16 January 2015

on hair loss and vanity

well now... I was not imagining it: My hair has been falling out. Lots of it. Enough so I can now see my scalp easily from the top, through what is left. and I have a near bald patch the size of my palm in the back (aided, of course by a cowlick that just opens up the whole area to cold wind, and vanity has kicked in, and I am horrified.

I saw the doctor. I am getting bloodwork. I suspect thyroid. Any positive stories out there to share with me? I will learn to crochet beanies if I must, but damn.

I'd love to hear powerful stories of regrowth.

The metaphor is not lost on me.


31 December 2014

the space in between

where have I been
busy, yes,
moving, yes
and being
yes
and trying to find my way.
minimal childcare and the new old house and art shows and client work and managing my own ongoing grief work and anxiety.

i asked my new therapist about the grief, the why now, the what the hell, the why, the why, the why
and she said that grief does not have a time table.
it is not about calendars
it is about when you are strong enough

strong enough to come apart
strong enough to weather the storms, I guess. bend, not break. or break and mend. or break and make patterns with the pieces and call it art.

so this has been hard, strangely and unexpectedly.

grief and shame and oh
wow
just so much of that.

and a vulnerability, raw, perpetual, just below the joy.

so I find myself laughing
I find myself
I am painting a little but not as much as I need to (4 shows in 2015!)
not as much as I need to for me

still finding my way into my new identity as  Kate.
not Engineer.
or Director.
or Scientist.
or Professional.

just, Kate.

I told my sister today, light can't get in if there are no cracks.
I hold my hands open, a bowl, to welcome the light.

wishing on you all, and us all, peace and fullness and hope and laughter, health and wellness and humor and moments of bliss. i send you big love.



10 November 2014

so much

yesterday, my amazing Della turned 4.
4.

I cannot believe it, but here we are. She is amazing, dazzling, delightful, dramatic. She is her own fine self and don't you forget it. She is tender and bright as hell.

Today, we signed the papers for a small (read: tiny) house. This week is all about moving. And with that, and birthdays, a time for reflection and projection, and I am working, breath by breath, to remain or return to the Now.

I brush my face against her hair and breathe in.
Now, I say.
Here.

So much.

Photos soon.
xo

13 September 2014

My art show!

In the Denver area?  Please come! And please let me know how you know me. I'll be there without Doug and Della, but with my awesome dad and dear friend Liz. (I AM SO EXCITED!!!)



12 August 2014

like a window


grief opens grief like a window

like a can opener

stirs silt from the bottom

shakes loose parts newly or incompletely mended

rattles around, making noisy messes, reminding me acutely of things that hurt to remember.

As I think about the brilliance lost in Robin William's heartbreaking choice, I think too about the losses we all share, those who have loved someone who has made this nearly unthinkable decision. And while I am so very sad for Robin, that this felt like the only choice he had left, I am more sad for his family, those who loved him, all of us who felt somehow connected to his wry smile, his tenderness, his humanness.  It exposes our collective vulnerability somehow.

After losing a beloved to suicide, 11 years ago this past weekend, I have finally gained solace of a sort during hard work this past year... a hard won healing. Tender always, but a new sense of something like peace, I guess... a still point of understanding I did not have before-- before, suicide was simply unthinkable, unimaginable, and my loss, the world's loss of my beloved, was totally beyond my comprehension.

Now, after experiencing being taken down by anxiety into an underworld of desperation-- I understand things I did not understand before.

I sought help, took it, take it, seek it. And thanks to this intervention I have returned home to myself.

But I understand now, desperation, in a way I did not.

I understand just wanting to make the pain stop. And simply not being able to stand it. Feeling lost, taken over, alone.

And I wish for all who feel lost, to reach out, get help, allow help in. Please.

In this moment, I sit with this sadness, with the echos of my own loss, my own grief, and let it (as best I can) move in and through... knowing, after all this time, that it will move like water, downstream, if I allow it to pass through my knowing, my heart, my memories, and not try to hold on for the sake of having something to hold on to.


04 August 2014

August 4th? how did THAT happen?

Hello from rainy maine. I am up with my darlin, for the first time truly trying to see what it is like to be here for longer than a weekend. I brought my computer and my paints and spend at least a half day each day working while Della takes part in activities and Doug works 24/7 here at camp... Della and I will be here for another week, then back to NH.

Anonymous prompted me to update-- I am not sure how to talk about how I am.
Anxiety is being held at bay by the immense assistance of chemistry: Zoloft and microdoses of Ativan... and by this complete change of scenery. I am worried about re-entry. Worried and aware that my triggers will be waiting for me, and I will be tested especially as school begins, and kids start to share viruses as they always do.
I don't know how to help that future me, except to revel, now, in the relative comfort in my body, and awareness of the sound of rain, of my fingers on the keyboard, and kids (many, many kids) indoors on the other side of a thin wall  when they wanted to be outdoors playing.

I mentioned I am painting and have a bunch of stuff I have created while here-- all of my stuff is abstract, some minimally, so enormously-- all intuitive, best done in a flow of whateveritis that comes through like water or a perfect breeze. When I try, I suck, just like Po (Kung Fu Panda), but when I allow, things happen that range from interesting to magical.
The sucky ones make me feel like the flow will never return.
The magical ones make me feel awe.
It is very much like writing that way.

If you don't like abstracts, you won't like my work at all.
But if you do, you *might*--

Are there any of you in the Denver area who might want to meet up very late september/early october? I've got an art exhibit in a local coffee shop there for the month of October (my dad lives in Denver, and it is the coffee shop he frequents)-- I'd love to see you in real life, meet up, say hello. I'll let you know once the details are set for the "reception" (aka: meet the nervous, introverted, yet semi-social artist). I'll also post some art sometime so you can get a sense of it.

If you have questions about my anxiety: bring them-- I will try to answer as best I can.
Right now it is about being
and trying to pull my awareness back to now, and now, and now, and now....

thank you A, for asking how I am.
Truly.