Recess

While tutoring a ten-year-old today I came across the word 'recess.' He had two long lists of words to study, and this was one of them. I varied the studying methods--a definition there, a spelling here, a sentence for each one. I asked him what recess was and he said, "When you get to play!" I agreed, then reminded him it could also just mean a break.

It immediately brought me back to my own ten-year-old self, and all the recesses I was forced to endure. As an adult I am more aware of the rest of the word--it offers us a break from real life, a respite from the day-to-day or the overwhelming. It could mean we take a long bath or go for a walk or snuggle with a fluffy dog. Maybe it means hot cups of coffee with friends or watching hours of Netflix or going swimming.

As a child, it was strictly for playing outside. I grew up in Washington state, and our school took recess very seriously. We had one mid-morning and another right after lunch, and it had to be raining (not drizzling, which is more common) in order for recess to be held inside.

I loved indoor recess, but not for the reasons you might think. I actually loved playing outside. At home, I would spend hours playing in the woods, climbing trees and riding my bike down a dangerously steep hill. I had scraped knees and slivers and weird tan lines on my legs from hours spent rollerblading. Being outside in my own domain was a thrill and a joy.

But being outside on a playground where some unknown "Recess Duty" would admonish me if I didn't have a ball in my hand or wasn't swinging on the monkey bars was more like a punishment. I was also extremely shy, extremely terrified of strangers and confrontation, and so the prospect of being approached by the Recess Duty because I wasn't "playing" scared me to death.

I wanted to be inside reading--which is, of course, why I loved rainy days and indoor recess. I loved curling up with a book in my classroom's library, or coloring vast landscapes at my desk until the bell rang again. There is something depressing about the fact that 'play' used to only mean running, jumping, or climbing. I hate that the other kinds of play, the kinds I was so connected to as a kid, were somehow considered lazy or less beneficial.

As I went on a sort of emotional adventure last weekend, this weekend I'll be taking another break from the real world--a recess, you might say. It's time for another road trip, for sure. In recent weeks I have been overwhelmed by doctors and recovering and bad news, and the turmoil of knowing it's all going to get more painful and overwhelming before any of it gets better. Starting next week I have my first post-op appointment, so before all of it begins...

I'm taking a recess. I'm going to play. I'm going to be with friends. We'll watch movies, drink tea, maybe even read books or draw pictures. I'm going to take a break and play in the way that most benefits me. I don't even care if it's raining.

Thirty Thanks, Day 22: The Art in Me

When I was little I used to sit down with a stack of paper or maybe a few coloring books and this big tin of crayons. Yes, a tin of crayons. My favorite color alternated by the hour, depending upon which crayon was sharpest. I would begin to draw and the pictures would just pour out of me--they practically gushed--like a frenzy of uncontrollable, heavenly colors. I would draw picture after picture until they probably piled around me and at the end of the day my mother would have to secretly throw most of them out because she couldn't possibly keep every single one.

This was my element. And it still is. When I am allowed the space and resources for creativity I am almost literally unstoppable. I am never more focused, more exhilarated, or more at peace than when I am making art. It doesn't have to be crayons and paper (like the photo to the left, August '14). It can be a square of polymer clay, or a canvas and some acrylics, a notebook and pen, a piano and some solitude, or even an apple pie.



Below is a project I'm prepping for kindergarten on Monday. Right now they are just tiny canvases with puffy painted words, but soon they will be fabulous Christmas ornaments. There's paint and sequins involved. Really.

And here's a sneak peak of this year's Christmas cards. The process has just begun.

The point is, art has always--and I mean always--been part of my identity. It wasn't until a few years ago that I began to realize how spiritual art is for me, how it grounds me and connects me. There's an old Jars of Clay song called "Art in Me," in which the speaker begs someone to "see the art in me." I've resonated with that on many levels, and it's that phrase which helps my understanding of my own art. I am so thankful for my own creativity--for the art in me. 

