Katie

Dancing with the divine

I grew up reciting at mass at least once each week

I am not worthy to receive you, only say the word and I shall be healed.

This phrase, more than any other, formed my early understanding about my place in the world. Repeating it each week I came to believe not only that was I unworthy, but also that I was at the mercy of an agent outside myself to heal from this state. I had paid attention, so I was well aware that this agent was capricious and difficult to appease. I knew he had sent his son to help me out. His son had died for me and for my sins, and because of that I should be on my best behavior.

Making my first reconciliation further solidified my beliefs. In this sacrament I learned that by sharing a few of my sins with a priest and doing whatever he prescribed as penance, this agent would forgive me of all my sins; my soul would be pure. I remember confessing, reciting the assigned prayers, and then quickly fucking it all up in an altercation with my younger siblings. I remember thinking my soul’s cleanliness was an all-or-nothing situation and that I was dark with sin once again. I wonder now if this transactional encounter with a God-broker was the beginning of my black and white thinking. I wonder if it was the beginning of my perceived lack of agency. I wonder if this was when I began to back away from the magic of the feminine.

By seven, I had already formed a habit of reciting multiple Our Fathers, Hail Marys and Glory Be’s each night, and I added my own version of prayer:

Please God help me to….

Please God let so and so do ….

Please God, Please God, Please God…

To this day I find myself in a knee-jerk reaction reciting a Hail Mary whenever I hear a siren. When I’m super stressed I’ll throw out an unconscious Please God as well, but other than that, my relationship with my childhood god dwindled to almost nothing by my twenties.

This lack of relationship saddened me when I allowed myself to reflect on it, so mostly I didn’t. But the birth of my first child forced the issue. Would we baptize? Would we raise him in a spiritual community? Would we celebrate Christian holidays? All signals from my body and conversations with my husband led to no. The no man-god-in-the-sky decision was mostly okay, except when I was feeling cultural guilt about not teaching my children about him, or when I was wanting community on a Sunday morning.

Over the years, I’ve let the sadness and guilt fade pretty much into the background, finding my connection and spiritual nourishment on the yoga mat and in circle, the outdoors and sacred ceremony. I’ve cultivated a serious gratitude practice as well as a deep relationship with intention-setting. It wasn’t until I was preparing for a recent circle that I made the connection:

Setting an intention is prayer (but without the guilt of unworthiness, nor the belief in dependency)

This may seem like a major DUH, like most bumper-sticker realizations, but it was a huge opening to me— realizing that I haven’t turned away from God over the years, but rather I have turned toward her—- simply from a place that resonates more profoundly. I have found a way to engage with the divine in a more mature, trusting and less co-dependent manner, a more playful manner. Instead of begging a father figure to grant me what I believe I need, I have been sending desired wishes (prayers it turns out!) into the universe to be used as guiding stars as I act on my own behalf, making decisions aligned with my intentions and following gut instincts and the universe’s winks to lead me in the direction I want to go. As author Liz Gilbert would say, I am a co-conspiring with the universe.

As I say, I am dancing with her!

Intention and the fall equinox

I find myself wanting to pinch myself lately. I am experiencing life like I haven’t since childhood, not stateside anyway. I have built-in tinker time almost on the daily. This is time to ponder, to straighten up, to organize, to weed, to contemplate, to play, to move furniture, to walk around my house and simply take it all in. Thursday I even spent a whole day at a state park with a dear friend. We packed provisions and spent the afternoon resting on blankets under the big blue sky. We felt the warm wind of the last days of summer and we listened to it blow through the leaves of giant trees. I vacillate between gushing gratitude to the universe (mostly) and succumbing to nagging ancient guilt that speaks up now and again to challenge me,

who do you think you are, barefoot and playing with plants, sitting and sipping tea …isn’t there something you should be doing? producing? achieving? Continue reading Intention and the fall equinox

So many sorrowful questions

My current reading circle is reading Omaha native Roxane Gay’s Hunger, A Memoir of (My) Body. The book is an uncomfortable read. Roxane tells the story of building her own cage, a body weighing 577 pounds. She created this structure, she explains, as a way to feel safe, a way to avoid a desiring male gaze. She did this in response to being gang raped by a group of boys from her suburban middle school at age 12. Continue reading So many sorrowful questions

Gus wisdom

Today is Gus’s birthday. I could so easily write an ode to Gus. He’s the least like me, and thus, the easiest one to praise and appreciate. He’s creative, curious, confident and those eyelashes, get outta here. I could go on and on about his charm and his trust in the world, the way he has his daddy wrapped around his finger and his popularity at school with kids older, younger, of all the genders, and the teachers too. He’s human, so I could throw in a description of the super-out-of-the-ordinary fit he threw on the way to school today, and juxtapose it against his normal ease around transitions and change. I could really easily fill up a page with my adoration of this blond 98% angel child, but instead I want to talk about me.

