ACROSS THE UNIVERSE

 

I want to share information about an online international storytelling event this Friday night, May 22, 8PM Eastern Standard Time, organized by the Narrative Therapy Initiative in Massachusetts. Per NTI’s website,

“For 24 continuous hours, NTI will be hosting small group conversations that span the globe.  We have invited hosts for each hour who are inviting guests they value and would like to have people know about.  The hosts are inviting their guests to share some small story about something meaningful to them at this time.  These conversations will allow the rest of us to be introduced to people we wouldn’t otherwise get to know.  The opportunity to make new relationships and grow new communities is the purpose of this initiative.”

The conversations are meant to be recorded and accessible after the fact. The NTI announcement notes that, due to its violent history, English won’t be privileged and participants may choose the language most comfortable to them. More here.

 

Viva la historia!

 

BEHOLDER AND BEHELD

 

 

Scilla is having its moment, and as ever, it mesmerizes me like Ruth Wilcox’s skirt trailing among the flowers and grasses in “Howard’s End.” This photo does it no justice. Blossoms that were electric to my eye are overpowered here by stalks and leaves. Still, if I squint, there’s a hint of Van Gogh’s irises, so that’s something. It’s been raining a lot, and I’ve been reading Patricia DeYoung’s fine book on chronic shame, which she defines and explores in, I think, extraordinarily clear and detailed interpersonal terms. It’s a book written for clinicians, but full of observations that I wish could be wider spread. It’s an especially interesting read for me at this time of quarantine. While many of us are looking forward to being with others again—mingling and enjoying contact—for some, the self-other encounter is one of private chagrin. Healing from shame requires safety, and safety requires attention to connection and disconnection, a commitment to emotional being-with. Perhaps all our current contact through phone calls and screens could be seen as an opportunity to fine-tune our awareness of voices and faces. There’s so much information there—sometimes subtle, but sometimes as vivid as indigo and ultraviolet, hovering above the plainer stems of speech. The more attention we give, the more we perceive.

+

Text and image copyrights held by me. Best wishes for your health and well-being. Feel free to share this post, if you’re so inclined.

THUS SPAKE SPRING

 

I take long walks these days. It’s not because I have less I should be doing, it’s just that there’s only so much time a person can spend at a desk feeling overwhelmed. The synchronized left-right action of walking is one of the best things I know; each step is a gift. The impact of COVID-19 is so vast, it’s hard to comprehend. Sickness, death; overwork for some, unemployment for others. Separations and losses of all kinds. Economic collapse. I heard a story on NPR about a man in California living in his car who no longer has places to spend his days. In local news, calls to DCYF suddenly dropped by 50 percent or more because there are no non-household eyes on children now. Layer after layer of consequences to this. I won’t go on about how this is a sign that we’re all connected, though it is. We are. This is the network made visible. What I really need to say is that, in purely personal terms, I’m much better off now than I was a year ago, and that in itself is a strange fact. For most of 2019, health issues put me through a kind of private hell scarcely known to anyone but me. If I were to describe it, as I sometimes think of doing, it might sound invented, and I have no wish to subject myself to skepticism after having survived it. What I can share here is, Surrealism is hard, but like so many things, it’s better when it’s shared. Value your conversations now, even more than you usually do. Value your not-aloneness. Also, in this hemisphere, it’s spring! Enjoy it. Renewal is a beautiful thing.

+

Text and image copyrights held by me. Best wishes for your health and well-being. Feel free to share this post, if you’re so inclined.

