Sitting at the Doorstep of Truth

I find myself standing at the threshold of another journey inward. And there’s something important about naming it from the beginning—as the most delightful parts of an adventure are often written in the side paths, the slips, the places of friction, and the sparks of beauty along the way.

For the next month, I’m living inside a training at Kripalu Yoga Center—a container designed not only to teach postures, but to invite us into the deeper practice: turning toward the Self with steadiness, curiosity, and care. My modern definition and idea of ‘yoga’ is dissolving, which is great. The root word, yuj, means “to yoke” or “to unite”—a practice of integration. Not just body with breath, but inner with outer, fleeting with eternal. Yoga isn’t about achieving a shape; it’s about remembering the wholeness that was never lost.

In philosophy class today, it was poetically defined as a ‘stilling toward the Self’ . And to understand this concept — we were told the story of Nachiketa.

_______

Nachiketa’s story begins with a ritual gone sideways. His father, Vajasravasa, was performing a great sacrifice—an offering meant to be noble and generous. But instead of giving his best, he offered what was of no real value: old cows, too weak to give milk.

Nachiketa, young but unshakably clear, saw the gap between appearance and truth. With a child’s directness, he asked: “Father, to whom will you give me?”

Some say he asked because he felt his father should offer something truly precious. Others say it was simply an innocent question—a child wondering if he too might be “given away.” Either way, his persistence struck a nerve. Irritated and ashamed, his father snapped: “I give you to Death.”

Those words could have been brushed off, but Nachiketa took them to heart. And that is where his courage began. He followed them—quite literally—to the house of Yama, the god of death.

Yama wasn’t home. So Nachiketa waited.

One night passed. Then another. Then another. Three nights in total. No food. No water. No complaint. He simply remained at the threshold, steady and unwavering.

When Yama finally returned, he was moved. Rarely had anyone—let alone a child—waited with such patience and resolve. To honor him, Yama granted three boons—sacred wishes that must be fulfilled.

Nachiketa’s choices were striking. He could have asked for wealth, power, or a long and easy life. Instead, he asked for peace in his father’s heart. He asked to learn the sacred fire ritual. And then, with the clarity of one who will not be distracted, he asked the deepest question of all: What happens after death? What is the Self that does not die?

Yama tried to deflect. He offered palaces, music, pleasures—anything to pull the boy away from this most difficult inquiry. But Nachiketa refused. He wanted truth, not glitter.

At last, Yama relented. He revealed what the sages had carried for centuries: the true Self—the Atman—is not body, not mind, not the fleeting tides of thought and desire. It is the silent witness, eternal, unburned by fire, untouched by death.

This story touched me. Because like Nachiketa, we too are invited to sit at thresholds—moments when the usual distractions don’t satisfy the deeper hunger. The practice being asked of us is not to rush past, but to remain, patiently, until truth itself reveals what endures.

Dreams

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I just woke up from a nap so deep that if you asked me what my name is, what year is it, where exactly I am, all of it, at least for a few moments, would be completely, peacefully, unknown. It’s so pleasant to be in this state of ease — a state where all parts of myself, even the protective ones, have submitted to just ‘being’. It feels like I’m in another dimension… but is this sensation disconnection or reconnection?

It’s taken me some time to unwind the belief that sleeping, particularly napping, is a waste of time. Deeply rooted within me is a part that associates activity and action with productivity. It's the part that wonders why someone would sleep ten or twelve hours a day when our waking life is so finite — a part that detests the word 'lazy' and its sensation. It’s restless, curious, energetic. I can trace its origins to the personal, cultural, and political spheres I was raised in. It has its place, as it fuels much creation. Yet, learning to stop and allow ourselves to deeply rest is one of the pinnacle lessons of our time. Inaction is an action.

I can’t remember what shifted my perspective, perhaps it was due to the lack of consistent sleep. There were a few months when I was only sleeping five or six hours a night, and I thought my brain was broken. I couldn’t remember things, my nervous system was on guard all the time. I thought it was a lack of vitamins, minerals, or water, but it was just a deep need for rest. My perception of the dream world has been changing too. I began to have lucid dreams again — accidental ones, like I did as a child. Mid-dream, while my body is still asleep and in a state of paralysis, my mind will awaken and engage in the dream that’s unfolding (very similar to The Matrix). It’s quite joyful and exciting; if you’re skillful, you can dream up whatever experience you’d like. You can go flying, build cars that run on bubbles — anything and everything is possible.

But the dreams I’ve been having lately have a particular depth to them. They leave a bodily resonance I hadn’t experienced before. Some weeks ago, I woke up in a dream in which I was viewing the Earth from outer space. It was cool, loudly silent. I was moving all around the Earth, viewing it in all directions. But there was no ‘I’ to touch or experience, no body… just a sense of embodied awareness. So there I was, formless, directionless. I can’t tell you how long I slept, but when I awoke, it took me a few minutes to remember I had a human body. To remember who I was, what I was, where I was. I had another dream like this a few days later, this time retracing my lifetime, my exact age, which ended going back to the beginning of time. There, lay this embodied sense of eternity. Emptiness. I woke up feeling incredibly old.

I revel in the fact that I live in a place where I can share these dreams freely. What exactly is happening? Is this the beginning of insanity? Is this awakening? A few of those I told have smiled and laughed… “Those don’t sound like dreams,” one said. “They sound like memories — embodied experiences of insights.” Many cultures and traditions deeply value dreams as opportunities for receiving information from the cosmos, spaces for healing. I was speaking to an elder of the Dakota Nation the other day, and she freely shared how people, insights, and truths have come to her in the middle of the night.

Gently, my understanding of what it is to be ‘alive’ expands. No longer a state I associate just with the waking world, but rather a way of being; wakeful, aware, in every state or dimension of reality. What even is reality? We are such mysteries. Life is such a mystery. So many paradoxes, so many unknowns. The more I explore, the less I seem to know. The less I seem to know, the more open, the more peaceful I feel.

A few little thoughts on Love…

Is it possible to love without attachment?

