THEY’RE MINE. THE BROWS ARE ALL MINE.

August 29, 2025 by Ka Newborrn in Black Gardens, Family & Memory

How my mother claimed autonomy in her hardest season.

Complications from diverticulitis and a mild stroke earned her two months away from home, split between the hospital and a rehab facility. Thankfully, there were no lasting deficits, but the blood loss left her in a weakened state. Outside of therapy sessions, she spent most of her time in bed or seated in a reclining leather chair, where I gave her sponge baths and helped her into loungewear sets.

I surprised her with two pairs of cute sunglasses and a sassy new wig. The bangs were too long, so I covered her shoulders with a wastebasket liner and gave her a choppy, salon-quality trim with professional shears. I finished the look by tapping a bit of concealer under her eyes and dabbing her lips with a sparkly Pat McGrath gloss.

Momma inspected herself in a handheld mirror. She tilted her head, checking the angles. There was a pause; her shoulders stiffened slightly. She drew the mirror closer to her mouth. Her glossy pout caught the light — the shimmer flickering pink, gold, green. Slowly, she lowered the mirror, exhaled, and fixed her gaze on mine.

A million-dollar question ensued.

“Where are my eyebrows?”

She never blinked. It was a demand, not a request. In that moment, her brows were of utmost importance – and I had come up short and failed. Miserably.

Let’s dip a toe into my own psychology for a spell: I love my mother beyond measure, overanalyze everything, and tend toward the sensitive. Add a dash of guilt to the mix, and what do you get? A self-inflicted purgatory of analyzing, navigating, and reliving every decision I’d ever made as a caregiver — like “disappearing” her old Almay “brow” pencil. The dark green expired one that leaked glitter everywhere.

The function of eyebrows is rooted in evolution: protect the eyeballs from sweat. The aesthetics of eyebrows is subjective, mutable; a relevance that aligns more closely with the spirit of Melani Sanders’ We Do Not Care Club:

We do not care if they’re sparkly and green. EYEBROWS are EYEBROWS.

As a caregiver, I had signed on to relieve Momma of burdens that undermined her autonomy – not dissect its overall essence and reshape it to suit my preferences. I was the assistant, not the CEO. And that’s exactly where I wanted to be.

She’d held onto that stubby crayon because it wasn’t junk to her. I’d thrown it away like the decision had been mine to make. The realization of this overstep slapped me straight into next week.

Shout out to next-day-eyebrow delivery: You selected a template shape printed on paper, cut it out with scissors, and held it in place above the eye. Then you dampened the paper cutout with a cotton ball and carefully peeled the paper away: revealing a surprisingly realistic, polyvinyl tattoo that lasted four or five days.

Later on, she was seated in the armchair by the window when the nurses came to check her vitals. She was dressed in her favorite pink loungewear: freshly washed, soft against her skin. Her choppy ‘do and glossy lips refracted all but the most obvious signs of weariness her health battles had etched across her face - effectively disguising the hell she endured.

She was magnetic. One by one, the nurses and therapists circled about, offering compliments:

“Ooh, look at you!”
“That gloss is everything!”
“Girl, that haircut!”
“Okay, now! Who did your brows?”

Momma basked - barely. And then she turned slightly toward me with the gentlest fluttering of lashes. A glance. Nothing more. But it held everything all at once:

Watch. Learn.
This is how it’s done.

She turned back to her audience, lips stretched into the slightest, faintest smile. Not rude. Just… practiced. A quiet acknowledgment of what she already knew to be true:

“They’re mine. The brows are all mine.”

And just like that, they were.

momma. photos courtesy of ka newborrn

I had spent so much time holding on: correcting, tracking, trying to right the perception of wrong - like love required a tally. Post-stroke, post-bleed, post-diagnosis - she was still brilliant, with nothing to prove. She instinctively let go of what was no longer useful. And when it was gone, it was gone.

There was no good reason to stay tethered to a linear reality. It didn’t serve us. It only got in the way.

The Pat McGrath lippie sparked fire under the room’s fluorescent lighting as her admirers puttered about. Her lashes met mine again, fluttering. I fluttered my own right back.

I still had so much to learn. And that was okay.

I was the daughter. She was the teacher.

She was still in the lead. Always would be.

WARM LIKE WINTER

August 25, 2025 by Ka Newborrn in Black Gardens, Black Gardens Stories, Family & Memory

Memory, protection, and the women who still shine.

February 2019 – Henderson

The first blizzard in over a decade blanketed our neighborhood with four inches of snow.

It was late, about 10 p.m. She was sprawled on the sofa watching one of her home renovation shows. The fireplace was going, making the living room feel too warm.

I knelt on the loveseat in front of the window, tugged open the blinds, and caught a glimpse of white.

“Is that snow?”

Momma’s voice went up an octave like it always did when she was excited. Sixteen years had passed since she relocated from the heartland to the wild, wild west, but she was still a Wisconsinite at heart.

She shifted suddenly to have a better look, startling Ebony, who jumped from her lap and darted upstairs. “Sorry, Eb,” she called after him.

“I’ll get our coats,” I said.

February 2019 – Henderson, Upstairs

It was lying across the head of my bed where I’d left it earlier: a chocolate mink pea coat with a suede sash. Ebony had already claimed it and curled up on top, his face turned toward mine. He slow-blinked when he saw me. I kissed his forehead and moved him gently to the foot of the bed. He leapt to the floor in a bit of a huff. “Sorry, Eb,” I called after him.

The lining sagged slightly and the edges were a bit frayed. I once caught Ebony grooming it when he thought I wasn’t looking. Twenty-three years earlier, Aunt Myrtle had gifted it to me with a new satin lining intact and my name embroidered inside. Even a non-fur person like me had felt the love.

April 1996 – Milwaukee

Inside the pocket, there had been a folded page from Allure: a photo of Kate Moss wearing the same design.

That spring I had designed a calligraphy banner for the Delta Memorial Endowment Fund’s Annual Literary Luncheon. I enjoyed spending the day with Momma, Aunt Myrtle, Auntie Clara, their sorors. Michele Wallace was the keynote speaker – I read her books in undergrad, fangirled from afar. Meeting her in person and hearing her speech had been more than payment enough, but Aunt Myrtle insisted.

Aunt Myrtle had only worn it a handful of times since buying it in 1978, and she had it restored to pristine condition for me. Steamed lining, reinforced seams, meticulous stitches. She draped it across my shoulders and I felt the weight of history and love in one gesture. My name, embroidered inside.

January 2018 – Los Angeles

After nineteen years of living in Southern California, I hated forced air. I never once turned on the heater. When the cold crept in, I welcomed it. I sat on the sofa or bed, cracked the window, and let the air sting my arms, wrapping myself in the coat instead.

What started out as a casual, secret affair grew into love. If someone rang the doorbell unannounced, I made a beeline to the closet, hid the coat, and pulled on a sweater before answering. As if I were hiding winter itself.

Los Angeles never gave me snow. The coat became my snowbank, my private blizzard – a winter wonderland that lived only in my apartment, only for me.

So when I packed up to move to Black Gardens later that year, it was one of the first things I pulled from the boxes. Desert nights can be colder than people think.

February 1978 – Milwaukee

When Momma opened the drapes that morning, our driveway was encased by the tallest mound of snow we’d ever seen. The city plow had stopped short of our house, leaving the mountain behind like an afterthought.

Normally she would have been up early, already laying her coat and suit across the bed, already getting my school clothes ready, already setting out cereal bowls. But not that morning. She stayed in her robe and made pancakes.

After breakfast, we bundled up in parkas and snow pants, went outside, and pressed our arms and legs into the snow. Elbow to elbow, we carved angels into the white.

February 2019 – Henderson, Night

I crossed the hall to Momma’s bedroom. A cotton puffer jacket rested on a chair. I hesitated, then opened the closet. Rows of black velvet hangers. There it was: a blonde mink pea coat with a suede sash. One she had owned for forty years. Rarely worn, not her favorite, but somehow it survived four houses and two states. Somehow it had always escaped the bags of SafeNest donations she packed every six months and left by the curb.

She slipped it on. I slipped mine on. Our elbows linked.

Two coats, two women, stepping outside into a living snowglobe. No plows, no green “Keep Milwaukee Beautiful” salt chests. Just desert silence. Flakes dusting our lashes and melting on our tongues like unleavened communion wafers.

We strolled arm in arm, laughing like schoolgirls, warm in each other’s presence.

