girlonawireblog

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Onward With Love

I know, I know.

I kinda ghosted on you, didn’t I?

After 3+ years of blogging weekly here on GOAW, I stopped.

Just.

Plain.

Stopped.

Really, it boiled down to a simple question that’s been nagging at me:

What is my goal with this blog?

Lots of blogs are all about giving instruction or advice. I save the instruction for my workshops, and I’m not a big believer in giving advice. After all, for most of my life, I’ve just been muddling along, figuring things out as I go. Who would I be to tell anyone else how to do things?

What I thought I could do via my blog is share my own experience — my own story — and if the things I learned along the way resonated with a reader or two, great. If not, well, at least I was gaining practice sharing stories on a regular schedule.

Over the years, I’ve been surprised by the number of people who’ve reached out and shared their stories with me in return, letting me know I’d somehow been of help to them. It means the world to me to know that just by putting my own flawed self out there, I was able to offer a point of connection or comfort to people I’ve never even met.

Because truthfully?

This Girl on a Wire stuff has not been easy.

When I teach workshops, I spend a lot of time talking about fear. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that rarely are writing problems actually writing problems.

Fear is the elephant in the room.

Fear of whether the writing is good enough, if the story is worth telling, if the author has within her what it takes to tell that particular story. Fear of how it will be received, how people will react.

Let’s face it: no matter how ‘good’ a piece of writing may be, ‘good’ is still a subjective term. You can pour your heart out onto the page, tell a story as authentically as you feel it in your soul, and still you will have critics.

No wonder there’s fear in writing. That kind of vulnerability is terrifying.

And there’s no writing I have ever done that’s required as much vulnerability as Girl on a Wire. It’s my life story, out there for public consumption and critique.

And the critics have, at times, been brutal. I’ve often thought of giving this blog up, not from a place of being ready to move on to bigger and better things, but from sheer exhaustion.

That always seemed, however, to be the point when I’d get one of those messages from a reader that stops me in my tracks.

When I hear from somebody that my telling of a difficult story, or my use of humor in the face of the utter absurdity of life, made a difference to them?

That’s everything.

But like a lot of creative people, I feel called time and again to shift gears and work on new projects. And for a while now, I’ve been feeling that the time for sharing my journey in this way has passed.

I was trying to figure out how to explain my thoughts and feelings on the subject, and this arrived in an email from Brene Brown:

That’s it exactly.

It’s been my pleasure and privilege to share stories with you through Girl on a Wire. Dear readers, I don’t mean to imply that we haven’t cultivated a relationship. You’ve been with me through a series of major life changes. 

I thank you for that.

In this blog, though, I’ve been that stranger in the grocery store who wanders up to you and tells you her life story. Oversharing may be the norm in our social media culture, but it’s born in a place that feels uncomfortable to me.

It’s where I was at, but it’s not where I am any more. Once again, it’s time to let go and move on.

I think often of a sentiment I first encountered in the writings of Louise Hay, and will paraphrase here:

We are all doing the best we can with what we have.

That feels true to me. And I think, wherever our paths take us, if we just continue to do the best we can with what we have - and remember that everyone around us is doing the same - our best is bound to get better.

Let’s move onward - with love.

Gratefully, K.C.

‘We see things not as they are, but as we are.’   - Anais Nin

{If you’re a subscriber and you want to continue to hang around, I plan to use this space to link to future publications and projects.}

[girlonawireblog]

True leadership is about country, not self.

[girlonawireblog]

VALENTINE

We’ve got *that* holiday this week, the one folks either love or hate.

Maybe you celebrate Valentine’s Day as an opportunity to shower those you care about with tokens of affection and appreciation.

Or maybe you curse it as a phony Hallmark-holiday contrived to inspire singles to drain the liquor cabinet while listening to The Smiths.

Over the years, I’ve spent time in both camps. This year I feel simply wrung out from losses and unkindnesses on both a personal and global scale.

But I refuse to give up hope.

Since I believe only love can change the world for the better, and since there is, in my opinion, no greater example of love than a rescue animal, I’m taking advantage of Valentine’s Day to push #thepeacepoodleproject

It’s a simple notion: whether on Valentine’s Day or whenever you have the time and feel moved to do so, do something good for a rescue or animal shelter in your community. 

That’s it.

If you’d like to share pics with #thepeacepoodleproject hashtag, I’d be thrilled. But really, the bottom line is just to put more kindness and caring out into the world, one re-homed pet at a time.

Because I am pretty sure that if we all spent more time petting dogs or cats, or emulating animals’ joyful and forgiving nature, we’d have that elusive world peace thing in no time. 

