A snapshot

Forty-plus years old now, the surface of this small, square photo is covered with thin, mostly vertical, cracks. It has lived the better part of its life sitting on top of my dresser so the once-bright colors of the 1970’s have faded to more of a sepia tone. The trees and grass in the background look mustardy and my strawberry blonde hair, pulled into a ponytail, now looks closer to the color of my sister’s soft brown hair.  

On the back of the photo my mother wrote “Karen (3 ½) gives Janis (15 months) a trike ride.” I’m not sure who took the photo- my mom or my dad- but it’s of my sister and me from the waist up. I’m steering the tricycle and she’s riding behind me holding on to my arms. With me sitting and her standing we’re almost the same height. It wouldn't be long before she matched my standing height and passed me. Oldest does not mean tallest, at least that’s how it is in our family.

Riding that trike was great fun. It had white handlebars and red hand-grips with red plastic tassels that waved in the breeze if you got enough speed going on a straightaway. It was as fast as we could go under our own steam and at that age (or any age, really) it was empowering to do something yourself. In this still photo, however, the tassels are hanging limp. 

We’re wearing swimsuits which meant it was the height of summer and we'd been cooling off in the sprinkler. My suit was a one-piece scoop-neck with blue and white horizontal stripes on top and solid blue on the bottom. Sitting on that red and white trike I look quite patriotic. My sister’s suit had a white top with pink frills on the bottom. Frilly was never her style but at fifteen months you don't get a say in what you wear.  

We both have big smiles on our faces. When I smile my eyes crinkle up into half-moons making them hard to see (my left eye is an even thinner crescent than my right). To be clear, I can still see out of them but it’s hard for others to know that. Somewhere along the line I began referring to them as my ‘bad eye’ and my ‘one good eye’ and it became my joke at picture time.

The diminutive 3” x 5” square brass frame this photo lives in has a heart-shaped inset which perfectly cups the tops of our young heads. The size and the shape of the frame are so unique that she must have either looked specifically to frame this photo or seen the frame and remembered this photo of the two of us. Either way, it was a special gift from her on my eighteenth birthday.  

On the back of the photo underneath Mom’s original writing she wrote “Karen, Happy 18^th Birthday! Forever you’ll have a special spot in my heart. Love Always, Your Sister and Friend, Janis”. I feel so fortunate to have her in my life. She knows me well and loves me even with my one good eye.   

As with most close relationships where you share a bedroom, we weren't always such good pals. I found her, at times, to be quite annoying and certainly she felt the same about me. When it came to physical altercations I was a pincher, using my long fingernails to advantage, and she, well, she was a hitter. I know I’m sensitive but most fights ended with me crying after she’d slugged me in the arm. Seriously, she hits really hard. She still does- ask any of her Derby teammates. 

For having grown up in the same house we are quite different. I was shy and quiet and liked to read. She was bold and adventurous and liked to investigate things for herself. I pretty much followed the rules; she often went after the adventure. We were not to go any further than the edge of our property line; she’d bike around the block. We were not to cross the street; she made friends with kids across the street and then headed to the park.  

Any time she’d go off-grid it put our mom into a panic.“Did you see her? Where did she go?! Where is she?!!” Mom would ask, her voice rising with each question. I would shrug and think ‘You said to stay here. I did.’ I couldn’t fathom how she could just go off on her own and, though we’ve never talked about it, perhaps she was just as surprised that I stayed put.  

With her zest for adventure I imagined she would travel extensively, seeking out adventures in the larger world. Rather, it’s been my brother and me who have spent time in other countries and she’s remained nearer home.  

I've found through travel I'm able to connect with myself in ways I can’t seem to access in daily life. Maybe in always following the rules I didn’t listen to who I was. And maybe she didn’t need to travel around the world to know that: she’d been listening to herself the whole while.  

Seeing life through the lens of my own experiences, I’ve been after her to get her passport. Traveling changed my life for the better and I wanted her to see all that this big, blue marble has to offer. It didn’t matter to me if she traveled on her own or if we headed out together I just wanted her to get her passport. But it didn’t happen, until now. Ladies and Gentlemen, it is official: she has her passport!    

