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.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wardrobe Switch
It was the morning after my doctor’s appointment that I decided to wear a tied-dyed shirt that did not belong to me. It belongs to one of my sisters, which one I’m not completely sure, but I did not take it out of my laundry pile that my mom accidentally put it in when I was at home for a few weeks ago. I thought about it, for a moment, and then decided to give into the forces of the universe that had some how directed it to the space between my jeans and underwear, and I placed it in my Portland-bound suitcase. Neither sister would be happy about it. But I guess it’s like taking a little part of them with me as I press forward with this year. A bit of protection. A reminder that there are still reasons to celebrate. And a small hope that the shirt would bring out the best in me, and that in the midst of my nagging patients to go to their appointments, it would make me feel a little more alive.
So from that moment on, the week started to look up a bit. Matthew, former patient that liked to play the flute, brought in assorted cheesecake for the staff. I opened the card to see big, block-like handwriting thanking us for our help when it was so needed. I talked to John about plane tickets to Boston, who hopes to see his family for the first time in ten years sometime this summer. I made some phone calls and faxed some papers. I wiped the dust off my desk and locked my computer screen before coming home.
It’s funny how hard it is to be far away sometimes, most of the time from things I never thought I’d feel far away from. But there is the lack of sun, the long nights in the library writing papers, the protective shell of college, and the way the trees cast shadows on Harding Street on a sunny day. There is my lazy dog, my old college dorm room and the centerpiece on the dining room table (a large bowl of glossy stones). It’s hard to love people from far away and not wish that you were with them, and it’s hard to open yourself up to something very new. New people, new streets, new grocery lists. I’m learning that it’s a process, and probably one that I’ve struggled with before, and will to struggle with after JVC.
We went to the contemplative mass at the Jesuit church in Southeast Portland for our community night. It was dark and quiet, and the choir sang amazing grace and the priest talked about a wedding that he gone to. He said it was beautiful, that the bride changed into out of her gown into a red dress and then into a sweatshirt in jeans. He marveled over the fried turkey, the people, the dancing. He said was love there, and for some reason, he thought it was worth telling everyone about it.
Our community sat in one pew. I felt a great strength in that. That even though this has been hard, that I often find myself unsure of what I am doing and what I will be doing afterwards, it will be okay.
(Written 1/17/10)
So from that moment on, the week started to look up a bit. Matthew, former patient that liked to play the flute, brought in assorted cheesecake for the staff. I opened the card to see big, block-like handwriting thanking us for our help when it was so needed. I talked to John about plane tickets to Boston, who hopes to see his family for the first time in ten years sometime this summer. I made some phone calls and faxed some papers. I wiped the dust off my desk and locked my computer screen before coming home.
It’s funny how hard it is to be far away sometimes, most of the time from things I never thought I’d feel far away from. But there is the lack of sun, the long nights in the library writing papers, the protective shell of college, and the way the trees cast shadows on Harding Street on a sunny day. There is my lazy dog, my old college dorm room and the centerpiece on the dining room table (a large bowl of glossy stones). It’s hard to love people from far away and not wish that you were with them, and it’s hard to open yourself up to something very new. New people, new streets, new grocery lists. I’m learning that it’s a process, and probably one that I’ve struggled with before, and will to struggle with after JVC.
We went to the contemplative mass at the Jesuit church in Southeast Portland for our community night. It was dark and quiet, and the choir sang amazing grace and the priest talked about a wedding that he gone to. He said it was beautiful, that the bride changed into out of her gown into a red dress and then into a sweatshirt in jeans. He marveled over the fried turkey, the people, the dancing. He said was love there, and for some reason, he thought it was worth telling everyone about it.
Our community sat in one pew. I felt a great strength in that. That even though this has been hard, that I often find myself unsure of what I am doing and what I will be doing afterwards, it will be okay.
(Written 1/17/10)
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Back in Action
It’s Saturday, 50 degrees and overcast, and I am sitting in MAC house stealing their internet to post an entry that I wrote a few days ago. It’s been a good day so far. There was a bike ride to the southeast for a pancake breakfast in support of a coffee shop that would rather not close its doors to the public so was thinking of several creative ways to make a lot of money in a short amount of time. We ordered our food and browsed the book exchange shelf, (which included “The New Book of Knowledge,” “The Sounds of the Universe,” and a 500 page hard cover novel named “All of My Sins.” I had a feeling that most of the customers, like myself, had not showered that morning, and a handful more of them had not showered the day before. So who knows if the event will save the space closing, but who knows. As the guy making the waffles said on our way out, “from one proactive community to another, thanks for coming out!”
