Katie’s Story

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Katie's Story, Sandra MarinellaKatie held up her portfolio of drawings, pleased that I had asked to see them.  I had been invited to an evening of “Stories of Ourselves.” I wanted to learn how those with language disabilities shared their stories. Katie, born with cerebral palsy, became my joy-filled teacher.

She tapped out her message for me.  “This drawing comes from my imagination,” said a strong male voice, generated by Katie’s Window tablet that serves as her speech generating device. I wondered why her machine cannot carry her voice and then I realized she has probably never had a voice. Still, I was disappointed.

Katie has used twistable crayons to create a book of colorful drawings and many of them hold secrets to her story. Who she is.

“Robots!” I exclaimed, attempting to guess the subject matter on the cover on Katie’s portfolio. She nodded with delight. This evening my job was to help those with limited language ability to share their stories. As we flipped through her portfolio, I was taken by the vibrant colors and meticulous detail Katie had etched on each page. I oohed and awed as I turned the pages.

In the end we returned to the drawing of robots, and I sensed this work was especially important to her.  Katie was born with cerebral palsy and suffers from hemiparesis which has left her walking lopsided most of her life—but walking. She hears out of one ear and often communicates by tapping out responses on her tablet since she struggles to speak. Together we studied her robot drawing.

It was composed of two half-human, half-robot women. I pointed to the one in foreground, and I named her “Alpha Robot,” and the one behind her, I called “Beta.” Katie clapped with delight at these names. We had an easy rapport. These robot women walked forward on their own, but their limbs were twisted, and they appeared to struggle. Of course, this reminded me of Katie’s own struggle to walk. The robot torsos were box-like machines. Because of her tightly bobbed hair, Alpha Robot, reminded me of Katie. When I asked if Alpha Robot depended on her machines to speak and navigate the world, Katie nodded and joyfully high-fived me with her hand. I suspected she understood the connection I made between her and the Alpha Robot, and it pleased her. I was thrilled at how flawlessly Katie used her body movements as well as her art to share “the story of Katie.”

Both of the robots appeared to be screaming and running, and I puzzled over this. Since Alpha Robot seemed to be scurrying across a white carpet that was littered with footprints—or knives, I wanted to ask, “Are they running from something dangerous? Maybe knives?” But I held my tongue, and I found myself wondering if Katie’s world sometimes feels like she must walk through a minefield of sharp knives. Then I turned my attention to the brilliant pink swirl that poured from the heart of Alpha Robot. “Coming from her heart,” I said as I pointed to it. Katie nodded vigorously. The pink swooped upward like a huge Chagall vase of flowers. From the mouth of this vase burst two of the biggest and most glorious roses to ever bloom, one white and one orange–like the full-bodied roses my mother grew.

“Wow!” I exclaimed tracing the trajectory of these amazing blooms. Katie clapped at my reaction then she fumbled with her phone before handing it to me. To my surprise the screen framed a poem Katie had written. Although the words were a bit jumbled, I could easily interpret her message. The title was “The Perfect Prejudice.”  “I know I am different and weird,” she wrote. Then she explained how it hurt that other people constantly made fun of her. She wished others could see inside her heart. It they could, she noted, they would know the truth–“I am a good person.” I read the words aloud. Then I looked back to the Chagall vase of flowers springing from the robot’s heart. To Katie’s delight, I traced them again. Then I thanked her for the gift of her story and hugged her.

Tiny Dancer

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When I packed, I rediscovered a simple silver dragonfly.  I bought it for my mom shortly before she died. When I tried to give it to her last February, she insisted I keep it.  She knew we were both facing transitions. Changes. I knew she was preparing to die, and I was struggling to accept it. I decided to wear the necklace on my trip.

In California I became a student again. This time Julia Cameron was my teacher at a workshop. I am rereading and studying her classic, The Artist’s Way. While Julia proved to be an unconventional creativity guru, her advice struck me as completely conventional. She gave homework and reminded my class to do something creative and interesting every week. “Do it alone,” she insisted. “Call it your artist’s date.” I heard moans come from other students in the room.

