among the trees

I recently read a book called The Serviceberry, by Robin Wall Kimmerer. The other day, on my way to class, I was in a particularly enraging part of the story, a part where the author describes potlatches. A potlatch is a traditional gift-giving feast and ceremony practiced by Indigenous peoples across the US. These celebrations were vital; they provided large amounts of food, allowed neighbors to bestow gifts upon each other and reinforced the importance of community and the responsibility to share wealth. When colonization ravaged the native populations, potlatches were banned; they were seen as antithetical to the colonizer’s belief that true wealth came from what could be amassed, not in what could be shared.

As I listened, I felt my grip tighten on the steering wheel. I often lament deeply for the world we could have built. We are after all the “most intelligent” species, how did we end up here? Take one step outside and you can see that the world is an amazingly beautiful place. It absolutely kills me that instead of building a civilization that works with the land, that honors the gifts we all share, a world where we are free to use our time (and what a short time we have) to explore and maybe take a nap in the grass on a random Tuesday afternoon. But no, here we are, griding away at a job that most of don’t even enjoy for 40 + hrs a week only to find the time to explore on the weekends. I’m not joking when I say that it really bums me out.

It was a short drive to class and despite my melancholy mood, class went on like it always does. When savasana came and I turned the lights down, one of my favorite songs was playing. It’s called The Sun Is Shining Down by JJ Grey and Mofro. The opening lines go like this:

“How many more days can you hold out?
How much longer can you wait?” she asked
There was a time I thought I, I could answer
But my tongue gets tied and as my thoughts drift away
Glory, glory – hallelujah
The sun is shine, shining down
Glory, glory – hallelujah
I’m alive and I’m feeling, feeling fine

It gets me every time. The horns in the background and the sway of the tempo make my heart feel like it’s about to pop out of my mouth with gratitude for simply waking up to this gorgeous life. In that moment, as everyone in class was resting, I asked myself how was it possible that this mourning for a world I know we cannot build (not right now at least) could block out all the joy I had in the world that I have been lucky enough to build with those I love around me? And a line from a Mary Oliver poem jumped into my head: “I am so far from the hope of myself” she wrote.

For the first time, I could put words to the despair I felt as I listened to the banning of the potlatches, the hopelessness I feel when I watch people being dragged out of their cars while waiting in school pickup lines and the utter helplessness I feel against a system designed for cruelty and division. I am so far from the hope of myself.

But her poem doesn’t end there. She writes:

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “stay a while”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “it’s simple,” they say.
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

So, what do we do with the darkness when it feels like quicksand waiting to swallow you whole? You open your front door, step outside, and talk to your neighbor. True joy grows when we recognize the essential gift of the potlatch: that we don’t need to do this thing alone, nor were we meant to.

One For All

Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu is a Sanskrit manta that means “may all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute in some small way to that happiness and freedom for all.”

We show up to class each week and walk through the studio door and it becomes immediately apparent that though we have been sold (in the west) the idea that our practice is a solo operation, we see that community is truly where we find the strength to continue on our path. Yes, we have our own mats, our own space to move and yoga is a deeply personal practice; but we are missing the main ingredient when we refuse to acknowledge that freedom for ourselves cannot come at the cost of freedom for others. Because, at the end of the day, isn’t freedom exactly what we are looking for? Freedom from behavioral patterns that constrain us, thoughts that box us in, and the belief that we are small and undeserving of joy and belonging. We yearn for the freedom to seek a happiness of our own making.

Yoga reveals to us that we are, at our core, divine beings. To honor this light within ourselves, we are asked to honor it in all living things. There is no experience that you’ve had, no pain, loss, joy, or revelation that hasn’t been shared throughout humanity. If this is the case, then how can we acknowledge our own divinity and not see it in our friends and our neighbors?

We belong to each other. There is no way forward if we aren’t moving together. The mantra Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu brings us out of the “me” mindset and shines light on the “we;” it gives us the opportunity to acknowledge our place in the community (both locally and globally) and to contemplate how our words and actions reverberate into the world.

When things feel overwhelming (and boy do they ever at times), pause, breathe, and use this mantra to send your blessings out into a world that needs all the help it can get right now. When you do, notice the shift it causes; that is you showing up and standing up for the freedom of all living beings. Let that be where you start and hold strong, we are in this together.