Its binding is unbroken. The pages are blank. I’m so excited to hear about what she discovers in the world and in herself when she heads out. Where will she go? What countries’ stamp of entry will fill that little blue book? That’s hard to say. If my mom asks me I’ll probably still shrug. She’s off on another adventure…

Joy in the Musical World

I have always had an ear for music.  There is nary a song played on the vintage, oldies and light rock stations to which I can't sing along.  More often than not, even without the radio on, there is a song rumbling around in my head (it's a blessing or a curse, depending on the song).  Like it or not, music is as much a part of my life as breathing.  

The Midwest is known for its support of choral music and I feel fortunate to have grown up in that climate.  From the sixth grade on I sang in school choirs and in the contemporary and adult choirs at church. Growing up during the raucous time of Vatican II, I sang all the great contemporary Catholic hymn hits such as "Be Not Afraid" and "Eagle's Wings" with as much feeling as my young heart could muster. Eventually I found my way to the stage and musical theater and emoted from there. 

After college it was challenging to find a place to sing.  As an adult there was no built-in place for music.  Citing irreconcilable differences I'd stopped attending church and other adult choir options were either too focused on a single style of music, too professional or too unprofessional.  I was looking for something that was just right. 

After a number of years not singing I surprised myself by joining the Basilica choir in Minneapolis.  It was still status quo between me and church but a friend sang baritone there so I'd heard them sing a few times.  Never mind that they were a church choir- they were a really good choir!  One Wednesday night in January I attended a rehearsal and for the next seven years I was a second soprano in good standing.    

Our choir ranged in size between seventy and one hundred people and, when it swelled to that size, the choir stalls were packed tight.  It was a rare treat to be singing with that many people- I don't even think my college choir was that large.  The volume of sound we could create was massive but it was almost as exciting to hear how utterly quiet we could be.

Through singing I've always found a way to connect with beauty and that happened frequently at the Basilica.  We had the great good fortune of singing in a building built for drama and sound.  Inside that large, stone space, once we stopped singing the reverberations continued for an additional seven seconds.  Our notes would hang in the air like the thin trail of smoke from an extinguished candle curling upward until it disappeared.

With liturgical music, every Sunday is a different theme and it’s the choir’s job to back that up.  Because of that, we plowed through music and my musical skills were challenged and improved.  Old music, new music, pieces commissioned just for us--- it was thrilling and daunting.  

There were times when a piece would be rehearsed maybe twice before a performance- uh, mass.  Important or difficult pieces got more rehearsal time but sometimes that was just an additional two run-throughs.  Our director was Protestant percussionist and I relied heavily on her cues to know where, when and how to come in and what to do.  Early on I realized that to be in this choir was to be a good sheep: follow, follow, follow, follow. 

During my youth my parents paid for more years of piano lessons than I'd care to note here.  Despite all that training I am not very good at counting; I sing by feel.  Counting is an exacting and vitally important skill especially when singing or playing with others.  If you can’t count out your line, giving the correct value to the notes and rests, you won't be singing the same music as your choir neighbor.  And neighbors, as we well know, have set certain standards that must be met by those who live in their neighborhood.  If you can't meet those standards you may be asked to move… out. 

Sight reading is also a skill I never grasped; I learn through practice.  The first few times through a new piece of music it can be difficult for me to interpret whatever it was that the composer had intended.  I am very good at repeating what I've heard and, through practice, can produce a fine piece of music.  But cold-reading two lines at a time, be that two hands at the piano or two lines of singing (the notes and the words), is beyond my reach.   

Being a part of church choir the two big gigs a year are Easter and Christmas services; Easter is actually the bigger event as there’s an entire week of singing involved.  But Christmas is three services that are back-to-back-to-back: one long, late Eve service, then one early and one later morning Day services.  With either event it’s a lot of singing. 

Christmas is like a marathon with a big hill thrown in at the end for good measure as each mass concludes with the perennial favorite, The Halleluiah Chorus (THC).  As challenging as that music was, standing in the choir, singing music that had been sung by thousands of people for hundreds of years in a beautiful space, those were moments of unbridled joy for me.   

As with any marathon the first leg of the journey, the Christmas Eve performance, was stellar: we were fresh and sassy and thrilled to be there.  At the end of the piece the standing-room-only crowd broke into applause and we were like “Uh huh!  That’s right!  You better believe we're good!”  We flew out of there on a musical high, home to sleep for a few hours before we were up and at it again.   

