Masks
“Gray skies are gonna clear up! Put on a happy face!”
I work at a store that sells theatrical makeup. With it, you can put on any sort of face you’d like. Happy or sad, pretty or ugly, scarred, comic, or smooth. You can be a clown, be a zombie, be any character you want. Mystique from the X-Men? Sure (with the custom prosthetics, 8 hours, and a professional artist.) Dracula? Absolutely-create your own version of him. You can be a superhero or super villain, a comic book character, a character of your own design. With stage makeup, you can put on any face that your imagination can conjure.
But then we all wear different faces at some point in our lives, don’t we? Most of them don’t even require makeup. It’s different than the “hats” you wear. You know, all the different job descriptions you have. A mother, for example, is at different times a nurse, a chauffeur, a cook, a server, a CEO, a CFO, a counsellor, a teacher, a companion… and that is just in her life at home with her family. The faces you put on, or the masks you wear, are another story.
You may, for instance, wear a different face at work than you do at home. At work, you may have to be cheerful, outgoing, organized, professional, knowledgeable, agreeable. So you go into the office and put on the face that portrays all of that. Your Work Mask. At home, you may have a Spouse Mask, a Parent Mask, Sibling Mask, Daughter (or Son) Mask. You may have a Mama Bear Mask (for dealing with those that hurt or threaten your children), A Pet Owner Mask, even a Niece, Nephew, Aunt, or Uncle Mask. They are all the faces you wear for all the people you try to, or have to, be.
Wait, what? You don’t have all those masks? I do. I am a different person around my Mom, for example, than I am with my husband. I would be willing to bet most of you are too, whether you see it, admit it, or not.
These faces are easy, though. The more difficult ones to put on and maintain are the Mood Masks. The Cheerful Mask, the Patience Mask, The Nothing Is Wrong Mask. The Task Masks don’t ask you to be different people, only different aspects of who you already are. They are easy to put on depending on who you are with, where you are standing, what you are doing. The Mood Masks, though….they are a challenge. They relate to what you think you are supposed to be, supposed to feel, supposed to do. And depending on where you get those definitions of supposed to, well, maintaining them can take all you have to give somedays.
I know…let it go. Let it all out. As to that, I offer this exchange from Star Trek, The Original Series, “Plato’s Stepchildren:”
“Dr. McCoy : The release of emotions, Mr. Spock, is what keeps us healthy - emotionally healthy, that is. Spock : That may be, Doctor, however I have noted that the healthy release of emotion is frequently very unhealthy for those closest to you.”I have to agree. There is only so much emotion that those around you are prepared to handle. I had a friend once tell me that I wear my heart on my sleeve, and he appreciates it because then people know exactly where they stand with me. This is and has always been true, and it has gotten me into trouble. You have no idea how much effort I have put into trying to Mask that. It isn’t always convenient to have people always able to read what you are feeling.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying to be something you aren’t, or to be someone you are not. I am saying that just like everyone you meet has their own struggles that they are dealing with, they very likely may be wearing a mask that you can’t see. In fact, that mask might be their struggle. Be patient. Be kind. Be understanding.
This is critical, though. Find a place where you can drop all your makeup, all your hats, all your masks. Find a person that lets you do that. It may not be the same person or the same place every time, but find it. Find your haven. Find the place where you can unwind, or you end up too tightly wound. Everyone needs that place. And do your best to be that for someone else.
The future may just depend on it.
Peace,
Kathie
Growth
Hello Dear Followers!
I’ve been silent for a while, it’s been busy around here! For one thing, my brother got married (hooray!), and then my husband, son, and myself spent two weeks Away.
We went to Washington D.C. for a week and a half. We bought our airplane tickets many months ago, before gas prices went way up. I was very nervous about going on this vacation. DC involves a LOT of walking, you see. And with my Parkinson’s, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up. I was afraid of ruining the vacation. It preyed on my mind, heavier and heavier as the time got closer. I didn’t want to drag them down, or be in the way. I wanted My Son to see everything, learn everything, have the vacation of his young lifetime.
No pressure, right?
We stayed in a VRBO (which had a large painting of Adam and Eve in the garden before they discovered a need for fig leaves….I’ll let your mind wander on that one) in the hallway. It was this old Brownstone, homey and cozy. There were a few bumps (like, we couldn’t get the Colorado Avalanche games on the TV; fortunately, we brought our tablet), But overall it was nice to feel like we were going “home” at the end of the day. We made liberal use of the public transit systems, which again, had a few bumps, but overall very useful. And, yes, there was a LOT of walking. For the first 5 days, I pushed myself. Hard. I walked three to five miles worth of steps every day for the first five days. It was….hard. Mentally and physically. I wanted to be strong and healthy. I didn’t want to feel like I was giving up. At the end of each day, I had a bit of a minor breakdown, crying at how hard I had to try, how much of a challenge it was trying to push myself to my limit and then some.
On Saturday, we had a tour of the White House set up. I doubt I will ever be inside the White House again. I decided that I would rather enjoy the tour, revel in the history and the space, rather than worry about how hard I would have to push myself just to get through the tour. So we borrowed a wheelchair from the Secret Service.
(That’s a fun sentence, isn’t it? My Son was thrilled that we got to actually talk to a real-life secret service agent.)
The tour? It was amazing. I enjoyed every moment of it. We even saw a few things that others didn’t get to see because of that wheelchair. I don’t know if I am allowed to tell you about those, though. We weren’t allowed to take pictures back there. We did get to see part of the kitchen, though.
