---

Mrs. Greene lived on the 52nd floor of a high-rise apartment building. Mrs. Greene barely said a word to anyone and when she did, people privately wished she hadn’t, if you catch my drift.

Mrs. Greene wasn’t known for her lovely demeanor, but she sure was known for her lovely balcony garden that could be seen clearly all the way down on the ground floor.

Mrs. Greene loved to go out onto her balcony and tend to this beautiful garden of hers. And oh my, was it lush, with plants grown from cuttings she’d collected from nearly every garden she’d spent time in over the entirety of her existence.

Directly above Mrs. Greene’s apartment, on the 53rd floor, lived Ms. Celia Tolliver and her 6-year-old daughter, Sheila.

Celia Tolliver always wished for a garden like Mrs. Greene’s, but she sighed and settled for the barren slab of concrete that supported the couple chairs and table she’d managed to find the year before, discarded on the curb.

Truth was, Celia Tolliver could barely find the time to do much else other than cook, clean, get her child to day care, go to work, pick her child back up, go home, play with her child, have a glass of wine, think about things and try to be grateful for what she did have more than worry about what she didn’t.

One afternoon, Celia Tolliver and her daughter Sheila were out on their balcony enjoying a snack, sharing stories about their day, when Sheila noticed a flower peeking through the slats of the balcony fence. “Look, Mama!”

Her mama leaned down, and sure enough, a most beautiful flower was peeking through, a flower that had grown wild all the way from Mrs. Greene’s garden.

“Now, don’t you pick that, Sheila,” her mama said. “That flower still belongs to Mrs. Greene.”

“Oh, wow! Isn’t Mrs. Greene so kind to share her flowers!?”

Celia Tolliver smiled and kissed her daughter’s head, knowing full well that Mrs. Greene had definitely not shared her flowers on purpose.

This knowledge was culled from the only interaction she’d ever had with Mrs. Greene—the time she’d been so tired and distracted and accidentally got off the elevator on the 52nd floor and tried getting into Mrs. Greene’s apartment instead of her own. And though she’d apologized and tried explaining what happened, Mrs. Greene still called the police, insisting she’d been trying to break in.

No, Mrs. Greene was not sharing her flowers. But Celia didn’t breathe a word about any of that to her daughter.

Time marched on, as it tends to do, and Mrs. Greene’s garden continued to grow. And grow. And grow.

“Why don’t you give some of these flowers away,” asked Mrs. Greene’s nurse, who visited a couple times a week. “Before long, there won’t be any room for you out here.”

“Why should I? They’re my flowers. The fruits of my labor. If other people want flowers, they should grow their own. I don’t do charity work.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Greene.”

“Besides, I enjoy them all.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re finding some enjoyment, Mrs. Greene.”

What Mrs. Greene didn’t know was that her garden had not only grown thick, but it had continued to climb up the building, filling not only Celia Tolliver‘s balcony, but the balcony of the apartment above theirs. In fact, Mrs. Greene’s garden had grown from the 52nd floor all the way up to the 64th.

Not only were Celia Tolliver and Sheila enjoying sitting out on their balcony tending to all those beautiful flowers, but so were the neighbors above them. And above them.

But one afternoon, Sheila looked upset.

“What is it, sweetheart?” her mama asked.

“Well, Mrs. Greene has been so kind to share her flowers…”

“I guess so,” said her mama, smiling.

“And we’ve all been enjoying them, but we haven’t even said thank you to Mrs. Greene. Don’t you think we ought to say thank you, Mama?”

“You have a golden heart, Sheila.”

Celia Tolliver didn’t want to discourage her daughter’s kindness, so she asked her daughter what she had in mind.

“I’ve decided I’m going to make her a bouquet!”

“A bouquet?! Don’t you think Mrs. Greene has enough flowers?”

“Yes, Mama, but has she ever received a flower from me? I don’t think so.”

So Sheila got busy making her flower arrangement and then insisted her mama call the neighbors upstairs and get them involved.

And by late afternoon, Celia Tolliver, Sheila, and several other children and their parents gathered on the 52nd floor carrying their armfuls of bouquets.

Sheila knocked on Mrs. Greene’s apartment door and waited as the parents looked at each other, skeptical and worried, hoping for the best.

When Mrs. Greene answered the door and saw all the children holding all those flowers, she looked confused. “You’ve got the wrong apartment,” she barked. But just as she was closing the door, Sheila interrupted.

“No, Mrs. Greene. We wanted to thank you for sharing your garden. We used to not have a single flower to enjoy, but you grew your garden big enough so we could all enjoy your flowers! And we decided to make you these bouquets as a gift. We arranged them especially for you!”

It took Mrs. Greene a very long moment to understand what was going on.

“My garden’s grown that big?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Greene, Sheila said. “It’s grown straight up to the 64th floor!”

“You don’t say?”

Mrs. Greene looked startled. But then, as she began to look carefully at the children’s sweet faces, Mrs. Greene suddenly smiled, and felt something she hadn’t felt in many, many years—joy.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked softly. “I don’t have much to offer, but you’re more than welcome to come join me in my garden. I could tell you the stories of where each of these flowers first came from.”

Sheila was delighted, and so she and her mother, along with the other kids and their parents, joined Mrs. Greene in her garden.

“These right here are peonies from my grandmother’s house. Oh, I can still remember planting them with her. I remember the day she gave me a cutting. She told me if I took good care of it, it would never die... Oh, and these flowers were from the house I grew up in, before I had to go to the orphanage after both my parents grew ill. I remembered what my grandmother said, though, so I took cuttings from each flowering plant I loved best... And these flowers, these right here were from my first job at the candy shop. Oh, was that owner kind… I’ll never forget the way he used to let me take home whatever candy I wanted and never made me pay. Not once. And these flowers, these were from the garden of the house I lived in with my husband, before he was sent off to fight in the war and never came back…”

On and on Mrs. Greene shared as if she never shared before, and the children and their parents sat listening, mesmerized.

“I’m so sorry you’ve had so much sadness,” Celia Tolliver said, her eyes tearing.

“Thank you, dear. Funny, I don’t think I realized this until just now, but I suppose I was trying to take something beautiful with me from every place I’d ever been, so I could look back and remember the beauty and not just the heartache.”

“Thank you for sharing your memories with us,” Sheila said.

“You’re welcome,” said Mrs. Greene. “Thank you for helping me realize how much more meaningful it is to share what’s precious, instead of trying so hard to keep it safe just for myself.”

“We’ll take good care of your flowers, Mrs. Greene. And we’ll make sure to keep sharing your memories.”

“I know you will. And you’ll be making your own memories, too!”

After that day, Mrs. Greene began to grow almost as many friends in her high-rise apartment building as she grew flowers. And they visited often and took the time to share with each other the things that mattered most.

The End.

-JLK

---

There’s an open wall in my house where you can see all the messy old wiring.

Before the wall was opened, it looked like a nice wall. With matching paint. The power turned on and off like it was supposed to.

But inside the wall, is this disorganization, with power going into old breakers but not enough new breakers to send power to new places.

And it made me realize—sometimes we need to take down our walls and investigate where our energy is going. See if maybe we need to add some new breakers to the old breaker box in order for our energy to flow to new places.

Maybe there’s some old breakers inside that box that we don’t need to waste our energy with anymore.

Because our energy matters.

And by taking a look at our wiring, we get to decide for ourselves where we’d like our energy to flow. And where we’d like to stop giving our power away.

-JLK

---

The Messiness Of Judging

I’m waiting for my mother’s nurse to pick up. The hospital recording has been on a loop for 20 minutes. “Our hospital is committed to integrity, to the destitute, the sick. Our physicians and nurses have trained at some of the most prestigious colleges in the country. Our patients’ health and comfort is our #1 priority.”

The woman on the recording sounds so clear and passionate. I can picture her in the recording studio. Maybe she had to audition for the part. Maybe she got paid a lot of money to say these things.

Finally a nurse picks up. She sounds exhausted. Would never have gotten the part.

“Has anyone been in to see my mother? She’s hysterical and can’t breathe.”

“Your mother is getting a new nurse.”

“But the nurse I spoke with earlier said she was on her way with meds!”

“Someone will be there within the hour.”

“She’s got to suffer for an hour?”

“Someone will be there as soon as they can.”

“That’s not what your hospital recording says!”

The nurse takes a deep breath. “Oh god,” she mutters. Then I hear the phone land on a hard surface.

I know from experience what happens when the recording ends. When the recording ends, individuals take over.

Recordings are usually neat and tidy. Real individuals are not. There may still be a commitment to life, to kindness, but unscripted commitments are harder to decipher. I think because behind the slogans and edited promises, everyone has to deal with their own relationship between the way we are told things are going to be and the way things are.

My mother, for example, has a slogan that goes something like: “I am a strong as shit individual with impeccable judgment.” And she often is.

