"Don't Think It's Funny"

I got home from work today to a delightful tiny surprise.  One of my very favorite people had sent me a full-length letter, folded into a tiny greeting card, which my boyfriend put on my desk chair for me to find.  There was a moment of pure joy as I realized what the small missive was, followed by at least 10 minutes of pleasure as I read her words.  Somehow, even in this day and age of blogs, facebook messages, g-chat, and texting (don't even get me started on texting!) there is nothing quite as satisfying as a handwritten letter from a good friend.

She mentioned how much she had been enjoying my blog...  My blog!?!  And I realized that I didn't even know what song I was on, I have gotten so immersed in school, studying, work, and travel.  In the past 10 nights, I have spent 6 in a bed that is not my own.  I write this not as an apology, but more as a gratitude for remembering my blog- because she reminded me how much I have been enjoying it.

So I went through my process of looking up my song on the Sister Hazel website, and then looking up the lyrics on another website, all while listening to a you-tube version of the song to get me inspired.  Today's song is: "Don't Think It's Funny".

I yeah I sit and watch the sky It sometimes talks to me
(Come on talk to me)
You yeah you say you'd rather die
You say what's on the TV, TV no, no, no, no, no

Just today, I was at my parents' house, and my mom commented that 'young people today' are losing their communication skills as technology takes such an important role.  What are we missing when we watch tv instead of watching the sky, send a facebook note instead of a handwritten letter, or text instead of picking up the phone?  I sometimes feel like I was born in the wrong generation- because I love my letters, and genuinely hate texting.  Yet, although I can see that technology can block our contact with others- I also can see how much it can help.  I do not think technology itself is the problem.  

I'm in a Gestalt therapy class this semester, and in Gestalt theory, we humans are always interrupting contact- full mindful presence.  When contact with another person, or just with the here and now becomes too intense- we interrupt it.  This can come in many shapes and sizes- making joke when I have just found out horrible news, daydreaming during meditation, zoning out during a lecture.  Of course, sometimes we need to interrupt contact because we need a chance to breathe.  When one of my favorite clients broke his ankle at work this summer, I came home and purposefully watched three episodes of Modern Family.  All I wanted then was to withdraw for a little while, and stop obsessing about what I could have done differently.  I see this as a healthy interruption.  It's only when the interruptions become habitual and involuntary that they are a problem.  Technology is rife with ways to break contact, and become habitual and involuntary.  However, I imagine that as long as there have been people, there have been ways to interrupt contact.  Maybe someone lost themselves obsessively in a novel, instead of 6 hours of television (of course I never do this today), or maybe they had to communicate, but hid themselves behind false words.  Technology may make it easier, but it didn't invent the game.

Gonna take my time 'cause you're wastin' mine
And you're not too kind and I don't think it's funny no
Gonna take my time 'cause you're wastin' mine
And you're not too kind and I don't think it's funny no, no, no, no

I think these lyrics are saying something like, "if you're not going to real- you're wasting my time".  I believe genuine presence with another person is one of the most beautiful gifts there is.  And maybe Sister Hazel's right- if I'm not there, maybe I'm just wasting time.

"Space Between Us"

This is an achingly sad song; two lovers split, one heading north of Albuquerque, the other south.  It sounds as though the singer is hoping the "space between us" will be impermanent, but the reality seems less hopeful when he says:

I've been here it's so familiar, Close the book I know the end
Want so much a different story, Want so much a different way

It sounds like despite his desperate desire to keep their relationship together, he knows it probably won't.  

 

It isn't exactly clear why the relationship has fallen to pieces, but one line always hits me hard:

 

Open my door the cupboard's bare

It's hard to give when nothing's there

 

I am blessed to be in a relationship that is very full, of both hope and joy.  Yet that feeling of how hard it is to give when nothing's there is very familiar to me.  When I run myself into the ground, going, going, going- I might imagine that I am filling up my life- but what I realize later, is that I am usually using up every resource I have available until there are none left.  I work as a caregiver, and I am going to school for counseling- to be a "professional helper".  Clearly, I want to be able to give of myself.  But there are days I come home and feel too tired to even respond to a friend's email, or to call someone on their birthday.  I have zapped my giving potential, by giving it all away without replenishing it.

