Pecha Kucha Austin #19

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Poster design by Pentagram Design Inc.

For those who weren't able to attend, the video is out! And conveniently for you, I'm the first presenter of the evening. 

In March, I had the opportunity to speak about my volunteer prison work at Pecha Kucha Night #19. The 20x20 presentation format -- 20 slides, 20 seconds of narrative per slide -- was quite challenging. I rehearsed what felt like a gazillion times to get the words down and the pacing right. In fact, the night before, upon settling into bed, I found myself compulsively reciting the entire thing like a nervous tick. When I uttered the first line, my dog -- somewhere in the darkness at the foot of my bed -- let out a dramatic sigh and promptly left the room. True story.

"Srriously, Katie?" I imagined Martha Dog saying. "I'd really like to get some sleep."

I guess I put so much care into the preparation because I knew I was representing Truth Be Told, and I wanted to do well for this nonprofit that has come to mean so much to me. I felt like I was standing up for the more than 1,000 incarcerated women who have graduated from Truth Be Told's programs and the thousands more who will take our classes and graduate in the future.

In my volunteer roles at Lockhart prison, I routinely get up in front of people and talk. I've also spoken at Truth Be Told fundraising events. So, to a certain degree, I'm comfortable with public speaking.

However, Pecha Kucha proved a different ball game, and it wasn't just because of the 20x20 format. As I stood there, facing the biggest crowd I'd ever addressed, I had this strange sensation, like half of me was there, in downtown Austin among the hustle and bustle of SXSW. Yet, the other half of me was behind bars in Lockhart with the incarcerated women. I mean, right beside me on a giant screen were images of us in the prison classroom -- laughing, crying and sharing our stories. I know these women. They have names, histories, families, hopes, fears, dreams. I see them fully as fellow human beings.

But I wondered: What was the audience seeing?

On their faces I saw looks of fascination, concern, curiosity, thoughtfulness, indifference. Of course, these are the emotions I assigned to their expressions. Who knows what they were really feeling in that moment.

I know what I was feeling in that moment: passion. Passion and conviction. It occurred to me as I stood there that this might be the first time some of these people have stopped to think about the incarcerated population.

I wanted these people to SEE the women as fully as I do. 

Addict, thief, con artist, perpetrator, aggressor, drunk driver, prostitute, drug dealer, gangbanger. Yes, yes and yes. You will find all of these people and more in prison. It's depressing, ugly, frustrating, disheartening and scary.

But here's what you'll also find in prison: mothers, grandmothers, sisters, daughters, wives, college graduates, war veterans, degreed professionals, business owners, former foster children, survivors of childhood abuse, survivors of domestic violence. 

These women who are locked away and invisible to most of us are also our neighbors. They are members of our communities. And one day, when their sentences max out or when they make parole, they will be back among us.

Will they be safe, contributing members of our society, or will they continue in their old ways?

That's a good question. I think a lot of that depends on what they learn while they're incarcerated.

I have a 26-year-old woman in my class this semester. It's her first time in prison. She got locked up at age 22.

The other week in class she proclaimed that prison has taught her how to be "sneakier," how to be a "better hustler," a "better addict."

That is, until this class.

She said she loves this class. Why? Because Truth Be Told is teaching her how to be truthful to herself and to others, how to express her feelings in healthy ways, how to ask for help when she needs it. It's also showing her how to seek supportive community and how to be supportive to others, which can make a world of difference in this crazy ride called life.  

I feel hope for this young woman. I think she's onto something good. Something better. Something different than what she's been shown and taught in the past. I can't guarantee that anything will blossom from it, but I am certain that a seed has been planted.

I want to thank PK organizer Lana McGilvray for suggesting that I present at Pecha Kucha, and I want to thank the board for voting me in. It was an honor and a real pleasure.  

Casa de Corona | Oct. 14, 2009 - March 24, 2014

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Casa de Corona was “born” on October 14, 2009, when I decided to join Facebook under a nom de plume inspired by my street address.

Originally a vocal critic of Facebook, I finally acquiesced and created a profile because I got tired of not knowing things that “everyone else” seemed to know.

You didn’t know that Jim is traveling through Central America right now? But he has been posting pics on Facebook!

You didn’t know Scott and Leslie got engaged? But they updated their relationship status on Facebook! 

After enough of these conversations, I bit the bullet and joined, but I did it on my terms.

