leather so I can bear it.

When we reach the disinfection building, I strip, then stand in the scalding shower, my raw skin all but numb to the the hot water which feels like sharp pins and needles.  I gag as Grese throws a cup of delousing powder on my head which stings my eyes and mouth.

"WASCH DU!  SCHNELLER!  SCHNELLER!" she shrieks. 

Wash...faster...faster!

Frantically, I rinse my legs and arms, scrubbing harder at the tattoo on my left arm.  It should have been six numbers long, but the S.S. officer took pity on me when my mother shouted,  "Wir sind Deutsch Christen!  Deutsch Frauen!  Meine Schwester is Deutsch!""

We are German Christians...German women.  My sister is German!

Mutti lied when we arrived at Auschwitz.  She knew we would be separated if the S.S. thought she was my mother, so she told the guard we were sisters and he let her live, let her walk with me to a room where we were ordered to strip naked and shower, let her watch as a guard laughed while shaving my head and body, then endured the same humiliation herself before we were taken to be tattooed. 

The S.S. who had a death grip on my arm put down the needle, then shoved me out the door, but I was left with 811 inked in bluish gray over the triangle of freckles near my wrist.  Now I will never again be simply Karin Vogel, my mother's oldest child.  Even if I do survive this war, there will always be a truncated number to remind me of what I've become.

There's no towel to dry myself, so I quickly throw a thin dress over my head, then tie a kerchief around my head, thankful for even that bit of warmth.  The wooden shoes rub layers of blisters on my heels and toes.  I can't walk properly in them, so trying to get from the barrack to the workhouse or the Appellplatz or Kapitan Dieter's room is hell on earth.  It's been an uncommonly frigid winter, and even though I work making lace near a cast iron stove, I'm never warm enough.  I'm never full enough, though I eat more than most because Kapitan Dieter is an important man and always gets what he wants.  He doesn't want me to be skinny and dirty like so many of the poor girls in the camp left to rot and die in their own filth. 

I don't speak in his presence, but I know his name - Herman.  And I know I'm nothing more than his prostitute because he tells me, "Your payment is you get to live."

I'm supposed to feel grateful, but I don't know why I've survived for years while so many others have died.  Perhaps now I won't live that much longer either.

Mutti says I have to.  She says I have to do whatever the guards want.  Whatever Kapitan Dieter wants.  Whatever Kommandant Kramer wants.  Whatever Grese wants.  I have to do what they say in order to stay alive so I can bring more food to Simka. 

"You're young and pretty, and that's what they all want," Mutti once told me. 

So I lie in Herman's bed, a hollow shell, all the while staring at the wall or the ceiling or the knobs on the small glass cupboard that's filled with cans of evaporated milk and chocolates and creamy caramels...the one Herman said I must never touch.  I know he wouldn't hesitate to shoot me with the pistol he keeps strapped to his leg.  I've seen him use it more than once, and he's deadly when he's angry and drunk. 

"You can take bread and cheese from the trunk," Herman told me the first time I was ordered to his room.  "But if you touch that cabinet, you'll be dead before you can turn around." 

Herman digusts me, yet I owe him for saving Mutti's life and my own.  Often in the middle of what he does to me I think, How can a man be both a sadist and a savior?

 

This morning, Herman is quick about it, his tight, angry body all at once on top of me and then not.  He doesn't make me sing before or after, neither does he mock me by calling me his little songbird.  I stare at the calendar on the wall while Herman gets dressed and wonder why the compound is so busy at this hour.  The living are made to carry corpses for burial or burning while the S.S. rush here and there, yelling at each other to be prepared for the end.

The end of what?  I think.  The war?  This camp?  The end of our misery or the end of our lives?

“I’ve been good to you, 811993...Karin,” Herman says as he buttons his coat.  “You will say how good I’ve been to you, yes?”

I frown.  He's never called me by my name and I'm surprised he even knows it...or cares to.

“I’ve never beat you or hurt you,” Herman insists.  “I let you take extra food whenever you wanted it.  I protected you from the other prisoners.  I saved you and your sister from the gas.”

I nod, my eyes swollen with shameful tears.

He knots his tie.  “So if anyone asks, you will tell them I am a good man, won't you?”

Why is he asking this? I wonder.  No one in power asks me anything.  Not who I am.  Not what I want. 

When I say nothing, Herman comes to the bed where I sit pulling my dress over my head.  He kneels, then gently strokes my face.  “I’ve always been good to you.”  He kisses my forehead, then whispers my name.

I cringe and curl away from him, but Herman presses his warm, damp lips to my ear.  “Remember what I said," he says.  "If you tell anyone about what happens in this room, I can't be responsible for what happens to you.”

I look at the floor and nod my head in compliance.

“Good girl,” Herman says, rising.  Then he struts out the door as if he has won the silent war between us. 

 

A gray light gradually fills the room where I've been making lace for more than three hours...waiting for orders from the guards.  For almost four months I've spent eight hours a day, six days a week knitting hats and mittens and scarves.  I knit cable-knit sweaters and woolen socks.  I knit yards and yards of lace that are sewn into curtains and sent to all corners of Germany where the S.S. live in luxury while those of us slaving in the camps can barely remember what our parents' faces look like.

