History was made this week. In the same ten minutes I absorbed the results, I asked my husband to confirm the milk order.
John Lennon said it wisely, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”
Or when you’re tackling to-do lists while watching the possibilities for humans literally shift in one direction or another.
Regardless of what you were hoping for this week, I hope you have found chances to be kind to one another. I hope beauty surrounded you. I hope comfort abounds.
It’s hard to write in times like these. Cautious fingertips pause paralyzed, intending not to offend. I hope we can agree to open our hearts to the good things in front of us.
In a coaching session with a friend today, I recalled a mantra I learned from my compassion colleagues. Strong back. Soft front.
May we stand true in our strength, letting our values guide our interactions and our hopes. And may we be open to the very magic that happens when we truly see one another. Fears, scars, hopes, wonderings. May we crack open, just a little bit, in the direction we want to move, with softness.
Because the milk orders beckon. And, so too, does the future we are writing for our children.
“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light“. – Albus Dumbledore
Tucked away in the back right corner of our refrigerator lives a bag of old bread butts. While slightly disturbing that the crusts seem to never mold, we save the remnants for the duckies.
Yesterday, I pulled the collection out of the fridge, and baby proudly held the mass of old carbs in her lap as we drove to the park.
“Will there be duckies Mama? Will there be duckies?” “I hope so. We’ll just have to see.”
When we arrived with another little family, we perched ourselves against the stone wall, creating a bit of a barrier between ourselves and the slightly aggressive birds. Surely we aren’t the only ones throwing our crusts to this group of geese and ducks.
As I took care to pass out the pieces, babies and toddlers threw chunks of bread to the waiting creatures. Giggles and joy cascaded into the water as feathers ruffled and beaks chomped on the soggy morsels.
I watched as little kids were immersed in the joy of what their gifts provided – a bit of control in inviting an animal into their space.
Sure, we gave old bread. But the geese and the ducks gave me so much more. Under blue skies and canopies of golden leaves, I sank into the joy of what it means to offer whatever fills our pockets. When we are able to give, other creatures will happily receive.
It was a simple ten minutes. After a few pieces, baby promptly told me she was done. It was time to go to the playground. And I asked her to wait, just a few minutes more, as I allowed myself to sit in gratitude for the gifts of a fall morning, friends by my side, and enough bread to live in the fridge until we were ready to share.
Simple abundance and quacking ducks. Beautiful things.
In today’s version of The Skimm, I clicked the link about the rising cost of Diet Coke. The writer interviewed someone who drank 4-5 cans a day, and their wallet was feeling it. I puffed up my chest for just a moment, because while I love the vice that is Diet Coke, I certainly don’t drink four cans a day. Don’t we know that aspartame is bad for us! And then my smugness dissipated as I went to pour my third cup of coffee.
Each week I’ve been watching the price of bacon jump up – last time I checked a pound had gone up a dollar fifty since I started paying attention in October. Inflation isn’t new – we’re talking about it, we’re feeling the impacts, we’re curious about what’s going to go up in cost next.
And, we use our little vices to keep discomfort at bay. November turned to December quickly, and days were filled with meetings, meal planning, perhaps paying too much attention to the rising cost of things. And in my conversations with friends and family, shifts and changes continue to happen as the world rumbles across the ocean. One friend is quitting her job, another trying desperately to get pregnant. Kitchens are getting remodeled, grandparents moving to nursing homes, and our neighbors got Covid again.
I told Dylan last night I’m having a hard time filling my container with my own worries. I’ve gotten porous again, taking on the fears and hurts of others because I just want the world to stop. being. in. so. much. pain. And then I wonder, is it the world’s pain, or my own?
This weekend I got out my mom’s splattered recipes and stocked up on Chex Mix supplies. I poured dry cereal, pretzels, and nuts into my grandmother’s old roasting pan. I melted the butter, found the Worcestershire sauce, added salt and poured the hot liquid over the mess of carbs. I let baby stir, and together, we watched comfort soak into the open spaces in the cereal. Nuts became glossy and we stuck the pan into the oven to bake slowly, with intention.
Once done, I scooped the mix into Ball jars and sent the gifts out into the world with love.
Perhaps it’s silly to connect Chex Mix to love, the pouring of fats onto cereal as a way to rub balm into our wounds. When things are shifting, I turn to the kitchen. Salt helps. Butter is consistent. Let’s fill up our holes with love this season. We need each other.