I'm thankful for what art gives me--peace when I am restless, resolution when I am aimless, clarity when I am overwhelmed, distraction when I'm anxious, joy when I'm in sorrow, and tenderness when I'm in rage. I'm thankful for how it allows me to connect with others, either by sharing my art with them or partaking in another's art. I'm thankful for the colors and sounds and textures I can be surrounded by. I'm thankful that my parents encouraged my artistic nature when I was young, even when I resisted. (I still resist taking art classes--I don't like being told what to do.) But most of all I'm thankful for the spiritual element of the art in me, the way it engages me with God in ways that cannot be explained or otherwise experienced. By creating, I connect with my Creator.

Thanks, art. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 19: Coffee (200th Post)

This is the 200th post on this blog. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment. So we have a very special topic for today's "Thankful" feature. Enjoy.

A long time ago in a faraway land called Montana, my mother gave five-year-old Katie two ounces of coffee in a tiny tupperwear container. It was part cream, part coffee, part Sugar Twin. It was perfectly flavored, and I fell in love with that perfection.

Fast forward to July 4th, 1996 in Seattle. It was my family's first (or second? I can't remember) trip to Gasworks Park for their fourth of July celebration. We ate sandwiches in the car and, because I was so accustomed to "dipping" my PB&J in milk, I needed something to quench my thirst. My father had a gigantic travel thermos--I swear, that thing held at least 40 ounces. The lid was used as a cup and I begged to take a drink. "I NEED coffee!" I exclaimed. Dad was driving and mom took care of the coffee-dispersion. "It's just plain, black coffee," Dad warned me as Mom passed back the cup-lid. I don't remember much else except that I was reprimanded for not saying "please", and of course that I was actually fancied the heavy flavor of black coffee.

Fast forward once more to 2001, just as I began 7th grade. Because I'd started private school my parents now drove me to school on the way to work. There was a coffee stand at the end of our street (something common in Washington) and on Mondays they had $2 mochas. My mother and I began a long tradition of stopping here each Monday, sipping our coffee on the way to school and work.

And now fast forward one last time... not to a singular moment, or a precise date on the lengthening calendar of my life.... but to a thousand moments, a million separately wonderful instances and events in which coffee enhanced life's greatest treasures.

The first time my husband said he loved me, we were sharing a caramel macchiato. (It was on accident, and I told him to take it back because we weren't even officially dating yet, but still...)

My best friend and I first bonded at a coffee house.

When I was a teenager and my dad and I both had free time in the summer, I felt incredibly hospitable and grown up when I volunteered to bring him more coffee.

In all of my jobs, I have connected with coworkers over coffee.

I have more coffee cups than anything else. More mugs than socks, underwear, spoons, maybe even more than paperclips.

I am so thankful for coffee. I am thankful for how it brings people together, connecting us through sorrow or joy or rage. I am thankful for it's alleviating strength, how it can make an awkward situation endurable or a weakening fatigue less overwhelming. I am thankful for its approachable nature in that "meeting for coffee" can be both a safe way to interact, or an ordinary event that could lead to something more adventures. I am thankful for its many flavors and varieties and methods of being brewed, allowing food-artists the opportunity to be innovative and creative. I am thankful how it is desirable in every season, in every circumstance, for many ages and stages of life. I am thankful for its calming nature, for the way a cup of coffee can bring me back to focus and center and stability, or give me the headspace for inspiration and creativity. I am thankful for its presence in so much of my life, for what it adds to life, for what it exposes in the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Thanks, coffee. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 7: The Story (Part 1)

Long ago there was a blackbird whose wife was stolen by an Indian ruler. Blackbird made put on his armor and made himself a drum and traveled toward the palace to get back his wife. On his way he met some ants, some cats, some sticks, and a river. They had all been wronged by this evil ruler too, and so they climbed inside Blackbird's ear. They made their way to the palace, overcame every obstacle put in their way, and rescued Blackbird's wife.

