2024

Berry Kiss

In the movie The Holiday, we find four characters lying in a children’s play tent, with dazzling twinkling lights above them. The adorable daughter Olivia turns to Cameron Diaz’s character Amanda asks, “I like your lipstick, what color is it?”

Amanda replies, ‘I think it’s … Berry Kiss?’

“Berry Kiss” she responds in a whisper, pondering slowly about its potential.

When I tucked three small childrens chapsticks into my daughter’s Advent calendar, I recalled the scene. Her flavors are the dollar store variety, and have sprinkles on the labels. The scents nod to cake batter and cherry jubilee. I worry, slightly, about the cheap ingredients, but when my kid unpacked her very own chapstick, she was delighted, insisting on opening the small containers right away. She carries them in her pockets, ready to apply or taste at her own convenience.

When we climb the stairs up to our play room, and I wedge my body into her little playhouse, I try to lay horizontally, looking up at the twinkly stars above our heads.

“Berry kiss.” I murmur.

“What mama?”

“Oh nothing.”

She won’t know that reference.

I feel a bit crumpled yet, watching her unfurl into the Christmas season feels a bit magical.

Last night, I poured a finger’s worth of eggnog into her Winnie the Pooh cup without a lid. 

She gulped it down, licking the spatters off of her shirt, and ran her tongue across her lips, tasting her nog mustache.

“More mama?” 

“Nope. That’s enough for tonight. It’s just a treat.”
“Awww.”

In the disappointment came the opportunity for distraction, but for just a few brief seconds, she stood in front of the decorated pine in our living room, soaking in bits of Christmas.

Imagine taking your first sips of egg nog. How divine.

After she wiped her face, she, of course, needed her chapstick.

It’s not Berry Kiss. But it’s magical just the same.

Nog mustaches. A child’s delight. Holiday movies. Beautiful things. 

At My Best

I’m on sabbatical and today, the house is quiet. I’ve been given four weeks to spend how I’d like.

At the beginning, a friend asked me what my plans were for my time off. I ticked off a few things, noting the webinars and facilitation experiences I had in the queue. She responded saying, “Wow. You’re pretty busy for a sabbatical.” I quipped back, “Apparently, I’m not great at resting.”

Time away from work has been teaching me much, and in the breath, I’ve realized a few things.

The first two weeks were plenty full. A trip to the mountains, time with friends I don’t often get to see, and I snuck in an hour wandering around my favorite kitchen store, glancing at glossy pages of cookbooks waiting to sneak their way onto my shelves.

It’s a little unsettling, mixing up the routine, and I’m learning that I move pretty fast when I’m operating at my best. But what does that phrase we throw around in organizations actually mean?

At my best.

Am I in the flow? Or over-caffeinated? Or happy to be sinking hands into bowls of homemade dough? Am I maximizing my hours or turning pages while sipping on something calming? And how often do I say yes when I mean no, or let the dishes win instead of the novel beckoning to me? When do I let productivity win?

A friend recently told me her acupuncturist told her she needed to focus on restoration. That weekends were meant for things that refilled and rebalanced her chi. Now, together we smirk about the choice to fill up our cups, knowing that as women, we over pour with ease. May we choose restoration.

I’m still reflecting on what ‘at my best’ means in this season of life. I long to create. I long to rest. I long to be in nature. I bask in the silence. I want to be in community. I panic when only a few show up. My fingers still desire to tell stories. I long to create something that belongs to me. My heart pangs when my daughter watches me leave in tears.

To be human is to hold multitudes.

Perhaps, to rest, does too.

And that’s a beautiful thing.

Don’t Know What You’re Going to Get

Surprise.

I’m back in therapy.

This choice isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s a beautiful use of time, unpacking the stories and truths that make me who I am. When I filled out the intake form, again, the counselor asked how much my grief was present. I wrote, “Currently, grief is managed well.”

Surprise.

That was wrong. As I sit and examine what’s coming next, my therapist gently reminds me, perhaps, grief too, has something to do with the unsettledness I feel as I wonder what the rest of the year will hold.

“Shit,” I said through tears. “Of course.”

So yes, grief and unexpected loss still sit next to me as I imagine a life of what could be’s. I was on a call today with wonderful women doing brave and courageous things. And most of them were at this point as a result of a lay-off. Luckily, that’s not my story. But layoffs have been a part of our family’s. And a friend lost a baby last week, and still another said good-bye to a brother from whom she is estranged.

We don’t know what we’re going to get handed to us.

At my best, when talking to my therapist, I’m reminded that we have a say in what we want to create. My energy resonates and vibrates when we believe beautiful things are possible. I fill with a glow emanating out through my fingertips when I can not squelch my fears, but turn to them and point, saying “Nope, you don’t get to drive. Instead you can sit right behind me.”

