facing my greatest fears. motherhood. redefined.

i am back on the writing train.  enjoy-all my thanks always.


Fear. I fear many a thing. Like tight places or being in a crowd and not being able to move or being trapped.  A no exit of my own making, my own reality, no longer a play I read in honors English over a decade ago. I used to fear tanker trucks and would avoid them at the fear I might blow up at gas stations.  On the road.  But never did I. Blow up. I still get warm when I cross a bridge.  The no exit and the no return part makes my heart pitter patter and deep breathing my only refuge. Classic- my abnormal psych professor said of someone who had been abandoned.   Somehow comfort missing from the equation in this knowledge.  I fear loss. And being left. And being alone.  And not finding the right person.  To call my home. 

I used to fear I'd become like my mother- not in the typical fashion into a nag or choreograph into her. More like I might one day be crazy like her. Certifiable.  One day be an addict like her. But crazy isn't always inherited and addiction can live and breathe in your body and not ever be yours. I feared I wouldn't break the cycle. The cycle of loss.  The cycle of abandonment   The cycle of  my mother losing her mother tragically at 13 and me losing my mother starting at 8 and more permanently at 18.  My greatest fear is I would be a mother and I would leave.  

One of my goals written across this fearful and hopeful heart was to break this cycle and be a mother. But I haven't been a mother.  Not yet.  I haven't found that love of my life to make babies with.  But this isn't about birthing babies or the tanker trucks or bridges of my life I  have crossed.  It is about much more.  I am surprised.  Surprising myself is I don't have to birth a child to love a child part of me just the same. The gift of helping to raise children is more than the greatness of it.  It is the realization that my greatest fear that I'd be a mother a mother who would leave won't happen- won't happen to me. It is a choice.  And I choose in a way -I always have. In the raising of my brother and my choice of profession and my work of always being around the children.  

Time lines thrown away.  Clocks forgotten.  I may not have that luxury of the regular textbook mothering-but as I look around I can't help but be certain I will be called mom one day.  A mom who stays-a mother who doesn't play out the perfect fantasy of undoing of her own childhood to better her own.   Mothering isn't what I thought it would be. A child looking at you to feel safe and loved and seen and to truly bask in the beauty of childhood.  I am already doing that.  My fears.  My fears aren't permanent.  I can mother and mother in a way-in a way that works for me. And stop being scared that I will leave. Leave.  

one line a day in 2011

i have been writing but not posting much. my apologies. sometimes i am not ready to share. i started writing one line or more like a few lines a day during the summer. so the last six months i have captured a snapshot of my life. i thought as the first post of the year- i would share the highlights. happy new year! i look forward to another year of writing and capturing the beauty and complexities along the way. all my thanks always!

July 19- Me: Why do pigeons mate for life? 10 year old: Because there is no pigeon divorce. Good point.

July 22- I love when you put on a pair of shorts (blue corduroy op vintage variety) and find sand in the pocket. It is a reminder you have been somewhere.

July 30- I answered the door in short shorts and braless to jehovah witness who were looking for spanish speakers. They got me instead. I said lo siento, neciesto practicar and they gave me their brochere in espanol.

August 4- I am swimming in a sea of people making reservations for dinner. Outside. In the sun. Writing. Not knowing what I will eat. For dinner.

August 11- Note to self drinking too much beer on a stomach of tuna and chips and kimchi might produce tears on a bar stool and gas the next day.

August 30- Have you ever barfed in Disneyland?, asks the 10 year old upon me seeing her. Strange hello.

September 1- First date canceled. Why can't I catch I break in the love department? Best excuse ever- broken arm. He might be my kind of man- accident prone.

September 12- 8 yr old: I only did my homework so I could spend more time with you.

September 13- Overheard at school- ways to recycle, reuse condoms! 8th grader turns around in shock to see my face as I say, I wouldn't recommend it.

September 15th- Today I saw an awkward group of middle schoolers in a circle- they were staring at girls underwear on the ground. Its underwear they exclaimed. Weird I usually keep mine at home I say. Faces uncertain respond.

September 18th- Perfect morning in the sunset. We rode our bikes to the beach. She escaped death after I said something nice to her. Me on a fixie for the first time. I rode home in a bikini top in the usually foggiest neighborhood in this city.

September 25- Today I went on a date long time coming and wasn't nervous. 7 hours later. We say goodbye. With anticipation. We kiss in my doorway with the door open. Then closed. Then locked. Slammed against the wall- my leg reaching up. We devour each other while standing up.

Sept 27- I walk on clement street at a livable pace while eating a pork bun as the sun beats on me. Fog now foreign. I gave a pork bun to a homeless dude. I see it later. It lays splattered in the middle of the cross walk.

October 1- A surprise to see someone outside and together no hesitation of what has already started. To drinks then shots then me cutting line to go to the bathroom in the men's. High Five. Steal kisses in front of his friends. After hours. To I just stepped in barf. Don't worry everyone did. To kiss me on this street corner to home. No one sleeps. We just explore the maps of each other.

October 23- A sunset as my friend and sand as my bed is a nice way to say hello and goodbye to a weekend.

October 26- Learning how to tango from a 10 year old and a singing telegram from an eight year old entitled you are the best babysitter is a place I call home.

October 27- Sometimes you have to seize the day and drive across town just to see someone for a few moments. Sick or not. Note to self- if you make out with a dude with a fever- you will most likely get sick.

November 9- If you care enough to help the environment to buy a prius, care enough for humanity to stop at the stop sign when in the middle of a crosswalk near a school. I'll take a kind gas guzzler any day.

November 23- By 8 am I smell of pumpkin pie because of a pie mishap. By 9am finish grocery shopping. By 9:30 am realize i did not wear underwear with my yoga pants. Explains the smiles I got. Sometimes you are too busy for your chonies.

November 28- The game of getting it all done. Living in the library. Again. Spotted a woman missing part of her shirt and wearing a purple bra.

December 1- Death planned by my brother includes a family vacation to disneyland- no kids- no alcohol- no thanks.

December 8- There is nothing better than still be invited to a 11 year old party. And being called Kate the Awesome.

December 10- The worst time to get diarrhea is while in a squat during yoga.

December 15- What happens when you put 2 divorced people and their significant others together- you make the nanny- me- sit between the two dudes- the dad and the boyfriend. That sounds like a great plan.

