Tag Archives: discoveries

Little Grateful Earthquakes

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As we close out the Thanksgiving weekend, two little moments from 2025 have sprung to mind in contemplating gratitude. I have so much to be grateful for, and I also have a bedtime ritual of detailing those gratitudes from the day. That said, the moments, incidents, good news, etc, that seem to hold the most meaning for me, as far as gratitude goes, are the ones that crack the earth a bit. Jar me. Teach me something I needed to learn. And so these two.

Moment One. About 4 months ago, I bought a man on the street some food. He’d asked for money before I’d walked into a Starbucks to have a coffee, and to sit and read. But I rarely keep cash on me, so I had to decline him. He was an elderly man walking with a cane. It broke my heart that at his age he was in this predicament Made in America, when I could tell this hadn’t always been the case. I was in Starbucks for awhile because I was there to read, but when I came out he was still sitting there. I walked up and asked him if he’d like any food, and when he said “yes please” I told him I’d get him something from the Chipotle next door. I asked him what he liked, he told me, and I did the deed.

I’m SO very grateful that I was nudged to go beyond what I customarily do when someone asks me for money (if I have a few dollars, I give it. If I don’t, I politely decline and keep moving). And, in fact, I’ve had no intentions of sharing this story, because I’ve lately been in this mindset of not wanting to be that person who does something kind just so they can tell everyone about it. But in this case, I didn’t actually walk away thinking ALL THAT about myself, because I was instead given an incredibly humbling experience.

I walked out with his food and handed the bag to him. He was full of gracious thank yous and I offered back, “it’s my pleasure.” I wished him well and turned to walk away, and he mumbled something behind me. I turned back to him, wondering what else does he want? And I said “I’m sorry I didn’t hear that.” He then repeated, his voice still soft, “my name is Roderick Peterson.” And in that moment, which shook me, I realized I hadn’t truly made him human in my mind. He was just a nameless, faceless shadow on the street. In that moment, Roderick Peterson had more self-regard and class than I’d been exhibiting. He wanted me to know who he was.

When we meet someone, don’t we exchange names? Yet it had never dawned on me to do that. I said my name back and repeated what a pleasure it was to meet him. This time, though, that “pleasure” was fueled with something it should’ve been fueled with from the beginning. Sonder. I’ve only recently learned of this noun, which, according to various dictionaries, means “the feeling you have in realizing that every other individual you see has a life as full and as real as your own, making you just a background character in their epic story, a perspective that contrasts with our usual self-centered perspective where WE are always the protagonist.

What’s ironic is that the thing I find most important in being a writer is the ability to see humanity in all its endless layers, and to give (especially if I’m creating characters) each layer, to the best of my ability, the right to be heard, seen, and expressed. And for the most part, as a writer, especially of fiction, I think I’ve honored that ethos. I’ve had friends who, after reading a book of mine, say, “what a horrible person X was” or “I hate Y!” And I always consider that a compliment, because it means I’ve taken a flawed character and made them real enough to elicit such an emotion. Which is the point. And I maintain, always, that any gravely flawed character deserves for their story to be told just as much, if not more, as any hero of a tale. Because it’s in those dark crevices that we find humanity’s depths. It’s a writing practice that I believe expands me as a human being, and I hope it expands a reader.

Now, that example of my consciousness about sonder is not in any way intending to suggest that Roderick Peterson is a horrible character. He actually demonstrated far greater grace than I was demonstrating in that moment. Though, clearly, something horrible had happened in his life that homelessness was now his lot. What my example IS intending to say is that I fully recognize the irony in my being a writer and yet not truly seeing Roderick Peterson until he graciously insisted I see him. I will feel incredibly grateful to him for the rest of my life. Grateful for meeting him. For interacting with him. And for his presence in the grander scheme of my ongoing spiritual lessons.

Moment Two. Somewhere around the same season this year that I encountered Mr. Roderick Peterson, I was hosting a table at a public bazaar to sell some of my books. It was a social event, so I didn’t just stand behind the table; I milled and chatted with others. At one point, I was probably several yards away from my table, chatting with another person who was also selling their wares, and from the corner of my eye I watched a woman pick up one of my books and walk casually away. And I knew for a fact she’d seen me selling copies to others, not giving them away, so I don’t think she was confused about what she was doing. I excused myself from the chat and walked over to her.

“I see you’re interested in my book,” I said.