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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CARE

Has it really been little more than a week since we took to the streets, positivity and pink pussy hats powering peaceful protests the world over?

It’s been a week designed to weary, and I know many friends are feeling sadness and anger and everything in between.

Outrage, however, is not a sustainable state of being, not for the sane. Negative emotions, no matter how justifiable, take their toll. They weaken our ability to be of use in difficult times.

Loren Swift, author of the forthcoming book From Me to We: Waking the Heart of Humanity, agrees.

“The greatest toll on our well-being can come from a sense of overwhelm and helplessness to be as effective as we’d like to be,” she says.

I reached out to her and to others—activists and self-care experts—for some guidance on maintaining balance while working toward the kind of world we’d like to see.

Julianna Ricci, Amazon bestselling author of The Power of Practice, offered this powerful thought for those of us who feel guilty taking the time for self-care while our world is suffering:

Imagine we are each a well. Every day we give buckets of water to those around us: our families, our jobs, our communities. And if we're honest, most of us were already running on fumes – our wells were pretty near empty. And now we are asking ourselves to give even more. If we are to do this, we must decide to replenish our water supply. We do that by making the time for things that fill us up.

And here I issue an important warning. You will likely come up against a block that looks akin to this: "don't be so selfish!" It will hurt, and you will want to turn away. But hear this: without filling your well, you have nothing left to give. And we – the collective we – can't afford to lose you. We need every single one of us to move past the "selfish" block, to prioritize filling our own wells, and to keep moving forward. Filling our well is, in this light, the most self-less thing you can do.

It’s a lesson Rachel Thompson, author of the award-winning Broken Pieces, knows all too well. As a survivor of sexual abuse and rape and an activist on behalf of others, she’s learned that in order to be of service, she has to set boundaries and treat herself with care.

Never has this been more crucial than in this era of grab-em-by-the-pussy politics.

“It's important as an activist and advocate to remember that I'm survivor also, and while I'm rarely triggered, I'm not immune,” Rachel explains.

A couple of the boundaries she’s set can be especially helpful in the age of social media and constant contact.

“Block trolls immediately,” she advises, “and walk away from frustrating conversations online—come back to it if you feel it’s important; if it’s some random person, let it go. Move on.”

Indeed. The online vortex can be all-consuming, and click-bait headlines are rarely positive.

It can be difficult to maintain focus on all the progress we have made toward a kinder, more inclusive world, or the greater goals at stake. But keeping our eyes on that prize is key.

Otherwise, what on earth are we fighting for?

And as Loren Swift wisely counseled me:

“Spend energy not so much on fighting what is not working as celebrating the vision and beauty of what we are working towards. We do not know what the outcomes of our actions and intentions will be. We only know what we can do and how much we can love right now.”

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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FORCE

A lot has been said about Saturday’s women’s marches—I don’t feel the need to rehash it all here.

I do, however, feel the need to say how grateful I was to participate in the Women’s March on Sacramento.

Here’s why:

Last week, I mentioned my history as a survivor of sexual abuse and rape, and the way it has affected my subconscious perception of the world. I sometimes react to things in a way that is completely disconnected from what is actually happening—and more often than not, I can trace that disconnect to those traumatic events.

Thanks to lots of therapy, the passage of time, and the friendship of countless good men, my daily, conscious life is a story of love, not trauma.

It’s one of those things that feels like just another fact of my being:

I have blue eyes, I love dogs, I know nothing about football, and I survived some shitty events perpetrated by shitty people.

Those shitty events aside, being female hasn’t felt especially burdensome to me. I’ve been fortunate enough to have good jobs and the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want.

But…

Whether traveling solo, running after dark, or asking for a raise, pretty much whatever I’ve done, I’ve done with the nagging feeling that it’s all a little nervy of me.

That this world is not quite built for the safety or success of females.

That I need to make an extra effort to clear hurdles that simply don’t exist for men.

And yet, I wouldn’t say I’ve worried about it. I could see all the progress women made in a relatively short period of time, and I felt certain that if we just pressed on, progress would continue.

Then came this mind-boggling Trump horrorshow.

I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that so gleefully ignorant a bully could rise to such levels even in ‘reality’ entertainment, much less in leadership. All the hateful lashing out—incidents which would have instantly sunk the careers of anyone else—seemed only to fuel this strange egomaniac’s continued rise.

What hit me the hardest, I think, was that so many people were willing to make excuses for inexcusable behavior.

They were willing to accept as President of the United States of America a man who bragged about forcing himself on women. They eagerly downplayed it as ‘locker room talk.’

And for the first time in my adult life, I felt every bit as afraid as I’d felt when I was victimized.

