It is a Monday, and the longest day of the year. I am writing this from a room that is not really mine. But it is small and green and has served me well this week, as I gave up my own bed for Emily’s sister who was visiting. The walls are a forest green, the shades are always drawn, and there is a branch hanging above the window.
I’ve gotten good use out of my raincoat this month, but today during my lunch break I didn’t need it. I left the office around 12:30 after faxing more paperwork to important places. It was a pleasant temperature today, and during that hour the clouds were thin enough to feel the sun. Pioneer square was bustling. The afternoon farmers market was set up, and people were meandering through, eating sample strawberries from Mt Hood and little chunks of goat cheese on toothpicks. I had a few bites and then went to my normal spot, the part of the staircase closest to Starbucks. I ate my sandwich and watched people do similar things. Reading, writing, chatting on their cell phones. Most people alone. They seemed like they were at peace with that. I thought of all of the lunches I ate growing up, and the white tile of the cafeteria, the enforced people-at-the-table limit, and felt thankful that I’d past that phase.
It was an emotionally draining day at work. Especially with the reconstruction of our office, and that my small space has turned a bit smaller while Business Enterprises prime and paint the walls, and install storage shelves and a sink. One of our patients made some decisions over the weekend that left her in the not-so-pretty state that we found her in during morning rounds. Sometimes I see things during my day that I may close my eyes for if I were watching a movie, and I guess today was one of those days. She cried and couldn’t articulate what happened. And I stood there in the crack of the door while the case manager did the talking, that we weren’t mad and she wasn’t in trouble but we just needed to know the truth. We needed to know what was in her body so we could find a way to make it better. And she cried more and looked at me and said “I’m so sorry Lizzie” and I echoed what my coworker told her, and then we had to go. I felt very angry about all of it, about the time I’ve spent with her, the conversations in the car, all of the things she asks me for throughout each day. I wish I wasn’t. I wish that I could just nod and be compassionate and mean it when say that everything will be alright. But I couldn’t. And by the way she looked at me—no matter how altered her mind or behavior was at the moment, or how hard I smiled—she knew this.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
New Voices
(Written 5/26/10)
It is 9:00 and it is just getting dark out. If you stop for a moment when walking up our staircase and look out the window, you can see a perfect frame of the sky as everything is setting. Bright, pink streaks and sometimes a stripe of yellow. The dark blue paint of our neighbor’s house fading a bit, the trees turning black. There are almost always clouds.
One of my favorite things about Portland: even when it’s raining, the night comes at the same time.
I’m not one for doing “cool spontaneous things” after work. But thanks to the effortless motivation of a housemate and an easy MAX ride, I ate a falafel sandwich and headed to the reading of Write Around Portland’s spring anthology. (An agency that provides facilitated workshops to different communities throughout the city.) The event was held at a large Methodist Church in Southwest, and we wrongly entered through the front door and were led down long classroom hallways by peppy volunteers who claimed the directional signs to be misleading. They brought us to the auditorium, where cups of apple juice were being sold at a long fold out table toward the back. Dozens of people proceeded to read the poems and stories that they’d crafted throughout the workshop season. Thirteen year old girls covered their faces with the papers they read from, and seventy five year old women stood a bit too far away from the microphone. Susie told us about her talented teddy bear who could speak 18 languages and run a triathlon, and Wendy reminisced about the man she loved who never fulfilled his promise of returning to her. Bob confessed that nine years after his mother’s death, he still misses her. And throughout all of it, the tragic stories, awkward moments, memorable occurrences while riding the bus, I never felt sad. I don’t think anyone did. It proved to me what an important tool writing is. That no matter how painful life can be, it’s worth putting down on paper. To confront it, or to honor it. Or maybe a little bit of both.
It is 9:00 and it is just getting dark out. If you stop for a moment when walking up our staircase and look out the window, you can see a perfect frame of the sky as everything is setting. Bright, pink streaks and sometimes a stripe of yellow. The dark blue paint of our neighbor’s house fading a bit, the trees turning black. There are almost always clouds.
One of my favorite things about Portland: even when it’s raining, the night comes at the same time.
