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

Valentine's Day

Mister Roger’s Neighborhood is a show I love. His kind and gentle demeanor (which unfortunately rubs some the wrong way) along with the music that’s ever-present in the program have always been appealing to me. One of the songs that I think really says what today is all about is “There Are Many Ways to Say I Love You”. When I was younger I didn’t quite understand how cleaning a room could say I love you but indeed it does...

There Are Many Ways to Say I Love You
By Fred M. Rogers
© 1970

There are many ways to say I love you.
There are many ways to say I care about you.
Many ways, many ways,
Many ways to say I love you.

There's the singing way to say I love you.
There's the singing something someone really likes to hear.
The singing way, the singing way,
The singing way to say I love you.

Cleaning up a room can say I love you.
Hanging up a coat before you're asked to.
Drawing special pictures for the holidays
And making plays.

You'll find many ways to say I love you.
You'll find many ways to understand what love is.
Many ways, many ways,
Many ways to say I love you.

Singing, cleaning, drawing, being understanding,
Love you.


So on this day, the one day of the year set aside specifically to celebrate love, I hope you’re spending time with people dear to you and, for those good people who live far away, that they are especially in your thoughts.

Here’s to a lifetime of love in all its many ways,
Karen

Back Again

The New Year is here! And it’s not only a new year, it’s a new decade. That’s reason enough to begin by cleaning out the cobwebs and getting a fresh start on things--- best foot forward and all that! I’ve set out some intentions for the year which include the usual line up of better eating, exercise, and doing the dishes before it becomes an official Olympic event. These few days into the year I’m one for three. It’s a start. As a dear friend says, “Good things are going to happen!” and I believe that to be true.

One of the delights about a new year is a new calendar. They’re all about art and design and, ooh, do I love good graphic design. The combination of words and images on a page, the use of font and layout to best present the idea, these things make my heart sing a glad song for graphic design! So it is with much pleasure that I peruse the plethora of paper offerings each year.

The search for new calendars starts in late September which sounds early but it does take some time to find them. For each type of calendar - the weekly calendar for me and for work, the desk calendar for both home and work, and an additional monthly one for home – there are particular requirements, the most important of which is that rare combination of function and aesthetics. For the upcoming journey I’ve some delightful art to accompany me. For my desk at work there’s the little letter pressed calendar; for my desk at home it’s a beautiful silk-screen with wonderful graphics of my sister’s sports team. And then there’s the one featuring British rail travel posters that reminds me of my friends in London. So much art; so much beauty! What better way to mark the months of the year?!

The one calendar I buy that’s neither artful nor beautiful is the Franklin Covey weekly work calendar. (I know, I know. It’s like a cult.) My first job to require such a detailed calendar was with a company that drank that particular Kool-Aid. Without delay after being hired, lest I figure out how to organize my own thoughts, I was sent to class to learn the intricacies of how to use The Program. The class was called something dramatic like MasterPlan Goal-Focused Life Management. I don’t remember much about the doctrine except that there’s a language of arrows and check marks that help track of what goals are accomplished (checks) and what still needs doing (arrows). Though I don’t make full use of The System I’ve just stayed with it. I mean, I’ve already got the binder; I just need the new calendar pages…

Just as I’ve stayed with Franklin Covey there’s something that’s staying with me (no matter how often I think I'm rid of it) and that’s the single, wiry hair on my back. Yes, that’s right; I have back hair. Welcome to my world! Technically, it’s more of a shoulder hair but really that’s no more appealing than referring to it as a back hair. What ever name is bestowed upon it, it has returned with the New Year. On a body covered with thin, nearly invisible hairs (at least that’s what I tell myself in the summer when I haven’t shaved my legs…) this hair is thick and dark. Because of its ability to appear overnight and to immediately be about a half inch long I’m constantly on the look out for it. Rest assured, as soon as it is spotted it’s tweezed.

