Originally published on December 21, 2022 on Katie’s Facebook page.

Each year, I celebrate the Winter Solstice. It’s one of the most reflective times of the year for me. And I always like to celebrate and share my Solstice practice with others. Sometimes, like this year, it’s a formal class, other times, like last year, I’ll celebrate with friends.

But as I look up at the sun nearing its high point through the window shades of my office, I’m reminded of a conversation I had with my Mom on last year’s Winter Solstice. We were just getting moved into our new building at the Community Justice Campus, and it was a difficult adjustment from working downtown.

There were a lot of “quirks” with the new building, including tons of windows, but a complete lack of window shades. There wasn’t really food that was easily available if you didn’t bring it with you, which was a shock compared to the ease of grabbing a salad from Whole Foods or soup from Subito.

So that Solstice day, not having planned my lunch ahead, I went to a restaurant in Fountain Square, and ordered a salad to go. I was charged an “employee quality of life” fee (huh?) of a couple bucks in addition to tax and a 20% tip. I spent over $18 total.

Later that day, I called my Mom and said “I just need to complain”. She held space and listened to me as I rattled off the “quirks” of the new building, my $18 salad, and ended by saying, “and I have had the sun in my eyes all day long and it’s the shortest f***ing day of the year!”

That afternoon, before my friends arrived, the guy I’d been talking to told me he was no longer interested (he was super nice about it), but all I could do was laugh.

The rest of the evening was lovely and went on as planned: sitting around my fireplace with friends, setting intentions… you know… Solstice-y stuff.

The following day, an ache started to run through my body. At first, I thought it was soreness from my morning workout. But then I couldn’t lift up my head. I barely moved the rest of the day. The next morning, I felt much better, but thought I should take a COVID test. It was positive. Already knowing this meant that I would not be able to go home for Christmas, I was filled with shame as I texted the friends who had spent time around me, fearing their Christmas plans would be spoiled, too.

I’ve thought a lot about how I missed my last Christmas with my Dad because of COVID. I was grateful to spare him from getting it as his health had long been in decline. But I didn’t completely miss Christmas with him. He and my Mom drove down to Indy on Christmas Day to exchange gifts with me, each taking turns to place them on my sidewalk, and we talked on Facetime, me inside of my house, and them from their car parked in front of my house.

Anyway… over the past week, I have been trying relentlessly to put together inspirational thoughts to share about the Winter Solstice. Over and over, I get started writing about honoring the darkness within, moving onto shadow work (see Carl Jung), and then I get stuck on shadow work… which isn’t really the subject I’m wanting to broach.

The subject I really want to talk about is hope and possibility.

But you know the phrase “holding onto hope”? Maybe I’m holding onto it a little too tightly. Maybe in trying to force hope on all of you, I’m missing the point. Maybe that’s why my writing on this subject hasn’t come together. It’s not that we can’t all have hope, it’s that you can’t force it, on yourself or others.

So as I prepare to celebrate the Winter Solstice and to share my practice with others in a sold out class tonight, I wonder… perhaps I need to take my own advice.

I want the Winter Solstice to feel good, and warm, and softly lit, like the Scandinavian term “hygge”. This isn’t much different than forcing hope.

I want people to honor the Solstice by “embracing their inner darkness” by “shining a light on the parts of themselves that they don’t love” and learning to love themselves entirely. But maybe, I haven’t been doing the same for myself. I’ve been forcing this yoga and meditation teacher version of myself to show up, instead of the version of myself that’s actually here. The version that’s here knows that COVID is still around this Christmas, but my Dad’s not. The version that’s here wrote this thing instead of something inspirational about hope and possibility.

So, as a joke, I changed the graphic for this post as a play on the “Office” episode with the “It is your birthday.” sign. Before, it had said “Winter Solstice Blessings” in pretty cursive. That’s definitely not the version of myself that’s showing up today, the version I have to accept and start to love if I urge the same for others. This version of myself isn’t so bad though. She’s got a sense of humor, at least.

Anyway, maybe you’ll choose to celebrate today by doing some Solstice-y stuff, or maybe you won’t. But for me, the best way I can think of to honor it is to show up exactly as I am, and not some romanticized version of Winter Solstice Katie. And in doing that, it stokes my inner flame of hope and possibility that others can do the same. Happy Solstice, Friends.

Originally (and graciously) published on December 12th, 2022 on my incredibly talented and life long friend Lisa Swander’s Blog.

After my Dad, a beloved local writer, died in early April, I had hoped that I’d be incredibly inspired to write. In his spirit, you know? 