December 17- I love when I run into students and they are still in college and doing well and I get free fries to boot.

December 19- The best way to end a night shift. Solved.

December 22- I go to a corner store to get re-enforcements for a road trip home. Man in a BMW comes inside to sell a tablet. A hot one. Merry Christmas!

December 27- Quality time with my dad entails him flying model airplanes on the high school football field in the boonies. He usually crashes but he didn't this time. What if I shrink you to fit inside? He asks. I would be sick. I'd go slow he responds.

home. in a way four walls can never understand.

hello friends, school made my postings pause but alas i return. all my thanks as always.

Walk. A walk on the beach breathes life into this body in ways nothing else can. Not a talk. Not a concoction of alcohol or a circle of medicine. Not a piece of chocolate. Nothing compares to when I park my car on the pavement and cross over to the bare foot feeling of damp sand between my feet. Sometimes I go because there is sun I must admire. Sometimes I go to escape. Sometimes to remember. A button to press reset inside of me.

Today I went because I needed a walk. I awoke in the middle of the night with a sinking stomach feeling that signaled I must do something. Before that would have entailed something dramatic ending of things and crossing streets to ignore people and it would have the drama of a middle school play. But today. It just meant something. Needed. To. Change. Inside. Of. Me.

And change it did as I felt the sand play around my feet up to my calves poking out of my yoga pants. I stop to see a possible wave hugging a whale I feel so lucky in all the days I had came here but it is just a rock formation. I dodge the obstacle course of fishermen. Some painted in proper gears others not. One smokes. Another tattooed. The fishing poles grow taller than humans and the connection to the ocean beyond. I walk the furthest I have. I decide to reach the end of these beaches today. I pass a family with toddler and dog bribing both so they stand still for a photograph. Again. And again. And I return to the walk. Then the pause. Of a sip of coffee. And the watch of the waves in and out. I am alone. Here. But do not feel that way. I feel surrounded by people I treasure and memories extended far out.

My mother and father first meeting was along a beach. Long ago. The equation of the randomness of me. And they took me there as I grew from the small me into the bigger me. I remember some visits there. But when I come across a box of photos. I see. Our family. And beach time. I visit my grandfather on this beach. He used to fish here. This being one of my favorite beaches. Also drawn to it. Not knowing until recently that he too was a fisherman here. My grandmother I see here in her formality and fun wanting to go but dressed in the wrong shoes. As I remember her wish to go as she came to the finish line of life. And as I reach the end of the beach for the first time. I know I must turn around. With these people and memories. And knowing that for me that my grandparents and mother. Might only live here for me. This might be why I come here to remember. Who I am. It is home. In a way that four walls can never understand.

When I come here I walk alone. But I walk in memories of us. Who we are. It helps me to remember who I am. I am in this big overwhelming world of so much. That the sand cools my mind my worried my mind. The waves welcome me in the every changing rhythm now comforting. There is a newness in each wave. As I turn around. The warming fall sun hits me. The kayakers with crabs have arrived at shore. The fishermen laugh. The crabs lay on their backs upon foreign soil their legs moving around for freedom. I keep walking and watching. I pick up a few stones. All different colors. As dogs maze around me.

And remember I can believe. I can believe. Things can be different. I can believe in me wanting different things and getting them. I just have to go home and visit. To remember. Believing is what I do best.

pushing through the middle school doors- without the footsteps of the past beating in my head

I think it is hard to live in the present without the footsteps of the past beating in your head. That is the best way to explain pushing through the doors of middle school again. My own experience of being a middle schooler long ago walks along side of me. I didn't like middle school.

When I went it in the early 90s with big bangs and pegged jeans it was junior high. Although I went to school in the safety of the suburbs it was the scariest place I have ever been. And this urbanite has lived in 4 cities. Flashes of girls hitting other heads into lockers, crowds surrounding fights and no one stopping, the cool ones partaking in sex and drugs and I barely had a period and held a hand of the opposite sex. I got asked out through friends of friends and held notes with such words, and found dancing partners as I slow danced in the beginning of puberty.

I was not a leper. But I was scared. I went to a school where violence and following the mob mentality the norm and at 80 lbs and under 5 feet tall when I had started ( a growth spurt pending)- I had little choices. Other than to be nice to everyone and hope that one of the prettier popular girls wouldn't want to beat me up. I found solace in school (getting into accelerated classes) and running track- if you were good it give you protection plus lots of teammates as a buffer. It got better. Towards the end. And then high school allowed me to breathe. And most of my own work has centered around high school. And I have loved it. I dreaded being in a middle school. Because of my own experience with it. The young girl who became too scared to speak up, too scared to be herself, long ago was reincarnated back to living. I didn't want to go back to the old days of fear of others. Fear of myself.

But as soon as I sat in the office- watching the movement and pace of the counseling office- in this middle school-I felt more comfortable-at ease. My first day jitters drifting away with the young girl who was. Was before. As I saw the faces of the students and how this counseling office existed in the world of the school. I felt the hallway underneath my feet, the middle school students wanting to talk and actually seemed to want to talk longer than I anticipated. The deep thinking of a 6^th grader is surprising and simple in unison. I walked around talking to 6^th graders during lunch and no one gave me the look of despair due to an adult talking to them.

Two girls with the same exact hair style with barrettes choreographed perfectly reminds me of what was. Still is. In middle school. A boy laughs at someone for getting hurt. Her friend. Stops without skipping a beat sticking up for her. I feel a smile growing inside of me. The young girl of before roots her on. And there was a hope. That grew. Excitement and anticipation grew inside of me while dread had lived. I was excited to be in middle school as an adult. It could be different. And it might be different for the students I would see walking down the halls.

i surrender. in this game of love. maybe.

hello folks- sorry for the unplanned break. i have been writing but not always sure on the sharing. this piece is about a library date gone wrong (we needed a date story). and don't worry i haven't given up on love just playing in the game. or maybe how i decide to play in it. all my thanks as always.