I didn’t used to have unwanted back hair. (Well, there’s the start to an infomercial if I’ve ever heard one!) It showed up quite unannounced not long after I became abruptly post-menopausal. And now two years into this new way of life there are three neck hairs (two thin, one thick), a chin hair (just the one) and lengthening moustache hairs (which, again, I tell myself are almost invisible…) that I also keep look out for. There’s a whole list of things that come with being post-menopausal and asking for a quick once-over of my jaw line with the electric razor at the end of a hair cut is now one of them.

It’s a lot for a body once flush with estrogen to suddenly have to acclimate to having none. I went to see a menopause specialist who said she would expect someone my age that is suddenly post-menopausal to experience severe hot flashes. Like all the great duos- Burns and Allen, Rogers and Hart, Salt n Pepa- menopause and hot flashes just seem to go together. I myself don’t experience really hot hot flashes, they’re more like warms. As it turns out, the medication I take to alleviate the nerve damage from the chemotherapy has a side effect of diminishing hot flashes: well there’s an unexpected benefit!

This year, aside from keeping my intentions for good self care, I want to be open to those unexpected benefits that are strewn across our path in life. The old adage ‘when life gives you lemons, make lemonade’ is an invitation to peace and acceptance. There is so much in life that is beyond my control. The only thing I do control is my reaction to situations; I do my best to focus on the positive. And, lovely as it would be to make that decision once and never have to make it again, it’s a choice that I must make time and time again. Each time I have to choose. Each time I get to choose.

It may be a while before I choose to make that appointment at a laser hair removal clinic (I’ve got a lot of dishes to do, you know). So I ask that if the light catches one of those wiry bandits and you see that unmistakable glint in the sun to please let me know discretely so that I may remove it. In this New Year with its new opportunities I pledge to do the same for you.

Choosing opportunities of peace,
Karen

Starry, starry night

It’s a rare occurrence to see static electricity. I don’t mean to see its affects… hair floating up and away when winter caps are removed like a science experiment gone awry or scarf fringe reaching out like tentacles desperately trying to keep from being trapped inside a coat… those signs are all abundant in the cold, dry months of winter. I mean to see the actual sparks- the visible energy- of static electricity.

That’s what happened tonight in the dark of my front entryway as I removed my long down coat. There on the lining was a galaxy of little stars twinkling secret messages to each other. A starry, starry night inside my coat: who knew?! I stood transfixed as the tiny sparks glimmered and then faded away to black. What a wonderful little world I had just witnessed! The electrical light show continued as the metal hanger connected with the hook that would be its companion for the night. I could see the static transferring from one to the other! Briefly, ever so briefly, do those delicate sparks live.

And I’m doing everything in my power to extinguish them. I’m not a cold-blooded killer (though I am cold) it’s just too, too dry! The humidifier is running twenty-four hours a day; baths are being drawn; lotion is being slathered and reapplied. Even with all that extra moisture my skin is itchy and flaking and my hands are chaffed. It’s only December: there are at least three more months of winter! (I don’t think I’m emotionally ready to accept there will be more than that.)

It would be interesting to find out what Jergen’s and Dove account executives know about our lotion consumption in these dry months of winter. What percentage of their sales comes from cold climates? It’s got to be a fair portion of their annual revenue because even if it’s not a particularly cold winter the air is still dry. It’s dry outside; it’s dry inside. Dry, dry, dry! If the Nile River had run a little farther north the Egyptians would have found this climate as amenable as the desert for their wrapping.

I am applying lotion so frequently that I now think before I squeeze: is opening a door handle or jar in my near future? If the answer is yes, the lotion application must wait lest I be trapped in a room with a round door handle (ADA compliance where are you when I need you?!) or stuck trying to wrangle a jar of peanut butter open with a dish towel (an exercise in futility). All this to keep from turning into a giant raisin.

So while I am doing my best to keep hydrated I’m also keeping my eye peeled for those little galaxies of stars. You never know when or where they’re going to show up. Next time your scarf fringe reaches out to grab you, hit the lights and look for the stars.