So here is what I wrote earlier, and I will try to make more of a commitment to intentional blogging time in the new year.
(1/5/10)
I just finished drinking a cup of Sage-Blackberry-Herbal-ect-ect-ect tea. It came in a cylinder shaped tin with flowers on it. The label promised wisdom, and I’m sitting on my bed feeling no more wise.
Every time I try to write something for this blog my mind seems to freeze. I type long sentences and worry that I will come to no conclusion, and that the paragraphs will become a scattered pile of crappy and not-very-fun instances, and I will write in circles and convince myself that this year has turned into a tangled web or a rapidly growing patch of weeds. But I guess that’s what the past month and a half has been for me: dry, undesirable grass that I can’t yank out of the ground or trim evenly. The only thing I can think to do is to put away gardening tools, or run away. Neither option I’m satisfied with. So I guess for now I’m just waiting. Collecting what is growing out of this, and trying to give myself space.
I’m not sure that I’ve fully recovered from that first week in November, with the yelling lady in the small car. She was not mentally sound. She had not taken her medication. And I, along with other staff members to follow, took the repercussions of that. Although I knew it was not my fault, that I had done nothing wrong, that I was not the awful thing she told me I was, it still hurt to hear her screaming. It hurt to go home that night and feel angry. It hurt to know that she was beyond our capacity of care. It hurt to insist to my supervisor that she did not fit into the program, that she had threatened our safety we could do nothing for her. My opinion came out very easily, and I still stick to it, but that energy gets to you after a while. Sometimes, people do things that make it hard to have faith in them. So that’s what happened. I lost faith.
For now, it’s wavering. I’m sure there won’t be any happy endings to this story, or many of the stories that fall into my lap as I sit at the front desk. There are good days and there are bad days. But it’s been hard for me to stay completely grounded as the madness of granola bars, medical appointments, medication boxes, and tenants in the Henry building begging for one more butter scotch hard candy. But there are some other stories. Like the Teddy bear that saved Allen’s life, and the fact that people have the opportunity to believe in teddy bears. Or that Isabel is going back to Colorado to be with her mother, and the scabs on Richard’s nose have healed since I’ve been away on vacation. Maybe faith isn’t about finding ways to be happy or excited about life all the time, but to realize there are things worth noticing.
So here is what I wrote earlier, and I will try to make more of a commitment to intentional blogging time in the new year.
(1/5/10)
I just finished drinking a cup of Sage-Blackberry-Herbal-ect-ect-ect tea. It came in a cylinder shaped tin with flowers on it. The label promised wisdom, and I’m sitting on my bed feeling no more wise.
Every time I try to write something for this blog my mind seems to freeze. I type long sentences and worry that I will come to no conclusion, and that the paragraphs will become a scattered pile of crappy and not-very-fun instances, and I will write in circles and convince myself that this year has turned into a tangled web or a rapidly growing patch of weeds. But I guess that’s what the past month and a half has been for me: dry, undesirable grass that I can’t yank out of the ground or trim evenly. The only thing I can think to do is to put away gardening tools, or run away. Neither option I’m satisfied with. So I guess for now I’m just waiting. Collecting what is growing out of this, and trying to give myself space.
I’m not sure that I’ve fully recovered from that first week in November, with the yelling lady in the small car. She was not mentally sound. She had not taken her medication. And I, along with other staff members to follow, took the repercussions of that. Although I knew it was not my fault, that I had done nothing wrong, that I was not the awful thing she told me I was, it still hurt to hear her screaming. It hurt to go home that night and feel angry. It hurt to know that she was beyond our capacity of care. It hurt to insist to my supervisor that she did not fit into the program, that she had threatened our safety we could do nothing for her. My opinion came out very easily, and I still stick to it, but that energy gets to you after a while. Sometimes, people do things that make it hard to have faith in them. So that’s what happened. I lost faith.