I thought that by entering a monastery, I’d be protected and safe from the pulls and sways of the heart, all the challenges, deep vulnerabilities, and intense emotions that often come along with loving relationships. It was one, if not the reason for coming here. I was noticing how deeply pulled I was trying to care for the needs of others, feeling lost or conflicted in my own needs. How my judgements and fears would project themselves, or how deep connections - which felt cosmic - would consume my whole being.

Yet as tenderness took hold inside and around me, what I found was even more to fall in love with—human beings, living beings, memories. Sometimes, all I can see is love, everywhere. Have you watched the way a bee caresses the inside of a poppy? Or how the ripples of a river gently kiss the shoreline? Creation is so deeply in love with itself and so delightfully unbashful in its expression of admiration. Relationships are not something we create from non-existence but rather something we delicately foster, as we’re in relation to everything all the time, even if it may appear otherwise.

As I write this, I’m sitting on the shore of a pond, listening to birds sing, sensing the breeze gently brush my arms—there is such tenderness. The quality of each relationship is so keenly determined by the quality of presence I am offering. Might I sense not just with my eyes and ears, but my whole being. Not just what is happening around me, but within, as we are but thin, porous entities—in reality, there is no ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ ourselves.

This is all to say that love is an art, an action. Love is what we are. How to love is the deep inquiry. How do we embody a love that feels freeing, spacious, nourishing? How do we enter a relationship from a place of equanimity? Can we allow beautiful things to come and go? What does it entail to be deeply intimate with life? Where does the deepest form of intimacy lie? These questions are ongoing investigations, ever-present in my mind as I notice my heart softening and expanding.

At the moment, I’m experiencing so much attraction it is sometimes overwhelming. Yet I relish in its aliveness - and when attraction or desire arise, I gently tend to these beautifully powerful feelings by asking myself—

What is it in their ‘being’ that I find incredibly beautiful?

Perhaps it’s the way they offer themselves space for silence or their free-spirited curiosity for life. Perhaps it’s their gentleness, artistic talents, openness. If I can play and piece them apart into essences of ‘being,’ I’ve found I can not only invite myself to cultivate that quality in my own ‘being’ but expand my love to those essences existing in this very moment in other forms—humans and beyond. This leads to such a deepening of love and catapults me into a space of curiosity and abundance. Attachment fades as I experience the felt sensation of not needing a particular someone or something to feel the love or peace I notice present around them. It’s always there.

The other key I’ve been investigating is if I am loving from a truly authentic space—my deepest aspiration is to support the growth and solidity of whatever I am loving, whether it’s my grandfather, a flower, or a friend. I wish nothing more than for them to freely explore their self-potential and all the gifts within them. So now, I’m practicing that with everything I meet, I ask myself—

How can I support their solidity and wellbeing in a way that feels nourishing for us both?

And then there are the fears that often jaunt alongside the beauty of loving—fear of being deeply vulnerable, perhaps abandoned. Yet if I enter from a space of deep love and trust for myself and the other, do I still fear vulnerability, or welcome it with the utmost pleasure? Is vulnerability not just a form of deep intimacy with life? And isn’t that aliveness? Heartache—not a sensation to run away from, but to collect as moments I’ve fully lived.

When my grandfather passed away, my fear of death dissipated quite immediately. Yet in its place arose the deepest fear I still hold: not living this life in a way that I feel ‘fully alive.’ And perhaps, to embody and live in non-fear, is one of the deepest offerings of love there is.

Can we live in spacious, boundless love? Support one another in our aliveness? Perhaps that is freedom for us all.

Here is a little poem I scribbled after mediating on love on evening:

Wonder-filled View

So much of my experience here has been about "remembering" — remembering that we are all made of stardust, that we are porous entities, and that everything is in constant motion. Remembering what a miracle it is to touch the Earth, participating in the gentle dance with gravity alongside all other living beings. As I write this, I am looking outside a window, entirely captivated by the way the flies play with their own weight, tenderly swirling with the forces that ground us here.

When I first arrived at the monastery (and even now, eight months in, I still catch myself questioning the simplicity of the daily practice): sit, eat, work, walk. But do I truly know how to walk? How to sit? How to eat? The art of living requires presence and grace. There is so much complexity, depth, and divinity in simplicity, so much richness if we allow ourselves to touch and explore it. I’ve been experimenting with ways to expand my perceptions because our views so clearly dictate how we interact with and navigate the mystery of life. What would it feel like to bask in a clear perception of reality? How would that transform the way I dance through time and space?

I started by challenging how I perceive human beings. Might I see the person in front of me as "Joe," or can I see them as a walking galaxy waiting to be explored? What if I see them, and ourselves, as fields of sensations? While researching the senses, I learned that we have anywhere from 22 to 33 different senses, such as proprioception (our sense of balance) and chronoception (how we sense the passing of time). What about the age of a person? Do I see someone as 70 years old, or might I connect with the fact that our human eyes were created 555 million years ago? Our bodies are wonder museums of natural history. Or what if I see human beings as simply "love in form"? Life becomes fascinating when I begin to question everything with open curiosity. Might I try and identify all the patterns of the universe within the body? The branching of our veins, the way our eyes are shaped like nebulas? Sometimes I feel like I'm five years old, playing in my mind — but I revel in this. Children are deeply connected; they often see more clearly than adults. Not because of knowledge, but perhaps the opposite. Their minds are empty, open, present, and filled with wonder. It's not age that takes this away from us; it's the narrowing of beliefs and comfort in our ways, our "truths." But what if start to break-open this narrowing?

I have a lot of questions. But the real question is: which questions are worth asking? Which ones are going to contribute to well-being? In this realm of exploration, there are three that I feel are beautiful invitations to ponder:

- What does it mean to be alive?

- What way(s) of seeing would invite a joyful exploration of life?

- How may I connect to the poetry of life?

This last one might be my favorite - because, what if, life is poetry?

Deep truths hidden in plain sight. 

I began a practice of writing poetry daily last fall. Never before was it a form of writing I explored, but suddenly it seemed like the most truthful way to express what I was seeing.