 

So my project- the project of my life I suppose- is to balance giving to myself and to others- so that I am best able to do both.  This semester that project means working a lot less.  I very consciously refused to work on Fridays, even though I technically have them open and turning down work is a massive internal struggle for me.  This past Friday, I got up early, went to the gym, meditated for 20 minutes, and finished all my homework by 2 pm.  As I lounged on my couch, reading a novel, I had a sudden moment, a flash, of pure joy.  The recognition that this is how I want to be: Relaxed and overflowing with energy to share with others.  I can only get to that place by giving to myself first.

"Little Things"

"I've got an infatuation with the little things

They make me feel good - Why should I feel bad?" 

 

 I love this song for being exactly what it espouses: it can be one of the 'little things' that make my day.  A simple, bright, upbeat song that cheers me up even as I re-play it in my mind.

 

Since senior year of high school I have kept a running "Happy List" in a now falling apart, coverless notebook.  It began as an attempt to affirm myself and my life in the midst of a difficult situation, as I quoted kind emails friends had sent me, or reveled in old memories.  As it grew I simply added anything that made me happy from "half wet sand that both sounds and feels neat to walk on", "sweet tea", "Sister Hazel" (of course), "the smell after it rains", along with statements of gratitude for amazing friends, family, and experiences.  Now, eight years later I have 1,130 'little things' (and counting!) to be happy about.

It's the little things that make up a life: The wildflowers on a camping trip, the nickname a friend creates out of love, the games I have played in the pool with one of my campers.  In noticing the little things, I can remember how full to the brim I am.

"Used to Run"

I am intrigued by happiness.  Just in the past few months I have read or re-read Gretchen Rubin's "The Happiness Project", Jonathan Haidt's "The Happiness Hypothesis", Marci Shimoff's "Happy for No Reason", Eric Weiner's "The Geography of Bliss", Daniel Gilbert's "Stumbling on Happiness", and many other fabulous books that don't actually have a 'happiness' synonym in the title, but are essentially about the same thing.

I think part of the intrigue comes from how bewildering difficult something so simple seems.  I may know that I would be far happier going for a run or calling up a friend than falling asleep on the couch after work, yet I can say that nearly every afternoon I cozy up with cushions, instead of lacing up my running shoes.

My worst habit is that I inexplicably over-schedule myself almost constantly.  Once again, I know that I am happiest if I have at least two or three evenings a week where the only thing I have planned is reading a good book or playing whist with my boyfriend.  Yet, almost without fail I will agree to meet up with friends, or my ultimate weakness: work.  There was one period last semester that I worked 6 weekends in a row, along with my usual work/school schedule.  Despite the fact that I inevitably end up in tears, when a final, tiny, responsibility, like making my lunch for the next day, breaks me.  I realize that I have burnt myself out again, and for a few days concentrate on taking care of myself and saying no to work or social commitments.  Then, gradually, the cycle starts over, and 2 months later I am crying on my bed again.

 I don't think I am alone in this.  While not everyone works themselves into the ground, imagining it will make them happy, most people seem to have some weakness that they keep returning to.  Some imagine that buying new things, clothes, technology, cars, or fancy beauty enhancers (pick your poison) will bring that elusive happiness, only to come home wondering why they feel empty.  Others think a high-end job, a new romance, or moving to an exotic location will do the trick.  For the spiritual bypassers, every new meditation technique, workshop, or guru seems to promise what they seek.

Don't know what I'm gonna make of this.
Feeling contemplative today.
I'm used to finding solace
In what I bought or what I thought but
That's not going to be satisfactory today. 