February 1993 - Philadelphia

I ignored the “Do Not Cross. Go Around” yellow caution tape that partially blocked the scaffolding on Chestnut Street after a deep snowfall. It was a tiny stretch – six yards at most. Rerouting pedestrian traffic to a roadside path seemed rather extreme. This was Philly; cars didn’t yield worth a damn in the best of weather. Besides – I’d be quick.

A mini-avalanche from above hit my head and knocked me flat, muffling my “WTF?” screams. Just powder, not ice. Three men across the street pointed to the signage, back to me again, and doubled over with laughter. Half chuckling and half humiliated, I stood up, brushed off, and went about my business.

I had my warning. It struck like lightning and flattened my arrogance in an instant.

June 2023 – Milwaukee

The plan was for Auntie Clara – my mom’s lifelong best friend and fellow Delta soror – to accompany me to Momma’s funeral, but she had injured her back and was still on the mend. So I went to her house after the service.

We sat on her sofa with her daughter Kim for two nights straight, catching up over hugs and plates of barbecue.

She shared memories of my mother, both silly and serious.

Like channeling Snow White:

“Her parakeet, Petey, would fly straight to her shoulder, content as could be – and glare at everyone else in the room with his beady little eyes.”

Or dressing like Mary Tyler Moore:

“The Black Mary Tyler Moore,” she corrected. “One windy fall morning I pulled into the office lot, and there was your mom stepping out of her Oldsmobile Cutlass: A-line turtleneck sweater dress, matching hat, curls peeking out, fresh lipstick. I thought, she’s gonna take off that hat, spin around, toss it in the air, and flash that little lipsticked smile right in the middle of the lot. Then I thought, nope. Not the Black Mary Tyler Moore. She wasn’t about to ruin that rollerset before 8 a.m.”

They had each other’s backs, from their childhood friendship through the evolution of their careers at MPS as principals, administrators, and board members.

Momma advocated for Black teachers and students, but constantly fought against systemic efforts to block her autonomy.

“Your mom was directly involved in overseeing programs for children enrolled in public schools, especially Title I and other federal initiatives. She was promoted, given new titles, but others tried to strip her of authority - moving her, renaming her roles, taking away real decision-making power. She kept working for Black children even as the system tried to box her out.”

Auntie Clara fought against the unwritten rules limiting Black teachers per district.

“At that time you could have one, maybe two Black teachers in a white school, and limited numbers of Black teachers per district. It wasn’t written anywhere, but it was enforced like law. We fought to break those rules, but every appointment came with a fight.”

When Momma’s promotion was announced, her car was vandalized in the parking lot.

Then the anonymous phone calls came: men tied to the teachers’ association, trying to bar Black teachers. Every night, every fifteen minutes or so.

Auntie Clara ramped up her efforts by planning an out-of-state meeting with California legislators. And on the evening before catching her flight, her garage was firebombed.

“They said, ‘Call it off. Call it off.’ When I refused, they burned down my garage. They traced accelerants from the garage to my kitchen windows. The firemen told me it was professional. That was the cost of insisting that Black children deserved principals, teachers, and curriculum that reflected them. That’s the kind of danger we faced for simply demanding equal footing.”

She stood in her nightclothes comforting her daughters while firefighters battled flames meant to erase her.

Momma always downplayed the danger in front of us. Her phone conversations were hushed, sotto voce, spoken in code. I strained to catch bits and pieces. She could spin why we had a loner car for so long, or why there had been a fire in Auntie Clara’s garage. But she couldn’t explain away the time Aunt Myrtle – then serving as an assistant principal – was physically assaulted in a classroom.

She came to our house a few weeks later, her jaw broken, rewired, her teeth replaced. The sight of her injuries made everything click. I finally understood: Aunt Myrtle, too, had stood in the line of fire simply for showing up as a Black woman in power.

July 2023 – Henderson

Open%2BDelta%2BGift%2BBarbara%2BShade.png

Two months after Momma died, I found a 1963 newspaper article commemorating Delta Sigma Theta’s 50th anniversary. It was accompanied by a black-and-white photograph of my young mother, Aunt Myrtle, Auntie Clara, and their fellow sorors. Sharp, radiant, call-to-action ready.

I knew the cost behind that shine.

Outwardly elegant, but not about fashion. It was rooted in love, in service, and commitment to community. They built the intellectual and activist scaffolding for generations to come. Growing into the women they were always meant to be.

I struggle with the history of the coats when juxtaposed with the larger reality that fur represents. A sacrifice offered by an unwilling animal down to the skin, with a cruelty that can never be overlooked or diminished.

Indigenous traditions acknowledge the breadth of sacrifice that animal consumption represents. Expressing gratitude, honor, and not wasting any part of it – all of these align to hold the memory as sacred.

Perhaps the coats carried some of that same lineage. Maybe they were less about vanity – and more about protection. Visible armor when navigating rooms of importance. Insulation to brace the cold without flinching. Buffer to keep moving forward with dignity. Shield against resistance. External noise. Imminent danger. Accelerant fire. All of it.

August 2025 – Henderson

“I don’t ever despair when it comes to education. Children will make it, they will succeed. But it has always taken women like your mother: principals, administrators, sorors – willing to endure the politics and the danger, to carve out spaces where Black children could thrive.”

— Dr. Clara New

Dr. Clara New

Mrs. Myrtle Hyman

Aunt Myrtle and Auntie Clara: this piece is for you. You are brilliant women who carved space for justice, who taught me that elegance is power and courage is style. You made a difference. You will never be forgotten. You are part of my mother, and part of me. And you still shine.

By now it’s obvious: every piece that holds my mom becomes a love story. Clearly, this one is no exception.

STOP. EXPLORE. ACKNOWLEDGE. ADMIRE.

August 18, 2025 by Ka Newborrn in Black Gardens, Night Gardens

What night running taught me about living inside time.

“Flowers grow out of dark moments.”
— Corita Kent

I’ve been running alone in my dreams for as long as I can remember, fueled by my inner gazelle.

Padding softly through mazes of streets, enveloped in a black-blue surround.

Occasional cracks of gold bleed into the night as the stars – reluctant to be disturbed – tease the velvet with their quiet insistence.

One maze leads to an old house, seemingly abandoned.

I reach for the doorknob, find it unlocked, twist it open, and step inside.

I’m fully lucid, present, yet I can’t shake the foreboding sense that I’m witnessing the past and future all at once.

Is it tomorrow, twenty years from now, or a decade ago? Could all of it be happening simultaneously?

My legs surge with energy, yet I never notice if the hand turning the knob is smooth or gnarled.

The moment stretches like a continuum – an entire life collapsed into a single breath.

A gestalt of time.

All of it relevant.

Stop. Explore. Acknowledge. Admire.

When I wake, I rarely recall every detail,

but I remember the mood.

I remember how the house felt.

I run in waking life, too. At night, of course.

Podcasts or playlists spill faintly from open earbuds.

Streetlamps keep me company.

I say hello to neighbors in their evening rituals,

and I greet the ferals lounging in the desert breeze.

What if this act – putting one foot in front of the other – was never about getting from A to B?

What if it’s really about rhythm, about keeping time with yourself, like a metronome syncing your pulse to the world?

Neighborhood street glowing in vivid technicolor tones. — photo courtesy of ka newborrn

I step outside, turn the doorknob gently shut, and resume my pace.

The air presses against my back, wind meets my face, melancholy melodies stir in my ears.

I’m grateful – for my health, for my path, for everything behind and everything ahead.

I’ve spent years abstracting individual hairs.

But now I know: it’s the whole silhouette that matters.

The movement between shadows and light.

The cohesion in letting go of strict start and endpoints.

Stop. Explore. Acknowledge. Admire.

The truest superpower?

Embracing the dark while discovering the light.

CLOTHES SHRINK. PEOPLE GROW.

August 12, 2025 by Ka Newborrn in Black Gardens

Wore it for the size. Kept it for the story.

Her gown lived in my memory. Years later, mine moved in beside it.

twin vintage (circa mid 2000s) banana republic dresses

It was elegant, not gaudy or dated. Contemporary, but with a retro sensibility. It reminded me of a gown my mother wore in a photo that I found inside a family album as a child. I’d studied that photo so fervently that the protective sleeve still bears faint impressions from my tiny fingers.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. It was the one. The perfect companion for an upcoming European holiday with my mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, and baby niece.

Size 2. On a cruise ship with endless buffets.

