My Amazing Idea

I like to write on my laptop lying in bed, so I searched on line for a rolling laptop desk to replace the one I gave away when I moved. I wanted a white one to go with my new bedroom décor. Finally finding one on Amazon, I ordered it. It arrived in a surprisingly small, flat box. A friend who was visiting offered to help me put it together. The instructions labeled “Laptop Desk Installation” were weird (e.g. “Wear the plates on main stand.”) The pictures were incorrect. The included screwdriver didn’t fit the screws.

I should have stopped right there and sent it back. Did I? No.

We cobbled it together in spite of the “Installation.” I noticed that a support for the table top looked suspiciously flimsy. It was two pipes welded together in an L-shape. I tried to ignore the fact that the whole thing was ugly and ultimately totally unusable, because when I lay on my bed and tried to pull it over my lap, the table top was so short it barely crossed the edge of the bed.

But, do I give up? Absolutely not! Never give up is the clarion cry!  I WANT this laptop table, and I WANT it to work! My Gerry-rigging OCD kicks in. I have made impossible things work in the past. I can do it now!. My friend and I discussed the possibilities. I settled on what I believed was the easiest: extend the support pipe so I could bring the table out further over my legs. Brilliant. My friend left.

I went to Lowe’s. Being now out-of-season in Florida, there were few customers and it was short-staffed. After a long time, I eventually found a PVC pipe and someone to cut it to the length I wanted.

I spent more hours than I want to admit utterly failing at making this piece-of-crap table work. I won’t give you all the nutty details. Finally, exhausted, I faced reality, gave up, took it all apart and emailed the third-party company through Amazon that I wanted to return it–writing in 400 characters why I didn’t like it. I could have used 4,000, but I kept it short emphasizing the poor and flimsy design. I got an email stating it would take 48 hours to process.

However, minutes later I received the email below. I have left it unedited:

Hi, Dear E. Katherine Kerr Thanks forv your messag, We have fixed this describing, we are very sorry we make some inconvenience to you, How about we take half refund to you and you keep this item. Have a nice day Best wish

I laugh out loud. Even they don’t want it back. I email:

All right. Half refund will do. I hope your other designs will be more satisfactory to your customers.

I get this response almost immediately:

HI, Dear E. Katherine Kerr THnaks for your message and understanding, We are really appreciate your amazing idea, we are try my best to make our products more satisfactory . We have make money to you, Please check your credit card afew days later Have a nice day

My “amazing idea?” To satisfy their customers? They’re going to “make money” for me?

Well, it didn’t take a few days. Just now I received an email confirming that my half refund has, indeed, “make” to my bank. I can’t stop laughing. Maybe I should send them this email:

I am now feel bad for peoples not expert in business functionings. I wish them good happenings for years in front. Enjoy half money for bad thing.  I keep table. Maybe use in standing comedy.



Second childhood is not as bad as I thought it would be.  So far, it’s an improvement on the first one. Being my own mother and father now, I am doing my best to give my inner child what she needed and wanted when she was powerless to create that for herself. I started years ago by allowing her to have her emotions without trying to shut her down or judge them or change them. I learned to give her the compassion and tenderness and validation she desperately needed.  Now, in my older years, I seem to be creating the life that she wanted most.

Her happiest times were the two weeks at Christmas when she would be taken to the warm sunshine of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida where her grandparents lived. Oh, how jouyous she was then—going to the beach every day, seeing her beloved grandparents, cousins, aunts and an uncle. On the train trip south the sight of the first palm tree sent her into ecstasies.  After these vacations, she and her sister would beg their widowed mother to move to Florida, but she would never even consider it.

So now I have moved to Florida. That makes my inner child very happy. I have found that she is quite undemanding and doesn’t give a hoot about expensive things or clothes—fortunately. Tee shirts and flip flops suit her just fine. She hated shopping when she was young and still does, though she thinks it’s fun to rummage around thrift stores.  We both enjoy doing that—almost always finding treasures.