Sister Hazel points out that all these happiness strategies can backfire when the solace we are seeking is not found.  In Buddhism, and probably most spiritual traditions, happiness really can only be found 'within'.  Your circumstances actually have very little to do with how happy you can be.  The classic example is that of the Dalai Lama: in exile from his beloved home, he still seems to radiate pure joy of being.  

In "Used to Run" there seems to be determination to figure all this out:

Used to run and try to hide,
Today I'll stay and pick a side

And if I die well least I tried

"One Nation"

One of the things I love so much about Sister Hazel is their decidedly liberal, socially active style.  They sing about issues I believe in.  "One Nation" is one of my favorites; it can be read as commentary on racism, sexism, any "ism" really.  Simply because I think that the message is powerful and beautiful (and a bit tongue in cheek as well!) I am going to post the full lyrics for this piece:

When you were born you didn't know
You thought we were the same
You know we walked the same - we talked the same
Although you never knew my name
But you were told when we were young
That I was not the same
"You know he's not the same - he's not the same!"
And then you never asked my name...

I say won't you have a lovely day
And then you come back telling me to go to hell

But it's One Nation Indivisible
One Nation Indivisible
One Nation Indivisible - oh my God it's irresistible
One Nation Indivisible

Well a baby is a baby A man he is a man
You know he tries the same - he cries the same
And then you know he dies the same
But when I ask in disbelief
And they say "just because!"
You know I have to state - we learn to hate
And man you know I can't relate...!

 

I believe children are born full of love, willing to be open to anyone who comes their way.  It is only the way they are taught, both by their families and by society at large, that causes them to learn to hate.   

"Will Not Follow"

Every summer since I was 16 (with the exception of two mind-blowing and wonderful summers spent in Iowa) I have worked at a day camp for people with disabilities.  Though my own role there has morphed, adding new responsibilities, and changing expectations, the campers remind me of the joy of simple moments, the magic in every day experiences.  We went to a car wash a few weeks ago to manually hose down the ever-dirty bus.  On my own, a car wash is a chore that just needs to be done.  With the campers, it was a pure adventure of excitement and delight.  Three young campers and I stood on a small platform, nearly level with the roof of the bus, as one of my co-workers sprayed the water, artificially colored pink and blue.  As she worked, much of the water came bursting towards towards us, and all the campers shrieked and giggled as they got wet.  Another boy sneaked off to the automatic car wash, because one of his greatest joys in life is giving thumbs-up to the drivers who dare to go through.  When the automatic wash had no customers he waited impatiently, and when one finally drove up, he cheered. 

That same camper cannot go through a tunnel on the road without demanding, loudly, that the driver honk.  As soon as he hears the first, "BEEP BEEP", he bursts into paroxysms of laughter.  There is no way to be in the same vicinity and not feel pure, unadulterated delight.  I have begun to look forward to tunnels and car washes even when I am alone, because my campers have reminded me of just how fabulous those basic things can be.

Yet finding that pure joy in simple moments is not always easy when I don't have an enthusiastic side kick reminding me of the excitement of seeing a train, or the fun in hearing a truck honk its horn.  I easily become wrapped up in worry about the future, fixating on memories from the past, and too lost in thought to see the joy all around me. 

Tomorrow dawn it lights the way for me,
Down a road that goes on and on And on and on and on ...
Just survivin' it ain't the way to be.
Tried it once and it took it's toll on me.

He hesitated, never acted in the now.
I never waited, wiped the sweat off of my brow.
They congregated so I looked at them and bowed.
And I'll have my way, I'll have my way,
And never turn around.

I wonder if Sister Hazel is speaking to the same doldrums I can find myself mired in.  Trying so hard to survive can take its toll when worry and fear take away from the beauty in the present moment.  I don't think it is possible to laugh till your stomach hurts as you go through a tunnel and to feel anxiety at the same time.  I feel empathy for the "he" who "hesitated, never acted in the now".  It is so easy to become swallowed by responsibilities and demands.  I often worry if I am making the right decisions, struggling with my choices and my plans.  My campers teach me, however, that all I need is here in the present moment.  One afternoon spent washing a bus can dissolve all fear.  One ride through a tunnel can re-invigorate even the gloomiest of days.