The practice took form after I stumbled across a book in the library one day filled with beautiful poems by one of the elder nuns here. I complimented her on its beauty and asked if she’d like to share poetry. She smiled and said, "Kate, that was not poetry; those were my diary entries. I was on a three-month silent retreat, and every morning I took a walk and wrote down exactly what I saw: 'Two birds sitting on a branch.'" There it was — the effortless poetry of life. All that's asked of us is deep listening.

So I started doing just that. Every morning, I took a walk with nothing but a pencil and a little notebook and wrote down exactly what I saw when something caught my eye:

12-3-23

Footsteps, Footsteps, Footsteps

Cracks and crinkles of stones beneath

Watching time frozen

The tips of the clovers frosted

Touching chilly toes and fingers and nose

So fresh, so free

12-7-23

Far off castle windows reflect

The electric pink waking sun

Sleepy vineyards dusted purple

Cool, Gentle wind kisses the tops of Ash trees

Relaxed, Malleable

Oh Sun, what might you enliven today?

Farmers stand at row ends

Tending, to their own rhythm 

Clouds stratified

The backdrop burning rose gold wonder

Standing cool, enlightened

Soon, it was hard not to stop and write, as everything held meaning. The frosted forest I trekked through so gracefully mirrored the experiences that were unfolding within me.

12-21-24

Walking through mist, rain 

Tiny drops which drench every molecule of my being

Leaves fly, gracefully undressing the Oaks 

Their skeletons, histories, entirely exposed

Rainstorms, Drought, Heatwaves, 

All written in their branching, the thickness of their bark

For those who know how to read tree, nothing lies unknown

Can I allow myself to strip to nakedness?

To see my own skeleton?

To submit to death, to winter?

Would I even recognize myself?

Could I tell you the placement of my scars, my branching, my growth?

What might that feel like?

What might that allow for?

Is it fear – that I could not hold the truth of the sight of naked self?

Shame that I have not welcomed her sooner?

What if I just stop.

Allow the leaves to drop. 

Watch. 

Breathe.

And welcome the nakedness

The honesty, The rebirth.

One day, as I was singing and reveling in the ease of melody, I invited myself to create a melody from these little diary entries. What would they look like strung together? The result was a playful spoken-word titled “I Am No Poet”. 

I am no Poet 

Kate Talano

I am no poet

but if I were, 

I’d go sit in the field of Cosmos

and contemplate the fact that

here, 

I am 

looking at Cosmos

pinks, purples, blues

within The Cosmos, 

as The Cosmos

well aren’t I just the most beautiful thing.

what else gets to look at itself, touch itself, love itself, be itself?

I am no poet

but if I were, 

I’d take myself on a walk

not to search for Truth, but listen to truths

they’d pled:

Please! Let us out!

uncover us from the blanketed night sky, 

littered with lights – so visibly empty

wake us from the sleepy vineyards dusted purple,

beneath rose gold wonder 

catch us as we release back into gravity’s loving hold 

we just want to be heard.

play with us, and our friend, Form”

I am no poet

but if I were, 

I’d offer them Words,... though they are not mine. 

I’d find them pinned to walls, in soup bowls, 

under my shoes, nestled in the heart-shaped poplar leaves

I’d string these Words together, only to make a place 

in the space in-between

as only spaceless, placeless, formless,...all the “estless” ness

can hold truths

such beautiful, weightily little things

I’d join them in this space

working through humanness, cosmology

playing in puddles of clarity

liberating more truths

dancing, 

to the rhythm of heartbeats of all living beings, 

an amassed hum that envelops the earth in a honey-nectar glow -- 

so thick. so sweet.

I am no poet.

but if I were, 

I’d watch as my senses, like children, stumble over themselves

enthralled by freshness

the undiscovered, made and remade

worthy of that which is beyond time; true presence. 

I am no poet, 

but if I were, 

it’d be right here that truths and I would rest

in the restlessness of stillness

so much noise, 

so much moving

what does it feel like, 

  To be?

just as it is. 

like seven billion, 

billion, 

billion 

atoms of light 

streaming through channels and gullies of love

Awaiting...for the moment of radiance 

as combustion and creation are non-separate

this radiant energy, not to blind

But offer color,

  life, to Life.  

I am no poet

because, you see,

I am not looking for love, I am love. 

I am not turning on the light, I am light. 

I am no poet, I am poetry. 

Not speaking, listening. 

Not running around, moving with. 

Within. 

As. 

I am no poet. 

But if I were, 

I’d find a quiet place in the Cosmos,

In this particular Supercluster, 

Galaxy, 

Solar System, 

Planet,

a womb of truths

a small space, to sit, light a fire, listen to the rain, and write all this down

Not because it’s not already known

But to make sure it’s not forgotten.

But then again, I am no Poet.

Life, this mystery, is of such beauty if we choose to see it, to be it.

My writing practice is a bit sporadic at the moment. I’ll awaken from dreams or be staring at a slice of orange, and suddenly words will come streaming in and a little poem will appear. I do have aspirations to hop back onto the ‘morning poem’ routine.. but for now I’ll revel in the wonder as it is arising.

Tending

What does it mean to tend to humanity? To our own beautiful, enthralling human-ness? When I first considered writing about my journey, I envisioned a small book titled "Restore." This idea came to me shortly after my grandfather passed away, a moment that, along with grief and loss, brought deep clarity and expansiveness. I clearly saw a beautiful parallel between my work in restoration ecology and my commitment to caring for my mental well-being. The form may be different, but the essence is the same—listening, healing, rebuilding.

After that moment, I became focused on the idea of "restoring" humanity and myself. It was one of the reasons I took radical steps to reorient my life and settle in a Zen monastery. I needed time to heal; I was amidst a deep depression, grappling with grief, loss, and uncertainty. But just a few days in, I met a monk who profoundly changed my life. When I explained that I had come to the monastery to "restore" myself, he challenged the term.

