do you ever feel 
like what you are about to begin 
is going to swallow you whole
in the most delicious way

in the way you’ve dreamed about
in the only way your imagination
could shape it
though the shape is not
fully formed
(not even close)

do you ever feel 
like what you are about to begin 
is going to swallow you whole
in the most delicious way

but you hesitate
because you’re not quite ready to disappear
unsure of where it might lead you
unsure of how (or if) you’ll come out
on the other side

and you hesitate again
even though, deep down, you know
you’ll arrive there 
eventually

even though, deep down, you feel
ready

even though, deep down, you sense
the electric possibility
of what comes next
when you just begin

even so

your to-do lists pile up
and stand in front of you 
begging, pick me, do me
first
and so you do
because you can see
where you’ll land next
how you’ll dust off your hands
at the end of the day
and feel satisfied
until you remember
you’re not 
because you left your dream
untouched for another day

and the cycle repeats

until one day
it doesn’t

until one day
you do not choose
the easy way

until one day, you realize
your trusty list will wait for you
but your dreams may not

until the day
you realize you can simply
lay it down
and follow the path
directly into the mouth of the dream
swallowed whole
in the most delicious way
just as you imagined

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After several minutes of tending to my body (teeth brushed, tongue scraped, face moisturized, body dry brushed) I make my way down to the kitchen to pour a cup of “tea”, hot water with a squeeze of lemon. The warmth of the mug in my hands settles my system as I take my first sip and feel my insides soften. This next breath is where the choice is presented: Have I given myself enough time for a sit?

I would like to say with conviction that I start every morning with a proper, dedicated meditation followed by a dose of writing and there are undoubtedly seasons of life when I do consistently begin my day this way. But this has not been one of those seasons. Sleep has proven to be the healing elixir of the moment so rather than forcing an extra early rise, I’m listening to the requests from my body. And while several years ago my inner dialogue would have created a great deal of turbulence around this truth, I’ve grown to find relief in the understanding that everything has seasons and rhythms. Even the decidedly sacred practices and pursuits in our lives for which we were once earnest and unbending. Even these bits are not immune to our humanness and, eventually, life asks us to bend. Sometimes a little (a day or two here and there) and sometimes a lot (enter: seasons). And I’m learning, with a heaping dose of grace, to give myself permission to step away from forcing, to settle into allowing, and to trust the rhythm of these pauses.

So, in the quiet of the kitchen that morning, the sky hinting at the light of day, tea in hand, my bare feet carried me back up the stairs, and I found myself standing in front of my meditation perch. After a subtle bow towards my space, I settled in, lit my rice-paper candle (a gift from my teacher and my chosen meditation tool as of late), and breathed. Twenty minutes later, as the flame dissolved and eventually disappeared, I reached for my notebook, peeled open the pages and noted the date of last entry. My breath caught for a beat and then: remember the seasons, I whispered. A tiny smile spread across my lips as my pen danced slowly across the page and I honored the unfolding of this sweet return to a sacred ritual…

we sit together

like old friends,

time has passed

but we click into place, just so

the space between

then and now dissolves,

the only difference

about today:

a choice

to be here,

we gathered ourselves

and landed together

sharing wide smiles

and whispers of the heart, one by one,

just like that,

the waters flowed

and underneath it all

bloomed the sweet assurance

that we can choose

again and again,

a ritual reshaped

under the quiet

morning sky

Love, Kate

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David Whyte says when you’re feeling frozen in your writing, you should write about what it feels like to be frozen. That the only way through a block is to write about what it feels like to be blocked.

As I sit to write now, I’ve been traveling through Italy with my family for the better part of a week (pinch me and pinch me again), the five of us moving together through rich, unfamiliar territory like a pack of wolves, tucked into one another as we remember what it feels like to be together in a deliciously unscheduled way. To step into the invitation to drop the busy and welcome the white space of the day. This naturally begins to dissolve the urgency that so seamlessly creeps into our systems under the weight of commitments and responsibilities at home. Without prompting, our movements slow as we explore new landscapes, new sounds, new energy, new everything, giving way to a delightful spaciousness that enlivens our imaginations and informs both our conversations and our chosen quietude.

Without delay, each of us softens and settles into this experience with an ease that assures me with certainty: experiencing the world in real time, with the gaze lifted, the senses open, curious, engaged, listening, sharing, giving, receiving, and connecting: this is the natural way.