I’m not one for doing “cool spontaneous things” after work. But thanks to the effortless motivation of a housemate and an easy MAX ride, I ate a falafel sandwich and headed to the reading of Write Around Portland’s spring anthology. (An agency that provides facilitated workshops to different communities throughout the city.) The event was held at a large Methodist Church in Southwest, and we wrongly entered through the front door and were led down long classroom hallways by peppy volunteers who claimed the directional signs to be misleading. They brought us to the auditorium, where cups of apple juice were being sold at a long fold out table toward the back. Dozens of people proceeded to read the poems and stories that they’d crafted throughout the workshop season. Thirteen year old girls covered their faces with the papers they read from, and seventy five year old women stood a bit too far away from the microphone. Susie told us about her talented teddy bear who could speak 18 languages and run a triathlon, and Wendy reminisced about the man she loved who never fulfilled his promise of returning to her. Bob confessed that nine years after his mother’s death, he still misses her. And throughout all of it, the tragic stories, awkward moments, memorable occurrences while riding the bus, I never felt sad. I don’t think anyone did. It proved to me what an important tool writing is. That no matter how painful life can be, it’s worth putting down on paper. To confront it, or to honor it. Or maybe a little bit of both.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Before catching the bus.
It is Friday morning at 10:09 or so and I am not working. It is warm out today, and I think everyone in Portland is crossing their fingers that Spring will be here consistantly now, that there will be a need for sunglasses.
I took the day off because soon I will be going to Seattle to smooze at a JVC benefit dinner and wear a bright shirt to identify my purpose. I'm excited about this, for the long car ride, the hills of the city, the chance to hang out with people I don't see very often. Jeremy made me a fried egg when I woke up and we sat at the kitchen table talking about nothing inparticular. It was a good day for an adventure, he said, but he had a strong desire to do nothing at all.
Work has been fine lately. People are very sick and I still don't have any answer for them. I went to a training in the Admin building yesterday on professional boundaries and was pleasantly surprised to see candy at the middle of each table when I arrived. There I was, with most of the Henry front desk staff, a few of my coworkers, and people from other CCC agencies that I'd never seen. We all picked a photograph from the pile and talked about how the shot represented our role. We don't get to do things like that often--sit in a quiet basement, refill water glasses, talk about what it means to be in this profession and keep yourself and your clients safe. I enjoyed it.
I took the day off because soon I will be going to Seattle to smooze at a JVC benefit dinner and wear a bright shirt to identify my purpose. I'm excited about this, for the long car ride, the hills of the city, the chance to hang out with people I don't see very often. Jeremy made me a fried egg when I woke up and we sat at the kitchen table talking about nothing inparticular. It was a good day for an adventure, he said, but he had a strong desire to do nothing at all.
Work has been fine lately. People are very sick and I still don't have any answer for them. I went to a training in the Admin building yesterday on professional boundaries and was pleasantly surprised to see candy at the middle of each table when I arrived. There I was, with most of the Henry front desk staff, a few of my coworkers, and people from other CCC agencies that I'd never seen. We all picked a photograph from the pile and talked about how the shot represented our role. We don't get to do things like that often--sit in a quiet basement, refill water glasses, talk about what it means to be in this profession and keep yourself and your clients safe. I enjoyed it.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Adjustable
On the corner of Stanton and 11th, at the edge of someone’s garden, there is a wooden post sticking out of the ground with an 8 x 11 glass frame. And every week the frame holds a different poem. I always make a point to walk by when I’m in the area. Today I was. It was written by a woman who was mourning her sick cat. She knew his life would not go on much longer, so she thought about all of the times she sat on the couch when she was sad and wasn’t quite alone. When she brought him to be seen, the vet noticed how relaxed he seemed to be in her lap. This was probably something she’s always known, but at the moment, the thought surprised her.
It’s been beautiful all week. Hardly any clouds and the ones that do float in the sky carry some distinguishable shapes. Lauren noticed a chicken wing, Garrett and I decided upon a large man jumping off the diving board to belly flop into a pool. We sat on the porch as Garrett experimented on the guitar and Lauren read her book.
It’s been interesting merging my life now with my life before now. My parents came a few weeks ago. My mom could tell that it was a “greener” place after using the water efficient toilets in the airport bathroom, and my Dad planned a trip to coast (where we continually compared every small beach town we drove through to Drakes Island). We stayed at a golf resort, and he didn’t play golf. I ate meat again. Then Conor came two weeks later. I drank beer and didn’t feel bad about it. He joined in on our mock debate during spirituality night. We walked around North Portland without a particular destination. It was wonderful to have very important parts of my life come together. And now it’s over. So I’m trying my best to bounce back.