It was ambitious, but not too much of a stretch. Not for me. While other passengers topped off multi-course meals with pastries, cheese plates, and crème brûlée, my strapless confection would keep me sated. Caressed. The gold-threaded eyelets would sparkle like fairy lights and light me up like a flute of champagne.

That was the idea, anyway.

We went jewelry shopping in Santorini, art hunting in Agios Nikolaos, and played with feral kitties in Patmos. I drank ale in Montenegro, feasted on calamari in Split, and devoured Pizza Margherita and lemon gelato at Piazza San Marco. And those were just the afternoons; every night I cleaned my dinner plate—desserts included. I savored every bite, every moment with my family.

My sandals betrayed me— the leather never broke in. I patched my blisters with bandaids. But the dress? It had my back. And my belly. And my hips. Gotta love an empire waist.

By the time I returned to Los Angeles, the zipper pinched. Still, the dress hung proudly in my closet. A month later, I spotted it again—this time in a size 4—and wore it to a party.

“...Is that the dress you wore on the cruise?”

“…You look great! You haven’t gained a pound…”

Years have passed. Sometimes I can still zip the size 4 if I inhale deeply, but eventually I have to breathe.

Regrettably, it’s one or the other.

If a good tailor can make a size 6 from a 2 and a 4, could a great tailor make an 8?

Maybe. But I don’t care.

momma in the mid 1960's

formal dining night 2010

european holiday 2010

Now my photo sits in the family album beside the image of my mother that inspired it. I’ll always keep them close.

But the dresses? I’m letting them go. May they find a new adventure someday.

SHE LET ME DRESS HER

August 08, 2025 by Ka Newborrn in Black Gardens

A memory of my mother, dressing as ritual, and the quiet trust between us.

Dressing her for special occasions became a ritual around the time she turned 70. Holidays, vacations, even casual dinners—I’d do her makeup, style her wig. And she loved it. Curation sparked her confidence. We’d talk shop like it was 1978: Ilie Wacs, Adolfo, and everything in between. They just didn’t make ’em like that anymore. And when did Teal Traina fall off the map?

Hixons of Milwaukee was her go-to store after landing her first promotion—before kids, before all of it. The sales associates would call her personally when something perfect arrived. So did Betty, the owner of Nearly New, an upscale consignment shop tucked inside Glendale’s Crestwood Village. My mother dragged me there almost every Saturday morning at 10 a.m. sharp when it opened.

Okay—took might be more accurate than dragged. Betty was kind, and I liked sitting on the old retro bench with its heavily waxed spindles and peeking inside the jewelry case. But the real motivation for walking through the musty, palazzo-tiled corridor to the sleigh-belled front entrance was the Crestwood Bakery next door. There was always a lemon tart or chocolate éclair in it for me.

She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s shortly before her 81st birthday. I moved into what I would come to call Black Gardens five months later, making the four-hour drive from Los Angeles in rare Southern California rain. By the time I reached Henderson, the sun was blazing.

She was in the backyard, seated with the ferals, and beamed like a Cheshire when she saw me.

I had just left her in January. There were subtle changes—nothing too obvious. Her personality was the same, but her appearance had started to shift.

She was wearing a thin, boat-necked short-sleeved shell—one of those tops that starts the day under a suit jacket but ends up alone once the afternoon sun hits. Beneath it, she wore a long-sleeved, collared blouse buttoned all the way to her neck. My mother ran warm, like me. It was odd. But the look was familiar in a way I couldn’t place.

Later, I’d realize what it reminded me of.

When Dody Goodman wore her bra outside of her blouse in the movie, Splash.

“Oh Mr. Bauer… You got calls from Marineland, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and Mrs. Paul…”

A few days later, we were getting ready for my niece’s dance recital and dinner. She didn’t feel like sitting still for full makeup. Just lipstick. And eyebrows, of course. Drawn-in brows were her uniform.

She said she’d do them herself. I insisted. I had an agenda: I planned to confiscate the "brow pencil" she'd been using—an old Almay eyeliner stub that was more green than brown in certain lighting and loaded with glitter. Glitter I found on the couch, in the refrigerator, on the cats… for months to come.

I’d been saving the blouse for her.

She leaned in to read the label and arched a penciled brow.

“Eileen Fisher,” she said, impressed.

She knew her fashion pedigree.

Her face lit up in all the right ways when she tried it on. Her brown eyes sparked gold against the pewter color. The textured silk made her skin glow.

I noticed a shift at the restaurant. She was self-conscious. Her presence had always been commanding—but that night, her beauty had evolved into a softness. Her eyes darted around the room and returned to me again and again, searching for guidance, safety, reassurance. Almost like a child, but without the confidence.

But it was still a good day. Because she trusted me completely. And I knew it might not be the case tomorrow.

A bit of dressing stained the blouse as she maneuvered the chicken breast I had cut into bite-sized pieces. Her eyes widened and locked with mine.

I wanted to hug her. Feel her scratchy wig against my cheek, strands permanently frazzled from surviving one-too-many Vegas heatwaves. But she was seated across from me, wedged snugly between my niece and brother-in-law.

“It’s okay, Momma,” I said. “I’ll make it look brand new again. Just like you taught me. Eat your chicken. Momma, it’s okay.”

Visibly relieved, she returned to her meal.

Another dab of dressing escaped the corner of her mouth and deepened the stain. I reached across the table and wiped her face with my napkin.

“Thank you, baby,” she said.

And I couldn’t stop looking at her.

She was so incredibly beautiful.

My Momma has always been—will always be—exquisite.

SHRED

January 15, 2024 by Ka Newborrn

Is sharing observations about an unremarkable life experience a tenable measure of progress when you’re struggling emotionally?

I’ve been thinking about the time when I recently stepped away from a project I’ve been self-flagellating to complete and focused on a twenty-year-old paper shredder instead.

She was abandoned in a corner of the garage and appeared to have spent the last quarter of her life there. Standing at just over two feet tall, she wasn’t an industrial machine but seemed large by home office standards — and a potential heavy hitter.

Could I revive her?

Cloud computing and external drives have reduced my carbon footprint considerably, but I still have a mound of papers awaiting secure disposal.

It was settled. I needed her. So I welcomed her back into the house and immediately got to work.

I enjoy the process of making old furniture and appliances look new again, and this project was no exception. I carefully polished her exterior with a microfiber cloth. Little by little, her dusty coat gave way to an heirloom’s guarded luster.

I lifted her head from the receptacle bin and examined the underside. From the looks of the bits lodged in her teeth, she’d enjoyed her last meal but needed a dental cleaning. I used my fingers to dislodge what I could, replaced her head, and plugged her into the wall. She wouldn’t power on, so I found her manual online and reviewed the troubleshooting suggestions.

The first tip was to clean the operating sensors with a Q-tip and a touch of rubbing alcohol. I followed the instructions and tried again. This time the sensor glowed blue.

The second tip was to oil her blades. I scoured the garage cabinets for a bottle of shredder oil, but was unsuccessful. With zero desire to leave the house, I found a respectable substitute on hand: blade oil for cat clippers. I laced the oil onto a piece of paper in a zigzag motion and slid it through the document feed.

She chewed begrudgingly at first, but her appetite increased. Thirty minutes later, the “paper full” sensor glowed. I turned off the power and emptied the bin, pleased at the sight of the shrunken pile. I pressed the power button to reboot the machine, but the sensor didn’t light.

Apparently she needed a break. I did, too. It was lunchtime. After rerouting to the kitchen for a tuna, apple and pecan salad, I tried again. She powered on. Piece by piece, I fed her the remaining pile until it was gone.

I recently heard that confronting dreadworthy, overwhelming tasks, or doing anything that falls outside your daily routine stimulates a region of the brain called the anterior midcingulate cortex. So is resuscitating a crumbling paper shredder a benchmark of personal victory? It didn’t feel like one to me. Until it was me.

Feeling obsolete?
Think you’re broken?
Can’t do the things?
Did you shower?
Did you moisturize?
Overwhelmed?
Did you nap?
The things. Can you do them now?

Rerouting my life to care for my mother had its share of challenges, but it always felt intrinsic. Now, as I grieve her loss and the unexpected loss of my father in tandem, rerouting again feels discordant to everything I’ve ever known. Particularly about feeling at home in the world.

Midlife, with all of its requisite dogma — is a curious place to live. It can make the most pedestrian tasks feel painfully out of reach, as if navigating through changes isn’t tricky enough already.