In the quiet. Of this library. Nothing exists. But the sounds. Of page turning. Keys punching. The whisper growing into. The wrapper moving. The forgotten cell phone ringer not silenced. In the quiet of this library. We found the conversation. Among others. Overheard by us. Too funny not to interject. Our laughter. Then the shaking of the hands. Exchanging of words. The distance of wanting a study break. And each time I would see him in this library. He would break the silence. First with words. Then with an ask out to drinks. Me wrapped in a yellow dress warm outside but trapped in this library. Him motorcycle helmet on top of his computer he never seemed to use. To be hit on by an undergrad made the yellow of the dress shine into my face. And then the blow of the kiss from his hand to his lips and out towards me. Flattered I was.

In the quiet of this library. In the quiet of living in this library. Of the quiet of the social life I had created. I depisied and relished in. In the quiet of the stairs I found he wasn't my junior but my peer through the maze of the circular stair wells down- the city scape bubbled around us the hills slide and the houses danced under the spotlights of the sun making a surprise appearance within the shyness of the fog.

In the quiet of this bar I look at him. Taking my glasses off in defeat. The short river of a line moves in between the sea of my greenish eyes. My anchors of hands fall onto the sides of my face painted beautifully for this first date. In the quiet. I didn't know what to do. I had talked. He had asked for a story after he told me he almost left. Before I got there. Because people don't always show up for these things. Way to complement me upon entering. The stories I tell-my true and tried funny stories -that the target audience of six to 70 years old seem to fancy but not him. Not a smirk, not a laugh, not a smile, inside or out. I am sinking in this silence.

I ask about him. He performed the soliloquy of boredom. I am boring. I am bored. I only do boring stuff. In every form, in every tense. Boring and more boring and wait boring again. In the quiet. I am lost. Lost in the library in the work and in finding him. And upon exiting the walls of books peppered with computers and in this bar company dark and drinks and anticipation in the quiet I learn. I learn the quiet. The quiet of him on this date is defeating me. I prompt about him coming to America. Shot down again. I am at a loss and the art of talking and listening and getting strangers and teenagers and new friends are lost in the quiet. As my white flag raises slowly while the rivers around my eyes opens up and the anchors I feel underneath release down.

In the quiet. I find. That first dates aren't great all the time. That the quiet interlude of a study break might only live in the walls of research. In the quiet of this bar as I sit next to this man I feel as if we are in our first fight. I finish my beer. I go to the bathroom. Pleading for help from God or friends or the universe. In the mirror I stare. In the quiet. It doesn't have to be this hard. In the quiet. I come back. But stay in. He decides to move his piece towards me. In quiet. I listen. In quiet. I know. That this first date will be our last. That some can only live in the the place you meet them and can't cross over into another place on the board of the game of life. He finishes his last drink. His 4^th in 2 hrs.

In quiet we end the date. In quiet I know that is the strangest date I've ever been on. In the quiet. Of my heart and my head. I hear the movement of what could be outside. There is a drizzle reminding of what was. I surrender not on this date. But in this game. In the quiet. I let go. For this moment. For a few. Until. The pace picks up again. Quietly.

the slowing frenzy of life, of companionship

this urbanite was in the mountains with wildlife but now i am back for just a moment. written from the prompt frenzy. enjoy and thanks for stopping by as always!

The frenzy was gone. The movement rapid slowed to a pace that keeps the clock ticking more slowly. As I sit across from myself. I sit next to groups of twos and observe. Observe while write. Observe while read. The slow frenzy allows it to slow down in pace so much that I can watch. And learn. To my left sits an unusual couple of a man with a turned up hat and scruffy beard who raises his voice upon talking of work across from him a short hair and stripe shirt vertical tucked into a khaki skirt, hair bobbed to match female. Unusual pairing and then the eating. And being done. How are you? How are you? To each other. Let's walk. She says. Let's go home. He says. What do you want me to get in shape? On the sunniest day we have had in days, weeks, months. And as he reaches down for her leg the calm frenzy of companionship. And as he pays and she corrects his tip they walk together out separating in tables and coming together again to meet at the corner and hold hands across the street for the walk, the walk home.

To my right. A couple of friends. Talking about the frenzy of relationships. Failed. Many. Failed. Ones. It being over. And done. Again. I didn't touch him. I didn't want to touch him when we were together. Where did he sleep? You only have one bed. I just need to move on says the wavy reddish haired woman in a vintage piece picked up in the mission. Maybe I'll move to New Orleans. I need to move someone new. Somewhere hot. Her companion tight skin jeans paint her body skinny. I know I get it. I moved to LA. The slowing down from the frenzy makes us ask what is next. And what is next. The splitting of the bill. And the walking away around the tables and meeting again. At the corner to walk across the street in unison without holding but moving together. The same path as the others.

I long for a frenzy. A frenzy of companionship that doesn't scare me but excites me. A frenzy of warmth. A frenzy of movement. But the slow with the fast together would make it complete. He says he wants something more stable for me. As do I. Along this road. I have had the frenzy brought on quickly but without the calmness of closeness that I long for a little bit longer. And each time it starts it feels different. It does. But somehow in the slowing down of the frenzy of life, I have stopped moving and started watching. Watching others. Watching myself. Watching what happens when I long for what I don't have and get what I do. The frenzy of a companionship that travels far and wide but allows me to see it all happening beyond just me, just beyond just us, beyond what is next.

rejection letters just means an acceptance is in the mail

rejection letters. i just received a rejection letter in the mail. out of 88 plus applicants for 20 something spots, i was not chosen to write, not this time. and as i put down the letter-i was okay. no heart sinking tears dropped from my lids. partially exhausted from spending time in the library- my new home- but, more because i was proud i applied. setting my goal outside my arms outstretched and did it. even if no was not part of my perfectly sculpted plan. and part of me knew that i would get my turn, my yes. there was no devastation.

probably because me and rejection letters go way back. and every time i get one. i have got one. i get an acceptance soon after in my mailbox. harvard rejected me, but a few days later there sat my columbia acceptance- my first lesson in the bittersweetness of rejection and the importance of not being first in line. my first job interview out of grad school was a no, but the next one was a yes. when i got laid off (for the first time), i had the luck to have a new job in a week. when i got laid off (the second time), i was able to explore what being outside a cubicle and tied to computer could feel like. the gift of no, gave me the gift of what i really wanted. when applying to grad school for the 2nd time (similar to the first time) first letter: rejection from san francisco state and soon following a second letter: acceptance from usf.

see some people don't have rejection letters. they don't get them. they don't touch. they don't see them. and if they do they don't talk about them. others have a novel of no's. my rejection letters are proof i took a chance, i take chances. and maybe there is solace in knowing that there is letter making its way now, in a way i don't expect, to me, telling me it's my turn. and on that note, here is my piece on birth, or rebirth as it may seem. all my thanks as always!

