A Heart Day’s Work

Tweet

I feel most alive when I’ve put in a heart day’s work.

To see tears in eyes that haven’t cried in years.

To see a face soften with compassion for another.

These are moments I get to witness

when I put in a heart day’s work.

To watch a woman own her story,

realizing it no longer owns her.

This is what I get to witness

when I put in a heart day’s work.

To hear a woman speak authentic words

when before she chose silence.

This is what I get to witness

when I put in a heart day’s work.

To feel something like a mother’s love

even though I have no children.

This is what I get to experience

when I put in a heart day’s work.

To grow into the woman I was called to be

with a community of women behind and beyond bars.

This is what I get in return

when I put in a heart day’s work.

Why I Choose to Serve Convicted Criminals

Tweet

I found this note in a pile of homework. It was written by a woman in her 50s. She is African-American, heavy set, missing teeth, soft spoken and a bit hard to understand when she talks. But she regularly raises her hand to offer supportive words to her classmates when I ask the women to share their thoughts on a topic. 

I would like to now am I doing this right. because my Reading and understand is not that Good. if you think I cannot do this Class my I get into the class wear there Speaking there Story.

Thank you so much

P.S. because I don't what to give up I have being doing that all my life.

And my response to her, sent via JPay, an online, one-way communication tool. (Inmates do not have Internet access and cannot respond via JPay. Incoming JPay messages are reviewed, printed and delivered by prison security.)

Dear x,

I read your note of concern and reviewed your homework. I want you to know that you will be fine in this class. I understand your writing, and I think it is brave of you to participate in this class when you don't have much confidence in your writing ability. If I am ever unclear on what you are trying to write in your homework, I will simply ask you in person later. Please continue to participate in this class. You are a valuable member. Don't be discouraged. This is not the type of class where we grade grammar and punctuation. This is more about writing to get your feelings out.

Respectfully,
Katie

Non-Waking and Waking Moments

Tweet

1

In a pedicure chair, listening to an Asian-inspired Muzak version of “We’ve Only Just Begun” by The Carpenters. I close my eyes and a scene unfolds in my mind. I’m sitting in a mostly empty restaurant in a hotel somewhere in Shanghai. As I pick at my plate of Moo Goo Gai Pan, a waiter pushes a carpet sweeper with a squeaky wheel past my table.

2

At the H-E-B in Mueller Park, I wheel my cart around a corner and come face to face with a little kid who reminds me of Gary Coleman in the height of his “Different Strokes” adorableness. He immediately strikes up a conversation with me, as if we’ve been friends for years.

“They don’t have nothing else to try,” he says, hand on hip. “There’s no more gluten-free fries or frozen yogurt samples. I checked both tables.”

“Aw man,” I say. “I haven’t even tried any samples yet.”

“They do have some of that sushi stuff, but…” he makes a face like he smells something rotten.

“Yah, I hear ya,” I say as his mother rolls up with her cart. She eyes me and then her son.

Without another word or glance my way, Little Gary Coleman falls in line with his mama and the two disappear down the cereal aisle. The thought crosses my mind that he’ll probably grow up to be somebody important someday.

A Practice in Letting Go

Tweet

In our final class together yesterday, I shared this poem with my students at Lockhart prison. Having graduated from the Level 1 Talk to Me class last week, the women this week are moving on to Level 2 Discovery, which is taught by other facilitators at Truth Be Told. This transition requires taking a risk, to accept the invitation of joining a larger community of women in Truth Be Told classes who are also embarking on a journey of self-discovery. They are upping the stakes, learning who they are when the bullshit is stripped away, when they stop pointing fingers, when they own their stories -- the horrifying, the regrettable, the beautiful, all of it. They are discovering that they have a voice. They are seeing themselves and others with new eyes. They are continuing to practice the tools of community building, communication, caring for self and creativity.

Like many semesters before, I hold hope in my heart for each woman; their faces -- young and old, of every race -- will not soon be forgotten. They are the faces of mothers, daughters, grandmothers, sisters, wives, girlfriends, your neighbors.

I must remind myself, time and time again: This is where I let go.

Their future is theirs to live, theirs to save.

The Journey

By Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice —

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do—

determined to save

the only life you could save.

When I Dream of Her

Tweet

When I dream of her, the setting is always different, but the premise remains the same.

