What are yours?
If any of the themes below resonate with you, I’d love to hear from you.
with love ✨, CATHERINE
Observations on moving, breathing and being. These are mine.
I’ve been writing them down since 2020.
I took a long pause. I’m back now.
On the loop
Phil Connors—Bill Murray in the 1993 film Groundhog Day—was trapped reliving the same day for something like 12,400 of them, by one popular estimate. By my count, I'm only 222 days into this latest stretch of unemployment. But the monotony of the last few months is real.
And, like the movie, there are lessons in it.
On being late
This was supposed to reach you Monday.
Most weeks it goes like this—I wake up, go for my morning walk, take care of my pets. Eventually, I make my coffee and sit down, two hours later, start-to-finish, hitting publish and send on this blog and newsletter. That's the rhythm. I didn't question it. Why would I? It's what I do. It's what works.
Until it doesn't.
On 50 and choosing
I turned 50. Not 50 laps in a row, not 50 pages at a time (though I am reading a good book)—50 years of age. WOW.
And you know what? I feel pretty dang good.
On what a few hundred carrots can teach you
I volunteered this week. Once chopping carrots at DC Central Kitchen; once playing with cats at the SPCA. Both brought me into the present moment and provided emotional connection to self, others, community, purpose. Both surfaced appreciation for current state, even in its highs and lows.
On being perennial
I came home this week to a surprise. My neighbors on either side had gifted me peony-like roses from their gardens, gathered into a glass jar painted with a quiet geisha—graceful and elegant both—the breadth of life on one stoop.
On the unremarkable
I sat down this morning to write. (Yes, currently I write day-of. Perhaps that will change. For now…)
My mind was blank. Nothing stood out. No big insight, no big breakthrough, seemingly no big anything.
I thought to myself, “I have nothing to share”.
On replanting
Home is where you lay your head. At least, that's what the military brat in me learned in my early years, moving around every two to three years. Not unlike Move Breathe Be's own mark, the dandelion, that scatters its seeds, not knowing where they'll land, trusting that they'll take hold, all in due time. I could learn a lot from the dandelion.
On connection
I often don't allow myself to lean into emotion the way I did last week. I tuned inward, into my body and its sensations. Into the heaviness and emptiness alike. My yard becoming my medicine, my solace.
This week, my yard remained my medicine, but in community. The weight was light, the space full.