This is my favorite childhood story. It's adorable, but that's not why I'm thankful.

Last year I made a blog post that was thankful for simply all books, or at least my favorite books. But this year I want to express more about the foundation of that feeling. I did not reach adulthood and suddenly become a book-lover. No, my love for such things was built over many years. Today I want to say that I am thankful for children's stories. 

The story mentioned above is an old Indian folktale, called Rum Pum Pum. It's one of my favorite books from my childhood, but also one of my favorite books EVER. It's not because there are talking animals--I couldn't care less about talking animals. In fact, I'd rather do without them all together. And it's not because it's a "hipster" book that no one knows about, or a "folktale" and therefore more moralistic and meaningful that more popular children's books. I love it because of its phenomenal story that resonates with reality.

Our protagonist has suffered a great loss. Rather than give up hope, he finds his strength and starts a journey. There are many adventures to be had and friends to find along the way. He is victorious not by his own strength, but by the unity formed between them all.

In real life, we suffer great losses. We feel compelled, sometimes, to lose hope. But we don't. We hold on. We fight. There is a fight to win, a battle to begin. And there are others who have suffered their own losses, others who have their own tragedies and sorrows and they will fight with us! Many things in this life we must do alone, but a victory--vindication!--is something to be shared.

This is true of Rum Pum Pum, of Little House on the Prairie and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and The Little Engine that Could. There is a fight, there are friends, and a grand finale. This is also true of the stories my father told me when I was little. They were about Princess Goldenhair (ahem) and her brothers (ahem) and some evil goblins. These were stories about fighting for justice and friendship and being brave.

I am thankful for the stories of my childhood, for the lessons they allowed me to learn. I am thankful for the deep love for books they ingrained in my soul. I am thankful for the connections I was able to make within each story, how every character taught me something about real life. I am thankful for the good guys and the bad guys and the illustrations and even the talking animals. I am thankful for the way books can be friends themselves, and for the way they can heal and comfort and inspire.

Thanks, stories. You're incredible.

A Decade of Deciding

This is the third year in a row I've taken fall photos at the Wright Woods. I figure since I just wrote about fall I could write about this place, but I've got something else on my mind. It's the sort of thing that happens to me when I think about "how many years it's been" since something. 

And of course, I realized, 10 years ago I was 16 and it was fall and a whole mountain of memories crumble down and crush me. Right now I am this 26-year-old person dealing with all these un-26-year-old issues because when they happened, I didn't even know what they meant. Or if they meant anything at all.

Ten years ago, in 2004, I turned 16. I was a sophomore in high school. I had a "surprise" birthday party. I went on my second missions trip. That same year I decided my favorite color was green, and no longer orange. One of my best friends moved to Texas. I went on my first real date, with a guy who actually liked me. I was accused of being a lesbian by the new girl at school. I was a TA for the biology teacher. I met another best friend, and began a relationship based on a shared love of music and chocolate muffins. The new Relient K CD came out. I had one of the leads in the school play. My brother-in-the-NAVY (which was how I referred to him back then) got to come home for Christmas. I had really long hair. I started wearing make-up more often. I read a lot of Shakespeare. I wore a lot of scarves. Took a lot of photos with my parents' old Nikon. My dog was born, and was given to me the week before Christmas. The guy I was in-like with, the guy I went on my first real date with, actually became my boyfriend for a whole month and six days. (He then dumped me, the second time that year. We dated for 11 days when I was 15.) 

And it's been ten long years but some of these things still steal my breath from my lungs--as if the impact of them still shocks me, and I still can't believe it all happened. I still can't believe I was that person for a whole year and, believe it or not, it was the one year in high school I did not find myself faced with any serious depression. I had bad days, of course. But overall? Sixteen was incredible.

