beautiful things

Happy Book Birthday!

What if grief didn’t have to be so isolating? We’ve all lost parts of our lives over the last five years. And we need stories of hope and recovery in a world that continues to ache.

Whether you are in the throes of immediate loss, or years down the road from heartache, this book will call you to the hope and healing found in quiet moments as you practice choosing joy while tending to your despair.

I’m thrilled to share “Grief Cookies & Other Comforting Things” is available today at retailers everywhere.

Thank you to the many people who helped me bring this book to life! While impossible to mention everyone, I’m grateful to Claire Schneeberger, Franklin Taggart, Liesel Mindrebo Mertes, Annie Herzig, Zach Mercurio, Ph.D., Carla Fernandez, Margo Fowkes, Tanja Pajevic, Alexia Paul, Beth Wright and her team, Teresa Funke and my book launch team for the support over the past year!

Get your copy on Amazon
Get your copy on Bookshop.org
Get your copy at Barnes & Noble

Coming Soon

An exciting update from my corner of the woods.

The book I’ve been dreaming of has a tentative publication date! 10 years of blogging has been curated down into a beautiful collection on grief, comfort and hope. Release set for mid-October!

I’m working with great artists, editors, and project managers to help bring my grief story and encouragement to the world.

I’ll announce the title soon.

If you’re interested in learning more, helping launch and/or promote the book, or cheering from the sidelines, please let me know.

In With the Wind

To return to the keyboard after months away feels delicious. Clacking is comfort.

While the world seems to spin in turmoil, I’m reminded again of the practice of looking for and engaging with the ordinary.

Spring allergies have found me, hitching Kleenex to my pockets and in my purse. I’m sneezing and blowing and swiping all throughout the day.

On one quick afternoon walk, pushing to find fifteen minutes of solitude, I fought the warm winds bringing in a storm over the mountains. These same winds, though, brought me a gift.

As I turned a corner bracing for another firm blow, I noticed all of the scents of the blooming flowers pushing to greet me. Lilacs, irises, poppies, and hydrangeas are popping up through the ground to wave hello. In with the winds come the familiar scents of spring.

Sure, the smells of flowers are easy to dismiss.

But in these blustery days, I was tickled to remember, these blooms appear without much coaxing. They sit, waiting to be admired, or ignored, as we go about our days.

Why do we plant them?

Aesthetics, sure. And perhaps, the truth goes deeper. May we hope for return. Hope for fragrance. Hope for beauty to emerge, over and over again.

Here we are again. What will you allow to grace you this week?

It’s Glittering

I’ve been working with an editor to turn this blog into a book. It’s a humbling experience, having a trusted partner cut ten years of musings into under 200 pages. As Stephen King says, “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

I fear that after ten years, what I appreciate may have become repetitive. Yes, my attention has been on gleaning and refining rather than generating new ideas, but I know in the cuts, I’ve held back here. I don’t want to bore you. Perhaps I’ve drawn attention to similar noticing many times before.

This morning, standing in the garage in negative temperatures, I counted to five in my head, trying to get my toddler into her carseat. The exercise tests my patience and my invites profound mindfulness. As I waited for her to pull her growing body up into her seat, on her own of course, I turned to wait.

Just beyond the driveway, I watched ice crystals glimmer in the sun and the frigid breeze.

“Look baby!” I exclaimed. “It’s glittering outside.”

And with that invitation to redirect attention, she sat her tiny butt in the seat in awe.

It’s glittering outside.

A good developmental editor can review thousands of words and find themes, building story arcs in the bulk of material. She is helping me find the glitter.

I’m not one to usually run out of words, but I am changing direction here. Posts will slow as I work to turn this collection into something with a cover. I hope you’ll continue to read when a post does emerge.

With ten years of practice, the exercise in looking for beautiful things has become a part of me. I focus on the connections in conversations happening next to me at coffee shops. The excited hellos, an older gentleman leaning down to pick up a glove my kid dropped on the sidewalk, the warmth found in a cup of tea.

In these divided times, calls to action seem loud and demand quick and constant attention. I’ve committed, though, to the appreciation for the mini moments that bring us hope in our moments of frustration, disconnect, and grief. Small is mighty. Repetition can turn to ritual.

Today, the branches were blowing, offering light in the cold. Tomorrow, there will be something different.

Maybe I’ll capture it here, but really, I hope all of this work helps you remember, to capture these beautiful things in your own hearts. Our world needs more calm and compassionate seekers.

Stay tuned, a book is coming, and in the waiting remember, we need the beautiful things. More than ever.

Find your darlings. Find your darlings. Delight in something beautiful.

PS – If you feel compelled to help finance the project of turning the blog into a book, I’ll happily accept support. I’ll also be building a book launch team later this year. Send me an email at katie at katiehuey.com and I’ll send you the info.

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. 

A Different Take on Ruffled Feathers

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.

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.