But behind the scenes, in the moments of reality when whatever pain sets in and there’s no one around to slogan to, she cannot handle her anxiety and has a tendency to drink herself nearly to death and wind up in the hospital on life support.

Me, for example, when I’m writing this, I’m pretty grounded in my ideas for about 10 minutes at a time. But in between those moments, when the vastness of everything collides with the tininess of who I think I am, when my insane restlessness causes unbearable pain, I clench, and then go online to buy things to better organize my pantry.

I think of the nurse, obviously in no mood to hear about slogans. Perhaps she hasn’t slept in days and has been taking care of so many sick and destitute people that she has not been able to take care of herself.

Maybe I caught her at one of those moments when she didn't have enough energy to pretend to be a spokesperson for anything. Who knows what people have to deal with behind their job descriptions.

There’s the slogan, and then the fractaling inward to a more intimate reality, to those minutes in secrecy behind all closed doors, where there are individuals dealing with themselves and other individuals.

My mother's neighbor has visited my mother every day in the hospital. He cares about my mother. And yet, he’s the one who gets her the vodka. He says he figures if she doesn’t get it from him, she’ll get it from someone else. He doesn’t think of himself as being a bad person, he’s just doing what he does based on the equipment and experiences he has.

Just like the woman who called from the Special Olympics on the other line who got upset with me because I didn't have time to listen to her slogan. “Thanks a lot,” she told me. “Now I won’t meet my quota.”

I laughed to myself thinking I must be attracting every fed-up person in the country. And I couldn't wait to dismiss her as horrible, to throw her in that bin in my mind where ridiculously horrible people go. But if I dismissed everyone for being horrible, who would be left? Not even me. And I wouldn’t be able to call anyone to commiserate with, because they’d all be in my trash can.

I think my expectations for people were learned from television. I grew up on television. Life on television always had a beginning, middle and end, applause and credits. People on television were always who they said they were and if they weren’t everyone would band together and help get them back.

I remember when the television shows would end, resenting the real people around me for not being recognizable from one day to the next.

What I didn’t realize was that the people on television were dependent on a budget, on someone to write their lines, on rehearsals. I didn’t understand that in real life people were dealing with their own thoughts and doing their best to express them in some manner that didn’t get them made fun of, divorced, in jail, or all alone.

In reality, things are messy. In reality, the judgments we make of each other are judgments based on each other’s slogans and worldly circumstances.

Sometimes, I don’t think we really know each other. At best, I think we know our experience of each other. Or maybe, just our experience of ourselves experiencing each other.

Perhaps the only way to really and truly be neat and tidy is to admit that we're not. When we are honest about our shortcomings, maybe then we become real. And when we’re real, maybe then we can be there for each other in ways that don’t disappoint as much.

-JLK

(This piece is one of many from my book, Once Upon an Upset, an illustrated collection of stories, essays and reflections to help make sense of difficult times. If anyone’s interested in learning more about the book, I’ll paste a link in the comments.)

---

Once there was a little sprout in a little pot that sat neglected on someone’s windowsill.

Sometimes the light shone in, but only for brief periods, before it passed on to sunnier places.

The little sprout was thirsty, but had to rely on the woman in the apartment, who always seemed in a rush.

Many times the little sprout would see the woman at the sink filling the watering can, just until her phone would ring at which point she’d leave the can on the counter and forget all about it.

This was very frustrating for the little sprout bc of how close she was to quenching her thirst. But in this case, close was an impossible distance.

The little sprout spent her days dreaming of the future, dreaming of a place unrecognizable from the one where she currently resided, a future where she would be the most beautiful sunflower, tall and full enough never to be ignored. A future where just the sight of her presence made both children and adults smile.

But she had no idea how to arrive at such a future. Especially considering she wasn’t thriving at all on the woman’s windowsill. In fact, as much as she had hope, she knew her days were numbered.

One afternoon, the woman noticed the withering little plant and her heart felt guilty. “I don’t know what I was thinking imagining I could care for another living thing,” she muttered out loud. “Oh well.”

And so she lifted the little potted plant off the windowsill and carried it haphazardly down the stairs.

She thought about placing the plant on the first floor landing, in case anyone wanted to revive it. But as she passed the waste bin, she realized how much closer it was. And her hands were already tired from carrying the potted plant plus her phone and bottled water.

So with a guilty heart, she tossed the potted plant into the waste bin and walked briskly to her favorite cafe to order something extra sugary to dissolve her guilt. Which it did.

Meanwhile, the little plant was in bad shape. Bc of the tumble into the bin, her pot had cracked. She shifted around, to make sure she was still secured enough in the soil, when suddenly, a cool liquid began to soothe her out of nowhere.

Miraculously, when the woman tossed her into the waste bin, her pot had first knocked into a bottle of uncapped spring water that someone, lord knows why, had only sipped from. So for the first time in… had it been months? The little plant drank.

“Who could have imagined,” the little plant thought, “that anything as grand as this could happen after being discarded in a waste basket!”

For the rest of that day, the plant had no time to be sad. She felt nourished at last, her stem, robust, her hope heightened.

Not until the little plant began getting used to feeling fully quenched, did she once again begin to feel the quiet desolation of the dark dank bin.

That night, the little plant dreamed again of her future. These thoughts always soothed her when nothing else did. She loved imagining herself tall and strong, in fertile soil, absorbing the sun, fully in bloom and appreciated.

But once morning arrived, she awoke once again in her cracked pot in the waste bin on that first floor landing where she’d been discarded.

The plant felt thirsty. And withered. And then, despair set in. Until she heard a noise... A disgruntled human muttering: “Another day in hell. Dealing with this god damn trash… Every god damn day, the same god damn thing. I’m damn tired of this.”

The little plant nodded. She had no way of communicating with the man but if she did, she would have said, “I know exactly what you mean.“

The man lifted the cover off the trash bin, and made eye contact with the little potted plant.

“Who throws a god damn plant in the fucking garbage. Has nobody got any respect left for life?”

The little plant hoped the man’s words meant he was going to save her, and she watched carefully for his next move.

The man kept the waste basket’s lid open as he wheeled it down the apartment stairs and outside in front of the building.

The stairs jostled the little plant’s pot and she held herself steady as she felt it crack a bit more. But by this point, the plant didn’t care. Bc outside, the sun was so bright, and shone so warmly inside the can and on her stem and baby leaves.

The man looked inside and made eye contact once again with the little plant, but only said, “Fuck it,” closed the lid and left.

The little plant was back in the dark. She could hear all sorts of sounds on the city streets, much louder than she was used to back when she lived on the sill.

She sat in her pot listening for a bit. Until she felt too weak to pay attention. And it was hard to say how much time had passed before the lid to the can opened again.

This time, looking in, was a face. A curious face with inquiring eyes and a nose speckled with scabs and dirt. Then a hand, also speckled with scabs and dirt reached in and scooted her aside to retrieve a brown paper bag.

He opened up the bag as if he knew what would be inside and retrieved a styrofoam container. Then he lifted the lid and with a plastic fork began to shovel what looked like fried rice into his mouth.

“Sickening,” the little plant thought, as tiny grains of white rice fell into her pot. But just as the little plant began to wince, the man made contact. “Aw“ the man sang. “What stupid ass threw you away? You’re not dead yet, are you?”

The man carefully set the styrofoam container back into the waste bin next to the potted plant and then carefully retrieved the plant.

He lifted it out and held it right up to his face so his eyes were staring right into the little plant’s first leaves. “Don’t you worry. I’m gonna take good care of you,” he said. “There’s hope for you still.”

The man’s words were like music to the little plant. And she dug her roots into the soil as the man carefully placed her into his backpack, hopped on his bike and rode away down the street.

“How’re you doing in there, Miss Plant?” the man called back, as he whooshed in between taxis and busses. “You ok? Won’t be long. I’ve got just the right spot with some nice sun and we’ll give you a nice drink.”

Ten minutes or so later the homeless man carefully retrieved the potted plant. And the little plant looked around. The man was smiling at her, and she noticed what a nice face he had, even with a cracked tooth. “I wonder what kind of plant you are. Well, we’ll find out eventually, won’t we.”

The little plant was curious too. As much as she wanted to be a sunflower, she actually had no idea what kind of plant she was going to be.

The man slid some newspapers off a bench in what looked like the very rear of a large community garden and he sat down, placing the plant next to him on the bench.

“Welcome to my home. Might be humble for some, but it’s a castle if you ask me. And the nice old woman who owns this plot along with this bench doesn’t mind me here bc she says I have a green thumb and a golden heart.

“I take care of her garden and in exchange, she brings me food and friendship. And I don’t think she’ll mind you being here at all. But I don’t think you’re ready to be planted yet. So I’ll just keep you in this pot awhile longer. Just till you get a bit stronger.”

Then the man took out a tube of glue from his backpack. “This ought to do the trick,” he said, squirting a long shiny line of it onto the crooked crack.