The failure of my fellow Americans to denounce a racist, misogynist, predatory bully made me wonder if my faith in humanity was misplaced.

When I marched on Saturday, however, I felt more encouraged than I have in a while. Seeing so many men, women, and children peacefully and joyfully gathered to advocate love over hate was salve for my aching heart.

There was so much positive energy.

So much hope in the face of uncertainty.

So much resolve to stand in defense of the most vulnerable among us.

The next day, I scrolled through news images and realized how very many people had turned out worldwide in support of a hopeful and inclusive vision of the future.

It may be difficult to remember when hateful words, jeering comments, and a dim, dark view of our nation are thrust in our faces, but I truly believe WE THE PEOPLE who want peace, love, and kindness for ourselves and ALL our neighbors—we are in the majority.

Whether on a personal or a global level, we all struggle to move beyond shitty events perpetrated by shitty people.

But if we keep the faith, I think we will find what I have found to be true.

Love will win.

It is the greater force.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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LISTEN

A year ago, in response to a social media post about our nation’s racist history, I shared my optimism about all the progress we have made, and the positive direction in which I believed we were ultimately headed.

And I was called out for ‘whitesplaining.’

My knee-jerk reaction was defensive, and came from a place that had nothing to do with the conversation at hand.

Being told to listen instead of speak felt on a visceral level to me—a survivor of sexual abuse and rape—like being silenced as I had been for too many years. I was baffled that one woman would want to silence another.

It didn’t even occur to me that that was not at all what she was saying.

Listen.

That is the word she used.

‘Listen’ is not ‘shut up.’

But ’shut up’ is what I felt in my marrow, an unconscious programming from long-ago pain.

Turning this incident over in my mind while watching the unfolding spectacle of hatred and fear that has gripped our nation, it’s become clear to me how individual each of our filters is—and how quickly and easily we disconnect from real conversation.

That anyone could possibly watch what is happening on the national stage and say, ‘Eh—wait and see. Maybe it won’t be so bad…’ boggles my mind.

Yet I am a woman who heard ‘shut up’ when what was said was, ‘listen.’

Each of us has views influenced by a lifetime of experiences. We’re not even aware of so much of what informs our perceptions. People rankle us and we’re not sure why.

The overt racism, sexism, xenophobia and hatred we are all being exposed to right now is not OK.

But where did it come from?

Listen.

My life has never felt particularly privileged to me, because I’ve experienced it through the lens of sexual abuse and rape. That’s my particular filter.

Being in a female body has always felt vulnerable—perhaps never more so than now, when a blustering grab-em-by-the-pussy bully has risen to the highest office in the world. My subconscious is on high alert.

Listen.

I move through life constantly aware of my gender. Of the places I can and cannot go alone. Or at night. Or wearing this or not wearing that.

Listen.

But almost never have I thought about the color of my skin.

That is privilege.

That it’s a privilege I don’t want makes no difference. That it’s wrong and stupid, all these arbitrary ways we humans divide ourselves, makes no difference.

Listen.

Had I listened in that conversation a year ago, I might have realized that racism does not just vanish in a nation stolen from its indigenous people and built on the backs of slaves.

That a massive backlash to 8 years of consistent progress was inevitable.

Carefully-cultivated optimism is my survival skill. It does not come to me naturally or easily, and I have to admit that today, as we watch our country’s progress and the systems that protect it being openly dismantled, it is a challenge to believe that good things lie ahead.

And when I think back on that conversation gone horribly awry a year ago, further doubt creeps in. I have a voice and a platform, and I know times like these call for speaking truth to power.

But how will I—small, flawed, human—know when to raise my voice and when to listen? The minefield is so intimidating, I feel inclined to sidestep it altogether. To retreat into telling escapist little stories.

And then I realize: even considering that choice is a privilege.

So I will begin with an apology:

For each and every time I failed to listen or appreciate my privilege, and to those I hurt as a result, I am deeply sorry. I will do my best going forward to get out of myself, and truly hear what is being said.

Today, I think of these words from the Martin Luther King, Jr.’s 1963 Letter From a Birmingham Jail:

“Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.”

Knowing we arrived at this place because too many people of good will were too comfortable in our blinders, I undertake the goal of deepening my understanding and expanding my acceptance.

Of being more aware of the lens through which I filter the world.

And of becoming a better listener.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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POODLICIOUS

In my mind, this odd little slice of my life runs on a loop:

I am dancing around the kitchen with a black and white miniature poodle. He dances on his hind legs, all people-like, and I sing various made-up songs. Like ‘Poodlicious’—to the tune of ‘Fergalicious,’ of course, with lyrics about how Kimba makes all the girl-dogs go loco.