My Dad was the biggest fan of my writing. In the last week of his life, he could recall back to me specific phrases that I’d written in a Facebook post at the end of February. This one in particular:

“Seriously underestimating the amount of mud we’d encounter on today’s walk, we had to navigate it, hopping from one side of the path to the other, like you’d navigate the wake behind a boat. But with a slow, plodding place, there were no falls… not into a puddle or off of a muddy ridge. Icicles fallen from the trees would catch my eyes like crystals, and the woodpeckers worked diligently as I’d look closely to spot hard buds on low branches… the very first signs of Spring. It’s one of my favorite times of year where just under the dreary deadness of winter, we can have faith that growth and renewal are preparing to blossom, in nature and in our lives.”

At the time, he commented: “Beautiful writing, Katie!”. But still he was still thinking about it as his heart and liver were failing him due to amyloidosis.

Upon his death, I knew right away that I wanted to eulogize my Dad at his funeral. By the grace of God, I knew exactly what I wanted to say, and delivered it, voice unwavering, with courage that came from the depths of my soul. The eulogy itself was about courage… courage to live with an open heart, and to bravely share yourself with the world.

Buzzing from the vulnerability of the eulogy, from what seemed a fitting tribute to my Dad, I felt the deepest desire to produce more writing that my Dad would love. The line between desire and self-imposed pressure blurred as I kept the goal “write and publish in honor of Dad” written where I would see it every day. But then there was… nothing. After all, what’s the point when you lose your biggest fan? 

I was far from alone in that sense of loss. My Mom and my brother lost their biggest fan too. It’s not that the three of us don’t all love and support each other tremendously. We do. It’s that my Dad’s exuberance as a fan was unmatched. He had the name of my brother’s band, Modoc, tattooed on his arm. And if Dad was a fan of yours… of your writing, your singing, your mission, your artwork, your restaurant… he made sure you knew it.

I wanted to write and I wanted to create, but I guiltily let Father’s Day and his birthday pass by without comment. The words just weren’t there. There was nothing to share. Nothing on grief, loss, or love.

I read and was inspired by Stephen King’s book “On Writing”. King’s methods and his mind… oh my. Yet for me, there was nothing.

I tried to stir creativity by giving myself a writing project. I would challenge my spiritual beliefs by taking a break from most of my spiritual practices, and keep a daily log of the results. I thought by taking apart my beliefs and putting them back together, I’d be moved to poetically uncover some deep, aching truth I could share with the world. But the results were dull. My beliefs and practices remained pretty much the same. I was hardly interested in re-reading my notes, let alone packaging it all up with a clever summary. There was just nothing there. Nothing my Dad would have loved.

In my professional life, however, hardly a day goes by that I don’t write to exchange information in a manner that’s kind, clear, and direct. I regularly communicate en masse about wellness-related programming and opportunities. Without struggle, I plan and write presentations that I give on a 6 week basis.

So I was writing… and doing plenty of it. It just wasn’t personal.

I really love the time of the year leading up to Santa Lucia Day on December 13th through the Winter Solstice on December 21st. It’s as if we’re being told by nature to rest, to turn inward, and to honor the darkness, both outside and deep within ourselves. But it’s also a time of hope, a candle in the dark lighting the way,  the bright, guiding star in the night sky,  and an eventual return to light and longer days. 

But after the Solstice, the contrary hustle and bustle of the holidays sends me right back into my usual winter blues. Feeling extra grief this year, I made a decision with my doctor to get started on a seasonal depression medication.

The week after Thanksgiving, armed with Wellbutrin and in a big burst of energy, even to my own surprise, I completed two proposals. Both were based on fresh ideas from scratch, thus accomplishing one of my biggest goals for the end of the year. Proposal writing, it seems, is a fusion of my two writing styles… the direct and the inspired.

Writing those proposals, I once again felt the buzz of having shared my words, ideas and vulnerable heart with the world… The buzz, a sign of hope, that my words might help even one person.

So I keep coming back to my computer intentionally and inspired to write. And all tangled up in this writing about not writing is the soft light of hope helping me find my words in the darkness of mourning, and a story about grief, loss and love.

Originally written in April of 2022, and delivered on April 19, 2022 at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Muncie, Indiana.

As kids, my brother Johnny and I could spend hours exploring our Dad’s relic-filled office, which was technically a garage, lined with books, and tobacco pipes. You couldn’t walk in that room without it feeling like a shrine to a bad mamba jamba. What fascinated me most were the photographs on the walls, mostly of Dad and airplanes, but what always stood out to me was the picture of a race car with a $1 bill in the frame… prize money.

Johnny and I would brag to our friends about our Dad… the pilot, the race car driver, the motorcycle enthusiast, and of course the newspaperman. But I know that I never really stopped. As recently as 2019, in a video recording of a professional race car driver taking me for a spin around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, I made sure to mention to the driver that my Dad had raced cars as well, as if the thrill of a fast turn was my birthright.

