Damned technology.

FYI my computer is on the fritz. Or is it spritz? It's not working so with this borrowed one I am telling you that right now all writing is happening in my large head....soon, the laptop will be repaired and I will be back at it.

Stay tuned.

Silly little process.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about why some people are motivated to make changes in their life and some would rather talk about it than do whatever work might be necessary to give them the changes they so yearn for. I haven't been able to stand far enough away from the "issue" to see it with perspective, so I'm not sure if it's about nature or nurture or hardwiring or what. Yesterday I met with Chris, my Ironman training guy (no, I am not doing the Ironman) for a few new weight and/or lifting routines to add to my daily (almost) workouts. Our meeting time was 3PM and I'd decided earlier in the day I'd like to make the 10 minute walk to the place of torture before he'd show me the machines and contraptions he wanted me to start using. Normally I am great at time and knowing exactly how long it might take me to get from one place to another, but yesterday, I managed to "forget" about the time so that I was running behind, and needing to rush to get there. I knew this was not about really forgetting since my day was planned around this activity, and so it got me to thinking: what the heck am I up to now?

Part of it is the truth that I woke up with this morning: the sorest triceps I've had in maybe ten years. It's almost too much to type, and while I do love this feeling, it's the process of getting it that I seem to be avoiding. Another truth is I actually love going to the gym. I'm a bit of a "gym rat" and enjoy the place, the practice, the community that becomes the gym. The other truth is I love the hard work and I really enjoy a good sweat. So what's up with the amnesia and avoidance?

Here's the part about change that allows me what I want: I did it anyway. I saw myself avoiding, I felt the inertia that comes with unconscious fear and whatever else that becomes the sludge I have to find myself through, and I didn't give into any of it. Is this nature or is it nurture? My parents wouldn't hear of us "giving up" when things were hard. This was spread evenly between emotional experiences and physical ones. We spent, as a family, a huge amount of time out in the wilderness, on trails and fire roads, in the brush, and atop peaks and ridges and passes, and didn't see hardly a soul out there. No families with kids, for sure. It was not part of our process, not even one bit, to think you could stop or "get out of it" or turn around. There wasn't really even a narrative about it being something other than cool and normal.

I remember now that I used to get really anxious before these trips. That meant pretty much every weekend in the spring, fall and winter (too hot and too many snakes in the local mountains in the summer, besides, summer was reserved for long backpacks in the Sierra) I'd get out my boots, two pair of socks, pants, shirt and jacket before a fitful teenage sleep. Was it the anticipation? The realization that this would be "hard" and that I would have to muster whatever it took to get to the top (one trip we did five peaks above 5000' in one day)? I'm not sure, still, but that feeling is that same one I was lugging around yesterday as I had to trot to the gym to get there on time.

Client's often come in wanting change, whether it is to feel happier or not to feel so miserable. Few actually want to do the work that might be required, and would rather they could read a solution in a book or have the therapist tell them what they need to do (as long as it's easy and doesn't take too long) in order to get past whatever has brought them in. Some are driven by insight and believe that all they have to do is understand the issue, the problem, the reason and they will "know what to do to make it better." Often, though, what is in store is either learning to say "no" to yourself and doing what feels impossible and/or too difficult no matter what. This could be as simple as not taking a drink when you feel crummy to having to leave a marriage because you are getting hit everyday. Whatever, once the preparation is done, the understanding complete, there is the simple and sometimes very difficult work of just stepping off that cliff, one foot in front of the other.

Now here in the middle of today I am stuck again in the push and the pull. For instance, I have a cord or more of wood to stack; wood that is now covered in snow and in the way of the snow plow when it comes. Wood I need, wood I helped split, wood that is ready to get onto the porch. Wood that is still in the spot it was yesterday when stacking it was on my list. And now, today, I'm at the end of the procrastination line. I know I'll have fun doing it, I know I will feel accomplished and glad for it being taken care of, but still, here I sit, writing, drinking tea, petting the dogs by the fire.

Is there a self-help book for this? The one that tells you to put it on a list, prioritize it, come up with the worst case scenario and then explains out to just get up forgodsake and put on your boots and gloves and get to work?