May your snacks be salty, full of butter, and of love. Chex Mix – that, too, a beautiful thing.
“What’s with the ampersands?” I asked our client as she sat across from us at a high-top table. After a successful client engagement, this leader told me about her small earrings in the shape of an “And” symbol.
She shared about how in leadership, particularly in public service, we have to live in AND spaces. Choices we make help some AND may harm others. We want communities to thrive AND we don’t have infinite resources to do so. We plan for the future AND respond to the present. She said the symbol has become her mantra, a constant reminder that we often live in the gray.
I’ve been thinking about AND spaces for myself lately. The suffering AND the beauty. Straddling a fence of understanding business needs AND wanting, deep within, to change our environments so humans can be seen and heard. When sharing this frustration with my boss today, he shared, “Maybe we can get off the fence, and find somewhere else to sit instead.”
This week a friend lost a baby. I watched and I prayed with hope and can’t begin to understand why something like that happens. We watched horrible headlines and numb ourselves from the suffering across the world.
AND
I stuffed my kiddo into a puffy pink snowsuit as she ate snow for the first time. Snowflakes fell, flirting with orange pumpkins, and we make plans for costumes, and candy and community gatherings.
We suffer AND we celebrate. We plan AND we respond.
To move beyond survival, and towards thriving, I’m embracing the AND. Both are true.
And this week, the AND space is a beautiful thing.
PS. If you’re wondering how to explore your own AND space, let’s have a conversation. For a limited time I’m offering two coaching sessions for $75 as I work towards my ICF coaching certification. These spots will fill quickly.
In the small bathroom upstairs, Dylan removed the letters “G” “R” “A” “C” and “E” that had been hanging our towels. Grace – a simple phrase that accompanied our daily routines of cleansing, brushing, and wiping up gobs of toothpaste and lotion left behind in a hurry. Each letter left three holes to be filled.
When the spackle had dried, I stood in the bathroom, celebrating the time to shower with an infant in the house. Turning to look for a towel, the now blank wall pushed me back to a weekend in the early weeks after Dad died when we covered the walls with Monterey White. Holding the brush in my hand in the tiny room, I had wept. “I miss my Dad” I said, unsure of how the missing would grow as days turned into years.
It has been six years since we painted, and now, we are getting ready to move.
I don’t believe we ever fully heal from grief. We carry our people forward in our hearts and in our stories, and in the tears that come with transition. I’ve woken up every day for the last few weeks wishing I could call my dad for a pep talk, or have him come with us to drive by the new house. I’ve needed his advice and his expertise about insurance coverage, and his hands to hold my baby.
I am still missing him.
I make do with pictures, talking to his friends, and asking for hugs, and extra support from people who know the pain of progress without a parent.
The moving truck comes in a few days. For today, Dylan and I sit, with laptops on our thighs and a baby between us on the bedspread. The artwork is down, boxes sit waiting for tape, and I can’t find my power cords. I’m not sure what words will be witness to the next chapter of life we are walking towards.
But, the tiny holes we left in the walls where we lived are now filled. We are embracing transition and honoring our marks of progress. What beautiful things.
When I was a kid, I loved laying in the bathtub, under water, with my ears plugged. It sounded different under there. With wooshes of water, I was closer to my pounding heart. The world above me was muted. With my head submerged, I was safe.
Temporarily.
I’d have to come up to breathe.
Life with a newborn submerges you. A baby’s demands are all encompassing. This water, while not necessarily safe, did mute the outside world. I was so focused on my own survival and on hers, that I missed a few things. I stopped looking at dashboards, and while I skimmed headlines, I couldn’t take in the immense weight of what our country is going through.
Family members have COVID. Unexpected medical bills arrive in the mail. The Supreme Court appalls me. I’m fearful for transition and lack of quality daycare spots available. I’ve spent hours spiraling, returning in circles to the what-ifs and what-may-bes. It’s a scary time to be alive.
I told my mom last night I feel like I’m sitting up a little bit, my nose right above the water pouring over of our new tiny family. As my eyes look around, less darting, hopefully a bit less baggy from lack of sleep, I remember I can choose what to focus on.
I wrap my arms, growing stronger from the continuous lifting of a small human, around myself for a hug.