“I have a distaste for that word,” he said. “‘Restore,’ ‘transform,’ ‘fix’—these words suggest that something is wrong or bad. They imply that something needs fixing or doesn’t belong, which goes against inclusivity and non-dualism. What if it’s not about ‘getting rid of’ but ‘tending to’? How do we tend to grief, regret, sadness, shame, confusion? And how do we tend to our happiness and joy?”

This perspective welcomed all parts of oneself. It reframed deep reflection and turning towards the shadowed sides of myself not as something I needed to do for my well-being and others, but as something I had the honor of doing. It invited curiosity and wonder. Can we be master gardeners of our minds, not trying to eliminate parts of ourselves but learning to take good care of them? Revel in the wholeness of our being?

This is a wild time to be alive, especially as humans. We are amidst so much chaos and turmoil, violence and division, disembodiment and forgetfulness, but in chaos lies creation. To create a new way of being, we must deeply listen and lay to rest what no longer serves us. We must be courageous and let go of what limits, confines, and defines us, beginning with ourselves. It takes courage, resilience, skillfulness, and humility. Healing is not a one-time thing; it’s an ongoing process, a verb, just like love. It’s beyond our lifetimes...

For this reason, my journal entries, especially in the first three months, took the form of letters to my future child. Inspired by master letter writers such as Rainer Maria Rilke, I found something artfully intimate in letter-writing. Letters encapsulate and transcend time and space. When reading letters, I oscillate between embodying the writer and the receiver, almost as if I’ve become entwined in the conversation and the experience itself. One-way letter writing is interesting, too, as it feels like these words, though materialized, might still be lost. But they are words that needed to be written. Truths spoken. Creativity expressed.

Another truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever have children of my own to read this letter series. But I do know that there is a child in all of us, a part filled with wonder and curiosity. It’s the part of us that must be spoken to and listened to, the part that can reimagine the world we’re in.

I’ve spent the past eight months tending to an organic garden alongside some incredible human beings. This is a particularly special garden where we grow everything from seed, make homes for pollinators, and spend a lot of time fostering our humanity. So here is my ‘tending’ to human-ness. In it lie the beautiful moments, insights, practices, and challenges encountered along the ever-unfolding path. In any backpacking adventure, it becomes clear that you must drop the heavy stuff and make space for the essentials—what will keep you and those you meet along the way safe and nourished? I view life like this too—all these experiences and practices are little medicines to stash in my imaginary backpack.

What I share is innately intimate yet universal. It’s a tribute to my ancestors, a dedication to those to come, and an invitation for us all to approach our human experience with utmost curiosity, each moment offering something interesting. The real trick is whether we are present for life, open to the poetry within us. Can we revel in our humanity while honoring the light within each of us? Can we let go of being ‘something’ or ‘someone’ so that we can be anything, everything? Can we dare to live beyond the timeline of our own heartbeats?

Listen however you may like—as yourself, as me, as my child, or as yourself as a child. I hope it inspires authentic curiosity, tenderness, hope, and connection, but most importantly, a sense of absolute wholeness.

Preface: Directions for Direction

NOTE: This writing piece was written long ago - but because of an assortment of factors (no wifi, fear of sharing, forgetting that I wrote this piece) - i just rediscovered it … how lovely! I am sharing because I find it a beautiful time capsule…a remembering of my initial headspace and aspirations journeying into this experience. So much has changed - my understand of self, my voice, the questions alive in me…. but this seed of aspiration is what allowed all else to unfold. It’s the processing of being and becoming that I find so beautiful. To share this preface is to share the story which created the story. Enjoy this archived preface!

Written Oct. 9th , 2023 | Revised Oct. 19th , 2023

The mentors in my life, those whom I admire and appreciate so deeply, have independently offered me the same advice in one way or another –  find a “north star”, a life “mission statement”. Write one for yourself and let that be a guiding light. 

They remind me of that fact that there are plenty of ways to navigate life from ‘point A’ to ‘point B’ (and in fact, that it one of the most extraordinary truths of life), but if we are honest with ourselves, who knows if we’ll will ever arrive at Point B....and that’s okay. By trekking towards an illuminating light, however, you’ll have been sure to leave behind a beautiful path day by day. 

The wise old sages in my life hand me compasses, encourage me to watch the rise of a full moon, and warmly pushing me to journey on. They chuckle and smile at my small antidotes of love, heartbreak, awakening, frustrations. Their advice seems to be intertwined with time – life is your teacher – keep living. You’ll figure it out eventually. 

The friends and family in my life send me sweet childhood photos and drawings and relay stories about past selves I’ve long forgotten. Dreams and aspirations I had at age 5. Personality traits that have been there since the beginning. They hand me books and well wishes and tell me to go for it. 

Directions for Direction, I suppose. 

I took time in the forest a few months ago to write a mission statement. The exact question was asked by a wise monk named Rupert:

“What do I feel called to offer our greater world in this life?”

The end product was not a sentence (at least not in the normal sense) – but in it lies truth. It’s also a great peek into how my mind works...not just in words but in colors, in lines, in stories -- 

People I love, and even strangers, describe me as something ‘cosmic’, to which I often respond –    “ Aren’t we all ?! ”. Fiery, Luminous, Lightening, a Supernova, the Sun. 

Basically, A LOT of energy. 

I was not always sure how to take this comment....you’re telling me I’m a gaseous ball of fire? What am I supposed to do with this? Am I going to explode in your face?! 

I’m chuckling to myself right now because it’s true. Whenever I’m worked up about something, my Dad says I’m in “Icarious-mode”...flying a little too close to the Sun. I have the curiosity and energy levels to go non-stop – to do anything and everything that comes my way. And caffeine brings this intensity to a whole other level – it’s like giving the energizer bunny cocaine. Yet my Dad often reminds me that the Sun has the power both to create and destroy life.

Good point, Dad. 

So when I sit with all this –– it’s clear that the first step to fulfilling a deeper mission is knowing how to direct and channel this wild energy into creative energy.  How to tend to and transformation the intensity and deep questioning I behold into actions and objects of beauty. How to live by truth, and be at home within myself. 