So, no, I don’t know what I’m going to get. But fear doesn’t get to lead.

I am working on choosing.

Choosing joy in the evenings as my daughter insists on eating all of the cherry tomatoes before we get in to the house before bath time. Choosing to invest time in continued healing, pattern eruption, Choosing great and grand appreciation for what is. We’re healthy. We have each other. Our toes can sink into cool green grass at the edge of the patio.

Choosing to savor, if just for a moment, in the changing light of the early Autumn days. We leave the fan on at night, and the cool air in the mornings kisses my little family’s cheeks as the alarm blares us to life again each morning.

It has been a season of wondering this summer, pausing to ask what comes next. We’re working on big goals, investing in dreams, and tucking ourselves into bed at a speed that seems much too fast.

September. Already. Well, almost. Don’t fast-forward too far ahead. We don’t know what we’re going to get.

Surprise.

Now. Now. Now.

I’m hoping to choose more ease, more celebration, and more amazement as the year brings us to hibernation. The nights of summer sun are setting.

Will you join me?

We don’t know what we’re going to get. Perhaps that can be a beautiful thing.

A Blessing for Beauty – John O’Donohue

This week, I’ll invite you to let the words of another bless you. A poem from John O’Donohue.

May the beauty of your life become more visible to you, that you may glimpse your wild divinity.

May the wonders of the earth call you forth from all your small, secret prisons and set your feet free in the pastures of possibilities.

May the light of dawn anoint your eyes that you may behold what a miracle a day is.

May the liturgy of twilight shelter all your fears and darkness within the circle of ease.

May the angel of memory surprise you in bleak times with new gifts from the harvest of your vanished days.

May you allow no dark hand to quench the candle of hope in your heart.

May you discover a new generosity towards yourself, and encourage yourself to engage your life as a great adventure.

May the outside voices of fear and despair find no echo in you.

May you always trust the urgency and wisdom of your own spirit.

May the shelter and nourishment of all the good you have done, the love you have shown, the suffering you have carried, awaken around you to bless your life a thousand times.

And when love finds the path to your door may you open like the earth to the dawn, and trust your every hidden color towards its nourishment of light.

May you find enough stillness and silence to savor the kiss of God on your soul and delight in the eternity that shaped you, that holds you and calls you.

And may you know that despite confusion, anxiety and emptiness, your name is written in Heaven.

And may you come to see your life as a quiet sacrament of service, which awakens around you a rhythm where doubt gives way to the grace of wonder, where what is awkward and strained can find elegance, and where crippled hope can find wings, and torment enter at last unto the grace of serenity.

May Divine Beauty bless you.

John O’Donohue, from Beauty – The Invisible Embrace

Four Plastic Eyes

In recent conversations with friends and colleagues, I sense a foreboding wave of uncertainty rippling out amongst us. I went to lunch with a friend, and over fifteen dollar sub sandwiches (hello inflation), we talked about our hopes and our fears in this season of life. “It feels like people are just holding their breath” she said.

I nodded deeply. Yes, and in this unsustainable hold where elections loom, I don’t want to restrict my movement so much that I pass out.

Sure, reminding ourselves to take a breath is self-care 101. I’m trying to start my mornings with breath, reassurance that this is the day the Lord I has made. I can rejoice and be glad in it.

Another kind friend reminded me, too, that we have a choice in what stories we want to stand next to and welcome with us as we dress. Shame, no thanks. Foreboding, take a splat next to my dirty socks in the closet. Instead, may we shroud ourselves in love. Allow the silk of compassion to brush over our heads like cashmere. Or, since it’s hot in July, maybe we can just tuck little kerchiefs of kindness into the pockets of our shorts.

My daughter has taken to wearing her Elmo slippers most evenings. A stall tactic, she places the red balls of fluff with plastic eyeballs onto her feet with care while we do the bedtime routine. She insists I leave them on as she begins to self-soothe her way into another evening of rest. When she wakes early, I pad across the hall to retrieve here, allowing her an hour of comfort in our bed before we begin another day.

This morning, after the alarm went off a few times too many, I lay with my eyes glued to the ceiling. I took a breath. And in my exhale, turned to see four big, plastic eyes staring up at me from under the sheets. Joy, tucked into a place of safety and rest. Little inhales. Little exhales. A reminder that we get to choose what we put on as we start our day. Comfort, care, connection. Less foreboding.

These are the things that are going to sustain us when, as always, the world seems to be falling just a little bit apart. I want to put on joy and leave the rest with the dirty socks. Elmo, and the patience he requires, is reminding me to do just that. A beautiful thing.

