Obsessed with Gratitude

Wear gratitude like a cloak and it will feed every corner of your life.

-Rumi

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!  This is by far my favorite Thursday of the year as well as one of my absolute favorite holidays.  I savor the vibrant smells and tastes of seasonal comfort foods, the cozy roaring fire that cracks  and burns in the fireplace, and I adore the fact that in this beautiful country of ours, we’ve managed to preserve the fourth Thursday of every November to remember, cherish, and give thanks.

Feast

Many of you are sitting down around a dinner table of some kind with loved ones about to enter into a food coma at it’s finest right about now. Perhaps you’re already there.  I sincerely hope you enjoy every bite and minute of your day.  Some of you are in places of painful or lonely transition and this Thursday looks much different then you’d hoped.  That Norman Rockwell ideal has once again vaporized into a wishful mist.  My heart knows the pain of similar loneliness and I pray you will find some light in the cracks of that thin space today.

Shift

Wherever you are on your journey, I want to give you something to take with you right now, whatever your situation may be.  It can turn the darkest skies a paler grey, shift toxic, negative energy into grounded presence, and it’s available always in every blink, without fail.  It’s completely free of cost.  It is the most powerful force of breakthrough from emotional bleakness into hopeful wonder.  I’m sure you know where I’m going with this—Gratitude.

Why

You’re smart.  I know this because you seek out truth beyond yourself and you invest time and resources into personal development and progress.  Here’s the catch though: smart people ask “why?”  This is not all bad, mind you.  It’s often crucial to know the why’s of our experience.  However, we get stuck when we marinate in our analytical mind, bowing down to the perceived deity of certainty.

Mario Batali

I’m not going to tell you to stop asking “why?”  That’s like asking Mario Batali to retire his orange crocks and go vegan.  Not gonna happen.  Intsead, I’m inviting you to become obsessed with gratitude.  Buy a tiny journal and keep a running list each day of everything you are grateful for from clean water, to another day to explore, to the sound of a child’s innocent laughter off in the distance.  Be specific.  Be relentless.  Be consistent.  Go gangster with it.  Set a timer on your phone several times a day and keep writing them down, the obvious ones and the more obscure ones.  I’m a big fan of the physical act of writing as it sends a message not only to our brains but also our bodies that gratitude is indeed a holy moment, a sacred act of wholehearted living.

Wide open spaces

You are also self aware, thus will soon catch on to the remarkable shift this obsession with gratitude provides, away from the lack of scarcity and into the wide open spaces of graceful possibility.  Your inner dialog will soften, your tired bones relax, and your heart will most definitely open up.

Remember

God did not bring you here to leave you.  Love is much far more clever than that.  God brought you here to lead you steadily, still,  into a powerful redemption story.  This, my lovely friends, is not the end of that story.  Today as we look back and see how far we’ve come, a thankful heart will surely usher us into the forward momentum of that continued provision.

You

So I will start us off right here and now with my deep and stirring gratitude that wells up in my soul and overflows in my heart daily:  I am grateful for you.  I’m grateful for your courage on the journey that’s brought you, in all of your beautiful brokenness, exactly where you are today.   I’m inspired by your uniqueness and blown away that you show up and meet the world’s deep need for gifts and talents that only you can bring.  Thank you for being you, day after day.  Thank you, thank you thank you…

Love,

katie

xoxo

Recovering Simplicity: The Art of Enough

Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.

-Leonardo Da Vinci

The holidays are upon us.  Between the unseasonably warm weather and the loud, distracting force of our recent election, I haven’t thought much of it yet.  Sure, Kroger and Home Depot immediately threw up Christmas decorations the Tuesday after Halloween and quicker than you can say, “turkey and dressing” and honestly, I’ve come to accept that over the years. What’s tricky is when I still work up a sweat mid-November while rummaging around the car to find my favorite lip balm that went missing somewhere back in September. My body and brain register pure confusion in this suspended time frame hovering right between summer and fall.  I call it “fummer”… (“sall” works, too).

Great Expectations

For many, myself included, the holidays can be a real bear.  I notice a heavier client load in my practice seeking out extra support and space to prepare for extended (often distressing) family time, along with the unrealistic and unwarranted expectations we put on ourselves.  There are also those who battle intense and palpable loneliness as family time and connection in general isn’t even an option.