This time I am walking through a neighborhood, and as I turn the corner I see Mom standing on the sidewalk. She is pacing, trying to decide whether to cross. Immediately my heart swells with love, longing, anxiousness. And in that same moment, she turns and notices me. She is just as glad to see me. Her lip begins to quiver and I realize that she is near tears.

I rush toward her, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion too. I want to hug her. I don’t remember yet that she has passed away.

And herein is the premise that remains the same: I never remember in the beginning. All I know is that seeing her fills me with unabated joy and an undercurrent of desperation — terrible, terrible desperation.

I don’t recall if we talk, but we hug. And as we do, I notice two police officers nearby. They have been watching her and now they are watching us. I understand within seconds that they are wary of Mom because she has been pacing, maybe appearing a bit crazy. I want to protect her, so I take her by the arm and lead her away.

As we walk I begin to remember. She is sick. She is feeble. She needs me. My heart starts sinking. We arrive somewhere. There’s a room, and in it a bed. She lies down and I sit on the edge. I am looking at her face, really examining her face, for the first time. She looks scared.

It’s the same look I remember from real life, one morning back in June of 1990, when she woke up disoriented, not able to speak the right words even though it was clear she knew what she wanted to say. I remember the tone of her voice, a tone someone would use as if to say, “Well, this is curious, isn’t it?” But her eyes betrayed her. Her eyes were full of panic. Hours later I would be standing in a hallway at George Washington Memorial Hospital as a nurse explained to me that my mom had had a stroke. The following day I would be sitting bedside with Mom in ICU, watching her head rock from side to side on her pillow, her eyes opening and closing, involuntary movements repeating over and over and over and over. Her body was rebelling against her, breaking down, short circuiting. But her mind was still there. I remember her wailing when the doctor tried to raise her hospital gown to place the stethoscope over her heart because my dad — her ex-husband — was standing in the room. Dad said soothingly, quietly, “Bonnie, it’s ok.” And I think I saw something that looked like defeat in her unfocused eyes as the doctor raised her gown and continued with the exam.

She would slip into a coma the following morning, and two weeks later, she would be gone.

In my dream I am sitting on the edge of the bed, but we are not in ICU and she is not in a hospital gown. The surroundings are home-like and comfortable. But there’s an overall feeling of dread in the air and I now remember how it ends. I want to scoop her up in my arms and hold her close to my chest as if she were my child. I reach for her in a panic, but my arms will not move fast enough.

I wake with a start, bolt upright, my arms flinging out in the dark. For a second, I am confused.

But then I recognize my bedroom.
 
       I realize I am alone.
       
            I remember she is gone. 

                      And I will always be,

                                             always be,

                                   a motherless daughter.

Smoke and Mirrors (or "My Love Life As I See It")

Tweet

A friend once told me that being in a relationship is like having someone hold a mirror up to your face. Suddenly there's someone showing you how you appear to others when you say this or do that. In this "mirror," you see yourself from new angles—some flattering, some not so flattering. My friend—who travels frequently for business and purposely stays unattached—confessed to me that he worries about going so long without having someone hold up a mirror to his face. Is he putting himself at a disadvantage by not having this kind of personal reflection in his life? 

I'd never heard it articulated this way, but I understood my friend's concern.

Since getting divorced in 2002, I have been mostly single and mostly by choice. I knew when I left my marriage that I had a lot of growing up to do, and it was going to require some time in solitary. Simply put: I needed to learn how to be alone. I went from one high school boyfriend to another to one college boyfriend to another to a post-college boyfriend who then became my husband when I was 27 years old.

Let's keep my ex-husband out of this and fast forward to February 2002. I was entering my 30s and single for the first time in nine years.

My thirties were a time of substantial self-discovery. I went into business for myself. I bought a home. I traveled solo to places like China and India. I realized I no longer wanted to have children. I discovered that community work made my heart sing. I learned how to appreciate, support and rely on my friendships like never before. There were short-lived romantic relationships here and there, but mainly I got accustomed to living my life for me. I discovered my two feet—just my two feet—were strong enough to support me.

If the first couple years of my forties are any indication, I suspect this process of self-discovery—this rethinking, repurposing, deconstructing and reconstructing—is not a phase to get through, but a permanent condition of being human. It seems with every hard-earned answer, I gain the wisdom to ask more questions.