"All For You"

Although Sister Hazel made it big with "All For You" on their second album "Somewhere More Familiar" it actually debuted on the first.  I loved the song when it came out and went out and bought the CD.  Yet even back then, after I had heard all of the other pieces on the album, "All For You" did not place among my favorites.  Nowadays, this song is usually the one I'll skip over on my I-Pod, to get to one of the more under-played.

"It's hard to say what it is I see in you,

Wonder if I'll always be with you,

But words can't say, and I can't do

Enough to prove, it's all for you"

After contemplating the mortal limits of language I can look at the song in a slightly different light.  I tend to see it as a relatively straightforward love song, and it is for the most part.  Yet it also points to some of what was touched on in "Sometimes": that it is impossible to fully capture our experience with language.  Words are not quite rich enough. This is song of a deep and passionate love, and of the frustration of not quite being able to convey it fully.  I imagine the singer asking that his beloved simply rest in faith in his love.  Despite his inability to completely prove its depth she can be comfortable knowing his love is there.

"Sometimes"

One night in 7th or 8th grade I slept over at one of my best friend's houses, out on the couches in her downstairs living room.  To this day, if left to our own devices, we can talk for so long that my throat ends up hurting.  This night was no different, and we were up absurdly late, continually announcing that we really should go to sleep, only to keep talking for another two hours.

Somehow in our late night ramblings, we stumbled onto the idea that the color I see as red from my eyes, might not look at all like the color she sees.  In fact, her sky might be magenta, and her grass bright yellow- but because somehow people have decided to call grass green, we assume we are seeing the same colors. We will never be able to discover if we really see the same shades or not, because we can never step outside of our own experience and see into someone else's.

Sister Hazel describes this conundrum of incomplete communication, the frustration of never quite being able to construe our accurate experience:

Well I'm stuck within the mortal framework
Of having to use words
And I ... - I've never been one -
I've never been one for incompleteness

In my undergraduate study of psychology, one professor proclaimed that our ability to communicate is what sets humans apart.  We are experts at seeking contact and connection. And yet as Sister Hazel points out, words have finite power.  Just as I will never know if my red is the same as my friend's red, I cannot know if I am truly understanding another's story or viewpoint.

So much of my own journey is about trying to get inside others' experiences as deeply as possible.  Therapeutic empathy is all about being able to really walk in someone else's shoes and see through their eyes.  Even writing a blog is an attempt to express my own life, my own thoughts, as clearly as I possibly can.  Yet within the mortal framework of language, I really never know if my point has been understood.  I may be describing red, while everyone around me is seeing blue.

"Feel It"

I have to admit, I didn't actually buy Sister Hazel's first album, the self-titled debut of 1996, until sometime after college.  I liked Sister Hazel in middle school, along with virtually every other kid in my class, and bought their hit album "Somewhere More Familiar" with the naive assumption that the famous album was their first.  I didn't even discover their true beginning until many years later, when seeing them live in Myrtle Beach sparked my interest in their more recent music.

I bought the debut album largely with the intention of fulfilling my complete collection, and originally it was actually my least favorite of their many CDs.  It is less polished, and is slightly more country and less rock than everything that has followed.  Yet gradually it has grown on me.  I have found that while their sound has matured, their heart has always been the same.

The first song on the first album is "Feel It".  Looking over the lyrics early this morning, I was delighted at how very fitting they were for a counseling student on her blog:

But now I can't hold it - hold it
Flash a frozen smile when it boils down inside.
No now I can't hold it - hold it
Just a little crack...
And then the walls come tumblin' down
And I Feel It,

It's my time don't try to steal it.
Feel it. Reach inside
Feel it.

If you ask well I won't conceal it.