I’m the one who brought him into this world, and I’m the one who remembers it. Nine years ago I gave birth to a babe who emerged silently, ready to tackle this thing called life. He was my only full-term (plus!) birth, my only who could have been born in an intact bag of waters (if not for the overzealous and YOUNG nurse who broke it, on purpose). The only chubby one, the only serious smiler from the get-go. So many differences with this one, so much to learn from him. Again, this is about me, not him, so I’m focusing on what I’ve chosen to learn from him:

If it makes you feel good and doesn’t hurt anybody, suck it. — Not out in public anymore, not even every night anymore, but when he needs to, Gus is a stellar self-soother, self-care provider and thumb sucker. And teeth can be moved later if need be.
Know what you need and ask for it. (Or demand it, with a please tacked on the end.) This doesn’t just concern a glass of milk, but tuck-ins, hugs and snuggle sessions are included. As is creative play: earlier this week I participated in an at home World Wide Wrestling event with Gus. I was astonished at the detail in his instructions. He basically gave me a script: he jabs like this, I duck like that. He turns to face the crowd, I sweep his feet from behind. We end up tied after five rounds, but he wins in the last one.
Acknowledge the world as your network. We can see the neighborhood playground from our kitchen window. If Gus sees kids, he’s outta here. To him it matters not their age, sex or whether they’ve ever seen each other before. If they are at the playground, they clearly like to play, and he does too. That’s enough of a reason to reach out, include and expect to be included.
Test your limits. Just because someone has said no in the past or you couldn’t do it yesterday doesn’t mean it’s not possible today. Every day there is the chance to correctly guess your parents’ iPhone passwords or to hear a yes when you ask your adolescent brothers to build legos. Even if the last 50 times you’ve failed and been rejected.
If you don’t like your choice, change your outfit. Just because this morning he was going to be an Argentinian gaucho doesn’t mean he can’t be a real estate broker this afternoon. He enjoyed the process and the time investment, so if it doesn’t pan out, no biggie. On to the next adventure.
Flashcards don’t make you wiser. Unlike his brothers who could pretty easily be convinced of the necessity to practice, prepare and er, compete, Gus knows in his bones and can articulate pretty well the value of choosing activities that fuel his fire and bring him joy. Who cares if everyone else in class has moved from addition to subtraction? He is not them.

I could go on, I could reword and I could proof again, but in Gus style, I’m sending this out into cyber-space and I’m off to the next thing that brings me joy— teaching yoga.

Namaste to all the mothers out there! May all our lashes grow as long as sweet Gus’s.

xo,

Katie

Circle

I am beyond excited to be hosting a school year long circle starting in September.

I am calling this nine-month circle because it’s time. Nearly four years ago I had my first tarot card reading at the suggestion of a close friend. The spunky card reader, in from LA, wouldn’t let me leave before plugging into my phone the contact of a woman offering circle experiences here in Omaha. She fervently made me promise I would call immediately to inquire. I called, and lo and behold, there was one spot left in an upcoming leadership circle. Continue reading Circle

Busted monk

Back when I was a teen in the throes of my eating disorder, I often despaired that I wasn’t an alcoholic instead of a compulsive binger and exerciser. I lamented not being able to simply stop eating, swearing off food and all the decisions it required of me. Or pills, I thought, that would be okay too. I could stop taking meds forever. But no, my addiction revolved around food, the second most important ingestible to my survival.

Today, however, I am thankful for my history with food. I can see that by learning to negotiate outings, desserts, rest-stop snack options and all the emotions and anxiety they conjure, I have grown. I see that the beauty of my struggle lies not in denying myself certain experiences, but in learning to be in relationship with them.

This rush of gratitude came on the heels of hearing a classic Chinese Zen tale about an old woman who graciously housed a monk on her property. After many years of witnessing his austere practices and delivering a daily meal to his hut, the woman one day decided to send a beautiful maiden in her place, instructing the girl to embrace the monk very warmly before leaving his hut. Later, the old woman questioned the monk about the test, asking how the girl’s warm body felt pressed against his. The monk replied, “like a withering tree in the winter”. With that, the crone cursed the religious man, called him a fraud and kicked him off her land, very angry he had learned nothing in all that time.

This story hits home to me in a very visceral way. As I continue mindfulness studies and exploration, I am beginning to understand that spirituality in no way requires perfection or shutting off a part of ourselves like the monk in the tale. Instead, spiritual growth is entrenched in humanness. Humans respond to beautiful young bodies, just like they respond to warm loaves of banana bread fresh from the oven. Human bodies make all sorts of gloriously sticky messes and human minds make all sorts of holy and elaborate mistakes in their never ending quest to seek positive feelings and avoid negative ones.

The art of being a spiritual human is not to not be tempted, to not make mistakes or to not feel uncomfortable, sad or fearful. The art of being human is to feel all those things, but to know deeply, at the same time, that all is okay, even if the physical body is in distress, the emotions are overwhelming or the ego is begging for something that could potentially be dangerous.