That's what I am looking for.

Routine.

First things first, hit the little button on the phone alarm and give myself five more minutes of sleep. Do it again. Maybe even again. It's now 5:20. Do the stretch that Val Leoffler said would change my life if I did it everyday. So far so good. Get out of the German flannel sheet layers of a warm bed, try to remember where I put my glasses, head to the bathroom to pee. Turn on the kitchen light, check the temps--this morning "outside" read 18.2º and "inside" 51.1º--put on the water for tea, or for the unusual morning, like this one, coffee. Grab the dogs' cong and stuff with kibble and a little chicken, start working on the fire. This morning I had to scoop out some of the ash in order to make sure there would be enough room for the wood that will be necessary throughout the day. Cut up a little kindling, set it in just so, crumple up newspaper, mostly unread, and give it a light. I've been known to be a little heavy handed with the fire as of late, which generally means I put too much in to start and then it doesn't, start, or does but goes out easily. Start with pine, get it going, move to some hard wood to keep it hot while I'm out, off to a walk with the dogs in the now snowy meadow and maybe, if it isn't too icy, I'll walk to work.

Get my phone, calendar, wallet, sunglasses, warm hat, and camera into my backpack. Start thinking about what's going to be for lunch. Take the dogs out to pee and poop and run away from me because they love the snow so much they'd rather be prancing around and in trouble than inside and eating breakfast. Remember to find my slippers, again, but wear my crocks out and freeze my toes. I often freeze my toes. Turn my attention to the blue sky, the first light of day, the snow stuck to the pines in my backyard. Think, "wow, I really live here."Start thinking about what's on my schedule for work. Decide there is nothing I need to prepare for; am relieved that the days of feeling like I have to prepare are over, at least for right now. Think about what to wear to work. If I walk, I won't be able to wear my pants (cotton, the death fabric in winter) so will have to plan for more in my backpack.

Start thinking about the time, look at the time, remember the dog walk will be a little slow getting there due to the icy roads. Think about the one homeless guy here and worry for him. It's now 20º, but that doesn't make it warm enough to be an older person living in the frozen wilds; even if your voices are telling you it's the only safe place to be. Wonder why it is that I've had cold toes, due to improper foot attire, since I was a very young person. What does this say about me? Okay, time to stop writing so I can get the toaster out and my little egg pan. I need to make my lunch, clean up my coffee dishes, make my bed.

It doesn't vary much, this routine. The weekends and holiday's are different, of course, but still recognizable. I could run a clock by my routine, and be about in the same place at the same time every morning. Like today, a little behind due to writing and ready to fry my eggs.

What's your routine in the morning?

Gratitude.

This one will have to come in parts. I'm still trying to get this "writing thing" down. I think about writing a lot; when I first wake up, when I'm out walking, sometimes when I'm cooking dinner, and most certainly when I'm sitting in the awful light of the Mammoth Hospital ER waiting to evaluate a patient who is potentially harmful to self and/or others (as I've been several times this call schedule). For reasons that have to do with total pitch darkness and cold temperatures, I haven't been able to get myself out of bed before 5:30 in order to make time for writing. Now, too, there is making a fire for warmth, which takes time, and the aforementioned training I am doing, mostly in the afternoon and evening, taking time and much effort. I think about writing while I'm strengthening my mostly non existent core muscles or practicing my form while doing lunges and squats in the forest. Okay, so now I write. In parts.

Around our office we often discuss why some of our clients, maybe even most of them, do not seem to have or express gratitude about what we offer them. Not the kind of, "I'm a piece of shit and couldn't live without you" gratitude, but more of the, "hey I notice you are a./feeding me, b./housing me, c./helping me get MediCal, d./listening to me talk about my terrible feelings, e./getting me into re-hab, f./keeping me out of jail," gratefulness. Perhaps what we are looking for is an exchange that recognizes our work? It doesn't feel like ego to me (but, please point it out if it does to you), more like a place to recognize that others (us) are working hard to give you opportunities or to make your ends meet a little more.

