Category: Mindful musings

a strong call for cultivating the feminine

The first time I was introduced to the idea of the feminine with enough gusto to wake me up was while working with a shaman a handful of years ago. After watching me throughout a night of ceremony, he said,

“Katie, you even move like a soldier. How can you access the feminine?” Continue reading a strong call for cultivating the feminine

the smartphone: control and communication

“Our children may be at risk for developing a primary attachment to electronic devices rather than human beings. And so may we. “  –Jon Kabat-Zinn

And so may we.

Maybe this is the part of the equation that has got me so flabbergasted as to how to negotiate the world of social media when it comes to my 12 year old. Maybe this is more about me and my attachments than it is about him. I know that’s what he thinks, as he asked me just yesterday, “Why can’t you let me have a normal teenager’s life instead of one you have to control?” Continue reading the smartphone: control and communication

the universe via Rosemond (and yoga)

I hung up the phone with TJ this morning, a bit teary and immersed in self-doubt. I had voiced my frustration to him about Max having missed school basketball tryouts last week and Ted walking up to school today late and upset because his homework was incomplete. I said something to the effect of “I feel like every time I glance away from our kids for a split-second everything falls apart.” Continue reading the universe via Rosemond (and yoga)

Round two – shining light on the mushrooms

I was all set to post this morning. I have a beautifully written blog with just the right number of words, mix of alliteration and mindfulness verbiage. I even found a great photo to go with it. I spent a great deal of time trying to say precisely enough while sparing details to protect those I love. Continue reading Round two – shining light on the mushrooms

Crossroads

I got in my car after teaching lessons at King Elementary on Tuesday, still a bit flabbergasted (but much calmer than when I arrived) and checked my phone. There was a text from my friend, Maureen.

“Hi, Katie, I’m kicking myself for not telling you to take a photo of her license plate. Anyway, I got a pocket dial from you after you left and wanted to try you back.”

Ha! Pocket dial, that’s hilarious. Who says POCKET dial?

But, um no, that wasn’t a pocket dial, Maureen, I had actually called you, and then I had actually forgotten that I had called you, not remembering that I had called you until I heard a prompt asking if I was satisfied with my message. Shit! No, I’m not satisfied with my message, but I’m clearly not in the right mind to leave a message. I’ll hang up now and try again when I’m more composed.

Composed. To be composed I must breathe. I know this. I can certainly breathe, for that is what I’m heading to do in my car with a missing tail light: teach children to find their breath.

God damn it! How embarrassing. I am ashamed that pulling out of the parking lot heading to teach mindfulness I mindlessly backed up into someone. I am ashamed, and I am embarrassed that two people I know (and another I had just met) were sitting on the patio, witness to my blunder.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. I will breathe and I will feel my shame. I will feel my embarrassment.

Because I have a choice.

I can let this be a minor finder bender, or I can make this be BIG, HUGE. I can rip myself up and down. I can tear myself apart.

I am at a crossroads, and I have a choice.

I feel liberation peaking out behind the abating shame.

I’m home

I’ve returned from Barcelona to piles of mail, oodles of laundry and a yard full of toys left out in the rain. Ted’s piano books are by the front door, unpracticed since last Tuesday’s lesson, and Gus’s night-write journal is still opened to the page he wrote the eve of my departure. My bedroom comforter is stained, and my beautiful African basket is mildewed from a pot of coffee spilled in it last Sunday. The patio flowers are shriveled from the Midwest heat, and the basement is full of granola bar wrappers. Continue reading I’m home

Transforming boundaries

I write tonight from a quaint apartment in Barcelona. The neighborhood in which it sits is at the edge of trendy and touristy and gritty and “for real”.  I sit at a large round table at the back of the flat with my dear friend Candace, who is also writing. The terrace doors are open to the plant-covered community rooftop space. There is a slight breeze pulling from the open terrace doors at the front of the flat. With it come the sounds of the busy metropolitan street below. The incense we found and lit is subtle yet enrapturing. Beethoven plays on Spotify. It’s 9:00 p.m., though I’ve only been awake for six hours and only enjoyed one, deeply satisfying Spanish meal. Continue reading Transforming boundaries