For the rest of our trip, I only walked between two and three miles a day, usually closer to two. Most places that you are there to visit (museums, for example) have wheelchairs you can borrow while you are in their space, so we did. I was in a much better mood, I tried when I could, rested when I needed. My Son even helped push the chair at the zoo, but got fired when he let go of me to tie his shoe, while I was going downhill, without telling me.
The thing is, all we can do is try our best. Have people by our side that will support us and enjoy having us along for the ride. Learn and know our physical and mental limits. Push the edges of those limits, but not so hard or so far that we have a breakdown, or spend our time and energy trying to be something we are not. Choices have to be made, as life changes, and all we can to is make the best choices we can with the information and circumstances we are given. There is no shame in that. That isn’t giving up. It’s growing.
Peace,
Kathie
It Has To Stop
I’m having trouble finding the words. But I have to try.
I did not want to drop my son off at school today. I wanted to keep him home, keep him safe.
I can’t begin to express the anger, the sadness, the horror, the despair I feel at the shooting in Texas yesterday. These were kids, 8-10 years old. They had their whole lives ahead of them. They have moms and dads, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, who will now have an unfillable hole in their heart, as long as they live. They have classmates and friends who should be thinking about learning to read, learning to write, learning math, deciding how to spend their recess. Instead, they are traumatized, afraid, saddened at the shooting and loss, marked by trauma perhaps for the rest of their lives.
I believe in the power of prayer, but it isn’t enough. Thoughts and prayers are nice and all, but they aren’t solving the problem.
People are getting shot in grocery stores, theaters, school, concerts, nightclubs. No place is safe. It is just a matter of time before each one of us is in some way or another involved in a mass shooting. It’s time. It’s past time.
I don’t think there is one simple solution, but we can’t let that stop us from trying something. Let’s start by looking at the easy availability of guns that are used to easily kill many people in quick succession. Is it really necessary to have those in the possession of the average human being? Can we look at balancing the desire to own a gun with the thought that killing a bunch of kids in a classroom shouldn’t be that easy? Why are the guns, all the guns, more important than the lives of our children? Is trying to prove that you are right so critical, that political posturing overshadows the actual issue? We as a country have lost sight of our priorities when we can’t sit down as civilized, rational human beings and come up with a list, even just 5 things, that we could agree to try to keep people from being able to walk into an elementary school and shoot at will.
Let’s look at gun control. Not banning guns altogether, maybe just universal background checks. Let’s look at the types of guns and ammunition that are readily available. Let’s look at our mental health system and see if something can be done there. Let’s look at the isolated kids, the ones getting bullied, the friendless. Let’s see if we can help them. Let’s find people who have had these violent thoughts and talk to them, see what got them to that point. Let’s remember that part of talking is listening to what they have to say.
These kids are the most innocent of our society. They deserve our protection. They deserve to be kept safe. They deserve to grow up. These children, these victims, don’t get that chance. It’s a tragedy, a travesty. It’s wrong.
We elect our government to be our voice, to preserve what works and fix the things that don’t work. There is quite a bit of gray area there, depending on which side of the aisle you sit on. Right now, it is the government that isn’t working, congress that isn’t getting things done. I keep hearing “No, that’s not the answer” without getting any suggestions about what the actual answer might be. What is not a gray area is the fact that children should be able to go to school without the fear, when they get out of the car or off the bus in the morning, that this time might be the last time they see their parents. Ever. And if Congress as it is right now is unable to fix that, maybe it is time for a change.
Write to your Representative. Write to your Senators. Write to them all. We need to be heard.
Kathie
Of Earth and People
About a month ago, a friend of mine had a going away party at his family’s home, about an hour north of Denver.
As you drive north of Denver, you leave the city behind and travel through towns sparsely placed between ranches, farms, grasslands full of livestock. This home we went to was one of those in between towns. We parked in a dirt field that contained a few well-worn trucks and a trailer or two. We were welcomed like family and walked into an old farmhouse, built in 1910, and full of character. There were memories sprinkled generously about the house in the form of knickknacks and books and various other things. The floors were raw wood, sanded smooth by long years of family footsteps. The farm was full of life, including 70 goats, 16 cats, 4 or 5 dogs, a horse, and one chicken.
Behind the house was an outbuilding that had been made of whatever was spare and lying around. Walls of weathered wood. a ceiling of burlap and netting and pieces of lumber, an old wood burning stove. Lightbulbs were strung together and hung up behind various shades that gave a warm glow to the place. On one end was a bar that was well made by someone’s hand. Scattered around were a few chairs made of other chairs, a workbench, a bed; an eclectic collection of stuff hung up on the walls. It felt like a great place to hide from the world, maybe with a friend, and read a book. Or write one. There wasn’t a lot of space….but there always seemed to be room for just one more person.
I had not met many of these folks before, but it didn’t seem to matter. We were there , we were invited, therefore we were welcome. Several people lived there. I got the impression that some of them wandered in and needed a place to stay and were given one. I’m sure it wasn’t really that simple, but the impression was that no body in need would be turned away. They were family, whether they were blood or not. Everyone was pitching in. They let the kids help feed the baby goats, which my son loved. It didn’t seem like they felt it was work, just something that needed done so they did it. The home was a place of love and cheer and warmth.
I kept thinking that they were people of the earth, like characters out of a Steinbeck novel. Another friend of mine said they reminded him of the Weasleys from Harry Potter. Lots of stuff everywhere and they were always warm and welcoming. It felt like walking into a different world from where I live. There is a certain draw in that lifestyle for me somehow. My Great Grandfather and Great Grandmother Thomas had a farm out in Nebraska a long time ago, maybe that feeling is in my blood. Oh, I don’t think for a moment that I have what it takes to make a farm or ranch successful. I could never brand an animal or help birth a cow. I tend to kill plants no matter how hard I try not to. But there was something out there, a feeling of a connection to the land, to the earth, to where I come from, that I feel like I am missing.