But I didn’t moan. A prickle ran up my spine. I like to be alone. I have just forgotten this because I love being with people, too. It has been a life-long dilemma. I write alone. But I teach workshops to ten or sometimes two hundred people. I practice my spirituality alone. For three decades I drove eleven miles, five days a week to teach 150 high-energy high schoolers, but many nights I sat up alone, grading their words, their honest attempts to discover who they were.

Yesterday I went hiking alone. My first “artist’s date.” No, I did not take on the Pacific Crest Trail. But I took a short hike in Scotts Valley near Santa Cruz—and it opened up my head. Midway through my tromp among the pine and redwood trees, I sat down on a flat rock and looked up in wonder at the threads of sunlight shooting through the branches of this natural cathedral. I was thinking of how I love to walk and how sad it was for my mother when she could no longer take her own walks—for my mom loved to walk, too.

Then I saw this flash of red. She hovered near me like a tiny toy helicopter. A brilliant red dragonfly. Like a graceful dancer she spun close to me for a long moment as if she had come to tell me something. Then she flew backwards like a hummingbird but returned to hover over me. Directly over me. I watched her wings spin and marveled at her red belly. I had never seen a red dragonfly and she was—well stunning. Then she darted down close to my face before unexpectedly shooting forward into her future and my memory.

It was late last night when I remembered the ruby red dragonfly. I dug deep into my bookbag to find my journal. “Dragonflies,” I wrote. “They stand for changes—and wisdom.” I twirled my pen in imitation of this wonder bug. They can and do fly in six directions at a speed of up to 45 MPH—and they do this with the agility and confidence that that come of age and maturity. I admitted to myself that I am aging, and that since mom’s death, life seems to be passing too quickly. Then I touched the silver dragonfly on my neck and the glimmer I was seeking shot right through me. “While life may seem fleeting,” I wrote, “it can still be lovely and graceful.” Then I realized Mom left me with the knowledge that aging comes with the possibility of wisdom and a deeper understanding of how to navigate the ending with poise and confidence. I thanked the universe for this moment. I can embrace it and try to move forward with the grace of the tiny red dancer I met in the woods.

Defeating Self-Doubt

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Max came to class today. Uninvited. Unwanted.  I always think he looks like he is caked in dirt from four-wheeling in the desert. He sank into a chair in the back and crossed his long, lanky legs. Right at home, he hunkered down in the back of the room where my students, an energetic mix of adult writers, didn’t immediately notice him.

Today Heather reads, and it is a riveting story.  With M. C. Escher precision, she paints—but with words. Words of a long-lost memory. Words of a man who lied to her online and betrayed her. There are tears in many eyes when she finishes. We talk of how she has artfully painted a painful memory that needed a canvas.

Then Toni agrees to read a piece that she admits was hard to write. This almond-skinned beauty could read in Swahili and the class would listen. Her voice sounds like a soft jazz song as she honors a love that is being born in her life. I am contemplating that one reading has focused on a life shattered by the lie of love, and in another, a life is unfolding with the beauty of love. Then suddenly as Toni’s voice reaches a crescendo, there is a sudden gasp that escapes her lips. She pauses, and I see her eyes flicker toward the back of the room.

I pivot only slightly for I don’t want it to be obvious that I know she sees him. Max. He has just hoisted his long legs and Frye boots with chunks of mud falling from them onto one of our writing tables with a thud. It takes a moment, but Toni regains her composure and finishes her reading.

After we acknowledge the beauty in Toni’s words, Joseph, the poet, looks around the room. Indignantly he asks all of us the same questions. “Why does he stalk all of us? How does self-doubt seize our insides and make every one of us question not just our writing but just about everything we do?” He turns to me. “You call him Max, right?”  I nod. “Why is this inner critic always sneaking into the back of the room or into the crevices of our minds?”

For the remaining moments of our class we talk about how we arm wrestle with our inner critics, our self-doubts, day and night. We talk about how we write, meditate, walk, paint, practice yoga, and eat chocolate to rid ourselves of the whining doubts in our heads. In the end I explain that it may take pages in my journal to erase Max from my mind, but I am willing to write those pages. When necessary, I use an imaginary eraser to blot out Max.  Once, I admit, I resorted to writing the name “Max” on the bottom of my Nikes and stomping on them. Amid the laughter, I look to the back of the room and see that Max has fled. I want to believe he is never coming back, but I know he will try.