LETTERS AND WORDS

The waiting room had been freshly painted over, institutional off-white where once there’d been a warm robin’s egg blue. Not my choice, needless to say; the change felt aggressively bright and depleting, uninviting and not at all therapeutic. Someone else apparently took issue with it on some level, too, as a bit of vandalism appeared in short order where none had ever occurred before, at least not in my time. A defacement of the wall that I noted but blocked out, the way I note and block out the crumbling exterior details of the building and the grout in the bathroom tile that probably hasn’t been clean in decades. My client had studied it, though. “Um, do you see this?” Nodding toward the damage that suddenly resolved from random scrapes into a rough approximation of the word “slut.” Weeks passed, with kids and adults coming and going, sitting in the chair under that word. Was anything done about it? I could have submitted a work order, but at that point I was perversely curious whether anyone involved in admin or maintenance would notice and address it. Weeks more passed. Finally, an act of vandalistic intercession: someone scratched away diligently to transform “slut” into “slurp.” I appreciate that anonymous act of transformation while disliking both words for different reasons and finding the whole scenario to be yet another reminder that I need to be moving on from this place where I’ve dedicated so much energy. I need to be in a place more of my making, and that time is coming. I know it won’t be easy leaving, though. The collegial bonds forged in shared adversity are uniquely strong, of uncommon mettle, continually tested by the agency model. And then there are the children and families, and the honor and inspiration of working with them. The proud pencil marks on my door where I measured the heights of kids whose growing wasn’t always celebrated elsewhere, and other reminders in my office of clients who’ve come and gone. A paper painted fish above my coat hook. A little wooden house balanced atop a picture frame left over from a game of object-hide-and-seek. Sparkly stones on my windowsill. And this message on a post-it from a girl who used to end every visit by challenging me to a race down the hallway, glorying in her own speed: “Strong is the new cool.” A lasting gift that she, so fleet, gave to me.

 

 

+

Text and image copyrights held by me. My posts have gotten shorter as I deal with other things. As ever, I’m grateful for your reading. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too.

DIGGING IN THE DIRT

I just wanted to share an interview I found affecting, a conversation between Terry Gross and Bryan Stevenson. Halfway through, there’s a story about digging. I’m so glad I happened to hear this, as part of my start to the year.

https://www.npr.org/programs/fresh-air/2020/01/20/797265594/fresh-air-for-jan-20-2020-just-mercy-attorney-bryan-stevenson?showDate=2020-01-20

 

 

 

 

 

THE TITLE OF THIS POST WAS ALMOST “LOVE SAVES LIVES”

…then I thought about those who suffer at the holidays for losses that abundant love didn’t prevent, and I changed my mind. Love doesn’t always save lives, and I think it’s important to be sensitive to that. Losses aren’t always deaths, either, though they can hurt as much and feel as absolute. Loss of partnership, friendship, regard, connection, career, independence—regret and futility, whatever the source, are quite ruthlessly painful. Nonetheless, love can save lives at times, and what better use of a heart? I was reminded of its redemptive quality when I read this piece.

Best wishes for 2020, with 20/20 vision, clarity, purpose, health, and l-o-v-e.

 

 

+

I, for one, will be glad to see the end of 2019, despite the challenges that lie ahead. Text and image copyrights held by me. My posts have gotten shorter as I deal with other things. As ever, I’m grateful for your reading. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too. Bonne Annee, Tanti Auguri, Freues Neues.

 

 

LOST AND FOUND

 

 

I saw this little shoe on a walk this past month, presumably set on a step near where it was lost, to catch the eye of a parent who might have circled back to look, or who perhaps passes naturally in the course of regular strolls through the neighborhood. Given the year I’ve had, and the challenges I still face, gratitude hasn’t come readily to me, but I’m grateful for this shoe as a simple object with symbolic potential. It reminds me of the people who love and believe in me, who have sustained me through 2019—including my father, who has proudly worn a scarf I knit, on every cold day for the last decade, telling admirers that his daughter made it for him, as if it were a treasure among treasures. A decade, and still to this day. That detail—in the arc of life, a scarf is a detail—is meaningful in ways I can’t explain here. Families can be complicated, and mine has been since I can remember—painfully so, for me, with ramifications in every direction. I’ve always envied those I know whose families are close and warm. But the scarf stands out as in a painting, jaunty red, each stitch knit with care. Bright as a kite or a flag, and warming his neck so he can sing. He’s never lost hold of its meaning to him. I’m grateful for that.