Staying warm (and dry),
Karen

The Falling Leaves

Yes, indeed. It’s that time of year. The vista along the Mississippi River is at its peak of color. I take in the full view and daily assess the changes as I cross the river on my way to work. What a treat to be viewing this fine art show: bright greens reside alongside fading yellows, burnt oranges cohabitate with flame reds (how shocking!) and all of them rest against a backdrop of browns and beiges. It’s a vision of color and texture. Copied by artists for ages, this beautiful palate of colors was created long before there were human eyes to attempt its reproduction.

This autumn there’s been little wind so as each tree divests itself of its leaves they fall straight down and remain there under the canopy of half-empty braches. The trees look a bit discombobulated for the moment but when the remaining leaves finally do scatter the classic frame of articulated joints and limbs will stand out regally against the winter skies. For now, I imagine myself laying down under one of those gracious statues taking a moment to enjoy the beauty of the day. This is where I find peace- in the space where connection resides- and I revel in it when it occurs.

Life for the leaves was almost weightless before, tethered to a branch high in the canopy floating in currents of wind. Compared to the lilting life they experienced only yesterday they must be confused at the heaviness of life on earth. It’s a weighty thing being here. Now their only flight comes from being tumbled around like so much sand and shells at the edge of a beach; the safety of being moored to a tree to weather out any storm is gone. Yet for those leaves who always longed to grab their boogie board and catch a big wave, this is their time to experience the thrill of the ride! (Look, Ma! No hands!)

Their inevitable fall to earth makes for one of the best treats of the season: the wade through them. It’s very satisfying to hear the swish-swash swish-swash as I shuffle through the dried leaves. It’s one of my favorite fall sounds of all time and something I make a special point to do each year. The stockpiles can usually be found gathered up along a curb or nestled beside a wall. If it’s a good deep pile there will undoubtedly be a stowaway leaf that get tucked up in a pant leg or whose stem gets somehow wheedled into a sock. Come along for the ride, I say!

Speaking of rides, this week marks the second anniversary of the surgery to remove the cancer cells from my left breast and accompanying underarm lymph nodes. It looks rather daunting written out on the page like that; sometimes it feels that way, too. In some ways it seems as if it has been both six months and twelve years simultaneously since that surgery. How that’s possible I can’t clearly explain but that’s how it feels.

I have been tearing up at the thought of how much my life has changed in these past two years. In spite of all I built up around me to prove to my questioning mind that I’m in charge here, the truth is that life is unknowable. It’s a gamble. We shake the dice- their feint clacking in our clenched hand sounding a call to the ages- and hope for the best. It’s only after the dice are thrown free from their cage of bones and flesh that the lesson is visible: life happens when we let go.

So let go and trust. Know that in letting go- in flinging my hands wide open- a space is being created for something new. In the face of uncertainty and fear, trust all will be well. It’s quite the doozy of a lesson and yet in these past two years it has been an almost constant companion reminding me again and again (and again) to get comfortable with not knowing. I'm doing my best to breathe and be open to the possibilities.

Life happens in a blink- keep your eyes closed and you’ll miss the beauty. Autumn, really, is here for just a day. For as many vibrant leaves as there are now in the trees there are more are on the ground. The trees let the leaves go because it is time to let go. That’s a wonderful thing about nature: it always knows its cue and exits as written. And then, this year, before all the leaves have had a chance to take their leave, act four begins with an entrance of heavy, wet snow…

Peace,
Karen

On your right

I spent a wonderful Labor Day weekend with dear friends in Wisconsin. It’s a rare treat to enjoy a long weekend away and an even rarer treat to see these friends. Their son is my godchild. He’s almost four now and refers to me as his grandmother, a title I feel quite privileged to wear. When I pulled up to their house there he was waiting for me out on the front stoop. It’s not very often that someone is so excited to see you that they wait for you all day but when it does happen it’s lovely.