I write about this part of my life with confidence. I feel tuned in and full of possibility, wise in simply being aware and owning my life. I've grown comfortable out here on the edge, "living the question," as the poet Rainer Maria Rilke put it. The woman I am today feels strong, grateful, blessed, able to lead, willing to learn, full of love, connected to the pulse of life and passionate about serving others. Of course, there are times when I feel stressed and overwhelmed. I get tired. I get really lonely. I've thrown my fair share of pity parties and have been the last to leave. But I've learned to be patient with myself in those darker times. To trust that this too shall pass. I know to take a deep breath and reflect. 

However, this is what I see when I hold up my own mirror.

I've had three brief relationships in the past couple years, and the mirrors my partners have held up for me have reflected many of the positive qualities I named above. But also in their mirrors I have seen a woman who can be critical, temperamental and rigid. A woman whose feelings and words sometimes do not match. A woman who has trouble making time for another and projects her frustration onto her partner. A woman whose quickly drawn defenses prevent her from listening. A woman who can withdraw and disconnect without explanation. A woman whose expectations blind her from accepting or embracing what is. A woman who has more walls, rules and standards than anyone could ever possibly hurdle.

On my weaker days, I fixate on these unbecoming angles reflected in their mirrors and I see them as the absolute truth. I magnify these images at a blackhead-exposing level. I feel ugly and fucked up. I wonder what the hell my problem is.

A sweet man recently told me he could tell I was trying hard to make things work, to be patient, to stay open, to give things time. But he also could see in my eyes every time I was irritated or just not connecting with what he was putting out there, and it hurt him to see that because, really, all he wanted was for me to be happy. In the mirrors he and I held up for each other, we could see so many wonderful qualities between us, similarities too. But the hard truth was that there was a persistent disconnect in our interactions, an underlying tension, that prevented us from experiencing real intimacy. We had to wonder, especially so early in a relationship, should it be such a struggle to just get along? Probably not. I felt something like bittersweet relief wash over me as we agreed to give this budding relationship a rest. It was all so civil. So mature. So bereft of passion, actually, that I had to wonder: What the fuck just happened here? I mean, we did have something, right?

Or was it all smoke and mirrors?

In the years since my divorce, this scenario has played out more times than I care to count. And in the aftermath, I find myself asking the same questions: Have I forgotten how to love? Have I forgotten how to be a partner? Is it true what I sometimes see in their mirrors? Am I too critical and rigid? Do I have impossibly high expectations? Is something wrong with me?

In 2008, after a particularly hard breakup, I saw a therapist for several months. In her mirror, I saw a woman who simply knows who she is and what she wants. Forget being too critical of others; this therapist's observation was that I was being too hard on the relationships themselves. Why was I ladling such big expectations onto every new relationship that came to pass? And why was I so quick to beat myself up when things didn't work out? The way she saw it, most relationships aren't cut out for the long haul. "The thing is, true love—the kind of connection that can last a lifetime—is rare. I don't think it comes around that often, and that's why it's so incredibly special when it does happen. Do you think it's possible that none of these relationships have lasted because none of them were meant to last? Stop for a moment and consider the possibility that everything is unfolding as it should." 

I've thought a lot about that. It's true: Every relationship—whether it lasted weeks or years—has played a role in making me who I am today. And, for the most part, I like who I am today. I suppose none of these relationships needed to last a lifetime, but I needed them nonetheless.

So, as I move forward in this life, I continue to reflect upon the images I've seen in the mirrors of my past partners and in the way I see myself in my own mirror. Deep down, I feel my truest reflection is a melding of images from all of these mirrors. I'm a little bit of everything I see. I am multifaceted. I am lightness and darkness. I am strong and weak. I can be beautiful, and I can be ugly. I have good angles—and angles that could use better lighting.

I think the important thing is that I remain curious, that I remain willing to look in these mirrors that others hold up for me, no matter how disconcerting or reaffirming. Because in each reflection lies an opportunity to dispel the smoke and mirrors and gain a more holistic view.

At least that's how I see it.