In my program much of our focus is, of course, on feeling.  I read recently how important it is to "feel your feelings"- not repress or over-express.  I have found that in school many people assume that feeling means over-expression, which I tend to react to antagonistically.  I am irritated when someone cries in every class, anticipating praise for their "openness". Yet in the same vein, others have interpreted me as 'repressed' because I tend to speak out so rarely.

Sister Hazel's lyrics seem to speak to the beautifully healthy version of expression; not pasting a smile over a breaking heart, and allowing oneself to simply feel what is true in the moment.  In my recent hospice training I heard that every loss we do not fully grieve compounds onto the next loss.  Imagine a child whose beloved dog dies when she is three years old and she is told "big girls don't cry".  Then her parents' divorce, and she is too afraid to hurt them to show her sadness and rage.  By the time she is twenty-five and a good friend dies, her grief will be ten-fold, because she will be simultaneously grieving all of those losses she could not grieve originally.  How much more painful that death will be when complicated by all of her past hurt. The key to healing is to feel the suffering in the first place.

As for myself in this moment, I feel charmed and grateful that in their very first song Sister Hazel was already offering up lovely pieces of wisdom.  Who needs a Master's to become a therapist when Sister Hazel can fill in quite nicely?  

On Obsession

In 3rd or 4th grade I had a pair of hideous bright pink stretch pants I wore nearly every day without fail.  Even after they developed an enormous hole in the knee, I maintained my loyalty to the pants and continued to wear them.  Eventually, I graduated to a dubiously even uglier outfit: a bright rainbow-colored poofy jacket with matching purple pants that swished when I walked.  I probably wore this delightful choice every day of 6th grade.


As I have gotten older my capacity for fierce adoration has moved beyond very ugly clothing.  I have yet to meet anyone whose love for the state of Iowa quite matches my own, despite the fact that in the fifteen months I spent there I nearly melted to death in July, and could not spend more than 2 minutes outside without risking frostbite in February.  Before I went to India in 2009 I read absolutely every related book I could get my hands on, from the complete tomes of the Mahabharata and Ramayana to a 500 page history of modern India, and an introductory children's book about Indian food.  I will wax lyrically about the benefits of kale to anyone who will listen, and try to include the green in any recipe possible (it's 1000 points on the nutritional scale at Whole Foods!!!!). 

Yet anyone who knows me well at all, and certainly anyone who has braved the Colorado-Iowa road trip with me, knows of my Ultimate Obsessive Love: Sister Hazel.  The band had one mega-hit back in the late '90s, "All For You", and a few other songs featured on soundtracks like "10 Things I Hate About You" and "The Wedding Planner".  Since they left the Universal label their fan base has grown smaller, and many uninformed people often ask me if they still make new music.  To which I usually reply with contempt for someone so out of the loop about the world's best band, "Of COURSE they still make new music!  They've had a new album almost every year since 2003!".  And I own every single one.  That Iowa road trip?  I listen to all of their albums, including band members' solo albums, the Christmas CD, and live compilations in chronological order.  At this point, Sister Hazel dominates over half of the 14 hour road trip.  My ever-patient boyfriend (who recently created an exclusively Sister Hazel i-pod shuffle), my brother, and multiple friends have had the true privilege (or curse, depending on who's talking) of listening to every Sister Hazel song ever produced as we make our way through the plains of Nebraska and into the rolling hills of Iowa.

Recently, I have been thinking about my penchant for obsessive, unmoving, deeply loyal love, particularly for all things Sister Hazel.  Unlike writing in my blog, which I have warily attempted only five times since its creation; my passion for Sister Hazel is unwavering.  So it occurs to me- what better way to post more often on my blog, than by upping my level of Sister Hazel love to beyond epic proportions?