I roll with the punches, continue my story, and try to keep the dialogue lighthearted:

I have brain freeze. (ha)
My eyesight is failing. (tee hee)
My joints are cranky. (chuckle)
My hormones are tanked. (giggle)
Damn menopause. (knee slap)

Midlife wants top billing. It holds a sharpened claw to my flesh and carves out a rewrite in blood:

Your brain is trash.
Your eyes are trash.
Your joints are trash.
Your hormones are trash.

As I hold the paper away from my face and attempt to read the revisions, the script warps into a hyperbolic distortion. One with all the subtlety of a funhouse mirror. My failing eyes look on in horror when I realize the narrative has changed to first-person:

My brain is trash.
I can’t think anymore.
I’m not making any sense.
It hurts.
My eyes are trash.
I can’t see anymore.
Better not explore or drive.
I’ll get lost.
It hurts.
My joints are trash.
I can’t move anymore.
Skip the gym.
Don’t go for a run.
It hurts.
My hormones are trash.
I’m too tired to move.
I’m too tired to feel.
It hurts.

Then it gets downright nasty:

I can’t do this.
My loved ones are gone.
I’m alone in the world.
I’m an orphan.
It hurts.

I don’t argue with crazy, but I can define it. Crazy is allowing a distortion to pit my life valuation against a phantom optimality. It’s a gimmick, a distraction. Then I remember that the mirror has another side. I turn it over, look again, and see this:

Perspective change can numb like ice. It doesn’t mean my brain is frozen. Time has passed. Variables are different. Things are heavy. It doesn’t always feel great because physics is a bit of a mean girl, but it isn’t stagnant. It’s a process. Think this.

I tell myself that everything hurts, but I’m rarely in unbearable physical pain. Distortion thrives on dissonance. Reflexive activities like kickboxing and running lessen the noise. Keep the volume at a minimum. Keep it moving along. Feel this.

If anything was bound by a shred of common decency, I could happily stop here. Unfortunately, there’s that orphan thing.

As much as it twists and bends, a funhouse mirror is limited in scope. It can’t distort the other side of the mirror, because the other side of the mirror can only reflect the truth. The other side of the mirror is where my parents live. The parents I will always have.

My parents have earned their rest, but I doubt that’s what they’re doing. Momma’s probably executive chairing the Rainbow Bridge by now — Feral Cat Relations. Daddy’s wearing a tunic the color of wind and teaching the planets to dance. Didgeridoos are singing along. Gankoguis and djembes keep time.

If I was looking for the bar of optimality, that’s it right there — but I’m feeling and thinking about other things, too.

I have brain freeze.
My eyesight is failing.
My joints are cranky.
My hormones are tanked.
Damn menopause.

Like living. Working. Traveling. Alone or with friends. Accomplishments. Deadlines. Airplanes. Flyer miles. Road trips. Oil changes.

Time

I can’t do this.
It’s too cold to move.
I’ll get lost.
It hurts.

get

up.

BOOK RELEASE — THE SECRET NORTH

July 01, 2020 by Ka Newborrn

Ester Myling is a dark beauty living the life of her dreams and nightmares.

As a Luminatrix - an elite-level scientist from planet Hjulder - she makes frequent travels to Earth to obtain data through secret human interactions. Always an enchantress, she wields her magic to get into the heads and under the skins of her subjects.

Ester’s job affords a celebrity lifestyle and a castle deep in the forest of her home planet, but success comes at a significant cost. As she embroils herself in the psychological and supernatural demons of her subjects, all parties involved are faced with the challenge of deconstructing their perceptions and reimagining the metrics of reality, desire, and self-identity.

Conjuring elements of fantasy, gothic horror, and historical fiction, The Secret North is a tale of loss, redemption, and growth amid intersectional factors of race, gender and ideology.

METRONOMES, CHORD PROGRESSIONS, ALFRED CAHN & THE TRUE SOUND OF HEARTBEATS

March 10, 2020 by Ka Newborrn

We’ve all been there before. Poised at the edge of a padded table with tissue paper rustling under our butt. The scent of rubbing alcohol deep in our nose. The sterile taste of wood fresh on our tongue. Trying to forget about the cotton strings tied in haphazard loops at the nape of our neck and the vulnerability we feel as the air traces our exposed back. Willing ourselves to relax beneath the grip on our shoulder as a doctor presses a cold stethoscope to our breast and listens.

That noise inside the stethoscope is just a smokescreen, really. The true sound of a heartbeat comes from the music it holds inside.

Alfred Cahn, my childhood piano teacher, understood this better than anyone else.

Like weather station clocks, my mother and I arrived at Mr. Cahn’s Whitefish Bay home every Thursday at 5pm. His wife, Ilse, greeted us warmly at the door. Melody, their golden Labrador, wagged her tail in greeting, sniffed at our fingers excitedly, and waited for head pats and chin scratches.

We descended the narrow staircase that led to the refinished basement studio where Mr. Cahn gave lessons. My mother settled into an easy chair in the corner and busied herself with the papers in her briefcase. I retrieved a sonatina album from my book bag and placed it at the mahogany upright piano before having a seat on the matching bench. Mr. Cahn adjusted the metronome that rested on the ledge.

The metronome was a smallish, thinly-laminated box with a brass pendulum that moved to and fro in a series of metered clicks. It was obnoxious, like a gang of Hummel figurines that tries valiantly (but fails miserably) to upstage the starpower of a whisky decanter displayed in the same curio case.

With twinkling eyes, Mr. Cahn informed me that his boyhood music teacher had rapped his knuckles with a ruler for rogue timing. How fortunate I was, he continued, leaning in close, that he had come across this metronome in the store window. The very last one in stock, too. He winked at my mother across the room, and they burst into a simultaneous fit of giggles. I exhaled carefully through my mouth, positioned my hands at the keyboard and stared at my nail polish.

My mother observed that I swayed my body a lot while practicing and brought it to Mr. Cahn’s attention. He told her that there was nothing to worry about; our bodies were the true metronomes. “All the rhythm is here,” he said, poking at his chest. “Swaying is fine,” he added, staring at my hands, “but those fingernails need to be clipped.”

I took on a variety of compositions during quarterly recitals at University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I played Scarlatti, Hayden, Clementi, and a few selections from Mr. Cahn’s personal repertoire of published music. I gradually came to the realization that my teacher was a world-renowned composer and national treasure. I was proud to be his student. A bit haughty, perhaps.

Years passed, and I tackled pieces from Schubert and Beethoven. The chord progressions grew increasingly complex. The girth and dexterity required to spell out multiple keyed chords caused me to overenunciate my notes, and the phrasing suffered as a result. I also lacked discipline when it came to proper fingering.

Mr. Cahn gently reproved when I missed a chord and reattempted from the same spot. It was useless, he explained, to address a setback at the point of onset. You had to go back to the beginning of the measure to unlearn your mistake or you would never truly master the transition.

So I would back up and start again. Sometimes I got it right. Other times, I found myself overwhelmed and in need of a break. When this happened, I would stop playing for a while and we would talk about our lives.

He hated Reaganomics; it was heartless and greedy. This elicited an audible grunt-nod of solidarity from the easy chair in the corner, followed by a delicate cough, the quick scratching of a nylon-clad ankle, and the slightest rustling of briefcase papers.

My dog, Sassi, was heartless and greedy, too. Earlier in the week, she stole a half-eaten onion bialy out of trash that she didn’t really want. She didn’t want anyone else to have it either, so she guarded it for a full 36 hours before reluctantly devouring it in a furious, snarling, tooth-baring huff when I tried to take it away.

His dog, Melody, was only allowed one cup of kibble at mealtimes because she was overweight by the veterinarian’s account. She was a loving dog, but the real reason she sniffed at our fingers was because she was hungry. Hangry, even.

I looked forward to getting home after our lesson because it was Thursday night and I was allowed to watch Bosom Buddies on TV after I finished my homework.

He looked forward to having a nice dinner with Ilse after our lesson. They immigrated to the United States together after the war. On their wedding night, they shared a candy bar from a vending machine for dinner.

I was on the track team at school and especially loved sprinting and high jumps. Earlier in the week, I was at the last leg of a practice course, just inches away from the finish line. My arms were raised in victory as I tripped over a hurdle and fell in front of my teammates. Everyone laughed.

When he was a young man, he would run with heavy bags of grain on his shoulders. Even in the rain. Fast and steady, just like they demanded. It was something they often did in the camps. Dachau for a short time. Others in Belgium and France.

He would talk a little about his experiences, but not very much. I didn’t pry; I was beginning to understand that the big picture in life was sometimes clearer whenever I stopped fixating on glaring objects and gave my attention to the surrounding spaces instead.