Tossing vitamins and other ways to love yourself

Tweet

The other day I swallowed -- and then choked on -- a multivitamin the size of a horse pill. After coughing uncontrollably and rubbing my throat until the discomfort went away, it occurred to me that this happens EVERY TIME I take this "good for you" vitamin. Suddenly the $17.99 or whatever I had paid for the bottle didn't seem worth the guaranteed daily gag fest. I picked up the nearly full bottle, threw it in the trash and exclaimed "Never again!" for effect. (I can be a bit melodramatic when I'm at home alone.)

It felt good. Really good. Why had I not discarded those throat-scraping choke hazards sooner? Why was I continuing to put them in my mouth, knowing I'd choke on them every time? As I chewed on these questions my eyes came to rest upon a small tin filled with bobby pins. Most of the pins had lost their rounded tips so they pulled my hair and scraped my scalp when I used them.

I grabbed the tin from the shelf and dumped the pins in the trash.

A thought flashed in my mind: What else in my house hurts me? Annoys me? Causes me regular frustration?

• Good-bye, footstool! You're stylish, but I stub my toe on you ALL THE TIME. (I shoved the stool under a chair. If I want to use it, I'll pull it out.)
• Socks with holes: I deserve better. Out with you! 
• Can opener that's hard to crank and hurts my hands and makes me cuss: Adios!
• Jacket with sticky zipper that slows me down when I'm trying to leave: To Goodwill you go!

As I went about scanning and tossing and making minor adjustments in my home, I realized just how many little irritants I was willing to accept and live with on a daily basis. It was as if a part of me didn't believe I was worth the $2.89 it would cost me to get a new set of bobby pins.

The more I sat with the idea, the heavier my heart felt in my chest. Because, in a way, this was the truth.

In recent months I've come to notice how loud my inner critic can be. The smallest thing can set off a self-scolding that leaves me stewing for hours.

You're running late again? Really, Katie? Give me a break. Did you think there wouldn't be traffic at 5:30 pm?
Why did you wait until the last minute to address this? Your time management is for shit. 
How can you be low on money again? Ever heard of a budget? How old are you anyway?
You call this meditation? Looks like a bad case of monkey brain to me. You're wasting your time.

My inner critic can be relentless ... and exhausting. The good news is that I'm aware now how much she can color the way I see myself, others and the world around me. So these days when she starts in on me, I notice it right away and I remind myself that anger is really something else: fear in disguise. That acknowledgement alone takes the power out of the diatribe and makes room for compassion.

What exactly am I afraid of? Good question.

I (try to) meditate on that. I try to notice what circumstances make me particularly self-critical. I practice mental fitness in the gym to boost my confidence and self-image outside the gym. I sometimes see what it feels like to sit with uncomfortable feelings and not immediately try to "fix it." I take deep breaths and tell myself to relax.

And I toss out expensive vitamins. A small, but symbolic way of loving myself.

Discovering What I'm Made Of

Tweet

[Editor's note: Apologies for the length of this entry. This topic has been percolating for a while, and I only recently felt ready to write about it.]

I had a random, last-minute idea to attend church this past weekend. When the pastor began his sermon, he said he wanted to talk about grief and how people generally talk about grief as if it were an event with a start and stop date, when actually it can be a lifelong process that evolves as you evolve.

He also spoke of ways to cope with grief. Among his suggestions, he said to listen to your dreams. Snippets of my dream from the previous night suddenly flashed through my mind like a film in fast-forward. I got goosebumps. I felt heat in my ears.

He talked of Carl Jung's theory that dreaming was the body's natural mechanism for healing. And he referred to John Sanford's book "Dreams: God's Forgotten Language," which talks about the psychological and spiritual significance of dreams. Sanford points to the many cultures across the globe that believe God speaks to humanity in dreams.  

In my mind's eye I see my dream again. I am on the floor, face down in a lunge. I am leaning into the stretch when suddenly the floor turns to sand and a terrific and terrible wave comes crashing down on me. I feel the full weight and power of the ocean on my back; it is almost suffocating. I dig my fingers into the sand, trying to maintain my position, but the force is too great. The water rips me off the floor and hurls me through its murky blackness until I eventually land flat on my back. I open my eyes only to see that I am yards — perhaps miles — deep into the ocean. The light at the water's surface is so far above me, so unreachable, that it feels like tomorrow proceeding without me.

I realize this is death. I will not breathe again.