The people out there were just so—- real. Genuine. That drew me in also. How nice would the world be if we were able to extend a warmth, a welcome, a plate of food, a smile, to someone who needed it? Maybe we all need to reconnect to the earth, to each other, to the land, to whatever it is inside of us that makes us human. Maybe if we were better connected to the earth, we would take better care of it. And maybe, if we were better connected to each other, we would take better care of each other, too.
Peace,
Kathie
On Teaching
I love teachers.
I respect and admire teachers. They have a tough job. They have to herd 30 kids (plus or minus) for hours a day, trying to tame many different personalities into a cohesive unit that will work together to learn, play, and grow. I was teacher for a while, I get it.
I have known so many great teachers in my life. Mrs. Darcy at Fairmount Elementary. Mrs. Will, English teacher at Drake Jr. High. Mr. Moody, band teacher at Drake. Mr. Wendelin, AP English teacher at Arvada West High School. Just to name a few. These people believed in me, reached out to me, encouraged me. They shared my excitement, helped me understand new concepts. They were teachers I could go to with problems and questions of all sorts.
My Aunt Joan was a teacher. She was amazing. Well, she was an amazing person, but she was also an amazing teacher. In fact, she won Wyoming Teacher of The Year one year. Her enthusiasm for her job was evident every time she spoke of it.
Of course, there were some teachers that were not so great. My Humanistic Psychology Professor in college springs to mind. He taught exclusively from the text book and couldn’t expand or explore or defend the concepts beyond that. And I had a professor in grad school that didn’t speak to me for an entire week because I beat him at a game of cribbage.
My point is, there are good teachers and not-so-good teachers. I like giving teachers a free pass because I think they are generally under-appreciated and under-paid. I am learning, however, that I can no longer do that. Because sometimes? Sometimes kids need an advocate, and that means going into a situation without the rose colored glasses.
Most of the teachers I have known would bend over backwards to help a student who was behind. Some teachers, however, won’t always do the same for the kids who are ahead. I have known more than one student who is ahead, gets bored, and gets in trouble. They are told that it is somehow their responsibility to keep themselves busy when they are done with their work, their responsibility to not be a distraction, and their fault if they fail at these things. This leaves the student feeling like a burden and eventually tuning out of school altogether. It’s a pity and a waste. It is the teachers’ job to try to reach their students, no matter where they are on the learning curve. It is the students’ job to reach out for that, to try their best, to put in the effort.
And it is our job as parents, as adults, to be advocates for those students. No matter where or who they are. After all….the future may well depend on it.
Peace,
Kat
12 Years Ago
My Beautiful Son was born 12 years ago today. This is that story.
Because our son Stephen had been still-born a year and a few months previous at 36 1/2 weeks, my doctor wanted to induce me a week prior to my due date in case there were any issues. (Insert foreshadowing music here.) So on Friday, March 26, 2010, we went into the hospital to induce labor.
It didn’t work.
In spite of all our best efforts and a surprise visit to the delivery room by my Mother-In-Law (who unknown to us had decided to fly in from Nebraska to meet her newborn grandson—only to find out she had to wait), Michael decided the time was not yet right. We were discharged on the 27th. We spent the day walking, talking. playing on the WiiFit, trying to convince my son to enter the world.
We went back in to the hospital on the 28th (not my Mother-In-Law, she had to go home) to try again. I spent the night contracting, and all was moving right along. At about 7:10 on the morning of the 29th, Dr. Watson broke my water and Michael was on his way out. At about 7:20, the monitors checking his progress started going off and I was suddenly surrounded by a whole lot of medical people, getting me ready to be whisked out of the delivery room and into the operating room on the maternity ward, all the while assuring me that everything was going to be just fine.
Austin, who was texting everyone that it looked good, all was well, and we would probably be meeting Michael soon, looked up from his phone and I was gone.
Into the operating room I went. My doctor, Dr. Watson, was there prepping for a planned C-Section for another patient. They got bumped. He very calmly told me everything would be okay, that we had to get my baby out right away. Then he turned around and started getting his team ready. If not for that planned C-Section, he would have been in his office, in another building. As it was, he and his team and the room were ready.
The anesthesiologist (who seemed very tall) started to explain to me that we couldn’t do an epidural. I interrupted him, grabbed the mask. said, “There isn’t time,” put the mask over my nose and mouth, and breathed deep. (He came into my room and thanked me for this later.) The last thing I remember is praying. “Father God, this isn’t about me. Please protect my son. His life is in Your hands.”
Meanwhile. Austin was found by the doctor who delivered Stephen, who told him what was going on. He texted everyone. Mom made it to the hospital in about 5 seconds flat.
Every baby is given an APGAR Score when they are born. It stands for appearance, pulse, grimace (reflexes), activity, respiration. They like babies to be around an 8 when they are born. Babies in Colorado tend to be a bit lower, many are born a bit jaundiced because of the thin air. Michael’s score was a one.
When Austin was ushered in to meet our son, he was under some sort of large oxygen mask, and I was not sewn up yet from the C-Section. After I woke up and they brought our son to me. well, I sobbed. It was the single most emotional, amazing, miraculous moment of my life.
I was told later that the umbilical cord was tied in a true knot (a fact that all the doctors reacted to with amazement), so when Michael started down the birth canal, it tightened that knot and he lost all his life support. His heart rate had dropped to about 60 beats per minute. It all could have gone so much differently. But it didn’t. I am so very thankful. He was born at 7:30 a.m., March 29.
I sure do love that boy.
Isn’t life a miracle?