It is clear that after the passing of my Grandfather, I experienced an existential revelation (I do not like this word ‘crisis’, as it tends to have a negative connotation, And I think having big, awakening thoughts is beautiful). I woke up and somehow nothing and everything about this world make sense all at once. 

I was determined or deeply yearned to believe, that if I set out with no plan whatsoever, the Universe (God, Greater power, etc.) would guide me to the source of all knowledge and truth. It would lead me on journey to purpose and peace...I just had to listen. In my head this journey would look something like a year global circumnavigation. I’ve taken a disliking to airplanes in the recent years, so this journey would involve road tripping to the West Coast, sailing from California to South Asia, going on a walkabout across Australia, taking the Polar Express to venture across Russia, etc., etc..

 I really love how whimsical and explorative my brain can be. Because of this, it oftentimes gets me into really funny situations. 

  I attempted this self-discovery approach. 

Got rid of my iPhone. Bought some AAA maps, packed up all my belongings, and just starting driving up the East Coast. If I listened to the physical and metaphorical signs around me, I’d end up in the right spot. But after about 14 hours of driving in circles in who-the-hell-knows-where rural Georgia, I conceded to using a car GPS to get me to the town I was looking for. This approach was just burning gas and making my butt really sore. God talks through GPS, right?

I think what I needed was a little expansion in my approach. I needed to embrace the beauty of time and acknowledge profound moments aren’t always at the top of Mount Blanc or an island in Fiji. And maybe I’m wrong, but God is not a “fast chicken in an air fryer” type of chef. Immaculate things take time to create. 

I continued driving, but I knew Fred was right. 

For those of you who have yet to meet Fred Eppstiner – he is a very wise spiritual leader who founded and currently leads the Florida Community of Mindfulness. He really tells you like it is – there is no beating around the bush with that one. 

After my Grandfather passed, I called him up to help unravel what exactly happened and get his take on my new life plan. 

“Kate, you don’t have to “go” anywhere – life is the practice. It’s all here. This knowledge and purpose and truth your after – it’s within you. You got a peek into the pure human mind. You just can’t see it because all the ridiculous human stuff is in the way.”

Not what I wanted to hear. 

I always joked about “letting go” of everything and going to live in a monastery for a period of my life. The clarity that arises when I manage to quiet the monkey-mind is addicting – and knowing how to harness one’s mind is everything. Again, we can only meet the World with as much depth as we’ve met ourselves. But I had so much fear around doing so. How could I leave the start of a career, a newfound relationship, my family, my friends? 

But then again, I feel like I’m in a half-awakened state restlessly walking through life – feeling the expansiveness of what’s around me but not able to see everything for what it is. I’m not after true enlightenment (though I would not object to such a state !) – but I know a deeper, brighter sense of knowing is in reach. One of my dear mentors described my current position as within a womb. There being just a thin membrane separating myself from that which is greater than us all. She’s right on. I don’t fear death, I fear not fully living. Not making the most of the one, miraculous human life I’ve been gifted. 

I know well that it is entirely possible to find truth while living the life you are in this exact moment. You don’t need to go to a Monastery. Or get rid of the majority of possessions. Or completely power-down from the world for a bit of time. But when the questioning becomes so loud in one’s mind, it’s hard to tend to anything else. By placing oneself in a physical space of contemplation, away from the distractions of daily life, it allows you to breathe. It warmly embraces sensitivity, vulnerability, transition. It’s a life-trajectory changer, yet deep inside I could not imagine doing anything else.

I stumbled upon Plum Village in the most roundabout way two summers ago. I wanted to explore Buddhism and had plans to travel to France with close friends. 

So I typed in “Buddhist monasteries in France”, and there popped up Plum Village – a Buddhist monastery in southern France, founded in 1982 by two Vietnamese monastics and peace activists Thich Naht Hahn and Chân Không. After a week-long retreat, it was almost shocking how different I felt, and how much deeper I saw the World within and around me. I made a pact with myself to play the “game of life” for a bit, but the more aware you are of things, the more beauty and suffering you notice around you. And it’s hard to unsee, really hard.

Plum Village offers a year-long program for a handful of lay-people focused on promoting mindfulness, community-building, and sustainability. It starts with participating in the yearly Rains Retreat, a three-month intensive time of practice with the community. 

From what I understand, the tradition of this retreat goes back to the time of the Buddha, when the monastics would move to a different place every two days or so. However, during the Monsoon season, such frequent pilgrimages proved impossible, thus the Buddha said “Alrighty, let’s use this season to stop and retreat into ourselves”. So three months out of the year were dedicated to studying the Dharma in a quieter, self-led contemplative state. 

Plum Village upholds this tradition. The three-month period seasonally-adjusted to fit with the beginning of winter in France. Physical boundaries are placed around the Monastery, and walking loops are drawn. Everything is thoughtfully scheduled to allow your mind to rest and expand. Emphasis is placed on tending to yourself and taking time to harmonize with the community.  

If, after these 90-days, the community feel like you am a good fit (and vice versa), you spend the rest of the year cultivating the land, and together with the Plum Village brothers (monks) and sister (nuns), host retreats, experience weeks, guided tours, and workshops. As a women, I live in Lower Hamlet with the sisters. There are about 46 nuns participating in the retreat, and 14 of us “lay-women”.

I’ve only been here four days and can already feel things within myself shifting. 

I’ve started writing a journal dedicated to my future child. The idea just came into my mind early one morning. Something about recording and handing over this time to them feels inexplicably right. They are, in some way, a future self, a wise, younger, older, also seeking self. And the reasons I’m choosing to take this time in my life to dive deep within, is not just for my well-being, but it’s for those who came before (who made this moment possible), and those ahead.  It’s for the people I loved, love, and will love. For those my words touch once or every day. 

So I suppose I’m doing it for everyone. 