We are, in my office, mostly women. This is the first thing I wonder about. Do we participate in the message that we are taught, the one where we are expected to be helpful and invisible? Maybe some of us, but most of us are rather crusty about "not working harder than the client" and while we are good at our jobs and take what we do seriously, it's not all that we are so we don't need people to need us so we feel valuable or important. Maybe it's that, as women, the expectation is we are there to "mommy" those who didn't get what they needed way back when and so they get to project their "bad mommy" deal onto us? They take the food, the clothes, the cash, the services, the help and feel entitled to our efforts. The "I didn't get it then so I deserve it now" point of view, perhaps.

Not all clients are in this group, of course. Some are too sick, too fragile to notice much. Their voices or their addiction is much to loud and drowns out everything else, literally. But often the one's we, as a team, work the hardest on end up being the most entitled and least grateful. I'll make a confession here: I do not do well with entitlement. Don't like it, don't believe in it, think it's cultural and therefore not really a part of what is real about the human condition. It is the American way, if you think about our cultural dialogue or the way we, as a collective, treat the planet, so I get that, but still, my hackle goes up when I hear the call of entitlement.

Since I'm a supervisor, it's my job to understand why trends happen. At our sober living house, again generally, the folks who come and go do not express a sense of belonging or gratitude for having the opportunity to live there. It's a common occurrence, so I suspect there are things we are and are not doing that add to this dynamic. I tend to think that humans need to have rituals and conversations about their place in the world, and so I've introduced some of this to the dialogue and experience of those who live in our house. For instance, I tell the residents often how hard the lead person who they deal with, the one who oversee's their daily life and makes sure the bills are paid so they have heat and electricity, works to make sure they have what they have. I figure this gives them some insight, or at least a chance for it, about what goes into their experience of home. I don't have measurable results about this, but I do think the energy around, "where's my....that you owe me," as calmed down some.

Today at our staff meeting I'll talk about the three people I've seen in the ER this week. The back story is we don't get paid very much to be on call and the work is tricky and stressful and takes away from your ability to sleep well or have time off on your weekend; the rest of that story is, we all take it very seriously when we get called in and are professional to the hospital staff and the patient in question, even when one or the other might be screaming at you. I won't look for gratitude there, though from myself I will make sure I account for all it takes for me to do this and do it well. On the larger scale I'll think about the system we have created as a society where some people find comfort in being in the ER bed, drunk out of their mind or "suicidal" (often both) because that is the kind of attention they cannot get anywhere else in their world. And, on a much smaller but very important scale, I'll be ever grateful to be able to finally have a beer after spin, tonight, now that I'm off the beeper.

More-much-on this later.

Comfort.

Let's say a long time heroin addict comes to see you. She says, "I just can't tolerate all these feelings. I'm overwhelmed and anxious all of the time now that I'm not using. Even my skin hurts sometimes." What do you offer her to help with the discomfort, the physical grip of anxiety, the dread of regret?

Okay, so now, let's say you are sitting with a man who left his children, three of them who are now adults, because he didn't like their mom and now he's feeling the shame, and the terror that accompanies a true encounter with lost time. He has a history of his father leaving and he always thought he'd be different, but now, in your office, sitting there crying, he's realizing he's probably caused the same heartache in his three offspring that's he's been running from for the last 45 years, and it's excruciating.

Or, there's the incest survivor, the one who lived with her mother who was drunk all of the time. She's finally feeling her way through the past so she might have a present she can attend to, be in, not keep at bay in whatever ways she can muster. She comes in and says, "sometimes I'd rather be dead than go through this. Isn't there something you can give me to help me feel better? Isn't there something to dull this even a little?"

To all I say, and I'm not joking, "take a warm bath, find a place outside where the earth is exposed, take your shoes off and walk around, drink some tea, call a friend, write, listen to your favorite song, and if all else fails, pray."

Absurd, yes? A warm bath is minutia compared to the rush of heroin; calling a friend when you feel like a big schmuck (and you were) is hardly relaxing; walking on the earth when you feel shame has eviscerated you might feel a little like an insult. But, what else is there, really?