The next morning I'd drag myself out of bed, eat a piece of pumpkin pie (it’s made from a vegetable and ever so portable…) and drive across the sleeping town to church.  The normal people were all pretty groggy but there were always a few chipper morning people who irritated the heck out of me.  This was probably aggravated by my lack of sleep and having to be up so early.   

One benefit that offset our break-of-dawn call time was the visual difference between the Eve and Early Morning masses.  The light, oh, the light!  At night the sanctuary was dark, lit predominantly by candles, so even with the huge crowd of people it felt private and close.  In the morning the sun poured through the massive two-and-a-half story stained glass windows casting light and color throughout the space.  Reds, blues, greens and yellows were scattered on the ground like so much candy in a parade. 

Our choir was now smaller in numbers than on the Eve as those who had family commitments weren't there.  By the end of that mass we were all warmed up and rallied nicely for THC, The Second Coming.  At the end of the piece the congregation clapped heartily and we were like “Oh yea!  We did it... a-gain!"  

Those of us who would stay on for the morning’s second mass were buoyed on by the heavenly scent of the breakfast that awaited us: egg dish, bacon and sweet rolls.  It was a courtesy (or bribe) which we gladly took as there was no time to go anywhere else and we were indeed hungry.  So now, with tummies full of good eats, we, the ones with families that understood our desire to sing all three masses and/or with no children, made our way to the choir stalls for the final leg of the marathon.  

Armed with a thermos of hot broth to soothe my sore throat, I was more resigned than anything else: my energy for the final leg of this marathon was waning.  And it wasn't just me.  As a group we had almost nothing left to give.   Three masses in twelve hours is a lot of singing.  Knowing this would be the natural state of things, our director had more congregant hymns than choral pieces in this final mass. 

But, just as with the two previous services, when it came to the end of the mass we got ready to sing THC, The Triumvirate, and we tired, singing soldiers rallied to the occasion!  "Once more unto the breach, dear friends!  Once more unto the breach!"  The director cued the organ (with all the stops pulled), the brass section (hired in just for the holiday services) and then us and the jubilation of the experience kicked back into high gear.   

I couldn't hear myself let alone anyone else around me over the pipe organ.  With the brass’s bright notes sparkling above it all we hit our last notes and watched our director who had a look of fierce determination on her face.  Her hands spread wide, her head nodding for ‘More! C'mon, more!’ we took the crescendo where we didn't know we could still go and then, the cut off!  

Our notes hung in the air: one thousand one… one thousand six, one thousand seven.  We had done it a third time!  Those congregants who had stayed to hear this final anthem were already on their feet wrapped up in their winter coats and ready to head back out into the bright day.  They broke into hearty applause.  This time we were like "I can't believe it---  we're done!  We're done!!"

It felt good to have our work, our hours of preparation and perspiration, appreciated year after year but that’s not why I did it.  I did it to be a part of something greater than myself- an attribute of music often overlooked- and to bring beauty into the world.  That’s why I’m here.   

The rest of Christmas Day was spent napping and eating wonderful food other people had cooked.  Our choir wouldn't meet up again for two weeks, a break we all needed.  Once we did, we were on the march toward Easter week and that always came sooner than we expected. 

Hiya!

I didn't want to just jump out from behind this budding spring shrubbery and startle you with a post--- wouldn't that be weird after this looooooonnnng silence--- but I did want to say hello! Hi! 

I'm taking an essay writing class and will have some things to post soon. (Whaaaat?!) Yep. I'm working on a piece right now! I'm enjoying the class, the structure and the writing that's coming from it. Stay tuned for some new work...  

Happy spring! 

The big event

Well, hello!

The year started out delightfully with organizing and rearranging my apartment. Lots of pictures being regrouped and hung, new spaces opened up and some good general cleaning. Why, a new table lamp has even been welcomed into the mix! It was fun to get my house in order. And, being highly motivated by outside deadlines, the possibility of house guests for the Red Bull Crashed Ice in late January was all that was required to fuel this cleaning blitz.

Not being a sportsperson, I hadn’t heard of this event until they started building the course outside my front door. They call it ice cross downhill and it’s a combination of ice hockey, downhill skating and bordercross. It’s an international competition where heats of four skaters sprint down a luge-style course to be the first over the finish line (hopefully in one piece) and make it to the next round.