Peace,
Kat
I See You
I’ve been home with my non-covid sick son this week. One day, he wanted to make himself some lunch, so he put some tomato soup and some milk in a saucepan, turned the heat on high, and left the kitchen.
I moved quickly to the kitchen when I heard the soup boiling over onto the stove.
I cleaned up the mess ( he was sick or he would have done it), and it got me thinking. Here is this mess, which nobody saw, that I would clean up, which also nobody would see. It made me think of my mom, who has always kept a spotless house. How many messes has she thanklessly cleaned? How many days, years, has she spent cleaning and tidying, cooking and dusting, scrubbing and washing and ironing, with little to no appreciation and acknowledgement?
How many other parents are out there, doing the same thing?
I wondered if lack of acknowledgement is what leads to dissatisfaction in the home, in relationships, at work. Oh, I don’t expect a “thank you” for every mess I clean, every nose I wipe, every floor I sweep. But at work, the things I do are tangible, I can see the progress, people visibly benefit from what I do there. That soup mess on the stove? Nobody knew it was there. The stove was just as clean after as it was before. Someone benefits, they just don’t realize that they do. It seems that after a while, when the home is kept at a certain level of cleanliness, for example, that it becomes expected. To the point that the lack of cleanliness is what is noticed, therefore criticized, rather than the daily cleanliness being appreciated.
I think that most people, to varying degrees, want to be seen. Some by someone, some by everyone, seldom or always, but they want to be seen. And Appreciated.
To all you mothers, doing their best for their kids while cooking the meals, doing the laundry, cleaning the house, and keeping your sanity—I see you.
To all the fathers, doing the same thing and getting told how nice it is that you babysit your kids—I see you.
To all of you out there holding down jobs, trying your best to provide for yourself and those that you love, while maintaining some sort of balance in your lives—I see you.
To the folks out of work or retired, trying to figure out how to fill your time, or marveling that you are still so busy even without a job—I see you.
To the kids, and the young folks, trying to navigate this world full of lock-down-drills, pandemics, social media—I see you.
I see you on the streets, in tents, in the cold. You are in your homes, in your cars, at your desk, at work. You are in your own world walking down the sidewalk, in your yard, at the park, getting groceries. I see you.
The question I am asking is……Who am I not seeing? Every day in my life, what do I not see?
“Give me your eyes for just one second. Give me your eyes so I can see
Everything that I’ve been missing, give me your love for humanity.
Give me your arms for the broken-hearted, the ones that are far beyond my reach.
Give me your heart for the one forgotten, give me your eyes so I can see.”
~Give Me Your Eyes, by Brandon Heath
Peace,
Kat
Things I Don’t Understand
There are some things in this world that I just don’t understand. For example, I’ve always had a bit of trouble with Newton’s Second Law. (That’s your homework….look it up.)
I don’t understand Bitcoin. From what I can tell, it’s a Bit of Nothing that They decided was worth Something. Who are “They” and how did they get to decide that this Bit of Nothing was actually Something worth a whole lot of money? Can it be counterfeited? What keeps you from just deciding that you have more of it? How do you know how much you have? Where does it come from? Where does it go? How do you spend it? How do you get it? What do you do with it? Why does it exist? I want to come up with a Limited Bit of Nothing that turns out to be a Big Something worth a lot of money. I like to think I do a decent job of keeping up with technology, but this one is beyond my understanding.
I don’t understand how people can look straight in the face of tried-and-true science and simply say, “nuh-uh” and mean it. Look. The earth is round. Vaccines work, they are why we no longer see polio, among so many other things. Mankind has stepped on the moon. Sandy Hook happened. 9/11 was engineered by terrorists. Global Warming is real. The real Paul McCartney is still alive. Elvis is dead. The Covid Pandemic is real—people are dying. Many, many people.
I don’t understand how a person can see another person and decide they are good or bad, ignorant or informed, smart or stupid, honest or shifty, solely based on the color of their skin.
I don’t understand why some folks feel it is their right, or duty, or privilege, or need, to take the lives of others. Particularly children, or people shopping, or watching a movie. Or just going about their lives. I really wish I understood this one—at least, I wish somebody did. Enough to stop it from happening.
I don’t understand how to Give Things Over To God. As a Christian, I am supposed to do this. But I don’t know how to not worry. I know what it looks like when I don’t do it, but I don’t know how to do this thing.
There is one thing I do understand, though. That is, when things get rough, you just have to say a prayer and keep trying. With all that you have. Just tie a knot at the end of that rope and hold on.
Peace,
Kathie
Culpability & Hope
I feel I need to start this one with a disclaimer: I am not victim-blaming. I think that, while someone may be able to make a case for one specific crime or another to actually be the victim’s fault, I feel that is an exception, not the rule. Now, that being said….
Is it possible to not be at fault, and still be culpable? Can you, as a victim of a crime, be absolutely not to blame and still accept some responsibility? For example. I’ve been seeing on Next Door a rise in vehicle thefts. Some of these were because the owner left the keys in and the car running and went inside to get something they forgot. Some of those running cars were taken right out of the garage. I do not believe this is the fault of the car owner, but rather of those people who believe it is acceptable to help themselves to other people’s belongings. At the same time, this crime could have been prevented by not leaving the keys in a running car. Is it victim-blaming to point that out? Does the car owner not have at least some culpability?
Can one be somewhat culpable but not at fault? Am I quibbling too much over semantics?
Let’s do another example. This one is touchy. Ready? A woman is walking down the street and gets attacked. What are the first questions that generally get asked? Was it dark? Was she alone? Was it a dangerous neighborhood? What was she wearing? It’s as if she deserved to be attacked if she gives a “wrong” answer to any of those questions. She didn’t, any more than the other example deserved to get their car stolen. Could the attack have been prevented? Probably. Does that make it her fault? No way. Not at all. Does she bear some responsibility because the attack could have been prevented? Does she?