He’s just learned how to ride a two-wheel bike. No kidding: not even four and he’s off tooling down the block on his own! I was in the second grade when my parents told me the training wheels on my bike were coming off and I was going to learn to ride my bike like a big girl, and who didn’t want to be a big girl? (Um, me?) I'm fairly certain there were no other seven year olds still riding their bikes to school with training wheels on. They were looking out for my best interests, wanting me to fit in.

Well, to my practical mind, four wheels were more sensible and much safer than two. I saw no need to remove the training wheels: they were the critical safety gear to keep me from tipping over. Nonetheless, the smaller wheels were removed and I did learn how to ride a bike like a big girl but not before I fell and gashed my right elbow wide open on the curb. It remained the biggest scar on my body until recently.

Bikes offer independence at a speed that cannot be found any other way until you’re old enough to drive. It must be such a sense of freedom he feels as he races his way to each end of the block. With the wind in his hair and a great big grin on his face he is exuberance personified. He loves to slam on his brakes and skid to a quick stop as is evidenced by the numerous tire marks on the sidewalk. As the family dog is well aware of, the finer points of control aren’t quite there yet so if you see him coming at you, step off into the grass, just incase.

I watched him for quite a bit and noticed that the balance he maintained was really an art of knowing where the tipping point was and then avoiding going beyond it. Most of the time spent balancing is spent maintaining balance; it’s not a static event. When balance was lost and he did fall, he’d get right up and shout ‘I’m okay!’ and hop back on his bike to ride some more. He seems unafraid of falling or getting hurt. Maybe he’s so focused on the joy of the activity that he’s unaware of the pain. Maybe it’s a price he’s glad to pay for the opportunity to explore the wider world.

Sometimes it’s the simple lessons that are the strongest. When you fall off, get up and shout ‘I’m okay!’ and get right back on. There’s a great big world out there to explore and investigate. Listen for my bell; you’ll know I’m coming up on your right.

Peace,
Karen

A visible sign of my own

“Every little thing… is gonna be alright” crooned the reggae singer as I drove away from the meeting. My head was swirling with thoughts as turbulent and destructive as a tsunami. When the wave finally broke on the beach and the mental chatter subsided again I heard “Every little thing’s… gonna be alright” on the radio. I could almost see the sandy Jamaican beach, palm trees swaying softly in the breeze. I felt the wave of calm lap up over my toes and encircle my feet with a gentle but firm tug encouraging me to ‘Let go; let it go.’ I smiled. I love it when the universe’s presents are so visible. Sometimes a sign is just what’s needed to bring things back into focus.

“Turbulence is a life force. It is opportunity. Let’s love turbulence and use it for change.” ~ Ramsey Clark

The meeting didn’t go as we’d hoped: the very big project- the biggest project a key client has done in almost a decade- had been awarded to another company. We knew going in that we were not given the same material costs, guessed the price was higher by a substantial margin and it was true. Later my boss said I looked like I was going to cry when we were told we weren’t going to be doing the work. It’s true; that’s how I felt.

In the seven years that I’ve been working with this client their budget for even the most basic of maintenance and upkeep has been nonexistent. How are they now, all-of-a-sudden, able to do a project of this magnitude? Part of me is frustrated and angry that they are doing such a major project now without us. Why in the world couldn’t this work have been spread out over a number of years?

Then there’s another part- a smaller, quieter part- that wants to focus on the positive, wants to appreciate all the business we have done with them over the years. Oh, but the mental wrestling- WWF ‘Friday Night Smack Down’ style- is fierce! I do my best to remain focused on appreciation but the negative keeps breaking through. “And she’s down on the mat! Will she get up? Folks, it’s quite a struggle happening here. The ref is counting and no, she’s lost the fight!” Well, lost for that moment.

Now, weeks later and after much discussion with friends, my bosses and especially with my sister’s guidance, I understand that it’s not our work they don’t like; it’s not anything we have or haven’t done. It’s business. It’s not personal. And while that’s easy enough to say, it feels personal because it’s my work, my client.