There were fifteen minutes left in the lesson. I wasn’t ready to play, but I still had a lot to learn. So I sat back and listened as my teacher took over the bench.

Head bowed deeply in a gesture of command and respect, his fingers descended to unlock the keys. Freed from their ivory cages, the notes floated to the surface one by one and hovered at the back of his neck like a halo of fireflies. Flickering like the neon signage in Lanford Wilson’s Hot L Baltimore. Leaking aldehydes, pheromones and ozone into the humid basement air until the small room teemed with perfume.

My mother set her papers aside and listened intently.

Angry crimson top notes opened the phrase. Unanswered questions hung in fermata, burning. Deep hunger ensued, its acrid, salt crystal tears buried within middle notes of humiliation and flatness. Crimson questions turned blackly purple, pointing fingers stiffened towards an iridescent veil of blue. Air still charged with ozone but aldehydes mellowing, giving way to base notes of acceptance. Peace.

Unanswered questions adrift in the wind like an eddy of crackled leaves, echoing one last time before falling softly to the ground amidst a gentle fade.

The sillage still haunts me to this day.

alfred cahn: 1922-2016. photo courtesy of peter sauter (speyer.de)

I was seventeen when Mr. Cahn gave me my last lesson. I know that sounds like a schlocky lead-in, but it’s not my intention. Mind you, I could have said it was the summer of my seventeenth year, but I didn’t, even though it was. Mrs. Cahn had passed away from cancer a few months before, and I was moving to Philadelphia to attend Temple University in the fall.

I can’t recall what composer I played or if I was at all prepared for the lesson. I do remember Mr. Cahn telling my mother how proud he was to include me among his best and most gifted students, and that he sincerely believed I would return to the piano someday. He wasn’t one to offer compliments superfluously, so I held onto his words tightly. He hugged us as we said our goodbyes. Then he grasped my fingers in his own, observed the nails (no longer polished but still meticulously clipped) and kissed the knuckles that had, incidentally, remained unmarred by a ruler throughout our time together.

If I still had that metronome today, I’d bust it out every time someone gets that faux pensive look in their eyes before asking me why I’ve never been married.

Because chord progressions are still a bitch.

Every time a woman tells me I can’t possibly understand the full capacity of love because I don’t have kids of my own I’d unclench my fists, adjust the brass pendulum, smile, and think of Hummel figurines.

Because chord progressions are still a bitch. And clearly they’re not the only ones.

Simple pleasures have always brought me great joy, like the sound of my coffee grinder in the morning, fact checking obscure movie trivia on imdb with friends, and double conditioning my hair in the shower. Assault and battery charges would not be a worthy exchange for the luxury of these indulgences.

So I continue to stay on the right side of the law. Warming my palms with steaming mugs of freshly-ground joy. Bantering with friends about the celluloid stars of yesteryear. Listening to the true sound of my heartbeat:

”Single black female seeks lasting musical connection:
Key of D is a Major plus. (I Forgot to be Your Lover, William Bell. I Want You, Marvin Gaye. I’ll Stay, Eddie Hazel.)
I live in the neighborhood of F Minor (I’m looking at you, Massive Attack. You give me The Spoils and I Want You, too. Somehow I don’t think Marvin would mind.)
But A Minor commute won’t scare me away (Thanks for The Memory, Roy Ayers.)
Must be willing to dig deep in the crates and dust off sleeves
The rarer the cuts, the better
Unrequited love ballads a plus
Blues if the venue is dark and smoky
70-155 beats per minute
Common time together is preferred
But 2/4 is acceptable
A lavish bridge with strings is nice
But a simple bass line will do
If it leads to peace
Keeps me from getting entangled in trills
And helps me stay focused on the whole notes”

Detangling my conditioned, greying tresses with a wide-toothed comb.

Playing it by ear.

SAVORING MEMORIES, FOOD STAINED BOOKS & AWASH ETHIOPIAN RESTAURANT—LOS ANGELES

February 25, 2020 by Ka Newborrn in books

I’ve had the good fortune to savor many dishes in life, and my books have the food stains to prove it.

Like many kids, reading shaped my awareness of the world beyond my backyard. Narratives involving food pulled especially deep. The descriptions were so palpable I could taste them through the pages, but I didn’t stop there. I recreated literary meals with whatever ingredients I could find onhand and dined with characters all over the world.

My itinerary was quite impressive.

A typical day might start in Sweden via Britt J. Hallqvist’s Bettina’s Secret, where the namesake protagonist eats tasteless food while holed up in a hospital room with a compound leg fracture. She dreams of “rye bread, anchovy paste mixed with a little cream [and] thin slices of onion on top, or strong cheese with sliced radishes.”

I slathered the halves of a pumpernickel bagel with a thick layer of horseradish mustard and piled on a few slices of turkey breast. Anchovy paste was not indigenous to midwestern supermarket shelves during the early 80’s, but I did find a jar of capers in the back of the refrigerator. I sprinkled a few on my sandwich.

Later on, I would travel to Umuofia, Nigeria via Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, where Okonkwo celebrates the Feast of the New Yam with yam foo-foo, and a hollowed out gourd filled with palm wine.

For this occasion, I rubbed sweet potatoes with vegetable oil before baking them, then mashed them with butter, salt and honey. I recreated the palm wine by finding an olive green and brown coffee mug from the 70’s (those gourd vibes, tho!) and filling it with catawba, a sparkling grape juice with a brownish hue and musky flavor that was as close as it got to my drinking libations without actually breaking the law.

Years passed, and I was an adult living on my own in Los Angeles. Curiously, the sorry condition of my pages did not improve.

I was off to Whipsnade, England via Norah Loft’s Avoiding Dunstable, where a misanthropic Mr. Fairweather imbibes excessively at his godson’s wedding, gets behind the wheel, and takes a backroad shortcut. There he happens upon a phantom hotel and is greeted by an apparitional butler who serves a hallucinated dinner of “consomme, saddle of mutton, and gooseberry tart with cream.”

Trader Joe’s seasoned rack of lamb paired nicely with one, and a glass of late-harvest Zinfandel rounded out the meal perfectly.

Finally, I arrived in Provence, France via Gerald Durrell’s The Entrance, where a bohemian couple recounts the acquisition of a horrifying true crime manuscript. Their dinner guest attacks “a black truffle the size of a peach encased in a featherlight overcoat of crisp brown pastry, guinea fowl wrapped in an almost tangible aroma of herbs and garlic, and a special bottle of Gigondas.”

I eagerly attacked a heaping plate of the same.

Just kidding. Dinner that night was a bag of SkinnyPop and three clementine oranges because my stove’s pilot light was out. But I did have a glass of Gigondas, because, well, accuracy. And the SoCalGas tech was a no-show the following evening, so I went to Awash instead.

Awash Restaurant — 5990 1/2 W. Pico Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90035, photo courtesy of yelp.com

Having dinner at Awash is a lot like dining inside the pages of a book, albeit more paradoxical. As with all restaurant visits, it requires a certain level of interactivity and immersion, but the experience quickly devolves into something insular. I mean that in the most complimentary way possible.

It boils down to this: if you’re a critic, the food at Awash is a virtuoso. The performance will blow you away. If you’re an existentialist, the food at Awash is all there is. Nothing else exists.

The color scheme is unassuming as you enter the restaurant, and the decor is nondescript and functional. The vinyl-upholstered, metal banquet chairs at the tables go largely unnoticed until they squeal across the tile floor as you pull them out to sit down. Once seated, they’re immediately forgotten until they squeal across the floor again when you pull them out and stand up to access the restrooms through the partition doors at the side of the bar.

The freshness of the ingredients is a standout quality, and the seasonings are balanced and never overpowering. The legumes and vegetables have a clean, bright flavor. The crispy whole fish is sweet and expertly fried. The injera bread complements the food without upstaging and readily soaks up every last bit of deliciousness.

In addition to being delicious, every dish is presented in an accessible, eater-friendly way. The chicken is filleted into perfectly sized, easy-to-handle chops that fit comfortably in your fingers and never feel overwhelming or sloppy in your mouth. I can’t help but wonder what physics voodoo was involved in the configuration, as the execution is that good.