Yesterday, I was swimming in the warm pool of my small complex. I had it all to myself.  What a luxurious difference from the Ellenberger Park Community Pool where I went as a kid. So many screaming, wild children thrashing around that it was dangerous to get in. I often got splashed or kicked or shoved. Once I got knocked out by a boy who jumped on top of me from the edge of the pool. Not fun.

However, one day every summer my sister and I would be invited to my Aunt Vera’s country club. While she and my mother played bridge, Eloise and I would go to the pool. No one was there but us.  I would get into the cold water and love breaking the still surface by moving my hands around my body slowly making gentle ripples. What a treat to be in a pool alone! I cherished those once a year visits.

Now I have access to a pool that is not only empty most of the time but warm. I paddle back and forth looking up at the blue sky, floating clouds, and surrounding palm trees. Swaying in the breeze, they provoke a Pavlovian response of joy.  “Palm trees!  Palm trees!” my young self yells happily. I swim and thank whatever guides got me here.

I thank myself, too, because it wasn’t easy in the beginning. It was tough. Moving to a completely new place where I knew no one, and starting over was scary and hard. But now, as I ruffle the water with my easy breast stroke, I think of my just-renovated courtyard in the little villa across the road with its new brick paving, comfy outdoor furniture, a beautiful, lush pygmy palm, and my adorable transported cement Laughing Buddha. I continue to swim and ponder where I’m going to put lights to brighten it all up at night.  The whole project took a lot of planning, but what a magical space I made for my inner child and me. It is my 80th birthday present to myself—and her.

Did I say 80? Yes. It seems impossible to believe, but it’s true—and I am amazed at not only being here but that I am giving myself the things that made me happiest as a child: warmth, water, sunshine, palm trees, and a home where new friends and old are welcome. It is not sumptuous, but it is all making second childhood a lot better than anything I could have imagined.

I hope you, too, will live a long and healthy life. As you plan for it, start with finding out what your inner child wants and needs most.

Come to think of it, I’m not just being a mother to myself. At this age, I guess I’m my own grandma, too—like that old song, I’m My Own Grandpa.

I know. I know. You never heard of it. Look it up on Wikipedia.




“Fair game!” the plumber must have said to himself when I opened the door. “She’s older. She doesn’t know crap. I can price high.” 

What is it with some guys? We women know that it’s a good idea to take along a man when shopping for a car because some salesmen seem to have abandoned all sense of shame when dealing with women. This plumber was a doozy.

I showed him the laundry room with the terrible smell and the wet rug. The washing machine hoses were fine. “The wet floor is probably capillary action from a leak under the house,” he said and went outside to inspect the water meter. He came back and told me that the it was slowly spinning, indicating a leak in the underground pipes. Oh, my god, I thought. Underground pipes?! What’s that going to cost?

Then, he noticed that a large plastic container of water on the floor had sprung a leak which  had  caused the water to spread on the floor. No capillary-action-leaky-pipes under there.

“But, the meter is still spinning,” he said. “There’s has to be a leak down below the house somewhere.”  

“What?!  How can that be? This place was built in 2008! Take me outside and show me this meter.”

I got on my hands and knees and peered way down into the hole in the ground. After watching the tiny dial for a long time, I could see that, yes, indeed, it was turning very, very slowly.

We went back inside and sat at my kitchen table. He said, “You’ll have to hire an outside company. They will find the leak underground within a foot. We will then come back and…” He went on to outline how he would tear up the floors and walls and replace all the pipes to the tune of $6,988.00 which would not include restoration.  

“What?!” My heart sped up way faster than the water meter’s.

“With a lifetime guarantee, though.”

“Wait a minute. Hold on. That dial is spinning so very slowly. Maybe there’s a leak in the toilet in the guest room. Someone said that it was making a little noise when they stayed here. Could that be it?”