Coffee Ground Sweet

I’m not a morning person. I prefer staying up late and sleeping late. But as my child grows with each early wake, I’m finding myself in a necessary shift. A relative bought me a coffee cup when she was born that says, “In memory of sleeping in.” I sip my caffeine from it most mornings.

Today, I woke before the rest of my family did. Laying in the silence for just a moment longer, fans whirred, trying to gulp in the cold morning air into our bedroom. I shuffled down the stairs, putting on water to boil for coffee. I collected yesterday’s grounds into an old mason jar, and stepped out onto the porch to pour the extras onto our grass.

Looking towards the mountains, I swirled the remnants, and sprinkled them across our dying lawn. They’ve been giving citations to homeowners for dead grass, and as I poured, I found myself wondering if we’d be next.

Most mornings, I’m too busy to muse about these things. I’ve got a calculated routine that if we knock off just five minutes, everyone ends up late. But this morning, I was able to swirl grounds and stop to stand on a stoop, while sprinkling sustenance back into our little lawn. Neighbors were walking their dogs. Joggers waved hello as I sat for just a moment. Our little community was buzzing outside. I’m usually frantically trying to get everyone moving, just to get out of the house.

They say living in the suburbs can be mundane. There are thousands of memes about millennials aging, as they appreciate cucumbers growing at eight am instead of staying out all hours of the night. This morning, I want to bask in the glory of summer light, the swirl of grounds, the space and extra moments to pour hot coffee into my remembrance mug.

Life changes. Stillness too. And in these spaces of ordinary, I see a new sweetness.

And that’s a beautiful thing.

Twirling

We made it through another one. Father’s Day mixed with emotions – gratitude, remembering, looking forward, hating for just a moment, Hallmark. As we sat around a shared table for dinner, I thought to myself, my husband is the only adult at this table who hasn’t lost a father. Odd to be in similar company of people my parent’s age. Odder still that where I put the apostrophe matters.

And as with most holidays, I twirled between wanting to be present and wanting to turn towards the ache of missing someone so profound without forgetting those still here with me. How do I celebrate life and mourn the dead?

I tried.

“Now I enter the “safe zone”, I spat, ruminating to myself sarcastically. While no month is “safe” from grief, there’s an ease that comes with the end of June as I look out towards the rest of summer. From now until October, the gremlin seems to behave herself.

Most evenings these days we turn on music after dinner, and if I’m lucky, my toddler will let me pick her up to give her a squeeze. We spin and hold hands, dancing in the kitchen. “More Mama, more” she’ll often request. And in the twirling, memories are made.

There’s a new sweetness to this summer. Her sticky neck and red cheeks from the days heating up. She insists on putting on sandals by herself, requiring deep levels of patience and persistence from both of us. She finds exuberant joy in learning how to control a hose. Popsicles are messy work. You forget how much you take for granted already knowing when you’ve got a little creature soaking in so very much.

And in this early-summer space I want to remember the evening spins, as I watch the roller coaster slow. The trolley care has been put into neutral, shifting down the grief hill we’ve been climbing for quite some time.

I want to be twirling in colors and sniffing the deep scent of tomato leaves off my hands, as I watch a little human grow. Maybe I can be more kind to myself, allowing what comes next to appear.

More Mama, More. Hold on tight.

We go pretty fast. But it’s in the early evening light, as the sun sets and my patience gets tested, where beauty is found. Twirl with me.

A Desire For Certain Things to Happen

Heading towards the park for my afternoon loop, I let my shoes clack against the warming pavement. As I approached the parking lot I have to cross before reaching the trail, I noticed a black SUV with all the windows down. The back of the large car was full of life being lived – piles of clothes, pots and pans, and belongings were stuffed to the top of the roof. It was clear the owner was in a rough patch, or choosing to live out of their car for whatever reason. And on top of all of the things was a throw pillow with the word “Hope” scrawled across the top. Underneath, the definition: desire for a certain thing to happen.

Curious, I thought to myself, as I wandered from asphalt to gravel, letting my arms soak in a tiny bit of early summer sun.

As I walked, I noticed the green grass, and the thistles, poking their arms through the green with bursts of purple blossom. I’ve always loved thistles – they shouldn’t be beautiful. Their exterior exudes protection and leave-me-alone energy. Yet, for just a few weeks, they invite you in with color and beauty, perhaps suggesting, it’s not all that bad, if you’re observant enough to notice.

A family member is getting surgery this week and I’m nervous. Any time someone I love is at risk, I can feel my heart quake. And I’ve learned the poky energy doesn’t always keep me safe – it just keeps others out. As I watch horrific headlines pour in, and see neighbors needing help, I’m reminded that we need to say aloud – I am scared. We are scared. Help me remember that even thistles bloom. And that hope exists atop the remnants, where the broken belongings are still stacked. We are sacred.