In the days leading up to this trip, I gathered guidance from a few trusted girlfriends (thank you, birds) who have more experience than I with overseas air travel with kids. Tips and tricks, what to bring, what to leave behind, etc. My wise friend Mia, a brilliant artist/photographer/mama/human, urged me to leave my laptop at home. If you feel inspired, put pen to paper, she encouraged. I seriously considered her advice, but in the final moments before walking out the front door, my creative expectations outweighed her reasoning. I convinced myself that the anticipation of luxuriously uninterrupted time on planes and trains along with plentiful, quiet pockets of downtime within our days would undoubtedly give way, as it typically does, to gobs of inspiration and swirls of creativity that would beg for, even demand, the ability to write with a swiftness that only this device can offer.

The truth? The first time I cracked open my laptop to write was on day eight. Not on the plane or the train, nor in the pockets of downtime. When I did sit down to write more than a week into our trip it wasn’t because I had something to say. It wasn’t because I was so pregnant with creative fuel that I had to move words out of my body and onto the page in order to relieve the pressure of (so much) awe. Instead, I sat to write because that’s what my nervous system was trained to do. Because that’s what writers do: we sit to write even when we feel we have nothing to say. I sat to write not because of an undeniable spark pulsing through my fingertips, but simply because it felt like it was time.

Just a few days before, I’d spent a few hours on a train devouring the final installment of David Whyte’s course on The Creative Path (I shared a glimpse of this course in last week’s note on the sacred seat of a student). One of the nuggets of wisdom he offered, a gem that landed in my bones never to be forgotten, was advice on what to do when you feel frozen or blocked in your creativity (see the opening lines of this entry in case you forgot).

But, in this moment, I didn’t feel blocked or frozen. I didn’t feel uninspired, dull, or spiritless. I felt open. Open in the way it feels when you sit face to face with a loved one, ready to listen to a story you’ve longed to hear, a truth you’ve yearned to know. Open in the way it feels when you’ve been in a season of giving and sharing, pouring your energy into the people and spaces around you before settling into a slower, quieter nest at last. Open in the way that clears space and invites a softer way, a loosening of the reins that allows you to lift your gaze and drink from the world around you, to be fed and nourished by life unfolding in real time, a deep, abiding devotion to presence as your ally.

So I sat to write this morning, wide open with no clear direction, and what unfolded was simple and clear: the places and moments in which I’d been lingering, a gathering of gifts received and acknowledged …

The layer of carefully stacked stone walls lining the maze of cobblestone streets weaving through town.

The silver-haired signore stationed atop his roof for afternoon calisthenics, his tanned shape moving with confidence and purpose, a welcome barrier between my writing perch and the vast Mediterranean Sea.

The vibrant sun peeking through my window each morning. Just this.

The lip-thin layer of froth resting on the surface of my espresso (a newly acquired ritual), the warmth of the tiny cantaloupe-colored cup as it fills, and that decadent first sip that slowly warms my insides.

The quiet conversations with my boys, one by one, unfolding in the spaciousness of time away.

The curious lizard clinging to the wall, presiding over our al fresco dinner last night.

The novel I’m devouring that draws me out of bed each morning and lulls me to sleep at night. The bits of sand that spill from the creases as I peel open the pages to read.

And what about the olive groves, strong and unmoving like the Pontifical Swiss Guards outside the Vatican? The way their limbs and delicate leaves blur as the train carries us to the next stop on our journey.

What about the way the guard, dutifully stoic, smiled covertly with his eyes and the way I wondered if anyone else saw it?

What about the arm that my son offers me as we cross the street and the way we both acknowledge, without words, that he’s now looking down at me and not me at him the way it used to be.

And the soft peach corner of the building in the square. The way it pierced the turquoise sky.

The tiny rental car and the way my husband and I take turns showing off our skills of driving stick shift, a reminder of our youth before we knew one another. And the way the air smells with the windows down as we smile at each other, an acknowledgment of the moment as our boys play the jello game, cramped and sparring, in the back seat.

The clothing line holding our freshly laundered clothes. The way they mingled with the sun and the breeze to cast shadows on the earth below.

The journal we’re keeping, pages softened by the salty air, a way to seal in our favorite memories, the best meals, and the new family jokes we’ve picked up along the way.

And what about the way none of us want to leave, none of us want this time to end.

I take a deep breath and my eyes find the horizon, that mysterious place where the ocean meets the sky. A smile spreads across my face and all I feel is gratitude. Gratitude for this opportunity to sip from the cup of life for another day. Gratitude for the understanding that story unfolds in both the rush of creativity and the hum of a quiet day. Gratitude that time away from the page can be just as potent as time within it.

Returning now, pen to paper until we reach the other side.