The truth is, we sometimes conduct our lives as if we live in a society that functions the way we think it should. It would be nice if I could leave that car for just a moment, walk down the street without fear, not lock my house and set the alarm when I leave, not have a password for every little thing I do on line. The reality is, we don’t live in that world. We live in a world where the worst can and does happen, and we have to be prepared and guard against that. Does that make the crimes themselves our fault? Not if we aren’t the ones committing them. But we do have to face reality and do our best to not be vulnerable. I am not advocating living in fear; there has to be a balance between paranoia and fear on one side, and protecting yourself on the other.
Don’t despair, though. It isn’t as bleak as it sounds. In any tragedy, as Mr. Rogers said, look for the helpers. There is hope in that, because they are always there. They are there in everyday life also. There is hope in donating time, goods, and money to fire victims, just as there is hope is shoveling someone’s walk or raking their leaves. There is hope in stopping just for a moment to smile and listen, whether you think you have time or not. There is hope in taking time out of your day to give it to someone who needs it. There is hope. It doesn’t have to start with the next generation.
It can start today. With you. Be some’s hope.
Peace,
Kat
On Friendship
“Maybe there aren't any such things as good friends or bad friends - maybe there are just friends, people who stand by you when you're hurt and who help you feel not so lonely. Maybe they're always worth being scared for, and hoping for, and living for. Maybe worth dying for too, if that's what has to be. No good friends. No bad friends. Only people you want, need to be with; people who build their houses in your heart.” —Stephen King, It
This is one of my favorite quotes.
Who are your friends? Who has a home in your heart? How did they get there? How long have they stayed?
My view of friendship has changed over the years.
See, I used to believe that friendship meant that whatever you liked, they liked, that your beliefs were similar, your views of the world were in sync. I felt that since I try to live by The Golden Rule. that my friends would not only do the same, but treat me exactly as I wanted to be treated. And I got easily offended when this turned out not to be true.
I have learned that is unfair and unrealistic.
How nice it is to have friends that are different from me, it gives me a chance to see life and the world from a different point of view. Oh sure, there has to be commonalities. But not everything. After all, how boring would life be if we were all alike?
I am sorry when I think of the opportunities for friendship that I missed over the years because my heart was closed, or my eyes were blind, or my attitude was bad.
I am blessed with some truly fabulous friends. They love me just as I am. And I love them, just as they are. They don’t always do things the way I would, or think they should, or wish they would. But until recently, I didn’t truly put aside that judgement in my head and appreciate with my heart. My heart is full, my life is rich, thanks to my friends. There is the friend that invited me into the group, whether I wanted in or not. There is the musician, the book lover, the observer, all who make my world a better place. I’ve got an amazing Theatre Geek and IT Geek, and a lawyer. There is even a Chiefs fan who is near and dear to my heart. I’m grateful for friends from high school, with whom I can share smiles and memories. My Mom, who is one of my best friends. My Siblings, who are beyond friends. And of course, Austin. My Best Friend.
All these people have built a place in my heart. I don’t need anything from them….well….a hug now and again is lovely….but I know without a doubt, that if I do need someone just to be with, sit in silence with, have tea with, they are there. They will stand by me, just as I would stand by them. That isn’t just enough.
It’s everything.
Peace,
Kat
A Soapbox
Last Sunday was Sanctity of Life Sunday. Basically, it means that at church there is a sermon about how all life is sacred, specifically centered on abortion, (we did not get that sermon, I am thankful for that) and prayers about abortion.
For the record, I do not agree with abortion. WAIT! Don’t go!
I also don’t believe that a 13 year old girl who has been raped and is now pregnant should be forced to have that child. I don’t believe that a woman who has a tubal pregnancy should have to jump through hoops to terminate that pregnancy. I don’t believe that a woman whose child is going to be born brain dead should have to carry to term if she doesn’t want to do so.
I do have issues with using abortion for birth control. But I am not sure I have the right to tell someone they can’t do that. It seems to me that one issue at the core of this debate is when you believe life begins. If you believe that life begins at conception, you may be more likely to question abortion. But, I can’t regulate how you feel about the beginning of life. And, I think abortion is hard on the woman and anyone else involved. It seems like compassion would be the way to go, here. I have thankfully never been in a position where I had to make that decision. Who knows how I, or any of us, would choose if we were not, or are not, in that position.
The problem with the whole debate is everyone is too busy talking and listening to themselves and not spending enough time listening to anyone else. I think they are all going about this wrong. Can’t we all agree that it would be great if the need for abortion was less? Then let’s meet in the middle and figure out how to make that happen. What we need to do is eliminate the need for abortions as much as we can. Let’s put our heads together and figure out why so many women are getting pregnant with babies they don’t want or can’t keep, and solve those problems. More sex education, perhaps. And teaching our people young and old that No means No. I’m sure it would be a long list.
Now. Here is my issue with Sanctity of Life Sunday. If you are preaching that Life is Sacred, then all life has to be included in that. You want to save the babies? Are you also going to make sure they have a safe home to grow up in? If not, this Sunday is just about abortion. Are you also against the death penalty? Because I don’t feel like you can be against abortion because you feel life is sacred and also be for the death penalty at the same time. If life is sacred, then all life is sacred.
Peace,
Kathie
Resolutions
It’s that time of year again! Time for those New Year’s Resolutions!
Yeah….I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions. More power to you if you do, I just find them problematic.
According to Forbes Magazine, only 8% of Resolutions are kept by year’s end. Why is that?