She looked up and smiled uncomfortably, only then asking, “Is it something you’re selling, or can we just help ourselves to one?” I didn’t challenge her on what I believed she already knew; I simply said the books were for sale. She promptly apologized and in the same breath explained how short of funds she was and how life was not treating her so kindly these days. It was equal parts apology and excuse. And I’ve made those same kind of apologies in my life. The ones that are immediately followed by an excuse for the behavior. I don’t do that anymore. What I learned some good time ago is that, at best, those are sheepish apologies. At worst, they are an unwillingness to be accountable. And while I don’t condone theft, and am not especially interested in those kinds of apologies, this woman’s spin on life being a struggle moved me. Even more so, I realized she was now embarrassed, and I didn’t especially feel great having put her in that position. So, just to end the exchange as quickly as possible, and to give her some tiny semblance of her dignity back, I said, “You know what? Don’t worry about it. It’s my gift. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope life turns around for you soon.” And I smiled and left her to get back to my station.

Several moments later, she came back up to my table, where I was now chatting with another buyer, and said, “please give me your Venmo or Zelle information. I need to pay you.” And when I insisted that it really was okay, she doubled down on her insistence that she be given the opportunity to right her wrong. And it was only then that I realized I was not giving her any dignity back by changing my tactic and offering her the book for free. I was furthering her humiliation. And while I knew that she wanted her dignity restored, she knew what I didn’t. That she had to be the one to restore it. And in that moment, I recognized that, yet again, I was simply out of touch with those who are struggling more than I am.

She’d been caught red-handed. But rather than feel entitled, or run away with her thieved booty while giving me the finger, or throwing the book back at me, humiliated that she’d been caught (all behaviors I’ve seen before), she made a choice to right her wrong, to own it, and to atone, right then and there. And she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I said, “thank you for buying my book. I hope it gives you something worth buying it for. And I appreciate you.” And she said back, “thank YOU for your understanding.”

I’m not a person of wealth and means. I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck my entire life. But it’s been an extraordinary life in more ways than I can count, and in that way I’m richer than most. I’ve also never been without a roof over my head, and I’ve never stolen something because I couldn’t afford to buy it. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my life. And more and more do I feel the chasm that exists in this country between rich and poor, and it hurts my heart more than ever, in this time of life.

These two human beings, these divine examples, angels, if you will, were vessels of grace who flowed through my life right when I needed them to, to imbue me with sonder. I say “right when I needed them to” because I always see myself as being on a journey of spiritual transformation. And if I’m to get the fullest benefits of this marvelous journey, I’d better keep on knowing that every incident that comes my way is a portal, and every person a teacher. I’d better keep my eyes wide open, and truly see others. I’ll only be the better for it.

Blessings to Roderick Peterson and Carla Smith for being my little grateful earthquakes this year. I wish them both much ease in this life. They’ve already given me riches.

And get your copy now of HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN: 10 Principles for Reclaiming Your Spirit


Your Package Has Been Delivered

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The Rockies were even more majestic than I had imagined. The Kansas Prairie, as stark as I’d expected but I hadn’t made room in my brain for the smell of cow patties for miles. The storms of Utah scared me so profoundly I knew I’d never make this trip back by car, ever again.

Of course, the first stop was Vegas, where I’d been a thousand times, and the 118 degree temps that did something weird to my car engine didn’t surprise me in the least. Thankfully, it was temporary, as I continued east and gradually north, making this move I never remotely had in my plans for my life.

I’d managed to amass 60 years on this planet without ever living anywhere other than Los Angeles, and now I was moving to Kansas City, Missouri, the heartland, the prairie, the home of tornadoes and Charlie Parker, a red state but a blue town, artful and socially progressive, even though it was here that I was called the N word for the first time ever … at least that I’ve known about. Seriously, I may just be the most sheltered Black person on the planet.

I am trying to find my identity in this new place that doesn’t require me to let go of what LA built in me, while wanting to flow with this KC charm and warmth. Trying to be both, trying to have both. In LA, I was regarded in my town’s music scene. Here, I’m barely a smudge on a wall, largely unnoticed, but not in a rude way, just the experience of a new birth and my own penchant for cocooning. I don’t even go out for auditions for the many plays that are being cast at the very theater where I work. My instinct, as I’ve said, is just to stay a little bit cocooned, and I’m not even certain why. The fight-or-flight pace of LA kind of did me in a little, so I guess I just want to breathe slower, talk slower, decide things slower, get involved slower, emerge slower. I guess. Just looking for simple.