The set up for the event started after Christmas. First they built a three story high starting gate adjacent to the Cathedral (giving new meaning to the slogan “Red Bull gives me wings!”). And just as soon as Epiphany occurred (and Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus and the crèche were safely packed up and out of the way) they completed the link from the starting gate down the steps of the Cathedral, over the bridge built across the street and down the hill to the finish line. It was one of the most challenging courses built to date.

And my, but was it festive! There were colored lights mounted on the roof of my building, giant video screens outside the front door, a ramp banking sixteen feet up the side of the building behind me and security 24-7. They estimated 80,000 people were in attendance. When I got home from work that night of the finals it was like Vegas outside my window with all the running lights on the course!

At the end of this clip you can see what it looked like when it was all done (turn down the volume as the music is loud!):

http://www.redbull.com/cs/Satellite/en_INT/Video/Highlights-of-Red-Bull-Crashed-Ice-021243149059259


The staging took up a lot of the parking space in the neighborhood and that caused some neighbors to grumble. I thought it was a lovely boost for our fair city and rather exciting to have such a big event here. When I felt inconvenienced by the show (there was a very, very cold snap and having to walk three blocks to the house was really chilling!) I just reminded myself ‘it’s for the greater good’ and remembered to wear my long underwear, ear muffs, extra scarves and my down coat.

It took two solid weeks for them to get the track built and then only one to tear it down. There wasn’t so much as a cube of ice left as a memento, nothing left to say had been there (except of course the video on their website). I’m all about ephemera but it was very “Brigadoon” kind of moment… did it actually happen?!

Well, it did. And I've got a clean apartment to show for it.

Peace,
Karen

It's that time of year

"The heart of autumn must have broken here, and poured its treasures out upon the leaves." - Charlote Flake Bates

Sping snow

Last week spring arrived. After what seemed like the longest winter on record, our little patch of frozen tundra began to thaw. The snow that had been our constant companion since late last year disappeared in just a matter of days. Earth was visible. The streets and sidewalks were clean. Birds were singing their delight of sunshine and warmer spring winds. Tra-la! Tra-la! We did it! We’d made it through winter!

But Old Man Winter had other plans for us. With one grand gesture yesterday he delivered six inches of wet, heavy snow. Boots, hats and scarves that were almost packed away were pulled on again as we began to dig out. This morning brought bright sunshine so it was hard to be too crabby about this last hurrah of winter.

It's with a Victorian manner of restrained moderation that I usually enjoy being outdoors. On sunny days I love looking at the streams of light coming in the window but don't often venture out into them directly. If it's winter and I am outside, I'm either on my way to or from the car. If it's summer you might find me on a screen porch or, if it's not too hot or bug-y, under a big shade tree but more often than not I'm indoors until dusk.

Today, in unusual move, I headed out in this fresh landscape of white to see what there was to see. With all that sunshine bouncing off the new snow it was quite bright. In my excitement to get out the door, I hadn't thought to bring sunglasses but they would've been good gear for the walk.

It had warmed enough that, where people had done a good job of shoveling, there were patches of bare sidewalk. Old Man Winter was loosing this battle! I heard robins singing, melt-water trickling down rain pipes and drains and the slosh of my boots as I walked through slush in the streets. It was delightful to be out in the day!

Here are some of the things there were to see:






Tracks in the snow made by some little something. (It was so bright out I couldn't see the photo on the camera when I took this picture!)





The contrast of texture and color of a hedge against the snow.


An iron fence and its shadow.














By this time I remembered why I don’t usually walk outside in the wintertime: it’s slippery and slow-going. I had it in my mind that I would turn back at the next corner and head home and right then I felt a gentle tug to go forward one more block. No reason why, just go one more block.

Wanting to remain in charge, my rational head started in with all the reasons why I should turn back at the next corner as we had planned. It was quick to point out that ‘there’s nothing to see up there that I hadn’t already seen on all the walks I'd taken over the years’. It reminded me that ‘my neck was getting sore from looking down for ice patches’ and that 'it was so awfully bright out' and all sorts of practical reasons to ‘stick to the plan’.

The rational part of my brain almost won out but then I decided to listen to that gentle feeling and here was my reward:



Isn’t that a treat?! Being so petite in stature I didn’t see it until I was on top of it but there it was in all its spring snow glory! It's clear that the creator had fun making it and intended to share that joy with passers-by. What a charming reminder to embrace what life brings! This was the reward for having followed my gut.