It seems to me that it is intimidating to commit to change for an entire year, let alone expect it to carry over to a lifetime of corrected behavior or lifestyle change. Also, they tend to be vague in nature. “This year, I am going to loose weight.” What does that look like? How will you do it? Diet? Exercise? How much weight? Will you also resolve to keep it off?
And when you don’t loose weight, or eat better, or exercise more, it can make you feel like a failure at the end of a month, or two, and you (we) give up. I find it to be very self-defeating.
Instead, try shorter term, more concrete goals. “This month, I am giving up caffeine.” “Thus month, I am going to exercise 30 minutes a day three times a week.”
Still to much? Try this. “Today, I am not going to eat any sugar.’ “Today, I am not going to loose my temper.”
Then, when you succeed in those goals, you have a feel-good victory to build on. “I did good yesterday/last week/last month. I can do it again. Maybe even add something small to it.” But if you don’t do so well, hey….it’s one day, and you can try again tomorrow.
The thing is, if you want to change something, just change it. Don’t wait for New Year’s to do it. Wake up in the morning, Rise and Shine and start your yoga, make your bed, eat a healthy breakfast. Whatever it you want you change, do it or don’t. It’s up to you. Waiting for a special day to make a resolution is, to me, much like waiting for Valentine’s Day to tell someone you love them. (But that’s a post for another day.)
But, and here is the kicker, you have to truly want it, in your heart of hearts. Or nothing will change. It is how I quit smoking. It is how I stopped my destructive drinking behavior. I truly, truly wanted it to change.
My faith helped too.
So, start today. It isn’t too late.
“Today, I will go for a walk. Today, I will stay calm. Today, I will work hard. Today, I will relax. Today, I will be kind.”
Today.
Happy New Year,
Kat
Pajama Party
I love Thanksgiving.
I don’t mean to be insensitive to the troubled history of the holiday itself, but I do love Thanksgiving Day. I love the family and the gathering and the planning. I love the smells and the sounds. I love listening to the assorted conversations, the music of the laughter, the same comments and questions that I hear every year. “It sure smells like Thanksgiving in here!” “I hope there is enough food!” (There is always more than enough.) “Everything looks delicious!” “MOM! Can you help with the gravy?!) (My mom makes excellent gravy, I have never been able to do that.) “Everything is perfect!”.
And at Thanksgiving, it seems like everything is perfect. Surrounded by family, with so many blessings to count.
Except this year, Thanksgiving was stressful. Covid interfered with people’s plans, and it took a while for anyone to be sure if they were coming or not. Had someone been exposed? Is it safe? Who have we been in contact with? (Spoiler: everybody is fine.) It is difficult to plan a large meal when you are never sure how many are coming. I ended up with a delightful day with my sister, Child #2, and her wonderful family, and a surprise visit from my brother (Child #3), but I missed those that couldn’t be there. And I have to say, I didn’t enjoy the stress of it.
Therefore, we have decided to do Christmas a bit differently. We are going to get up and open gifts, have a simple but tasty breakfast, and then….relax. We plan on staying in our jammies all day and just enjoying each other and the day. We are going to watch movies and play games. And for Christmas Dinner, we will get some nice meat and cheese and bread and make sandwiches. We will have fruit and veggie trays, maybe some deviled eggs, maybe even some fudge or some toffee.
Because, you see, that will help to shift the focus of the holiday from stress and a big meal back to what it really is about. I believe that God sent Jesus to Earth to teach us how to love one another. After all, Christ was sent here out of love, and we are told to love one another just as God loved us. So even if you don’t believe in Christ, you can believe in the love that he represents. And that is what this season should be about. So that is how we are spending Christmas Day.
If you are reading this, you are invited. Would you like to come to our pajama party? Feel free to show up in pajamas. Come because you love me, come because you have nothing else to do, come because you have nowhere else to go, come because we haven’t seen each other in years, come because you want to enjoy the simplicity of a pajama day. We can drink hot chocolate, eat a sandwich, chat, watch a movie, play a game. And celebrate love, in Comfort and Joy.
Let me know if you need my address.
Peace,
Kat
Halfway Through the Woods
I love Musical Theatre.
I can live in the music and words of musicals for hours upon hours. You can find every emotion, music and lyrics that relate to almost any situation, often within the same show. Les Miserables, for example, brings us despair and hopeless, faith in God, belief in humanity and ourselves and how life-changing that can be. It shows us loneliness and unrequited love, the sacrificial love of a mother for her child, redemption, fighting for something you believe in enough to die for the cause. It explores survivor’s guilt, prejudice, greed. All in the words and music of its songs.
Examples are everywhere and almost endless. Man of La Mancha teaches us to Dream the Impossible Dream. Avenue Q gives us a slice of reality, sprinkled among its Sesame-Street-like neighborhood complete with monsters. We find that some people don’t ever really find their purpose in life and that is okay, that everything in life is Only For Now, both good and bad. Rogers and Hammerstein have a way of teaching us about love and loss and sacrifice in a largely wholesome and innocent sort of way. West Side Story shows the cost of racism, hatred, and prejudice. Fiddler on the Roof explores family, tradition, and change. Dear Evan Hanson assures us that no matter how alone you feel, some is there ready and willing to reach out a hand to help
Even without the messages, the music can move us. It is difficult to resist marching, or at least keeping the beat, to 76 Trombones. I feel along with the characters: the yearning confusion of I Don’t Know How To Love Him; the strength of Maria singing I Have Confidence; the pure cheek of The Cellblock Tango; the joy and hope and romance of Shall We Dance.
There is a Beetlejuice musical, one about Henry VIII’s wives call Six that is a lot of fun, a Heather’s musical, a Mean Girls musical (One lyric says “I’d rather be me than be with you”—isn’t that perfect?) There is a musical song for every mood. I love it.