I’ve never been to Awash on a first date or in the company of attention seekers looking to preen and posture (sometimes one and the same). Dining there is reserved for occasions with the people I treasure most, and with whom I feel relaxed, comfortable and natural: peeps that don’t judge me when I eat SkinnyPop for dinner or leave the pilot lighting to the professionals. When you look around the room, you’re met by the kind eyes of the owners, and tables filled with adoring couples, happy kids and other patrons that seem to share an established sense of intimacy. Part of the fun of paying the check and struggling with the chairs before standing up to leave is proposing a return date with friends for the next visit.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for twenty years and dined at a lot of restaurants, both hole-in-the-wall joints and high-end establishments that pride themselves on a fine dining experience. Many of the fine dining experiences were impressive.

Aesthetics, exclusivity, hype and expense are variables that often work in tandem to build the perception of quality.

The food at Awash is a virtuoso. The performance will blow you away.

In Avoiding Dunstable, Mr. Fairweather thinks to himself, “He knew that were The Grange [phantom hotel] within ten miles of his home, he would dine there every evening.” Then he passes out in a freshly-turned-down, hallucinated bed clutching a hot water bottle.

He wakes up to “… the worst headache he had ever suffered … in his car … head on the steering wheel [looking] out over what appeared to be a field of sugar beet, young leaves shining in the level rays of the early morning sun.”

The food at Awash is all there is. Nothing else exists.

MAKEUP, GIRL SCOUTS, GHOSTS & ROBERT WELSH

February 20, 2020 by Ka Newborrn

At ten years old, I became the proud owner of two unwanted eyeshadows that my grandmother discarded from a gift with purchase.

The eyeshadows were encased in blue lucite compacts that sparkled like aquamarines in the daylight. I was awestruck by their magnificence.

I pried open the compacts with my awkward fingers, revealing two hidden oases: one brown, one purple, each flanked by a miniature sponge applicator. I turned them at an angle to reveal the names of the shades labeled on the back: Sandstone and Amethyst. Feelings of exhilaration stirred deep within my lungs. I decided to show them to my fellow troopmates during an upcoming Girl Scout camping trip, so I placed them in my backpack alongside my toothbrush, nightgown, spare jeans and t-shirt.

The day of the trip arrived. My mother dropped me off in the school parking lot and drove away. I swung my backpack over my shoulder and boarded a small bus filled with the banter of girls en route to the remote woods of northern Wisconsin.

The sky was backlit and mysterious as we settled into our cabin. At nightfall, we nestled into our cots and told ghost stories by flashlight. I unzipped my backpack, took out the compacts and opened them for all to admire. Sandstone and amethyst carats bored with an unearthly fire as we waited for the alchemy to begin.

The air smoldered as we dipped the eyeshadow applicators into the pigments and adorned each other’s faces. We played ‘Light as a Feather Stiff as a Board’. We called out for Bloody Mary and asked her to reveal her face. Outside of the cabin window, a gnarled oak tree waited to join in the game. It extended its branches in greeting and scratched them against the pane to get our attention. Terror coiled at the base of our spines and prickled the backs of our ears. We gasped aloud in fear and delight.

The moon slid behind a veil of clouds as we observed our finished masterpieces. We discussed the artistry of our choices and the bone structure of our fellow sisters. One by one we drifted off to sleep. In the morning we scrubbed ourselves clean and set off, barefaced in the sunshine, to enjoy a hike along the river.

My first job out of college was at a department store cosmetics counter. I was surrounded by a clientele consisting primarily of women looking to create a subtle glow with the help of the magic of makeup. Over the years my career path evolved into back office roles. I was surrounded by the constant glare of computer screens and looking to create a buzz with the magic of endless coffee.

Makeup was not a part of the latter experience. If I glowed it came from the endorphins produced by the fitness classes I squeezed in after work, or the fresh shirt and deodorant I slapped on before grabbing dinner with my gym buds directly after. I knew I could do better, so I decided to restore the magic.

Shortly thereafter, beauty influencer channels began popping up on YouTube and other social media outlets, offering makeup tutorials that promised to correct and perfect.

Many of these channels employed a sophisticated mix of technical elements, including expert lighting, camera angles, clever editing and complementary studio backdrops. I followed a few tutorials and attempted the techniques, but the results that appeared so flawless and effortless onscreen looked cakey and suspect in my mirror at home.

I was still having fun, though. I kept looking at channels and found a few gems, notably Robert Welsh.

Dressed stylishly in black and white with edgy splashes of color, @RobertWLSH starts every video on his YouTube channel by stating, “It is my goal to help you become a pro yourself, or just someone who is really good at makeup.”

He began his career working behind a MAC counter at Selfridges Department Store and credits the interactive nature of the environment as being a key factor in his artistic development. His professionalism is apparent by the manner in which he interacts with his subscribers; he is warm, respectful and seems genuinely rooted in a place of gratitude.

The tutorials on his channel address the differences between makeup applications that look good in studio lighting and makeup applications that look good up close and in person. He focuses primarily on the latter and offers practical, useful tips, like identifying products with flattering undertones and textures, holding brushes for effective application, and blending out eyeshadows without becoming a patchy hot mess.

He also maintains that once you understand the general rules of makeup you can break them effectively. Upon hearing this, I felt validated in my renegade habit of camouflaging my undereye circles by shading
the area surrounding them with a matching tone and adding a spark of light to the lashline beneath my iris with a dash of metallic shadow or liner. While it makes me feel cute, I can’t help but wonder if the end result might cause him to recoil in horror.

And while we’re on the subject of horror, my favorite part of his channel is ‘Ghosts and Makeup Monday’. During this weekly get-ready-with-me series, he reads from a selection of ghost stories and/or paranormal encounters submitted by his subscribers. As he reads, he creates an accompanying, thematic makeup look aimed to enhance the mood, like a green, toxic-waste ghost or a creepy figure lurking in the shadows. Overall, the experience is moody, fun and driven by the joy of creativity itself, and not as a vehicle to correction and perfection.

Was the magic restored? Yes, and abundantly so. With the help of a modest stash of cosmetics (that has, in recent years, thankfully expanded beyond the range of two eyeshadows) I can wield my powers to create a look that leaves me looking subtly enhanced and appropriate for the office or dinner plans.

Or one that transports me back after all these years to the remote woods of northern Wisconsin, where a gnarled oak tree still waiting to join in the game extends its branches in greeting and covers my face with a flurry of scratches.

Scratches that entice Bloody Mary out from the darkest patch of night and into the corner of my mirror for a closer look.

HAPPY ALONE

April 11, 2019 by Ka Newborrn

Six years ago, I participated in my first BODYCOMBAT class as a student. Today, I’m an instructor in the process of mastering the latest release of class materials before presenting it to my students at launch week. As a former long-distance runner I could easily flee, but I don’t.

Why do I stay with the fight? I can’t always pinpoint the motivational factors that successfully define my fitness journey, but I can easily share the ones I struggle with.

Motivational Factor #1- an Active Lifestyle is HEALTHY!

Momentum means different things to different people. My approach towards physical activity is rooted in a compulsory vein that is not entirely dissimilar to someone who gropes for an open pack of Marlboro reds, covets a last biscotti within the three-second grace period of dropping it on the ground, or digs a finger into the brine of an unsealed jar of olives two months beyond the expiration date because salt preserves. And while we’re on the subject of food, why, if pressed for time, bother with a trip to the grocery store when there are perfectly good dregs of Greek yogurt and a handful of crushed rice crackers at home?

Motivational Factor #2 - I want to Age Gracefully and STAY YOUNG!

Some image standards exceed my grasp, like tricep definition that defies the laws of gravity and hair that looks “on fleek” when pulled back. Instead, I find myself defined by the following behaviors that put my midlife existence on full display:

Panting. The HIIT elements of BodyCombat (planks, burpees, mountain climbers, high-knee sprints, etc.) push the boundaries of strength and endurance to increase one’s level of fitness. I do my best to present like a warrior at all times, but sometimes I pant. As a rational-minded person I blame the gods of sarcopenia, but my ego persists nonetheless. It’s a fight. Seriously.

Wearing Gloves. All the cool kids ditched their gloves a long time ago. I still use them sometimes because they help my slightly arthritic fingers squeeze harder. I also enjoy making the occasional nod to eras bygone. The way I see it, wearing gloves should never fall out of favor. The same goes for top hats and waistcoats.

Jump Knees, Taking the Stairs, Stretching, and Other Examples of Abject Foolishness.

Q: What did the strained left meniscus say to the chondromalacic right patella?

A: You think you got problems, Yo?

Jump knees make me feel like a rock star. Stairs happen. So does stretching. While recently cooling down in child’s pose, I managed to strain a ligament that left my good knee temporarily crankier than my bad one. Ouf.