So now I will have to reclaim this all again as my own. I took a long walk this morning and tried not to think about work but did. The medication boxes that run out to early, the pen Erwin through on the ground the morning of his last radiation treatment, the drawings Jake tacked to the wall beside the window. I wonder if there is anyone that just forgets about their work the second they walk out of the office. If it’s possible to just push something that you focus 40 hours of your week on out of your mind.
I ended up at Grant Park, on 33rd and Knott by the end of this walk. There were a lot of people there, mostly small children, a girl with a red cape, “DAD MOM AVA ISREAL” written in twigs on the pavement. I sat on one of the benches next to three statues: a girl, a boy, and a dog. They were of Ramona, the protagonist of Beverly Cleary’s books. There was a stone in the ground next to the dog that read, “Ribsy is what you might call a well-adjusted dog.” A trait that should never be taken for granted.
It’s been beautiful all week. Hardly any clouds and the ones that do float in the sky carry some distinguishable shapes. Lauren noticed a chicken wing, Garrett and I decided upon a large man jumping off the diving board to belly flop into a pool. We sat on the porch as Garrett experimented on the guitar and Lauren read her book.
It’s been interesting merging my life now with my life before now. My parents came a few weeks ago. My mom could tell that it was a “greener” place after using the water efficient toilets in the airport bathroom, and my Dad planned a trip to coast (where we continually compared every small beach town we drove through to Drakes Island). We stayed at a golf resort, and he didn’t play golf. I ate meat again. Then Conor came two weeks later. I drank beer and didn’t feel bad about it. He joined in on our mock debate during spirituality night. We walked around North Portland without a particular destination. It was wonderful to have very important parts of my life come together. And now it’s over. So I’m trying my best to bounce back.
So now I will have to reclaim this all again as my own. I took a long walk this morning and tried not to think about work but did. The medication boxes that run out to early, the pen Erwin through on the ground the morning of his last radiation treatment, the drawings Jake tacked to the wall beside the window. I wonder if there is anyone that just forgets about their work the second they walk out of the office. If it’s possible to just push something that you focus 40 hours of your week on out of your mind.
I ended up at Grant Park, on 33rd and Knott by the end of this walk. There were a lot of people there, mostly small children, a girl with a red cape, “DAD MOM AVA ISREAL” written in twigs on the pavement. I sat on one of the benches next to three statues: a girl, a boy, and a dog. They were of Ramona, the protagonist of Beverly Cleary’s books. There was a stone in the ground next to the dog that read, “Ribsy is what you might call a well-adjusted dog.” A trait that should never be taken for granted.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Mixed Weather
I read a book a last week about four six graders drinking tea together on Saturday afternoons. They were in a small down in New York State, and knew not much else besides their school bus, the class bully,retirement communities that grandparents flee to in the cold winters, the strange feeling of walking into a cafeteria for the first time, and their parents' unpredictable decisions. The book, A View from Saturday by E. L. Konigsburg, was introduced to me a month ago, when Leslie Phillip's found it stored away on the wooden book shelves at the lodge we stayed at for winter retreat. Her mom had read it to her when she was young, so she read a few chapters to us inbetween meals and sessions. It's a good one. And I guess it reminded me how much you can learn about the world and the people within it when you enter sixth grade.
It's been raining all week in Portland. Which is no huge surprise, but the beginning of spring has come on with bit more punch than anyone might desire at this point in the year. I guess it's the randomness of it all--the hail and then the sunshine, and then a moment later a gust of cold wind. You never know what coat to wear here, really, or if the sunny bike ride to work will cost you in the afternoon. If we have made it to the warm season or if we should still hold onto what is behind us.
I am sitting in a coffee shop for the first time in a while. People are doing their homework, and taking notes from power point slides on weak acids and ions. Three friends of the barista just walked in. They are hugging. They seem happy to see each other.
I went to church two nights ago for Holy Thursday. I was too tired for such an endeavor, and probably should have considered this before committing to the event. But I went anyways, trying to hold onto a tradition that I was committed to while in Medfield. So I sat and watched people washed each other's feet. I listened to both the Spanish and the English and I didn't feel very close to any of it. I saw my own feet, in my own shoes, and later the hands of another girl who I did not know washing them. I walked home, quickly, and I felt like there was a lot of things in my head that I did not understand. I could still feel the weight of my day and the day I would have ahead. My brother on the other end of the phone, about to go for a run. The long conversation with my supervisor about employee burn out. The beer cans the case manager saw all over Aaron's old apartment when she brought him to pick up his property. He is a new patient, with a 14 and 16 year old, and he wishes he was able to get around better for them. Later that day he wheeled in the office and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I said I'd let him know.