Shadows flicker across my kitchen walls as my baby sleeps again, in her basket on the table. It won’t be long before her tiny body outgrows this solution. I folded up newborn clothes last night to give to a friend. I’ve been so fearful for her little body to grow, I forgot it would actually happen. I’m here with her everyday, and still, I’m missing things.
When we get submerged, noise mutes. We must tune in to our beating hearts. I’ve started asking, “Who am I now, in this new space? And when I come to the surface, what will remain of me and of us?”
But I don’t want to live under water.
I want community. I want light, and tiny toes growing, and a writing break during nap time.
I want water wings. I want to swim.
Remember swimming pools?
Lifting your head above water, no matter how deep, is a beautiful thing.
My baby is sleeping in a basket on the table. In between sentences, I try to shovel rice into my mouth – a later lunch taken while afternoon rest fill these quiet days. Baby grunts and coos are new background noises. Slurps and sucks and suction, recent sounds of sustenance and frustration.
I did a lot of reading to prepare for pregnancy and delivery. I learned about guarding postpartum spaces, and prepped meals for the first forty days. What the cookbooks don’t tell you is if you forget to thaw the meals, dinner before six is a pipe dream. Crockpots do combat freezer burn. You need eight arms to get a meal on the table, a diaper changed, a bottle made.
I wasn’t prepared for the tears that would come, the feelings of inadequacy, the fears of is my child getting enough?
They say there are no manuals for parenting – much like grief there are no right ways to do things. There sure as heck are a lot of wrong ways to do it though. I’m learning to lean into forgiveness and trial and error. Not my favorite things.
At week two, my husband and I found ourselves sitting in the NICU, watching our new baby get poked for an IV. As a trained compassion professional, I wish I could have drawn upon learnings, and remembered that I, too, am worthy of grace.
In that moment, though, fear and shame washed over me in waves. Kind nurses and doctors reminded us this is hard. We arranged to sleep in rooms away from the beeping monitors – not how I envisioned my first nights away from my baby. We said prayers for healing and hope and luckily, were released after just a few days. The shame has lingered for weeks.
I’m still getting to know my daughter – I imagine this is now lifelong work. While her cries cue me for different needs, something is stirring within me. A becoming.
I told Dylan if we were learning to play the cello, we wouldn’t expect ourselves to pick up the instrument and play a symphony right away. Yet, in America, with lack of paternity leave, pieced together maternity leave, and fears of what will insurance cover, we are expected to be masterful musicians right from the start. Or maybe, that’s just what I thought reading the books would equip me to do.
The night we went home from Children’s hospital, I took this picture and texted ‘Grace upon grace upon grace.’ I want that to be my mantra for motherhood.
And in the meantime, bring over some tissues, come for a visit, or call up a new mother. This is hard and holy work. There’s no bouncing back. There’s only becoming. And that is a beautiful thing.
Numbing seems an appropriate reaction. The news has us believing every day life is full of tragedy on repeat. We turn away, scroll up, click out. Or we gawk and watch from our couches as lives not our own burn on December days.
The past two years have exhausted us, yes. Fear looms ever present and, as the pandemic revealed to all of us, this myth of certaintity is just that, a myth. We like to think we are invincible, until nature and forces greater than ourselves tell us over and over again, we are simply humans.
Just down the road from us a whole community burned in a wildfire in December. Over 600 homes are lost. That’s 600 families who woke up yesterday with plans, and had their lives tipped upside down. The Target where my husband worked in high school is gone. Whole neighborhoods flattened by flames. In December. Global Warming is taking its toll everywhere.
As I scroll this morning, there are hundreds of posts with these common phrases we hear in the face of tragedy:
Let me know how I can help.
Please reach out.
There are no words.
Yes, you mean well. Yes, your sentiments are overflowing with emotion and possibilities. And friends, we can all do so much better.
I’ve coached many people to work on their reframing, because when your life has turned upside down, you don’t have the energy to reach out. You need the people to do the reaching for you.
Make a list of how you like to care for others. Maybe you want to donate money (which you can do here). Maybe you want to bring a meal. Maybe your spare bedroom has clean sheets and is ready for long-term guests. Then offer those direct options up in the chats and in texts. Show up with donations (when organizations are ready). Put on a mask. Serve a meal. Phone a friend. Tell people how you can help, and then follow through.