Shift

I tend to have this extra special need to seek out more grounding than usual and constantly remind myself of what is truly important during this buzzy, disjointed time. That or else I find myself glued to emotional porn of the season’s finest Rom Coms (The Holiday, Love Actually, what have you), with one too many glasses of wine and a shiny headache the next morning to prove it.   Over the years, a welcomed shift from numb consumerism to creativity, simply making things, has happened.  As a result, I’ve noticed the hazy fog of some of my own deep loneliness has lifted.

Reject Scarcity

In last week’s blog post, we talked about the slippery slope of scarcity mindset.  You know the one: it whispers insidiously sexy sweet ( literal) nothings to us in the name of certainty and staying stuck precisely in the seat of disconnection we’ve gotten cozy in.  I call it “rear view mirror“ living— we have one eye on the road ahead and one eye glued to the dusty view of our past.  Besides developing some bizarre version of strabismus (the medical term for crossed eyes—thank’s Google), we are at best a divided passenger in our own life while some ridiculous imposter drives us around all day in the driver seat.

I can’t insist enough: we must ruthlessly interrogate those dangerous, infiltrating voices of scarcity like we’re Jack Bauer thwarting a terrorist attack in season three of 24.  Not your style?  Ok, well then at least firmly defend yourself! Identity is on the line here and the holidays can be a war zone.

Willy Wonka

One of my life long scarcity dialogs has been: “you are unworthy of the creative journey and will never be taken seriously as a writer and creative.”  For some reason, I grew up thinking you had to be handed a golden permission slip by Willy Wonka himself in order to pass go and gain entrance into the umpa lumpa inhabited twizzler- bursting land of creativity.  I had no such permission slip.  As a result, I skated through most of my early life avoiding that magical existence all together while settling for life as a control freak/consumer.

Bliss and Calling

I tried to control everything and everyone around me, ignoring all the resources and possibilities bubbling up under the surface while lushly consuming and cheering on the harvests of other’s efforts whether they be  music, ideas, achievements, fun, art, stuff, travel, you name it. I was living on the sidelines, cheering on the players in the game.  Eventually, I woke up one scared, vacant little puppy seriously underestimating all that patiently subsided  somewhere deep inside. The diamond of truth I came to treasure through all of this is that there is a vast difference between our calling and our bliss.  My consumeristic bliss wasn’t satisfying my heart’s longings and the resistance of my calling felt too big and scary to embrace.

Making things

I’m a bonafide late bloomer.   For years this felt extremely self conscious; now I think its pretty cool.  I got real tired of dishonesty: the pursuit of people pleasing and placing so much weight on everyone else’s vision for my life. Finally I started digging deeper into those dormant soul-longings I mentioned earlier and it’s been healing and scary as hell to say the least.  Writing is hands down the most powerful and healing agent for change along my search for worthiness and presence.  This first took shape in the form of songwriting and has morphed into a different versions throughout the last decade.  The physical act of writing, making something out of nothing, proves powerfully life-giving as it bumps me out of my constant state of analysis and consumption and into a new role of creator.  

You’re creative

We are made to make things, all of us.  I hear it time and time again and it gets my goat every time, this notion that , “Oh I’m not a creative person…I didn’t get that gene.”  Hog wash.  We are all creatives.  Want proof?  Of course you do.  I am re-reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s latest, Big Magic(game changer).  She speaks to this point, drawing a hard line in the sand:

“Look at your ancestors.  Look at the ones who were immigrants, or slaves, or soldiers, or farmers, or sailors, or the original people who watched the ships arrive with the strangers onboard.  Go back far enough and you will find people who were not consumers, people who were not sitting around passively waiting for stuff to happen to them.  You will find people who spent their lives making things.  This is where you come from.” 

Big Deal

She goes on to say that for most of history, people inherently just made stuff, yet the difference was they didn’t make such a big deal of it…it’s just what they did.  We put impossible expectations and parameters around our creativity.  We think it has to look a certain way, all wrapped up with a bow, or a record deal, or a website or, God forbid, a job title.

Timing

There is a distinct reason I bring this up on the heels of the “most wonderful time of the year”.   I heartily subscribe to this idea that healing power flows when we let go of the things we don’t have control over (i.e. how Aunt Lois will react to the new sleeve of tattoos you’re rocking these days) and focusing energy on that which we do have control over (i.e. the story we make up in our heads about her passive aggressive comments all week).