Feelings are easy to ignore; I do it much of the time. My rational head has so many reasons why I shouldn’t listen to my intuition, so many lists of LISTS of lists to keep me from paying attention. And in case that isn't enough to distract me it will start in with ‘oh and did I tell you’ and ‘blah blah blah’. If I don’t keep it in check it would go on like that all day. It can be exhausting.

In the past months I've been doing my best to pay attention to what I'm feeling. Right now I find I’m in the noticing stage where I may be aware of but not follow through with what my spirit is asking. But like today when I do take that next step and act on those gentle feelings, there is always--- and I do mean always--- a reward. Though my brain may not logically understand it, my intuition has never let me down.

When I first took a T’ai Chi class a few years ago our instructor would say ‘listen on the inside’ or 'listening on the inside'. I didn't have a clue about what he was describing but over time and with the intent to understand him I began to notice what I was feeling. He was right: when I quieted my head and paid attention, I could hear myself on the inside. It wasn’t the busy chatter that my brain creates all day but a quiet, centered calm.

It’s lovely to be connected!

Listening on the inside,
Karen

Hiatus...

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything. Not just here, but for myself. Sitting down to write is harder than I remember and it's taken quite a while just to get this bit down on paper, as it were.

I feel I’ve let myself go. An interesting saying that is, isn’t it? Like I had myself and then I lost me. But for a time last year I did feel like I'd lost me. Since late spring, work and home were in a state of great flux and there was a time in the summer where I was unsure that either would survive.

In late June I found out, quite by accident, that my apartment building had been sold and that the sale was going through in five days: what?! There was hardly enough time to react. My immediate concern was that the new owner would increase the very reasonable rent and get rid of the month-to-month lease. I have lived here longer than anywhere else- even my childhood home- and didn't want to move out of the place I loved.

I know what you're thinking. 'You've been living in the same place for over eighteen years on a month-to-month lease?! You couldn't just commit to signing a one-year lease?' And you're right, you're right, I know you're right. It shouldn't be such a big deal to sign a lease but I'm someone who doesn't like change and I have issues with commitment. (I know- it's an interesting combo to work with!)

When I took the apartment in my early twenties I was a working actor and needed flexibility. This apartment fit the bill. The lease was a six month lease that then transferred to a month-to-month: I could pack up and hit the road with that touring show at the drop of a hat!

A few years in, though, I realized I liked to know I could pay my bills. I gave up the financial uncertainty of theater for a steady paying day job with benefits. It seemed like the grown-up thing to do. I reasoned that I could always go back to theater- maybe when I retired.

I'd also found that doing theater until 11PM was incompatible with a day job that began at 6:30AM. I'm a night owl who needs an ample dose of sleep but I gave up the creativity and aliveness of theater to get up at the crack of dawn. When I look back at this decision it's surprising to me that I chose the day job. (What was I thinking?!) In any case, I remained in the apartment.

As an adult in the Midwest it's not the norm to live in a studio apartment. In New York City people would stand in line for the separate kitchen and dining room, the walk-in closet and the windows with a view. But to Minnesotans who have a yard, a basement and off-street, covered parking (also known as a garage) it doesn't elicit quite the same response. Uncommon though it may be I love my little home and had no intention of going anywhere, at least I hadn't planned to.

At almost the same time as the building was sold my work changed enormously. Well, that's a bit of an understatement because the place actually closed. The owner decided with profits not being what they used to be and the decline in the amount of work available, he was done. That's all fine and good for him and his early retirement but I needed a job!

No home. No work. No money. What was I going to do?

Anxious thoughts ran amok and general panic ensued. Job instability meant financial uncertainty which meant I may not be able to cover my rent which meant packing all my stuff into a storage locker and getting by with a little help from my friends and their sofas. (Breathe. Remember to breathe.)

Tension headaches were an almost daily companion. I wasn't sleeping and that never helps anything. I did my best to breathe- that's always a good place to start- and to stay present. I wanted to be calm and trust that no matter what happened outside me that all would be well within me though at times that seemed a bit of a stretch.

When I was hired eight years ago, the owner planned to retire and turn the business over to his daughter. That never happened. There was no impetus for him to leave. His daughter and I did the lioness' share of the work- which for a couple of years was an insane amount of work for two people- while he was mostly in retirement. Nice work, if you can get it.