Birth. Today as the world birthed a new day. It let the sun it held in its grasp of clouds-darkish and puffy and wind- fast quick and flipping over of things- go. The rain weeped for too long, they held onto it and let it go slowly first allowing it to peek through the companions of the clouds. And then standing on its own- sun gave birth to this new spring day. As the wind from the rolled down window breaths my face relaxed and the music plays. It slows it all down to a pace that is liveable. Sun beating on this car desperately needing to be cleaned, two tables in the back seat- new to me- old to someone else- yoga clothes still mildly sticky shape my body. I turn the mirror down to see my face and as I do I see in the reflection a man staring at me as I do my daily multiple a day check in- what we are facing in this mirror. I quickly feel self conscious. And look away. His bar towel sways back and forth in the movement of his diagonal cross against this street. He turns his face. Covered in sun. And looks at me.

Birthed today was the beginning of the rebirth. Not by choice. Not by accident. But as this new day delivers a new start, a new chance. Again. The flowers begin their outer movement blooming- they have already bloomed this season in confusion of seasons not behaving properly-but the stretch will again begin. And how much easier it is to walk when the sun welcomes you outside. The delivery of a seasonal disorder lamp no longer needed. Lightness I feel as I step and drive.

And this sunny day. Stops me. From the sadness that was. Its not just the sun. We have to practice. And I do know. I started off this morning. This monday morning pressing snooze twice but willing myself to leave the comfort of my bed. Starting with half a piece of toast with peanut butter, ¾ glass of water, and half a cup of coffee and outside to the yoga class. The sun welcomed me home. As I stretched and pulled and breathed and let go where I could and held what I can. Eating an apple in between locations to my therapist. Because seeing the sun. Seeing the light. The rebirthing. The getting another chance takes practice. And practice I do. How to believe in the growth of me. The sun. The spring. The men giving more notice. All help. But empty is this walk of life without the practice and standing on tip toes and falling over.

It takes practice to become who you are. It takes practice to let yourself be you. Practice that can't be read in books or provided in osmosis. Oh but you wish. It takes work. But the sun will push you along your way. And the eyes will smile at you slowly cheering you on. And the hum you hear in your head might not need to be shared. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. The birth of me. The reminder of it. Doesn't just happen on my birthday. But everyday.

changing how it turns out- but i still want another line as i walk upon it

Changing how it turned out. I didn't know how it would turn out yet. But I had pieced together snapshots of scenes in my mini series of my mind. A melodrama of my heart and hope for the future. The qualities I liked in him played perfectly in this short by me. See I have a girlhood crush syndrome that my early 30s hasn't seemed to break. I get crushes on strangers. On the barista. On the neighbor. On the friend. On the dude I made out with once. Excitement from the first time, the first time feeling the taste of infatuation dances around me as I skip on the way home. I can't shake the excitement I feel for someone in the beginning. The beginning of anything. It might be my favorite part of it all.

I guess part of my giddiness is for the lightness I feel for the real thing. The real thing that does warm me beyond the beginning to the depths of companionship. I used to fall hard and fast but took a vacation from the every moving fast bullet train to the very slow one making every stop. And it first it was fine. It was okay. But boredom started to seep in through my pores. I still wanted adventure. I still wanted intrigue. I still wanted to feel my heart pump with excitement. The slow train was slow. And I wanted more. But how to walk of the line of want I want long term and what I desire short term? Can I have both the excitement and stability as I walk on this tightrope of love with my heart jumping in and out of my chest to my sleeve and back again?

I don't know. But I do know. I need vacations. Vacations from the slow train. I pull the stop and jump out and try something new. Unplanned and spontaneous. And so easy just to be. And then I feel the warmth of another around me soothing the need for now. But later as the scenes of the future play out. Sometimes I want more scenes. I want more snapshots. And I can't help but wonder how it will turn out. In thinking about it, can I change how it will? Or the faith I feel in things coming together allows me not to change anything at all. See sometimes you meet someone while on vacation from the things you are supposed to be doing that makes the excitement and wonder grow inside as you think what will be next. For you. For him. And the excitement tastes good and I force myself not to wonder how it will turn out. Or to change the ending. I just want another line. Another paragraph. Another chapter. Of this book.

one of my first loves until me and running broke up

Blowing off steam. Blowing off steam has been my newest favorite pastime. I spent many good years of my life running and swimming and doing it for fun but mostly within the confines of team and invitations and flip turned into a baton hand off until I reached adulthood. I loved sports. I loved the ability to feel freedom in the pounding against my legs as I sped up at the end of every run. My father had taught me this trick that even after a jog you run fast and hard at the end. And believe you me it came in handy in the races of life both competitive or not. The wheels of myself going more quickly and feeling as if they might give out but on the brink of letting go- the freedom of speed- the freedom of myself. That I could get it anytime I needed it. And running. Running became a way to pound out the discomfort of adolescence and the way I spent my afternoons for many years of my life. And it helped that I was good at it. Not the best of the best but good enough to be choose for the relays and to place.

But somewhere in my relationship with running we became distant in our feelings towards one another. I dreaded doing it. And did it. Only for that scholarship. I didn't feel freedom anymore. When I put on those shoes to run- I felt dread. Dread for being awake so early. Dread for not being able sleep in. And dread for the practice I'd have to later that day. Running became a job. And the chore of it sucked the pleasure and flying from my bones and muscles and left was the feeling of contempt. Contempt I had for one of my first loves of my life. We had changed. We both had. So after my final season of my running career, I did what anyone would do or so I thought. I gave up exercise. I took up drinking and partying and smoking and being an undergraduate like everyone else. Reverse psychology on myself didn't work as I planned. Me and running broke up and she didn't come after me when she saw the back of my body sway back and forth surrounded by friends and the smoke of ways to forget her.

I didn't miss her. I didn't care about her. And I kept my relationships with my new and more exciting friends until one day I woke up and realized. Something was missing. The blowing off the steam. Could never be replaced in alcoholic binge drinking that left me more clueless than I began and apologetic and hurting the next day. Smoking could only be cool for so long and soon the honeymoon wore off and I was addicted. Me the athlete addicted to cigarettes. Blowing off the steam- I needed it.