As the chronological presentation of all Sister Hazel music during my road trips suggests, I like things to be orderly.  The idea of writing one post for every single Sister Hazel song, by order of album appearance, appeals to me immensely.  Obsessive?  Yes.  Agreed.  Completely Awesome?  I may be the only one who thinks so- but as the author of this blog, I suppose that's all that matters.  So, as of today, the blog will shift a bit from the entirely miscellaneous posts of the past, to following a connected thread.  Whether it be a few lyrics that remind me of my own experience, or an essay on the true genius of a particular song, Sister Hazel will be my muse.  Given my deep loyalty to the music, and my equally obsessive dislike of unfinished projects, I believe this will commit me to write more eagerly, and more often.

"So here's to you, and here's to something new: Give it up for love, cause it'll be enough for you" ('All About the Love', 2004)

Slowly, Slowly

Two years ago, during a 70 mile a trek in the Himalayas, my guide continually reminded my group to go “slowly, slowly”.  As we ascended up to 16,000 feet, we were too high to speak without losing our breath, and truly had to go “slowly, slowly”, or else we would get sick.  At that time I had a profound realization: that Dorje’s advice applied to far more than trekking.  In life, I wanted to go “slowly, slowly”.  

Of course, in the time since I have returned from India, I have gone anything but slowly.  I have moved twice, started and quit a job, started and finished a year of graduate school while working three part-time jobs, started and maintained a committed relationship, and stretched myself so thin I sometimes cannot tell if I am breathing.  It's ironic because I my school program has a focus on meditation, and I cannot go a week without hearing about "self-care".

 When I think of going slowly I imagine being present for every moment.  It means sitting when I am sitting, walking when I am walking, eating when I am eating, and breathing when I am breathing.  Two weeks after school got out this May, I went on a meditation retreat, with the intention of reconnecting with my dream of living, "slowly, slowly".  On the third day of retreat after breakfast, I brought my journal outside to the porch of the lodge.  I was planning on writing, but once I was sitting, all I wanted to do was drink in each second.  The sun was out, shining vividly on a series of water droplets that steadily cascaded from the roof of the porch.  No longer raining or snowing, the precipitation was melting off the roof, causing a light-speckled shower.  I do not know how long I watched the water drops fall, but I remember feeling an immense contentment.  Those moments of just experiencing “what is” are so rare in my day-to-day life.

 This weekend, nearly a month after retreat, I ended up in tears because my Practicum placement at a Boulder hospice requires a tuberculosis test.  It's a simple test, they injected some medicine into my arm Saturday, and on Monday or Tuesday if my arm remains clear, I don't have TB.  But they want me to return to Boulder to have the test read on one of those days, or find a local nurse to read it.  Absurdly, the Urgent Care will charge $120 to read my arm, Walgreens only has a pharmacist on staff, and the one nurse I know personally is out of town.  It is looking as though my one break during the week, from 11-1 on Monday, will be spent driving the two hour round trip to Boulder just to have someone look at my arm and say I am healthy.

Incredibly frustrating, yes.  End of the world, no.  But after working over sixty hours, plus attending two Hospice trainings, trying to meet up with friends, driving my boyfriend to the airport, and essentially living without any slowness at all- it felt like the last straw.

Today I am calmer.  Today I can take a moment to myself.  A moment to write.  A moment to breathe.  And I am wondering again, how to find the way to live "slowly, slowly".  How to change my life, and most importantly, my attitude towards it, so that I feel like I am drinking in each moment, instead of rushing through it.

I have not found my answer.  But my guide's mantra, "Slowly, slowly" plays over again and again in my mind.  Surely there is a way to notice raindrops not only when I am in India or on retreat.  Maybe even while driving to Boulder.

Speaking Out

 My friend Christopher, an interfaith activist and speaker, posted this horrific video on Facebook yesterday.  Since then, I have been unable to get it out of my mind.

