EXERCISE 007 — REMEMBER ACROSTIC

[Write a 12-line poem using only the letters in your name.] I took a few liberties with this exercise, so it is not truly an acrostic. Every letter used does come from my name. I have decided I love its imperfection.

Katie Steedly Curling

1. Let day turn.
2. Cast talk aside.
3. Eat it all.
4. Run a race.
5. Take care in dreams.
6. Sit and rest.
7. Curl like cats.
8. Lean and rail.
9. Canada.
10. Tie steady kites.
11. Dig under tin.
12. Let day turn.

EXERCISE 008 — LISTEN ELSEWHERE

[Choose a body part and use that body part to listen to the universe, near and wide. What does the body part hear that the ears might not?]

Listening — My left foot

Well, it’s been rough. I hear a scalpel cutting and stitches reconnecting a tendon. I hear the twisting and turning of ignored warnings and years. I hear small talk and then darkness. I hear memories of marathons and strength. I hear the Beltline rhythm and the heat of sunshine and magnolias. I hear dog smiles and art’s music. I hear the cry of high heels and the squeal of slippers. I hear “Slip Sliding Away” and remember playing in the snow of 78. I hear start lines and finish lines. I hear the stretch of downward dog and the quiet of trees. I hear the thump of the treadmill — the real and imagined treadmill. I hear the throbbing secrets that wake me and remind me of the road I have walked and the painful and beautiful world I will walk into. I hear the fear that comes when I look toward the stairs and think of the world I will rejoin after 16 days of bedrest. I hear the monsters that await. Their breath. Their growl. Their stare. That is real fear. I chose to pay attention to spring. Where the monsters are more like butterflies breaking free of their cocoons and robins building nests for their robin families and tree buds whispering and bursting. I hear warmer temperatures thawing hearts. I hear deep healing. I hear millennia of truths. I hear gentle promises breaking long silences. Today, I hear hope.

EXERCISE 009 — GIVING BACK — A KIND OF RANT

[Write a rant of what very particular things — actions, objects, ideas, feelings, etc. you want to give back.]

I want to give back debt of all types — financial, spiritual, emotional, and physical. Debt like shame. Debt like regret. Debt like competition. Debt like pain. Debt like hopelessness. Debt like darkness. Debt like doubt. Debt like hunger. Debt like thirst.

I want to give back lies of all types — Little white lies. Lies of omission. Lies of commission. Lies that corrode integrity. Lies that separate us from ourselves and others. Lies that bend our backs until we have no spine. Lies that taste bitter as they are spoken. Lies that smell like milk sitting out in the summer sun. Lies that feel like trying to put on a wet bathing suit.

I want to give back fear of all types — Fear kills empathy. Fear kills imagination. Fear kills creativity. Fear kills breath. Fear kills story. Fear kills faith. Fear kills I am. Fear kills not yet. Fear kills yes.

When I give back debt, lies, and fear.

I am connection and ease. I am generosity and kindness. I am up and forward. I am plan and execution. I am assignment and invitation. I am connective tissue and stars. I am safety and shelter. I am morning and full moon. I am tide and seasons. I am big love and all that. I am awake.

EXERCISE 010 — RELIVE A MEAL

[Write 500 words about the last bite of a meal that you wish wasn’t over. Feel free to exaggerate in your piece. Feel free to keep your language sparse and literal. Write in the groove that best represents the experience of the meal for you.]

It was my fiftieth birthday. I was celebrating the milestone in NYC. After lifting a gratis glass of the finest Scotch at 12:01 — lifted to elevations I had only seen from plane windows — we headed to dinner that evening at a multi-star destination. Nestled between parks and museums, the simple and beautiful restaurant emerged. Our reservation was early because we had theatre tickets. I was wearing a new dress I had bought for the birthday meal — a navy and magenta floral number that hit just above the knee and spun and flowed. I felt beautiful. Feeling beautiful is important. We sat at the bar and introduced ourselves. The bartender asked me what cocktails I enjoy. He mixed an old-fashioned, making my Kentucky bourbon-loving heart sing. I went back and forth between the old-fashioned and a glass of champagne as we perused the tasting menu.

We curated our meal following the expert guidance of the bartender, who had helped open the restaurant a few years prior. (I am pescatarian, so I steered toward the sea — seafood which had been sourced from cold New England waters.) Each course was inspired by the Chef’s classic French training, Alsatian heritage, and NYC culinary excellence, and punctuated with a bottle of Grüner, which we discovered that evening. Each bite danced between sauce and spice to the very edge galactic deliciousness. Each course left us wanting more and doubting that our next bite could taste any better. We lost ourselves in quiet contemplation and awe. We almost missed our show.

We asked for our check and prepared to leave after receiving a beautiful birthday dessert. At that moment, the front-of-house manager presented us with personalized menus detailing my birthday experience and offered us a kitchen tour and introduction to the Chef. (The menu currently lives in a memory box in our storage area.) Despite the pressure of time, we took a tour. I was excited to see the kitchen where our meal had been prepared and have an opportunity to thank those who prepared it.

Seeing the orchestration of movement — part dance, part meditation — in the kitchen was amazing. (As an avid watcher of “The Bear,” I expected chaos. This was not that.) We thanked the Chef and headed to the entrance. We grabbed our coats and thanked the staff on our way out. I chose to relive this meal because it was more than a meal. It was an experience. I suppose the experience of a meal is always the best part.

MONDAYS ARE FREE 001 — 003

MONDAYS ARE FREE 004 — 006

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