Dad didn’t just display fearlessness, however, he savored it in others. Some of his favorite work was telling the stories of World War 2 Veterans. This subject was close to his heart as his own Father had earned a Purple Heart fighting bravely in the Pacific. He often recalled with pride a time that I, around 7 or 8,  jumped into a bush outside of our house in Yorktown to save our cat, Dusty, from a loose and threatening dog. 

But it wasn’t just death-defying acts or bravery on the battlefield that interested him, it was also the bravery that it takes to open a small business, or share your talents with the world. He loved telling stories about people who heroically put their heart and passion on display.

Beyond thrill seeking, his open-heartedness and vulnerability was the bravest thing about my Dad. He walked through this sometimes cruel, sometimes broken world without wearing any armor. He shared life’s ups and downs with readers, generating a sense that it’s all going to be OK as long as you can laugh at yourself a little. His heart was open and exposed to all whom he encountered. He poured out his love onto others. And he was endlessly generous. The motorcycle he loved so dearly? He sold it one summer so that our family could afford the expensive first year membership fees to the local swim club. 

And though Dad was confined to a bed in his last days, he marched triumphantly towards death with the same fearlessness that Johnny and I had known as kids. Without a single complaint, and with the child-like wonder that we all read in his final column, Dad spent his last days giving and receiving love from his amazing wife, his angelic sister, his two children, and lots of dear friends.

Dad loved poetry and in times of being broken-hearted, I find comfort in the words of the Sufi poet Rumi. Rumi said this: “The wound is the place where light enters you.” And he also said this: “You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.” 

So for those of us who loved and admired John Carlson, we can honor his incredible life and legacy by using this heartbreak to soften our hearts, to bravely show the world who we are, and to love and be loved as much as we possibly can. But I think Dad would also appreciate it if we would all leave really, really big tips.

Originally written/posted on December 13, 2021, and published on Sivana East.

Since I’ve been old enough to balance a crown of (battery-operated) candles on my head and carry a tea ring pastry, I’ve celebrated St. Lucia Day. The holiday, and St. Lucy, are revered in Swedish culture, and though my Swedish heritage comes from my Dad’s side, my Mom, and our Lutheran Church, instilled these traditions in me.

Beyond the white dresses, red sashes, baked goods and candles, the meaning of St. Lucia Day continues to evolve for me personally, and remains just as important in our modern world.

St. Lucia was a martyr, executed for her Christian beliefs after angering a male suitor… a tale that remains uncomfortably familiar. But over the centuries, she has come to be associated with light. The feast in her honor, on December 13th, falls a week away from the winter solstice, and especially in Scandinavia, where winters are long and dark, St. Lucia is a reminder of the hope that comes from a light in the darkness.

The winter solstice is also a celebration of light and dark. That darkest, shortest day of the year is a turning point… from then on, each day will become a little longer until June. But the winter solstice is not just about the seasons. It’s an important time to shine a light on and embrace our inner darkness.

One of my favorite quotes sums up the request that the winter solstice asks from all of us. Brene Brown wrote, “Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”

What is our inner darkness? Is it our shadow? Is it our shame? Yes, sure, it’s that AND it’s any part of ourselves that we deny.

Why is it important to explore our inner darkness? Because when we deny our truths, as imperfect as they may be, we deny our fullest selves from showing up in life. When we deny ourselves from showing up, we’ll deny others from showing up fully, too.

The Buddhist author Pema Chodron describes the traditional image of the word “equanimity” as a “banquet to which everyone is invited”. In other words, that space and openness is created for the existence of every person, regardless of their beliefs, their current or past actions, or whatever it is about “them” that keeps them separate from “us”.

But this equanimity can also be applied within ourselves. By shining a light on the parts of us we’d like to keep hidden, like the residual effects of past trauma, our own fear-based beliefs, our shame, we have an opportunity to invite and welcome those things to the table of our lives. This doesn’t mean those things take over control. It means we can live our lives in awareness instead of denial. And that if we can have compassion for those things in ourselves, we can find more compassion for others.

One of my teachers, Fleet Maull, describes the work of a meditation and mindfulness teacher as holding up a light in the darkness of an increasingly chaotic world. That simply by holding this light – this light of love, of peace, of acceptance, of grace, of equanimity – others can find you in their darkness.

And it is here we find St. Lucia carrying through the dark her candles and food to share with others. Because the thing about the light in the dark is that the light does not discriminate. It doesn’t light up only the people that agree with you, and leave the others in darkness. It will light up whatever is present. It will light up whoever is present.

In this seemingly darkening world, I hope you’ll take the opportunity to tap into the powerful energy of this upcoming week, to grow your inner flame of self-acceptance, and to shine the light of love and acceptance out onto others.