"There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them." — Sylvia Plath

Monday, November 25, 2013

As a kid I can remember fighting with Ashley to be closest to the tub faucet. We had a system, as the  the warm water would pour in, slowly spreading itself out, the person closest to the faucet would start pushing the water back. This insured that everyone in the tub was equally warm. The water would circulate the tub slowly heating it up. But of course the spot closest to the faucet was the warmest and therefore the struggle would begin, Ashley usually winning.
I also remember my first time shaving in the tub. My fascination with razors and what they did intrigued me to the point of pressing the razor against my knee, unaware of the danger it would inflict. I remember my mom asking me why my knee was bleeding so much and my response being, "I fell." Both of us knowing that was not the reason.
Now days my tub time is spent alone, resting my head against the cold surface as the water rings around my neck, sometimes thinking back on these moments and laughing.
My tub time no longer requires me to fight for warmth or to watch blood dilute in the water, although I am still not an expert and cut myself time to time.
There really is no point to this, except to point out, that I really like my tub time.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Thursday, November 14, 2013

The other night my friend told me I need to be kinder with myself...
Arn't we all our toughest critic?!
I haven't been able to train for this race thats coming up, tomorrow.
I only like to compete when I feel like I have properly trained, when I know I am giving it my all. But instead my lungs want to take me the distance and my joints want me to stop.
I still haven't found out where I am going for my 3 month fieldwork in January, when most of my class knows. I'm tired of writing the coordinators and feeling like an annoyance.
My sugar intake is out of control ever since my birthday, the party continues, and now I find myself not feeling well right before the race.
When I picked up my phone this morning I saw large spider web cracks lining the back and I have no clue how they got there. Reminded of the countless people who have told me to get a case but I am too cheap to invest in one.

I am currently reading WILD, by Cheryl Strayed. In the books she is hiking the PCT trail all alone and this part specifically takes place at night while she is hiking when her headlamp goes out.

" I walked with a kind of concentration I'd never had before, and because of it I could feel the trail and my body more acutely, as if I were walking barefoot or naked. It reminded me of being a child and learning how to ride a horse. My mother had taught me on her horse, Lady, letting me sit in the saddle while she stood holding a lead rope attached to Lady's bridle. I clutched Lady's mane with my hands at first, scared even when she walked, but eventually I relaxed and my mother implored me to close my eyes so I could feel the way the horse moved beneath me and the way my body moved with the horse. Later, I did the same thing with my arms held out wide on either side, going round and round, my body surrendering."

Thats not always an easy task for me. But it's more exhausting to run these things over and over in my head unable to do anything about it.
I have to put my hands wide out, feeling the bumps life throws and continue to move on.
I'm tired, I have a cracked phone, don't know my plan for 3 months, my health is shit right now but it's all good because...
I will finish the race, I can still use my phone, I will be placed somewhere, and I am still breathing.

This couldn't describe my friends and I any better....

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Sunday, November 10, 2013

“I must learn to love the fool in me--the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of my human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my Fool.”

― Theodore I. Rubin

"To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow - this is a human offering that can border on miraculous." — Elizabeth Gilbert

Friday, November 8, 2013

I am trying to document my last treatment session with the 14-year old boy with autism.
I am having a hard time writing down the events that took place, attempting to keep my emotions and frustrations out of the professional wording that needs to go down on paper.
He was frustrated this past week, pushing my classmate and punching me in the stomach.
I didn't take offense to it because I feel like I could see the frustration in his eyes as everyone was trying to calm the tears streaming down his face.
It seemed like he was trapped in his body unable to express his frustration and tell us what was wrong.
As we tried and tried to calm him his frustration continued to escalate.
I felt helpless as I stepped back to watch him throw himself on the play equipment, just crying big tears, almost unable to breath, starring at faces that couldn't understand him.
Frustration was starting to rise in me as the teachers dealt with him, I wanted to push them aside and just let him cry, let him be upset.
This was his only outlet, his only way of expressing something.
His body language was telling us something that his words could not, something we could actually understand.
But instead I stood there watching him.

I want to fix things and help, but sometimes I can't.
I have to step back, remove myself, try to understand, really attempt to see someone for what they are and accept it.

"You know those moments when everything is exactly the way it was meant to be? When you find yourself and your entire universe aligning in perfect synchronization, and you know you couldn’t possibly be more content? I was inside that very moment, and fully conscious of it." — Alice Clayton (Wallbanger)

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

I sit here in my kitchen/living room starring out my door at all the leaves falling and rustling in the wind. 
I find myself so content in this moment that I decided to attempt to capture it and share it. 
It's in these moments that I can really breath, deep, and its almost impossible to be negative. 
Really I don't think much in these moments. I just sit.
And when I do think, I think of how darn lucky I am. 
Grateful and satisfied. 

"To find the balance you want, this is what you must become. You must keep your feet grounded so firmly on the earth that it's like you have 4 legs instead of 2. That way, you can stay in the world. But you must stop looking at the world through your head. You must look through your heart, instead. That way, you will know God." — Elizabeth Gilbert

Sunday, November 3, 2013

I am grounded.
My conscious speaking louder than my impulse. 
I give advice directed towards the less of judgement. 
I want up,
My fingers unable to find and point towards ground. 
Resting arms and legs, unable to hold me against this hard surface. 
to laugh uncontrollably.
to be angry as hell.
Acting on the first beat of my heart.
Changing my mind if the arrow points another way.
But my feet are not free floaters.
The ground hugging my soles.
Giving me the support for the running start to take a leap.

"I just realized my lips are inside out. They should be turned inwards, because I spend most of my time talking to myself. 
” ― Jarod Kintz

Friday, November 1, 2013

I think a lot...
and I use to talk a lot.

Sometimes, I am taken back to my papa's cream colored, two doored, old Ford truck.
Him and my 7 year old self sitting there on the worn out leather seats bouncing up the winding road from the small town of Northport, Wa.
He had this way about him that made me want to tell him everything, ask him everything.
So I did.
Then one time he looked at me with his big hands gripping the enormous steering wheel and with a big sigh asked me in his rough country voice,
"Kate, do you ever stop talking?"
I immediately looked out the window, trying to hold back the tears rushing to my eyes and sinking as deep as I could into the slippery leather seat.
His heart strings were probably tugged a bit when he saw me holding back the tears, his abrasive comment to a 7 year old was probably not the right choice of words.
But papa was good at twisting his words around, so he followed his comment up with,
"Kate, thats a great quality. Don't you ever stop talking."
and so I perked up and kept on talking, healed and mended by his words.

I think a lot still, but don't say as much.
I often think of this story, and think how maybe all of what I think, people don't want to hear.
and thats ok, thats why I have a blog.
I sometimes desire to open the up the door to my 7 year old self again, and sometimes I do.
But most of the time I hold my thoughts, letting them roll around mixing in whatever way they are spun.
Assured that I will share when the right person is sitting next to me.

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