You must understand, however, that I had to decide every single day to make it incredible. I am never going to tell you that happiness is a choice. Aside from the fact that "happiness" is overrated and inconstant, depression is more complicated than choosing how to feel. But I somehow managed for an entire year to simply tuck it away. It takes a certain strength to take your sadness, your depression, your anxiety and fear, and put those things in your pocket while you go about your business. These days I'm pretty good at it, but I couldn't begin to explain how I do it currently and certainly couldn't tell you how I did it then when my brain wasn't even fully formed.

But I can tell you what it felt like.

When I made a new friend, I felt like I was "enough." Having finally reached a healthy level of confidence, I was able to reach out and introduce myself to people. If they didn't like me, I wasn't crushed--and that was difficult to do in a school with only 150-ish students. If something was truly upsetting, I knew I had people to talk to. 

When I chose a new favorite color, it was a near-physical manifestation of moving away from the angst of being 15. I still loved orange, and still do today, but at 15 it was like my armor. I had this hideous orange sweatshirt and imagined myself protected from the world by it. It both drew attention to me and protected me by setting me apart. At some point I must have realized I didn't need it. 

When I foolishly fell in love, my whole world did not tilt on its axis or cause me to stumble. He was a friend, who became a boyfriend, who became a friend again. It wouldn't be the last time we tried being "in love," but the time when I was 16, it didn't break me apart. When it was over, I was sad, but felt no real loss because I knew had better support and better friendships in other places.

Essentially, I was not overcome by my weaknesses, but rather I discovered my own strength and was not afraid to use it. I didn't fear it would leave me in a moment, or a day. I was not anxious about people seeing my strength and calling me aggressive, or arrogant, or obnoxious. I chose to show it off. I didn't need to hide under a baggy sweatshirt, or an ugly color. 

I have been many versions of myself in the past 10 years. And even though, when I see this girl, I ask myself, "Who is she? What makes her so strong?" I know I can still find her in me. I can decide to use her strength at any moment.

Half a Life (A 9/11 Story)

I don't like being sentimental about this. I feel like I don't have the right. In the same way that I have no personal connection to the day JFK was shot, or the Civil War, or any other national crisis, I did not suffer any personal loss by the terrorism that occurred on September 11, 2001. My hesitancy to be moved to some overwhelming emotional state should not be seen as insensitive. Rather, I am sensitive to the fact that many people suffered in ways I can't being to imagine.

I'm not saying it didn't affect me--it certainly did.

People always ask you where you were when it happened, or when you found out. I don't like my explanation, not because it was someplace boring or "unimpressive" (how awful) but because it's actually sort of dumb. I was in the bathroom. On the toilet. My mom was out in the living room, and she was getting ready to drive me to school, while watching the news. She told me to come out to see what was happening. So, I guess I was actually in the living room when I found out. But the horror in my mom's voice shocked me before I ever saw what happened next.

I walked into the living room, and had been standing there for just seconds, surveying the live feed of New York, when the first tower fell. I didn't even know what I was looking at yet; the situation had not quite registered in my mind.

The days that followed felt tense and chaotic. I had just started at a new school, in a new district, and we'd just moved to the area 6 months before. My oldest brother joined the Navy, and began preparing for his inevitable departure to bootcamp that December.

It was the first time in my life I experienced depression. I was thirteen years old.

So when I think of September 11th, the first images that come to mind are the falling towers, and the newspaper from September 12th which I kept under my bed for many years. But the following images are of new friends huddled in prayer groups in my school's chapel, and of my brother getting his long (fabulous) hair cut off. I see the struggle of accepting large and fathomless changes at every turn. And I feel, all over again, what seemed to be the weight of the world crushing me.

But.

But. 

For the first time in my life, despite all those changes, I also finally felt like I belonged somewhere. I could sense my voice would be heard, my creativity guided and supported instead of squashed by the density of public school populations. The inexplicable pain I experienced was fuel for powerful words, and the writer in me burst into life. I remember seeing the beauty in something, and the discovery that I could express what I saw in words--there was a specific poem, and it wasn't very good, but I (mostly) knew what I was doing.