That poodle goes wild. He chirps, and—I swear—he smiles.

The musical repertoire varied, but for a number of years, this scene was the norm as I put on the coffee and made breakfast each morning. I had somehow become a crazy little-dog lady, and my dances with Kimba put a smile on my own face even in the worst of times.

Our pairing was as unlikely as the bond we ultimately formed.

I grew up with large dogs: German Shepherds, Rottweilers, Newfoundlands. I had nothing against small dogs. I just tended to prefer the big, slobbery, heavily-shedding dogs I’d known all my life.

But because of my (now ex) husband’s allergies, those big, slobbery, heavily-shedding dogs weren’t an option. After some research, we ended up with first a Bichon Frise—Harry, who quickly chose my ex as his favorite human on earth—and Kimba, the miniature parti poodle who became my shadow.

Kimba arrived with a serious case of separation anxiety. Or maybe more accurately, everything anxiety. He was constantly between my feet. Noises and sudden movement sent him into a tailspin. He was so terrified in the car, he shook uncontrollably, frothing at the mouth until he looked like a tiny parti-poodle version of Cujo.

In a way, Kimba’s anxieties were a godsend for me. I was dealing with anxiety of my own, and working with Kimba on his issues proved to be therapy for both of us. We spent countless hours on training to alleviate his fears. In time, he learned to accept my comings and goings, and to so thoroughly enjoy car rides, I couldn’t pick up the keys without him going wild with excitement.

I’d say to him each day: Kimba, you are a brave, independent poodle. You are descended from wolves. Never forget that.

It started as a sort of joke. Who could look at a fluffy little poodle and do anything but marvel at the genetic acrobatics it had taken to create such a creature?

But Kimba took in the words with solemn understanding, and as I watched him grow braver and more adventurous, I wondered if maybe something wolf-like remains in the heart of even the smallest dogs.

Over the years, Kimba earned the nickname The Peace Poodle. He loved everyone he met: people, other dogs, cats, rabbits—you name it. Kids were his favorite. Heck, everyone and everything was his favorite. It was a joke that made it onto our Christmas card just a few weeks ago.

And sure, that level of enthusiasm for life is the hallmark of dogs as a species. One of the things I came to love about Kimba, though, was that he also had a quieter, more serious side.

He seemed downright introspective at times, and he often needed his space in a way that felt more cat-like than canine. He would snuggle up at bed time, but then disappear during the night, choosing to sleep solo on the sofa or in his dog bed by the fire.

Kimba also seemed to instinctively understand how to behave in various environments. He came with me on writing retreats, and was appropriately mellow.

(Well, with the exception of one chicken-chasing incident - which, I maintain, was entirely the fault of the chicken.)

When I was going through my divorce, I brought Kimba to some of my therapy sessions. The first time he came with me, Kimba stood on his hind legs to greet my therapist with a paw-shake. He gave the room a once-over, then hopped up onto the sofa and sat at attention, head tipped, waiting for the session to begin.

The therapist laughed, then said to me, “You do realize that’s not a dog you’ve got there, right? That is an old, old soul in a doggie suit.”

Indeed.

Daily, Kimba would hop onto my lap and I would smooth his ears back and tell him: You are sweetness and light in a poodle suit. Then he would hop back down and go about his business—most of which involved sharing that sweetness and light with the world.

My tendency to rescue animals with disabilities or provide hospice care for those at the end of their lives was something Kimba not only tolerated, but welcomed. He was a natural at being a calming influence. It was almost as if serving other animals was as soothing to Kimba as helping him with his anxiety had alleviated my own.

Only one dog was impervious to Kimba’s charm.

(A few chomps later, we decided Chopper was not best-placed with us.)

When Tiny Tim, the paralyzed Rottweiler, came home with us for his final hours, Kimba lay with me and Tim on the floor all night. He curled up on a pillow by Tiny Tim’s head—which was nearly as big as Kimba’s whole body—and every so often, he would touch his nose to Tim’s. I would hear Tim’s gentle exhale and know Kimba was working his Peace Poodle magic.

He brought so much joy to everyone he met, doing his silly poodle-dance or running in wild circles on the dog beach or tipping his nose at the sunroof and enjoying the wind in his ears on one of our many road trips.

He enthusiastically hiked trails everywhere from New England to California. He reveled in getting filthy, then stoically tolerated being washed in the sink or fully re-poodled at the groomer’s.

Kimba’s sudden passing the morning after Christmas is a thing that will haunt me forever. An open door, a moving car, and a moment’s inattention resulted in a terrible accident with an un-fixable outcome. It is small comfort to me that Kimba was in my arms as he passed.