Gratitude oozes from the same place where our bodies need repair – hips or hearts or hands. May we open them and be curious, inviting hope to grace our open fingers. Beautiful things.

Just a Little Bit Scared

Today, my dad would have been 67.

As I typed that, I sat and inhaled. My brain can’t fathom 67. He died at 58. That’s a big gap.

I stared at the sentence, letting the weight of it seep into the virtual page. 67.

I have a hard time imagining what he’d look like today. In the gap, my appearance has changed. I’m softer in some places, and gray pieces of hair grow in where postpartum stole clumps from my scalp. My mother’s hands are changing, while his remain stuck in old photographs. We have a child who didn’t exist when he did. He didn’t get the chance to age.

Instead, our memories of him are aging. We went to breakfast this morning to celebrate his birthday. In the corner case sat mugs of yesteryear – with over ten different styles taking the restaurant and its branding back in time. As we honor his birth, I noticed those mugs and thought there are versions of ourselves that sit and watch, and those that get to keep moving forward.

I don’t think of Dad stuck in the past – he’s present with us in different forms. But sometimes I wonder, how would he have aged? And how have I? What does the new mug say to the old? How much have the windows witnessed as diners came and went, throughout decades of life.

I’m working with a coach lately to get more clarity on what I want to bring into my life next. I’ve got a vision and hopes and dreams. In our call today I told her that where I was sitting, in my own office at the foot of the stairs, is a dream come true. Five years ago I had a vision, and a hope for such a place, but no sure path to get there. Yet, here I sit, talking on Zoom or typing these blogs, in the manifestation of a dream come true. The reminder was refreshing. I know what I want, but I’m not quite sure how to get there next.

There’s a scene in the newest Little Women movie, where Jo is telling Marmi just how angry she is at the state of being a girl. Marmi responds, “I am angry nearly every day of my life.”

Today, when the coach asked me, “What does scared Katie need to hear from brave Katie?” I thought of Jo. I, too, have been a little bit scared, most days of my life. And most days, I don’t let the scared stop me.

I held my daughter on my lap as we ate hash browns in a booth this morning. Her hair brushed my chin as we shared a cinnamon roll. The choice to bring her into the world scared me deeply. Yet, if I’m lucky, perhaps we’ll keep bringing her to the same place where my dad liked to sit at the counter and sip coffee. My hands will change. She will grow. And the story will continue to change.

My hope is that I can be just a little bit scared. And go ahead, and do it anyway. What a beautiful thing.

If you’re interested in following along with what I’m hoping to create next, visit my website and sign up for e-updates. I look forward to growing and aging with you. Scared or not, here I come.

Slowed

I stood in the famous valley, my toes coated with sand, as I watched my daughter and her small friend learn how to wade into winter run off just barely melted. As the sun kissed my shoulders, and my back rounded forward to support her tiny hands, I thought to myself, these are the moments I need to be present for.

We traveled this weekend, to Yosemite Valley, and visited friends who have walked with me for over fifteen years. Now, their daughter, too, will walk with mine, as we figure out how to be together as small families. Our days started early with cups brimming full of dark coffee, avocado smeared on the floor and on faces, and we fell into a rhythm of watching our small people while passing cutting boards and tortillas to nourish us. Nap time was a must, and in the afternoon siestas, I snuggled with my daughter while also allowing myself time to rest.

I didn’t realize Ansel Adams spent much of his time at Yosemite, and while I strolled at the foot of waterfalls, I let the mist kiss my pale ankles, again wondering how different things look as artists if we slow to see them. Toddlers have a way of speeding us up, and slowing us down. While we wanted to “hike”, instead I held hands and helped climb logs and jump off rocks that seemed small to me, but surely were mountains to our little girls.

They say Americans are bad at taking vacation. We know, even with allotted PTO, we don’t step away from our work. While we were only gone for a few days, I could feel my brain slowing as my feet sunk into mountain meadows. I woke and saw flowers on trees and I took cuttings from lilacs, bringing the outdoors in. In the process, I turned down the volume, and allowed my to-do list to shrink. I let others drive me around for four days, friends planned meals, and laundry got mysteriously completed as we threw our dirties in with their loads. To be in shared space, being nurtured, and nurturing is a beautiful thing. We all were in bed by nine. In this allowing, I welcomed presence.

Now, please hold my hand as I climb back in the seat, responding to emails, planning to-do lists, tackling mountains of laundry. Presence is what matters here, not the rushing. I hope I’m not ramping up too quickly.

Shifting sizes, watching us all grow, perspective, slowing, angles, flowing water, wild flowers. The gifts of this weekend allowed me to slow. And those are beautiful things.