We went to that bathroom and looked. He said if he replaced the filler valve and the flapper that maybe, just maybe that would solve the problem. “That’ll be $264.”

Are you kidding me?  For just that? “No thanks,” I said. “I’ll look over everything and think about it.”

He left.

I went back to the bathroom, turned off the water supply to the toilet, and went out to see if that would stop the spinning meter dial.

It did.  

Then, I went to the hardware store, bought a Fluidmaster fill valve and a flapper, came home, and watched a Youtube video on how to put it in the toilet. It was instructive, but hilarious in its lack of production values. The picture was so dark, I could hardly see it. Children cried in the background and dogs nosed around the plumber for attention. His phone rang, so he had to reach in his pocked to turn it off. At one point his body blocked the camera, so I couldn’t see a crucial step. But, between that and the printed instructions, I was able to  do it myself. 

Cost: under $18. 

Can someone explain why my plumber didn’t just turn off the water to the toilet and check the meter again as I did? Such a simple way to test it, eh?  He couldn’t have been that dumb, but he must have thought I was.



melting-snowflakeA “Snow Bird” is a person who flies to Florida from the cold northern winter and then goes back home in the spring.  A “Snowflake” is my term for someone like me who comes to Florida permanently and melts in an adopted new community.

I’ve met a lot of Snowflakes here who started off as Snow Birds. They tell me that after a few years, traveling back and forth and maintaining two homes, it  became too much of a pain in the ass, so they moved here permanently and brave the summers instead of the winters. I’ve heard several times, “You don’t have to shovel heat.” In fact, thanks to very efficient air conditioning, you don’t have to suffer from it either.

So, here I am. My little snowflake self is melting in pretty fast, I think. Actually, this blog is to reassure the people who expressed such loving concern over my last one. Yes, the realization that this was to be my permanent home was a shock. Yes, I felt very alone in those first days here. Yes, my brown recluse spider bite wound got scary worse, but thanks to my Connecticut dermatologist who phoned in some heavy meds for me, it is healing. And, yes, melting, as a metaphor, is uncomfortable. It reminds me of Hilda, a spiritual teacher, who once said, “Kids, you’re all salt dolls afraid of walking into the ocean.” (Now that’s expansion.)

Even in those difficult first days, I took my fear with me and went exploring and jumped into a mix of culture:  a screening of the Met’s Tristan and Isolde, three fabulous performances at the Ringling Museum’s Arts Festival, a dance class at the Player’s Theater, an all-day Sarasota Ted X event, screenings of  Don Giovanni and The Bolshoi Ballet, another line dance class at the White Buffalo Saloon, four short plays at The Starlight Theater, and last night, a screening of Frankenstein. I’ve been to two churches—meeting people—going out to lunch with a group afterwards. I have met women around my pool, gone to my small community’s board meeting, and got volunteered to steer a committee to have the first group get together. All in about three weeks. So, I am definitely in the process of melting, as you can see.

It’s been wonderful. Happily, all the Snowflakes I have met are open, intelligent, and friendly probably because they are all transplants like me. Mixing metaphors badly there, because tulips and hyacinths don’t transplant to hot climes.  Of course, I will not lose the essential me, but hopefully, the Snowflake part will melt and feed some new exotic plant in my life’s garden that will nurture others.


pelican-sunset-fishing-1024x768“What have I done? What am I doing here?” I thought horrified as I sat collapsed on my couch in my new home in Nokomis, Florida. I had just arrived, utterly exhausted and totally depleted. Not a good time for self-examination. My life force seemed drained from the long drive and the last two months. First, a bad, lingering flu, then, an unexpected, sudden trip Miami to advocate for my nephew who had ended up in a medical coma in the hospital.  During those three nightmarish weeks as I fought for his care, my house sold. After terrible medical mishaps, John finally made it to a rehab. The negotiations for the house sale were done. I rushed back to Connecticut and had three weeks to get rid everything except what I could stuff in my car. In the middle of that, my nephew died suddenly of cardiac arrest. Loss piled on loss.