Revolt

This season, I’d like to start a bit of a Holiday Stress Revolt by proactively choosing something different— and talking about it along the way.  It’s an art form that lends this soft, insanely gorgeous glow to our uniqueness rather than literally, buying into rat race around us.  Here it is: we must create and cultivate simplicity, a quiet safe place where we dial down the expectations, stop comparing ourselves to others, remember what’s important, give voice to our desires, and create the moments we will cherish without harsh judgement.  It’s beckoning the wisdom, creativity, and resourcefulness of our ancestors who were makers, NOT passive consumers.   It’s tapping deeper into calling as opposed to gorging on the pumpkin pie of our bliss, and in doing so, unlocking a lion share of peace and contentment…even stillness.

Reminders

Throughout the next several weeks, I am going to be amping up this conversation a bit both on the blog and social media fronts.  If there is one thing I need in this life, it’s constant reminders of truth, especially during stressful seasons.  Reminders that I am worthy of love and connection and that I’m not alone.  If you’re like me, I invite you to come along on this month-or-so long journey.  I would really enjoy your company and I think it’ll be good fun.  We have some incredible guest bloggers lined up as well.  I can’t wait to share them with you.

Finish Strong

As we near the home stretch of 2016, I am inspired to refocus in on those beautiful, life-giving desires that burned brightly in my heart back in January.  I want to honor them, listening closely to the litter of ideas they birthed along the way.  Let’s finish strong my friends; we are all in this thing together.

Love,

katie

xoxo

Matthew Perryman Jones: Finding My Voice

My song was my salvation.

-Matthew Perryman Jones

Backstory

I have been a massive MPJ ( Matthew Perryman Jones) fan ever since I heard his unforgettably haunting voice pair with simple guitar chords at a local church in downtown Nashville probably close to fifteen years ago.  I remember thinking to myself, “Now, THAT is how a hymn is supposed to sound.”  It was this stunning mix of clarity and brokenness; youthful, yet carrying the weighty wisdom of an old soul.  I didn’t know who he was, but I hoped I’d always have access to that voice somehow.  Thankfully, his burgeoning career as a singer/songwriter has opened up a whole new world of music and truth for fans and friends, alike.

Co-write

A couple years back, I reached out to Matthew to write. I knew him indirectly through the years thanks to mutual friends, and sensed a real depth and kindness.  Also, I had started a little musical side project and was concurrently binging on his Until the Dawn Appears record nonstop, so why not aim high, right?  He graciously accepted and we sat down to write a couple of times.  Well, truth be told, each time we got a few minutes into an idea, then derailed with unending chatter about the Enneagram, therapy, etc…  I’m pretty sure it was the death of that song.  However, better than a song, a friendship launched andI am beyond grateful to have him share a bit of his story with us today on the blog.  As you will read, he vulnerably bridges that often despairing gap between creativity and the emotional struggles involved along the artistic  journey, namely depression and anxiety.  Matthew is an artist’s artist: a true master of his craft and a transparent source of light and hope for so many, myself most definitely included.  You are in for a treat today, friends…

The Start

Music seems to have always been with me. As far back as I can remember I was drawn to music and performing for people. It is in my blood to some degree. My mom was a singer, mostly performing solos in church. She has a beautiful voice. She also played piano and accordion in our house early on. My father loved music but was more of a listener. He lived mostly on a diet of folk music-Joan Baez, The Kingston Trio and the like. As a kid I gravitated to my dad’s record collection and would spend hours laying on the floor listening to records reading the lyrics and looking at the pictures inside the covers. I was fascinated. 

Heroes

In high school I started a band with a friend. We called the band “This Island Earth”. Bands like U2, R.E.M. and the Smiths informed our musical aspirations. This was the late 80’s and earnest, passionate (perhaps melodramatic at times) music was abundant in the more underground territory of rock-n-roll (U2 and R.E.M. were actually just emerging from the underground then). I looked up to these artists who were in their early to mid twenties as gods among us. They all seemed larger than life. They appealed to that expanding sense of grandiosity that was inside of me. I felt that anything was possible and I wanted to sing my way into transcendence…anything to take me out of the hardships of home life and the growing emotional complexities that seemed to mark my teenage years. 

Feel it all

I grew up being what might be labeled a “Highly Sensitive Person” (HSP). Since I can remember I have always felt things deeply, both personally and empathically. I have that classic story of not ever feeling that I was like the others, or one of the gang. I would observe other people having a kind of ease about their life that I simply never felt; like I didn’t get the memo (for all you psycho-diagnostic nerds, I fall in that low percentile personality type of the population—Myers Briggs: INFP/Enneagram: 4 with a 5 wing). 

