Katie Kearns

I am my grandmothers’ dreams

A white woman with brown, shoulder-length hair. She's wearing an orange shirt. Her body faces to the left, she's looking at the camera. On her left shoulder is a colorful peacock tattoo.

I didn’t remember that I had this dream until I opened my email at the breakfast table this morning. I opened an email from pinterest of things I might like. Among the recommended pins was a picture of glass-bead earrings shaped like peacock feathers.

The dream rushed right back into my consciousness and I let out a deep sob. The river of tears seemed to emerge from nowhere and everywhere.

The hats we wear, the masks we wear

A woman with a green surgical gown on holding a stuffed panda. She has a paper mask and a purple surgeon's hat with pandas on it. She's standing in a doorway.

We wear different metaphorical hats to reflect our roles, functions, and responsibilities with each other. To what degree do we also wear masks to manage others’ perceptions and to control our belonging?

Drawn to the light

a woman in shorts and t-shirt standing in front of a short stone wall. There's a canyon behind her and colorful trees. There's a book bag at her feet.

You’re not wrong, surviving and thriving is challenging right now. And also, I want to share some beautiful things in the midst of all that.

Smoke and mirrors

A blue, green, and yellow flame with burned branches around it

First, I want readers to notice how we currently serve as smoky mirrors to each other in many of our communities, from Don Manuel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements. Second, I want to offer a strategy for being a truer mirror to people in your communities, from Ora North’s I Don’t Want to Be an Empath Anymore.

Surrender

A road map of Illinois. There is a red flag below Champaign-Urbana.

Despite the chaos and uncertainty of my health at that moment 20 years ago, I allowed my colleague to attune to me. I allowed his protection of space around me to create our own little bubble world that was perfectly quiet, still, and safe.

This moment of letting go was completely contrary to my default way of walking through the world, where I _always_ masking myself, attuning to others, and acting as their caregiver.

Hey there, punty girl!

A blue and green swirled vase in the center of the image. It is connected to a rod. In the background is a man's legs (he's the teacher)

I earned the title Punty Girl last night in glass blowing class. My classmates harmoniously sing out “Punty” to get my attention and request my assistance. I am honored to serve the role and I enthusiastically offer my punty abilities to my glass blowing classmates. I’ve already made some Weird Al songs variations for myself: Hey There, Punty Girl and Pass the Punty.

Magic items

I have a childhood memory of owning a “Barbie suitcase.” It was a small case that could hold two Barbies and clothes, shoes, and accessories. The Barbie suitcase held the objects that mattered to me at that age and that I tended carefully. Its magic feels like tenderness, serenity, innocence, play, care, and reverence.

Glass, alchemy, and community

a glass furnace with a glowing circular hole. There's a pipe going into it with a blob of glass attached

There is differentiation at the same time there is harmony, synchrony, and integration. We call each other by our preferred names now. Without prompting, each of us has taken on a role we’re happy to do.

What would it look like if…?

a small stream falling over moss-covered rocks and branches

If the wrong person knew our dreams, they could out-compete us, drive us out of the market, and squash our dreams. At the same time, no one can help us and support us in our dreams if they don’t know about it.

My first day of glass-blowing class

a woman in a t-shirt seated at a bench pulling on a red rod of hot glass. A man in a baseball hat and Holiday World t-shirt is standing next to her. There are tools and benches in the background and two other people behind them.

Everything was loud. The flames were loud, the light was loud, the heat was loud. Strangely, with all that sensory input, there was no differentiation to give me information about changes in my environment. I couldn’t hear anything else but those jets. I couldn’t see the surface of the glass. I couldn’t feel anything but searing heat on my skin. I had to draw upon internalized imaginings of the movements I had seen Ben make. I had to “feel” my way through it.