I needed the release and freedom of the movement of my feet faster and harder and longer than I thought I could. I needed the pound of my chest in and out and rattling me to let go and learn again. I needed the sweat pouring down my face and head and limbs with my reddish face to remind me. That I am athlete and the blowing off the steam has always been my freedom. So I didn't call up running. I decided to try something new someone who would give me everything I had before because I was too scared to run. And that is how I found yoga. Yoga became my new love giving me what I needed in a new way. Until. One day I would find myself when I needed it most after a hard day of hearing others pains of life from the adolescents at school that I did the only thing I could and laced my shoes up and ran. Again.

dreaming big by living in others dreams

thanks for stopping by. i just finished one of my best b-day weeks yet- check out this cake! all my thanks always!

Giving up. Giving up to me has always been a foreign concept. Something I knew existed in some other realm but nothing I had a close relaitonship with. Nothing I had spent much time with. Nothing I had smelt under my beautiful imperfect slightly crooked nose. Nothing I had tasted before inside the pencil line fine lines of lips I have. It was what other people did. For I didn't take no for answer. That had its failure too, the not giving up.

Watching someone give up before your eyes happens regularly for me. It happens mostly with the kids. I see her eyes frustration with her inability to get her multiplication tables as I hold the card in front of her. I don't know it, she says with words and with her eyes and the crinkles around and growing on her face. See she is good at most things. Reading chapter books in the beginning of reading and the weekly pursue of the week. Linguistically she excels but this math thing-it takes work. And she gives up as you lay the cards out to play them. But you the caretaker won't let her give up. She can't. For these printed cards with numerals and lines and xs will not be her only challenge but for right now feels like the biggest she ever will have. We can't be good at everything- I know- but she is still learning. We have to practice. It takes time. And it so easy to give up upon that bump in that road making us have to twist and turn in ways we aren't comfortable.

With him math comes easier but many things do not and it is hard to feel accomplished in the glow of the older sister. He is the detective of the house able to find anything lost. He will find it. He is brave in his choice to stand in front of his classmates and talk about being made fun of. And he dreams of playing on the giants. The major league team. He looks at me with all believing eyes and says, you know all the pros started in little league. And they did. He is right. But his only relationship with a ball, a baseball has been being scared of it. I don't want him to give up. So we practice. First with a tennis ball and without a glove, building his confidence until he has the hard ball descending towards him. The hard baseball comes and he winces, again. Let's try grounders, I say. He travels back and forth. His throw improving and then he throws to an invisible person next to me. And then the hard ball with the catching and the misses, we are in the abyss of misses, until he catches and the excitement in a yelp from me and a glow from him. I don't want him to give up either. For it will be hard. But seeing his little success makes him less scared to go. Go on that field again.

Part of giving up, part of feeling like you should be giving up is something I didn't think I knew- I knew personally. Maybe it was the fear of asking for help. Maybe it was the fear of failure. But now I ask for help. And I do take no for an answer. Sometimes. As I help others not give up- I realize the gift of it- is believing in someone- that they can- even if you believe in ways outside yourself and outside of them. I dream bigger then I should and maybe I want them to too. Dream of flying and major leagues and having 4 professions and a day of just sugar.

I guess the never giving up allows the dreaming to happen. And me not giving up has always meant a yes eventually will happen. I do give up now when I have to. When I know I can't be in two places at once or need to throw money at a problem. But the never giving up stays with me along my side and I use it when I need to. When I need to get somewhere far, where I see someone who needs someone to believe- they can get there too. I am not done dreaming and being inside someone else's dreams allows me to keep dreaming too.

the final notice of a grand gesture

Final notice. I provided my final notice. Handed it over in a bold print with big letters at the top. FINAL NOTICE it read. I sent it via email. I faxed it. I texted it. How many times can you give a final notice to someone before they get it? See we live in this world where people eat romantic gestures in their cornflakes, they scoop in the possibility for a grand gesture in their spoons, they chew on the images of what a relationship will be like that by the time its done really done they are in the in a dazed belief in what love and relationships mean. Its the monet of love. It looks great from afar but close up you realize not what you expected. It takes many pieces to make the whole. In worshipping the wrong things. Paying homage to the salaries, kneeling before the engaged, praising the ring has indeed complicated it all.

Final notice to some means. Try harder. Chase me. It means. Pay the final respect of this last image in this movie and come after me. Run after me. But they never do show the next scene. What really happens. Final notice. To me. Means donzo. Finished. Moldy. Garbage. Because to get to a final notice with me means you had to have a lot of notices in between. I don't jump to the final notice without proof. Without some warning. Its hard enough for me to type the letters and commit to them. I know I might not mean them in the way I should. So I don't write them until I have to. Until I really mean it.

Final notice. It reads at the top of the paper. But ignored in text messages, come meet me, I want a drink and nothing else. And I am without my wife. From an old boyfriend. Who when you dated wasn't attached. Or showing up where I will be just to see me. And then leaving early. Or that last email. Or that call will come. Again. Around the holidays. More calls will come. A rash of texts. The writing of the final notice. Deciding it is done. Its more than breaking up. Its more than ending. Its admitting the moving on. And how to move. On. Really. And how to keep going. When those you paid a final notice try to renegotiate the terms. Of friendship. Of love. Of the connection to you.

built with love: the safety of a picture window

Dreaming. I lay upon my back upon the small piece of grass in front of my duplex home in the f section and stare above. Above me- the clouds move. Just watching the movement of the clouds- cotton balls that I always dreamed I could walk on. My younger self- stared up wishing to walk upon the clouds even though I was told I would fall through. That the clouds would not hold my weight even as a small child. But somehow I thought if I ever got that high I could walk, walk upon those large drifty cotton balls. Cotton balls of cotton candy pinkish sometimes when the sun is drifting away. I dream of jumping between the clouds not falling through. Where to. I didn’t know. Then or now.

I still find my self looking up at the clouds. Today. And stopping and watching the quickness of the changing canvas along the blue. I alert the kids to the good clouds ahead while driving up and down the hills to our next destination. At the stop light, I say I have always wished I could go up to the clouds. K responds, you can you just need the right ladder. Dreaming.