You might not know what to say, but that doesn’t mean there are NO words. When your home burns, there will be hundreds of words. Tongues freeze for fear of saying the wrong thing. But under the weight of the fear of hurting others, words spew. Words of sadness. Words of anger. Words of hurt and despair. You can bring words of hope.
Try things like:
This sucks.
I know this must be difficult. You don’t have to face this new reality alone.
Want to get a milkshake?
I couldn’t believe as hundreds of families down the proverbial street lost their homes yesterday, I was getting a massage. Privilege, yes, but also a simple reflection that as your world turns, someone else’s may be falling apart. Rather than getting defensive and divisive, every day is an opportunity to turn towards the suffering of others and say, “Do I want to do something about this?”
This is compassion in action. It’s hard work. Messy, full of tears and literal ash. And it often starts with one word.
When tragedy strikes, we have choices. And choosing to turn care into action is a beautiful thing.
My muscles were sore from sitting on the floor balancing a plate of Chinese food in my lap. As I ate soggy noodles, three women, tenured family friends, sat perched above me on our worn, blue couch. As we watched an unremarkable movie, I felt safe in the company of people who knew me. People who knew him. People who carried pieces of my dead dad in their life stories too.
We had lost him a few months prior, and when the evening ended, I closed the front door and told Dylan, “I don’t want to go to bed because I feel so good now. I’ve forgotten how to feel good.”
I hadn’t thought of that night in years.
Seven days ago, Dylan called me upstairs with a somber voice. His delivery of a simple ask, “Katie, can you come here?” made my stomach sink.
After a week of addiction addled toggling between CNN and The New York Times websites, my eyes stuck in the red center of the US map as election results slowly ticked in. As the edges of our country turned blue, my heart beat escalated. Again, I sat on the floor, balancing plates on my knees as I watched The Queens Gambit to distract.
“Who died?” I thought. Unfortunately, still my default question.
“Joe Biden won” he said quietly.
Running up the stairs, I demanded he click over to nytimes. com – the news source I’ve been trusting in a sea of false news and fabricated reports.
I wasn’t convinced. Dylan scrawled out the math on an envelope waiting on the nightstand. Electoral votes and percentages and likelihoods of a secured win. Numbers and stats to help with the hope of certainty.
My heart cracked open with a gasp. I watched thousands of strangers dance in the streets with signs and masks and music from my tiny cell phone screen. We toasted gin and tonics as I don’t keep bubbly in my cupboard.
I didn’t want to go to bed last Saturday. I’d forgotten what happy felt like. I’ve been living with dread instead. Grief taught me feelings of elation can pop. Hope dissipates into the sheets as we sleep. It’s likely I’ll wake with big feelings in the morning.
As another week passed, COVID cases jump at alarming rates. People I know receive positive test results and I feel my fingers curling closed in fear. I’ve lectured my mom, and doubled up doses of vitamin D and zinc. Daily, I swallow down words I want to say to people who keep doing whatever the heck they want to do in the name of carpe diem.
As the artist PINK says, “It’s gonna be a long way to happy.”
Last night, with another plate balanced on my knees, we watched the movie 13 Going on 30. After the credits rolled, we turned to YouTube to watch Pat Benatar’s music video for Love is a Battlefield. For thirty minutes, my years of dance classes paid off. I wiggled and pointed my toes and matched the movements of the rock stars with big hair on tv. Dylan laughed and my dog barked. I felt happy. I didn’t want to go to bed.
This year has been scary for all of us. Whether you’re aware of your fears, or are stuffing them down into the fibers of your muscles where your subconscious lives, the reality of living in constant threat is not normal.
Like the first months of grief, I wonder if these intense circumstances will ever pass us by.
But there are moments, in balancing plates, and states turning blue, and dance parties in living rooms, where I am poked in the heart to remember again what it’s like to feel good. What a beautiful thing.
Great news! My friend Annie Herzig designed a sticker for the blog so we can remember to keep searching for beautiful things.
You can get one by choosing your own adventure below:
1) Donate to a nonprofit of your choices that serves children, grief groups, or the arts community. Share proof of your donation with me. You pick the amount that feels good to you.
2) Stick some money in the tip jar. All money raised goes towards paying an editor for the book in progress.
3) If money is tight, commit a random act of kindness and find a way to share your story with me.
52 Beautiful Things 