I guess his question, and his quiet despiration to connect, to be part of some sort of project, made me feel sad. I realized how often I may take for granted my 7 or so person staff, all working together and sometimes bickering amongst eachother in the name of a common cause. And that maybe everything would be a little bit easier if we all had people to sit with on Saturday afternoons in front of a hot pot of tea.
It's been raining all week in Portland. Which is no huge surprise, but the beginning of spring has come on with bit more punch than anyone might desire at this point in the year. I guess it's the randomness of it all--the hail and then the sunshine, and then a moment later a gust of cold wind. You never know what coat to wear here, really, or if the sunny bike ride to work will cost you in the afternoon. If we have made it to the warm season or if we should still hold onto what is behind us.
I am sitting in a coffee shop for the first time in a while. People are doing their homework, and taking notes from power point slides on weak acids and ions. Three friends of the barista just walked in. They are hugging. They seem happy to see each other.
I went to church two nights ago for Holy Thursday. I was too tired for such an endeavor, and probably should have considered this before committing to the event. But I went anyways, trying to hold onto a tradition that I was committed to while in Medfield. So I sat and watched people washed each other's feet. I listened to both the Spanish and the English and I didn't feel very close to any of it. I saw my own feet, in my own shoes, and later the hands of another girl who I did not know washing them. I walked home, quickly, and I felt like there was a lot of things in my head that I did not understand. I could still feel the weight of my day and the day I would have ahead. My brother on the other end of the phone, about to go for a run. The long conversation with my supervisor about employee burn out. The beer cans the case manager saw all over Aaron's old apartment when she brought him to pick up his property. He is a new patient, with a 14 and 16 year old, and he wishes he was able to get around better for them. Later that day he wheeled in the office and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I said I'd let him know.
I guess his question, and his quiet despiration to connect, to be part of some sort of project, made me feel sad. I realized how often I may take for granted my 7 or so person staff, all working together and sometimes bickering amongst eachother in the name of a common cause. And that maybe everything would be a little bit easier if we all had people to sit with on Saturday afternoons in front of a hot pot of tea.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Might as well.
I thought that this was worth mentioning:
I am in a Coffee shop a few blocks south of my house, and I have just gone to the bathroom, which had two toliets, one sink, and no stalls. Two open toliets. Just hanging out. Which made me wonder what would happen if we took down all of the bathroom stalls in the world.
Also, I enjoyed my horoscope for this week, and have already read it to my housemates, and feel the need to share it further, and invite anyone reading this to become an aries for a little while:
"Everything is complicated," wrote poet Wallace Stevens. "If that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore." I hope you will choose his wisdom to serve as your guiding light in the coming weeks. It is high time, in my astrological opinion, for you to shed any resentment you might feel for the fact that life is a crazy tangle of mystifying and interesting stories. Celebrate it, Aries! Revel in it. Fall down on your knees and give holy thanks for it. And by the way, here's a big secret: To the extent that you do glory in the complications, the complications will enlighten you, amuse you, and enrich you.
(http://www.freewillastrology.com/horoscopes/aries.html)
That's all for right now. There is a blue sky outside, and fat, white clouds.
I am in a Coffee shop a few blocks south of my house, and I have just gone to the bathroom, which had two toliets, one sink, and no stalls. Two open toliets. Just hanging out. Which made me wonder what would happen if we took down all of the bathroom stalls in the world.
Also, I enjoyed my horoscope for this week, and have already read it to my housemates, and feel the need to share it further, and invite anyone reading this to become an aries for a little while:
"Everything is complicated," wrote poet Wallace Stevens. "If that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore." I hope you will choose his wisdom to serve as your guiding light in the coming weeks. It is high time, in my astrological opinion, for you to shed any resentment you might feel for the fact that life is a crazy tangle of mystifying and interesting stories. Celebrate it, Aries! Revel in it. Fall down on your knees and give holy thanks for it. And by the way, here's a big secret: To the extent that you do glory in the complications, the complications will enlighten you, amuse you, and enrich you.
(http://www.freewillastrology.com/horoscopes/aries.html)
That's all for right now. There is a blue sky outside, and fat, white clouds.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Switching Seats
It is sunny out today. It has been sunny for the past few days, actually. But today is Saturday and for the first time in a while I sat on the porch without a sweatshirt. Jeremy and Garrett dug up dirt on our small plot of land, that still suffers from lead poisoning, which started three or so years ago during a repainting job. Lauren brought out a pitcher of lemonade. I did not drink any, but I felt happy to see the others enjoying their small cups of it. People walked by, some with dogs, some without dogs. We said hello. We felt friendly.