The little plant felt the soil tighten up around her roots and it felt nice. Secure. And she relaxed, listening to the man tell his stories, the air from his breath filling her with life.

“I wasn’t always like this, just so you know. I was kind of like you, if you wanna know the truth. I had hope. I was young. A young little sprout. I had fresh ideas. New ideas every day. And I shared my ideas with everyone I met. What did I care? I was looking for a partner, someone who wanted to try stuff out with me.

“Oh I had dreams. I was gonna make it big. And people loved my ideas. Oh yes they did. They took every last one and went to town with ‘em, except they never brought me along. I can’t tell you how many times it happened. I’d read about my ideas in the paper and see my friends’ names as the originators. And when I asked them why, they’d tell me they couldn’t talk. That they’d get back to me later. Then, they’d block my calls. And when I’d see them on the street wearing their new fancy clothes, they’d take one look at me and make a beeline in the opposite direction.

“So I figured I’d better stop giving my ideas away. But I still couldn’t catch a break. I lost every dead beat job I had bc I was always too busy thinking up new ideas. And eventually, I figured I’d just stop working period. So I could think about my ideas in peace. And that’s my story, Miss Plant.”

The plant felt bad for the man. It seemed so unfair. What kind of world was this, where the people who’re kind, with the best ideas, live on a bench, and the people who’re the criminals, who steal other people’s ideas, get to live in fancy high rise apartments.

It was as if the man could read her thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking what a sad man I am. But you know what? I’m alive. And, I know I’m alive. Which sounds like a simple equation. But I will tell you what. Most people, they live their lives wearing blindfolds, not even realizing the miracle that’s happening. And that’s why they have no good ideas.

“I mean look at you—you’re alive! With so much hope! And yet someone tosses you in a trash can. See what a good thing it is that I am who I am? Otherwise you would have just died in there, like so many others who’ve been discarded. But look at you now! You’re growing. Just like me. We’re growing together! We’ve got sun, we’ve got air. Good ideas. Seriously. This, is the dream come true: life. It’s truly all we need.”

The little plant liked the man. He didn’t look sad anymore. In fact, when she looked out at the street, at all the fancier people walking by, they were the ones who looked sad. They were the ones who really didn’t seem to notice what the man was talking about.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” the man said later that afternoon. I found her growing in a sidewalk crack a few blocks away. I thought we could plant her next to you, so you could both have a friend.”

The man held out an almond milk carton cut in half, filled with soil. And in the middle, a tiny little sprout stood strong. “I’d introduce you, but I don’t know what kind of plant she is either.”

The little milk carton sprout looked at the little potted plant and smiled. “Glad to meet you,” she said.

“Hi,” said the little plant. “I’m glad the man found you. What were you thinking, growing in the middle of a sidewalk? You’re lucky you weren’t trampled!”

“It really wasn’t my choice. All I can tell you is that I sprouted up on a busy street. I thought everyone did. It’s been rough. I lost my whole family. Everyone was run over by shoes or bicycle tires. But somehow, I remained in tact and began to grow. Which was especially stressful

knowing that at any moment I’d be crushed.

“But alas, this man noticed me. And he carefully removed me from the crack I grew in and next thing I knew I was secured in this container and brought here. He’s the only one who ever saw me. He looked at me and he said, ‘These people in this world, they have no idea what they’re trampling over on their way to better places. You are precious. And I’m going to care for you.’”

The little plant smiled from her pot. “I’m glad he rescued you.”

“Me too.”

The man took good care of his new potted plants. Everyday he spoke to them both. And every day they grew bigger.

And one day, the milk carton plant began to sprout its first leaves, “Did you see,” she asked the potted plant. “Look what I woke up with!”

“Oh my goodness!” the potted plant said excitedly. “You’ve got leaves! How does it feel?”

“It feels… right.”

When the man woke up, he gasped. “Would you look at this! You’ve got leaves! Well I’ll be damned! You’re a tomato plant!”

The milk carton plant beamed. “A tomato plant!”

“That’s a fine thing to be. Everyone loves those ripe little red tomatoes. You’re gonna do alright for yourself. I’ll make sure to keep you strong so you get to grow as big as you were meant to be.”

The little plant was so proud of her friend. “You’re beautiful,” she said.

“And don’t you be jealous,” the man said to the potted plant, as if he were reading her mind. “Your day will come. Everyone grows and blossoms in their own time. And that’s just what’s so. It’s neither good or bad. So don’t you worry. You’re alive. That’s what counts. You’ll just have to wait a little longer to find out what you’re gonna be.”

The little plant smiled. She appreciated the man’s golden heart. And she knew he was right.

Life in the garden was simple and joyful. The man took such good care of every flower and every plant that grew and gave extra special attention to his two rescues. And every afternoon, when the elderly woman arrived, they’d sit on the bench together and talk about the world.

She’d bend down slowly and admire how everyone was growing so beautifully. “This one,” she said to the man about potted plant. “She’s growing bigger. But funny, I still have no idea what she’s going to be.”

“She’ll be something grand, I know that much.”

The elderly woman loved how caring the man was. “You’re too good for this world,” she said to her friend.

Before the elderly woman left for the day, she invited the man once again to stay in her apartment. “I don’t know why you always refuse. I have two empty bedrooms for Christ’s sake.”

But the man always politely declined the old woman’s invitations. “I like it out here in the world,” he always said.

“I’m just worried about you.”

“No one’s gonna bother me here.”

Late one night, the man fell asleep after talking to his plants, when he was awakened by footsteps. Two cops had received a call about an armed robbery and they were looking for a suspect.

“Wakey wakey,” one of the cops said, tapping the man’s shoe with his nightstick

The man sat up, startled.

“You know you can’t sleep here.”

The man smiled. “Good evening officers. Everything ok?”

“We’re looking for an armed robber. Where were you at 4pm?”

“Taking care of my garden here. Well, Edith Powell’s garden. She hired me to watch her plants.”

The cops laughed. “24-hour plant watchman. Right.”

“We’ll need you to come back to the station. Answer some questions.”

“What?!” the man said, escalating. Not so much out of anger, but bc he’d been woken up from minding his own business. “But I didn’t do anything!”

“You’re gonna need to come with us,” one of the officers said.

“And you’re also going to need to shut your damn mouth before there’s trouble,” said the other officer.

The man was shaking now. He couldn’t believe that in this world, these two human beings felt they had the right to not only disrupt an innocent man, but remove him from his context against his will.

“I have proof,” the man said, reaching into his pocket for Edith Powell’s number.

“Not one move,” one of the officers said, his hand on his weapon.

“Trust me. Edith will vouch for me. Just call her.” And the man continued reaching into his coat pocket when the officer fired his weapon.

And then, the man stopped moving.

“What the fuck did you just do?” the other officer asked.

“He was grabbing his gun!”

“His gun?” The officer lifted the man’s hand, which was holding the piece of paper with Edith’s handwritten number. “You fucking idiot.”

“Shit,” the other officer said. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

The officer sighed. “Call it in as gang violence. He’s just another homeless man. Nobody’s gonna miss him.”

Every single plant in the garden was devastated and sobbing inconsolably.

“Noooooo!” the tomato plant cried.

“You assholes!” the little potted plant wailed. “You have no idea what you’ve done! You’ve killed one of the good guys! He was alive for one thing—to help everyone around him grow! And you dimwitted fools! You useless lifeless wastes of space! You’re supposed to protect people! And you killed him! For no reason! Like he was worthless! You killed my favorite person!”

The potted plant and the tomato plant and all the other plants in the garden were still weeping when the ambulance came to take the man away. And that was that. He was gone. Forever.

The following day, Edith Powell arrived, the same way she arrived every morning. And she was surprised not to see the man. Especially considering that the man’s bike was still propped up against the back of the bench.

With arthritic fingers, Edith Powell examined everyone’s leaves, looking for signs of having been watered. And when she found none, she knew something was wrong.

“Where’s Edmond?” she asked the plants, her voice nervous.

The little plant wished she could have communicated with the old woman, to tell her what had happened, but she couldn’t.

And that’s when the woman noticed blood on the ground beside the bench. And when she bent down to take a closer look, she began to weep. “No,” she cried. “It couldn’t be. Not my Edmond. Not my golden-hearted friend.”

Edith called every hospital and every precinct, but no one had a single bit of information about Edmond—no one knew who he was or what had happened.

The old woman took over caring for her garden. But she could barely water the plants, bc of her constant weeping.

“This world is heartbreaking,” the tomato plant said to the potted plant.

“It is,” the little plant agreed. “But don’t you remember what the man used to say? If you’re feeling feelings, it’s a good thing. A real good thing. It means you’re alive. So never stop feeling. Even if you soak yourself with tears of sadness or you choke on your own snorting laughter—you be glad you’re alive! Even if no one around you seems to notice!”