Looking to do more for those on the ground? Check out Mutual Aid groups like MIRAC (Minnesota Immigrant Rights Action Committee), or MFF (Minnesota Freedom Fund) that provides bail for protesters. Or donate to local places like Dios Habla Hoy a church in Minneapolis that is feeding families who don’t feel safe leaving their homes.

Lots of love,
Kate

Every Second

When Gabriel was small and we lived downstate, I’d take him grocery shopping with me. Mostly this consisted of frenzied trips to Whole Foods where I’d virtually run through the aisles so I could get all the stuff we needed before he lost his shit and I had to abandon my cart (yes, I have done that, but before you judge, I took it to customer service, I’m not a heathen). I remember these times vividly because they were always, always punctuated by older women (and sometimes men) gawking at my son and saying in a cheerfully irritating tone “enjoy every second, it goes so fast.” And I’d always think: “what the fuck is that lady thinking? Did she not just see him throw a fit in produce? If she didn’t see it, she MUST have felt it, because it was a definite 10 on the screaming toddler Richter scale.” I cannot tell you how angry this used to make me. I never showed it, of course. I’d just nod my unwashed, sleep-deprived head and say “yeah” and wander into the checkout line cursing her and everyone else who dared to tell me to “enjoy every second” when clearly, I was in hell.

In case you’re wondering, I did not “enjoy every second.” Raising kids is hard, thankless work. Have you ever gotten groceries with a toddler? One time Sebastian laid down in the middle of the baking ingredient aisle the night before thanksgiving. Have you ever been in the baking ingredient aisle on the night before thanksgiving? Everyone in the surrounding 5 counties is there looking for evaporated milk and they will step on your toddler to get it. And after they’ve stepped on him, they’ll curse you for putting them in a situation where they had to do it in the first place. But to a toddler, that is the perfect time to pretend to be swimming on the floor. And there was the time he snatched that perfect purple heirloom tomato off the display and ran for the freezer section like his pants were on fire. Cue me casually walking after him like I had the whole situation under control when I most certainly did not. So no, I can’t say I even know how to “enjoy every second” because not every second is enjoyable.

I often wondered where that sentiment came from. Isn’t that the basis of all our problems as parents? That we should love it all? That if we don’t, we’re somehow flawed? I mean, it used to really get to me. Am I broken? Why can’t I enjoy every second? What am I missing here? I felt that maybe, just maybe there was something wrong with me. That gratitude did not come easily to me, I was too stuck in the actuality of raising kids. Too stuck in the endless days that pushed ever onward into long, sleepless nights. Too stuck in the nap routine that made me feel chained to my house every day at 1pm. Too stuck in the spiral of when is this going to get easier and if it doesn’t get easier, when am I going to get better at it so it can get easier?

Fast forward 13 years and Gabriel is shaving. And now it’s starting to make just a little bit of sense. How did I end up with a teenager who shaves? Where did the time go? And where is that toddler who ran to me with open arms, face lit up like a Christmas tree every time I came into the room? Where is the kid whose nose turned orange because he ate so many carrots and sweet potatoes? Where was the kid who screamed when I wouldn’t let him have an apple to gnaw on and get all sticky with while I was shopping at Whole Foods? That kid is taller than me now and only reluctantly gives me hugs when I ask for them. No, I did not enjoy every second, but I wonder all the time where all the seconds went. I’m going to blink three times and he’ll be driving away in a car, headed off on adventures that I won’t be a part of. I’m not going to lie, the thought of that breaks my heart more than a little bit.

So, if you see me smiling at a kid in the grocery store, know that I will never, ever tell that poor mom (or dad) to enjoy every second. It’s just not a fair burden to place on anyone. But you bet your ass I’m going to go home and do my best to drink in every single moment I have left with my kids. Because time does in fact fly and I’m going to enjoy every second.

Father's Day

Father’s Day is this weekend and I need to buy a card for my husband, Nick. I love picking out cards. I love standing in the aisle and giggling until I find the perfect one. It brings me joy. This year though, things are different. This year, I’m dreading my usually enjoyable trip to the card aisle.

I lost my dad in April. I lost my dad 72 days ago and there are still some days when I have to convince myself he’s not here anymore. Like how is a person there and then just not? It’s a nice place to be, that little pocket of the world where my dad isn’t dead. I dreamed about him a few weeks ago. There he was in his Tevas and cargo shorts, his long white beard intact, (his beard before all the chemo robbed him of it), he was doing something ridiculous that I can’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. When I woke up, I laid there for a while thinking about all the things he’d be doing if he was still here: making wine, mowing the lawn, drinking beer and talking shit during croquet, making wooden swords for my boys, or walking around the yard showing me how well his fruit trees were doing. The list went on and on until I fell back asleep, quietly hoping I’d get to see him again.