There’s a beautifully apropos song called “Everything Must Change” that I’ve come to know through a local vocal treasure named Debbie Duncan. It’s a favorite of mine both because she is such a talented artist and because its message is so true it almost hurts. There’s no clip of her singing- at least that I could find on-line- so here it is by Mister Quincy Jones:

everything must change quincy jones - Google Search

(OMG. I can hardly believe I finally figured out how to get that clip in the body of this post! One giant step that most of mankind made years ago; one small leap for me!)

Years ago I watched a program about a young woman who was taking a ferry between two foreign lands. The boat started to take on water and quickly began to sink (talk about your harsh ferries…). As the passengers clamored to keep a hold of what remained of the boat, fights broke out. The strong fought to keep their place on top as others less agile or weak were forced away. The young woman knew if she was going to survive she’d have to go out on her own.

She swam away from the boat and floated alone in the wide open water for days. Sun burnt, exhausted, dehydrated and hungry she thought she couldn’t go on. Then, out there in the middle of that ocean with no land in sight, an apple floated toward her: a perfect red apple which she plucked from the water and ate. It was a sign of good things to come as not long after that she was rescued by a passing ship.

In the interview I remember her speaking of abundance and goodness. After almost sinking on a ship, after being beaten away from the only refuge by her fellow passengers, after floating alone in the open sea not knowing if she’d ever be found, after all that she spoke with compassion of the other passengers and the tragic situation in which they all found themselves and of her determination to survive.

Throughout my unexpected journey I have visualized myself floating in a wide expanse of water and reaching out for that apple. It’s what I see when I say ‘I live in an abundant world. Everything I need will be there for me when I need it.’ Much as the young woman experienced, there were times where I felt I’d reached my limit and couldn’t go on and then, frequently, there it would be waiting for me: a visible sign of my own.

There continue to be many gifts that reaffirm that I am not alone, I am loved, and I am connected to a well-spring of abundant beauty. So in this current economic climate of change I choose to trust that there will be enough work. I choose to believe that new connections will be forged. Life is an ongoing opportunity to see what you believe. If you believe there is enough, there is. Keep your eye peeled for that apple: it’s yours when you need it…

I know every little thing’s gonna be alright,
Karen

The long light of autumn

After a summer of unabated movie viewing we now return to our regularly scheduled programming…


So here we are at the change of seasons. The sun, who has spent the summer shining brightly overhead, has become a little more relaxed and now reclines gently back in these shorter days of autumn. It’s tiring being on your feet day (and night) so now you’ll find it leaning back under a big oak tree propped up on an elbow restfully surveying the scene of leaves just beginning their change from the bright greens of summer to the mottled yellows and vivid red flame of fall.

With this relaxed posture comes a change in the color of the sunlight itself. It’s a very specific look in autumn- more golden and hazy in comparison to the high, bright light of summer. Now, even at midday, the sun’s rays hang lower in the sky and each evening its painterly palette of pinks and purples get laid out on the canvas earlier and earlier.

I myself thought autumn came around rather quickly this year. It seems like such a long trip to get to the summer equinox (are we there yet?!). From the depths of winter's darkness we inch our way with much excitement to longer days and more warmth. In reality, it’s just a single day of the year that gets the distinction of being the longest day and then, before Mister Sandman has even punched out from his shift, the earth begins its tilt back and we’re headed toward the shortest day of the year. That’s not unlike many trips: it seems to take forEVer to get there and then, before you’ve even had a chance to see all the sights, it’s time to go home.

This time of year conjures up thoughts of school and, though it has been decades since I’ve been there myself (OMG, it is decades! When did that happen?), the smell of fresh construction paper and Elmer’s Glue mixed with the fragrance of tater tots wafting from the cafeteria are just as present now as they were when I was eight. When it comes to school, autumn is all about new beginnings. There are new pencils and folders, new classes and teachers: a whole new routine.

For Nature the new routine includes preparations for the long sleep of winter. Animals are either packing up and heading south to Boca or filling their larder and hunkering down for the impending cold and ice here. For most plants it’s the time to shed what is no longer useful and to turn their energy inward.