It was a poem about a crystal my uncle had given me during the summer of 2001. The crystal itself wasn't meaningful. He had a handful of them and let me pick one. There's a complication behind the story, that I won't explain. But the poem is still memorable, and I wish I knew where it was. It expressed the brokenness of relationships between people, the brokenness that is present even when people love each other. It expressed the beauty of something broken or fragmented, like a crystal. Things that crack on the inside, not just the surface. But they're still something to hold on to.

Half of my life has passed since September 11, 2001--which, if you haven't figured out by now, represents a time in my life, and not simply one day. Half of my life. Thirteen years spent in shadows and light, passed through endless seasons of doubt and sadness and back to peace and contentment. It's fragmented and complicated, chaotic and sometimes overly dramatic. It's cracked on the inside, and the outside. But I'm still holding on.

With bruises on my chin

"Will power is to the mind like a strong blind man who carries on his shoulders a lame man who can see." -Arthur Schopenhauer

I don't think about will power nearly as often as some might assume I do. It's outside of myself, a thing that I have without realizing its presence, and internally I am not aware of it. I have it. I use it. But until lately I gave it none of my mind, none of my time.

Generally I am a very strong willed person. I inherited this trait from my grandmother Virginia and from my father, her son. And of course I put this will to good use while defending myself from my older brothers during my childhood. I'm sure you can all imagine it--little Katie with little fisted hands and a little scowl on her face. I did a lot of screaming. I had the will to stand up for myself, the will to make my position known to those who opposed me. Or, in some circumstances, I fought for the sake of a greater good when I knew they were in the wrong.

And I'm not writing this to talk about losing my will as a whole, or finding my will--because I haven't lost it in the least bit. But there is a circumstance, the one that keeps you up at night, the thought that makes you cringe in the middle of class or lose your appetite. It is this circumstance which I no longer have the will to fight against.

I've been getting panic attacks lately, even in my sleep. I have awful dreams in which I am running from something--a holocaust, men with bows and arrows, a pandemic, appendicitis. I am always fighting and I always wake up losing. I wake up with a scream still deflating my lungs and a second scream just around the next breath. I open my eyes with my arms and legs twisted in the blankets and there is stifling heat everywhere.

It is in this manner I have started each morning for the past few weeks. It's usually an abrupt awakening, several hours before any of my alarms are supposed to go off. I have come to the conclusion that I wake up this way because I just can't take the dream anymore. I can't keep running and hiding and getting killed by some bizarre turn of events. I can't fight anymore. I've lost the will to fight.

And this situation, this circumstance in real life, is the same way. I've said so many things and done all I can within my power. I've followed others' advice, I've followed my own, I've given my time and money and peace all for the sake of gaining peace again. But it's out of my control. I'm not a warrior here. I'm not a soldier in this aspect. It's not even my battle, my war. Not anymore. I've lost the will to fight.

I remember when I would have fought for this to the death. I might still, given the opportunity. If I was seven years old, I might scream. I would have busted a lung and kicked the dirt. I would have gone inside and slammed a door. I was once so angry about something I threw a plastic chair at my bedroom door and left a huge hole.

But what happens when you lose the will to fight? It isn't a universal loss in this instance. I still fight for other things. I still go to sleep every night, knowing I will be fighting for my life and will be dead by morning. I still argue for my side and would defend myself if I were attacked. So what happens? It's just this one thing, this enormous heartbreaking thing, which has beaten me down and stabbed me in the gut one too many times. I just can't take it anymore.

This loss does not mean I don't care. This is not me signing off for good and turning my back on you. That would take a different kind of will power. I still have the will to be present in the situation, to maybe whisper how much it wounds me. I still have the will to write about it and face it every day.

Losing the will to fight doesn't mean I've accepted this. It just means I'm hoping someone will remember little Katie with her little fists and the little scowl on her face. Someone, please remember that strong willed warrior, and fight in her stead.

Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine (accompanying video is of me drawing...)
The song isn't completely related to this post. But I like it a lot, regardless.