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Last Saturday afternoon, I stood barefoot in my kitchen perched on one leg. The other foot rested casually in some habitual version of tree pose as I leaned into the counter for support. The apron I’d refused to wear for years, a tiny gesture of rebellion that made me feel close to my dad, now swaddled my waist. I was surprised by the comfort its presence offered and I began to see it as a nod of respect, recognition of the craft and all that it had begun to teach me well into my fifth decade of life.

I chopped and prepped a pile of ripe Roma tomatoes and fat garlic pods, which would soon be sent to a warm oven to slow-roast until they became like a savory jam that I’d pile on top of creamy polenta and finish with softened, herby goat cheese. I was breaking all the rules by making this for the first time just hours before it landed on a table among a sea of colorful potluck contributions at my friend Claire’s birthday dinner later that evening.

.

I’d started the morning under the florescent lights of a basketball gym some 30 miles north of home. For nearly two hours, I watched my son sprint up and down the court, shoot, defend, get knocked down, and rise, again and again. I watched as he calibrated, adjusting to his coach’s cues and the unfolding of the game in real time. He utilized the tools he’d learned, some he was still trying on and exploring, others ingrained and second nature. The newness of watching him meet the moment was refreshing and inspiring, a beautiful example of being prepared and well-equipped while remaining an open vessel for learning. Noted. Grateful to witness him and his willingness to remain teachable.

.

I stood now under the soft lights of my own kitchen, my gaze moving between the cookbook I was referencing for the recipe and the serene face of master poet David Whyte, creator of the online course my friend Camille and I were taking together. As he eloquently spoke about The Creative Path to eager students gathering from across the globe, his resonant voice poured into my kitchen and grounded my system. I wondered if he knew how swiftly his words sparked in me that giddy feeling of newfound inspiration, that swiftly moving charge that spreads like wildfire in your mind when something lands in just the right way in the specific corner of your heart that needed an awakening. And there you find yourself in the sacred seat of a student again.

Listening attentively, my chopping slowed to a steady, thoughtful beat and I began to feel a massive, dynamic wave of gratitude move through me. I set the knife down, closed my eyes, and both of my feet met the earth. For no more than sixty seconds, I allowed myself bathe in this sweet well of gratitude for the possibility of lifelong learning. This clarity revealed a small, momentary clearing of my mind that allowed me to acknowledge the gift of a robust curiosity alive within me, nestled beside a deep desire to remain a student of life, for life. A singular, ordinary moment now infused with newness, revelations, and an emerging appreciation.

My dog, Bear, gently licked my foot, her way of checking in, translation: are you ok? I opened my eyes again and I felt the kind of lightness that arises after a moment of insight and the unfolding of situational gratitude. Even as the chopping resumed, I followed this train of thought and began to wonder: To what areas of my life can I bring a beginner’s mind? Where can I become a student again? How can I remain teachable to the end?

And so, I’ve been reflecting…

I cross a new bridge with my children, territory not yet explored > a student again

My relationship with my husband evolves as we grow individually > a student again

I navigate a difficult conversation > a student again

I step onto the mat for practice > a student again

I meet the eyes of a stranger > a student again

I consider where I can use my voice and take a tiny step toward it > a student again

I attend an author’s talk at my local bookstore > a student again

I listen with deep, abiding presence to my boys on the car ride home > a student again

I read a new book, new author, new genre > a student again

I go for a walk, no soundtrack, no podcast, just observation > a student again

I open a cookbook to a recipe I’ve never attempted and begin > a student again

I celebrate another year lived and step into the next > a student again

I seek to open myself to curiosity when anxiety or resistance arises > a student again

I pay attention to my body and the wisdom it offers daily > a student again

I learn a new language > a student again

I learn the value of walking my dog for her sake, noting her needs > a student again

I ask my mom to share a story from her childhood > a student again

I open my journal and consider the prompt: what needs to be said? > a student again

I sit for meditation > a student again

And on and on and on…. And for this, wow, for this, I am deeply grateful. For what is life if we are no longer open and willing to learn?

Love, Kate

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On a sun-drenched afternoon in late March, I settled into a seat on the living room floor in the home of a dear friend. This gesture marked the beginning of a yoga and meditation retreat I had been asked to guide for a group of deeply inspiring women devoted to practice, personal growth, and genuine connection with the world around them.

The woven blanket beneath me, folded with care and placed at the center of my yoga mat, offered a familiar sense of reverence and support. I slowly opened my notebook to reveal worn pages cloaked in my handwriting. Filling the pages were shorthand notes, class plans, carefully selected throughlines and quotes, sketches of stick figures in yoga postures, and bulleted prompts for journaling. These visuals instantly grounded me in the truth and knowing that I was well prepared for our time together. The varying shades of ink and graphite spread across the pages served as a reminder that my work in this moment was to let go and trust the unfolding of the group gathering together, one by one. We silently formed a circle, our eyes met, and everything softened.