I managed to get through it all and make the long drive alone to Florida. Somehow, I even unpacked all the stuff from my bulging car before I got to the couch. But I reeled in shock as I looked around. The house was quiet and utterly calm. I had furnished this place last year. I think it is beautiful and spiritual. In the peaceful stillness, however, the realization that this is my permanent domicile smacked me in my worn-out face, and I was swept away with terror.

The knowledge that I have no family here, and the few snow bird friends I knew were still up north and would be for weeks, left me feeling utterly lost and alone. Everything that I had not processed in the last stressful months came crashing on top of me. I felt overwhelmed by death, loss, and emptiness. “Oh god,” I thought. “It’s one thing to furnish a house. It’s another to furnish a life!”

I lit a candle and tried to meditate. Awful buzzing feelings hummed through my body. My mind was a black hole of negativity. But I knew enough to do my best to just hang out with the terror and not listen to any decisions or conclusions that came from it. Still, fear about an infection from a spider bite on my leg fed the swirling black thoughts. I was sure I was dying.

In the next few days I functioned, albeit on about two cylinders, as I moved through a kind of numb fear organizing the things I had brought. My body and mind ached for rest, so I took deep, long naps.

Awake, I would occasionally stop, light a candle, and sit with the terror. One day, as I surrendered to the scary feelings, I heard the same message I had on one of the last days in Connecticut: that this move is about expansion. Not loss. Not downgrading. Expansion. That’s the deepest fear. Death is expansion. That’s why expansion feels like death. I found that comparison fascinating, and it made sense to me. My fear ebbed.

I realized that my home in Wilton had been a kind of ashram for me and for the people who had done the Creative Explosion workshops there. Now it is gone. I am here in this lovely little villa, but it is not a sanctuary as that home was. Instead, this is a kind of sacred nest from which to fly and explore.

Rest helped, and in a few days, I was ready to get out of isolation. So when I got a notice on my phone about an all-day Sarasota Ted X event, I bought a ticket. It was to be held the very next day nearby at the Venice Theater.  The timing was perfect and just what the doctor ordered: stimulating and inspiring and fun. I met and talked with intelligent and actively involved people.

A couple of days later a friend phoned. She was here because she and her sister-in-law were escaping Hurricane Matthew in St. Augustine where they lived. We went to lunch and I arranged to go to a screening of the Met’s Tristan and Isolde with one of the women the next day. It was five hours of brilliant singing and music. Then I saw an email about a line dance class. I talked myself into going, even though I was sure it would be too hard. It wasn’t. It was great exercise and fun. Another email prompted me to go to see three brilliant performances at an arts festival at the Ringling Museum. All of these things were definitely “expanding.”

With each passing day, I feel better and better. I once more have faith that this move is right for me, and will turn out Better Even Than I Can Imagine.

Yesterday, I went to Pelican Alley to order some of their delicious dynamite shrimp to go. While I waited, I got a glass of wine, stepped outside onto the pier next to the water, and sat on the bench. The sunset was gorgeous.  Pelicans streaked across the pink and purple clouds. Clusters of small birds swooped in formation, under the bridge, and back over the top in a circle in front of me in a kind of dance in the sky.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt happier than at that moment.

Expansion.  Maybe it just means letting go on a really deep level and trusting what shows up.

This blog is about The Four Principles: Being Present, Commitment, Relaxation, and Communication.  





house_gift_wrapped_shutterstock_103025681“I feel great!” I said to Gabi, as I sat in her lovely living room in the morning sun drinking a cup of tea. I was stunned that I felt so good.