Dreaming. I used to dream there were witches under my bed. And in my closet. So often that I couldn’t sleep in my bubble gum ice cream pink smeared room. Pink everywhere upon my request. Then. I couldn’t sleep and found refugee down the long hallway in between the two parts of me- my mother and father. Darkness around me. I thought. But the nightlight never forgotten to be put on by him or her after my reading. I found them each time.

Dreaming. Of witches. My witches dream. Became a problem. They kept coming. And my father did what he could to bring me comfort. In my closet- one of the locations where they would come in my dreams. He built the safety of a picture window only a father could. In it was a picture of trees and sun and clouds. Drawn by him in pencil and then in color. Lined in the only color I thought should exist pink, pink window panes. He pulled down the string of the light he had lengthened so my five year old hands could reach.

And there was my very own picture window. My own blanket. My own safety. From the witches. See Katie he said you don’t have to be scared anymore. My picture window. A picture window from my father. Was the only thing that kept me from the witches in my dreams. And got me to dream. Again. In my own bed. In my own room. Light on in the closet. So I could keep the window. In my view.

ode to the wimpiness of the this californian still yearning for a real snowfall, just one of course

this is dedicated to my lovely roomie who provided me with a british make hot water bottle for my bed to heat up. i was reluctant to believe as well. but it worked. also to all my friends who held my hand through my borrowed east coast winters. thinking about you always. based on the quick write for heating up! enjoy!

Heating up in the warmth of my covers and personal heater and layers. I am frozen. Mostly because I went outside not equipped for this now impending winter. It was 70 something a few days ago and now I am reading mid 50s. I couldn’t warm up all afternoon- all evening. I heated up soup and tea and myself in this bed and nothing seemed to work. But soon I was fast asleep in this cocoon of heat. I did wake up sweaty and realized I was defrosted again.

I am wimp. I realize that I am the northern Californian make and snow angels and snow days were not mine until adulthood. By choice. I was shocked the winter lasted so long sometimes 6 months. I was shocked it snowed on my birthday every single year I lived on the east coast April not too late for snow. I was shocked to learn about wind chill and scarves up your neck with just your two eyes out. I was shocked to leave my house quickly and land flat on my back. Laying there in my apartment parking lot. Not knowing what hit me. Because I was naïve. I am a Californian. Black ice and wind chill and snow storms were left to the movies. Were left to other people’s lives. Hats were for style not for luxury. Winter jackets- never really did I need one. I had to prepare for this new life I was embarking. Buying my first down coat. Heating up.

But even in the chilliness of months I did find things that heated me up. A snowball fight of childhood lived as an adult. Laying on my back snow angels mine for the first time. The movement of the sand of my upbringing now upon this snow. Back and forth. The walking in the snow before anyone else had. Your foot slowly begins its descend toward the bottom of the pool, the tub of the ground. Days when the snow didn’t get cleaned in time and New York City would slow to a halt. A city yearning for a pause. And walking up and down Amsterdam, people now as cars. Cars not running, no buses, no hustle, no bustle. Just the soft noise of the snow slushy against our feet. And warmth inside and around. We are walking on a New York City street. Where usually you might need a prayer just to cross. To the park. Snow everywhere you can see. The beauty of the whiteness before the cityness gets to it.

I complain about the cold. But I do miss the winters I borrowed for a few years. I do dream of a snow fall outside upon my San Francisco street so I can feel the sand of snow now at home and hear the quietness of sound of my foot steps on the pillow of the snow. The slowing down and the happiness of it when it first falls that would be my request. One good snowfall and back to my cold enough winter in the 50’s. Teasing me first with a few 70 degrees days before it decides to make its entrance. Again.

image: courtesy of life magazine. http://www.life.com/image/56831621

technology killed the love letter- in my mind and in my car, i hope we can rewind and we haven’t gone too far

This is what changed when I realized there had been a death. A death of love letters. A mourning of flowers. A forgotten paid dinner. All of sudden one day I realized there was once a time when I got love letters regularly and cute notes. Letters of childhood passed turned into boyfriends official or those who longed to be pinned by me. I found more than one in my attic. And it hit me I hadn’t gotten a good love letter in years.

When I was younger I got them regularly. Typed on a typewriter, hand written, hand delivered, dropped off with a mix tape. The love letters have died. The art of them might have. If I only I would have known-I might had basked in those words longer, I might have read the words more carefully. But there will be more or so I thought. But the written word. The written word from someone’s heart to mine it doesn’t happen as it once did. Love letters are now read on screens and the more smiley faces from a guy on a text the more your friends will roll their eyes. The flirtation on the screen is still a letter but not the same as before on the binder paper lined with an arrow at the end. Turn me over.

I have been texted lovely things. I have been emailed words that made me stop and close my eyes. Words like I do adore you with or without your clothes off- although I am a mess right now- I am dedicated to us. Or the question answered in I too wonder what would have happened to us if our lives hadn’t changed. See the words still matter they do. But the delivery of a love letter just feels different and reminds me of what was. What was. What was before. Maybe what has changed is me. Maybe I have changed.

Because I miss the simplicity of what was on those papers, those lines, those words. Maybe the love, the possibility of it confined in a letter or an email is just getting harder, harder for me to do in a way I once did. Maybe I long for the simplicity of the written word being enough. Being enough for me. But stupid-me my younger self-didn’t realize that the love letters and the mix tapes and the flowers would stop. Stop.

A text asking me out is not like a phone call. A phone call of hours is how most of my love affairs have started. Conversations where you realize shit its been hours. Maybe there is no replacement for what was before. The words, the words that take effort, the words that stop this busy world and make me pause to say yes, yes I would like to do this. I should be honored, I should feel lucky for my many chances. Queen of potentials-I might be. But maybe I want to remember the love that was before. How it felt. The simplicity of someone truly adoring you enough to sit down and think about their words. Words to you and press send in the licking of the envelope.

the freedom in being a woman, so i thought. another judy blume moment, are you there god- it's me, kate

Freedom. The freedom I thought I would have in getting a period. I would be free from feeling different, free from the feeling that I was the last one standing in childhood among the budding femininity, free from the lack of breasts, free from the feeling I would be a child forever.