For now, it’s wavering. I’m sure there won’t be any happy endings to this story, or many of the stories that fall into my lap as I sit at the front desk. There are good days and there are bad days. But it’s been hard for me to stay completely grounded as the madness of granola bars, medical appointments, medication boxes, and tenants in the Henry building begging for one more butter scotch hard candy. But there are some other stories. Like the Teddy bear that saved Allen’s life, and the fact that people have the opportunity to believe in teddy bears. Or that Isabel is going back to Colorado to be with her mother, and the scabs on Richard’s nose have healed since I’ve been away on vacation. Maybe faith isn’t about finding ways to be happy or excited about life all the time, but to realize there are things worth noticing.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Waiting Rooms.
I met a woman at a party on Sunday who wore a green sweater and a green scarf. She had long, wavy hair. We were at a “naked lady party” which isn’t quite as kinky as it sounds but not a sort of party I’d heard about before Portland. Everyone heard from a friend of a friend and brought a bag of clothes they did not want anymore, and realized, upon arrival, that they knew hardly anyone else there. So here we were, in a situation that has become all too familiar since this whole thing started (gatherings with lots of strangers) trying on each other’s clothes. Creating new piles and then bringing them home without any expectation of seeing the former wearer again.
But back to the woman in the sweater. She, by the way, brought the best clothes. The most clothes. A large variety of J Crew sweaters. She did not hold a glass of red wine in her hand, because she is now expecting. (Which she found out a month ago, and is just now feeling the sicknesses from it.) But even though her stomach revealed nothing I could see the joy in the way she talked about it. The need to find a midwife. The bathtub her husband built in the attic for the birth. Family names. Maternity clothes. The excitement of a new life that she will have so much to do with. It was refreshing, and strange, to hear so immersed in thought about a subject that has hardly crossed my mind.
But the week went on afterwards. I made my morning rounds and called 911 after opening the door on the seventh floor. No, I could not see sharp objects, I told the man on the other end of the line, but that doesn’t mean that there weren’t any. I printed off the patient’s information and handed it to the paramedics, my hands still shaking a bit when the papers transferred from my hold to theirs’. I watched them go up the elevator in their blue uniforms and then went back to the office, grabbed the basket of granola bars, and knocked on the rest of the doors. I labeled more post-its for patient appointments and stuck them to the large white board we have in the office.
Later on that day, I stopped at the food court Providence Hospital while waiting for another client to get out of his appointment. I ate the apple I’d brought from home and looked around at the people eating French fries and drinking diet soda through straws. There was a gift shop on the right and soft rock playing in the background. It reminded me of when my mom would take me to Children’s hospital in Boston for the check up on bone cyst on my index finger, or when my Dad and I stopped at Finagle a Bagel on the way back from getting the mole on my head removed. I must have known then that all of that was love—the hours my parents took out of their day, the choice junk food item, the drive through the city, the hour or two of school I missed. But now I know for sure. Maybe that’s one of the most beautiful things they did for me, buying me a bagel with cream cheese when I wasn’t sure what the mole meant, or sitting beside me in a waiting room of strangers. I guess that’s how I ended up here. I had someone to knock on my in the morning, drive me to my appointments. And someone to call the right person if things were to go wrong.
(Written 11/24/2009)
But back to the woman in the sweater. She, by the way, brought the best clothes. The most clothes. A large variety of J Crew sweaters. She did not hold a glass of red wine in her hand, because she is now expecting. (Which she found out a month ago, and is just now feeling the sicknesses from it.) But even though her stomach revealed nothing I could see the joy in the way she talked about it. The need to find a midwife. The bathtub her husband built in the attic for the birth. Family names. Maternity clothes. The excitement of a new life that she will have so much to do with. It was refreshing, and strange, to hear so immersed in thought about a subject that has hardly crossed my mind.
But the week went on afterwards. I made my morning rounds and called 911 after opening the door on the seventh floor. No, I could not see sharp objects, I told the man on the other end of the line, but that doesn’t mean that there weren’t any. I printed off the patient’s information and handed it to the paramedics, my hands still shaking a bit when the papers transferred from my hold to theirs’. I watched them go up the elevator in their blue uniforms and then went back to the office, grabbed the basket of granola bars, and knocked on the rest of the doors. I labeled more post-its for patient appointments and stuck them to the large white board we have in the office.