Which is why Stephen Sondheim’s death recently hit me so hard. Sondheim ‘s surrogate father was Oscar Hammerstein, I learned from an NPR news story about him. Sondheim wanted to be just like him. Not to denigrate Mr. Hammerstein, but I believe Sondheim surpassed him. Sondheim brought truth and complexity to musical theatre that wasn’t there before. From West Side Story to Sweeny Todd, A Little Night Music to Assassins, Company and Follies and Merrily We Roll Along, Sondheim gives us the honesty and rawness of life, dramatized and set to music.
Into The Woods is my favorite Sondheim musical. It follows the story of Cinderella, the Baker and His Wife, Jack and the Beanstalk, and Rapunzel. It tells their stories up to “Happily Ever After”….and then tells us what happens next. We hear that “wishes my bring problems, such that you regret them”. He tells us that witches can be right, giants can be good, we ourselves must decide ourselves. And that we need to be careful of seeing our side so exclusively that we forget to see things from the other point of view. We learn that you need to “take extra care with strangers, even flowers have their dangers, and though scary is exciting, nice is different than good.” Or this lyric, one of my favorites:
“Oh if life were made of moments
Even now and then a bad one--!
But if life were only moments,
Then you'd never know you had one.”
There is so much more, but I have to stop before I quote the whole musical.
As odd as it is to say at this point, I just can’t seem to find the words to honor him, how he has enchanted and enriched my life. So I guess I will leave you with words of his, from Into The Woods:
“Sometimes people leave you
Halfway through the wood
Others may deceive you
You decide what's good
You decide alone
But no one is alone”
Tra La La,
Kat
The Great Turkey Debacle
A few years ago, the family Thanksgiving dinner was planned to be at my mom and dad’s house. Mom had purchased the turkey and had it safely stored in her fridge, ready for the Big Day.
Or so we thought.
The night before Thanksgiving, mom sent out a text to her four children, informing us that she thought she may be having trouble with her fridge, and she doesn’t know if it has kept the turkey cold enough and was worried about bacteria. She wouldn’t be cooking the turkey for dinner. And there wasn’t time to thaw another one.
Her children had 4 different reactions. Child #1, the oldest, was out for a bike ride and thought she would go to Whole Foods to see if they still had turkeys when she was done. Child #2 didn’t have her phone with her and missed this portion of the drama until it was over. Child #3 was bummed but figured dinner would still be fine without it. Child #4 (that’s me) freaked out. “What do you MEAN there is NO TURKEY for THANKSGIVING? We won’t have enough FOOD! This is a DISASTER!!” The husband of child #4 listened patiently, and when she was done with her rant, calmly dialed Whole Foods, who answered that yes, they still had fresh turkeys in stock. This calm hero went to the store, bought the turkey, and Thanksgiving was saved.
The next day, as the new turkey was cooking, we were standing in the kitchen discussing the disposition of the now, apparently, unneeded turkey. Mom was adamant that she was concerned about the state of the turkey in the fridge and insisted she would throw it out. My brother-in-law felt sure that it was fine, that he would take it and cook it and knew plenty of people that would be glad to eat it. My sister was trying to find a middle ground. Mom won, and went to the fridge to get the turkey and throw it away….but it was gone. None of us had any idea where it was, and no one was confessing to taking it. It was just…gone.
Two days later, she found it. On my dad’s work bench in the garage. Somehow, my dad, who doesn’t exact move quietly and quickly, had come into the kitchen. gotten the turkey without any of us seeing him, taken it to the garage, again without being seen, and left it there.
It definitely got thrown out after that.
The Whole Foods turkey was so delicious, child #4 and her Hero Husband decided that they wanted to cook one for themselves since they didn’t end up with any leftovers, so they went and bought another one. And never cooked it.
We bought a new house and took the frozen turkey with us when we moved. Y’all, we moved a frozen turkey.
Later, a co-worker of mine was upset. He had just purchased a deep fryer, and he and some friends were going to deep fry a turkey. But, the friends had decided to cook salmon instead. Evidently it was delicious, but he had gotten his taste buds all ready for turkey and was sorely disappointed.
And that is how I ended up gifting a co-worker a 22 pound turkey.
He did bring me some leftovers.
I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving!
Opal Alberta
I wish you could have known my Mom’s Mom. Her name was Opal Alberta Thomas Keiper.
She shared her Maiden name, Thomas, with a performer she happened to love, Danny Thomas. I grew up being told by Grandma, and therefore believing, that we were related to Danny Thomas. After I was older, I learned that Danny was adopted and Lebanese, so we probably weren’t related to him after all. I got a good laugh out of that, but Grandma was gone by then so I never got to ask her about it.
Her sister and her daughter, my Mom, are both named Ruby. Isn’t that great?
I have memories of Grandma and Granddad, whose name was Kenny, laughing together. It seems that he made her laugh quite a bit. We would spend our Thanksgivings there, and Grandad would do much of the cooking. He was most proud of his stuffing, and he had a different recipe every year. I remember one year, the stuffing was—black. It wasn’t burnt, it was supposed to be that way. I remember looking at it with my sister Melanie, wondering what in the world was in it that made it black. I still have no idea. I don’t think we actually ate any of it, but we told him it was delicious anyway. He was a kind man with a huge heart, and we wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for anything in the world.
When Grandma was in her 40’s she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. At first they told her it was ALS, but she lived too long and they didn’t think anyone could actually be stubborn enough to out-stubborn that disease. I think she could have. She slowly lost the ability for her muscles to do anything.