Senses

I had friends and was easy to get along with but inwardly I never felt like I actually fit anywhere. I felt things intensely and was hyper-aware of everything around me. I had a kind of inordinate sense of life. Colors, smells, the feel of the air, the taste of food, were all on stun. For the most part I was intoxicated with these things. I had traces of what I would call depression now and again but I was mostly a highly energetic and incurably optimistic person. I always had a sense of possibility moving forward into my life. But there of course was a shadow cast with the light. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow. 

Panic

After a couple years of playing and developing as a band, we split due to the other guys graduating high school and heading off to college. However, right around this time is when my world turned upside down. For various reasons I won’t get into here, my life became more inward. I didn’t have that outflow of expression I found playing in a band. I began experiencing high anxiety. It would come out of nowhere, this gnawing sense that something bad was going to happen. It wasn’t tied to anything in particular which made it more concerning. Eventually these became full blown panic attacks. A panic attack for me was this disturbing sense in my gut and body met with my mind going out of control. The sense of doom brought about thoughts of death and mortality. My thoughts were irrational and out of control, but it seemed I could do nothing about it. I began spiraling into a very dark place. 

Torment

At this point I’m 17. Due to the unpredictable and regularly occurring panic attacks I dropped out of high school my senior year. I didn’t feel comfortable driving and eventually became housebound. My parents would take me to psychologists, psychiatrists and nutritionists. My psyche seemed to be erupting with all kinds of neurosis. I became paranoid and wouldn’t eat food thinking it was poisoned and eventually began having obsessive thoughts, mostly in the form of religious blasphemies looping in my head. Growing up in a Christian home, I thought I was possessed or something horrible. I was 125 lbs and would shake and slap my head to rid myself of these tormenting thoughts. And there seemed to be no help. Medications seemed to just make me a zombie but inwardly I was in hell. I can say without melodrama or exaggeration that I was a person in sheer mental torment. 

Prayer Songs

I would wade through these dark waters for the next 5 years. There were small seasons of mild reprieve where I could function to a certain level. I would go to church (the only social interaction I had) but never fully shared what all was going on. I felt crazy. People who sensed something was wrong with me would prescribe more prayer and bible reading. The fact was that I likely read the bible and prayed more than they did. I had a belief in God that became an absolute lifeline. However, God did not feel real or close at all. I felt abandoned both socially and spiritually. I clung desperately to whatever belief I had and walked through some very dark places on an internal and spiritual level. But in that dark and desolate cave I would sing. My song was my salvation. No one heard me. It was in that dark, quiet and lonely place that I would sing. 

As I write this I am overwhelmed with emotion remembering it. Song was how I spoke to God and felt any shred of connection. I cannot adequately describe how alone in the world I felt; how separated from God and people I felt. I was alone and terrified. But I would sing. 

Light through the cracks

I believe it was during this time that I found my voice. Through the aid of therapy and eventually the right medication the dark fog that surrounded me gradually began to clear. I would slowly notice the birds singing and the crisp blue sky begin to open. I was coming back to life. I felt a profound gratitude for life. I got a job at a grocery store and would stock the shelves…and sing. There was always a song on my lips. But it came from a completely different place than it did when I was 16. I had come through the dark forest and had something to say. 

Healer

For a couple years I just lived, healed and assimilated myself back into “normal” life. Eventually, I went through the hoops to get myself into college. One thing I did during those 5 years of exile was read like crazy. It’s all I ever did (I was far from a reader prior to that). So I was ready to go to school and start finding my path. I thought that what I would do was study to become a therapist. I knew at this point in my life that I wanted to be an agent of healing in some form or fashion. Becoming a therapist was the only thing that made sense at that point. But I was living in a new trajectory and I was open for wherever the path would go. 

Confessions and spotlight

To make a long story just a little bit longer, while I was in college I met a guy who invited me to play in his folk band. I will have to skip over some details here, but the short of it is that I started playing music again. I was writing and singing and eventually performing live. As a performer I was painfully shy. I was not interested in the spotlight or having the attention on me. I found it wildly uncomfortable. But after shows people would come up to me and express, sometimes with tears, how much the music connected with them emotionally and how I said things that they thought and experienced but didn’t know how say it. Some people would confess things to me that they had never told their spouse—hidden depression and dark thoughts. I was hearing all kinds of things. But I was learning that a connection was happening and the music seemed to be opening doors in people they had long locked tight. 