Later on that day, I stopped at the food court Providence Hospital while waiting for another client to get out of his appointment. I ate the apple I’d brought from home and looked around at the people eating French fries and drinking diet soda through straws. There was a gift shop on the right and soft rock playing in the background. It reminded me of when my mom would take me to Children’s hospital in Boston for the check up on bone cyst on my index finger, or when my Dad and I stopped at Finagle a Bagel on the way back from getting the mole on my head removed. I must have known then that all of that was love—the hours my parents took out of their day, the choice junk food item, the drive through the city, the hour or two of school I missed. But now I know for sure. Maybe that’s one of the most beautiful things they did for me, buying me a bagel with cream cheese when I wasn’t sure what the mole meant, or sitting beside me in a waiting room of strangers. I guess that’s how I ended up here. I had someone to knock on my in the morning, drive me to my appointments. And someone to call the right person if things were to go wrong.
(Written 11/24/2009)
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Mom's recommendation: a fat glass of wine.
All the hemispheres in heaven
Are sitting around a fire
Chatting
While stitching themselves together
Into the Great Circle inside of
You.
-Hafiz
I think I have the potential to become a little bit obsessed with Hafiz. I'm discovering things about him now, or trying to, in the 20 minutes I have left to be in this coffeeshop before I walk home for dinner. It's raining out, and a guy just opened the door and asked if he could bring his bike in. The barista said yes, of course, "you don't want to bike in that." The biker hoisted the handle bars upward, and brought the wheel over the lone step. "I do, actually. But I'm meeting someone."
But Hafiz. I think, he is persian, or that's what this website says that I am looking at. The person who constructed the page says he is mystical. And beautiful. And from the 7 minutes I spent reading it, I would have to agree. It was Robert, a JV from Seattle, who visited our house last weekend, who first introduced me, as he sat at our kitchen table reading quotes from his anthology while the rest of us did dishes or ate the contents of our cabinents. So now, I'm happy to have his words in my life.
Today was a hard day. One of those frightening days that leaves you incredibly angry at a person for treating you like crap, no matter how ill they are, and then hopeless. How can you do anything in the midst of aggression? You can't, really. You can take a deep breath until your eyes fill with tears and you're directed to one of a small room in the back of the clinic where people who have been doing this a lot longer of you give you a small cup of water, and a hug, and tell you that it will all be okay.
So that was my first day back from the first JVC cascade region retreat. Which was beautiful, at a place where I could look out at the water and see tall trees stretching for miles. We ate lots of beans and fiber, talked about our personality types, and took fewer showers. It was good to get away for a few days. To be surrounded by flannel. To step back and remind myself there is still a lot to see when it's raining.
Are sitting around a fire
Chatting
While stitching themselves together
Into the Great Circle inside of
You.
-Hafiz
I think I have the potential to become a little bit obsessed with Hafiz. I'm discovering things about him now, or trying to, in the 20 minutes I have left to be in this coffeeshop before I walk home for dinner. It's raining out, and a guy just opened the door and asked if he could bring his bike in. The barista said yes, of course, "you don't want to bike in that." The biker hoisted the handle bars upward, and brought the wheel over the lone step. "I do, actually. But I'm meeting someone."
But Hafiz. I think, he is persian, or that's what this website says that I am looking at. The person who constructed the page says he is mystical. And beautiful. And from the 7 minutes I spent reading it, I would have to agree. It was Robert, a JV from Seattle, who visited our house last weekend, who first introduced me, as he sat at our kitchen table reading quotes from his anthology while the rest of us did dishes or ate the contents of our cabinents. So now, I'm happy to have his words in my life.
Today was a hard day. One of those frightening days that leaves you incredibly angry at a person for treating you like crap, no matter how ill they are, and then hopeless. How can you do anything in the midst of aggression? You can't, really. You can take a deep breath until your eyes fill with tears and you're directed to one of a small room in the back of the clinic where people who have been doing this a lot longer of you give you a small cup of water, and a hug, and tell you that it will all be okay.
So that was my first day back from the first JVC cascade region retreat. Which was beautiful, at a place where I could look out at the water and see tall trees stretching for miles. We ate lots of beans and fiber, talked about our personality types, and took fewer showers. It was good to get away for a few days. To be surrounded by flannel. To step back and remind myself there is still a lot to see when it's raining.
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