I want my future child to know that to be a ‘seeker’ is to accept a hunger withing yourself – a constant gnawing that, if ignored, will amass to a resounded roar no one can ignore. I wish for them not to hear this noise as something to shiver or shy away from, but dance to. I want to remind them it’s a gift. And this “seeking” is a state, not a place or circumstances. It looks different for everyone. I want them to take the time to go ‘all-in’ – in whatever form them choose. To let go of all knowns, and accept submission of the unknown. 

 In letting go, so much will be found. Pain that needs tending to. Untouched passions. My voice. But perhaps most significantly, studying the mind, my mind, will help me to be present for life. Everything will be deeper. Richer. More vibrant. My capacity to understand the realms of consciousness within myself will be surpassed. The mind will be a tool, not a jungle to get lost in. 

I discovered my aspiration for this retreat while writing to my future child. I noticed I completely changed how I write and what I choose to write about. My tone of voice is so much kinder, gentler, forgiving, when I dedicate the words to them than to myself. 

“To find peace within and with oneself”.

I sat and walked with that for a bit. And then I realized what I’m after is a bit more refined. Because I do in fact feel peaceful about many things, it just never sticks around for a long period of time. 

I want to build a beautiful home in my body. A peaceful home – one that I can come back to and rest in, a place that is warm and loving. It’s been a battleground for much to long. I’ve forgotten how to listen – or I’ve become so tolerant to pain and discomfort. I’ve gone through periods of complete starvation and abuse while prescribing to standards that are shallow, hollow, yet slippery dark holes.

It’s time to heal. Time to rebuild – and perhaps it will be a stronger, more soundly-built home than ever before. 

That’s how ‘peace’ will come. 

I have to create a space for it to nestle into. 

I’ve decided too, at least for these first three months, to cocoon myself from the World and retreat within. I turned off my cell phone, cut my line, and have no source of Wi-Fi. It feels strange, but right. Because if not now, when? If this isn’t an ideal time to dive fully into myself (touch depths, sources of pain, spaces of love and peace), I’m not sure another time as proper will come.

I really don’t know what’s ahead, but that’s the beautiful part of it all. It will be what it will be. I trust the future Kate, a wiser, more grounded self, to tend to what comes next. So for now, I’ll tend to her.

With Love,

Kate 

May 23, 2023

Note, I did not expect this piece to be as long as it is, but like with most life-changing moments, to understand what happened that day, knowledge of what lied before has to be there....perhaps more for myself than you. It’s in reflective moments like these that I see the intimacy of the past, present, and future – bounded all-together in a timeless dance. How neat. 

Also of note – I seek vulnerability as an invitation into my life, my story, the collective human experience. I believe that out of fear, society relays the limiting belief that vulnerability is a showing of weakness, fault, shame. But if the World was a little more vulnerable, more open, it would be a radically more vibrant place. To get to the good stuff – you have to go in – all in. 

Since I was a young, I’ve always been a ‘seeker’. Someone who has little interest in the ‘what’ or ‘where’ or ‘when’ and a deep hunger for the ‘how’ and ‘why’. There’s nothing I love more than exploring – it’s when I venture into the unknown that I feel most alive; most vulnerable; most strong and vibrant. I’ve always loved this natural tendency of myself – it’s resulted in so many great stories and profound adventures. It gobbles up reason and fear in a beautiful, harmonious way. I love all of this, that is, until the hunger for understanding gets so intense that I can’t think about anything else; I can’t ‘be’ where I am because I’m trying to understand how “I am”.  

Mormor (middle) sitting with her two sisters, Joanie and Diane. 2006.

This “seeking” quality has taken on other forms in my life, too. I started therapy after the passing of my Grandmother, ‘Mormor’. She was a bright, gentle light whose voice held you, whose words healed you, and whose presence protected you. I loved how much she loved us. I loved to see her in the front row of all my recitals and performances. I didn’t love how sick she got with cancer. Or how thin and pale and weak and sometimes grumpy she became. I didn’t love the feelings of abandonment and regret I experienced once she died. Tack on the fact that it was the ’08 financial crisis and my parent’s relationship was visibly pressed -- my 9-year old self really did not love any of that. 

I was a highly-sensitive child – which meant  others' joy became my joy; others' anxiety manifested into really bad stomach aches; and death, of someone I deeply loved, took a part of me with them. I was holding onto so much suffering– and had no idea how or why. There were countless times growing up where I simply could not go to school or dance class or sleepovers because my stomach aches and social anxiety were so intense. I’d lay in bed, watching TV, eating saltines, waiting for the really sharp pains or hyperventilating to stop. I accepted anxiety as you do a nagging companion – always pipping up in the spaces where stillness supposedly lies. I allowed limiting self-identifying labels to stick like “anxious” and “over-emotional”. I didn’t object to the nickname “Shorty Mc’ Farty”, given to me by the girls on my dance team....you know, reflecting on this, I feel less bad for incidentally farting in their faces. I accepted it all; but, knew I didn’t want to keep living life this way. It was just no way to live. 

I was not keen on therapy at first – it took time to find someone I deeply trusted; someone who would create that safe space in which I could release. Once I found that person, I loved it. It’s like being Sherlock Holmes in your own mind – uncovering answers to questions you may or may not have even set out asking. How come I feel anxious? Why did those actions hurt me so much? Why did I run away when he was trying to ask me to the school dance? I loved understanding the sources of different emotions, and how to work with them. The anxiety didn’t disappear, but at least I knew what it was and how to hold it. Therapy became the highlight of the week. In that room, sitting on those big fluffy floor pillows, I discovered a steadfast curiosity and commitment to understanding ‘self’ – as I knew I could ‘meet’ others only as deeply as I’ve met myself. 

In my young mind, it was that simple. 

All of this explanation is to say this deep love of exploring the inner and outer landscapes was cultivated, perhaps unknowingly, at a young age. That, and a keen respect for my elders. With the loss of Mormor, and the regrets I had dismissing her and wishing she’d leave so the pain would be over, I signed a mental pack with myself to deeply cherish my grandparents that remained – to love them, care for them, understand them, sit with them and listen to their stories. I am them, after all. 