I was one of the last girls, last girls to start her period in my population of girlhood in junior high, Rohnert Park, CA. At least out of the ones who told the truth. I would listen to all the talks, the first one from my mother, then later in 5th grade, then in 7th. All the same. About cycles and what to use and expect. I remember looking in my mother’s face- thinking this is all very gross. But by the time I reached the age of 13 and almost all my friends had started. I wanted the drop of femininity. In 7th grade, I was shocked again but not because of the period talk but during the discussion of baby blockers, prophylactics, condoms, contraception- a girl in my class said it’s too late for me I have condoms under my bed. My mom found them. Me without a period. Me without a proper make out. Pretended not to looked shocked in these children becoming adults in ways I knew I wasn’t ready for.

But I wanted that period. Badly. But be careful what you wish for. On the day of school, 8th grade sometime after Christmas but not before my birthday not yet 14, I sat in the portable classroom while my teacher tried to teach us American Democracy. When I felt a wetness that just didn’t seem right. I didn’t know if it was my period. But I knew I needed to get to a bathroom and fast. There was the asking of the bathroom. Remember when we had to ask permission to pee- I don’t miss those days. And the long walk to the closest bathroom. Far away from this black top scattered with portable buildings of public schooling in California. I walked.

And once I found the proof I was a woman, I was woman, I was full of exacerbation because I didn’t have any womanly protection on me and I would have to do the dreaded, dreaded mammoth pad from the school office. First, there was the death of having to tell a grownup I didn’t know that I had my period. Part of my junior high life was on the line, I had to be strategic in who I asked and how. I wouldn’t want someone to hear. And then the box of mammoth grandma pillow pad was in my hands and before anyone could see it was shoved in a pocket-rather gracious fully-rather clumsily. It was hidden.

Starting your period at school the first time was not the freedom I had hoped for. The good news was my dad had remarried and I didn’t have to tell him. I couldn’t face my father and ask him to buy me pads. Freedom to be a woman already felt more limiting than I thought it would. So I tried to walk graciousfully while sitting on a huge pillow through the halls. I was a woman. I would get boobs. I would no longer be the last. I thought. Freedom to be a woman- little did I know that this freedom I had longed for would cause me more problems than I would like ruined pants, made playing sports not very fun, an ER visit, cramps so bad I would throw up, regularly. And the boobs I desired took multiple years to appear. The idea of freedom always seems to play out better than you think.

the mini vacations of the mind might be the only way to make it in high school, again

Going away is now left to mini vacations of separation and buffer. Buffer from what is. What just happened and what will be next. I am beginning to learn how to go away in my mind and in my body without departing in a vehicle or airplane or a magic carpet of childhood dreams lost. I am in the midst of a new life of meetings and intensity and crying and listening and helping and listening and asking and it would seem I would have 5 minutes to process before my next thing.

Before, before when I tried to be the helper in the schools last time as a teacher I just rushed through. Hard and fast. And thought vacations were only left to proper vacations. But this time. Time had passed. Things have changed. And the air mask must be first be put on to help the others breathe. So much so I have to go away after the intensity of a mother crying real tears over the injustice of what is. A teacher tears up. And I see the intensity opening and expanding in this classroom. Classroom. And then it is over and we say our goodbyes and I have 7 and ½ minutes to get to my next thing-no processing time.

So I go away. I breathe deeply as I walk slowly to down the hall at lunch time. Kids bubbly with energy for it is lunchtime-bumping and running and sporadically moving down the hall to freedom. For them. I walk slowly to the bathroom. And I sit there. And hunch over and go away. I need to go away for what just happened to be present for what will be next. I need to go away so it will not be mine. My own beach and cocktail and repetition of waves I found within myself. Within this public school bathroom. Luckily an adult one.

Going away. The boundary and buffer and space to be able to be be connected but then move on to the next thing. And be okay. So for that I am working. Working to do my job now mostly of observing but while observing you see so much, sometimes too much and then. Then you most either run to the next thing. Or slowly walk. Walk and breathe. And have a vacation of the mind.

I thought these things lived outside of myself. Myself. But they live inside of me. Me. So when I have the extra time. The day before I had to pick up the borrowed kids. I sit. I sit in the sun. At one of my favorite cafes. And just go away. No computer. No book. Just a coffee and sun. And I might befriend a table of former band dudes next to my table. For a few moments. Going away. I love getting away. But sometimes the only vacation in my grasps is the one inside of me. Inside of me that allows me to go away. Go away while standing in the same spot.

you haven’t lived until you go barefoot on a city street

Going barefoot. I am barefoot right now as I sit upon my pillow-lined chair placed there by me in my emergency dress bought in the OC but really it was a nightgown. Who knew? It was the cheapest thing to buy at the anthropologie. I have a hoodie around me to keep me warm in this newfound fog not forgotten for long. But I am barefoot. Barefoot with my two feet resting on each other. My left in the crease of my right finding a home between my big and second toe comforting each other as they do.

The other day as I walked across the street to my car. I was going barefoot. And in that moment as I walked across church street I remembered how nice it felt. How nice it feels. I wasn’t looking for memories of days past as I walked down my wooden stoop softly patting my way to the sidewalk and then braving the street slightly diagonal. I walked pausing for each train track-one and two-and then I reached my car. See I crossed the street without shoes, going barefoot I was, but I did it because I left my shoes in the car.

In the process of a move-your shit is scattered everywhere- quarter of my wardrobe was in my house in noe, the other in my new place, and probably the other half in that car or lost somewhere in space. But as I walked across that street-that street that was mine for awhile-I borrowed if it for awhile. I felt the coldness of each material as I walked in the morning. The freshness that is exiting on this city street. In the morning. While going barefoot. The texture of the wood of my stairs warmer than the sidewalk but not as icy as that asphalt of the road. But if felt good and refreshing and it reminded me of going barefoot.

I used to do it all the time. Through my neighborhood, through my house, I even tried it at school, the park wherever. Going barefoot until my black feet of my travels could be seen by all. There is something to be said for the safety of walking barefoot, barefoot in a city and not being scared. Scared of what is to come. See you don’t remember how it feels or how it felt and how it was part of you until you wrap many layers on to hide away from feeling the ground under your feet. I wish I could walk barefoot more often maybe always. But if I did I would long for the feeling of newness that I have forgotten.