“I just miss him so,” the tomato plant sobbed.

“I do too.”

One morning, a few months later, the plants waited for Edith Powell to show up as she did every morning to water them. But she never arrived. And though the plants continued to wait day after day, their hope faded, and they never saw Edith in the garden again. Nor did they ever find out for sure what happened, though the plants were fairly certain she must have died of a broken heart.

And perhaps it was all the weeping that helped Edith Powell’s garden grow into most robust garden that anyone in the area had ever seen.

The tomato plant was now enormous. Even the potted plant had grown way too big for her pot, though still, no one knew what kind of plant she was.

Children and their parents visited daily to admire all the plants and harvest her vegetables. Poets and musicians sat on her bench, just to contemplate life and celebrate all its beauty.

And then, one day, a new caretaker arrived. A very tall woman, with limbs as slender as birch branches, wearing a straw hat with a gap between her two front yellowed teeth.

“Hello, plants!” she announced. “I am your new gardener! My name is Betsy Fork. And I’ll be telling you all a great deal about myself and I’ll expect y’all to do the same.”

Over time, the garden grew accustomed to Betsy Fork’s voice. And she was right—the whole garden quickly found out just about everything there was to find out about Betsy Fork.

Betsy Fork had arrived to the city without much of anything on her back, as they say. Except unlike other stories about people who move to cities with next to nothing on their backs, Betsy Fork remained without much of anything on her back. And, she preferred it that way.

“The less I have, the lighter the load. The lighter the load, the less I need to worry about losing it. And the less I worry, the more time I have to notice what’s really going on around me—life!!!!”

The potted plant and the tomato plant grew quite fond of Betsy Fork and her passion for life. And they were not at all surprised that Betsy had come to her conclusions about life the same way all their favorite people had—by losing everything.

“Aren’t humans the strangest,” the tomato plant said one morning. “They have to lose everything just to finally notice what they’ve always had.”

“They are peculiar that way,” the potted plant agreed.

Life in the garden was simple once again. The sun shone or the clouds took the sun’s place so that the rain could do its job.

Every morning, Betsy Fork arrived at the garden to share her stories and every afternoon, after Betsy left for the day, all the plants shared their own stories and admired each other’s growth.

As the days continued, the weather shifted. It grew colder. Especially in the evenings. Betsy Fork began to cover some of the more timid plants with blankets. And as autumn approached, the tomato plant began to weaken and wilt.

It was an unspoken truth that some of the plants wouldn’t survive the cold weather. And so everyone grew a bit sad without saying exactly why.

“Don’t you worry,” Betsy Fork said to the tomato plant. “I’ve saved your seeds and we’ll be planting you again in the spring. You will continue on. I will make sure of it.”

“But will I still be me?” The tomato plant asked.

It was as if Betsy Fork could hear her concern. “I’m not sure the difference between me and any other me,” she said. “All I know is that if I pay attention, no matter who I happen to be, I will know that I’m alive. And what else could I possibly need to remember?”

That satisfied the tomato plant. And she relaxed a bit.

And so did the potted plant, who was now so big, she had to be replanted in an enormous planter.

“As for you,” Betsy Fork said to the plant. “I’ll be taking you with me.”

The potted plant gasped.

“Well, we can’t be planting any trees in this garden. It’s not allowed. It’s for plants only.”

“A tree???!!!” thought the potted plant. “I’m a tree!!!??? Well, I suppose that shouldn’t come as too great of a surprise. After all, I have been feeling sturdier than usual. But still, I had no idea I was a tree!”

“That’s right,” Betsy Fork continued. “You are going to be a tree. And not just any tree. You, if I’m not mistaken. And I’m rarely mistaken. And that’s just a fact, not a brag... are a Weeping Willow!”

“Oh my goodness,” the tomato plant sang. “Of course that’s what you are! You’ve been weeping since we met!”

The potted plant smiled, only slightly sarcastically. “Hmm. That does makes sense. But yet… I really wanted to be a sunflower. And make people smile. Not weep.”

Once again, it was as if Betsy Fork could hear the plant’s concerns. “Weeping Willows are very important and very special trees. They happen to be one of my all time favorites. Maybe even my favorite favorite. Not only bc you’re beautiful trees. But bc you don’t hold yourself back. Weeping Willows weep all over the place. It’s a tree of mourning and grief, yes, but it’s also a tree that can withstand hardship and difficulty and offer compassion.”

“Of course you’re a Weeping Willow!” the other plants in the garden chimed in. “Look at all you’ve been through and yet you keep growing stronger!”

The potted sapling appreciated the encouragement. And yet, she was still figuring out how to handle this news. I mean, it was a pretty big deal. For her whole entire life she’d been planning for a particular better future. Looking forward every single day to becoming a sunflower. And now, all of a sudden, this future was never going to be possible.”

“Come on,” the tomato plant said. “You have to go with it. Can you imagine how sad I’d feel every day if I had wanted to be an apple tree? I’d be embarrassed and depressed about every single tomato I grew! But I embrace my tomatoes. Bc that’s what I’ve become. I am what I am. And people are glad I am what I am. And if someone wants an apple, they’re not going to think less of me that I don’t grow apples. They’ll just go get an apple and come to me when they want tomatoes. We can’t be everything! We can only be who we are.”

“Well that does make sense, I suppose.”

“Of course it does. Oh no. What are you weeping for now?”

“Well, just bc it makes sense, doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.”

“Well, I’m proud of who you are. You are capable and strong. And I’m going to miss you like crazy.”

The following day, the Weeping Willow said goodbye to the tomato plant and to the rest of the plants in the garden, and Betsy Fork said her own last goodbyes to every single plant in the garden.

Then she lifted the enormous potted sapling, and together, they headed off down the street and into the subway all the way to 197th street.

Out in the brisk autumn air, Betsy Fork checked in with the sapling. “Now we’ve just gotta find our limo and we’ll skidaddle. It’s already packed up with my four belongings. You’ll be my 5th. I know, I know, you’re not really mine. Nobody alive belongs to anyone. But you know what I mean.”

The potted sapling listened to Betsy Fork talk and talk. She really knew how to generate some air. And with each step, the sapling felt her roots bounce up and down just a bit, until they arrived at a dilapidated rusty blue Toyota Corolla. “You’re Limo, Ma’am,” Betsy Fork said, opening up the front passenger door and strapping the potted sapling into her seatbelt.

And after Betsy Fork got into the driver’s seat and strapped herself in, they were off.

“You’re probably wondering where we’re going. And I’ll be honest. I have no damn idea. I figure we’ll find a place that’ll be just right for you to grow. All we need is a little piece of land; somewhere with good enough people that’ll appreciate a tree like you.”

The Weeping Willow was confused. Did this lady seriously just leave the city only bc she wanted to find a good place for me to live?

Once again, it was as if Betsy Fork could read her mind. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m no saint. I need a place to plant myself too. I’ve been uprooted so many times, I can’t even remember what it feels like to have a home. So we’ll be a team. Find the right place for us both to grow. Grow hardy. Grow into the best version of who we are!”

The potted sapling felt content listening to Betsy Fork. And yet the funniest thing was, the main reason she felt content, was bc somehow, she could feel the man in the car with them.

She couldn’t see him. But she could have sworn she heard his voice, all excited. Saying, “Would you look at this?! Miss Plant?! A Weeping Willow!? How did I not know! Oh, you are going to be just fine. And I’ll be watching you grow!”

“I miss you,” the little sapling whispered to the man, just in case he really was there.

“Well I’ll be damned! I can hear you now! Oh, I miss you too, Miss Plant. You’ve come a long ways from that trash can. I’m proud of you.”

“Please don’t go.”

“Oh I’ll be back. You have my word on that.”

“The spirit of things,” Betsy Fork blurted out of the blue. “Hmmm. Always blows my mind.”

“How did this woman always seem to know everything,” the potted plant wondered.

“Yup, it’s the spirit of things that makes a seed grow into a plant and even into a tree. That same spirit of things that resides in every living being. Even me. But you think most people know this? Most people can’t make it through a whole day without crushing the spirit out of one thing or another. In fact, most people wouldn’t hear a spirit if it screamed in their damn ear. But you trust me, little plant, spirits are everywhere. And the real hardy ones, they don’t even need a body. So you pay attention. I’ve got an army of spirits that watch over me wherever I go. Which is a damn good thing bc I haven’t got any real people.”

Betsy Fork and the potted sapling drove and drove and drove. And the sapling wondered if maybe the car ran on Betsy Fork’s voice, bc she did not stop talking the entire time.

“I’ll tell you what, little plant, I say we put our faith to the test. Once we run just about out of gas, we’ll pull over. And whichever we find first is where we’ll go: money for more gas means we’ll keep going, and a vacant lot means we’ll stay put. Sound like a plan?”