My brave, independent poodle.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to have Kimba back with me. Those who have loved animals understand. They each hold a special place in your heart, yet with some there is just a deeper connection than with others.

Kimba was my little soul-poodle. There is an ache in his absence, and that weird wishful thinking that follows a death: clearly a mistake has been made, and if I can just appeal to the right god, all will be set right again.

As many friends have reminded me lately, the pain I feel right now is not for Kimba. Wherever Kimba is right now, in whatever form, he is not in pain. The sorrow I am experiencing is because his presence in my life was so great, his absence has left a tremendous void.

I used to joke that my primary relationship was with a 12-lb. poodle who loved to spoon.

No joke, really.

Now, as I write this, I have the tiniest dog imaginable at my side.

Mighty Little Max came to me and Kimba just a little over a year ago. His human had passed away and he was failing to thrive. Given his age and overall condition, the animal rescue was going to euthanize him. Kimba and I welcomed Max with the expectation that he might not have long to live.

Ha!

Max rallied big time, becoming Kimba’s enthusiastic little sidekick. I began referring to him as The Doglet Who Lived.

That Max is still here and Kimba is gone seems strangely ironic to me. But that’s how life goes, isn’t it? None of us knows how long we have. The biggest changes in our lives often come down to the smallest moments.

And yet.

Yet...

Mighty Little Max has kept close to my side since Kimba’s passing, and I’ve noticed something.

This 2.7 lb. scrap of a dog has picked up some of Kimba’s mannerisms. Kimba showed him the ropes, and I am certain Max is thriving today because of it. He comes to me each morning after breakfast. I ask him how his meal was, and he high-fives me, putting his tiny paw to my forefinger.

But now, I add: You are a brave, independent chihuahua. You are descended from wolves. Never forget that.

Mighty Little Max takes in the words with solemn understanding.

And somewhere deep within me, I know Kimba’s sweetness and light go on.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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WISH

Parenting at the holidays is fraught with challenges, but my friend Jacy is facing a particular challenge this holiday season.

Recently, she and her eleven-year-old daughter were crying as they decorated the Christmas tree.

“It’s okay, Mom,” her son, 8, told her confidently. “All I asked Santa for this year is to bring Phoebe back. She’ll be home soon.”

Phoebe is the Siamese cat Santa Claus brought to Jacy’s children on Christmas two years ago. She has been missing since October 23.

Or perhaps more accurately, she’s been catnapped.

Jacy lives near Main Street in picturesque South Kingstown, Rhode Island. It’s the kind of small town where everyone is familiar with their neighbors—and their neighbors’ pets. Jacy’s home is well-known as a place where Siamese cats can often be seen in the windows or on the front porch or playing in the yard with her kids.

When Phoebe wandered off on that October day, however, the two women she encountered outside the local theatre were apparently unfamiliar with the neighborhood. After consulting briefly with someone at the theatre, the women placed Phoebe in a cat carrier and said they would take her to the animal shelter.

A short while later, though, they called back to the theatre. They’d decided Phoebe was a lovely cat, and they’d be keeping her, they said. Since they’d found her at the theatre, they wanted suggestions of a thespian name for her.

By the time Jacy learned all this, it was too late. She and her family shifted gears from frantically searching for the runaway kitty to posting flyers all over town in hopes that the women who had taken Phoebe would see them. Jacy took to social media to spread the word. In short order, the whole town was familiar with Phoebe’s story and her unique little feline face.

To Jacy and her family, Phoebe isn’t “just” a cat. She also isn’t really missing—she’s been stolen. It’s a double whammy any parent can sympathize with: not only have Jacy’s children lost a beloved family member, but they are also struggling with the idea that the women who found Phoebe didn’t even make an effort to get her back home.

We tell our children all the time to do the right thing, yet in this world, it increasingly seems adults fail at that directive.

And so, when Jacy’s son attempted to reassure her, his earnest belief in Santa’s ability to bring Phoebe home only added to her sadness and frustration.

Jacy knows, of course, that there are greater concerns in the world right now than her family’s lost pet. As an adult, she can put it in perspective.

But as a parent?

As a parent she knows that her children’s loss is about to be compounded by another tough lesson.

She shared her story with me in hopes that maybe the reason the women who took Phoebe haven’t returned her home is that they’ve somehow not heard how desperately her family misses her.

Maybe they’ll read this and help make a Christmas miracle happen for her children.

And maybe—just maybe—Jacy will be spared the heartache of explaining to her son why Santa didn’t come through.

NOTE: If you have ANY information at all about Phoebe’s whereabouts, please contact the South Kingstown police at 401-783-3321 or call Jacy directly at 401-935-7620.