Motivational Factor #3 - I want to Be a Part of SOMETHING BIGGER!

BODYCOMBAT classes seemed like a perfect fit from the start because I’ve never been much of a joiner and tend towards the introspective. Fences have always been my neighbors, the air my immediate opponent. I was prepared for social niceties, yet hardly expected the transformative effects that engagement, connection, accountability and community would have on my autonomous perspective.

During my first few months of participation, the downtown Los Angeles class I attended was in the midst of transition. Several interim instructors came and went. I barely paid attention when one took over the class permanently, choosing instead to carry on with my dedicated ritual of raising my head intermittently and absorbing a few instructions.

One evening after class as I rushed to get home, I was vaguely aware of the new instructor saying hello as we passed each other in the space outside of the group fitness room. I was nearly out of earshot when I heard her say, “You’ve been taking my class for three weeks now, and you still walk past without speaking?”

And…crickets. Painful ones.

I was an overtaxed woman with a cubicle job. The majority of my life was spent living alone. My prior gym interactions had been limited to watching fitness videos. Surely there was no need for eye contact or incessant prattle, as that would be annoying. Did I have a bad attitude? Negative.

The world inside my head thought I had all matters of etiquette on lock, having been weaned on private school and corporate workplace environments, where emotional disengagement is often concealed by a careful veil of politeness. Hadn’t I signed up for grunting intermittently and absorbing a few instructions? I thought it was enough.

I slowly turned around to face my instructor. Her eyes were kind, sincere, and genuinely bemused by my actions. If I wanted to blow a bigger smokescreen, this would certainly be the time to do it. Was it worth the lie? Somehow, my veil of politeness had been stripped away and I was exposed: I was a complete and utter asshat who seriously needed to do better.

And so I did. I started with an apology.

“Please forgive me, Maricela. I had a rough day. I don’t get out much, but it’s no excuse for my crapass behavior. I’d like to try this again. Your class is amazing, you are appreciated, and I am genuinely grateful for all that you do. Thank you.”

Funny how the truth has a habit of pouring out once you look squarely it in the face.

And then what happened, you ask? Did I magically transform into an archangelic, Marvel-like specimen of otherworldly proportions with brilliant triceps, flawless updo and all, and live out the duration of my days with a heightened state of self-actualization and an empathetic sensibility that always kept me on the right side of social decency?

That would be a nope, but I did learn a few things:

Camaraderie is a gift. You can fight the air all you want but you will still need to engage, fence or no fence.

Decency is airborne. Gestures matter. Words do, too. Paths may differ, but relatability and common goals are ours for the sharing. Sometimes just getting through class is enough, other times we need a bit more. The smallest offerings of kindness and support go a long way towards building a solid foundation for accountability and growth:

Nice to meet you!
Will you be here tomorrow?
See you on Tuesday.
Where were you on Wednesday?
On Thursday, I’m commuting from the Inland Empire and will be running a few minutes behind. Could you save my spot?
On Friday night I plan on ditching class, seeing a band at the Fonda Theater, consuming copious amounts of craft beer and sliders, and dancing until my guts explode. Have a great weekend!
I follow your example when I can’t see the instructor from the back row. Have you ever thought about getting certified and teaching class?

BODYCOMBAT seems less like an hour upon the figurative stage of life as I amble towards my final years and more of a curtain call to glory.

Long live the theater, and other collaborative arts. The erosion of the fourth wall and palpable triumph as the participants align in a figurative round. No one holds back in this magic circle. We cease to be perfect. We push through our limitations, doubts and anything that has ever had the power to make us feel unworthy or dead inside.

We come alive.

When this happens, I find myself happy alone - yet somehow connected in the midst of it all. It’s a phenomenon I’ve yet to fully understand. It’s a privilege for which I will always be grateful.

DRINK

February 28, 2019 by Ka Newborrn

According to a STUDY conducted at the University of Reading, drinking three glasses of champagne a week may protect your brain from the ravages of dementia.

Most sources that share the results of the study are quick to include disclaimers. As one who tends to err on the side of caution, I’m inclined to do the same, but not this time.

Champagne is a lumen to the mind. Its bubbles are self-authenticating orbs that allow us to be who we are and exist as we should. It fully engages us in the present moment; it is neither an encumbrance of past experience nor a conduit of future anxiety.

Dining in my childhood home was a study in opaque realism:

A drab, olive cloth covered the kitchen table. Its velvet was soft to the touch and its tasseled edge whimsical, but its purpose rested solely in the ability to protect. Starchy goldenrod drapes covered the dining room window. A damask pattern weaved frivolously through their gathers, but there was no mistaking the fact that the drapes existed for the purpose of keeping out drafts. Stagnant with the perfume of dust and neglect, the glint of my grandmother’s mismatched silver was carefully extinguished from plain view by a tattered wooden box buried inside a kitchen drawer.

Drinking, by contrast, cast a beacon of light into all of the shadowy corners:

Our home had two glassware sets designated for everyday use: The Flowers of the Month and The Twelve Days of Christmas. The Flowers of the Month were teardrop-shaped with sturdy bases and adorned with the image of a flower and poetic inscription. The Twelve Days of Christmases were slender by comparison and boasted colorful vignettes depicting the daily gifts of their namesake song.

Drinking imbued my life with a casual, elegant incongruence:

The white glow of December’s narcissus, frosty lemonade, and fifth-grade maths fractions in the light of early spring.
The festive blue of September’s morning glory, milk with chocolate syrup resting on the ledge of the dining room piano, and practicing scales for an upcoming recital.
Eleven pipers piping, cold raspberry kool aid ablaze with kitchen window sunbeams, and sidewalk roller skating on a late summer morning.

Years passed and glasses broke. I mourned, but any lingering tears over cast-off shards were fast replaced by adolescent sensibilities, the social rites of young adulthood, and eventually, occasional toasts of champagne served in ethereal flutes.

If left to my own preference, beauty would be always defined as a study of contrasts: warm-and-cool hued pairings, unrefined silk with rusted netting, dissonant phrasing with melodious accents, subtlety amidst distortion. Can we ever fully grasp the intrinsic value of something if all we know is more of the same? Experience shapes perception. Abstraction sharpens it.

Outside of champagne, where else can optimism and ephemera coexist so effortlessly? Bubbles rise to the promise of new and fade into a fluidity of calm and acceptance. The best thoughts and opportunities, however fleeting, know relevance because someone cared about them and eternity because someone remembered them. Celebrations pool in the myriad possibilities that lie in wait just for the corking.

Things constantly arrange and rearrange themselves in accordance with nature, and the end results cannot always be quantified by the sum of their initial variables. If they are, then perhaps they shouldn’t be. For someone experiencing memory impairment, dementia, or the loss of what once was familiar, recognizing the beauty in this makes life just a bit less cruel.

When everything is over, every last broken glass fared infinitely better than the obsolete glory of my grandmother’s silver, which was eventually uprooted from the confines of its kitchen drawer prison and banished to an indeterminate sentence inside a sealed and unlabeled moving box.

If I hope for anything, it’s that an abundance of kind memories will continually and freely pour into my life, and that my glassware will be consistently filled and overflown throughout the end of my days.

A votre santé. Cheers!

HOPEFUL

December 23, 2018 by Ka Newborrn

You’d think a twisty malcontent like me would have given up on hope a long time ago. Yet here I am, waiting patiently for it to arrive and bracing myself in preparation of the tumultuous steps to follow:

Step 1. Greet it like the underfed, dolled-up star of a craptastic, made-for-tv movie:

Rolling.
Hungry young woman enters frame.
Smartly clad in a long-sleeved tracksuit despite the late summer, SoCal desert location.
Slo-mo runs towards camera with arms outstretched, shoulders rolling in perfect figure-eight motion.
Gold necklace ablaze with a prism of sunlight because the assistant director never bothered to edit for continuity.
Too much lip gloss.
Scene.

Step 2. Succumb to the state of indomitability it brings and all of the requisite illusions:

“I’m not tired.”
“I don’t get tired.”
”I’m at the top of my game. Holla.”
”Twelve unopened self-help downloads can’t be wrong. Team Kindle!”
“I’ll see your work ethic and raise it square in the ass.”
“I have unprecedented style points AND edgy taste in music.”
“I slay deadlines, get shit done, and pump out solutions like a vat of Mr. Bubble at a jet tub sales convention.”
“I’m a team-player-self-helper.”
“The reward is in the work itself.”
“I’m better than all of ‘em.”
Did my eyeliner smudge into half-moon circles under my eyes?”
(in best Baby Jane Hudson voice) “You coulda been better than all of ‘em.”
”F**k Kindle.”
”Oh, wait. I’m not wearing eyeliner.”