Two years here now, and no I have not done the drive back west again (though I’ve flown home a few times now). I meant it when I said I had sworn off those torrential rains. I feel very settled here, and happy. Still not completely out of my performance shell yet, but that’s okay. I’ve done some singing. I chased fame and travel and record deals and pizzazz for so long in LA, and it beat me to a pulp, frankly. Just looking for simple. And yet even with the agenda to simplify, I still manage to over-commit myself. Total co-dependency thing. I definitely need more than just my once-a-week Al-Anon meeting. Winters blow here. I know, weird segue. I will never embrace the snow. It just isn’t in the bones of this Cali Girl. I know, I know, be open-minded.

I love the friends I’ve made in my new town. Few, which means fewer choices of who to call for a hang, or whose invitation to accept for a hang. I miss my LA friends like nobody’s business (thank God for Zoom!). That circle was and is VAST, and I am so much luckier and more blessed than I ever truly appreciated when I was actually there. But here, I sort of like it that my circle is small. Fewer decisions to make. Have I said yet that I’m looking for simple?

Here, I can embrace being 62. There, it’s the thing you’re supposed to hide. Artistic pursuits are blowing up for me here. In LA, I did the gig beat for nearly 40 years, and it was every experience from dazzling to grueling. No regrets at all. It was an extraordinary time in my life, but there wasn’t really any other avenue of my pursuits that ever went anywhere for me. Here, I’ve had firsts. Of course, everything I did in LA began as firsts, it being where I began life. But the firsts that have happened since I’ve been here are kind of dizzying. Amazing, humble, grand, small, precious firsts. My first-ever poetry reading where I was invited to be the featured poet (and I’ve had a few now) in a town known for its vibrant and weighty poetry community. First time having a hand in getting a jazz series started (at the theater where I work). First time I’ve gotten to be a participant in a wall mural (up at the iconic Unity Village). First time making a little documentary short about a Kansas City community event (the citywide Black Lives Matter street murals), and having it be my first ever Official Selection in a film festival. My first time ever having art of mine juried into a gallery exhibit, which is opening in a few days. My alcohol inks ‘bout to make their li’l splash! Pun intended! (If you know the medium, you’ll know it’s a lot of splashes of ink…never mind…)

I know that my children’s videobook winning multiple film festival awards (whaaaat???) has nothing to do with Kansas City, nor an alcohol ink of mine making the cover of a literary journal, nor having an entire concert of music (by the LA Metropolitan Master Chorale) created and performed around several of my short stories (all firsts), but I’m giving KC the credit anyway, because all these things happened while living here, and somehow here, more than in LA, I’ve managed to cultivate better focus in order to carve the space for these blessings to be made possible. Too much the blitzkrieg of Los Angeles, I guess, and all that that allegorically means, and which kept me just running, bouncing, collapsing, recovering, then running and bouncing again. Ad nauseam.

I’m exhausted. Still, two years later. Walking along the Missouri River humming “Shenandoah,” and the hiking trail that gives me genuine serenity, and strolling the halls of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art weekly — are all great balms that are slowly recovering me.

Did I mention I moved here 2 months into global lock down? Talk about throwing my own roadblocks in my way. I trip and fall a lot. Like…physically. I’m a klutz. But I’m starting to think that has whole other metaphorical layers of meaning for me and my life. And yet I persevere like a cockroach.

I like Kansas City. I might actually love it. No, yes, I definitely love it. I love Kansas City. I am mesmerized by how much art and theatre and music is embraced here. And then there are the city fountains (more than in Rome!), and the recent citywide installation of giant heart sculptures, 154 of them, all painted by different local artists, and which demanded my obsessed attention for 3 months, finding and photographing as many as I could. And the West Bottoms, and the River Market. And the 18th & Vine Jazz District, and the First Fridays Art Walks. And the stupefying amount of live theatre I’ve loved seeing, and not just at the one where I work. And my favorite building on the entire planet, the downtown KC Public Library, whose design is that of a GIANT bookshelf of classics. Crazy cool!

And even if none of that was going on, this move also means I now will not die having never left home. That’s huge for me. A dream I’ve had forever, though in my imaginings it was more along the lines of somewhere in Europe. But that’s okay, since KC is actually known as the “Paris of the Plains.” 🙂 No kidding.

I wouldn’t have chosen it on my own, but Kansas City came my way, and I happily said yes. Leapt. In a way I am not prone to do. I’m still saying yes. No looking back. Well, maybe some looking back. After all, I would take California earthquakes any day over the “Severe Thunder Storm” alerts that routinely pop up on my phone, and do indeed freaking deliver!