She lost the ability to hold things in her hand, but taught herself to paint by holding a foam-padded paintbrush in her mouth. I have one of those paintings. It is one of my most cherished treasures.
She lost the ability to walk. Her church bought her a motorized wheelchair. When speaking became more difficult, they equipped it with a microphone so she didn’t have to struggle as much. Grandma absolutely loved to sing. She didn’t…..well….her heart for singing was large but her ability to carry a tune wasn’t exactly a strength for her. But in church, with that microphone, you could hear her over everyone else. And they loved it. She used to call us and sing Happy Birthday to us. I’d sure love to hear that again.
When her neck got weak, we made these ultra-colorful headbands to help her support her head. We told her she looked so punk, it made her laugh.
The thing is, she laughed a lot. She had two copies of the Serenity Prayer in her room at the nursing home. I have one of them in my house. She lived by that. She always seemed to have something to be happy about, something that brought her joy. She was so strong.
I wish I could talk to her, about her life, and how she found so much joy, about how she stayed so strong. I am inspired by her, and I hope I can have her humor, her strength, her laughter. Her faith.
After she passed away, I helped Mom clean out her room. I remember telling Mom that where ever Grandma was, she was dancing. In her hutch, where she kept her treasures, she had this beautiful ceramic figurine of a young woman, dancing, that neither of us had seen before. It was musical, so I wound it up.
It played “I Could Have Danced All Night”, from “My Fair Lady”.
I wind it up and listen to it sometimes when I am feeling down.
I miss you Grandma. Happy Thanksgiving.
Peace,
Kat
Silly Love Songs
Love is a Many Spendored Thing.
Or so I have heard. I used to think that song said that love was a many splendid thing, which never made sense to me until my Uncle Casey corrected me. Now it makes sense, but I am not sure I believe it.
So much has been said about love. For Pat Benatar, Love is Battlefield. To the Bee Gees, Love is higher than a mountain and thicker than water. All the Beatles needed was love, so they said. Elvis couldn’t help falling in love. According to “A Little Night Music”, love is disgusting and insane. Eliza Hamilton was Helpless because of love. Tevye and Golde aren’t sure if they are in love after 25 years of marriage. Curley and Laurey might never get their love going in Oklahoma! if they don’t stop being concerned that People Will Say We’re In Love. Eponine’s love is unrequited in Les Miserables and she is On Her Own. Tony dies for love in West Side Story.
Love is hard work.
For example. I am a cat person. Always have been, always will be. Why then, do I own a dog? Because I love my husband, and I love my son, and they wanted a dog. A good friend of mine called this a labor of love for me, and she is so very right. Jack is a good boy, though. You know. For a dog.
Love sacrifices. Love puts in the effort. Love returns texts and emails and phone calls. Love takes time and energy and exhausts you. Love keeps you up at night sitting and worrying about a sick child, a lost friend, a hurting sibling, an aging parent. Love cleans garages and rakes leaves and reads a book no matter how tired you are. Love cooks extra meals when you are going through a hard time. Love opens your home and your heart. Love heals, or provides what heals you, like music, laughter, conversation, silence, hugs. Love holds a small child even when their tummy is upset. Sometimes, love cooks and cleans and scrubs, and sometimes it sits quietly beside you.
It is hard work. Is it worth it? Is it full of magnificence and marvels? It is different for everyone, and where you have been and what you have been through colors your experience with love. But I don’t think it is so much about luck as it is the effort you put into it. Personally, I don’t really believe in fairy tales.
And yet….
“Ten Minutes Ago,” from Cinderella, sings “I have found him…I may never come down to Earth again.” I hear it, and my heart leaps, and my stomach flutters and…
Well. Perhaps Love is a Many Splendored Thing after all. Sometimes.
Peace and Love,
Kat
A Short Book Report
I recently read a collection of 4 short stories by Stephen King called “If It Bleeds.” I found it to be engrossing and enjoyable. One of the stories is called “The Life of Chuck.”
(This is where I warn you that there are major spoilers ahead.)
The story starts in a nice, small town, apparently normal…of course. Then strange things start happening…of course. A billboard appears, thanking Chuck for 59 year of service (I think it’s 59 years). But no one knows who Chuck is, at least no one in the narrative. Then, things and people start disappearing. More signs, thanking Chuck, start appearing all over town. In the end, the reader learns that the seemingly tangible world to which we are oh so briefly introduced, is in Chuck’s mind, and Chuck is lying in a hospital, dying. When he dies, the world inside his head is gone.
It left me with questions. Are we supposed to come away with the thought that we, ourselves, exist only in someone’s mind? If so, I wish them a long and happy life. If that is the case, there are as many worlds, as many realities, as there are people. We would be a different personality in each reality, and in some we might not, or definitely do not, exist at all. It would imply that there are many different versions of each one of us, some better and some worse. Would each person be alive only as long as they existed in that person’s mind? If so, those we love that have passed on are very much still with us.
There is (at least) one other interpretation. Perhaps, in the mind of each person that our lives touch, a version of us is created. We are written into their experience, how they see us, how we interact with their story. They create their own reality, their own version of the events and people around them. And when they die, that version of us in gone.
It makes you think, doesn’t it? About how your life touches another, how what you do, or say, affects someone else? I’m sure my doppelganger in some realities isn’t altogether favorable. It also makes me think…as long as our lives interact, what would be the harm in trying to see more good in people? We don’t always have to believe the worst in folks. I’ll be honest, I tend to be a bit, well, cynical. I could try, though. Try to give more people the benefit of the doubt. And like Anne Frank, believe that people are basically good at heart. I don’t know what it would take to bring more of that good-at heart-out in people.
But perhaps it is worth searching for.
Peace,
Kat
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
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