[girlonawireblog]

THANKS

So, today is launch day for Fifty Ways to Make a Family, the sequel to Fifty Ways to Leave Your Husband.

This book had more false starts than I can count.  It truly might never have seen the light of day if not for the incredible journey I undertook this past year with the support of so many.

A wholehearted thank you is due…

To Julianna Ricci, whose coaching sent me off on the adventure of a lifetime.

To Ron Kohn, who introduced me to paragliding more than a decade ago, and kept both me and the love of it alive long enough for this story to emerge.

To Jeff Kelley: our connection alone was worth the journey to Humboldt.  In wind and rain and occasionally kinder weather, we walked and talked, and it turns out that sometimes a musician is exactly the kind of creative soul who most inspires a writer.  Never been done…but it will be.

To the ladies of Wednesday Girls’ Night Out, who instantly made me feel at home on the West Coast and gave me a sense of community—I cannot thank you enough.  To find a safe space where people truly do not judge is nothing short of a miracle.

To everyone at my favorite noon meeting, who welcomed me in at my lowest, raised me up higher than I imagined I could go while sober, and were there for the roller coaster ride all along.  Y’all impress the hell out of me, and I love you.  (A special shout-out to my road trip buddy Mike. xoxo)

To the thriving arts community in Humboldt: Director Roy King and everyone at Westhaven Center for the Arts, Bayley Brown at KHUM, the fabulous OLLI community at HSU, Lauraine and Jack at Mad River Union, and so many more.  Considering all the creativity among the redwoods, it is no surprise to me that it was there that I was finally able to wrap this baby up.

To Steve and Karen and all my coworkers at Trinidad Bay Eatery and Gallery: thank you for the absolute best summer job ever.  You kept me well-fed and highly amused while leaving me the requisite mental energy for writing.  There cannot possibly be a harder-working, more dedicated group of people anywhere.  (Also: I apologize for nearly burning the place down with those forgotten cookies.  And if you didn’t already know about that…never mind…)

To my dear long-distance friend Brea Brown, whose talent and drive as an author inspires me, and whose wit and kindness have sustained me in some dark-night-of-the-soul moments these last few months.  Brea, I doubt you know how much your friendship means to me—so I’m putting you on notice here.  Thank you so much for everything.  Ditto for Martha Reynolds—I miss our coffee-and-conversation meetups, but I’m grateful we can stay connected through social media.

To Gary McCluskey, who has once again provided me with an AMAZING cover—and plenty of snarky, irreverent conversation about the, ahem, joy of being creative.

To my friends and family who made sure the anchor held fast back East while I went off on my Wild West adventure: I know how lucky I am to have you in my corner.

To my sister Kristen McDonough—an extra debt of gratitude for your willingness to share your NICU experience, and to my delightful, vivacious niece Addie, thanks for serving as the inspiration for Hope.

To the research assistants at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute who steered me in the right direction for answers to some very difficult questions.

To my son Ryan, who has patiently weathered my ongoing midlife crisis and supported my growth as a person, even when he clearly thinks I am nuts.  You’re the best, Pokey, and you are indeed a grown-ass man.

And to Mario, whose kind, gentle heart makes me feel my faith in love is not misguided, and that telling tales of romance is not a foolish business.  That someone I respect so deeply champions my success is no small thing.  Thank you for all the adventures, from Lost Coast to Heart Lake and everywhere in between.  You are wacky, and that is good.

Here’s to many, many more adventures ahead.

Much love,

K.C.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

[girlonawireblog]

POWER

Power.

We’ve heard a lot about a certain kind of power lately, the sort politicians fight to gain.

Me, I’ve been on a journey that I didn’t at first realize had anything to do with power. Over time, though, I figured out that it has everything to do with power.

Personal power.

In 2014, I left my marriage because I felt I had no personal power within it. My ex might have felt the same. Daily we struggled, never quite getting our needs met.

It was only as I started to move beyond the divorce, setting goals and wondering why things weren’t exactly materializing as I hoped, that I came to consider power on a different level.

I believe in the power of the Universe, that divine energy which—in theory, at least—we are all tapped into. I believe in Law of Attraction, having experienced the way thoughts become reality. And yet, in certain areas, I felt stuck. Disconnected.

Enter Julianna Ricci.

Regular followers of this blog may recall this post and this one about the coaching I undertook with Julianna. I went in a skeptic and emerged a devotee.

If you’ve continued to follow this blog, you know how fully my life has changed in the past year. Much of this is a direct result of Julianna’s coaching, which is why I am excited to share her big news with you:

She’s put that coaching into her new book, The Power of Practice.