The theme of the retreat had been set early on by the hosts. A single word, fairly common in the lexicon of wellness experiences. A term that, at first glance, suggests one thing, yet with a touch of curiosity and exploration begins to reveal something altogether different and ultimately perfect for the purpose and intention of our time together. The word was RENEWAL.

As I often do when working with a theme for a retreat, I began unpacking the word, seeking pathways to weave its meaning into our practices. Initially what I noticed is that dropped right into the center of renewal sat the word new, a term defined as not existing before; discovered for the first time. But when I started digging into the various definitions of renewal (or renew), what I found was quite the opposite:

Renew: to restore ( > restore: to bring back to a former or original state)

Renew: to revive

Renew: to reestablish or begin again

As my eyes drank in the assorted definitions of this word, a term I’d previously understood as one thing and now held a new appreciation for and relationship with, I couldn’t help but smile as the pieces of the puzzle began to click into place.

Based on these descriptions, renewal is not about newness, cultivating or becoming something we are not (already). It is not so much a rebirth or reinvention as it sometimes suggests, rather renewal can be considered a process of a returning, a returning to or restoring of our original state, an understanding and embodiment of ourselves that has been present all along.

The Yoga Sutras (philosophical text of classical yoga) define yoga as a stilling or softening of the turnings / fluctuations of the mind stuff : citta (mind stuff) vritti (turnings or fluctuations) nirodha (quieting, cessation).

This is followed by quite possibly my favorite teaching of the sutras: Then we abide in our true (essential) nature : (Tadā draṣṭuḥ svarūpe’vasthānam).

In other words, when we are able to see / bring into light / observe the layers upon layers of story or narrative playing in our minds at any given moment (how human of us), the beliefs, emotions, identities, patterns, the armor we’ve built around ourselves, aspects of our lived experience that are in a constant state of change, we also begin to reveal a doorway into the heart of who and what we really are.

When the citta (mind stuff) has space to soften, when we begin to see and understand that we are not that, but we are the one observing that, we naturally cultivate the conditions within ourselves to begin to remember our true nature, the inherent steadiness, the innate ease, the deep abiding presence and wholeness, our original state.

And when we interface with this aspect of our being in some consistent way through practices of our own choosing (asana, meditation, prayer, journaling, art, nature, etc), we open ourselves to the possibility of our essential nature becoming more familiar, more available, more reliable than the change that swirls within us and around us.

What I gathered through this exploration of a single word, one I thought I understood clearly, is that renewal is not additive. Renewal is not the procurement or cultivation of a new version of ourselves, one that did not previously exist. At its core, and through this lens of practice, renewal is a process of revealing, remembering, and returning to our original state, a journey back home to ourselves.

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i’ve written on planes, in parking lots,

and porch swings in the breeze

.

i’ve written in beds, on benches,

and boulders beneath the trees

.

i’ve written at desks, in dens,

and dark rooms on my knees

.

i’ve written in closets, on cushions,

and coffee tables with ease

.

but, it’s been a beat

since i’ve written

in places such as these, daily

as they say

for this is the key

.

yet, even when the rhythm slows

when the space between

pen and page grows,

i do my best to return

to what i know

sometimes, the words need time

and so . . .

.

when the shouts

of shame or should

begin to spiral in my belly,

urging catch up! catch up!

.

i’m remembering to offer myself grace

and honor the memories we’re making

in between the lines

.

i’m remembering that the stories are plenty

when the living is full

so perhaps the secret to writing

is fully living

.

i’m remembering that the page is patient

when the promise of return is alive

.

so i bow to her from afar

whispering, save my seat

i’m right where i need to be

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I celebrated my 48th birthday this past November and wrote about it here — a love letter of sorts, a wish for the year ahead, a foreshadowed celebration of the experiences to come and the dreams yet to unfold.

When I reflect on what I wrote that day, first in my journal, pen to paper before sunrise, later on my laptop and eventually shared here in community, a clear thread revealed itself. Pulsing like a heartbeat, a steady, resolved undercurrent informed the trajectory of my gaze, my priorities, my intentions, and, ultimately, my future decisions.

What emerged in the spaces between the words was an unambiguous commitment to connection. Deep, meaningful, clear. No fuss. A devotion to practicing intentional, consistent connection with the miraculous, fragile, heartbreakingly swift totality of life.