Yesterday, I felt like last week’s garbage as I arrived at her house in the afternoon. I smelled a bit like it, too. Emptying out my house in three weeks had been a monumental task, but the last three days hit a new level I would call Extreme Packing.  I had not showered in the last 24 hours because I had mistakenly packed away all my towels. I did manage to sleep on an air mattress for about five hours in the same clothes. I was rank, but my house, as I turned it over to the new owners, was not. It was better than I could have imagined it would be when it sold three weeks ago. I had even swept out the shed and washed off the garbage cans. They were a lot cleaner than I was.

Earlier that day I had a moment in which I suddenly felt scared.  I had just dropped a bottle of clear nail polish on the bathroom floor and was cleaning up the shattered bits when I realized that I was “off.” I knew I should stop for a moment, even if the time for the “walk through” was rapidly approaching.  So, I lit the candles on my fireplace/alter, sat in a chair and focused on my fear. It was strange. I expected sadness at leaving my beloved home of 35 years, but not fear.

Then my inner wise voice said, “It’s about expansion. You are leaving this sanctuary. It has been a kind of ashram. You have healed so much of your childhood pain here. So many other people have also transformed through the Creative Explosion workshops and acting classes in this house. Now it is time for you to leave and go out into the world. The place in Nokomis is special, too, but think of that home as a sacred nest from which you will fly.”

That felt true even though I’m not sure I know how to fly. Maybe I won’t, but that’s what’s next—even if I don’t think I’m up to it. I felt better understanding why I had felt “off” and got up and finished my work as consciously as I could.

The morning progressed wildly and miraculously.  Marilyn Dugan* and her friend arrived to pick up the fourth and fifth truckload of my things to give away to people in need. I had one other painting I wanted to keep that had not been packed. I intended to take it to the UPS for them to package and mail, but it was too big to get in my car. Happily, Marilyn drove it over in her truck, so I got that done.

The crunch was on. Marilyn said she probably wouldn’t be able to take everything before the walk through at 12:45, but amazingly, at noon she was done! Meanwhile, I swept out the house, packed the rest of my stuff in my car, which, to my astonishment, all fit, emptied the last bit of trash and even managed to blow the leaves off the deck with the little leaf blower. Just as the lovely young buyers arrived and walked up the stairs, I finished placing red and white roses, a congratulatory card, and a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider (in consideration of the pregnant wife) on the counter in time to turn and say, “Hello. Welcome. Don’t come too close. I stink.”

Wonder of wonders, it was all done!

I blessed the house, blew it as kiss, and drove away. Bleary-eyed, I arrived at Gabi’s. She had graciously offered to put me up for a few days to rest before I make the drive down to Florida. She greeted me, fed me some cheese and crackers since I had not eaten in a day, and went off to an appointment. I took a shower, did some laundry, and went to get a foot reflexology treatment. I thought I would fall into bed after all that, but, to my surprise, I felt refreshed enough to go out with Gabi and my friend, Sarah, for Margaritas and laughter.

I slept well, and this morning, I could not get over how good I felt. Not exhausted. Not sad. Really happy.

“I know why you feel so good,” Gabi said smiling as she sipped her tea.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you didn’t just sell your house, you turned it into a gift and gave it with love.”I

t’s wonderful to have friends who are not only smart and funny, but wise.


*If you have anything to want to give to Marilyn Dugan’s foundation: 762 3574


img_0919I am moving out of my house that I have lived in for 35 years. And I’m doing it without the use of a dumpster or a moving van. I think that’s pretty amazing. Of course, there have been many trips to GoodwilI and thrift stores over the last two years. And some women have driven away (so far) three truckloads of stuff for charity.

It has been hard to let go of this home that I so love, but it has been great fun to give away things in it to people—like a favorite red, down-filled coat that is like wearing a cloud of warmth in the bitter cold days of winter. One of my good friends accepted it, and best of all, thinks of me when she puts it on to walk the dog. Of course, I have no need for it in Florida. In fact, I have no use there for most of my things.