I've felt a lot more empowered at work lately. Maybe it's the coffee. Or the fact that I've hit the six month mark since I drove away from Drakes Island to be driven to the airport, a ride that I spend half with Ella, Charlie, and my mom. Charlie kept farting. And we kept yelling at him as he opened the front seat window with a grin. I spent the second half in Dad's car. Abby and I switched seats. I felt thankful, and a little bit prized to know that both of my parents wanted me as a passenger before I took off on my own journey.
But now it's February, and the rain is lessening a bit, and I've learned to knock on people's doors in the morning and not take on all of their problems as I continue down the hallway. I've learned to enjoy my weekends more, to see the sliver of yellow between the thick, gray clouds, to read books I love. Just today, Lauren and I took the bus to the grocery store. We missed our connection, twice, and switched off carrying a backpack full of economy sized dish soap, hand soup, peanut butter, hot sauce, and cheddar cheese. The process took up our whole morning, and I did not feel impatient.
I remember talking to my supervisor this summer about the different theories of social justice. Of charity v. advocacy, of how you should and shouldn't serve, of just language and different educational approaches. How tiring all of that is, she said, wrapping yourself around "the answer to the worlds problems" and plotting your work in one direction toward it. That's when the burn out happens, because there is always something that will throw off the results.
I didn't leave work until 6:30 last night, and for one of the first times this year I was okay with that. I picked up a patient who'd gone back to the hospital after coming into the program. I pulled the car around to the emergency room entrance and helped him load his laptop, books, and bag of clothes into the backseat. He sat in the front and his sister, who could not hear very well, sat in the middle. He is one of the more extroverted that has been in our program. He likes to talk about all of the pot he smoked in the 60s and the strange girlfriends who have broken his heart. It didn't matter what he put into his body then, he said. His body used to be this mystery that he could trust. We drove over the past the Rose Garden, and he yelled jokingly out the window to the basketball fans wearing Celtics jerseys. It was dark by then, but the sky held a clearer darkness than I've seen all winter. It's those moments, when I'm driving people to and from where they need to go, setting the radio on the music they like, that I feel like my time is being used well.
I've felt a lot more empowered at work lately. Maybe it's the coffee. Or the fact that I've hit the six month mark since I drove away from Drakes Island to be driven to the airport, a ride that I spend half with Ella, Charlie, and my mom. Charlie kept farting. And we kept yelling at him as he opened the front seat window with a grin. I spent the second half in Dad's car. Abby and I switched seats. I felt thankful, and a little bit prized to know that both of my parents wanted me as a passenger before I took off on my own journey.
But now it's February, and the rain is lessening a bit, and I've learned to knock on people's doors in the morning and not take on all of their problems as I continue down the hallway. I've learned to enjoy my weekends more, to see the sliver of yellow between the thick, gray clouds, to read books I love. Just today, Lauren and I took the bus to the grocery store. We missed our connection, twice, and switched off carrying a backpack full of economy sized dish soap, hand soup, peanut butter, hot sauce, and cheddar cheese. The process took up our whole morning, and I did not feel impatient.
I remember talking to my supervisor this summer about the different theories of social justice. Of charity v. advocacy, of how you should and shouldn't serve, of just language and different educational approaches. How tiring all of that is, she said, wrapping yourself around "the answer to the worlds problems" and plotting your work in one direction toward it. That's when the burn out happens, because there is always something that will throw off the results.
I didn't leave work until 6:30 last night, and for one of the first times this year I was okay with that. I picked up a patient who'd gone back to the hospital after coming into the program. I pulled the car around to the emergency room entrance and helped him load his laptop, books, and bag of clothes into the backseat. He sat in the front and his sister, who could not hear very well, sat in the middle. He is one of the more extroverted that has been in our program. He likes to talk about all of the pot he smoked in the 60s and the strange girlfriends who have broken his heart. It didn't matter what he put into his body then, he said. His body used to be this mystery that he could trust. We drove over the past the Rose Garden, and he yelled jokingly out the window to the basketball fans wearing Celtics jerseys. It was dark by then, but the sky held a clearer darkness than I've seen all winter. It's those moments, when I'm driving people to and from where they need to go, setting the radio on the music they like, that I feel like my time is being used well.
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