Soul Survival: Me + My three-legged stool

Donut days, resilience inventories + honoring the broken-winged guinea fowl I am

Good morning beautiful human,

I am so grateful to be here with you this morning. It was quite a week. And yet we are here. Together. Today. Right now.

Let’s hold that for a second – the power in that truth:

You and I awoke today.
We rose.
We (maybe) got out of bed.
And we are still here.

Whenever the world knocks me off my feet – exactly like the election did this week – I give myself a Kate day. A Kate day, currently better explained as a donut day – is a day of unconditional kindness, radical acceptance, and pure self-honoring. A Kate day is a day to eat what I want, do what I want, say what I want, and fully be what I want in safety. Sometimes, these days are spent in bed on rom-com benders. Other times, they are spent tackling the most aggressive of landscaping projects (new stone wall, anyone?). And other times, like this week, they are spent with best friends, Ted Lasso, my now freshly manicured lawn, and donuts. Lots and lots of donuts. But no matter how they manifest – who they include and how they evolve – my Kate days always always always meet me exactly where I am at and love me for exactly who I am, in safety.

It took me years to come up with Kate days, as simple as they are. But even though it took actual decades to realize that all I really need in these moments of despair is to give MYSELF real, true, unconditional love and meet me where I am and honor it, they have become a true lifeline whenever I am forced to navigate hard times. So this week, I clung onto them dearly.

I spent the past two days taking Kate days, aside from a few work calls, and though on Wednesday morning when I awoke, I felt that nothing – absolutely nothing – could help me feel better about the election result – and the two days were full of weeping, rage-fueled lawn care, and ragged breaths; they soothed my being as they always do. They held space for my grief. They raged beside my anger. And they loved me – in all my seasons and hurricanes of heartbreak, exhaustion, and overwhelm. Yes, they soothed my very humanity by honoring it fully.

Now, I acknowledge the privilege of Kate days – to have the time, freedom, and safety to do them. I savor them deeply and lean in with gratitude for the immense gift that they are. AND. I also finally honor that even with the privilege I have to take them, I am worthy of their love. Just as you are of whatever you need right now. And even if you can’t take a day or even an afternoon, the principle of a donut day offers a window into how we reconnect with ourselves and its innate worth in the face of hard times and entrenched obstacles.

Now, this decision to honor myself probably sounds quite ordinary and logical – meeting oneself where one is at and allowing the feelings to flow through and beyond ourselves is how we heal – and how we exist as humans too. But that is just the first leg of my salvation stool. The second leg of my hard-times rebuild is not so ordinary. Actually, it is usually perceived as exceptionally odd, but I’m sharing it anyway because donut days are never enough. We don’t just need love, nurture, and acceptance in these times. We also need hope.

In my life, I’ve been called many things, but my absolute favorite was being called a “hopeaholic.” The doctor who said it intended to emphasize how naive I was to believe I would ever live beyond the bounds of a psychiatric ward. But I didn’t hear it that way. I heard it as an acknowledgment of how incredibly strong I am in the face of hardship. I heard it as proof that the darkness of the world and its many lies hadn’t broken me just yet.

Now, most believe that hope is a delicate songbird. Many of us likely know the poem Emily Dickinson wrote, after all.

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“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

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But I don't think she or I believe that the bird of which she speaks is delicate whatsoever. I, for one, know it’s actually not.

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Hope is a wounded guinea hen cockfighter
By Kate Speer

Hope is a wounded guinea hen cockfighter
She is a wirey, tenacious fighter of a fowl 

Made of sinew and spunk
she rises even with the match is rigged,
the world around her cruel 
and she has no spurs to fight with or anything to fight for but another month in her cage

Yes,
Hope is a wounded guinea hen cockfighter
Broken-winged, one-eyed and still blazing

She is warriorhood personified
raw grit and pure bravery 

for with no guarantee of a brighter tomorrow
she rises
and rises again 
with a fierce belief in it and an even more tenacious fight for it
ever still
ever more.

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So yes, after my donut days, I do my odd thing. After the radical acceptance and fierce kindness, I write out every single fight I have been in. I write out every horrid thing I can think of that I, the people I love, and humanity have endured in what I call a resilience inventory. Sometimes it’s detailed. Other times it’s just a scribble of tragedies – rape, suicide, slavery – medication-induced psychosis, assault, concentration camps – suicide attempt, incarceration, Gaza. Either way, I write and write and write until I can write no more – until my heart is heaving with ragged breath, despair, and overwhelm once again – just like it had done before my donut days in the early darkness.

But I don’t linger there this time. Instead, beneath those many tragedies and those atrocious crimes against humanity, I validate the reality that is breaking my heart at the current moment by adding it to the list:

A raping, racist felon who lies constantly lies and only looks out for his needs and his needs alone was elected to be president. Again. 

And last but certainly not least, like the one-eyed guinea hen cockfighter that I am, at the very bottom, beneath it all, I write:

And we survived.
Yes, we survived it all.
And we are still here.

So Today — Yes, Today,

And thereafter, with no pushing or pressure, I slowly – gently – like the fragile, broken-winged bird that I am, begin to honor the animal of my existence. I eat real foods and not solely donuts. I drink good water and hot tea. And I move my body, little by little, and check in on my flock, one by one, and show up – slowly, gently, kindly in the very world that hurts me. Yes, I show up as I begin again each day until I forget that I need to.

And then and there, once again, with sturdy legs on solid ground, supported by the stool that I just build that never wavers, I rise. I rise to stand on top of it, and I fight for freedom for all of us once more. 

Today, may we all begin again.

I love you. 

May you tread lightly on yourself this weekend and, if you need it, give yourself a donut day or donut afternoon or donut hour. Believe me, you absolutely deserve it.

With snuggles from these two and a massive hug,

Kindly,

Kate

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