While death is as much a part of this world as birth it’s not often seen as a beginning. And yet, this part of the cycle is as much a beginning as are the buds of spring and the blooms of summer; it’s just a different part that makes up the whole. The moon waxes and wanes in its cycles. Tides come in and go out with the moon’s influence. Each end is the beginning of something new.

“The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be the beginning.” ~ Ivy Baker Priest

So here we are together at the beginning of something new. Let's get out our construction paper and safety scissors and see what we can create together.

Wishing you the start of a wonderful autumn,
Karen

Floral fragrance in abundance

I’m rich! I tell you I’m rich! I have just brought in a fistful of Lily of the Valley. It’s the biggest bundle I’ve collected in a number of years. What a treat!! (And you know I don’t just throw around the double exclamation points.)

Lily of the Valley is one of my very favorite flowers. It yearly wrestles Lilacs for first place in The Spring Flower Show and usually wins. The flowers are ever so delightful. I find the delicate, powdery scent that emanates from those little bells intoxicating and, now, with five or more buds per stem multiplied by the fistful of stems here in my hand, that equals a heady amount of fragrance perfuming the air! What a splendid, ephemeral gift!

The lily plants grow unattended as all the plants around the aparment building do. It's survival of the fittest around here. I keep my eye on a couple of patches and do some tending about once a year to make sure they’re not completely overrun by the vines (see note on unattened growth). Thankfully they seem to do okay without much attention and every few years they bloom in profusion.

Much to my surprise and delight, this year I found a new patch of them! How is it possible, having lived here for so many years, to have not found every cache by now?! Well, they’re in a spot I’d just never thought of looking: between this building and the next one.

I suppose, if you're going to get technical, they are on the neighbor’s side of the property line but between the buildings that line is a little fuzzy so I’m erring on the ‘it’s-on-this-side' side of the argument. If you see 'Horicultural Police Department' on your caller-ID it'll be me asking for bail money and then you’ll know my assumption was incorrect...

Yesterday I took the most delicious nap that I can recall in recent history. Mind you, my memory isn't what it used to be but, oh, it was a treat! One of the many gifts of a three day weekend is time for rest. The breeze was cool enough that I was able to tuck in under the covers; there was music from a cardinal nearby who was very busy advertising his territory. The backdrop for my slumber was so idyllic that when my head jumped in with the list of things to do I was able to let it go and drift off without a care.

A Nap. A Rest.

These words often have a negative connotations in our culture. Naps are for children and the elderly. Rest is for the ill. Healthy working people don't do either except for the one week (or two if you’re lucky) of vacation allotted each year. Anything more than that and a person’s work ethic is called into question. I think that’s unfortunate. Rest is something that I need and naps are something I wholeheartedly support in all their various shapes and sizes. Ooh, think what an amazing world it would be if we all had regular naptime again!

‘Make hay while the sun shines’ was certainly a good motto for a life lived on the farm but it's been carried into our modern lives with much less success. What's been lost in translation is that while an agrarian life did mean a great deal of work in the warm months it also allowed for a quieter time in the winter when the land was asleep. Winter was a time to mend and repair, a time for planning and preparing for the coming spring.

That is what is missing in our electrically charged, Energizer-bunny lives: we just keep going and going and going. There is no time when our modern city landscape sleeps because people work around the clock, stores are open all the time, and the television and computer run 24/7. We’re busy keeping up and staying up. We're doing. We've forgotten the being part of being a human being.

As you know, I am creating space for quiet in my life. It’s sometimes easier said than done but when I do make that space I find I am calmer and more content. By paying attention to my breathing and listening to my heart (in both of its definitions) I literally feel the difference it makes. Equally, I’m able to feel when I haven’t quieted down and it’s a less comfortable feeling than it used to be.

It’s easy to get pulled into ‘making the most of time’. I’m doing my best to remind myself that I cannot be at my best until I have taken care of myself through connecting with nature and taking time to rest. Watch a little ' Hercule Poirot' as I've been doing lately and you'll see that he's got his priorities set: he does his work without fail but also without fail takes time for tea. The Chief Inspector would prefer him to work through the night on pressingly important cases but Poirot retires to bed confident that with a good night's sleep he'll crack the case in the morning.