Pouring through the spaces between the lines, clinging to each symbol like a vine, was an unspoken wish to dissolve my internalized duty to fill the white spaces of my days, to respond in a timely manner (whose time exactly?), to entertain a yes when a yes meant compromising something sacred to me.

What remained was a remembrance of my capacity to choose; a reminder that I am the steward of my energy and my attention. It is on me to cultivate the conditions for spaciousness to grow and presence to thrive. To open myself to the presence that nudges me, again and again, to interface and engage with anything and everything unfolding right in front of me. Presence that drops me right into the soup of life and forges a felt sense of connection by simply opening the eyes of my senses and paying attention.

So, I’m trying. And when I forget, I do my best to forgive myself and return — often, I can hear ‘s voice encouraging me: hand over heart repeat how human of me.

Over and over and over goes the practice. Because that’s the thing about presence, about connection. Both are right here, lingering with us, available at any moment, hanging like ripe fruit on the limbs of our days waiting for us to pluck off the branch and devour. Each bite nourishing our relationship with what we hold sacred.

And so I’m seeking to begin my days with the questions: What if opening myself to connection were the most important part of my day today? Where can I welcome a little more presence?

Then I listen. Attempt to let each seed land. Nothing dramatic, just my attention gathered, willing, noticing what floats to the surface. Connection with my body, my steadiness, my ease. Connection with my partner, my boys, my parents (in form and spirit), my girlfriends, and strangers. Connection with nature, my dreams, my creativity and creations. Connection with my priorities and my chosen work. Connection with the tiny glimmers that spark joy, with the knots of pain and the learnings they bring.

Connection with all. of. it.

More often than not I need dozens of reminders over the course of a single day to return. Gentle, quiet nudges to myself—a deep breath, a lifted gaze, a whispered affirmation “I’m right here”. Tiny rituals reorienting me toward the marrow of life brimming right in front of me. The sacred disguised as the ordinary, grazing my fingertips, awaiting my attention, inviting me to see again and again.

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a thought, a hand, a smile, a story

anything at all

demands some degree of effort

in body, mind, energy

.

when our effort to maintain

that which we hold

lingers in place,

tenacity well in tact,

it begins to overshadow

the ease that lives,

breathes, beneath it all

.

when our earnest effort

begins to eclipse

our light(ness),

tension naturally builds

and rigidity takes form

.

and yet, we have a choice

.

to begin awakening

to our efforts,

to notice

where they are directed,

when they are engaged,

how we grip, force, brace, freeze

.

in our noticing

we create an opening

to sense when the effort rises

and meet it with softness

.

to release the narrative,

loosen the grip,

soften the eyes,

to welcome a little more breath

to take the tincture of release

.

so for the days when the grasp

is strong, when the story

carries you away

to a place painted

with the vibrant colors of imagination

far from the truth

of the moment,

for the days when the effort

outweighs the ease,

may we ask:

what remains now,

when I let go just a touch?

sat for my first formal tea ceremony

four weeks ago

and the imprint has yet to leave

me, and now

i cannot unsee

cannot unfeel

the beauty

the dissolving of haste

the warmth, the softening

the sweet settling

of it all,

the journey complete

and just beginning

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she perched on the corner

of the patio chair

tail feathers drenched in sunlight

.

her beak packed full

of freshly harvested twigs,

chest full and proud

.

her orb-like body balanced loftily

on her slight legs

tiny pillars equal in size and shape

to the stems bundled in her beak

.

she pulsed in a sweet, steady rhythm

each upward thrust toward the sky

accompanied by a melodic song

flute-like chirps, crisp and bright

mimicking the sun on her back

.

look at me!

she seemed to sing

and so i did

.

i looked and i watched

as she commanded

her delight softened my eyes

her levity ushered a smile across my face

.

she traveled from chair to chair

light as a feather

flaunting her goods—

her bed for the night, secured

her work complete

.

and now, she rests

in utter contentment

no more, no less

knowing she’s done enough

just this,

my morning muse.

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The practice of yoga reminds us

that we are always quietly seeking to locate our center,

to return to the aspect of our being

that feels aligned, spacious, at ease

regardless of our internal or external atmosphere

Time on the mat, a walk in nature,

lingering in a hug, a shared gaze and smile,

turning to face the sun, a warm sip of tea,

a hand over the heart, a deep breath . . .

Small gestures that usher us into connection,

an embodied, felt experience of our steady center

even for an instant

These tiny moments of locating center

hold the power to fuel how we show up

and infuse the next step with grounded clarity

and a softened heart.

