Kat Shelton Kat Shelton

Hearing Voices

My pastor at church said something in his sermon this Sunday that got me thinking.

Do you hear voices in your head?

The truth is, we all do.

We are so inundated, especially at this point in history, with “voices”. Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. Friends, pastors, teachers, bosses, colleagues. Not to mention a 24/7 news cycle, and Social Media. All of whom are ready to bombard us with words; words of advice, encouragement, criticism, opinions. hope, despair. Words that may be trying to tell us what to do, how to think, what to buy, what to believe, who to be. And some of these words can set up camp in our heads, affecting who we are throughout our lives. They stick with us.

They are messages and images and stories telling us we are selfish, lazy, stupid, too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, not enough. Not good enough.

They are the words of a teacher telling a child she has poor hand-to-eye coordination, leading to her terrible handwriting.

They are the words of a professor, saying that “you are talented for a girl.”

They are the words of a one-time friend, telling you that you are not worth showing up for.

They are the words of a Mom, telling you that she believes in you, no matter what.

They are the words of a brother, who stands up for you when someone picks on you. Repeatedly.

They are the words of sisters, who tell you that you are smart.

They are words of a husband, telling you that you are his hero.

They are the words of friends, who go out of their way to include you.

What voices are camped out in your head? Who do you let in to stay? It might be that they have been there for so long that you don’t even remember who they belong to. Are they useful? Constructive? Or are they needlessly tearing you down? What voices are others hearing from you? Are you leaving messages of encouragement or criticism? Love or hate? Humor? Faith? Hope?

I don’t know how to change those voices in my head. But I am going to take a good, hard look at them. It may be that their days are numbered.

Peace,

Kat

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Kat Shelton Kat Shelton

Forgiveness

Many years ago, right after I graduated college with my BA in Technical Theatre, I was willing to move anywhere for a job in theatre. One of those moves took me to Jackson, Mississippi, to the New Stage Theatre.

I drove there by myself, and when I arrived in Mississippi, they were in the middle of an ice storm. It covered the houses and light poles and kudzu (an invasive ivy) and cars and plants, coating everything with a thick layer of ice that glistened and shimmered, making the entire state seem like I had driven into a magical land of crystal and color.

That feeling was quickly dispelled when I arrived at the theatre. A man named Jesse was there to meet me, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, good-ol’ Southern Boy. He first established that I was the new Master Electrician, and then (in a heavy southern accent) drawled, “You know the difference between a Yankee and a Damn Yankee?” “Oh, do tell” I responded. “A Yankee is someone from Up North (author’s note: “Up North” was anywhere north of the northern border of the state). A Damn Yankee is someone from Up North who comes to stay.”

At one point, I was a a laundromat with my car with Colorado plates, and this handsome fellow walked by and commented, looking at my license plates, “That’s a long way to come to do your laundry!” This was Chris. Yeah. Goofy. But I married him. Later. I guess I am a sucker for someone who can make me laugh.

Somewhere in the middle of that story, I decided to go back to school to get my Masters in Technical Theatre Lighting Design, so we moved up to a place called Water Valley. (Former watermelon capital of the world…just ask them.) It was about 30 minutes outside of Oxford, home of Old Miss. (University of Mississippi for the non-southerners out there.) He was going to school to be a social worker, and I got student loans to help us survive and to pay his tuition. I had a stipend. When the time came for me to graduate and get a job, I got a good one at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana. I fully expected him to go with me.

You see, theatre was my life. I made it more important than anything in my life, including Chris. I can look back now and see that. I made it clear before we got married that I wouldn’t be staying in Mississippi, that I would go where theatre took me, and that I would love it if he could take that journey with me. As a social worker, he could have gotten a job anywhere, we agreed. So when I got that job, I thought our adventure was just beginning.

Except when we got to Muncie, he decided within hours of our arrival that it was too big for him, he had called his old boss and gotten his job back, and he was going back to Water Valley. I ran up the two flights of stairs in what was supposed to have been our new apartment, to the bedroom, and threw myself down on the bed. He came up and tried to comfort me, I tried to change his mind, neither was successful. At this point, I tore off the necklace I was wearing (that he had given me) and my wedding ring, threw them across the room at him, and pronounced, “When YOU have decided to FULFILL the promise that THESE represent, YOU can come BACK!!!” (It’s okay to laugh here. I do. I roll my eyes, too. But it’s really what I said. Dramatic, huh?)

At this point, he started going through the items in the truck, bringing up my things and taking his things back down. Meanwhile, I was going through the things in the apartment, dropping his things unceremoniously at the top of the stairs. Except his Beatle albums. The didn’t deserve that. And he drove away. I had the joyous task (that is sarcasm) of telling his Mom, his Dad, his Grandmother, and his Sister when they called that night that the move hadn’t gone at all well, and that they could ask Chris about it when he got back to Mississippi.