A year ago when it seemed clear he was not going to retire the daughter opened her own business alongside her father's. Since the close of his business in July she carries on work with some of his clients. She asked me to continue working with her on a part-time, contract, commission-only basis which isn't in my comfort zone. (If this is how I'm going to get paid I might as well work in the theater, yeah?) In the short-term it has meant sporadic income and in the long-term it’s not certain there will be enough work.

As I look back over the events of the summer there were two very clear opportunities for me to have left with good reason. (I felt somehow that I had to have 'a good reason' to leave. Feeling uncomfortable or unsatisfied was not enough reason to go. Trusting my gut wasn't in the equation.) So with not one but two situations that very clearly screamed 'This place is nuts! Their behavior is crazy!! Get out now!!!' I stayed.

I did not foresee the relationship between the dad and the daughter breaking down completely but over the years I did watch it decay. Though I couldn't imagine how it would end well, I stayed. I felt unclear about what I should do next. I didn't know where else to go, so I stayed. Why, oh why did I stay?! The short answer is inertia. The long answer is iiiiinnnnerrrrrrtiiiiiaaaaaaaa!

But, if I'm honest with myself, and with you, the other answer is fear. It's neither easy nor comfortable to admit this. I've been living with fear and in fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of not finding another job. Fear of finding another job less desirable than this one. Fear of finding one better than this.

After surviving cancer I thought I was done living in fear. (I mean, c'mon, how much scarier does it get than a diagnosis of cancer?) Through that unexpected journey I'd found a place of peace inside me that could not be shaken. I'd found a new freedom and ease in letting go and trusting that all would be well. My mantra was "I live in an abundant world. Everything I need will be there for me when I need it." and no kidding it was. And it is, when I connect with that peace.

But I wasn't in the same frame of mind this past year as when I was diagnosed. I was wracked with anxiety: my job and home were critical to my survival! How could I live without them? I needed these things!!

I needed things? That’s where I got tripped up and I know that--- I knew that!--- but without a clear idea of what to do next I felt I needed to hold on to what I had. I don’t need things; things aren’t what make me. With or without them I’m still me but that’s what fear connects to: I was afraid I'd loose everything- I’d loose me- so I held on very tightly to what I had.

In need of more steady income I turned to work I did in my post-college days as a pastry chef (yes, this was the 6:30AM day job). When I left there in my late twenties, exhausted and with tendonitis in both arms, I said it was 'work for young people'. How I thought I could return there now in my early forties in the worst shape of my life and still do the work is something I didn't put much thought into. I needed to pay the bills and this work would pay more than minimum wage. That was enough for me.

Getting hired was one of those fortuitous connections: the manager was a delightful woman whom I had trained in before I left- no kidding! Within her department she had an upcoming maternity leave, a departure and the holidays to cover. She needed someone who could quickly step into the work and was delighted to hear from me. She also remembered what beautiful cakes I made. And I did make beautiful cakes. I really did. So with just three retraining-in sessions I was back.

It’s been interesting and surprising how muscles remember what to do. My brain may have forgotten what physical work it was but my body quickly recalled the required movements. At first I was a bit rusty but as my actions became more fluid my speed improved. This is my 'you're going to get back into shape whether you like it or not' job and I must say I don't always like it but I am getting stronger.

Like many people you may be thinking: 'Being a pastry chef would be a lot of fun! I make cakes at home and it's not that hard.' And that's true: making one cake isn't that hard. But making thirty, sixty or, if you're really in the groove, eighty cakes in a shift is quite another thing. This is production bakery work and it is a world far removed from pleasure baking. It's all about getting the product out quickly and that is exhausting.

The shift is spent standing and lifting. Lifting cakes on trays. Lifting industrial-sized bowls of frosting (think super-SUPER-sized Kitchen Aid mixers). The fudge or whipped cream frosting (I know I just said whipped cream but trust me, a gallon or more of whipped cream in a large metal bowl is not light...) gets applied to multiple cakes. Wrists, forearms, biceps, shoulders, back and legs often remain in one position doing the same motion for hours. It's very physically demanding. I now take two Aleve before every shift and one the next day.