Last semester, I took a class I lovingly named my "isms" class, as we discussed racism, sexism, homophobia, white privilege, and more.  Yet somehow, going to school in the white enclave of Boulder, and living in an area where I literally never see anyone in a head scarf, we did not really touch on anti-Muslim sentiment.  In my naivete, I had not realized how dangerously vitriolic our society has become in places.

http://www.loonwatch.com/2011/03/shocking-anti-muslim-hate-video-in-orange-county-california/

 The video speaks for itself in many ways.  The dignified, upright Muslims walking into their charity event (to raise money for domestic violence awareness and battered women's shelters) ignore the shrieking mob outside their building.  As the largely Caucasian crowd shouts, "Terrorists!  Terrorists!" and frightens the small children walking into the event, I have to wonder who the terrorists are.  Certainly not the calm, stoic Muslims hoping to raise money for women's issues.

Muslim children are yelled at, told to go home- though in all likelihood, they were born here.  They are told they are terrorists.  They are told they are not wanted.  Their parents are treated with disrespect.  We would be shocked if any of these children eventually became terrorists.  Yet, what are we expecting, when they are vilified publicly from such a young age?  Of course, most of them will not become terrorists.  Most of them will just grow up to live in fear of prejudice, and shame for their background and their religion.  Most of them will never know what it's like to feel genuinely safe and accepted in a public place.  This seems like the greatest tragedy of all.

And there were elected officials, representatives of the American government there.  Praising this hatred, prejudice, and cruelty.

It took me a while to even figure out why there was a protest at this event.  I doubt most of the protesters knew- they just wanted an outlet for their hatred and fear.  Evidently two of the speakers at the benefit have questionable connections in the Muslim world.  Yet there is no mention of that in the protest.  It is all generalizations of anger and cruelty.  In one extremely ironic instance, the Muslim men are accused of beating their wives- even though they are attending a benefit to raise awareness for wife battering.  I wonder if the protesters even knew why the Muslims were gathering.

I could probably say much more.  Now, I cannot.  But as I said, the video speaks for itself. 

All Stirred Up

At school one of the most usually heard answers to the question, "How are you?" is, "All stirred up".  Somehow I imagine that outside of an intensely introspective program that demands so much self-questioning such a response is not quite as common.  Yet in my program it is not only the run of the mill, it is also part of the goal.  By breaking yourself down, you can build yourself back up.

Sadly, being 'all stirred up' is not really as comfortable as I'd like.  I had a difficult weekend.  I stayed with a client who has been very ill.  Even though I was nervous about my competency handling all of her new needs, I didn't state that to her family, wanting to present myself as fully able.  Then, when her feeding tube came out (this is NOT supposed to happen!) and she had a hole in her stomach and unknown liquids seeping into the floor, all of that fear of my incompetence flooded forward.

She is fine now.  Her family decided simply to remove the tube anyway, as she is beginning to eat orally again, and it is obviously a hassle and liability.  That should be it for me, but instead I have recurring moments where the flood of incompetence, fear, and want to help, all return.  Guilt for an accident I do not know how I could have prevented.  Shame for crying on the phone with her family.  Fear of something happening again.

And in my program, we are supposed to turn toward our suffering.  We are not supposed to repress or ignore or turn away from painful emotions.  So 24 hours after the incident, I am sitting with a student therapist, in tears, trying to process what my response says about my ingrained character, and where to go from here.  I am writing papers about Jung and the Persona and Shadow, and talking about my own Caregiver Persona of Competence, Willingness, and Patience- and the Shadow of Incompetence, Stress, and Anger.  Part of me would rather be watching tv, eating chips, and drinking a pop.

Yet at school it is always said that if things are stirred up then there is movement.  And if there is movement, there can begin to be change.  Learning.  Acceptance.  So I go on faith that all of this work and pain means that in the end I really do come out stronger.

The Quandary of Detachment

This week has been a practice in detachment.  In Buddhism, which I am fairly immersed in as I attend a Buddhist University, detachment is considered one of the keys to happiness.  All suffering can be traced back to one root: grasping attachment.  As humans we cling to what we love, and that very clinging can lead into desperate pain.  Jealousy, anger, grief- these all stem from clinging to what we cannot control.  Lately, in my Counseling Skills class, we have been discussing the idea that even clinging to our self-image, our biography, can cause suffering, because we are always changing and therefore do not always match our ideal versions of ourselves.