And yes, it turned out that, for me, the missing ingredient in any unrealized goals was practice.

It makes sense, right? Practice makes perfect, and all that?

Yet never before had I considered just how to select the specific daily practices that would effect the changes I wanted to see. The answer, for me, came in the form of the explorations and exercises Julianna introduced me to—and they are all in her book.

So, before I start sounding all infomercial-y, I’ll just say you can CLICK HERE to learn more about The Power of Practice—and buy the book if you’re so inclined. (Full disclosure: I had a hand in editing it, so I may be predisposed to think it’s wonderful...but it really is wonderful.)

I’ll acknowledge, too (as anyone who knows me is well aware) that my life remains far from perfect. But I think if you’re seeking perfection, you might be on the wrong planet. Life happens. The goalpost changes on a regular basis.

Having the tools to handle those changes has made all the difference for me. I’ve found myself living life from a place of greater unity between body, mind and spirit than ever before. Wonderful people have come into my life. Miracles have happened.

It’s heightened my awareness that the sort of power that requires a fight isn’t the sort that effects meaningful change.

It’s those quiet shifts, those minute actions we choose, day in and day out, that reconnect us with our true inner power.

Truly, there is great power in practice.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

[girlonawireblog]

LOVE.LOVE.LOVE

Last week, I shared my fears.

For the next month, I’d like to fill this space with hope, love, and joy—and I invite you to join me.

Today, I’ll share some of my favorite pictures from 2016. Yes, on the whole, this has been a shit year. I think we just have to call that spade a spade. And frankly, maybe we should have seen it coming. Any year that opens with the demise of David Bowie is not going to be a good one.

Still.

Even in the darkest of times, there are moments of beauty. Reminders of divinity. Reason to hope for better days ahead.

So here are some of my favorite moments from 2016.

If you’d like to share some of yours for a collage I’m compiling for my end of year post, please email them to me: girlonawirekcw@gmail.com

Let’s see all the love, joy, diversity, hope and kindness I know is out there.

If there’s been *this much wonderfulness* in my own little life, there has to be enough in the world to go around.

Much love to all.

{If you want to keep up with my political posts, please click here to follow me on HuffPo.}

www.girlonawirekcw.com

[girlonawireblog]

VOICE

I’ve been at a loss these past two weeks, near-paralyzed with fear, and I know I’m not alone.

I feel certain we are living history, and not the good kind.

The backlash against progress made by women, minorities, non-Christians, and the LGBTQ community was fierce in this election, and it promises only to worsen under the incoming administration.

It is crushing to think of our nation taking so many giant leaps backward.

I wonder sometimes if the optimism I felt with each step forward was naive and foolish, if a country founded on land stolen from its indigenous people and built on the backs of slaves was simply doomed from the start.

And yet, we can only begin from where we are.

Where we are right now, my friends, frightens me.

It frightens me because what can I possibly do? Blog the KKK away? Write white supremacy out of the White House? Pray that the pen really will turn out to be mightier than the sword?

My voice feels inadequate, and daily I’ve felt ready to throw in the towel.

But I keep coming back to this message I received the day after the election from a young mother of a baby girl:

Much like many others today, I was in a state of shock.  Last night marked the second night my sweet child slept through the night and like any new mother, I woke up 900 times to make sure she was still breathing as this much sleep is not the norm.  At 5 am I checked the news.  My heart sank and I could not fall back to sleep.  I sat there.  Completely still, unable to move, unable to cry.  Shocked.  My first thought was not about me or our country...but how do I tell my daughter someday?  She will ask.  She will learn about this in school.  For me, it's like hearing from my mom where she was when Kennedy was shot, how I remember 911.  Maybe I'm being dramatic.  Regardless, I wanted to take a moment to thank you out of the public eye, away from the jeering and negative comments...I wanted to thank you for all the things you have written.  I have printed your articles from Huff Post.  I will share these with my dear child when she asks how women responded to the news of our 45th President.

So here I am, one small voice.

While I love to entertain with my stories and will certainly continue to do so, I don’t imagine that’s the only reason I have this platform.

Some scoff at the fear so many of us feel in our hearts right now. They say the President-elect won’t be so bad. He ‘just’ said and did hateful things to get elected.

As if a willingness to incite hatred and violence among citizens for the sake of one’s own gain were not such a terrible thing.

It is such a terrible thing.

Here are the words that are with me every day now:

We must not allow extremism and bigotry to become the norm.

We must not think that because we are not one of ‘them,’ we are safe.

Yet we also must not give in to fear.