The return to manual labor and the crush of the holiday season cake-making was physically exhausting. The drama and anxiety surrounding the summer's events was emotionally exhausting. It's no wonder I've been wiped out and hanging by a thread! Restoration was required, but how?

That's a good question: how do you find your way back to yourself? Well, I've done my best to be gentle and kind with myself. I needed time alone to recharge my batteries so I made room for quiet and rest. Then I started inching toward other things I liked to do: writing, reading and watching period dramas on PBS. It's been these things, along with that gentle friend Time, which have helped me settle back into myself.

And just in the past few weeks I've felt my energy returning. That's been a lovely feeling. 'Oh hello again', I say to myself. 'It's so good to see you!' And it's good to see you, too.

With peace,
Karen

Walks

The weather's been so inviting of late that I've been out enjoying walks in my neighborhood. I've begun to bring my camera with me on these excursions to capture the little vistas of spring that I see. Here are a few I'd like to share...


The painterly way the clouds hang in the sky captured my attention here. It seems that the greens on the hillside have been waiting for a day just like this!



This reminded me of a poster from a 1950's barbershop featuring the many different types of haircuts from which to choose... (Photoshop your side profile here) "I'd like the apple blossom pompadour with just a little off the back."




I used to listen to music on walks but now I enjoy listening to the sounds of the day. When I'm attuned to the world around me a space opens up inside. I feel the air coming in and out of my lungs and the tension in my shoulders ease. The rhythm of my feet on the ground shakes loose the weight of the day. As I connect to the moment and find the calm it's then that I can see the delights of the world around me. And, oh, are there delights to be seen!

Here's some of the very freshest spring grass against a backdrop of moss.



This little vista is in the crook of a root of a big tree. I love the little bits of stick and leaves that cover this valley floor. Moss is something that always catches my attention: I love the range of greens from dark to bright, the velvety texture and the way it cascades over the rolling hills of the roots.


Wishing you the delights the day,
Karen

Live Each Season

Live each season as it passes;
Breathe the air,
Drink the drink,
Taste the fruit,
And resign yourself to the influences of each.
~ Henry David Thoreau

Spring has arrived a little early this year. The long silence of winter has been replaced by the lilting sound of bird songs. The new, fresh smell that comes with warmer weather- and by warm I mean a startling seventy degrees- is in the air. The other day we had our first good rain and early-rising plants are now lifting their heads up above the blanket of the earth’s bed. Trees and bushes have heard that same alarm clock and are getting their little buds ready for the new school year.

This season is a profusion of new beginnings. Many of my friends have commented on the promise they feel at the start of this new decade of opportunity. One who had been diligently searching for work recently found a position she both needed and wanted (hooray!). Another with her finger on the pulse of job postings is seeing more positions being advertised. Taking a cue from tulips, the world feels like it's beginning to open up a little.

Work in my corner of the world continues to be like a good reduction sauce: it’s concentrated and we’re savoring every bite. Relationships with long-standing clients are in flux and new projects are a gift. I have had meetings where things clicked, the connection was there but then something later changed- lord only knows what or why- and the work went elsewhere. When that happens I tend then to think over the meeting (and over and over) to find the reason for the change… did I say something wrong, did I not pick up on cues? They're my clients so why aren't they staying with me? These ruminating sessions take a great deal of energy and, in the end, don’t offer real benefit.

The economy in these last couple years has offered numerous and repeated opportunities to learn to let go and trust that the right thing is happening. But oh, can that be a challenge! I often don’t see how the right thing is happening but the point is not how I see things- as startling as that is to think- the point is that it is what is happening. Like it or lump it, it is what’s happening. I can sit and stew in fear and doubt or choose to accept the situation and release myself from the anxiety.

The letting go part can be a challenge for me sometimes (um, like now) and I guess the trusting part, too. I’m doing my best to shake off the fear and focus on the positive. At times my trust wanes to the littlest sliver of a moon: I want proof that there will be another full moon and but soon. The darkness feels too dark, I can’t see the other side and that fills me with doubt. I believe OSHA would back me up here in that a good hand rail and appropriate lighting would feel a whole lot safer. I want proof that everything’s going to work out like I’d like!

But proof can be elusive. The early rising plants of spring don’t have proof; they use their instinct and cue off the warmth of the sun. Arriving so early on the scene has its risks. Sometimes there's a missed cue and another cold snap brings the curtain down early in Act One but plants don't let that deter them. They take it from the top and run the scene again.