I spent the next year telling folks that he was making lives better….just not mine. And I filed for, and received, a divorce a year later. See, I waited a year because I didn’t want to file out of hatred or bitterness or resentment. I wanted to file because I was sure that our paths had truly diverged. And they had. Once it was final, I expected to feel sadness or despair or even joy, but I felt….nothing. Like that song from A Chorus Line. I was surprised to find that I Felt Nothing.

That was in 1995, I think. I hadn’t really spoken to him since, short of a few “housekeeping” things. And I stopped hating. So I said.

Ten years ago, I received a message on Facebook. From Chris. Wanting to reconnect, if I was willing. Was I? Had I really gotten past the hate, the bitterness, from all those years ago? Had I changed? This was my test.

I am happy to say I passed. I had forgiven him, truly, from my heart, and I received forgiveness in return. Over the next 6 years, we forged a new friendship, and I am so thankful for that. For the chance to know him, who he was, who he had become. Those six years were a delight and a treat, and I cherish the conversations we had over Facebook. Four years ago, he passed away form liver cancer.

I miss my friend. But he gave me a gift, through that connection. I am so thankful for his friendship, for that chance at closure. I am thankful to have been tested, I am thankful to have passed. I am thankful for the lessons. Forgiveness isn’t something that we give away to benefit someone else, It is something we give ourselves, to give ourselves peace. And we accept it from others, for the same reason. To bring peace. For all of us.

Peace,

Kat

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Kat Shelton Kat Shelton

My Battle

On October 20th, 2020, I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.

While I am not pleased with having the disease, I was surprisingly relieved to have the diagnosis.

You see, every day aspects of my life had become harder than they should have been. I dragged my foot when I walked. I couldn’t get dressed easily, in fact sometimes I needed help. Rising up from a sitting position was often difficult. I had a hard time using a knife to cut things. I had to learn to write with my left hand (OK, that wasn’t terrible, I’ve always wanted to be ambidextrous). My handwriting, which I have worked all my life to improve, was terrible. I couldn’t hold anything still. I could no longer play the piano. That? That was the worst.

And then I was diagnosed. And I got some medicine. And things improved. Walking is easier, dressing is normal. eating is easy again. My handwriting is better, most of the time. And? I can play the piano again. I thought I had lost that forever. One day, I sat down to see if I could play again, I played “You Are My All In All.” And then I sobbed, easily for 5 minutes. I’m so thankful. I see things in a new light now. I lost quite a few abilities, only to partially or almost fully regain them. Oh, sure, I will loose them again. But for now, I can remember to be thankful for those things.

I have a will, and a Living Will. I have joined an on-line support group. It is helpful sometimes, not so much other times. It’s a strange disease in that there are a few things that happen to most all that have the disease, but many symptoms don’t happen to everyone. I know that eventually I will get to a point that I am unable to do anything. I am not afraid of dying that way. I am afraid of living that way. I am afraid of living and feeling helpless and useless. And yet, there is a good chance that is what lies in my future.

I feel guilty. My husband, bless him, is standing by me. This isn’t what he signed up for. I feel bad that what we thought would be our “Forever Home’ will not be able to be that. I feel bad that I am not as active as I want to be with my son. I feel bad when the depression hits and all I feel like doing is crying. I know in my head that it isn’t my fault. My heart doesn’t always listen to my head. But then I think that has often been characteristic of me throughout my life, so why should this be different?

Here’s the thing, though. Everyone has battles that they fight. I hear that often repeated, and it’s true. Some of the battles you can see, some you can’t. Mine happens to be Parkinson’s. You can’t always tell when someone needs help, but you can try to not make their battles worse. Be alert. Be ready. Be kind, always.

Peace, Kat

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Kat Shelton Kat Shelton

Cheyenne

We went to South Dakota for the weekend to see Mount Rushmore and do generally touristy things. On the way, we stopped in Cheyenne for Dinner.

Cheyenne used to be an almost magical place for me. I had all sorts of Aunts, Uncles, cousins in Cheyenne. We didn’t really do road trips or vacations when I was growing up. On many occasions, however, we would (when I was much younger) pile six of us in the cab of Dad’s pick-up truck and drive to Cheyenne. (we had bigger cars, later.) Waiting for us up there was family, fun, laughter, love.

I have memories of Frontier Days; of pinball in the arcade, treats on the carnival grounds with Andrea, rodeos, horses, Native American Dancers, Uncle Casey in a wild horse race, my brother riding a bull, a Johnny Cash concert with Grandma Stephens.

I have memories of the house on Fifth Street; digging canals in the sandbox and flooding it over and over again, popsicle stick boat races in a tractor tire, hiding in the basement, melting wax on the drier, many games of hide-from-cars and hide-and-seek. Grandma’s house had a special soft blanket that I would wake up snuggled under when I fell asleep on the couch, a pool table and a shower in the basement, a dog named Muffin (because she looked like the blueberry muffins that Grandma made that morning). You know that musty cinder block smell? I love that smell…it reminds me of Grandma’s basement.