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This poem was first written in 2018 as a reflection of a time when two tiny humans I loved were fighting for their lives. Below, an updated version for this moment.

May this support you right where you are in some tiny way today.

she rises at first light and feels it all

the heavy ache of suffering

like fresh dew, again

.

she commits to the practice of stillness—

a tiny, but mighty antidote to the moment at hand

to all that life is calling for, here and now

.

moving slowly, tenderly,

she lays her foundation

and settles in with equal parts effort and ease,

just this

.

with time she feels silent swells of courage

rising from her devotion to rest in pockets of stillness

amidst the uncertainty,

to cultivate equal measures of steadiness and softness

within her interior

.

the pain whispers and echoes,

asks her to curl into herself

to mimic the fiddlehead of the fern

to move far away from the fear,

and yet somewhere within the silence

a softening awakens

.

two open palms welcome the complexity and distress

nudging the threshold of her mind,

she invites them into the newfound spaciousness,

trusts the wisdom of her body to remain

grounded and open; steady and soft

.

each passing exhale crafts quiet stability

in the architecture of her bones,

her awareness surrenders to the fluid rhythm of her breath

again and again, just this

.

unshakably consistent,

her practice gives way to a coherence of mind

where clarity dawns for an instant, then vanishes—

less certainty, more questions, she hears her teacher’s voice

.

glimmers of fortitude begin to unfold

her cells become plump again,

illuminated by a strength of spirit—

a reflection of the collective at work

through the hands of love

.

she remembers the request of the journey

to both be with the pain and see beyond it

.

a knowing pours through her:

together, we have the capacity for all of this,

we are deep in the caverns

and the only way is through —

courage in adversity, fortitude rising

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Three years ago I created and launched a new offering— a self-led, virtual course by the name of Beginning Softly. Hosted annually, this program shares simple, potent practices and gentle guidance designed to provide an alternative to the narrative of New Year momentum, glittering goals, and the need for crisp, new beginnings that so often saturates our consciousness and slides into our internal dialogue as a new year dawns.

I’ve been delighted that this nest of practice and exploration continues to be met with generous gratitude and enthusiasm, as palpable, unhurried exhales pour through our comments and conversations. The next round of this offering begins the first week of February, and I look forward to this time in practice each year.

And yet, even with tools and rituals well in hand— those that support us in staying grounded in the quietude, the softness, and the wisdom of the winter season—the undercurrent of forward momentum, a giant refresh button nipping at our heels, is strong. And today, I felt it.

That familiar urgency that has the power to mask itself as a spark of inspiration that must be tended to. A sudden impulse to gather of all the insights that have risen to the surface in my moments of quiet reflection at year’s end, pile them into my cauldron of creativity, stir, shape, and shine each one, and prepare to birth them into the world—immediately.

Yet, I’ve come to understand that when this magnetic urgency makes its way into the spaces of creation, more often than not, it is my cue to gather my pregnant collection of creative sparks and stirrings, and lay it down. Not forever, just long enough. Because when I sit with it, observe it from various angles and vantage points, shift it and shape it between my fingertips, until the glittery layers start to fall away, it begins to reveal itself as a clear nudge from the outside, from the voices and spaces around me telling me the time is now. When I pause, sit down next to it and get curious about the haste it holds, acknowledge the source of urgency, I’m reminded that sometimes the next right step is to lay it down and turn toward the insight that stepping away can afford.

But how do we lay it down? The only thing (I think) I know for sure, is that this momentary stepping away requires trust in the creative process and trust in ourselves.

So, when I need to step away it looks something like this: a walk with my dog in the sunshine, a tall glass of water or a nourishing meal seated at my table, a conversation with a friend or mentor, a quiet sit with a lit candle —devices stored away, a warm cup of tea with my feet in the grass, or 15 minutes on my living room floor with a blank sheet of paper and a freshly sharpened pencil.

Simple rituals that allow me to step back from the rushing river, plant my feet in the presence of my own creative process, and trust that there is time for it all to unfold.

May we cultivate the awareness to recognize, and the courage to honor, when to lay it down and when to jump into the current.

For details on my upcoming Beginning Softly course, visit: Beginning Softly 2026

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An embodied experience of deep ease can sometimes feel far from reach—especially at this time of year, when the rhythms of nature are guiding us to soften and slow down, while the rhythms of society demand something altogether different: a degree of haste and momentum that move us further away from the wisdom of nature.

Each time we dedicate time and space in our days to settle into pockets of stillness, we open ourselves to an aspect of our being that is always at ease, unaffected by circumstance. Through practice, we fortify this connection to our natural state.