Sure, some of us are more inclined to reach out to others, and being a self soother myself, my comforts are more solo, still whatever we have used to run, to numb, to get the fuck away, it doesn't work after a time. Psyche finally gets her way and the truth will not vanish even when we are loaded to the gills or locked in a cave. For the therapist, this is the time of harvest. We clap our hands and smile when this stuff starts leaking through the cracks; what better time for healing but when it feels like there is no other choice?

The songwriter/poet/genius Ferron, who I often head toward when I need a particular kind of comfort, the kind where words from someone who feels like she knows me and can pierce right through to the most tender of places, has a song called, "Shady Gate." In it she says," wash your face my good friend tells me/and clean your house in troubled times/I must admit it helps an awful lot/to go on loving what you love/you see I've trained my mind/I'm not afraid to look behind." How beautiful is that? How simple and perfect and so Ferron, who had horrific things happen to her when she was young and knows exactly how to tell us about it.

Some people go to meetings, some stare at the ocean, some like a bowl of steaming hot brown rice, perhaps some go to a movie; me, I like to walk for long periods of time with nowhere particular to go. How about you? A bath? Folding warm just out of the dryer laundry? Kneading dough? Popcorn? Standing in the wind?

What helps you to walk through your wreckage? What feeds your soul?

Diversion.

How did the listening experiment go? Did you notice anything new, different, the same?

The first client I saw yesterday is a great story teller. He has a particular way of using his name when he's portraying himself in a tale that I find intriguing and I'm still trying to explain it to myself so that I might be able to imitate it for you. He's not seeing us by his own choice, but I can tell he is the type to 'make the best of it.' Still, about ten minutes into a fifteen minute visit, I was engaged in my own brain talking to me about our day at the office. Three people were out with the same crud that I've just now shaken off and hacked out of my lungs and I was busy trying to sort out what I could do to help, and all that more important than the fella in front of me stuff.

I noticed what I was doing, thinking about something completely different than the human being in front of me and thought of the blog. I realized, there are degrees of distraction and, if we are going to use the 1-10 scale, I was about an 8 away from what was really much more important than my own list of things-to-do.

This got me to thinking, after the dude left (you'd call him a dude too, it's fitting), what is it like for the checkers at Vons? They deal with streams of distracted humans. Most of the checkers I deal with are as checked out as the people they are helping (could not resist that one), but some of them try to have a conversation, a little bit of a human interaction. They tell me the customers who are on the phone while they go through line are the worst. On the phone?? I know it happens, I see it and am annoyed. You know how research says we all have homicidal tendencies? Mine come out when I'm in a market or a restaurant and someone is on the fucking phone. It's a look into the worst part of American society-entitled, rude, disengaged. (I say American because when I was in France, I only saw maybe two people on the phone while they were walking the street and never, ever in an eating establishment).

Wow, that was a digression. Here it is not even light yet and I'm ranting.

There is a feeling that goes along with intent. It's the same feeling that comes with real, deep listening. Perhaps it's a state? Maybe that is a better way to explain it. Deep listening is a state of being that takes work, dedication, discipline. It's a way of breathing, has it's own posture, and requires focus on everything. How's that? Work for you?

The fellow yesterday, the dude, noticed my distraction; I saw it on his face, brief and obvious. I felt bad and said, "sorry, I just got distracted by my day." He said, because he is properly socialized, "it's okay," but it's not really. He made the trip and paid for an appointment that he doesn't want to have to keep, and I at least owe him my full attention. Because this human connection matters, and my anxieties, curiosities, or self motivated distractions really shouldn't take precedence over connection.

Today, I will practice better and deeper listening. Today, I will listen for the hurt in my co-workers barbed 'joke' about another co-worker; I'll listen for the despair in the bored-out-of-her-mind-to-be-here client; I'll listen and make connection.

Wish me luck. I'll report back later.

Listen.

How would you describe how you listen? When someone is telling you a story about their life, do you notice your own inner dialogue? Let's say you are at the grocery store buying some bread, tomatoes and two bananas and you run into a friend, one who is going through a divorce, you have time, or at least more than usual, so what do you do? How do you listen to him? Do you offer advice, condolences, empathy? What's going on in your head while he's talking? Are you thinking about your empty stomach and feeling the bananas in your hand? Are you able to track your own inner dialogue and do you realize that it's been the same for the last six conversations, the one that is impatient, thinks people are make too much of stuff? Or are you anxious and wishing he'd stop talking because it leads you into your own worry about your own marriage?