I will reserve it to my bed-the two feet rest on each other as lovers, my house as wood of the old house pushes back on me as I walk on it, at yoga against my mat as I hold the poses and stretch my toes wider than when walking, at the park on my blanket and maybe brave the grass dampness of dew or city sludge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have the perfect manicured feet, the nail polish greenish like a mermaid now rubbing off. I take off those shoes. When I can. When I want to. Going barefoot.

jumping trains- from the bullet to the slow

enjoy your weekend- i hope this amazing weather holds. and as always thanks for stopping by- all my gratitude. . .

Comfort. I left the comfort of the bullet train of endeavors of love recently. It was a conscious choice. Not like many I have made in the love department. But I was once comfortable in the quickness of the fall in love or lust or like and it was so fucking exhilarating that I just kept doing it. I didn’t care if the moments didn’t stretch out. I wanted more. Just another hit. Maybe I just was meant to have moments and brief love affairs and the happily ever after would just be reserved for me in mini infatuations or relationships and my I do would happen more than once.

But as I started thinking, as I do, I realized, the comfort of the bullet train of heartbreak was starting to wear on my soul. Wear me down thin. I started taking in the research and the facts for I was once a researcher. Lapsed maybe. I was once a sociologist- not sure if you can retire from that. But an analyzer of my own life as well as others might be my favorite pasttime. Sometime. So once I begun to realize that the movement was too quick I kept on falling and then forgetting to put out my hands. I started to review the scratches and scrapes and bruises. Not just the ones on the outside but the inside.Those are the hardest to look at it and understand.

So after 2 plus years in San Francisco after my east coast tenure: 1) I had survived-not used loosely-dating a married man- I didn’t know and just to make it extra creepy he was cop. So when I broke it off with him he actually had a gun on his person. Not the best scenario for safety emotional being the least of my worries. 2) I survived dating a man who most definitely had something going on in the mental department for he and I broke things off and not soon after he tried to swim to angel island. 3) I dated a man who I thought liked me enough to be pleased by me. He wasn’t. I found out I was one of many. And then he got back together with his x right after he made me met her. 4) I fell in love with someone, someone I thought I knew. Until his once in awhile habit of cocaine became a binge. And I tapped out. Well not right away I tapped back in and jumped back into the ring until I couldn’t anymore.

So needless to say the bullet train has stopped working for me. I decided to get on a slow train that makes all the stops and doesn’t leave on time and sometimes sits and idles for hours because someone tried to cross the tracks at the wrong time or it was too hot or the acela was slowing things down. There is time to walk around and write. And look around and see it all. I can even grab a beer or some bad food-overpriced of course. It’s nice.

Because the slow train for me meant that my heart couldn’t jump into something until I actually stopped and saw it. Because I just kept jumping on and off the train not paying attention to the stops or the signs. I just kept going. The slow train can be lonely and not as exciting of my love for the train of the bullet. I miss that train. Slowly I travel. Slowly I begin things. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Still I miss the quickness of falling. Falling. But maybe I can fall more slowly. And pull the stop when I am ready to get off. Get off this train.

alcoholic bones: kate-0 asphalt-1

go enjoy that heat if you are in sf! i don't care if i have to take multiple cold showers a day and my only refugee is water and the beach. this weather is needed. it will be in the 50's by friday. so take that look off your face and go bask in the sweat of it. . .

here is a quick write for the phrase- humor me-about a new years eve gone terribly wrong.


Humor me and tell me I’m not like the others. The other drunks out there. Go ahead. I might have believed you. I might have. I crossed the line over drinking too much early on in my career with the bottle and finding my head in a toilet and to the bed and to the toilet and to the bed. I would drink in such a fashion that my mixing, my escaping would put me completely out of commission. There was no ‘a few drinks’ in my vocabulary.

So the first time it went to physical violence, I was at a New Year’s Party just nearly out of the supposed grownup stair of college. The party was the type that costs 100 dollars but there is no food in sight but with an open bar to boot. I was having a love affair with vodka cranberries. I was hanging out with my older cousin and her friends-they my 5-year seniors. No food -me humping vodka crans all night after the infamous double-parked break up of my last boyfriend. I asked if he wanted to go to LA with me. He told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. While double-parked in front of his house. Nice. That kick to the gut hurt. Hurt so much that my pain could be only minimized by you guessed it- that stupid open bar.

Fast-forward to I am now staring at my own reflection with blood all over my face. I stared at my bloody mary version of myself and I had no idea what had happened. I had no idea how I had got to that bathroom or how I was injured. I was staring and crying and women around me staring. Staring. Because who comes to a 100 dollar a ticket party and gets into fist fights. Something must be wrong with her their thoughts not spewing out but mixed inside their heads below their perfectly done hair dos. No blood was on their faces. But bloody mary I was.

My cousin appears and asks me who had done this to me. I don’t know I am breathing now through blood and tears and guilt and embarrassment. I didn’t know. Kate you have to tell me. I have to kick their ass. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what had happened. I knew I was in a fancy place and my love affair with vodka crans was done for now and I had an awful gash across my nose. My cousin gave me the first aid of family and of backup and putting pressure on my nose. I am going to figure this out as she stomped out of the public restroom. I didn’t care what happened anymore. I just wanted to go home.

My lawyer cousin became the investigator outside those doors of my protection. I wanted to go home but to go outside in the middle of a fancy party seemed like death to me. I might have, I might have broken my nose. Holy fuck. I am screwed. I hated the color red of my face, of my drinks. I hated the party for people not supplying food. I hated that guy for breaking my heart. I hated myself. I eventually would hate my cousin for keeping me there with a gash on my nose and then making me take public transit-the N home. In the bright lights of the train- everyone could see me, no bathroom where I could hide. I just closed my eyes and laid on my good friend’s shoulder. If I couldn’t see them-they couldn’t see me. It wasn’t real.

The facts came rolling in little by little not like a news station alerts more like calling someone without call waiting. It takes time to get through. You had to wait sometimes for the truth. So it turned out after my cousin had asked everyone there she knew and didn’t that I had gotten in a fight. A fight with the asphalt. Her friend replayed the torture of I was outside smoking a cigarette talking to him. When I came falling down like a tree in the wilderness. He thought I had blacked out. I hadn’t stopped myself. But he couldn’t stop me either. I had repressed all of it. All of it had. The worst part was I had to face my mother’s family the next day- a family I didn’t know very well- with a fucked up face. I had to come up with a story and quick. Humor me. Tell me the story.