Below is a six-minute guided meditation designed to support you in returning to your natural state of ease in body and mind — get comfortable, settle into yourself, welcome a moment to heal the hurry, and notice how your day unfolds.

Finally, an invitation to join me for my annual online program this February: Beginning Softly—a new way to welcome the new year.

Love, Kate

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Worry has always been a companion of mine. She rests deep in my belly, waiting patiently, listening attentively. When inspired to awaken, she rises swiftly, without hesitation, and suffuses my mind with unhindered tenacity. Consistency is her superpower. She does a splendid job—always has. And, I’m learning to be in conversation with her, to move her towards the light.

Nearly two decades ago, a few months after completing my first yoga teacher training program, I made an appointment to see a much sought-after Ayurvedic physician in New York City, my home at the time. It had taken me months to get an appointment and many more weeks of waiting once it was scheduled. Beyond my introductory understanding of Ayurveda, which I’d received in my yoga training, I had no idea what to expect from this visit. I wasn’t even quite sure why I was going to see her other than the fact that she had come highly recommended by a trusted mentor and a few close friends who urged, “Just go see her—trust me.” The cost of the session was well beyond what I could afford at the time, but I went anyway.

I left work early that day, assuring my boss I was going to a doctor’s appointment—just a checkup. Serene music filled the dimly lit waiting room and as I sat waiting, my eyes traced the clean rows of white oak shelves lined with elegant amber bottles filled with lotions and elixirs. From behind a milky-white curtain, a woman’s face appeared—her gentle eyes seemingly filled with light. She smiled a smile that sent a wave of ease through my system, placed a clipboard holding a neat stack of papers and pen on the table next to me, then turned and disappeared behind the curtain again. I filled out the extensive questionnaire in earnest—the queries on the page sparking my curiosity even more.

After several minutes, the woman appeared again and this time she spoke—her voice mimicing the kindness in her eyes—”Kate, she is ready for you.” I followed her into a small, tidy room with a modest, north-facing window overlooking downtown manhattan and a proper desk. The room felt more like an office than a treatment room, but the warmth I felt from the woman holding space on the other side of the desk, awaiting my arrival, began to dissolve the undertainty I was feeling. The moment I sat down across from her, my system softened.

“Please stick out your tongue,” she instructed. From the opposite side of her desk, the doctor studied the interior landscape of my mouth. She seemed unphased by her observations, a good sign, I hoped. After taking my pulse, examining my nails, and observing my eyes, she laid her pen gently onto the desk and looked up. A broad smile spread across her face and seeped into her deep brown eyes. She tilted her head slightly and with a loving, thoughtful tone similar to that of my own grandmother, she asked softly, “Tell me, why do you worry so much?”

I opened my mouth, prepared to speak, but no words came. I felt exposed. Then I felt deeply seen. We sat in silence for a moment until eventually the words arrived. “How did you know?” I queried. She dismissed the question with a sage nod and then spoke a wisdom that swept through my cells and called my heart to attention.

“Let’s not forget that our worry is a consistent prayer for that which we fear.” Her voice poured through my ears and settled deeply into my bones. Tears welled in my eyes and a smile unfolded across my face—a silent assurance that her words had landed. She met my smile with her own and went on, “You know, it may not be easy, but it’s all going to be okay. Your work is to trust that truth.”

After the exchange, she scribbled a recipe by hand on a sheet of paper and gave me instructions for a dietary protocol I was to follow for the next few weeks. A touch more guidance and a few potent words of wisdom later, and I was being graciously ushered out the door.

The late afternoon sun warmed my shoulders as I walked home along the busy streets that day. Reflecting on how swiftly my worry had softened simply by acknowledging its presence alongside another open heart, I realized we have a choice—we can choose to pray toward the fear, or we can choose to pray toward the light.

I never saw her again, but the image of her tender gaze and lived, embodied wisdom returns to me often - her handwritten recipe now etched in my mind, her words an enduring salve for my heart.

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My most cherished moments and memories leading retreats over the past ten years flow directly from the deep connections made and the powerful insights gathered during our time together in dedicated practice, thoughtful, quiet reflection, and the collective willingness to welcome a ritual of slower, intentional movement through our days.

The nest of retreat becomes a haven that ushers us into an embodied experience of spaciousness and, ultimately, the clarity that unfolds when we step away, tend to the body, reorient toward the heart, remember who we are, and awaken to the steady guidance from within—a tall order, and yet we somehow arrive there each and every time.