I created Casa de Corona to maintain some level of anonymity on the social network. I wanted to make sure the people who had naturally drifted out of my life would stay that way. It’s not like I had a horrible past or anything. It’s just that I already found it hard to spend quality time with the people who were in my life presently. The idea of rekindling a friendship with, say, my physics lab partner from high school held zero appeal. (Sorry, Lee. It’s not you. It’s me.)

In addition to using an alias on Facebook, I set my privacy settings high and made Casa de Corona unsearchable. I sent Friend Requests to all the Contacts in my phone and — voila! — I was now officially “in the know.”

And, man, I had no idea how “in the know” I could be.

Not only was I now up to date on everyone’s vacation plans and relationship statuses, but I also knew what they ate for lunch, that they couldn’t sleep at all last night, that they slept for 11 hours straight last night, that they were having the most amazing night out with friends right now, that they were stuck in traffic, that they were relaxing on a beach, that they just listened to this MGMT song on Spotify, that their adorable dog was being even more adorable at this very moment, that their kid was at the ER and look at his tearstained face (#nofilter #whatachamp #poorlilguy), that they looked killer in their new sunglasses, that they stumbled upon this amazing article/photo/video and will never be the same again, that they made this delicious smoothie, that they laughed so hard at this meme, that they can’t get enough of House of Cards/Game of Thrones/Breaking Bad, that they think this quote is poignant and everyone should read it too, that they got a new haircut/bike/cat/girlfriend/tattoo, that they should really live in Cape Town, and — most importantly — that they would be Blanche Devereaux if they were a Golden Girl.

Before creating Casa de Corona, I didn’t know most of these things about my friends and I got along in life just fine. However, now that I knew these kinds of things, I had to keep knowing these things!

It became an involuntary habit to reach for my phone or open Facebook on my laptop whenever I wasn’t actively engaged in something. Waiting in line? Check Facebook. Eating alone? Check Facebook. Procrastinating? Check Facebook. Can’t sleep? Check Facebook. Bored? Check Facebook. Writer’s block? Check Facebook. And yes, I admit it: At a red light? Check Facebook.

It didn’t matter that I had just scrolled through my News Feed only minutes ago. I had to check it again because, you know, I might miss something important, like a gorgeously staged photo of the cocktail my friend just ordered at WeatherUp.

Over the past five years, I have allowed the lure of Facebook to routinely and regularly interrupt my productivity and creativity. A task that should take me only an hour drags over an afternoon because I take multiple "quick" breaks to troll through the News Feed.

I created Casa de Corona to stay more connected to others, but, for me, Facebook has morphed into The Ultimate Distraction.

I find it disturbing that I seemingly have forgotten how to stay present during the natural pauses in my day. Instead of welcoming a window of unoccupied stillness, my hand automatically reaches for my phone, my eyes leave the world around me, and all my attention and energy gets poured into a glowing screen.

It’s sick. Sick, sick, sick.

However, that’s not the worst of it.

What I find most disconcerting is that, for the most part, Casa de Corona has become my primary outlet for creative writing. I’ve started to regard most everything I experience as a potential Facebook post.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is where I must draw the line.

Since joining Facebook, my writing life (that is, my non-billable and creative writing life) has looked somewhat like this: If The Universe graces me with a keen observation or a bit of humor, nostalgia or enlightenment, I don’t journal about it. I don’t turn it into a short story or an essay or a magazine article. I don’t sketch out the beginnings of The Next Great American Novel.

Oh, no, no, no. Why, that would be too much work!

Instead, I immediately reconfigure the thought or scene into a pithy Facebook post, cast it into the News Feed and wait hungrily to see how many Likes and Comments it’ll catch. It’s so quick and effortless, and I have an audience available to me 24-7.

Sweetening the lure is that people often tell me, both online and in person, how much they enjoy my Facebook posts — that they actually look forward to them. And let me tell you something about writers, people: We love receiving feedback like this! I love learning that my words have resonated with another human being, that my writing has made someone laugh, think or just feel less alone in that moment.

I admit: This part of Casa de Corona’s “life” has been rewarding and very positive. I am grateful to her to this end. Casa de Corona has given me a (somewhat) public platform to voice my take on this thing called life, whether it’s a scene I observed in a coffee shop or the inventorying of a rather remarkable day.

But here’s the rub, my friends: Writing Facebook status updates has nothing to do with real literature and everything to do with tossing my creativity into a bottomless cyberpit to immediately gratify my ego.

It is like witnessing The Slow, Unceremonious Death of a Writer.

All those status updates I referred to above? I’m guilty of posting most of them and more. I mean, how many times a day must I say: “Look at me, everyone!”? Because let’s face it: That’s basically what I’m doing every time Casa de Corona posts a status update.

