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.

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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.

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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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.

SUPERPOWERS.

 

 

For a lesson in heartbreak, ask a foster child what superpower she would choose if she could. I did, this evening, and her answer was, “Read minds.” I feel like those two sentences ought to tell a story in and of themselves, but my view may be colored by my second-hand exposure to the issues. Her parents’ long-standing neglect hit a little more consciously this week, when her mother didn’t bother to schedule a visit with her. One phone call, free transportation from the state, three hours’ commitment. Told by her foster provider that her father has been “sick” lately, kiddo said, “I know he does drugs.” Meanwhile, her foster family, whom she clearly loves with all her yearning soul, would not be able to keep her even if she hadn’t started acting out and creating divisions among them. My theory, not especially perceptive: She knows her fate won’t lie with them, and she simply cannot bear it. Because she can’t bear it, she’ll likely be moved all the sooner. But when? Where to? How will she be treated? Will she ever feel at home, ever belong? The ability to read minds would give her a map, a compass. The country itself would likely be no less hard.

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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.

MISSING PIECES

 

It was a cold, rainy November day in community mental health. I was stood up for the third week in a row by a parent who nonetheless makes no move to end services, meaning that I have to send a letter that indicates concern (without getting too personal) and points up my outreach efforts (without sounding overbearing). Despite a background in writing, such communications are grueling for me.

I spent 25 minutes on the phone with a juvenile probation officer, discussing a client’s obsession with his ex and his legal situation related thereto; then hung up and promptly wondered whether I’d betrayed his confidentiality in the little bit of talking I’d done, something that will likely nag at me long after my supervisor reviews it with me. I was beset and nuzzled by a hand-puppet seeking affection-by-proxy on behalf of a child I have frequently had to remind about personal space.

Holding respectful silence, I supported a young adult in the process of contemplating how much of her sexual trauma she needs and wants to share. I stepped with a mother and daughter into the furnace of long-fueled resentments. At one point, an adult psychiatric patient crunched through the snow to look in my window before continuing next door to pound on the glass of the doc, cursing and threatening him till police were called. Come to think of it, that’s what started the day.

Two client visits were easy and joyful and kept the lights bright in my brain after too many hours spent doing paperwork and hearing disappointing news. But the part of this Monday that I’ll remember most clearly is the call from Sue, a foster mother, to tell me about a question posed by my kindergarten client on the drive to school. Removed from her biological mother for gross medical neglect as well as alleged abuse, my client asked from the backseat, “Do you think you can love a person without liking them?” Six years old.

Every clinician I know has favorite clients and heartbreak clients, often one and the same. This girl stole my heart from the moment we met, and although I behave with the same playful professionalism I would with any client her age, I wish in a very real way that I could adopt her. That I can’t is one of a short-list of aches that descend from metaphor to dwell in my core.

I’d gone in early to finish an annual review, so the day felt extra-long. When I got home, my bootlaces wouldn’t loosen fast enough. Yanking, tugging, heaving, I got the right boot off, taking my sock with it. Stuck to the bottom of the sock, and hence to the bottom of my foot, the bottom of my day, the bottom of my ache, was a small puzzle piece. The crackled glaze on the curve of the Mona Lisa’s mysterious smile.

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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! Thank you for your visit.