Nashville

Music and therapy seemed to be a good couple. So I went in that direction. I started pursuing a life as a therapist disguised as a performing songwriter. Again, I could write a book about how I ended up in Nashville and began my descent into the music business, but I will stick to the heart of things here. I was playing music for people, specifically hurting people. I directed my voice to the lonely, the confused, the abandoned, the heart-broken. I wasn’t looking for a record deal or fame. I wanted my music to find connection in the neglected and forgotten places. I based my songwriting approach from something I read from Henri Nouwen, “Rarely do happy endings truly make us happy. But often one’s careful and honest articulation of the pains and ambiguities in life brings us new hope”. I wasn’t going to write pop songs. I was going to write people songs. 

Save me

Since that time my career has gone through all kinds of seasons. I have found varying degrees of what might be called success. My songs have found their way into TV shows, films, movie trailers and even a few radio stations. I have been wooed and whipped by the music business enterprise. But to this day I still receive emails from people telling me how my music saved their life. I’ve heard stories of how my voice has accompanied someone through the darkest times of their life. Again, this is where tears of immense gratitude come up. It moves me so deeply to think that something I put out in the world could offer some company to a soul that feels alone or broken by life. 

Staying True

Hearing these stories is why I continue to make music because it’s why I started in the first place. I think about throwing in the towel quarterly. I don’t like the enterprise of the music business. But I tell you, almost with precise timing, the moments I have been on the cusp of quitting I will get an email or have someone at a show tell me another story and end that story saying, “please keep making music, it matters”. 

Mystery

Over the last 17 years of pursuing a life in music and storytelling, I have come back into seasons of depression and hardship. It’s an ongoing process. Always. I have found great help with therapists and spiritual directors and friends. Life ebbs and flows. My belief and unbelief in a God, Source, Ground of Being, etc. has gone through many formations. I’m learning to lean into the Mystery a bit more and be ok with it, even enjoy it.  And I will continue to write about it all along the way trusting that it will find its way to other souls who need a little company as they stumble through their own experience. 

Not Alone

If I have something I am hoping to convey in my music it is this: you are not alone. I believe this is the primary value of music within the world. Music lets people know they are not alone in the world; that there is a thread within the collective human experience. We are not alone. I believe the more personal the writing, the more universal. We’re all cut out of the same hunk of cheese.

As a writer, my job is simply to stay true to what is inside me to say, whether it’s sexy or not; whether it will sell records or not. I have to stay true to that voice that emerged many years ago out of a dark place. No one will ever really know what it took to find that voice but me and I will guard it. I hope you reading this will do the same (wherever your voice finds expression). 

You have a voice. Guard the voice that is yours, listen to it, know it and let it be known. It matters.

MPJ

A Date with Procrastination

The more important the activity is to our soul’s evolution, the more resistance you will feel.

-Steven Pressfield

I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Procrastination.  Well, he’s not really new, quite old come to think of it.  We go way back.  I suppose we’ve rekindled something as of late, something good, different.

Stuck places, friendly faces

Our rendezvous happened this past Tuesday morning as I was about to sit down and write this week’s blog post.  I typically have some foggy idea as to what I’ll write about from week to week which is always nice.  Like many bloggers, my ideas come from a storehouse of life experience, connections made in random and serendipitous ways, books I am reading, and most of all, the resilience stories of heroes I observe around me; friends and peers alike.  Lovely, right?  Well, this past Tuesday it wasn’t working out so well for me.

Wildlife

Earlier that morning, I decided to take a walk in order to clear my head, breathe some crisp fall air, and behold the magical leaves shamelessly showing off in the sun drenched blue sky.  It seems we have been cheering on the fulfillment of fall in Nashville the past several weeks and my, she certainly knows how to make a grand, fashionably late entrance.  Despite my morning jaunt out into her glorious embrace, I still had nothing.  Nada. Zip. Zilch.  I saw a few wild turkeys though.

Clean

When I have a deadline, be it taxes, writing, learning a new song, homework of any kind, (did I say taxes?), I don’t just procrastinate, I clean.  This is hilarious because I hate to clean.  I am not a cleaner.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a slob, I just tend to wait until I literally can’t see the bottom of my closet, throw my hands up in the air, and have a full on closet detox, as my brilliant friend Lindsley calls them.  Intentional, “unnecessary” cleaning always happens as a familiar step beforeI actually procrastinate.