So in these long days of Summer, that wonderful drink of warmth and sunshine that visits us ever so briefly here, I'm setting aside time for rest. I'm taking time for tea with a good friend: myself (the best part of which is knowing I'll get the last cucumber sandwich)! And I'm making space for unstructured time including naps. I hope you, too, find yourself dozing off to the sound of birds singing and wind swirling through the trees...

Sweet dreams-
Karen

Early Spring greetings

I haven’t written in a while. Not that I haven’t thought about it; I have. But that’s about as far as it went. So greetings to you, Keyboard! And salutations to you, Microsoft Word! Hello again to the idea of writing. How nice of you to stop by! Please make yourself comfortable as we head out on our journey together this year…

It now almost seems a distant memory but it was in the clear, cold winter days that I marked the first anniversary of the completion of treatment. Tuesday January 14th marked the conclusion of radiation treatments last year. It was the final blast to any remaining cancer cells were there any bold enough to stick around through the onslaught of chemo and surgery and, frankly, they’d have to be pretty cheeky to stick around through all that. It was the culmination of what I termed the ‘active portion’ of the treatments and a major milestone.

I thought it would be joyful passing the year mark without recurrence. And, while there was some joy, there was also a great release of grief. I hadn’t anticipated the anniversary being such an emotional time. I wept for almost a week leading up to it and I wept just about everywhere: at work, in the car, at home, with friends and with coworkers. I wept publicly and more than that I wept alone which, for a Leo with a Theater Arts degree, almost never happens.

While I was unaccustomed to all the weeping I didn’t hide it. I said to those around me and to myself in turn ‘This is just how I’m feeling now’ and I let the tears of exhaustion and change, mourning and joy come out. It was just where I was for the time. I didn’t know how long that time would be and it didn’t matter. It was temporary.

Much like snow drifts in gullies carved and shaped by the winter winds my life has been and continues to be changed by the elements. While that can be very positive it can also be, as it was at that time, very overwhelming. In literature about life after cancer treatment it says that this kind of grief is common and that anniversary dates can be a trigger for this wave of emotions. It was comforting to find out that what I was feeling is common.

During that week of weeping leading up to the anniversary a dear friend said to me ‘Why not let it out? You’ve had quite a year.’ And that was true. I had had quite a year, indeed. A year. One year. More. One more year.

Oh and now Spring, that great harbinger of hope, is teasing with glimpses of the warmth and green to come! The spring rains have arrived with some areas here receiving an abundance of precipitation. There’s a smell with softer rains that is fresh and inviting. I’ve always thought this was Nature’s way of cleaning things up after winter, getting ready for the bright blooms and fragrant friends that make those first brave moves into an unknown world.

Now I’m not a horticulturist (though I’ve often thought I could play on one TV) but I have noticed that those first few flowers up out of the ground are really quite tender. Hyacinth, daffodil, tulips and crocuses all have soft green stems. It’s interesting to me that these first-out-of-the-gate flowers should be so delicate.

They appear in this world with confidence and grace. And they expend all that energy to bloom without knowing what to really expect: it’s been warm enough for them to start growing underground but what life on the surface will hold for them is uncertain. It could be warm and sunny or just as easily it could be so cold and snowy that they would’ve preferred their travel agent to book their arrival in Boca. They have no control over what the weather will be and yet they come with hope in the great goodness of the earth to provide what they need.

I am learning to live with uncertainty myself and for this gal who likes to plan that offers some challenges. It's about letting go and trusting, which is easier said than done sometimes. And yet I find that when I accept and embrace the uncertainty of life there is a calm that comes with it. It will be sunny and warm or it will be cold and snowy; either way I know I will be well. So just as the spring flowers do, I’m heading into this world of unknowns on my own journey of trust and of hope.