Had I been an alcoholic like I’d once wished, perhaps life would have been more cut and dry, a little more black and white. Perhaps I would have learned much quicker how to deal with difficult emotions once cut off from the bottle. Or perhaps that learning curve would have been too steep and those I love would have had much bigger and more painful repercussions to deal with as a result of my addiction. Luckily, that was not the case, and luckily, having to navigate the world of consumption has provided me ample opportunity to learn, grow and pay attention to my body and its messages, though they haven’t always been so obvious.

With time, binging morphed into limiting calories. (Who has time and energy to run all those miles to burn them?) Restriction eventually led to avoiding hunger. Grasping for a feeling of ideal satiation led to hoarding nuts like a squirrel. A high-fat diet eventually led to an angry gall-bladder. And this sensitive organ now speaks to me very clearly about my food choices, my increasing tolerance and my physical and mental health.

What a ride!

Different than the monk living in isolation and deprivation, my journey with addiction has allowed me to transform while also staying connected to the world, to my body and to the people I commune with over food and drink.

And the journey continues.

Lately it is providing me insight regarding more general discomfort and pain. I have discovered I can go hours without eating and be okay. I have realized I can be really hungry and be okay. Surprisingly, I can be very full and be okay too. And the beauty lies in these discoveries seeping out of my food world and into my emotional life. I am finding that I can be angry and be okay. I can be sad and be okay. I can be confused and overwhelmed and be okay. I can even disappoint others and be okay. I do not have to stuff the feelings with food, purge the feelings with exercise or completely lose my shit to shake up overwhelming emotion. I can pause and ground my body by sensing the breath in my belly and the weight of gravity holding me securely to the earth. By tuning in and paying attention, I can perceive information the body gives me about my experience, which is vital, as the body seems to know long before the mind can comprehend.

For this growth I am grateful for my complicated, yet slowly simplifying relationship with food as well as for my yoga practice, which teaches me time and again how to return to my corporeal home, physical proof of my humanness and glorious gateway to the spiritual.

Namaste. Cheers. And buen provecho.

From those to whom much is given, much is expected…

I don’t know when I first heard a version of this quote, but it’s been present in my consciousness for as long as I can remember. It taps into existential guilt I feel about being born white, American and well-off. Not only did I grow up with plenty of food to eat, plenty of clothes to wear and live in a big house on a nice street, I was also well-aware that I had, as Dr. Suess says,

Brains in my head

And feet in my shoes,

I could steer myself

Any direction I choose Continue reading From those to whom much is given, much is expected…

Happy birthday, my sweet Max!

Dear Max,

The clock has struck midnight announcing your 14th birthday, and I’m so giddy with emotion I can’t sleep.

This is the first year I recall being filled with enough excitement that the nostalgia can’t get me. Instead of winding down memory lane feeling my heart swell with sadness that I can no longer pull you onto my lap or take a stroll through our midtown hood, just you me and Rocky, I am bubbling over thrilled with the here and now. Don’t get me wrong, the longing to snuggle and scoop you up after chasing your toddler self down the alleyway is still here, but how exciting is your life right now? Continue reading Happy birthday, my sweet Max!

International Women’s Day

I wrote this poem a while ago. Before quitting my job. Before taking regular walks in the country, and before gathering weekly with a circle of my soul sisters. I dedicate it to all the women of the world searching for their voice and their freedom– from the boardroom to the bedroom to the backyard. Happy Women’s Day, sisters.

Freedom

Being a strong, authentic, and assertive woman

as well as a good mother

and wife

and daughter

and neighbor

and citizen

and friend

is so fucking hard.

I want to undo the word good. To hold it in my hand like a fuzzy dandelion and blow all its trappings to the wind.

Poof. Gone.

No longer needed, I want to take hold of the lash’s tail, and with newfound Herculean strength, send the whip master flying through space

to be lost forever

I want to purge the shame and the guilt that have taken root in my being and poisoned my spirit for so long. I want to rip their heaviness out of my depths and tend to the wounded space they hoarded.

I want to scream and flail and shake out of my skin like a

snake possessed

Feeling Rawness and Emptiness, I will birth new cells.

Growing my hair long and letting it tangle, coloring my naked feet with the earth, I will listen for my gut-master.
Devouring her teachings, I will compassionately disappoint,
keeping my compass always pointing

North

Moving slowly and deeply and suckling Mother Earth’s breast,

I will cultivate patience.

I will learn to trust.

I will pulse in rhythm with the universe.

kids’ questions, mindsets and the women’s march

During dinner on day two of our Costa Rica trip the boys asked me a question that continues to boggle my brain. It came after spending an afternoon traveling to a nearby village with our new friends from New York. The family of four wanted to escape the surf culture of Tamarindo and spend a laid back afternoon in a village less affected by gringos. Hence, we cabbed it to Villa Real where we ate the midday meal in a local seafood restaurant and ambled along the town’s dirt roads taking in the flora, fauna and rudimentary architecture of the bucolic town. Upon returning and talking about the day’s adventures, the boys asked:

“Do you speak Spanish as well as Jeff does?” Continue reading kids’ questions, mindsets and the women’s march