Today I think I’m through the sadness and am now feeling very happy because of what happened yesterday morning. When the house sold a few weeks ago, I asked the buyer’s realtor if they might like to have anything in my house. She said, “No. They won’t want anything of yours. They have their own things.”

That turned out not to be true. A few days ago, I gave this realtor permission for the buyers to bring their parents to see the house. To my surprise, a group of about 9 to 11 people showed up—including their contractor. They were part of a baby shower gathering for the pretty wife who is soon to give birth. A bit put off that the realtor had not forewarned me about the crowd, I was, nevertheless, happy to get to meet this handsome, young couple.

While the crowd wandered everywhere, the mother-in-law and I chatted out on the deck. She asked if I was taking everything with me.

“Nothing but my pictures, files and clothes,” I said.

“Not the deck furniture?”

“No. Why? Would your kids want them?”

“Oh, I’m sure they would. They’re living in an apartment. They don’t have any outdoor stuff.”

“Well, of course!” I said. “I’m happy to give it to them.” The wood lounge chairs with comfy cushions, umbrellas, table, and chairs are perfect for this deck. I got up, went into the living room, passed their realtor, and went up to Greg, the young husband. “Your mother says you might like the deck furniture.”

“Sure!” he said.

“Why don’t you take my cell phone number, call me, and come back to look at anything else you might like.”

He did.

In the meantime, unfortunately, my washing machine broke and the sink in my bathroom started leaking from the trap below. “Oh, god!” I growled at the house. “Couldn’t you have waited til the closing in 10 days to start breaking down?”  I started scrolling Craig’s List for a washing machine and asking around for a good plumber.

Greg, his wife, and parents to came to the house after breakfast the next day.  To my delight, they wanted a lot more than I expected.  The artificial trees in the far corners of the big living room with twinkling lights will stay, along with three bureaus, and a small stool-sized carpeted cat house that the wife loved for her two cats. “I’ve never seen one this sturdy!”

He said, “Are you taking the white hammock in the living room?” (They had spotted, hanging almost unnoticed against the wall with its delicate lacey fringe.)

“No. I’m not. Want it?”

“Yes!” They said enthusiastically, which delighted me. I have loved my hammock in the living room—so unusual but so relaxing and fun.

I told them about the sink and the washing machine, Greg said, “Don’t worry about it. We were going to get new ones anyway. And my dad and I can fix the sink. Or, I’ll have the contractor look at it.”

I discovered that they are upgrading the house exactly as I would were I to stay and had the money. I liked them more and more as I showed them light switches, how some things worked, and gave them the names of all the people who serviced the house and lawn.

Downstairs, I offered them my 4 ft long cow horns that I bought years ago and had wired to the front of my used Cadillac. It caused a lot of comment as I drove around conventional Connecticut. The couple laughed and said they would pass on the cow horns.

With every minute, I became happier that they were the ones who were going to move into my beloved house.  As they were getting ready to leave, I said, “Let’s go into the living room for a minute.” They followed me. The parents stayed behind in the hall. I held out my hands. They took mine and each other’s. It was impulsive but it is something I do at the end of my acting classes. I closed my eyes and said a kind of prayer to the house, “Okay. I get that you may be sad or upset with me about leaving, breaking the washer and springing a tearful leak in my sink, but I want you to embrace this lovely couple who are going to bring new, energetic life into you. They are going to make you even better with their upgrades. So, I want you to love them as you have loved and sheltered me for so many years. I know they will love you as I have loved you, too.”

I opened my eyes and the wife had tears rolling down her face. I crossed to the desk and handed her Kleenex. The husband reached for a couple for himself. “Oh,” she said, “I love this house so much. We’re going to be so happy here!” I hugged her. Then, I hugged him.

We were all smiling as they left. I felt so happy and finally okay about leaving. I don’t know what impelled me to do that little ritual, but it was just what I needed to be able to transfer this sanctuary from my hands to theirs with joy.

P.S. Greg texted me last night saying, “We’d like the cow horns after all. We’ll put them up somewhere because it’s just such a great story.”




