Author: Kathryn Atkins

The Coat of Me

The Coat of Me

Posted on by Kathryn Atkins

What color is my coat?

Green?

No. I do not like green.
But is it magic? Yes.
Wool? No.
Waterproof? Yes, when it needs to be.
Hurt-proof? Yes, when it can be.
(For without water or hurt, we do not grow.)
Warm? In winter or when I want it to be.
Buttons? Yes. Big FUN buttons.
What does it remind me of? My mom.
How does it make me feel? Authentic.
The best thing about it? It is my only coat! I don’t need twelve.

It has an endlessness to it. A timelessness. I wore it young and I wear it old. It is young Kathryn. Old Kathryn. All Kathryns: Daughter. Sister, Wife, Mom. Friend. ‘Nonna’ (grandmother).

My coat is like a second skin.
Aching to not sin.
Or break shins.
It is committed to begin
Living an open, shutterless life on the Island of Gunga Din.
Which is not real, but it could be. Why not?

My coat mon manteau, mon peau (my coat, my skin)
Wakes as me in the morning.
She has beautiful intentions. Her day is hers.
And then, one by one, her buttons fall off. Her pockets tear.
Wait. I was just there.
Where?
There. With dark hair. That was then. This is now.
My coat and my hair have lost their luster. Did the magic coat lose its magic? No. It lost its way. But that’s okay.
Because
It will be back.
Today.

The coats in the top image are from Pexels Free Images. Thank you!

Personal Board of Directors

Personal Board of Directors

Posted on by Kathryn Atkins

Do you have a “Personal Board of Directors”?

I have seen the idea in the Wall Street Journal and am considering the power of same. It’s also another interpretation of the phrase:

“You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with, [including yourself].”

~ Jim Rohn (motivational speaker)

I chose to borrow the slight addition [including yourself] to the Jim Rohn quote (hat tip to https://personalexcellence.co/blog/average-of-5-people/) because I agree. WE are alas, one of those peeps we cannot evade, avoid, or distance from as much as we’d like to sometimes.

I’m pondering a board of directors. Whom would I ask? Like dating. What if they say no?

If I choose to stay in ponder land, I will be safe but stuck. Hoping to unstick soon.

If you have a personal board of directors, I’d love to know how you approached them. What gave you the courage to ask them, and how did you choose them? Were they the right choice? What were your requirements?

Another Way to Write a Story

Another Way to Write a Story

Posted on by Kathryn Atkins

Picture a stick figure in your mind’s eye. Got it?

The stick figure portrays a unique way to shape a story, poem, or song. Anything creative. Starting at the feet…create from the feet up to the head. One caveat: the left foot is the unhappy foot, the right foot is the happy one.

Let’s go.

Feet = Setup
Knees = Propelling
Hips= Escalation
Heart = Climax
Head = Resolution

[Setup.] A person of unknown origins walks along a curb in Any City. They are young. No old. Rich. No, poor. Doesn’t matter. Right foot moves. Left foot sloshes through the dirty gutter water. Step, sploosh, step, sploosh, step, sploosh.

[Propelling.] A truck rolls by. Drench sounds ensue. Our stick guy drips, shivers. Curses. The wind whips the chill down into his fleshless, skinny bones.

[Escalation:] The twigs that form our main character’s right arm break, the elbow crunches, the sticks snap as both the happy and unhappy feet lose traction and slip on oily city grime. Passersby pass by, worried that getting involved would get them overinvolved.

[Climax:] An Any-State Highway Patrol Officer sees our broken stick figure. The patrolman’s biceps bulge as he slows his off-duty cycle to a halt. “Hello,” he says. “Need help?”

Now the passersby cease passing by and stop. Phone cameras roll–as if that helps. The Good Samaritan Highway Patrol lifts our hapless hero from the gutter and whisks them to a hospital. News-at-Seven carries the video story from all angles, thanks.

[Resolution:] Everyone rejoices. The news is good that day… for a change.

:grinning_face_with_smiling_eyes:
The Early Worm

The Early Worm

Posted on by Kathryn Atkins

Our grandchild awaits. We’re waiting too! Oh my. What are the chances that babies even happen??? HAHA. 

My ears burn
as the world turns
to discern
a pattern
that music earns
when it learns
of font kerns
that overturn
Van Cliburn
a piano churn
that upturns
a smile downturned
when the butter churn
burns
to spurn
the early worm.
It’s their turn
to get the bird. 

Tent Weeds

Tent Weeds

Posted on by Kathryn Atkins

Monday, September 28, 2020

The rabbit-full coyote lazes in the bushes under a brown Cleveland sky where the clouds wear polka dot ties and green belts under a rainbow man that has soot on his sleeve coming from crumbling chimneys where the old mill used to make tires that rarely roll on these less-traveled-by roads.

A used-to-be-cute little girl in a ragged red dress and pasty-pink pinafore sucks at selling bedraggled bouquets to penniless people for a dime. They save their pennies to buy a bouquet for loved ones who have lost their lives to the tiny spiky Covid marauder — a remorseless, pitiless taker.

The girl’s dead plants smell dry: bound in the round with bits of straw found under chicks on ol’ Tate’s land where tents have popped up like weeds. No work. No jobs. No homes. This child lives where the tent weeds grow. More come. More go. Her mom and dad help her tie that which they think might sell to those still well.

It’s hell.

Where Are You From?

Where Are You From?

Posted on by Kathryn Atkins

I am from the stars. Dust. Silver-striped meteorites blown to bits by a goddess’s rage at being shunned by her lover. He left in the middle of the night the day before yesterday in cosmic time, which could have been before the earth existed. Or it could have been a second ago.

I am from the beach. Sand. Washed ashore with kelp around my waist, starfish nibbling at my toes. My scalp teems with tiny organisms that lived there until now. They try to scamper back to the salty sea, yet their microcosmic feet tangle in my hair.

I am from the mountains. Rock. From high above the valley, I look down on the birdless trees. I am pummeled by the weather. Rain. Snow. Sun. Melt. Repeat. Rain. Snow. Wind. Ice. Sun. Melt. Repeat. . .

I am from Mom’s egg.
And from Dad’s sperm.

I am, I guess.
:woman_shrugging:

Changing Names

Posted on by Kathryn Atkins

I listened to a Duolingo French Podcast today, and it talks about a young man who discovers that his grandfather changed his surname from a Jewish name to a French name during the war. The young man tried to change his name to his grandfather’s name but was told he could not because of the French laws at the time. * Spoiler Alert*: Eventually, he was able to change his name. Times and laws change.

Our names are particularly important to us – both our first and last names. I changed my first name from Kathy to Kathryn, as I disliked Kathy growing up. There were three Kathys in my grade in elementary school, so I switched to Kathryn in college. Did I change? No. But my name did. And, my identity was now aligned with my name.  I was lucky I liked Kathryn. What if I wanted a different name altogether?

I was lucky I liked Kathryn.

Some women keep their maiden names. Some give theirs up. Most men don’t change their surnames unless, like the person in the podcast, they want to achieve some goal. He wanted to honor his heritage.

Sharp left turn ahead:
I’m wondering if I want to find my bio mom and dad after all this time. I never looked for them growing up. Maybe I want to know who they were, or maybe not. It’s scary. If I did find them, would I change my name? Would I take hers or his? Either way, would it change who I am?

Wait. How can we identify with something we never chose for ourselves? We choose our dogs’ names. We choose our clothes. Our cars. Our friends. We never “choose” our names.

Maybe our names choose us. And we can accept them or not.