The little sapling nodded, even though it sounded like a very bad idea. One that wouldn’t end well at all. But like all things in the little plant’s life, she was at the mercy of those around her. So she just hoped for the best.

“Besides,” the little sapling thought. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? I’d have less of nothing? I’ve already been learning that nothing is actually something that can give a person all sorts of unexpected gifts. And so far, life has been leading me from one gift to the next. So maybe trusting Betsy Fork isn’t the worst thing I could do.”

Once Betsy Fork’s car sounded the ding that informed everyone that the gas was just about all used up, she pulled off the exit ramp and told the little plant to pay attention.

“We’re doing spirit work here, ok? At least I hope we are. Otherwise we’re just damned fools. And I don’t know about you,” she said, turning the wheel with all her might bc she was out of steering fluid, “spirit work has a much nicer ring to it than stupidity.”

Betsy Fork looked around. “Welp, this looks as ugly as any other exit I’ve seen. Let’s try it out… There’s the gas station. Might as well go in.”

Betsy Fork pulled into the gas station, parked at the pump, and started looking for quarters underneath the seat. “I’ve been known to find a meal’s worth. I may be a gardener of plants, but I swear sometimes I’ll drop a quarter on the floor and come back a month later to find 7.”

Betsy was too tall to see under the seat, so she opened the door and got out, and from there, stuck her head back in and searched the car floor, looking for anything shiny.

“Welp” she hollered. “If they’ll let me pay for gas with old french fries, we’ll be good for a couple hundred miles.”

Meanwhile, a man had walked over to the car,

a man with dark blue eyes, a dark mustache and stubble where a beard was starting to grow.

“You need any help?”

Betsy Fork lifted her head out from underneath her car seat and the moment she saw this handsome man standing there, her previously light-skinned face turned as red as a tomato.

Betsy Fork touched her face with her hands and blushed even more. “I’m so sorry,” she explained. “I was looking under the seat for pocket change… and I must have rubbed my face against the carpet or something. Feels like a pretty bad burn,” she said awkwardly.

The man smiled. “Did you lose something?”

“My money,” she laughed with a snort. “I was hoping maybe I’d find some of it underneath the seat. But I guess that’s not where it went.”

The man took out a twenty dollar bill.

“Oh, I couldn't do that.”

“Is that a Weeping Willow?” the man asked, noticing the plant sitting there, strapped in the passenger seat.

“Oh, you’re good! Not many people would know that at this stage. But she’s not for sale. She’s a rescue.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean I wanted to buy your plant. She’s just beautiful. That’s all.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Betsy Fork laughed, her face turning red yet again. “She is a beauty. She was born in a city garden and I’m looking for the perfect place to plant her… Along with myself,” she said, her nervous laughter ending with another snort.

The man smiled and laughed endearingly. “Well, you might be in luck,” he said. “My sister runs a greenhouse about 90 miles south of here. And she happens to be looking for some help. She’s got a cottage she’s looking to rent in the back of her property, and I don’t want to speak prematurely, but there’s a plot of grass next to the cottage that might make a perfect spot for your Weeping Willow.”

Betsy’s eyes grew even wider than they were naturally and she leaned in to talk to the potted plant. “Are you hearing this? Did I not tell you that I’ve got an army of spirits watching over me? Did I not tell you what happens when you have faith?”

Betsy then went to stand back upright but slammed her head on the car window.

“Damn that hurt,” she laughed. “I guess I forgot the part about keeping your eyes open while you’re bragging.”

The man laughed along. “You talk to your plants just like a good gardener. My sister does the same thing. I have a feeling you’ll be dear friends. What’s your name anyhow?”

“Betsy Fork.”

The man’s face turned pale. “You’re not going to believe this, but my sister’s name is also Betsy.”

“Oh my lord!”

With that, the man called his sister on his phone, told her the whole unbelievable story, which his sister loved every detail of (as he knew she would.) Then he handed Betsy the address and told her he’d come by to see them both in a few days.

And with that, Betsy thanked the man about 200 times, each time more awkward than the last, got back into the car and yahooed so loud the little sapling felt the echo in each of her leaves.

“Can you believe this? Pinch me! Go on and pinch me already bc I’ve got to be dreaming!”

The little sapling smiled. But the funny thing was, she wasn’t nearly as surprised by any of this the way Betsy was. Bc if there was anything the little sapling had noticed so far about the world, was that if you paid attention to what was going on around you, what you’d discover is that every moment is like it’s own exit ramp, leading to something new and unexpected, if only people would be willing to take the chance to try things out.

The problem was, not many people were like Betsy Fork. Most people already had a lot of what they wanted in life and they spent most of their time trying not to lose any of it. And so they missed out on noticing all the other alive stuff that was going on right in front of their faces.

Or, was it a problem?

After all, if the woman in that apartment had paid more attention to the little plant and watered it, she might have stayed stuck for the rest of her life on that sill.

“It’s a strange world,” the little sapling thought to herself. Maybe the world needs all kinds of people to be just exactly as they are and aren’t—people who notice and people who don’t notice—to keep this big engine running the way it’s supposed to.

Turned out, Betsy and Betsy were like two peas in a pod. Where Betsy Fork was tall with limbs like birch twigs, Betsy Logan was shorter and fanned out like a rhododendron bush, with every word from her mouth sounding like a flower in full bloom.

Betsy Logan lived on her own in the farmhouse out front while Betsy Fork lived in the small cottage in back, mostly alone, except for the times Betsy Logan’s brother came by with fresh flowers to take Betsy Fork out to dinner and sometimes out for bowling afterwords (much to the fright of whoever happened to be in the lanes next to theirs when Betsy’s long limbs lost control of the ball and sent it flying in the air.)

The two Betsy’s became fast best friends, caring for the plants and flowers in Betsy Logan’s green house.

Betsy Logan talked to the plants just like Betsy Fork did. And when they weren’t talking to the plants, they talked to each other, and when those conversations finally faded off, they continued talking to themselves. And maybe because of all that talking is why Betsy Logan’s greenhouse flourished.

And every evening after work, Betsy Fork visited the Weeping Willow next to her cottage, who was growing faster and stronger and more beautiful every day.

It had been only a few years and already, that weeping Willow was as tall as Betsy Fork. “How are you feeling today, my beautiful friend?” Betsy asked.

The Weeping Willow always responded bc she knew that somehow, Betsy Fork could understand. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever imagined I could be.”

“Me too,” Betsy Fork replied, resting her head against the weeping willow’s trunk.

Many years later, the two Betsy’s were having their lunch under the Weeping Willow. By this time, she was big enough for a large family to sit comfortably under.

The little plant, now a full grown tree, loved being able to join in these moments. Not only as a space for shade and beauty, but as part of the family.

The two Betsy’s loved that weeping willow tree as one of their own and included her in every conversation.

Sometimes kids would visit the greenhouse with their school to help out and learn. And the willow tree would hear Betsy Fork explaining to them how everything around them was alive. “You see this tree? I first met her when she was a young plant in a pot. That’s right. People who saw her back then might not have seen anything too important. Most people walked right on by, thinking they were on their way to someplace better. But when I saw that plant, I saw what she was gonna be. And I stopped and I watered her and cared for her. And that’s what I want to share with you kids.

“Before you walk on by, stop a minute. And look around, before you miss out on something special. An opportunity to contribute, to help something grow. Did y’all realize, that you can help things grow? Think about yourselves, think about when someone takes a minute to really see you, see your potential, and help you figure out how to be the best version of who you might be.

“When I first met this little potted plant, I knew I was meeting a majestic Weeping Willow. Can you imagine how many other little plants never get to realize their full potential, all bc someone wasn’t able to see what was right in front of their face?

“And I’m not talking about people needing glasses. I’m talking about people not understanding what’s real: that every single being on this earth has a potential. A glorious potential. It’s sad when people don’t understand this. And it’s sad when people inadvertently trample the potential of things that might have gone on to make the world a more beautiful place.

“So work hard, water the plants in your gardens, and water every life that crosses your path. Including your own. You can be gardeners. For all beings.”

The Weeping Willow felt so grateful. Not only for Betsy Fork, but for Edmond the gardener, and Edith Powell. Because each of those people were the reason, in one way or another, that she was reaching her potential, and making the world a more beautiful place.

She always knew that somehow her future would be a good one. She just had no idea who exactly she was gonna become. And no, she was not what she expected at all. She was even better. Standing tall, full of life, making people and children smile. And then, she heard the man’s voice.

“You see, Miss Plant? I told you. I told you that you were gonna be something grand. And I was right.”

“You’re the grand one,” the little plant whispered. “And I’ll never forget you, as long as I live.

Just then, the Weeping Willow began to weep. And the man weeped along, and then the skies opened up and they weeped too. “Lordy, Lordy!“ Betsy Fork hollered. “We’ve got cats and dogs coming, I can feel it! Children, our lesson will have to be continued next time.”