I was five years old standing in a room full of weeping adults. My mother, grandmother, grandfather, aunts, uncles, great grandparents were all sobbing. It scared me to see my beloved relatives in such terrible grief.

I tugged on my aunt’s sleeve. “Why is everyone crying?” I asked.

“Oh, honey,“ She said softly reaching out for my hand. “We just found out that your Daddy died in the hospital.”

Two soldiers had come to the house with the terrible news. It was 1942, the beginning of World War II. Daddy was an Army doctor. He had been on the way to care for Japanese Americans who were being rounded up and sent to a camp in Texas in the fear-driven reaction to Pearl Harbor.  When Daddy discovered that he had gotten on the wrong train, he tried to jump off it as it left the station.  He fell under the wheels and died.

Five days before his death he had taken me to his army hospital to consult with his colleagues about my tummy ache. It turned into a totally unanticipated appendectomy. Mother was still at home doing the laundry. This sudden operation, our move to Indianapolis while he volunteered for wartime duty, his death, my mother’s disappearance into her grief and shock led to a lifetime of self-examination on my part.

I had healed so much that I thought there was no more information—no more to be learned. However, this memory of being in that room of devastated adults was new to me. It came in a Getting Present Process (p.155 of The Four Principles book. ) during my latest Creative Explosion. One of the participants, who has repeated this two-day workshop many times over the years, was my “Compassionate Witness.” Initially, when she asked the question: What sensation are you experiencing in your body right now, I felt incredible joy in my heart.

Then this vivid memory of that room of devastated adults emerged suddenly from my subconscious.  I felt as if I were 5 years old desperately wanting to say or do something that would be comforting to them. But, at that young age, I had no skills or understanding to draw on.  But, oh, how I wanted to help them somehow. I couldn’t and didn’t.

As I experienced this during the Getting Present Process, I realized, as an adult, that this deep yearning to help my relatives became the seed that years later has flowered into my teaching and these workshops. In a way, I am now fulfilling that heartfelt desire of my five-year-old self. From that trauma came the gift and my joy.

How often something like that happens to people: a woman becomes a grief therapist after the death of her own child. Rape victims offer comfort and help to other rape victims. Cancer survivors support other people facing cancer.  These are not easy gifts, but when we do realize them and offer what we have learned to others, they become a source of our own happiness.

Join me for The Creative Explosion Workshop Sat and Sun 1 to 6 pm August 13 & 14

To purchase The Four Principles and The Four Keys to Authentic Acting books and for more information about the workshops:




This workshop is about going higher and deeper into your life and getting clarity about your heart’s desires and what steps to take next. Whether this is your first or your umpteenth time, join me in a safe, fun, and powerful space. It will be better than you can imagine.

5. CE widgetEverything worthwhile in life takes just a little more courage than we currently have.—John Patrick Shanley

Learn to:

  • Master Fear
  • Access Your Own Wisdom
  • Eliminate Negative Self-Judgment
  • Express Yourself Fully

The workshop is not just for performers.

 Katherine Kerr is a brilliant actress. It is not surprising that her method of teaching is as alive and plugged into human behaviors as are her portrayals of characters that you would swear have just been brought into the room from their real lives. –Mike Nichols

I was in a production of Urban Blight at the Manhattan Theatre Club in New York Citywith E. Katherine Kerr. I watched her, riveted, in the wings every night in one of the most powerful moments I had ever seen onstage yet it was never the quite the same. I enrolled in her powerful Creative Explosion Workshop.  My career and my life have never been the same.  The Four Principles are life altering. —Faith Prince, Tony Award Winning Actress

While the workshop is powerful, it is also easy and gentle. There is no pressure. We write, share, learn, and laugh a lot. Participants leave the workshop feeling clearer, energized, and often utterly transformed.