Lots has been said about the art of listening. Still, take some time today and listen to yourself when someone is talking. Are you there? What are your distractions? What is your story?

I can tell you, today I will be intent when listening to the kid who is trying to keep sober; I'll be distracted when my co-worker rants about some thing at work that she doesn't like; I'll realize I wasn't paying good enough attention when the postal worker calls me, "hon" and hands me my package; I'll hear myself rattle on about whatever anxiety has me a little off balance these days. I'll hear myself play up the wetness of the wood that I've yet to stack, and watch myself try to navigate my tardiness in sending my niece her birthday present. Sometime during the day, these two concerns will enter my thoughts when someone else has my ear and I'll wonder if I am drifting or if somehow my little anxieties are cuing me about something they are talking about.

Right now I am telling myself to get on with my morning routine so the dogs get a good walk and maybe I will have time for a second cup of tea. I'm thinking about the piece I'm working on, the one about confidentiality and overlap, while I'm writing this one. I'm wondering how much it rained last night, I'm grateful my ability to sleep well has returned, amazed at how dark it is outside. I'm worrying about the homeless folks who are still believing they can manage a life here in the winter. I'm knowing they are thinking that this, the rain and temps in the high 30's, is doable and I'm imagining how I might try to convince them otherwise, and notice that they are distracted by their desire to be right and can't hear a word I'm saying.

What are you thinking about right now? Is it a theme, a singular thought, a cue? Are you amazed at how much is happening in your mind when you are focused on something else? I, for one, plan to listen really well today. Not so that I feel better, but so the ones who are speaking to me might feel noticed. That's my goal for today.

We'll see how it goes.

Miners.

I've been thinking about the last person out of the Chilean mine. What was it like for him to be down there alone, waiting for the contraption to come get him? Did he worry about being stuck down there?

Did you ever play hide and seek and hide in the closet? Remember how dark it was and how time slowed down?

Do you think that last guy wished he could have stayed down there longer, finally alone?

Projection, I'm sure.

Fear and Dread, Part I.

This is the story that prompted me to write this blog in the first place. It is one of the central stories of my life, really. I've been writing it in my head for some time, and now will finally get it out, on whatever this is that used to be called 'paper.' It's a long one, or at least it seems so to me. It's a sad one, at least for big chunks. It's about love, and death, and tremendous loss and, of course, therapy. Here goes:

Last fall Ruby, the canine love of my life, began to show some "changes in behavior" (as the vets like to call it). It was subtle and occasional at first: she'd walk behind me more than usual when we were out hiking, she would miss easy jumps over creeks or rocks, she'd stay at the top of the hill that leads down to the meadow near my little cabin, not wanting to go on her morning walk. She also just didn't look or seem right to me and after many trips to the vet, our working diagnosis was "bad hips, old dog." That, to me, she was only 10, and therefore young, didn't change anyone's mind who was well read in the "large dog enters the senior years sooner" department. I was given meds to manage her perceived pain, and for a while, they did seem to give her some relief. She was a little more relaxed and the eagerness for romping returned, some. It was good, yes, but I was not relieved.

My dad was diagnosed with cancer when I was about 12 years old. He was around 36. It was a shock to everyone involved, still is, not just because of his young age, but also because he was once a world class athlete and was about as healthy and as strong as you'd find in a man. Once this news became a part of my family's lore, seeped into our hearts and our pores and our daily lives, dread soon followed. The experience of my dad having cancer, going through radiation and several rounds of chemo, and eventually, around seven years after being diagnosed, dying, has many facets as you might be able to imagine. It was pervasive, consuming and, over time, it became our normal.

Whatever thread I pull on when I think of this period of my life, I end up yanking on dread. What went along with my dad dealing with the cancer, and more debilitating, the worry that he could die from this, created a contingency of anxiety and fright. The possibility of his potential demise was spoken out loud, after all he was a pragmatic and honest man, but the emotion of it, the weight it placed on my growing teen aged shoulders and in the core of my being was mine. The copious amounts of pot I'd end up smoking later managed the sting for awhile, though such methods of pain management create their own complications. Still, nothing would make it go away. But you already know this part, yes? We all have something that is in our soul, walks around with us at all times, shows up in all things, that we can't shake because it is ours, forever.