The two Betsy’s and the children watched the rain fall and they laughed and laughed. But they stayed dry and safe under the weeping willow who stood tall and strong, just like Betsy Fork told her she’d be, back when she was just a baby in a pot: “Weeping Willows may be sad, they may forever be in mourning, but you’ll also be resilient and full of hope, able to withstand life’s hardships and difficult times and provide a safe place for others to do the same.”

The end.

-JLK

---

Once there was a woman who inherited a family recipe. And she made this same recipe for her daughter everyday, bc those were the only ingredients she had.

When the daughter grew up, she made this same recipe for her son, bc those were the only ingredients she had.

On and on, this recipe was passed down from one generation to the next. Until finally, one person decided she wanted to make something new.

But there was a problem—she only had those same old ingredients.

And though she really did try to make her kid something new with those same old ingredients, it kept turning into that same old recipe—the recipe she never asked for growing up, but the recipe she always received.

In time, she realized that if she didn’t want to give her kid that same recipe, which he didn’t care for either by the way, she was going to have to go out of her way to find new ingredients, ingredients she knew nothing about. Which was quite challenging. Where do you even find such ingredients?

The woman went on a pilgrimage of sorts, looking for new ingredients and also looking for support to help her find these new ingredients. Ingredients that would make both herself and her son feel different—more excited about being alive, less alone, more connected, more joyous, more accepted, more authentic, more fulfilled...

Finally, with support and a lot of compassion for herself and her efforts, she began to acquire a bunch of new ingredients, which she excitedly brought home to try out.

Her goal was to invent a brand new recipe. But, it was harder than she thought. Overwhelming, even.

She had no idea what in the world she was doing. And she was very tempted to resort to those same old ingredients that seemed so much more familiar. But every time she used them again, she wound up making that same old recipe.

Finally, she decided to keep those old ingredients in a very difficult-to-reach cabinet and see what might happen if she only used the new ingredients.

She began experimenting with these new ingredients, trying out each one.

It felt awkward at first, but with practice, she made them her own. And her son loved the new recipes she was making.

It was just like she’d hoped—he seemed more excited about being alive, less alone, more connected, more joyous, more accepted, more authentic, more fulfilled... And she did too.

It can be so frustrating to feel like we’re stuck with the same old ingredients to work with. But with a little effort, we can begin to seek out new ingredients, ingredients we never even knew existed, and then use them to create new, more fulfilling experiences.

Sure we might resort to those old staples from time to time, especially when it seems like we’ve run out of our new ingredients and can’t find the energy to get more.

But once we replenish, we can find comfort knowing that we’re no longer stuck with those old ingredients. We have new recipes now. Recipes we can count on, bc we created them ourselves.

-JLK

---

Social media can be brutal. It can have us equating our algorithm with our worth, especially during stressful times when our unhealed parts are hurting and we already feel invisible.

But sometimes I like to imagine that maybe people are born with a particular frequency or algorithm.

Just like some of us are nearsighted and see clearly what’s right in front of us and some of us are farsighted and see clearly what’s further away, maybe our algorithm is a different kind of vision: who can see us.

Some of us are seen by people from all over and some of us are seen by people nearest to us. And I don’t think it’s a problem, unless a person places their value on how many eyeballs know they exist.

If you ask me, I say use whatever algorithm you have and just keep being you—blossoming in the most authentic way possible.

You will be seen by whoever it is that sees you and you will be appreciated by whoever it is that takes the time to understand what they’re seeing.

I really don’t believe it matters how many eyeballs know you’re here. That’s a phenomenon based on selling products and gaining as much profit as possible. But turning yourself into a product may not be the thing that honors the gift that you have to offer.

So whichever way the world is seeing you, use it. Shining is the goal. Not getting caught up in the business of who’s shining the most.

Who you are makes a difference, for yourself and whoever else you’re connecting with. Never underestimate that.

-JLK

---

When people focus all their attention on the parts of our kids they're so sure need fixing, it keeps them from getting to connect with and appreciate our kids as the extraordinary, whole and complete people they already are.

-JLK

(Image of kid on iPad with giant hand holding highlighter, highlighting what it sees as problematic:

Jesus, he needs a haircut.
Aren't you worried about him fitting in?

He's just so different
from when he was little.

What's his BMI?

Is he always on that screen?

Is he getting out enough, getting exercise?

You should think more about his future.
Will he be able to get a job?)

---

Coming back home to our bodies after neglecting ourselves can feel like coming home to an abandoned place.

It can feel uncomfortable, awkward, scary. It can even feel like our bodies don’t want us there. And maybe we don’t want to be there, either. Especially if our bodies have become storage spaces for too many unresolved upsets and too much pain, shame and discomfort.

It makes sense that we’d want to avoid this relationship and pursue relationships outside of ourselves that feel better, whether it’s a relationship with another person or a relationship to some substance.

But when we leave our bodies and disconnect from the relationship with ourselves, it can leave us feeling like we’re homeless—like we don’t have a refuge in our bodies.

And so we float in orbit, keeping ourselves busy with whatever coping mechanisms we have access to, but never feel as settled as we’d like.

Repairing the relationship with ourselves begins when we give ourselves a chance. When we offer love to ourselves and find out that our own love is precious and very much worth our own time.

When we take the time to connect with ourselves, we begin to trust ourselves to be there, and trust that we can offer ourselves the compassion and listening and understanding we’ve been longing for, even when the going gets tough.

-JLK

---

Giving love is only half of the story, letting love in is the other half.

For most of my life, I’ve had a tendency to shy away from letting love in.

Maybe I do a quick checks and balances, and determine that I’m not deserving of love.

Or I’ll fear that if I do let love in, I’ll have to do something that compromises myself to feel like I‘ve earned it.

So although it might appear as though I receive love, I often don’t.

And I’m not talking about romantic love.

Love can be a compliment, words of encouragement, an act of service, an offer of support, an appreciation of who someone is…

And by letting in these kinds of love, we receive the gift of another person who has taken the time to notice and appreciate the value of who we are.

And the act of receiving this kind of love allows love to flow in greater abundance. Bc receiving love creates more love and more incentive to give it away.

This doesn’t mean letting in toxicity, or compromising our boundaries. Letting love in begins with letting in our own love first.

Allowing ourselves the time to really appreciate who we are, to heal those old toxic ideas about ourselves that we once internalized, and to build trust with ourselves so that we can pause when love presents itself and then decide for ourselves if it is in fact love, or a transaction that could leave us in debt.

When we do receive love as love, we can feel the quality of it: it asks for nothing in return, warming our hearts like the sun.

And we can continue the flow of this kind of love by noticing others and appreciating who they are, whether they’re in a position to receive our love or not.

-JLK

---

At some point it occurred to me that I’d been practicing putt-putt parenting, which is this idea that it’s my responsibility to keep nudging my child until he gets a hole-in-one.

That it’s my job to pick what I believe he should focus on, and then “gently“ push him, again and again, towards this direction that I believe will lead to a well-adjusted, successful life.

And if he won’t budge?

Well, a putt-putt parent will keep repositioning themselves and keep learning different strategies until we can find a better way to reach our kids and nudge them more effectively.

Is it any wonder that some of us putt-putt parents receive so much push back?

The thing I’ve begun to realize, is that life isn’t always about getting a hole in one. And my kid isn’t mine to control. And he doesn’t dig in his heels to be defiant. He’s communicating the only way he knows how—that he isn’t fitting into the little container I keep insisting he needs to fit in, and he has zero interest in struggling to do so.

So I began to wonder—what if I could allow space for my son to decide where he wants to invest his attention and let him determine whether or not it’s a good fit. What if I let him lead, even if where he goes is off the damn putting green.

Letting go of putt-putt parenting is hard. It’s definitely not for everyone. And it’s completely counterintuitive to how I was raised.

But if you’ve got a kid who’s absolutely refusing to go where you keep trying to push him, it might be a breath of fresh air to let go of those strategies and expectations, not only for your kid, but for you.

When I remember to try it out, it really is a lot less stressful for everyone. And with less stress, good ideas have more of a safe space to emerge.

And with all the extra time off the putting green, there’s more energy to turn these good ideas into projects that light us up.

-JLK

---

Lens Sickness:

If you grew up around a lot of people who dominated your world with their perspectives, you probably learned to see through many lenses in order to function in their worlds—to either avoid their punishment or earn their love and approval.

But the consequence of growing up like this, is that your own perspective likely got lost. And when you’ve lost your own perspective, it gets very difficult to know which lens is the ‘right’ lens to see through.

People in this predicament may slideshow through every lens that’s been forced upon them, and feel confused about which one is the accurate picture of reality.

And this confused and exhausting feeling, is what I call Lens Sickness.

People in this predicament become so attuned to other people’s perspectives in order to survive being around them, that they may even come to the conclusion that these people actually have a point.

But even if they do have a point, their point is not necessarily for you.