CLICK HERE for the post I wrote the day after the election, The Unthinkable Has Happened. Here’s How We Move Forward.

Because we have to move forward, and no one can do that while paralyzed with fear.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

[girlonawireblog]

GRACE

On August 22, 1993, Fulbright Scholar and anti-apartheid activist Amy Biehl was driving friends home in South Africa when her car was stopped by an angry mob of black militants. Amy — a white American — was stabbed and stoned to death. Four young men were convicted of her murder.

That could have been the end of the story. It could have simply been another tragic footnote in the typical tale of a nation plagued by racial division and violence.

Only in this instance, the way Amy Biehl’s parents chose to handle their grief resulted in an extraordinary ripple effect.

Linda and Peter Biehl traveled to the South African township of Guguletu, where Amy had been killed and where her murderers had been raised.

They tried to fill the void created by her death with understanding.

They tried to imagine how these young men could have been filled with so much hate, they killed a stranger because of the color of her skin.

Linda and Peter Biehl came to believe Amy’s real killer was apartheid, that system in which hatred was institutionalized, compassion replaced by contempt, individuality obliterated by skin color.

When Amy’s killers came before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission seeking amnesty, the Biehls attended the hearing, and they did not object. They felt certain Amy — so opposed to the evil of apartheid — would have wanted the men pardoned and released.

This is the point in this story where something within me is always uncomfortably stirred.

As a mother, I think of how I would respond to violence against my child, and it’s not pretty. No matter how evolved I’d like to think I am, I know my gut instinct would be to seek retribution. Vengeance. A visiting of all my pain on those who’d inflicted it on me.

Maybe this is why, all these years later, Amy Biehl’s story sticks with me.

The way her parents responded to her death stands as a challenge to my smaller self. It gives me pause…and, frankly, hope for humanity.

Linda and Peter Biehl started The Amy Biehl Foundation, funding programs benefiting young people in the community of Guguletu. South Africa became their second home. For much of each year, they lived and worked in the very place where their daughter was killed, working to transform the environment that produced Amy’s killers.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu said: “The logic would be that South Africans should be giving some kind of reparation to the Biehls. They’ve turned it all upside down. It is the victims, in the depth of their own agony and pain, who say, ’The community — which produced these murderers — we want to help that community be transfigured.’”

And they didn’t stop there.

When Easy Nofomela and Ntebecko Peni, two of the men convicted of killing Amy, reached out to the Biehls to meet, apologize, and ask forgiveness, Linda and Peter not only met with them, they built a relationship with them.

Through The Amy Biehl Foundation, the two men received training and jobs. They have worked in Amy’s name ever since, and they formed a bond with her parents that proves the power of grace and forgiveness. Linda has described her feelings for the young men — each of whom were only 19 when they participated in Amy’s killing — as ‘maternal.’

It has been 23 years since Amy Biehl died. Why bring up her story now?

Take a look at some of my recent posts, or just consider the ugliness that’s surfaced in the current Presidential election here in the U.S. I know how disheartening it all is. Seeing so much racism, misogyny, anger and hatred so openly expressed has made many of us wonder if we’ve really made progress as a nation — or if we every truly can.

And then I think of Amy Biehl.

In the face of the unthinkable, her parents paused. They quelled their reactionary instincts and instead doubled down, effecting positive change in honor of their daughter. To date, the Amy Biehl Foundation has served thousands of young people, and it has done so largely through the mind-boggling collaboration of her parents and two of her killers.

Even in the worst of circumstances, positive change can happen — and it begins with choices made on the personal level.

Peter Biehl passed away from cancer in 2002. Linda continued the Foundation work, and in 2013 she observed the 20th anniversary of Amy’s passing at a service in Gugulethu. Ntebecko Peni’s daughter sat on her lap, playing with her scarf and calling her Makulu, which means ‘grandmother’ or ‘wise woman’ in Xhosa. Easy Nofomela helped her place white lilies on Amy’s memorial, and she leaned into him for support.

That, my friends, is amazing grace in action.

So here, now, we vote.

We look at the anger and hatred that’s surfaced in our nation.

And then, hopefully, we look at our own lives.

We pause before we react.

We consider the ripple effect.

Moment by moment, choice by choice, we build the world we want.

Amy, serving.

Amy and classmates.

Children in after school programs provided by The Amy Biehl Foundation play marimbas at the 20th anniversary remembrance celebration of Amy’s life. Linda Biehl, in black and pink, is escorted by the daughter of Ntebecko Peni.

Linda Biehl and Easy Nofomela embrace.

After years of working together for The Amy Biehl Foundation, Linda and Easy share a bond that epitomizes grace and hope. 

www.girlonawirekcw.com