BIOMIMICRY

 

 

A recent study in Britain found that the average prisoner spends more time outside than the average child. I read that sometime within the past year or so and had the predictable reaction of concern for contemporary Western culture. All those yards and flowers and trees, all that sun, the rain puddles, the snow, the creatures—what a sad waste to miss out on play and learning in the physical world. Lost, in many cases, to the tyranny of screens. Then back-to-back, one client reported a SWAT team breaking in across the street, another mentioned gang threats in her mobile home neighborhood, and I remembered that there are many kids for whom the outdoors isn’t an option. A different kind of cultural problem, but also resulting in distance from nature, a lose-lose proposition. In cartoons and commercials and movies and memes, animals are consistently objectified. Plants are, too, in many cases. The leaf in the photo above, I saw on a walk this past weekend. It had fallen from one of the trees that clean and cool the air in my town—its veins, and the beads of rain on its surface, exemplars of beauty and biology, tutorials in physics. As a child, I heard about the death of languages, and how each dead or dying language represents a unique resource of wisdom, gone. Species death is similar. And what of clean water, clean air? An issue with incalculable loss is that we can’t conceive of it—but it happens anyway. It happens in estuaries and in living rooms alike. As within, so without, and vice versa. Contact is invaluable; attention matters.

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Out of respect for client privacy, names on this blog are always changed or omitted, and details may be altered in fact while relevant in spirit. Text and image copyrights held by me. In the midst of personal difficulty, I’m grateful for your reading. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too.

CATHEDRAL

 

 

I knew when I was very small that I wanted to go to college. This wasn’t common in the neighborhood where I spent my early life. Kids in my neighborhood would, in fact, sometimes taunt me by calling me “College Girl.” I knew that I wanted to learn a foreign language and travel. I wanted to write. I wanted love. I wanted, as we all do, many things. The first plane I ever took carried me from New York City to Paris for a study abroad. I had no money, but the itinerary was covered by my tuition. I stored memories from France among others, much humbler, that had come before. Mont St. Michel approached at night, shimmering within an inky dark. Vineyards in the Vosges. Aubergine autumn skies. I saw chapels and churches, the Bayeux Tapestry and Grunewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece. Heaps of crutches from supposed miracle healings. Historical sites have their difficult stories, of course—complications and tragedies, lead in the roofing. The theme of the program was pilgrimage. I never saw Notre Dame, but as it burned this year, a sacred space within my life was burning, too. It was burning, and it burns still. It’s difficult to write about work right now, which had been my original mission. So the question is how to end this short post. I wish you health and, where applicable, the chance to safely rebuild.

 

 

 

FIVE YEARS


 

I started writing posts five years ago this month. It’s been a humble venture, but I would’ve liked to celebrate the anniversary with a vignette or reflection nonetheless. I’m not able to do so, for personal reasons. Thank you as always for reading. There are many words in the world. I’ve tried to choose mine well here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LITTLE PLANET

 

 

I was walking home from the farmers’ market one sunny Saturday morning when I happened upon this little moss orb, brightening first the sidewalk and then my palm, where it rolled in soft perfection. It made me feel unaccountably happy, and boy, did I need that joy. I sat on the stoop, admiring it for a while. Fast forward a couple weeks: a teen client wanted a crafty project and settled on teaching me how to make pom-poms. The yarn in the staff closet was a yellow-flecked green. After assiduously wrapping it around the tines of a fork, binding it off, sliding it free, and snipping loops all around, I held a fabricated replica, not stunning, but in the moment exciting enough that I reached for my phone to share this photo. Said teen appeared unimpressed. Even with the plants on my sill and the trees across the road, nature often feels a world away when I’m in my office. Its fluorescing brightness; its glowing grace. My endless need for those qualities. The silence in me that wants to exclaim.

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Out of respect for client privacy, names here are always changed or omitted, and details may be altered in fact while relevant in spirit. Text and image copyrights held by me. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. I’m deeply grateful for my readers, and as always, I’d love to reach more. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too, by linking to it in whatever way works for you. I typically post once a month, so no barrage.

OCCUPATIONAL HAZARDS

 