Saturday and Sunday July 9 & 10

1 to 6 pm in Wilton , CT

 FEE: First time participant: $250

Repeating participant: $150

To enroll or more information email


Brain shockOnce again I have been reminded that my real purpose in life may be to make God laugh. I think I hear chuckles after I bang around the walls of my own darkness.

The fact that my house has not sold has sent my mind into shock. I had been so absolutely convinced this place would be snapped up immediately that I packed light when returning from Florida last year.  “I’ll only be here month or so,” I thought. That month passed, and another and another, and there were no buyers. I was, frankly, stunned. I went into brain shock. It didn’t make any sense to me.  It’s the least expensive house in a great neighborhood with top-rated schools. It has privacy, high ceilings, two fireplaces, wood floors, and great ambiance. Why didn’t it sell in a minute?  I didn’t even realize how invested I was in my own expectations. But fall arrived, no one made an offer, so the house went off the market, and I went back to Florida.

Fortunately, a friend was in the middle of a breakup, needed a place to live, came here, stayed for the winter and paid the utilities. In Nokomis, since I had not sold the house, I furnished my charming, little villa miraculously on a dime, and had a magical, wonderful time. My mantra “This is going to work out Better Even Than I Can Imagine” became an acronym to name my new home, The Villa BETICI. I was in the Flow. Things were great.

Then it was time to come back and put the house up for sale again.

In Connecticut I lost the BETICI context that had worked so well for me. I reverted to old mind sets that were not helpful. I began to worry about things again. Why? Why? Why isn’t the house selling? I speculated: It is too unconventional, too…something. It’s my fault, because deep down I still love the place and don’t want to sell it. I have put a curse on it. It’s my fauIt. I worried about my ex-husband’s state of mind since he owns half the house. I worried about how I would continue to pay back my dear friends who made my new house and newish car in Florida possible. I fell into fretting about everything.

Then, a jazz musician came, loved the house and said he wanted to buy it for sure. “Take it off the market! It’s mine! Great vibe!” Well, finally! Someone who appreciated this place as much as I do. My sanctuary. My sacred spot. We made a deal. Then, after several weeks of non-action, he disappeared into the cosmos.

That really sent my mind reeling. I got stuck in an anxiety swamp and could not pull myself out of it.  I was not Present. I was not in the Now.  At that point, the angels knew I needed a lot of help, so they sent me a whopping virus to get me out of my head.  It was so bad, I ended up in the ER nearly delirious and with a high temperature. I wasn’t worried about anything other than my own survival at this point.  The doctor’s literal diagnosis was, “You’re sick.” After a day of observation, they sent me home.  I was sick for days. I could barely think, let alone worry about the future.  I healed. Slowly. And I stopped worrying.

For the last two days, I have lain on my comfy lounge chair on my deck in perfect weather, breathing in the healing energy from the surrounding trees. I was still in a kind of drugged daze, but my ghastly, violent cough went away. Next to me lay my god dog, Josie, a little terrier/Chihuahua mix. Ostensibly I was taking care of her for a few days, but let’s face it. She has really been here to take care of me. I napped, read about Thomas Jefferson, and absorbed the beauty surrounding me.

Last night, I began feeling well again, and in a moment of enlightenment seemed to wake up.  “Katherine,” I heard. “You don’t know the future. Let it go. Leave it up to The Big Whatever. You have no idea what is going to happen. Enjoy being here in your house now, enjoy the gorgeous weather. Let go of all your expectations—how YOU want it to be or think it will be.  At the moment everything is fine. Continue showing the house, but accept the uncertainty, and remember to keep holding the context that this is all going to work out better even than you can imagine, and You. Do. Not. Know. How.”

Trusting is not easy in a world that seems rife with tragedy and danger. On the other hand, I could see that my worry served no purpose whatsoever, given I had done all that I could do. So something inside me shifted. I felt as if I stepped into a delicious, warm flow of energy again. I laughed with relief and seemed to hear a responding laughter in the air.