Look at me! How clever. Look at me! How fun. Look at me! How pretty. Look at me! How smart. Look at me! How strong. Look at me! How crazy. Look at me! How cool.

Do I really need a collective thumbs up from the Facebook community to validate my experiences, thoughts and feelings throughout the day? Since when did I become so outwardly focused in affirming who I am on the inside?

I know better than this. I was born with an independent spirit and a desire to pursue the road less traveled, but Facebook has somehow hacked into my internal compass and made it too easy for me to stop and ask for directions, to demand a virtual pat on the back versus patting myself on the back and knowing that that is enough. 

The good news is that I’ve become acutely aware of what Facebook can (and can’t) do for me. I have traveled the full distance with Casa de Corona. And as it turns out, she is a dead-end street.

Simply put: I am killing Casa de Corona to rescue the writer in me.

The Next Chapter

Like most writers, I think I have at least one book in me. Right after my divorce, in the early 2000s, I had an idea for a novel and I pursued it by spending two months in Mexico and then traveling across Spain in a tiny Fiat with three amateur bullfighters. I wanted to write a novel about a rodeo-cowboy-turned-matador. My ex-husband was a pro bull rider, so I knew that lifestyle well. I just had to educate myself about the fiesta brava. I taped hours of interviews on cassettes and filled a few legal pads with notes and observations, but, in the end, the book never happened. For reasons not worth going into here, my fascination with the bullfighting subculture waned, and I no longer felt compelled to write the story.

For a long time I beat myself up for not writing that book, but now I look back on that time in my life and I feel in awe that I spent that kind of time and energy pursuing a creative writing project that had nothing to do with my paid writing jobs.

I want to do shit like that again.

I will do shit like that again.

The trick is — and I can feel this like a deep knowing in my bones — I need to relearn how to stay present in the natural pauses throughout my day. I need to stop filling my head with News Feed fodder and make room for stillness. That’s when Ideas are born.

Moreover, when The Universe throws me an idea, I want to write at length about it. I want to process things thoroughly. I want to sit and revisit. I want to throw away and start over. I want to write and revise — and write and revise again.

I want to spend real time on real things.

For those of you who want to continue reading my work, I encourage you to follow this blog so you’ll receive alerts whenever I write something new. Casa de Corona’s final status update will sit in the News Feed for a couple days and then her profile will be deleted forevermore. Amen.

For the time being, I’ve decided to keep my Instagram profile alive because it doesn’t feel threatening to my writing life like Facebook does. But who knows. I might kill that too eventually.

I trust that those who want to be in my life will remain in it, and I'm certain I will find ways to stay connected and accessible to those I love, admire and care about.

Isn't that how the original model for friendship has always worked?

Mexico, Fancy Pants and Hypocrisy

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Last night I dreamed that I was living in Mexico and getting ready for some kind of elaborate evening fiesta with an Old West theme. I looked in my closet and found these amazing high-waisted pants with fringe and conchos. I had no idea that I owned pants like these, but when I put them on, they fit perfectly. I remember feeling happy because I thought they looked good on me and they were very comfortable.

However, when I saw the look on my friend's face, I suddenly doubted the coolness of my fancy pants.

To which she replied:

Which I didn't really understand, because she was wearing this Davy Crocket knockoff: a suede jacket trimmed in black fringe.

And that's really all I remember about my dream last night.

The Final Tally

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I recently rediscovered a box I hadn't rummaged through in many years. I had taken it from Mom's closet after she died. It's filled mostly with things I made for her when I was little (drawings, poems, Mother's Day cards, silly letters I wrote her from summer camp), but there's also a pretty thorough collection of report cards, certificates of achievement, progress notes from teachers, award ribbons, samples of my schoolwork, school programs that featured my name -- even a taped envelope labeled "Katie's first haircut" and a newspaper clipping of the horoscope that was published the day I was born.

Also in this box I found a looseleaf sheet of paper titled "To Jean: My Self-Analysis."