Step 3. Catch offhanded glimpse of reflection in mirror. Watch illusions shatter:

Step 4. Wash away residual bits in a salty bath of cynicism, bonus rinse with bottle of gin optional:

“Twelve unopened self-help downloads lying stagnant in the cloud can’t be wrong. MAGIC, Blanche.”
“You know what Cosmic Slop is, Blanche? “Having a Funkadelic-fueled, dance outburst and drawing on your eyebrows at the same time.”

Step 5. Wait for it to return and faithfully repeat steps with the implicit certainty of a hair care routine:

“Co-wash. Repeat. Don’t rinse. Protect those ends.”

Why am I waiting for hope? It’s certainly not out of reverence for platitudes, high-horse sanctimonies, and other variations on a theme of lies, lies, and still more lies:

“When a door closes, a window opens!” My bedroom window shutters are presently duct taped to the wall because the hardware went missing during the last renovation. You’ve no audience here; shut it.
“Something better is always on the horizon!” Kindly see above.
“Things always work out for the best!” Let me help you out here. Not only will you often get more than you can handle, the end result will not necessarily be commensurate with the effort you exert or the prowess of your work ethic. I don’t care how studly you are.
“Cleanliness is next to godliness!” So vaccinations, antibodies, probiotics, and the state of one’s blouse after dining at an exceptional Ethiopian restaurant are all indicators of moral bankruptcy? You’re soaking in it.
“Everything happens for a reason!” Bless your heart.

I used to gauge the progression of my life with a series of urgent tasks and rigid deadlines.

The tasks were characteristically fat, cheeky, overblown, boorish, but they eventually wizened up with time. When the last deadlines eventually fell away the landscape was redefined. Less urgent. More languid. Peaceful.

These days I often can’t remember why I’ve walked into a room, recall a simple word, or finish my thoughts without devolving into an involuntary, awkward round of Win, Lose or Draw.

I hope to claim my space. I hope to own my story. I hope to speak my dignified peace. Someday.

Sometimes my mother rouses from sleep and doesn’t remember what a room is, or the year, if she has any children, or how she takes her coffee.

I hope for her reprieve. Someday.

I’m confused. I hope to feel lucid. I’m exhausted. I hope to feel energetic.

Did I mention I’m vain?. I wanna look “all kindsa cute” when I feel up to it, which really isn’t all that often anymore. It seems I need to get out of bed for that one, and right now that task feels like an awful lot to carry. One foot in front of the other, right? Someday.

So here I am, waiting for it to arrive and bracing myself in preparation of the tumultuous steps to follow.

I’m still here.

Bracing myself for the tumult. Waiting.

Hopeful.

THE KASINA by MINDPLACE

December 23, 2018 by Ka Newborrn

In childhood, I dreamed of expanding my brain use beyond the requisite ten percent capacity limit. While the ten-percent-cap theory was ultimately debunked, my fascination with igniting the dormant possibilities remained intact.

In adulthood, I awoke to a sobering reality of stress and insomnia. My frequent state of mental and physical depletion often impaired my cognitive function and verbal communication skills. Seeking clarity and refreshment, I revisited the dream of my youth via a pit stop to my mother's 70's album collection: In the words of esteemed civil rights activist and renowned funk musician Curtis Mayfield, "Why don't you check out your mind?"

The Kasina by MindPlace is a portable media system designed to optimize the user's mental state by integrating binaural and isochronic tones of varying frequencies with music and patterns of color and light.

DESCRIPTION - The Kasina package features a main unit that is similar in size to a classic iPod or a compact external hard drive, along with a choice of "Standard" Ganz frames (goggles suitable for closed-eye sessions) or "Deep Vision" Ganz frames (goggles suitable for either open or closed-eye sessions). Basic earbuds are also included, along with session-building software that enables you to create and store sessions of your own design. Many users share their creations on MindPlace's website forum.

FEATURES - The sessions are arranged by customizable visual, aural, and frequency output and organized into categorized folders that support the experience sought out by the user: Accelerate, Meditate, Mind Art, Night Voyage, Rejuvenate, and Trance.

USER EXPERIENCE - Lights out. Power up. Showtime. I was immediately transfixed by the array of colors, patterns, binaural beats, isochronic tones, and music. Within minutes my mind was relaxed enough to accept a state of relative prescience: was the breeze I felt coming from my bedroom ceiling fan, or was it the rustling of strings within a hyperspace dimension? It was nearly impossible to distinguish until the session was over. By then, I was in a deeply lucid state and far too relaxed to care.

FOLLOW UP - I’ve been using the Kasina for nearly five years. The sessions induce consistent bursts of quality twilight sleep - reminiscent of turbo-charged cat naps, but with better visuals. If you’re seeking a novel way to refresh, reset and enhance your perspective, this could be an excellent fit. Curtis Mayfield would wholeheartedly approve.

PHOTOBIOMODULATION DEVICES by VIELIGHT

December 22, 2018 by Ka Newborrn

My current level of physical acuity can be attributed to participating in group fitness classes at the gym. Knowledgeable instructors, peer accountability and social decorum consistently hold me to a reasonable level of motivation and subsequent progress. My struggle with energy is real, but I occasionally hit a sweet-spot stride where stretching, endorphins and knee compliance align to reveal a hint of the divine:

Mama always said, use it or lose it.
Look, Ma! I’m a gazelle! I’m boundless! I’m elastic!

After my workout is finished, I shortly revert back to my usual habits of lumbering about like a heap of day-old bread pudding (congealed whisky sauce and all), glaring at the agile kids who cross my path (translation - anyone under the age of 40), and dreaming of my next meal at Umami Burger. Nevertheless, I remain limitless in the scope of my mind’s eye for quite some time to follow.

While we’re on the subject of mind eyes, where does one turn when their mental acuity begins to wane? What does one do when word recall is non existent, a once familiar route to the grocery store becomes a full-fledged, directional battle, and tangled heaps of written words and letters are swept away by the comprehension police, leaving only a sense of frustration behind? I want to find a gym where I can use technology to boost my brain functionality when I’m feeling cognitively bankrupt.

I wanna be brilliant. I wanna get lit. Can we shed some light on the situation? Apparently, yes.

Vielight is a Toronto-based company that manufactures a line of personal devices designed to enhance memory, reverse the effects of brain injury, and mitigate cognitive decline.

The Neuro Gamma by Vielight - photo courtesy of Vielight.com

TECHNOLOGY AND DELIVERY SYSTEM - Vielight devices utilize photobiomodulation light technology, as featured in the 2018 study provided in the following link: Alzheimer's Study Using 40 Hz Intranasal Therapy. The hand-held, wearable units deliver light to the brain both transcranially (through a headset clustered with LED diodes) and intranasally (through a nose clip). Each unit features the frequency recommended for therapeutic optimization in the treatment of specific brain conditions and other health issues:

NEURO ALPHA - The Neuro Alpha delivers light at 10Hz, which, according to the study, is the frequency best suited for the therapeutic treatment of sustained brain injuries.

NEURO GAMMA - The Neuro Gamma delivers light at 40Hz which, according to the study, is the frequency best suited for the therapeutic treatment of Alzheimer’s disease and other types of dementia.

NEURO ALPHA-GAMMA - The Neuro Alpha-Gamma bundles the devices mentioned above to enable the varying of treatment at frequencies of both 10 and 40Hz.

VIELIGHT X - The Vielight X is currently in development and best suited for the therapeutic treatment of Parkinson’s disease. Specifics are pending.

Vielight recently conducted a 228 participant, double-blind randomized placebo-controlled clinical trial to investigate the effects of the Neuro Gamma device on the cognitive functioning of patients with Alzheimer’s disease.

I admire Vielight’s commitment to those living with brain injuries and dementia. I also have a selfish streak. The technology is promising but the target market is underdeveloped; who better to test it out than solo agers, caregivers and other burned-out achievers in need of a cognitive boost, especially when used in tandem with other self care options? Aren’t business developers always looking for a bundle?

I want to find a gym where I can use technology to boost my brain functionality when I’m feeling cognitively bankrupt. What’s a spinster to do while she’s waiting for photobiomodulation devices to gain momentum and improve? Finding a comfortable setting, getting regularly “lit” and gauging her progress over time might be a nice place to start.

Anyone else?