I was really lucky, as I was born into a life with five grandparents. On my maternal side -- Mormor, Grandad, and Grandma Alice. And on my paternal side, Papa and Grammy. 

Grammy, Papa, and their grandchildren.

Living in the same town as Papa and Grammy, we’d see them quite often. Sunday dinners, beach days, art shows. When we lived in the same neighborhood, I’d bike over to their home and cook with Grammy for hours on end. 

Grandma and Grandad.

We usually saw Grandad and Grandma twice a year, once in the winter, and then in the summers in Maine, where they lived. Maine summers were my absolute favorite – I grew up picking wild blueberries under the tall white pines and sailing ‘Traci’, a tiny wooden boat in Casco Bay. Grandma was a reserved, quick-witted, well-read woman who’d happily chat with you in-between her reading of the newspaper and her daily sudokus. She was slow, thoughtful, deliberate.

 Grandad, on the other hand, was a powerhouse – a petite, unstoppable man whose mission was to craft as much joy for himself and others as possible. He loved gardening, woodworking, boating, playing music – just about everything you could think of, that man did. Every year there would be a new adventure for us children – a hand-built jungle gym, a massive tube for the ocean, a new part of ‘alien way’ in the yard. He strictly enforced untraditional traditions – there was no getting out of the nightly “twinkle-twinkle” ice cream walks around the neighborhood or group tractor rides. 

As one may assume, 86 Dipper Cove was a haven, a magical place to play hard and to lose track of time. 

We all knew something had changed when he started forgetting things. The route home from his favorite beach spot, the conversation we had an hour ago, what grades each of us were in. He became short and angry with us children when he didn’t understand. But in actuality, none of us did. It made sense then, we found out it was Alzheimer’s. Looking back, I can actually pinpoint the year he was diagnosed based on aerial photos of the yard. As he declined, so too did the magic of 86 Dipper Cove. The pool room was boarded up, the attic movie theater became an extra bedroom for caretakers, the tube had disintegrated, and there were no new aliens in the yard. By the time Grandma passed away in 2017, I felt like I had lost both of them. For about a year after her death, we had to explain “she’s resting in the recovery hospital” when he asked where she was, as every time we told him the truth, he relived the shocking loss over again. I’d never heard a person wail before that. It was just heartbreaking to watch. 

With death, comes birth. 

Vibrant. Raw. Pure.

The loss of Grandma and Grandad, resulted in a new best friend in my life, ‘RayRay’.

A somehow more unclouded version of my Grandfather, RayRay was a silly old man you had to stop from peeing in people’s rosemary bushes and eating four pints of Ben and Jerry’s a night. He did not care one bit what others thought and loved to sing and rhyme. A perfect day for him was waking up to a bowl of fruit and a cup of coffee, taking a rest in his recliner overlooking Casco Bay, and then hopping in a car and going for a drive. Note: these ‘drives’ were not a quick one-two around the neighborhood, but rather a 3-8 hour adventure in the backroads of Maine. The Frank Sinatra radio station had to be playing at just the right volume, and almost always, a stop for a lobster roll or ice cream was required. I know all of this because I lived it. 

The summer after freshman year of college, I decided to stay with RayRay and the caretakers rather than move back down to Florida. I held a few part-time jobs, attempted to restore the yard to what it had been all those years before, and, on my days off, would take RayRay for his outings to give the caretakers a break. I discovered so many relics of Grandad that summer – both in the yard and his actions. The way he organized his toolshed; the specific songs he’d start singing while driving– what lay in the unspoken was fascinating to me. 

Us, 2018.

If that had been the extent of our time together, our story would be different.

It’d be sweet, admirable, simple. 

I would be different.

Thank God it was not. 

In 2020 this little bug called COVID-19 kind of set the world on fire. All plans, totally out the window. We were all on some type of path, and mine was studying at college in Vermont, getting ready to go to South Asia to learn about coastal livelihoods and resilience. Yet in a matter of days, all of that had vanished. I packed up, drove straight to Maine to dump off my stuff, and was making plans to fly back to Florida. But when I got to Maine, I heard clearly my inner voice reciting that agreement I made so long ago. What about RayRay? If everything shuts down, who is going to take care of him? I called my mom. She flew up, and for the next 8 months, us and two of those caregivers took on tending to that lovable, crazy 92 year-old who, in his own way, took care of us.

When you spend any extended amount of time with someone, you begin to understand them — all of them. Their preferences, opinions, desires, sources of joy, frustrations. You have the gift of time to deeply listen and to unravel immensely profound insights hidden in the mundane. During those eight months, I not only learned how to listen to RayRay but I gleaned wisdom from what I observed. RayRay did not offer life lessons with words, but with actions – his way of “being”. I remember on one ride, I was getting so irritable at the thought of being stuck in a car aimlessly driving for several hours, so I asked him what our destination should be – I needed something to feel accomplished. He looked at me in-between licks of ice cream and said “It doesn’t matter, you can choose. I just love being along for the ride”. I paused. Here I was, grumpy, waiting to get to this un-demarcated destination and there he was, enjoying an ice cream, singing to himself, purely cherishing the experience of driving. Both of us were going to be in this car for the same amount of time and end up at the same place, the only difference was our perspective on the ride itself. How do I want to navigate life? Well, shit. I turned around and got myself an ice cream too. 

Sound warning! RayRay practicing fasetto during “Over The Rainbow”.

He had already been in hospice three times before May 2023. It started with him breaking his hip in October, getting C DIFF in December, and then COVID in January. I really thought January was it. I got a call from my mom saying the priest offered last rites and that she was booking a flight to go say goodbye. In two hours, I was on that flight too. It wasn’t that I felt like there were words unspoken, or peace to be made. I know he knew how much I loved him. It was something deeper – a nagging yearning to be present with him, and with my mother during those last moments. When we got there – he was curled up under a quilt – his breathing, slow and steady. I held his hand, spoon-fed him some yogurt and water, told him how much he was loved. And then somehow, two days later his vitals miraculously recovered and he was released back home – already demanding Cherry Garcia ice cream upon arrival. But just like with Mormor, I noticed anger, frustration, and exhaustion starting to build up inside myself. I kept having selfish thoughts like “Please die. I just want to start living for myself”. The whiplash of his living and dying was getting to me – I just wanted to be able to focus on my work or be free to travel or anything else and not have this impending death looming over me. Why was my life being consumed by his dying?