Renewing, restful, and inspiring, The Gathering Yoga + Meditation Retreat—January 22-25 in El Pescadero, Baja Mexico—is designed to be a thorough restoration for your body and mind as you welcome and transition into the New Year. This thoughtfully curated, extended weekend of practice, play, and ritual will offer you ample time to nurture your system in ways that support you. Twice daily group practices, nourishing meals, dedicated time for guided reflection and journaling, time in nature, and accessible, illuminating rituals will ground your system, inspire your creativity, and bring harmony to your system - a gift for you, your loved ones, and the collective.

Currently, we have one private room remaining and several options for shared (2-3 person) rooms. Details can be found at the links above or at katewaitzkin.com/the-gathering-retreat, and I’m right here if you have questions—info@katewaitzkin.com.

It would be my honor to welcome you!

Love, Kate

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Moving slowly, with care

we reorient toward our body

and the wisdom it holds

.

as space unfolds

awareness deepens

and we refine our capacity

for listening

.

with time and patience

insights arise

and wisdom emerges

at once, listening becomes a pathway

toward self-discovery

Love, Kate

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As I settle in for a quiet sit on this particular Thursday morning— my 48th birthday— I whisper the newborn number so I can hear it– forty-eight, forty-eight…forty…eight. I smile as the words leave my lips, moving from the curious pockets of my mind into the space around me.

A flock of black birds streak the pale blue sky and collect my attention for a beat, until I notice the tip of my tongue resting on the roof of my mouth–a tactile remnant of the last syllable of forty-eight, lingering. A physical touch point that seals the number into my awareness and fortifies my understanding in some way.

I’m learning it– eager to know how it feels to hold this new identity, while knowing full well it is just a number, a signifier of time, not who (or what) I am. And still, it feels like part of me now and I like the softness of it. Its roundness. Plump and pregnant with life experiences, and yet, somehow, I know it is just the beginning.

I reach for my journal, and my pen knows where to go before my thoughts have time to form. I carefully draw the numbers side by side — 4 8 — strong and soft at once.

The words flow and form in a list of sorts, yet in no particular order– a stream of dreams captured by the page as my pen dances across her surface.

I want to look back on this year and smile . . .

For the multitudes of moments connecting with the people I love

For the lingering hugs, the copious I love you(s), the snuggles, the laughter that makes our bellies ache, the storytelling, the endless play; for the tears that felt safe enough to flow, the hardships, the challenges, the discoveries— and for the way it all brought us closer

For the long walks and deep talks and the remembrance that magic can happen in the pockets between because I let go of the story that there wasn’t enough time in the day for it all

For the matcha that warmed my insides while the cocoon of conversation held my heart like a tender hug that lingers before letting go

For the nights I stayed up later than my body thought it could manage for no other reason than to have another night to tuck my boys into bed

For the conversations I had with loved ones who passed and for the ways my heart opened even wider as they showed me their presence through new forms of communication

I want to look back on this year and smile . . .

For the stacks (and stacks!) of books I read, the book(s) I wrote, and for the poems I scribbled in the delicious darkness of my morning perch in my pajamas

For the teachers who taught me and the teachings that came to life from their generosity

For the instrument I learned to play and the new spaces I chose to lead

For the tiny moments I recognized patterns that didn’t align with my highest wishes and chose to let them go with a compassionate send off

For the ways I respected myself and my dreams

I want to look back on this year and smile . . .

For the new ways I learned to love my body, to listen to her wisdom, and to trust her in ways I never imagined possible

For the plentiful sleep I gifted myself each night and the way I finally learned to rest each day

For the practices that returned me back to myself and for the presence that guided me there

For the love I poured into the world and the love I allowed myself to receive

I want to look back on this year and smile— wide and easeful— a new collection of laugh lines framing my eyes. And inside, an unshakeable steadiness born of the wisdom gathered through the daily practice of living, listening, and loving fully.

Love, Kate

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today i saw the moon

and you were in it

.

swooping, milky crescent

thin and wide like your smile

.

from my quiet morning perch

the night sky lingered—

.

a warm blanket of darkness

touching everything in its path

gently hushed the swirling of my mind

.

with an angel’s touch

she wrapped herself around my shoulders

and everything softened

.

i lifted my gaze

and there you were

.

nothing left to do

but smile at your presence

.

today i saw the moon

and you were in it

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the world told her

that we grow toward

the light —

seek it, find it, move toward it,

they say

//

but she came to understand

that the growth itself,

the transformation,

often takes place in the depths

of the dark

//

and so she learned

to welcome both,

to remember —

without the darkness

we have no light to reach for

//

so each day

she rose like the sun

and met herself

anew,

grateful for it all

//

love, kate