Just one more cup

I sat down at my (clean) kitchen table only to decide I needed to make another pot of coffee.  That’s it!  Perhaps have another slice of gluten-free pumpkin bread, too. (Trader Joe’s makes the best mix.  I’m not even gluten sensitive, I suppose I just feel better about eating half the loaf.)  There we were, me, my coffee, my second breakfast, and my devilishly charming friend Procrastination.  “Dear God, I feel like a hobbit,” I thought to myself.  What now?  Pinterest, then a few quick emails, yoga anyone? I had forgotten how entertaining my old friend was.

Steven Pressfield

My absolute favorite book on the topic of the creative pursuit and process is Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art.  I’m a dreadfully slow reader and finished this little number in one afternoon on a park bench somewhere in the West Village while visiting NYC several years ago. No doubt, this was the most inspiring city to read those words in what with the beautifully diverse collection of roughly 1.5 million people tirelessly pushing their dreams forward to the rhythm of steely tenacity, very little sleep, and a whole lot of espresso .  From that day forward, I’ve been an evangelist of this book, giving away countless copies to friends and clients, alike.  He pretty much rocked my world with his jolting if not merciless approach to procrastination.

Here’s what he says:

“The most pernicious aspect of procrastination is that it can become a habit. We don’t just put off our lives today; we put them off till our deathbed.  Never forget: This very moment, we can change our lives. There never was a moment, and never will be, when we are without the power to alter our destiny. This second we can turn the tables on Resistance. This second, we can sit down and do our work.”

Can I get a witness?

Amen, yes?! If you read this post and all you take away is that one quote and a kick in the pants to hop on Amazon immediately and order The War of Art, I have succeeded.  Pressfield introduced me to this curious idea of Resistance, as was mentioned in the quote.  We all know what resistance is: that tight feeling we have in our chest and muscles, the thoughts of unworthiness that pop up like clockwork saying, “I don’t deserve to carve out the next hour and write, I’ve got so much to do!”, the anxiety that seeps in perpetrating those once calm and contented cells in our body.  Pressfield explains, “The more important the activity is to our soul’s evolution, the more resistance you will feel to it-the more fear you will feel.”

The Gift

If resistance resulting in procrastination is actually a sign of our soul’s deepest expression and evolution as Pressfield waxes so poetically, then I am convinced we are in dire need of a sit down “come to Jesus” reckoning with it! My avoidant and dreaded coffee date with Procrastination was in fact, profoundly necessary.  It was my heart’s battle cry against that nasty gremlin, perfectionism.  It was an invitation to show up and reclaim the very act that keeps my soul alive and grounded.  Someone out there may hopefully read the words I write through email or a Facebook feed or something and that is truly an honor. There is a much higher purpose though. The invaluable gift of resistance is the power that flows from our choice to lean in, show up, and give sacred space to our voice when the easy way out is to organize our sock drawer three times instead.  We align with our destiny when we lean into resistance.  This feels really good.

In Repair

As a lifelong perfectionist in a constant, sobering state of recovery, I am learning to become my own sponsor.  This is the credo that keeps me showing up and sitting down with pen and paper in hand: Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.

Anne Lamott spins it this way in her brilliant Bird by Bird (another must read): “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere. Start by getting something—anything—down on paper. What I’ve learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head.” 

I would extend that to say almost all creative endeavors begin with terrible first efforts!

Say Yes

Procrastination has gotten a bad wrap over time.  I want to help clean up the confusion.  After all, procrastination is merely saying no to something and yes to another, more attractive option, yes?  I say we wise up, stay very present to that knowing, if not uncomfortable nudge called resistance, and have our way with those illusive little pixies, perfectionism and projection.  They have stolen us away from our dreams, one bad, distracting idea at a time, for long enough. Today, let’s begin again.

Love,

katie

xoxo

Dinner Parties & The Hospitality of Emotion

Hospitality means primarily the creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place.

-Henri Nouwen

I love food: the planning, shopping, prepping, pairing, cooking, eating, hell, I don’t even mind the cleaning up so much.  My most domestic moments happen in the kitchen.  Laundry?  Not my gig, much to my husband’s chagrin.  Cooking has always been a creative outlet as well as a therapeutic one for me.   For a hot minute in my mid-twenties I toyed with the idea of culinary school yet found in my short-lived career as a sous chef at a local wine bar/cafe that cooking on someone else’s watch for people I couldn’t actually connect with was a deal breaker; it hijacked the joy of it.