That’s the thing to learn. Everyone has a valid point for who they currently are in their ongoing journey through life, but not everyone has a perspective that includes more points than just their own.

And to me, this is what separates people who are healing from people who are out there battling with their blindspots and causing collateral damage by trying to dominate everyone around them bc they’re still trying to survive a childhood where they felt constantly dismissed and invalidated.

To heal from Lens Sickness, a person needs to find a lens that allows them to see a clear picture of what’s happening, with themselves included in that picture. And in my opinion, finding the right lens can only be found through developing one’s own perspective.

It took me awhile to realize that I actually have a self that’s mine that I developed, that experiences and understands life like no one else.

I had thought this self of mine was a sign of arrogance, that it was meant to be kept secret. And I assumed it wasn’t welcome in the world bc no one ever invited me to share it, and if I did, I was immediately mocked or proven wrong.

I had to figure out on my own that being alive is the invitation to share myself. That my perspective through my own lens matters.

To me, it’s so important to find and create spaces for our perspectives to be shared and received. Maybe it’s through writing or teaching or art or community service, or through genuine conversations with our kids or even with people we’ve just met.

Whatever medium a person chooses, what’s most important is that we get used to representing our perspectives out loud.

Instead of enduring the discomfort that comes from allowing another person’s point to dominate our own, or turning into one of those blindspotted individuals that tear up spaces, demanding to be heard and listened to, we can practice representing ourselves peacefully, as an invitation for others to understand us better.

And one way we can share our perspectives peacefully is by first welcoming other perspectives. By validating what’s currently so for the other person without feeling squashed by what they’ve got to say, thanking them for sharing, and then by
sharing where we’re coming from—not as a rebuttal, but as an opportunity to represent who we are and where we’ve come from.

We don’t need to go back to those old spaces from our youth to practice being heard in order to get those people’s agreement either.

The only validation we need is our own.

The weight of yourself in your own body, walking on your own path, and sharing what’s so for you on that path is, to me, how to heal from Lens Sickness. And it’s how to create a place in this world where you can be known for who you truly are.

-JLK

(I’m sharing pieces from my new book, Once Upon an Upset, an illustrated collection of stories, insights and reflections to help make sense of difficult times. If you’d like more info pls visit my store.)

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Once there was a man with the strangest condition. There wasn’t even a name for it, as far as anyone knew. But every time he was in a place with an entryway that faced east, he was very kind and patient and ready to connect.

And every time he was in a place where the entryway faced west, he was just about the meanest person around.

In these east-facing places, people would see the man coming and stop what they were doing just to chat and be in his presence. But in places that faced west, when people saw him coming, they whispered, “Oh hell,” and quickly went the other way.

Every once in a while, his name would come up in neutral spaces: “Oh, I’m going to visit Mr. So and So for lunch today!” And if the other person knew Mr. So and So from somewhere west-facing, they’d choke a bit and then apologize. “I’m so sorry. I know another person by that name. But...(laughing ) it couldn’t be him. No one would share a meal with the likes of him. Not for love or money.”

Oddly enough, Mr. So and So had absolutely no idea that these different directions were having such an impact on him. In his mind, he was just living his life, carrying on with his business as usual, day after day.

Until one fateful encounter…

It really was such a lovely afternoon, there inside the very quaint east-facing establishment, where Mr. So and So sat, entertaining several children at a birthday party.

The mother of the child had gotten to know Mr. So and So from another east-facing establishment, and had been swept away by his jovial demeanor and the way he charmed her son by turning napkins into puppets that told the cleverest of stories. So she asked Mr. So and So if he’d be willing to create a puppet show for her son’s birthday party. And he happily obliged.

So, there was Mr. So and So, quite enjoying himself, the children squealing with laughter, delighted by his performance, when in walked one of the children’s fathers, a man who knew Mr. So and So from a west-facing establishment.

Immediately, the man gasped. “What in hell?!”

That guy??!” he said loudly to no one in particular.

“Oh that’s Mr. So and So!” gushed another parent nearby. “Isn’t he talented?!”

“Talented?! A rear end on the wrong end is all I see!”

The man’s upset was loud enough to cause a stir.

“What do you mean?” another mother whispered. “Look! The children adore him!”

At this point, the mother of the birthday boy hurried over and whispered, “Excuse me, we’re in the middle of a birthday party here! May I help you?”

“Yes, I understand perfectly what this is. That’s my son right over there.” And with that, the man let out a loud whistle. “Tucker! Right now. Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” the mother said.

“This puppeteer you hired,” and he pointed his finger like a weapon toward Mr. So and So,

“is unfit to share any room with any child, as far as I’m concerned.”

“What are you talking about? Mr. So and So happens to be a dear friend!”

The man laughed. “Oh really? You fancy friends who shame little children until they cry and then mock their tears? And then shame their devastated parents afterwards?”

“No!” gasped the woman. “Not Mr. So and So!”

“Don’t take my word for it. I’ve got the whole horrible scene right on my phone.”

With that, the man scrolled through his phone and then pressed play. And sure enough, there was Mr. So and So, in a west-facing establishment, behaving absolutely wretchedly.

The man turned up the volume. “You’d best zip up that gaping mouth of yours right now, dumb little girl! You’re a thief! Stealing everyone’s peace! And why? because you spilled your ice cream!! Boo hoo!”

The little girl was audibly sobbing now.

“Guess what?! Nobody cares! At this very moment children are starving to death! But oh no, let’s make everyone in this entire restaurant hear the big tragedy of your spilled ice cream cone!!!”

The video was so grotesque, even the man couldn’t bear to hear any more.

“This is who you’ve hired to entertain children?” he whispered.

By this time, the puppet show had fizzled out. But Mr. So and So still had absolutely no idea what was going on.

The woman felt shocked. And betrayed.

“Is this you?” she walked over to ask Mr. So and So, handing him the phone.

Mr. So and So took the phone, confused. But when he saw himself and the abysmal person he was being in that west-facing establishment, something cracked between the East and West parts of his brain, and he collapsed with a thud.

Everyone gasped.

And when blood began gushing from his nose, some of the partygoers screamed.

“Jesus Christ,” the man muttered.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” the woman yelled. “Oh, never mind,” she said, grabbing the man’s phone which was still being clutched by an unconscious Mr. So and So. And she dialed 911.

The party organizers distracted the children with cake and ice cream and soon the ambulance arrived, and Mr. So and So was rushed to the hospital, and admitted into an east-facing room, thank goodness. And after rigorous testing, a problem was discovered: the east and west parts of Mr. So and So’s brain had zero awareness of each other.

The following morning, the woman from the birthday party went to the hospital to check up on Mr. So and So.

A doctor was in the room, and Mr. So and So seemed somewhat sedated.

“You’re so kind to visit,” Mr. So and So said softly.

“I’m glad to see you doing much better.”

“It’s a curious condition,” his doctor pondered. “Something about east-facing environments seem to bring out the healed parts of Mr. So and So, and yet something about west-facing places seem to bring out the severely unhealed parts of Mr. So and So.

“And when his west-facing behavior was brought to his attention in an east-facing environment, I’m afraid it was more than his brain could handle, and perhaps this is why the barrier between the two parts of his brain literally began to crack, and bleed through. Which, might actually have been a good thing.”

Mr. So and So said nothing.

“Well, what can you do to cure him,” asked the woman.

“I’m honestly not sure. My hunch is that

the cracked barrier might be the beginning of Mr. So and So gaining more awareness of his opposing parts.”

“This is a lot to take,” Mr. So and So mumbled. Then he paused, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. “I really don’t want to be that mean man anymore,” Mr. So and So said softly. “I want to be able to go anywhere and be in charge of who I am and how I behave.”

“Rightly so,” said the doctor.

“I have an idea!” the woman said. “Why don’t we make a video from here in this east-facing hospital room, of you talking to the west-part of your brain! And if you ever find yourself misbehaving in a west-facing environment, all you‘d need to do is watch the video and listen to the healed part of your brain!”

“What a brilliant plan,” the doctor said.

“I’ll try anything,” said Mr. So and So.

“Well, what would you want to say to your unhealed self?”

The woman handed Mr. So and So her phone and as soon as he began to speak, his eyes began to tear. And with a shaky voice, he began to tell a story, so hauntingly honest and heartbreaking that both the woman and the doctor began to cry.

Then, Mr. So and So handed the phone back to the woman, who nodded, wiped her tears and left the hospital.

She sent copies of the video to all the west-facing establishments in the area, explaining what to do if they should see Mr. So and So behaving wretchedly.

The following week, the man was feeling much improved, so he decided to venture out to get some exercise and wound up in a west-facing establishment. And without hesitation, he became triggered. And, in his typical west-facing manner, he pushed someone out of his way for getting to close to him “on purpose.”

“You just pushed me!” the other man said.

“And I’ll push harder if you ever stand that close to me again!”