I noticed right away the whiff of chemicals on his coat, but I didn’t want to embarrass or offend him, so I didn’t ask him to hang it up in the waiting room. I thought of him as shy and inward, in ways that might have had to do with poverty and tumult, and I didn’t want to drive him further down into any of that. I did mention lightly that I noticed something, and he told me it was diesel that had spilled on him. I opened the window, giving the excuse that I was warm, while keeping my sweater on. Did he catch that discrepancy of logic? If so, it wasn’t apparent. I liked him but didn’t know if I was reaching him in any helpful way. We sat in long silences together while he sorted out the tactile puzzles next to him. I asked him to name his feeling when he solved one, and encouraged him to notice sources of pride in his life. I told him he deserved to feel pride, and his eyebrows went up—his strongest reaction ever in session, I think. Not because of him, but for the sake of my breath that day, I was relieved when he left. He’d been sitting on a pillow that I knew would never air out; I would have to remove it. The day proceeded. I saw two more clients, then transferred my plants from the windowsill, where the morning sun through the glass is always too intense, to the little table where I sit with kids, and left for my evening job. The next morning when I unlocked my office, the diesel was still eye-burningly thick in the air, and my fluorescent pothos, formerly a glowing green, thick and exuberant with leaves, was at least half-dead—the wilted leaves brown and sickly slick. Pothos rate high among potted plants both for ease of growth and for their ability to clean indoor air; I felt as though this one had taken the hit for the other two plants in my office, and for me. I picked the dead parts off and discarded them, realizing only later that I should’ve photographed the whole plant first, to capture the devastation that had been wreaked, that evidence of ecosystem in action. Then I did what I had to do: I opened my window and sat at my desk to start notes. Absentmindedly I reached for my mug, forgetting that the water had sat overnight, and realized I was tasting diesel fumes that had settled there. I spit into the garbage, rinsed my mouth, washed the cup multiple times in the staff kitchen, rinsed my mouth again, drank filtered water. Every day for over a week, I came in to more dead leaves. At first dark like overripe bananas, then dwindling to jaundiced leaves with darker spots, like burn marks. The foliage sparser and sparser as I pruned and hoped for recovery. An acquaintance who heard about all this, after the fact, said, “Never sacrifice yourself that way again. Ask for the coat to come off.” Well, the boy didn’t wear the coat next time I saw him, which, given patterns of attendance in such an agency, wasn’t a mere seven days later. It got warmer. But meanwhile—just imagine—he’d been walking around like that, breathing that in.

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Out of respect for client privacy, names here are always changed or omitted, and details may be altered in fact while relevant in spirit. Text and image copyrights held by me. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. I’m deeply grateful for my readers, and as always, I’d love to reach more. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too, by linking to it in whatever way works for you. I typically post once a month, so no barrage.

HAIL-MARY SWISH

There’s a basketball rim behind the agency that stands several feet below regulation. It’s supported by a plastic base that tends to fill with water, broken glass, and cigarette butts. The court is smaller than your kitchen, unless your kitchen is a galley on a boat; it’s made of brick and weeds and bordered by abandoned patio furniture. Beyond that, the miracle of grass.

It’s good for little but playing H-O-R-S-E, which I’ve done in blazing sun, swarms of gnats, and even cold, though not lately—it’s probably been twelve months or more since I’ve taken clients there. Different clients, different interests. My basketball, bought four years ago for work, sits deflating under the desk where I sit typing copious notes, community mental health’s Sisyphean task.

I don’t miss those outside sessions, which always made me feel like I was in the wrong place, wishing I were in the right one. I’m still working out to this day where exactly that place will prove to be, ultimately. I do sometimes, though, think about a middle school boy I saw early in my employment. He was my first truly mandated client and engaged in selective mutism in protest of his mother’s insistence that he attend therapy. The substance of her concern was his childish behaviors at home. I would not be of help, it soon became clear.

Our therapeutic relationship didn’t start strong. The boy complied with an expressive activity straight from a textbook, to choose an animal figure from a jar to represent each member of his family and place them in a constellation of sorts on a labeled paper; but his reasons for choosing each, he kept to himself.

It didn’t finish strong, either; our last visits, as I recall, surpassed mere silence and exceeded recalcitrance to enter territory beyond. While now I might recommend more co-parenting work, at that point on my learning curve, I was advocating to end services, expressing privately to my client’s mom that I would rather he feel supported in his preference than be turned off to therapy for the rest of his life. By then, she and I had had a few one-on-one talks, and I believe the most difficult piece about closing, from her perspective, may have been the loss of someone to hear her own challenges and frustrations with the whole family.

Formal activities work for some kids, but it didn’t take long before my focus shifted, for the duration of the middle phase, to attempting rapport by joining my client in whatever fun could be had. We played War (for the record, the most tedious card game I know) and UNO. There may have been an occasion of popping matchbox cars in a wordless contest; that’s a bit foggy now. Sometimes we went out back to the sorry court described above, clouds passing overhead. I had the idea that if I could impress him with my hoop-shooting skills, the energy of our visits overall might shift. Well, you already know that didn’t happen. But there was one glorious afternoon that lives in my memory…

His younger brother had come along that day, and the decision was made to head for the grass with a small finned foam football that was meant to have good spin, though not when thrown by my hands. My client was animated with unusual verve, in the role of leader. He talked! Mostly to his brother, but still! In a spirit of inspiration and delight, I proposed rules. Instead of just passing and catching or fumbling, whoever dropped the ball would run prescribed laps and then throw the football through the basketball hoop. If a basket was made, play could resume. If not, more laps.

He wasn’t just game, he showed gusto, and the three of us ran around the broken picnic tables until I literally, if dramatically, fell down panting. I think of that day, and the neon-green torpedo catching net, as my Hail-Mary Swish. I gave it my all, and my all was both grounded and free. If my client remembers anything from our time together—ancient history now, in kid years—I hope that’s it. We salvaged something, I think, however small. Not in that case, but in the very best cases, salvage can be salvation.

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Out of respect for client privacy, names here are always changed or omitted, and details may be altered in fact while relevant in spirit. Text and image copyrights held by me. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. I’m deeply grateful for my readers, and as always, I’d love to reach more. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too, by linking to it in whatever way works for you. I typically post once a month, so no barrage.