Slow down

I eventually discovered two real driving passions behind my love for all things culinary: the connection that happens around it and the creativity had in the process, ( oh, and there is that eating thing as well).  As a result, one of my favorite pastimes has become throwing dinner parties.  I get a buzz just thinking about it.  We live in a world on crack; a world jacked up and in a constant crazed state of busy, exhausted, immediacy, devices, and traffic, all set to repeat.  Hospitality has become a lost art.  It forces us to slow down and do things that can be automated and/or bypassed by hitting the nearest Chipotle and inhaling it in front of our current Netflix series of choice.  As a result, we lose out on a beautiful process that facilitates good old-fashioned real-time connection, intimacy, and laughter.

Friends who cook together

My dearest friend Anna Watson Carl, author of The Yellow Table cookbook and dinner party partner in crime since high school, has been in town from Brooklyn for the last couple of weeks.  As a result, we have gotten some sacred, much-needed girl time together hiking (read: getting lost) at Percy Warner park as well as sharing a few meals.  She inspires me to dream big; to dive in heart first, with little personal regard for certainty and all the “why nots”.  She leads her life openly, with curiosity.  As a result, incredible opportunities present.  Her childlike sense of wonder lands her in all kinds of juicy and fabulous predicaments.  I’ve had the distinct pleasure of tagging along for some of them.

This past Saturday Anna and I threw a dinner party.  It was delicious and lovely complete with clinking glasses, a stained table runner,  and hours of clean up the next morning.  Perhaps my favorite part of the evening was the interesting mix of friends who came.  Stories were shared and wild connections made, which blows my mind often in this small town of Nashville.  As I sat back contentedly and observed conversations happening around the table, glasses being filled, and fall flavors offering up their glory, something occurred to me; something big.

Set a new table

Why can’t we learn to practice hospitality internally, with our own full cast of emotions? What if, we welcomed them openly, leaning in to the complex story they are trying to tell instead of running from their  grey state of purgatory?  I’ve been intrigued by this idea ever since, playing around with it in my head and heart…and I like it.

The hidden gift

Emotions are a gift if you can believe it.  I sure didn’t for long stretches of my existence.  I always thought emotions had all the power, dictating the success of any given day from the moment my eyeballs popped open in the morning.  I used to feel totally powerless over my emotions, especially anxiety, she was a loud and clumsy beast.  What I have come to learn and embrace with open arms and a big fat sigh of relief is that my emotions are not who I am.  I am not my anxiety, sadness, hurt, anger, etc.

They are also not against me.  Of course, there are more enjoyable ones we feel such as glad and excited; we tend to coddle them like spoiled children.  Then there are negative ones such as guilt and anger we avoid at all costs like that annoying, messy roommate. However, the truth is, each unique emotion invites us to the greater wisdom of our needs and desires and ultimately propel us forward.  Our emotions are a gift nudging us towards colorful truth and authentic experience.

Conversation starter

Just as the generous practice of hospitality beckons deeper connection and understanding of our unique perspectives and experiences across a dinner table, our chatty interior friends long for a space to be heard.  How will we host these voices, facilitating a curious exchange, an open conversation?  Here are a couple of questions to ask them when they chime in, with their often abrasive tone.

• What am I feeling?  Sad, hurt, fear, anger, lonely, guilt, glad?  Naming it identifies and externalizes it.
• What is the story you are trying to tell me?  i.e “I am afraid I don’t have what it takes to succeed, i’m not enough”.  “I am guilty because I spoke harshly to my co-worker”.
• What is the need attached to the emotion? i.e. “I need some encouragement and affirmation”, or “I need to apologize for reacting at work, I was pretty fried and took it out on Sarah”
• How will I meet that need?  i.e. Reach out to a trusted friend or have a conversation to set the record straight, etc…

Emotional hospitality removes unnecessary shame from our internal experience by letting light and air into dingy, dusty corners of our beings.  It swings wide open the door of our heart and places a mix of fresh flowers to claim the space, welcoming deeper connection and cohesion.  It nourishes our beings to live with presence and generosity.  This week, I invite you to set this strange new interior table and play around with the role of host.   Get into it, wear it, engage it.  I’d love to hear all about your discoveries along the way…

Love,

katie

xoxo