I shiver in my threadbare dress and wonder, How many girls wore this rag before me?  Are they all dead?  Will I be soon?  My shawl slips to the back of chair, and as I pull it up over my shoulders, I study the other women's faces as we endure the harsh silence of this cold, dank room, our knitting needles clicking and clacking while we do our duty for the Fuhrer.  They've all become shadows of their former selves...and I know I have as well.

Simka sniffs and wipes her nose.  Dark circles shadow her eyes as she pushes a curl behind her ear.  Kapitan Dieter let all of us grow our hair back so we would look more presentable.  He says women in his service are to look like women, and yet my breasts and curves aren't like Simka's.  We've only been here since January, but the food her friend, Vitya, steals from the kitchen and the bread I bring from Kapitan Dieter's room keep her healthier than the rest of us.  Even though I long to taste the sweet yams and mashed potatoes Vitya smuggles to her in little tin cans, I cannot ask Simka for even one bite.   

The baby hidden inside of her needs it more than I do.

Still, my gnawing hunger never goes away.  When we were in Auschwitz, my mother used to slip me her bread before the guards could see.  Before any one else could grab it out of my hands and shove into their eager mouth.  If there were a stray pea at the bottom of her soup bowl, Mutti would press it into my palm and beg me to swallow it.  "Eat, Karin.  Survive, Karin.  Live one more day.  Then live another.  One day when we are liberated, we will remember what we saw here and tell others so that this madness will never happen again."

Now Simka winces, holding her stomach, and I'm afraid of what will happen when the pain gets worse.  I've seen what the S.S. do to people who can't work, who show any type of weakness.  I try to forget as I mindlessly work the yarn back and forth.  My hands ache, but the bony knuckles and tissue-paper skin toil until I can no longer feel my joints.  Instinctively, I work the needles back and forth in a rhythm that still has the power to calm me, even now when everything is so uncertain.

I think back to more than ten years ago when Mutti taught me how to knit.  At that time, everyone was worried about the uprising of the Nazi Party.  In 1935, work was scarce.  Money even more so.  It was cheaper to light the stove with the paper money my father had hidden in his fishing tackle box than to use it to buy kindling.  Vati worked hard at the theater he owned with his friend, Herr Zweig, whom he had known since the Great War.

Herr and Frau Zweig had three boys of their own, Heinrich, who was my age, Georg, who was seven, and Fritz, who was only three.  They usually visited on Sundays after we came home from church.  The Zweigs went to Temple on Saturdays, so they arrived with a nice brisket or a basket of freshly baked apple dumplings while we were changing out of our good clothes.

My parents visted with Herr  and Frau Zweig while I played tag in our backyard with Heinrich and Georg.  Fritz preferred to hunt for worms, bugs, and other dirty things in Mutti's garden.  She gave him a small trowel and a metal pail, saying, "Just make sure you don't harm my vegetables."

In the evening all of us went to the theater for an evening of Volkslieder...folk songs.  Vati invited a host of people from the neighborhood and welcomed them warmly at the door.  Mutti played the piano, Frau Zweig the violin, and I would lead everyone in song. 

Vati especially loved to hear me sing "In stiller Nacht" to end the evening.  Tears filled his eyes, and like Mutti who loves twilight, he was carried away into the imminent darkness of the words, the sorrow in the lyrics that foretold what our lives would soon become.

 

In the quiet night, at the first watch,

a voice began to lament; sweetly, gently,

the night wind carried to me its sound.

And from such bitter sorrow and grief

my heart has melted.

The little flowers - with my pure tears -

I have watered them all.

 

Back then, Mutti was expecting a baby.  My brother, Jurgen, was tucked inside her belly and I loved to feel his little hands and feet kick and punch through Mutti's dress.  I sang Guten Abend, Gute Nacht to him, leaning against our mother's side, rubbing the little knobs and bumps of his elbows and knees.

When Mutti saw how much I loved Jurgen, even before he was born, she gave me a ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles, saying, "Karin, let's make something for our baby." 

For years I had sat by Mutti, watching her create intricate pieces of lace which filled our modest home with lovely tablecloths, placemats, and doilies.  Several delicate shawls hung on a peg near the door so Mutti and I could wrap one around our shoulders when we walked into the garden at sunset.  My favorite was a Queen Anne's Lace pattern interwoven with open stitching that Mutti had created all by herself. 

So I was overjoyed when she placed the polished rosewood needles in my hands.  First she taught me how to cast on, then how to knit and purl.  After that I learned how to make little hats and booties.  Next came a simple sweater for Vati.  Then a pair of socks for my baby brother.  By the time Jurgen was two, I asked Mutti to teach me how to make lace.  Under her gentle guidance, I learned how to yarn over and knit two together.  To pick up stitches and create tiny hearts and leaves and shells. 

Mutti marveled at how quickly I garnered the skill.  "Wie deine Gesangstalent, deines Stricken ist auch ein Geschenk," she said proudly. 

Like your singing talent, your knitting is also a gift.

Now this gift is saving my life...and Mutti's as well...such as it is.  But I know that without her, I won't survive either.

So I make lace like my mother taught me, and with every stitch, with every row, I weave in the memory of those who are gone forever.  A stitch for Olga.  One for Anne and Mary and Elisabet.  A stitch for the woman who died of typhus in the bunk above me two days ago.  A whole row for Frau Daiga and her daughter.  Rows and rows for the Zweig family who perished long before I came to this place.

Countless stitches for my father and Jurgen.

And always...every stitch for Bruno.