The pastor talks about the death of his wife, how he had studied the psychology of grief for years in academia, but none of it prepared him for what he felt when he lost his wife.

I feel the vast emptiness of the dark ocean around me. It is absolutely frightening and foreign, but I am doing my best to relax into it, trying to trick myself, keep my fear at bay. But then I feel another wave coming from miles away, like a tsunami on a radar screen. My heart is pounding sickeningly in my chest. I know how terrible it is going to be and I know I have no control over it. Instead of digging my fingers into the ocean floor, I go limp and the rush of the water sweeps me up like a ragged doll into a blurry, swirling blindness. I am not without fear, but this time I am one with the turbulence. Then another realization: I am being projected upward. And just like that, my face pops through the water's surface. I am floating on my back in the water. I am breathing again. 

I try to take in the expanse of blue sky above me. It is as grand as the ocean beneath me. But I can only see part of it from where I float. And that is when I suddenly find myself in the sky, looking down on my body.

Now I can see so much more than what my earthly body could see. This perspective is also foreign, but — unlike the turbulent ocean — it doesn't frighten me.

I don't feel any attachment to that body I see way down there in the water. I know I am dead. But from this viewpoint, it feels more like ... a renewal? A beginning? 

The pastor finishes his sermon and asks us to bow our heads in prayer. As everyone lowers their heads, I quietly gather my purse and head to the chapel doors. 

I walk outside into the bright sunshine. I get in my car. I drive in silence. No radio. Phone off. I drive and then I cry. Because I understand my dream now, and the divine significance of the vision, the comfort I find in it, breaks my human heart.


You see, back in January when I had a retinal hemorrhage, the eye doctor suggested that I get a physical exam because such hemorrhages aren't typical and it could be symptomatic of something larger going on with me. So I did, and my GP uncovered something new: I tested positive for anti-nuclear antibodies (ANA), and these antibodies show a homogeneous, speckled pattern. What does that mean? It means that I carry the same genetic coding as my mother. Coding that says I am genetically predisposed for autoimmune disorders — specifically lupus, Sjogren syndrome, scleroderma, polymyositis, rheumatoid arthritis and mixed connective tissue disease.

My mom was diagnosed with scleroderma at age 44. She died the day before her 45th birthday.

For a week I sat on this news about my genetic makeup without telling anyone — save for a friend who happened to call me only hours after I had read my blood test results via an email from the doctor's office. I was a bit of a mess and had no business answering the phone, but I did. I was sitting on my bed, mostly numb, hot with tears and acutely aware of everything, like I was watching myself in a movie.

I told my friend that I needed to see a specialist to fully understand what the results meant. It was wasted energy to panic and I needed to stay calm. I needed more information. He agreed. He told me to keep him posted. I could call him anytime.

Thanks to some personal connections, I was able to get in the following week with a highly regarded rheumatologist who stays booked months in advance. He examined me, interviewed me extensively, asked about other symptoms I might have and reviewed my blood work. Then he told me:

• I have Raynaud's disease, which is typical among those who have an autoimmune disorder, but Raynaud's can exist by itself too. Having Raynaud's does not equate to having an autoimmune disorder.
• I have a significant vitamin D deficiency, which is typical among those with autoimmune disorders because your body can't process it, but this deficiency is extremely common among the general population too because we now wear sunscreen and are mindful of sun exposure.
• Aside from being ANA positive, nothing in my blood work indicates an active autoimmune disorder. My numbers are in healthy ranges across the board.

The doctor said all of this in a cheerful tone, as if it were good news, but all I could think was: So, you're saying I'm OK now. But what about later?

As if he were reading my mind, the doctor squared his shoulders to mine, looked me right in the eyes and said: "Katie, I am looking at a very healthy 41-year-old woman who shows no signs of an active autoimmune disorder. And as far as scleroderma is concerned ... we know the least about it, but we do know that it's very rare to see two cases back-to-back within a family. If you were to develop scleroderma like your mother did, you would be an exception to the rule. I'm not saying it isn't a possibility, but it would be a departure from what is typical and expected of the gene's behavior."

What about the other autoimmune disorders? The doctor said that I'm "genetically predisposed" (read: at increased risk), but being ANA positive by itself doesn't mean I'll inevitably get sick. Autoimmune disorders are highly linked to environmental triggers. There must be a "perfect storm" of triggers to elicit an autoimmune response in my body. What are those triggers?