As a result of this dread I do something that is called, "catastrophizing." In other words, I have a tendency to make small, normal occurrences into a catastrophe. I do this in two ways: I either think the small things I have going on in my body are life threatening, like the numbness in my left big toe is a sign of MS or Lou Gehrig's Disease (it's from over use), or the bump on my neck is a sign of cancer (it's a cyst or a mosquito bite). Or I have sudden thoughts, like flashes, of major disasters. I'll be washing the dishes and think, "there's going to be a major earthquake right now," or I'll be driving and just know that I'm about to have a terrible car accident at any time. I've learned that these flashes, these funny and real and terrible thoughts are cues that I am feeling dread about something else in my life. And, as a result, I've worked to not take them seriously, to kindly notice them and then look for the dread so I can deal with that instead.

When Ruby was what I now call 'declining' I had this story of dread in my mind. Something was really wrong, and I knew it. Or was it? I was certainly dreading her being older, and showing signs of the pain and slowing down that could have been the indicators of age, but I also was convinced that something else was going on, something in her body was killing her. What was I to do here? The years of work I'd done to quell the dread talk in my head, to allow for me to have a life and to manage living longer than my father, was in jeopardy. How would I know if I was really noticing something terribly wrong with my Big Dog or if it was that old catastrophizing coming up again?

What I did was allow myself to have both: the "she's fine, just older" story and the "she's dying" story at the same time. I figured that either way, as long as I could help to manage her pain, the future would show me in what direction we were headed. Don't get me wrong, I am not as zen as this sounds. I was hanging on by my fingernails, but I was also making sure that I did not flinch, because no matter where this was going, I wanted to have as many clear, certain, dedicated love memories with Ruby as was humanly and canine-ily possible.

Of course, life was going on during all of this. There was work to go to and dinners to make and walks to go on. Winter was on the way, and in October I had to move. I took the opportunity to find a place very close to my office which changed my commute time from about 45 minutes to just three. You see where this is going? As Ruby is getting worse, slowly, as the tumor that we didn't know about yet was invading her spine, I was able to come home for lunch and spend the time I would have been driving with her instead.

This all seems much more concentrated than it felt back then. The clumps of dread, the thick knowing was around, sure, but it wasn't central quite yet. I would feel the catastrophe bubble up and maybe I'd cry a little, but I'd tell myself I had to keep to the two stories, the old and the possibly true. And while there were days where it felt like she knew too, that the catastrophe was indeed upon the both of us, she seemed as dedicated to letting me have some breaks from the dread as I was. Ruby was loyal like that.

Winter came and the cold seemed to make her more uncomfortable so I got her one of those cool doggie jackets. She, of course, hated it, and I couldn't tell if it was that she didn't like the idea of what it meant or that she just didn't like to have to wear goofy clothes (or maybe she didn't like green?). When I look back now, none of the photos of Ruby in her jacket project joy or fondness. She isn't smiling, not one bit.

On December 24th, as I do when I am in Santa Cruz, I went to my own therapy (which I love) with E. (whom I love as well) and while there I was talking about the dread I was feeling about Ruby and my attempts to have the positive parallel story along with my usual foreboding narrative. Mid-story I got a flash of memory of when I was 16 and cresting the hill on my way home from basketball practice and seeing my Grams's car parked along the curb in front of the house I grew up in. I remembered the dread I felt, palpable and like metal in my mouth. I remembered that this meant my dad was in the hospital and some frantic call went out to my grandmother to come be at the house to take care of her son's three grandchildren, while my mom fretted and paced in some dingy hospital waiting room and my father was treated or misdiagnosed depending on the time. I felt, could see as clearly as if it was happening right then, my hand on the brass door nob at my house and could smell the familiar and comforting scents of home. I could feel the ambivalence of needing to go in the house and wanting to run (I wanted to run so bad); the knowledge of the rock and the hard place, the truth of the situation, the undeniable truth.