Even up until the end, in his final resting place, RayRay never stopped singing. May, 2023.

I’ve started to perceive my great sensitivity not as something to be ashamed of, but instead as my superpower. I don’t know how, but I can sense things. When I got the call in May, I knew it was it. I had been really struggling for months up to that point too – feeling unsettled, stuck, off-course. There were nights I could not sleep, and even more days I could not sit still. My long-time companion, Anxiety, and their pal, Depression, had been following me for months. Meditation, exercise, medication, therapy– nothing was working. Again, I watched as my thoughts battled themselves – one side wanting to keep living my life, the other yearning to drop everything and be by his side. Yet in the glimpse periods of a quiet mind, the decision was clear. In fact, there really was no decision. When I arrived, RayRay's eyes no longer opened;  he was relentlessly trying to stand up. He was so uncomfortable in his own body, moaning – he just wanted to move, he just wanted to be free. He rose, unclothed, and I hugged him upright– allowing his nearly skeletal feet to touch the earth one more time. I felt him release into me, and we both stopped moving. Listening to our breaths, I felt peaceful, whole. Maybe we just needed to be stuck together. 

The hospice nurse on-call obviously did not know RayRay, as she was astounded by how long he was hanging on – she said she’d seen nothing like it. But I knew. I knew he was prevailing, resisting, grasping – an impressive yet unsurprising embodiment of the grit and strength he always exuded. It wasn’t until I spent a day listening to the wind and reflecting on his life, that I could pinpoint ‘why’. He feared leaving us behind; feared that “letting-go” was “giving-up”. Giving was something he never did. 

It was early, around 7am. My mother and aunt were still sleeping, and the caretaker who watched him overnight had just stepped out. I had been in the room, reading, waiting. He breathing was down to 1 breath every 12 seconds. Again, I don’t know how, but I knew. I walked over to where he laid, gently putting my fingers to his temples and forehead to his. Quietly, I whispered my case --  

“You crushed living in this physical world, Grandad. Whatever your purpose was, you covered it and then some. Look at the beautiful daughters you raised, all the joy you produced. You left us a beautiful legacy. I promise we are all going to be okay, more than okay. But you need to know where true strength lies; not in the act of perseverance itself, but the active choice in knowing when to persevere and when to let go...

I let that sit. I let that touch RayRay, Grandad, Raymond. His whole self. 

“Now I’ve never experienced what you are going through, but I can sense it takes an immense amount of energy and rooted strength. I want to give you a little extra to make it through. What you choose to do with that energy is up to you.”

I had never done something like this before, but I figured I had the divine feminine and youth on my side. I’ve listened to healers and they always talk about grounding themselves into the earth – allowing energy to flow through them. I don’t know why, but I started to envision white light flowing through my body into his – I thought of all the love and moments of joy shared between us. It was like I was running a marathon – my legs, shaking, and heart beating so rapidly. I’ve been told that I only breathe with 60% of my lungs so at that moment, I focused and took two full breaths, harmonizing with his own.

It was with that second breath that he released. 

I felt a tingling in my hands. I heard his stomach relax, heart stop, light dim. 

But most incredibly, I experienced this white space, and saw us not in human-form, but as these timeless, bright lights. We were just energy. His, a little more yellow than my own. Everything made sense. I saw this world for what it is – form that was gifted to us while we tend to the formlessness. All of the anxiety and depressive thoughts had vanished. I did not feel light and peaceful, I was light and peaceful. All I felt was love. Deep love. Pure oneness. It was the most power I’ve ever held. And it was in this space-in-between that I made him a promise – to embrace my light and use my voice to help others through. 

How exactly? That’s a good question. 

It's been two months since that day. And though the clear headedness I experienced in that moment has faded, the intense truthfulness of what happened has not. Soon after that moment, I too let go. I let go of orchestrating a clear path for myself. I let go of trying to suppress my hunger for the ‘how’ and ‘why’. I let go and allowed myself to sit in the intensity of it all. 

I thought the greatest gift he offered me was the opportunity to experience deep love. 

But then, that happened. 

All that time I thought I was sacrificing my own life to be present for his decline, was in fact sowing the seeds for that moment of awakening. 

He gifted me life. Twice. 

A Dipper Cove Sunset, 2023.

I’m writing these words while sitting alone at 86 Dipper Cove, overlooking the ocean tides he watched every day. The house feels different. Empty. Though rather hard, I’m trying to sit in this emptiness. Because perhaps it’s not “emptiness” but instead “spaciousness”, “boundlessness”, “expansiveness” – offering room for new life, of all forms, to seed and flourish. What that might be, I suppose, is the beauty of the unknown. 

It is here after all, in this space of not-knowing, I find the words to process and discover the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of May 23rd. Yes. I do have a wild ride ahead ... discovering the form I’d wish to use to share my light, my truth. It’s an exciting, intimidating task. One we are all gifted with discovering. One that I feel immensely fortunate to have. But at this point I have more questions than I do answers. All I know is to not write this, to not start sharing the profound intricacies of my human experience would be selfish. 

In one way or another -- this is what the World needs. Not a finalized product, but an earnest, messy showing of the process of becoming. The processes of withering, dying, rebirthing, healing, transforming. It’s in this process where true power, true resiliency, true freedom lies. In the wild world we live in - no matter our mission, the sources of pain and keys to unlocking peace are one and the same, they just lie in different forms. Form is our way to understand the formlessness. How can we aid in healing the world? We must know how to heal ourselves. How may we increase environmental resiliency in the face of disasters? By knowing how to tend to our own resiliency.

And it’s always with us. We just have to be willing to dive within. All in.  

Shirow

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Man vs Wild

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Midori

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.