Just then, the manager, following the woman’s protocol, played the video that Mr. So and So’s healed side recorded at the hospital.

And as soon as the man heard the voice, he dropped to the ground. And blood began dripping from his nose.

Chaos ensued, and some people screamed, but by then, the woman had arrived.

“Wait, everyone! This man has a condition. I know he seems wretched, but he actually needs our help. Isn’t it just the worst conundrum of all? That the people who behave the worst need the most help?

“Are you ok?” The woman leaned down and

took the man’s hand. “Remember me? We’re friends in several east-facing places.”

“I think…” the man said, seeming confused.

“I’d like to play you a video. Something you asked me to play for you if ever you should need help in a west-facing environment. Here’s what you said…”

The woman pressed play:

“Dear Me. If you’re listening and watching, chances are you’re flat on your rear with a bloody nose, confused as heck about what’s going on. So I’d like to explain. You have a condition. We, have a condition. Whenever you enter a west-facing place like the one you’re in, the west part of your brain gets triggered. And the reason it gets triggered is bc it’s hurt. But you might not remember why it’s hurt. But I do. Bc I’m from the east part of your brain. But I’ve managed to stay safe from getting hurt.

“Growing up, our home was west-facing. And we never had a happy moment there. Every time we entered that house, we’d get hurt by our stepfather. While our mother did nothing. She watched as our stepfather humiliated us. As he tortured us. As he withheld everything that we wanted, and then laughed. He refused to let our mother comfort us. Her body was there, but she didn’t keep us safe. She let him hurt us. Again and again. And something about that direction left an imprint on our brain. So every time we enter a west-facing place, we somehow enter that same west-facing house, and all the pain returns.

“The reason I never got hurt was bc we were able to keep this part of us safe. But every time we enter a west-facing place, I hide in here. And I’ve never been able to come out when you needed me. Bc we were too scared of this part of us getting hurt too. You wanted to protect us. And you’ve done so much fighting. But all these people, they’re not our mother, they’re not our stepfather. You don’t need to fight them. They haven’t ever hurt us.”

The man began to sob.

After a moment, the woman spoke. “Let’s recreate this space for you,” she said, placing the phone back in her purse.

The woman then motioned for the other people in the room to gather around Mr. So and So.

And they gathered in a circle around him and held hands.

“You’re safe here now,” said the woman. “No one will hurt you here. All of us, we are here to protect you. Whoever hurt you in the past isn’t here anymore. You have a part that’s still so hurt. But you also have a part that stayed in tact. A part that feels free to come out in the east. But we want to invite that part to come out here and comfort the hurt part. Let’s cherish that part that got hurt. Let us earn his trust.”

The man was now sobbing and he stood up. He hugged himself first, as if his healed self was finally able to comfort his hurt self for the first time. And then one-by-one he gave each person around the circle a hug.

“I’m so sorry for the harm that I’ve caused. Please let me make it up to you.”

“All we want is for you to feel safe here,” the manager said. “And we can remind you that you’re safe here. We know who you are now. And we care who you are.”

After that day, Mr. So and So was a very different person. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he was a more free person. He could go wherever he wanted and when he found he was getting triggered, he would play the video on his phone and listen to his healed self, and allow this part of him to breath love into the part of him that hurt until he felt whole.

And once he felt whole, what he loved to do best was share himself and connect with the other people in his community, who were always glad to see him, no matter where he was.

-JLK

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In these moments, I find the only thing that helps is to move. To get up, shift my gears, get a glass of water, wash my face, take a big breath, breathe it out, and then say something in the mirror in a whisper-yell like, “Fuck my life right now!!!!” Lol. This usually does the trick. And then, I look at myself and I ask all the parts of myself: “What do we need?” And last night, it was a dark room, where I could hide in fetal position for five minutes without anyone knowing, until all that stuff dissolved enough for me to be able to access enough patience to be present and connect.

-JLK

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It's not just our eye color and hair color that we inherit—it's also the way we cope with circumstances.

When we prioritize our healing, we can learn how to cope responsibly to circumstances by communicating to be understood and by listening to understand.

And we can role-model these skills for our kids, so that they can inherit these healed parts of who we are.

And by responsibly, I mean responding to difficult moments in other ways besides being reactive.

And part of sharing our healed parts is re-pairing when we’re stressed out and we lash out reactively and impulsively because we lost access to our healed ways of responding.

Part of healing is giving ourselves grace when we’re stressed out and feeling caged in and unsupported.

Part of healing is soothing guilt and shame with compassion and understanding until guilt and shame dissolves.

-JLK

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When we notice we’re on autopilot, to me, it’s an opportunity to appreciate that we’ve noticed our default ways of surviving unpleasant circumstances.

If you’ve found yourself on autopilot today, you’re not alone. I also found myself on autopilot today.

So many of us are expanding our awareness and noticing more and more parts of ourselves that need support, compassion and understanding, instead of shame.

So many of us are making associations that connect our current autopilot reactions with the reactions we had to unpleasant things that happened in the past.

To me, our awareness invites healing and healing invites growth. And growth is what’s necessary for us to experience new things in our lives that bring us more joy and more meaningful connections.

-JLK

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It can be challenging to stay grounded when other people hook us. When they say and do things that seem to threaten the very core of who we know ourselves to be.

When this happens, I think it’s important to remember that other people are not the authorities on who we are and who we're not.

Perhaps in the past, we were forced to accept other people’s definitions of us. And perhaps we were punished for being who they mistakenly thought we were.

But as adults, we can practice listening to other people’s words without letting them hook us and define us. Because we know who we are now, and we know who we’re not. And we know we’re healing from past wounds, and we know we have nothing to be ashamed of, only everything to love and have compassion for.

We can stand grounded in ourselves, even in the presence of someone confidently misunderstanding us. And instead of defending ourselves, we can calmly choose to listen-to-understand and communicate-to-be-understood, or, if it’s not worth our energy, we can calmly excuse ourselves and continue on our way.

-JLK

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In our formative years, if everything we do is constantly shamed, ridiculed and discouraged, a pathway can get created in our minds. Even if no one’s watching what we do, we may still wind up on this same pathway, paved with all these same messages—that what we do and who we are is deeply flawed and not worthy of being adored and loved and nurtured.

Over time, because this path gets so worn, it can be easy to imagine it’s the only reliable path. Because no matter how hard we try, we always wind up taking it. But this is only because we don’t have any other reliable pathway.

Creating a new pathway can be difficult, especially if we’re still in environments devoid of loving encouragement. So what we need to do is excavate a new pathway from scratch. A pathway designed to encourage the person we still know ourselves to be deep inside. A pathway that will take us where we want to go.

And once we have the beginnings of a path, we need to keep traveling on it. No matter how rocky the path is, and no matter what difficulties may arise, we must get back on our self-created path as soon as possible.

And in time, this new path will get worn, and walking on it will get easier. And we may even forget about that old pathway, because it'll get
harder to find, and we’ll remember that where it takes us is no longer where we need to go.

-JLK

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When I was little, I spent so much time looking through my mother’s magazines. I was completely fascinated by the images, maybe even fair to say obsessed.

Sure, I longed for the beautiful clothes, and I wanted to emulate the beautiful women, but it was something more… something about the feeling of those images—something so secure in their stillness.

To me, everyone in those pages looked like they were worthy enough to be known and connected with by people who genuinely appreciated them.

And I wanted that same feeling for myself.
Not the feeling I had—where nothing was seen and everything felt neglected, especially me.

So I became very much indoctrinated into this idea that life should be a still-life—beautiful enough to be seen by everyone as mattering in the shiny pages of life.

But every time I tried saving up for things that looked similar and every time I organized myself and my belongings to look like I mattered in this way—time would pass, and I’d find myself sitting there with the same boredom and restlessness I felt before, along with the same painful longing to be seen and connected with.

I was still, like in those still-life images—but remained neglected, with nothing to do.

No matter how hard I tried to manufacture an appearance of worthiness, my thoughts always melted back into hopelessness.

It took me years to realize that the challenge of life isn’t to make things look like they matter—beautiful enough or together enough or credentialed enough—it’s about figuring out who we are—by noticing what’s beautiful to us and what’s meaningful to us—and by connecting with these things—and being involved and fulfilled by these things in the movement of life. Not the still-life of life.

Sure, we’ll get stuck, frazzled and afraid to move, not sure who we need to look like or who we need to be or what we need to do, but we can always shift from being stuck in the appearance of life by remembering to notice how we feel in the movement of life. Because everywhere, there is movement. Even in stillness.

And at any given moment, we can join in this movement of life, by simply paying attention to what’s going on and noticing what we’re moved by.

When we allow ourselves to feel moved by the movement of life, we can let it lead us towards more of what’s meaningful and beautiful to us.

And on the way, we’ll meet like-minded people who are available to connect with us as we are, instead who we thought we needed to be.

-JLK

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