I knew then that Ruby was dying. I trust those flashes sent by Psyche. The dread of the past had met the dread of the present and they were the same. The catastrophe of my past, the story of decline and then death, and the loss I was left with, was now, again, in my heart and my bones and I had to find a way to walk with it, to deal. I had an opportunity to face what was happening with open eyes, to not flinch, and to forgive my young self, my baby sixteen year old oldest sister self, for the inability to hold it all, to make it better somehow.

There isn't a way to explain how it is to grow up knowing about death, about the loss that comes with it, about the permanence of forever. It's stressful, sure, and it's daunting, yes, but the part that is most true is that it is what it is. This story about my dad is sad for all of us; it is not a story any of us would have chosen, for sure. We all, my mom, my brother, my sister, are still mulling it, managing it, telling it as if we might be able to understand it better. We are all weathered by it. And, we are bonded from it, to it, with it.

As a kid, I tried to cross the threshold of my house, turn the brass door nob, and enter as the adult those inside would need. Could I? No, not really, but it gave me a role and, I hope, gave them something solid to hold onto. I'd talk with them, keep to the routines my parents had so firmly developed, make attempts to help us all manage what was completely unmanageable, comfort that which cannot be overcome. And then I would do whatever I could to get away from the feelings, the helpless and devastating dread. I've always been a little mad at myself about this, about the hiding. I know, I know, I was a kid and all that blah blah, but it's been real for me; the feeling that somehow I might have done this differently back then and the outcome, at least the emotional one, might have been smoother, easier, kinder than it turned out to be for all of us.

So here I was, right back where I started, brass door nob and all. Ruby was clearly in trouble. It was not hips, it was not age. She was losing the ability to use her back legs (but her big tail could still wag, thank god, I loved that tail so much) and I was in full dread. I counseled myself to take this opportunity to be gentle with myself, to seek the forgiveness I didn't realize I'd been looking for by feeling it all this time. What choice did I have, really? Okay, yes, I could have hidden more, I could have looked away, but you see, I knew how this would play out. I'd been on the other side of 'forever' and knew what would lie ahead. I knew, in my cells and my soul, that what was happening would be mine to keep and now I could have somewhat of a 'do over' to do the parts, the deep painful parts, that I couldn't find my way through the first time.

About ten days before I had to put Ruby down she was needing help getting off and on the couch and my bed (which is on the floor). I took the large cotton scarf my sister-in-law had given me, the one she gave me for christmas I think, and used it as a sling under The Big Dog's belly so she'd have help with movement. Before heading home, I'd sit in my car at work, now only 1.7 miles away, and talk myself through what was next. "Keep your eyes open, keep your heart clear, this is hard, it's okay to be scared, you are doing a good job." Then I'd slow to almost a stop as I got to my street, and just like when I crested that hill as a kid, I'd catch my breath, and stand at the door, brass nob in hand and walk into the comforting smells of home. Sometimes I'd find Ruby on the floor, stuck, and sometimes she'd be right where I'd left her; always she'd be sweetly wagging just the end of her tail (like a rattlesnake, I used to tell her), so glad to see me.

Each day got a little worse; her nights became filled with panting. Giving her more meds seemed to help take the edge off and there was a tiny ray of hope that what was wrong could be repaired. So I kept my parallel stories going the best I could, just in case. On January 13th I had a friend help me get My Boopa into the car and the two of us headed up north for what would be our final night together. She'd lost all control of her back legs by now and her pain seemed to be growing. In Reno, on the 14th, she had an appointment for a special X-ray that would let me know if she had this one possible problem that was treatable or if, in fact, she had a tumor destroying her vertebrae and exposing her spinal cord.

January 13th, 2010 was the final day in a series of winter storms that brought many feet of snow to the Sierra. January 13th it was cold and, at least weather wise, quite unlike the spring rainy day of April 10th, 1976. There was driving involved both times, to Reno and, back then, to the UCLA Medical Center. There was a kind of screechy sound in my head, loud and pervasive. There was the taste of dread in my mouth and the panic that goes along with knowing this is the last time where I'd feel the warmth of life, see the love that is shown so clearly through the eyes. And there was me, there, alive, doing everything I could to gather the last look, to sear in my memory the last time I held his fingers, the last time I got to kiss Ruby's soft ears.