From context clues, I know I wrote this self-analysis at age 17. That was a tumultuous year in our family. For starters, after having lived with Mom during the school year and Dad during the summers since I was 6 years old, my mom made the difficult decision to move to Washington D.C. to take a good job. It was a dramatic move, but the times warranted it. It was the '80s, the economy in Dallas was sluggish, and she'd been through two layoffs in less than two years. As a single mother of two, she needed more stability. I think her idea was that my sister and I would move east with her, but -- being every inch of the typical teenagers we were -- we chose our friends and stayed behind to live with Dad. However, because Dad lived in a different area of Dallas, my sister and I ended up having to change school districts anyway. For me, that meant leaving the friends I'd known since preschool to start my junior year at a school where I knew no one. Moreover, Dad ran a tight ship in contrast to Mom, so there were new house rules to obey, which did not sit well with Teen Goth Katie and her "nonconformist ways." All of this required a lot of adjustment for everyone in our family.

But wait. There's more.

That same year, Dad met, fell in love with, and proposed marriage to an incredible woman named Jean. Even though they had only been on four dates when my dad proposed, Jean said yes -- and, voila! -- my sister and I suddenly gained a stepmom. Oh, and she had two daughters as well -- ages 4 and 7 --  and all three of them moved in with us, which meant my sister and I had to share a bedroom for the first time in our lives.

Picture, if you will, Teen Goth Katie sitting on her bed, penning this self-analysis in her journal and intermittently peering out the window at the rain. (Technically, it might not have been raining on this day. But figuratively, it was always raining in Teen Goth Katie's mind.)

I no longer remember what prompted this particular writing exercise -- this "self-analysis" to Jean -- or how it ended up in my mom's box of Katie treasures. But I do know that this was something my mom had taught me to do when I was feeling blue ... which was basically all the time for Teen Goth Katie. The idea was to make a list of everything good in my life and then make a list of everything bad in my life. Mom's rationale was that inevitably I would discover in making these lists that the good stuff outweighs the bad stuff, and knowing this would make me feel better. And, to her credit, both of these things proved to be true 99 percent of the time.

So, on this particular day, when I was 17 and dealing with a lot of change, I felt compelled to make my lists. And this is what I discovered:

Good things 
I graduate and turn 18 this year.
My eyes.
My lips.
My buckle shoes.
My art.
My friends.
My records and tapes.
Never been mugged or raped.
My bedroom in D.C.*
My house has never caught on fire.
My feet.
Never had a serious car wreck.
My daydreams.
Thanksgiving and Xmas vacations are soon.
My first report card this year.
My childhood.
My free airfare**
Never had stitches.
My left pinky fingernail.***
My moonstone ring.
Laughing with my sister or Heather.
(21)

Bad things
My surgery.
My skin.
My weight.
My eating habits.
My deteriorating bank account.****
My endless generosity.*****
My cavities.
My health.
My insomnia.
Accidentally wiping out 9 wks of work on my floppy disk at school.
My high tolerance for taking shit.******
The damn bells at school.
The incredible amount of time it's taking to grow out my hair.
(13)

* Mom gave me free rein to decorate my bedroom in her D.C. house, which was a beautiful old row house in historic Old Town Alexandria. So, what did I do? I painted the walls solid black and hung posters of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe and Sid Vicious -- all of whom I admired because they were beautiful and, well, dead, which made them all the more mysterious and tragic.
** Dad was a pilot for Delta Air Lines.
***I had grown it out like I was some kind of coke fiend. I thought it made me look cool and dangerous. (Teen logic at its finest.)
**** I had an intense crush on this bad-boy punk rocker in my art class named Chris. He was a senior and only a year older than me, but in my recollection of him, he looks as wizened and haggard as Keith Richards. Anyway, I had inherited a couple thousand dollars when my great grandma passed away and, without telling my parents, I withdrew a little more than half of it to bail Chris out of jail when he got busted for having weed and drug paraphernalia in his car. In my mind, our reunion would be passionate. He would kiss me and tell me I was his girl. But when Chris walked into the jail lobby, he patted me on my head and said, "Thanks, kid. I'll pay you back" and then asked me to give him a ride to his buddy's house. I did not become his girl, and I never saw the money again.
***** See above story about Chris.
******See above story about Chris.

The final tally of this self-analysis:

21 - 13 =

+8 more good than bad

Mom was right again. If I looked at the bigger picture, my life was actually pretty good.

It's a lesson that has stuck with me all these years. To this day, if I'm feeling down about something, it's relatively easy for me to widen my perspective and recognize that the good outweighs the bad. And it only gets easier as I get older and my world view expands to reveal everything that life is capable of delivering -- opportunity, disappointment, love, loss, growth, joy, isolation, challenge, hope, friendship, peace, justice, redemption, forgiveness, the unknown. Always the unknown.

I list all of these as "good things." My list of good grows and grows. And for this I am forever grateful.

A Heart Day’s Work

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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")

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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

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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

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[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.