• Regular exposure to toxins (household cleaners, yard chemicals, highly processed foods, highly polluted air);
• Physical trauma (a serious accident, invasive surgery that's hard on the body, a serious viral/bacterial infection); and
• Regular exposure to emotional stress (no work/life balance, mental health issues, toxic relationships or lifestyle choices that cause long-term distress). 

The doctor went on to point out that I am already living ideally, given my genetic makeup: I work for myself and place value on work-life balance; I am passionate about physical fitness and being good to my body; I make good decisions about my nutrition and indulge in moderation; I have strong familial and personal relationships that keep me emotionally sane; and I have volunteer work that is emotionally gratifying.

"I couldn't prescribe a better lifestyle if you were a regular patient of mine," he said.

To further comfort me, we went over a list of symptoms that would indicate something could be going awry inside me.

"If you notice any of these things going on, come back and we'll talk," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, you can view yourself as a carrier of this gene. It meant one thing in your mother's body and I'm so sorry that happened to her. But it doesn't have to mean the same thing in yours. What your exam today tells me is that you're a healthy woman — healthier than many her age."

I walked out of that appointment with a strange mix of feelings. I could no longer hear the ticking of an impending death sentence, but I felt a new fragility inside me — a fragility that continues to color everything I think, see, feel or do.

This fragility, though, isn't a bad thing. I think it's a precious gift. It reminds me that I need to take care of myself — always. That I need to be gentle with my heart, patient with my mind, good to my body. It also furthers my conviction that the only thing I can control is what I do with my time today. I can still plan. I can dream. I can prepare. I can hope — all of which are ways to take care of my future self. But I'm learning not to bank on things unfolding a certain way, just because that's what I expected or worked toward. The only sure thing I have is the present moment.

Day by day, this is my journey to live out, and I feel incredibly empowered — genetically wired — to not waste it. I want to live it with arms wide open until that wave comes for me. And when it does, it'll be OK. Because I feel in my heart now that death is just as much a beginning as it is an end.

  

The Wonder of Witnessing

Tweet

In a modest dance studio, two preteen girls stand face to face, mirroring one another's movements in slow motion. The taller girl is leading. She circles her arms overhead, looking to the ceiling, and then bows forward at the middle, letting her head hang and arms swing at her sides. Her "mirror image," a Hispanic girl who's at least a foot shorter, keeps a watchful eye on her partner, trying her best to mimic every move in real time.

When the music started, the girls were suppressing nervous giggles. But now their faces have assumed a calm concentration. They are reflections of each other.

They see one another.

They are seen by one another.

This was just one of a handful of performance pieces I witnessed this weekend at a very informal recital of sorts at Cafe Dance in West Austin. The performers -- seven female adolescents -- were residents of The Settlement Home for Children, which provides housing, counseling, schooling and a multitude of support services for girls ages 7 to 21 who -- for one reason or another -- have no family or are no longer living with their families.

The recital was the culmination of a workshop hosted by Barbara Jo Stetzelberger, a licensed clinical social worker and dance movement therapist. For two days, Barbara Jo led the girls through a series of Interplay activities, which offer "embodied paths for self-discovery and personal healing." The recital I attended was basically a demonstration of what the girls learned in the workshop. As a group, they voted on what they wanted to perform for us -- us being about 20 community members sitting on folding chairs arranged in a semicircle. 

In Barbara Jo's Interplay workshop, there are no false or wrong moves. It is a safe, nonjudgmental environment where the young ladies are given permission to create, explore and self-express, using their voices and whole-body gestures and movement. They are invited to work alone and to work together at various points in the workshop, which creates opportunities to develop self-confidence as well as confidence in others.

I found myself holding back tears through most of the recital. The girls reminded me of how painfully alive I felt at their age, full of hormones and self-doubt, physically awkward, prone to throwing tantrums and wanting so desperately to shine, to be accepted. I watched the girls move about the floor, some with peacockish flair and some with trepidation and frequent looks toward Barbara Jo for direction. How much had they already suffered in their young lives? What have they endured? What have they been witness to?

Too much.

The rescuer in me wanted to know their stories and to "fix" all the injustices. I had to keep reminding myself that these girls are safe for now. They are surrounded by dedicated people who are working around the clock to ensure they have support and stability at the most fundamental level, as well as opportunities to learn and grow -- like this workshop with Barbara Jo.