Christmas brought hay rides, tons of food, games, music and laughter above all. One year, Uncle Leroy decided that wrapping paper was wasteful, so everyone wrapped gifts in newspaper and garbage bags. We had so much, even without the gifts.

Sometimes we would gather at the park and have a celebration, of birthdays or Christmas or anything. Everyone would bring something to eat and we would talk and laugh and run and play and catch up.

Mom and Dad would take us on trips of their own through Cheyenne. We saw where they grew up, where they went to high school, where the A&W was where they used to work, where Grandma and Granddad Keiper used to run Mom’s Diner, long since gone. I’ve attended church in the church where they got married, more than more that 63 years ago.

I was a little melancholy at dinner on the way to South Dakota. Most, if not all, of my family from Cheyenne has moved on in one way or another. Cheyenne felt like, well, just another city.

I know. The magic is in the memories, not the city itself. Being in Cheyenne just brought it all back, and made me think of how much I miss those that have gone. But, we had so much. We have so much. I am thankful for the memories of Aunt Joan’s laughter, Uncle Leroy’s way of seeing things. Grandma’s ability to sit and watch, and say just the right thing at just the right time. I am thankful to have grown up with my cousins, thankful for family, thankful for happy memories.

After dinner, my husband and son and I went on to South Dakota. And made memories. Hopefully, good ones.

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Kat Shelton Kat Shelton

Why, Indeed

Recently, a woman came into the shop where I work. It’s a small place and we don’t typically have many walk-in customers. She was dressed in a tight knit black skirt with subtle flower patterns, slit up the side; a black lace bra with a long sleeve black gauze shirt. It was a hot day, and she was looking for a different shirt to wear. She had been at a friend’s house, she informed me, had to leave, and the only clothes she had were what she had on. I don’t really have any shirts here that aren’t very “costumey”, and she didn’t have a whole lot of money.

She ended up purchasing, with her last five dollars, a long black silk scarf. She went into the bathroom and after having spent quite a bit of time there, she emerged having fashioned the scarf into a shirt. She came to my office door, outside of which is a full-length mirror, and decided she didn’t quite like what she saw. She was having a tough time getting it to stay in place, so I gave her a handful of safety pins. Back into the bathroom she headed.

On the way, I asked her if she had someplace to go, someplace she was safe. She stopped in her tracks, turned to me, and said, “I…there….why would you ask me that?” I responded that she seemed, well, stressed, and thought she may need some help. She told me that she was always stressed, that she was fine.

I didn’t press. I sometimes wish I had.

She re-emerged from the bathroom, scarf-shirt pinned in place. She still didn’t like it, and back to my office door she went. After futzing for a time, she was finally somewhat satisfied, thanked me, and left…

Only to return fine minutes later. This time she asked for and received a needle and thread. She went over to a corner of the shop, removed the scarf-shirt, and started to try to sew it into something more permanent. By this time, she had been in the store for about three hours, and it was almost time for me to leave. For several reasons, I was not about to leave here there, sewing in the corner wearing only her bra and skirt. I then remembered a “Thing One” costume (think Dr. Seuss) that consisted of a t-shirt and a large blue wig. I asked her is she would like one of those.

“How much is it?”

“This one is free.” (I did pay for it it later.)

“I’ll take it!”

She donned the shirt, thanked me, took a business card, and left.

When I told my son this story, do you know what he said? “Why didn’t you do that in the first place, Mom?”

Why, indeed.

Maybe we all could be a little quicker at seeing past ourselves to discover what help is needed, no matter how small it may seem to us to be.

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Kat Shelton Kat Shelton

Late Beginnings

As with many fads that have happened along in my lifetime, I feel I am arriving late to this one. People are already doing video blogs and podcasts, and here I am with my very first blog.

But Here I Am!

Why a blog? Well…

I feel the need to create something, and at the moment, the list of things I am currently creating is extremely short.

I love words. I love that there are so many different ways to express a thought or concept, and each variation can have an ever-so-slightly different meaning. I love that you can explain, express, expound, illustrate. You can describe, define, disclose, interpret. You can translate, paraphrase, clarify, illuminate. All are remarkably similar, but also subtly different. I love searching for just the right word. I love stringing words together to tell a story, trade ideas, have a conversation, sing a song.

My sister, well, one of them, (not the photographer who took the cover photo) suggested I start a blog. My sister is perceptive and smart; I have chosen to heed her advise.

I think I am hoping to find something here. Honestly, I am not sure what that is. It might be many somethings. It might be as simple as finding a means of expression, or as intangible as finding hope. That would be nice, Stephen King says that hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things.

So, welcome to my corner. Sit down and make yourself at home. Fasten in, it might be a bumpy ride.

Cheers,

Kat

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