Nothing reminds me more of his absence than the Father’s Day card displays. I tried to find one for Nick when they first popped up in the stores a couple weeks ago, but each card I touched was like a little shard of glass. Even the bad ones sliced right through me. I left with empty hands and tear-stained cheeks thinking I’d pick one out next time I was there. I’ve walked past that damn aisle for weeks now.

His birthday was at the end of March. He was in the hospital, and not doing well, so we never really got a chance to celebrate. I bought him 2 cards then. I told you I love cards, but I’ve never bought two for the same occasion. This time I had to. One was a silly one from all of us, his “favorite nuts” off the family tree, and the other was just from me. It said: “At what age does a daughter stop needing her dad?” and on the inside it read, “I’ll let you know when I get there.” We are a family that has a hard time talking about the serious stuff, so I wanted him to have it as a quiet acknowledgement of how much he meant to me and how much I still needed him. He was released from the hospital the afternoon of his birthday, and he was gone 7 days later. I never got the chance to give him the cards. It seemed so trivial then. They never even entered my mind as I watched him slipping away. But, god, I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d given him those cards. I have them tucked away now, wrapped in a plastic bag in a bin at the back of my closet.

When he first died and I was an absolute mess, I wailed to Nick about how I’d never get to buy my dad another Father’s Day card. His answer was simple, he said: “Buy him one if it makes you feel better. Buy him one every year for the rest of your life if you want to.” Does that make me crazy? Buying a card for someone who’ll never see it? They say grief is just love with no place to go, so what is a card with no one to send it to? And how many cards will it take to fill the hole he left?

 I guess I’ll start with one and let you know how it goes.

42 Missed Calls

There was a picture in the studio where I used to teach. I can still see it, it hung on the wall in the bathroom, on dark green walls; it was, I think, a page of a magazine that was torn out and placed in a frame. I read it every time I was in there – 19 words sprawled across a picture of a waterfall - a quote form Nisargadatta Maharaj:

“Wisdom tells me I am nothing. Love tells me I am everything. Between the two my life flows.”

I first read it as a 20 something yoga student, and though it has always stuck with me, I didn’t always understand what it truly meant. Eight years later, then a teacher at that same studio, when I was teaching my last class, I read this quote. As a student and a teacher, I had made a home there, with a strong community of friends. I knew that after I was gone, though I had grown to love so many of my students, my classes would be taught by new teachers, and eventually, I would just be a memory; another blip in the lifespan of the studio. Life would continue, not come crashing down like it felt it would in those moments when I said goodbye.

On the last day of March this year, we lost a beloved member of our family. She wasn’t feeling well at Christmas and by March, she was gone. It was fast and it was devastating. Soon after, we headed to her home to begin the process of sorting through the things she left behind.

It was odd being there without her. She was a ferociously private woman and to be going through her things felt like we were violating something sacred, yet somehow, I knew it was truly an act of love. When we made it to her basement, we found the toy bow with mini arrows strewn all over the floor. There was a bulls-eye propped up on an extra dinner chair. Everything exactly where it landed the last time we were there, two weeks earlier, and our boys were shooting them with her. Even in the depths of her illness, she found the strength to play with them as she always had. Her presence was palpable, but the fact that she wasn’t there echoed on the walls. That massive house that she had so easily filled with her vibrant energy was empty. She was really gone.

After we made our way around the house, gathering and sorting, we stopped in the kitchen. There, on her counter, was her telephone. It had 42 missed calls. 42 times that phone had rang.42 times someone from the outside world tried to reach in. There we were, broken hearted in a house where it felt like time had stopped; toy arrows still on the floor waiting for the next time they’d be pulled across the bow, old cookbooks with discolored pages and notes shoved in them waiting for the next dinner prep, and there they were, 42 pieces of proof that the world continued even though we felt it crumbling around us.

In that moment it struck me, that quote from Nisargadatta Maharaj. At last, I understood it completely. Wisdom tells me I am nothing. Love tells me I am everything. Between the two my life flows. Everything and nothing woven together in that kitchen; a beautiful and cruel tapestry created by love, loss and the courage to go on.