Speaking of hope, I hope you’ll join me in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure on Sunday May 10th at the Mall of America. It’s quite an event and the number of participants is stunning. There are a plethora of choices for participation: the run, the walk or the slumber. Darn but that last one is appealing to me... but I will be there for the walk.

For you early birds who want to miss the crowds the 5K run begins on Sunday May 10th at 7:30am (seriously, who picks these times?!). The 5K outside walk begins at 9am and the 1K inside walk begins at 9:30am. The Sleep In for the Cure begins and ends at your leisure and will go on, as the other races do, rain or shine.

If you are interested in being there, let me know and we’ll make a plan for the day. You can sign up for the event on their website www.komenminnesota.org.

With peace and hope,
Karen

Season's change

We are in the midst of the first big storm of the season! I’ve just driven home in a snow as thick as fog with visibility being at best about a block. Outside the city limits that low visibility might be a more common occurrence but it is quite a rarity here in town. The light, fluffy flakes are coming down in a constant stream. The wind is strong and steady. If this keeps up we’re in for a snow day tomorrow! A snow day! Ah, those words delight at any age.

The path I took home was through an historic district that has gaslight-styled streetlights. They have a more diminutive height than their newer runway-model cousins and give off a pinkish light which made the storm feel kind of friendly. The trees lining the street were hard to see but when they did finally come into view it was both stunning and startling to see their dark form stand in complete contrast to the swirling world of white around them.

Walking in from the car there wasn’t a sound to hear. Earlier in the evening it was so cold that the snow creaked and groaned under each footstep. I did not take it as a personal commentary- that below zero snow has a certain sound no matter your weight. Now it’s warmer, relatively, so the crunch has gone.

In Winter the world comes as close to complete silence as it ever will. The quiet found in a hibernating world is exclusive to months of snow. Here the hubbub of activity available during Summer’s long days is a distant memory. The planning and preparation time that is Fall has past and the promise of the new and soft green that is Spring is a still a dream. Winter asks us to set that all that was and all that will be aside and just be.

It is enough to have quiet and calm, to be quiet and calm. Again and again in a world cocooned in white Winter shows us the peace it has to offer. It’s easy enough to get caught up in the frenetic pace of the holidays. It’s tempting to keep up the speed of going and doing but Winter asks us to let go and slow down, even if it has to produce freezing rain to get us do that.

When scraping my car of said freezing rain and/or clearing it of snow it is then that I become re-familiarized with all the car's quirky and unusual crevasses. Design choices that might never be an issue in, say, Texas become common adversaries here in the wintertime. If anyone at Pontiac is interested (and they may just be ready to listen now), I’ve got some opinions about the windshield wiper and wheel well designs that I’d like to share…

On Thursday I drove back down to the Mayo with Mom and Dad for my fourth tri-monthly check up. It’s been a little more than a year since my surgery which is hard to believe. In fact, in transferring dates to the 2009 calendar I found myself stymied at the thought that it has been a year and a half since I first found the lump. A year and a half. Really? I feel like I’ve been in a time machine and now find myself here at the close of 2008 wondering what has happened.

The answer is, of course, a lot. In these months since the completion of treatment integrating what it means to live life post-cancer has left me feeling like a Maple tree in the spring: tapped out. I’m in recovery from a year and a half of life lived outside the lines. Not that I had any idea how it would be in the first place, but it is really different than anything I’ve ever experienced and it’s taking some getting used to.

In these past months I’ve been doing my best to find small ways to restore myself. As much as I and probably the rest of the world dream of winning the lottery in order to take time off the chances of that actually occurring are quite slim, especially when you don’t buy a ticket. Instead, I have built small bits of meditation into my workdays to keep me calm and weekly T’ai Chi classes help keep me centered.

So this Winter I will be turning inward to renew and refuel. I will do less and be more. And as we move further into this season of rest I continue to say thank you, thank you, thank you for just about everything you can imagine. It is by no small miracle that we are all here in this world of quiet together.

Wishing you the peace of the season,
Karen