Early sailors didn't have proof. They had to trust in the sea-worthiness of their vessel (and believe me OSHA was nowhere to be found on those cruising ships). In the dark nights of their journey they checked their course against the stars, remained true to their plan and continued to move forward. The risk was high: they could run out of fresh water or food or be taken down to a watery grave by a giant wave and/or sea monster. But they didn’t let that stop them because the reward was greater than the risk. (I mean, some of them probably changed their minds when they heard about the sea monsters but numerous others went on undeterred.)

I am like an early (ooh, I’m not going to say riser because we all know even with an alarm clock that’s not true) but I am an early explorer in my own life. I’m equipped with skills, instincts and knowledge and do my best to use them each day. There is risk, yes, but I am setting out on my journey trusting that everything I need will be there for me when I need it. If that mantra was enough to carry me through cancer treatment it should be enough for regular life, shouldn’t it?

The fear of loosing something (something I believe to be mine and irreplaceable) can keep me frozen and immobile. By dropping anchor and claiming things as mine--- like the belief that my clients are mine or that my red hair made me unique and that without it I would not be me (chemotherapy cleared up that misconception)--- I am ignoring the powerful tides of life.

Life ebbs and flows, it has ups and downs. By loosening my grip on things I open myself up to new experiences and find myself alive in this season. I am present. And really, that's all there is: this present moment, this breath, this life. Right now.

So I breathe in this spring air. As I breathe it in deeply, deeply, deeply I feel the grip of fear loosen inside me. I drink the cool, clear drink of this season and find my thirst is quenched. I taste the fruit of this season and savor the delicious flavors that will only be here for the briefest of moments. This season offers a plethora of opportunities and I've resigned myself to each of them: the hope, the new, the green, and the change. I'm going to keep my heart open and trust that I'll be in a warm, sunny spot where I can continue to bloom.

Trusting the sunshine will be there for you too,
Karen

High Anxiety

Last year I took a T’ai Chi class that was really amazing. Each week I had an hour set aside for moving meditation. No matter how anxious or frenetic I felt going in to class, I left feeling calm and centered. Some days that feeling came early in the class and other days it would take the better part of the hour to achieve. Either way, I would reconnect with that quiet that resides within me. At the end of the summer the instructor moved to a state where blowing sand trumps blowing snow and left a void that I didn’t get around to filling.

At first, the absence of weekly practice wasn’t pronounced. I could tell I was missing the regular structure of movement and meditation but wasn’t doing it on my own at home. There was plenty of busyness to keep me running and the rising anxiety was familiar to me. I had lived with it before; I could live with it again.

But now after not quieting down for lo, these many months, I feel like there’s a caged animal inside me pacing back and forth and back and forth. I’ve tried to avoid it--- to ignore it--- but it won’t quiet on its own. Much as I’d rather not claim it, anxiousness is a part of me. It is a part of me. Oddly enough, it is when I accept it- accepted the pacing, the roaring and gnashing of teeth- that I find that I can work with it.

What goes on outside of me is not nearly as powerful as what goes on inside of me. There are days when exterior life is smooth sailing but inside me there’s a hurricane brewing so the smallest perceived ripple capsizes my boat. Other days where the world seems stormy, I'm able to ride out the squalls by relaxing into the waves. Keeping calm and being grounded is what makes the ups and downs of life manageable.

It’s up to me (really, does it have to be?!) to make sure that my inner energy is calm and focused. Doing things for me because they’re what I need isn’t quite yet my default setting. On my own tend not to be as focused as I’d like to be. There are often more appealing things like watching the Olympics, checking friends’ facebook updates or organizing my sock drawer that keep me occupied.

I find I do best with outside deadlines and commitments to others. Being at a class with other people is more energizing than stumbling through the movements on my own. Indeed it’s one of the things our T’ai Chi instructor pointed out to us: when we moved together in a synchronized manner the energy was palpable and focused.

This past month a new instructor has come forward to lead our class of novices so I’m back on track with T'ai Chi practice. Though our new teacher's style is very different than what we learned before it’s wonderful to have a guide reminding us to be gentle with ourselves (we’re all students in this life) and to look at the world with soft eyes (seeing in all directions but focusing on none of them). So, in doing just that, I'm reconnecting to the calm within.

Peace to you,
Karen