Confusing?  It can be, particularly because Buddha was not saying that we should not love.  Quite the contrary, he believed that by eliminating attachment, we could actually love deeper, better, and more.

On Monday I worked with one of my clients, a very old woman with rapidly progressing dementia.  At 97 years old she is almost always a little lost.  The combination of age, confusion, and interacting medications means she swings rapidly between good days of jokes and smiles, to bad days where she barely eats.  So when I arrived on Monday to help her with breakfast, she would hardly even swallow the chocolate Boost she had been so enthusiastic about the week before, let alone eat a piece of toast.

As I struggled to convince her to take even a tiny drink I could feel myself growing impatient.  No, not impatient: desperate.  In her situation, it really is fully possible that she will die in the next few months.  Obviously, if she refuses to eat, that could happen much sooner.  I wanted so badly to help, to be able to miraculously get her to drink her full Boost and more, because I know how precarious her health is.  I was clinging with all of my might to my desire to make her eat, and only becoming more and more frustrated in the process.

Finally, after nearly twenty minutes of unsuccessful convincing and coaxing, I just stopped.  I looked at her: sitting with her eyes closed, shaking her head, wan and sad.  She was so uncomfortable, so unhappy, and at that moment, eating would only have made her that much more miserable.  I realized that by actually detaching from my own desire to make her eat and listening to the wisdom of her body, not my desperation, I was loving her more.  At that moment, it was more helpful to her for me to let go, stop trying, and just sit with her.  Even though I wanted so badly for her to eat, because I want her to live, I recognized that by letting her go, I was loving better and from a less selfish place.  I managed to get one more swallow of Boost down, and left it at that.

When I returned on Wednesday, her everchanging body was back in sync, and she able to eat again.  I am grateful for that.  Yet I know, eventually, I will have to let go again.  I will have to let go of my attachment and grasping in order to love her in the best way she deserves.

Taking the Leap: The First Post

I spent nearly an hour last night gazing at my computer screen, unable even to come up with a title for my blog, let alone a posting.  Created at the suggestion of my boyfriend, who imagines, probably correctly, that a blog would probably be a good outlet for me to unload my swiftly spinning thoughts, I was immediately embroiled in an old sort of stage fright.  As a child I used to spend hours writing stories in small notebooks with cartoons on the cover.  I never really had writer's block, but I always resisted allowing anyone to read what I had written.  Instead, I hid short stories, and character sketches, dramatic teen poetry, and endless journal entries in books in the back of my closet:  For my eyes only.  To this day I only very rarely let people read my writing, unless it is a purely academic venture.

A blog seems entirely contrary to such a habit.  On blogs people can spill all details of their most recent exploits, to be commented upon by the readers.  Even more numbing to me is the idea of posting a piece of poetry, or heartfelt commentary on a particular issue, or story that hits painfully close to home.  Somehow, the idea of this creative venture, in which both one's soul and one's talent are up for public commentary feels wrenching.  Perhaps it's the last component, the talent, that I fear criticism of.  As a counseling student I am consistently examining my own personal flaws, and I can handle negative feedback about them relatively well.  For in my neuroses, I am probably my roughest critic. On the other hand, my talent, my raw intelligence, my creativity- throwing these out for judgment feels infinitely harder. 

Yet in one of my finals last semester, an oral exam, my professor told us we could make a choice:  Choose to answer the question we struggled with the most, the one we dreaded, and receive full credit, or choose an easier question, possibly not for the full credit.  The lesson seemed clear: Meet your demons head on, or as we liked to say in my meditation class, invite them to tea.  Make friends with your demons, for they are a part of you. 

So in a way, this blog is inviting my demons to tea.  I can grapple with the concept of allowing my words to be public domain, and along the way perhaps come to know myself, my work, and my world more deeply.