Thank god for people like Barbara Jo, who are doing their part to bring hope and light to people who desperately need it. As I watched the recital, I couldn't help but think of the women I meet in my volunteer work at Lockhart Prison. Every semester I am witness to women mustering the courage to stand up and tell their life stories -- to remove all pretenses and defenses and speak candidly about the experiences they've had and the choices they've made over the course of their lives that eventually led them to where they are today: behind bars.

I don't have hard numbers, but it is my experience that the majority of the women in my classroom endured gross neglect and physical or sexual abuse as children. And as soon as they were old enough to discover a means of escape (alcohol; drugs; running away to the streets; inappropriate relationships with older, often abusive, men), they dove in headfirst, initiating a path of self-destruction that led them to lives of crime and ultimately prison. Along the way, many of them had babies, who then grow up in the same unspeakable chaos.

The cycle begins again.

Which brings me back to the recital and those seven girls in all their preteen glory, mustering the courage to remove all pretenses and authentically express themselves in front of an accepting, supportive audience. They didn't tell their stories, but I can take an educated guess. And it's my prayer that because of resources like The Settlement Home and people like Barbara Jo, these girls will have much different stories to tell in their latter years.

        

Dear Expectations

Tweet

Dear Expectations:

It has been duly noted that you show up in a timely fashion to all new challenges, encounters, events, conversations, and interactions of both the professional and personal kind. Despite your track record of perfect attendance, it has been determined that you do not add value to the operations within Katie Ford's HEADquarters. In fact, an internal review revealed that your worth has been on a steady decline for several years.

This is an official notice that you are no longer welcome at future engagements. If you decide to show up anyway, your presence will be acknowledged and then quickly dismissed without ceremony.

Signed,
Management

Stepping into the Sky

Tweet

June 28 and June 29 always inspire me to reflect because these are the anniversaries of my mother's death and birth, respectively. Instead of dreading these days as I have in the past, now I welcome them. I like the calm introspection that wells up inside me. I like walking around, going about my day, with eyes that see the delicate, temporary nature of things. I like getting a rush from something as simple as inhaling deeply and sitting back in my chair and just watching, noticing, everything.


Yesterday when I was training, I embraced the fact that my 41-year-old body was breathing hard, sweating profusely and straining to "stay in the fight," as my coach says. As my heart pounded and it became harder to catch my breath, I thought of my mom, who didn't live to see her 45th birthday because her body quit on her. I relished the feeling of my beating heart and I dedicated every breath, every step, every effort to her.


She can no longer, so I will.


I am of her blood and her bone; she continues to live through me and through my sister who has since given life to three little boys who will never know our mother, but will understand how amazing she was because we will tell them stories and show them pictures. And when they're old enough to have such awareness, they'll come to understand who she was because they will recognize her influence in the way their own mother and aunt treat others and embrace life. They will say, "She must have been a remarkable woman. I wish I could have met her."


My grief is bittersweet. More than anything, I just feel tender. My heart feels weighty in my chest with a sorrow that will always be, but it's also heavy with gratitude for having Mom in my life for 19 years.


Have you ever listened to a song countless times and then suddenly one day you hear the lyrics for the first time -- I mean really hear them? That's what happened to me this morning with this song that's been on my starred playlist for months. I looked up the song lyrics today and then found a homemade video on YouTube that serves as a perfect visual metaphor for how I often feel when I think about Mom. This lonesome, dark road I sometimes travel is also wondrous and beautiful. And even though I can't see what lies ahead and there are moments of total darkness, I always find myself back on solid ground -- the lines of the road clearly marked and beckoning me to keep moving. And so I do. Gladly.   

That Knot Unties
David Karsten Daniels

If you close your eyes
do you see any sky?
If you close your eyes
can you make out any skies?


Is there a sky when that knot
that knot unties,
as you close your eyes?


When you close your eyes
will you step into the skies?
As you close your eyes
do you step into the skies?


Is there a sky when that knot
that knot unties,
as you close your eyes?


When you close your eyes
I will resist
I will not cry.
When you close your eyes
I can resist
I will not cry.

I will not try
to know why
to know why


why all things die, die, die.