On January 14th, 2010 I held Ruby in my lap when the vet administered the pink solution that would relieve her pain for good. On April 11th, 1976 I drove to UCLA and saw on the nurses face what would shape my life forever; that my father had died. On both days, I would drive myself home, feeling the excruciating shock of permanence and the numbness of loss. On both days I would scream in my car so loud I can still hear it and on both days I would think I would go crazy with grief. And in the end I would find that back then, when I was 12 and 16 and 19, the truth of the matter is that there was no comfort, not for any of us. There was carrying on, there were a lot of attempts to look away, but there was no comfort. It just was-plain and unendurably simple.

What I know now is that that kid, the me who stood at the door afraid to enter the house and equally afraid not to is forgivable. What she didn't know was that there was no way to hold it all; no chance to make it easier. She flinched then because there was no other way for her to deal. And that the me now, the 54 year old, would do this loss well because of what we'd already been through.

My dad used to talk to me about Socrates and he used to weep while he conducted, in the air, some symphony playing loudly on the stereo. He used to work with me on my jump shot and would convey passion in just about everything he did. He'd recite Cyrano de Bergerac when we'd be on hikes and sing Man From LaMancha at any given moment. Ruby used to sit next to me, as close as she could get, while I would drink my morning tea. She'd wait for me on the trail, just ahead, with a big smile. She'd push her big head under my arm when I was trying to make a fire or write on the computer. She used to talk to me about the fine art of giving your sweet dog attention. Both of them loved me. Both of them left too early.

I live in the Sierra, in part, because my dad (and my mom) made it such an essential part of my growing up, of my life. He loved it here I think more than anywhere. We never got to have that conversation, but yesterday, when I picked off some sage and rubbed it in my palm so I could take big whiffs, I remembered him and how he'd jump out of the car when we'd first get here, take some sage between his fingers and have us each take it in, "smell this," he'd say. More, I think I live here because I know what it's like to live with regrets and I didn't want this to be one of them.

The dread still rises from time to time. It's tamer, more like a kitten coming out of a hiding place to play. I am calmer in my deepest interior for having held the gaze of losing Ruby so clearly. There is more of this story to tell, the one of loss, of courage, of how to live without comfort. And, there is something I can only figure to call 'gratitude' for having the chance and for still having the want of love, the willingness to lose. I'm not sure how to end this part today except to take Razz and Mavis on a walk and to remember them all, the one's who have left, with something I can only think to call 'love'.

Thanks for listening.

Today's news.

It's been a bit of a ride as of late. I've traveled to Sacramento for work, to Santa Cruz for Masao and Kim's wedding, have come home to inches of snow and hints of a very cold winter. Can I just say, I'm not ready for winter? Not only in the emotional, winter is a lot of work, takes diligence and vigilance kind of way, but also in the simply practical, my wood isn't split much less stacked way. I came home from Santa Cruz and the split wood I do have, my only source of heat, was soaked from the rain that came before the snow. This meant, in the dark and cold, I had to move a quarter cord or so of the waterlogged heat source from the drive way, where it needs to be during the fire hazard summer months, to the porch, where it lives during the needs to be out of the elements and away from the snowplow months. So is the life of having to do things even though you might be tired from driving more than 8 hours to get home, some of which is in the dark (the worst time to be driving when the deer are migrating).

Anyway, I've been a little obsessed with noticing the daily tasks involved with this life I lead. From the way I make tea to how I choose what wood will go into the fire and what gets put aside for making kindling (not to mention that which Mavis tries to bring on our walks, into the house, and so on). This attention to detail provides me with much pleasure, but also helps me to calculate and measure how much I do in a day. In the world of "too busy" I enjoy the exercise of noticing. Noticing what I know, what I am afraid of, where I come up short. Most of all, noticing the threads that are my life; how I cook eggs, the special and unique whistle I've created (without thinking about it at all) for each dog in my life, how completely satisfying it is when I take the lint out of the dryer's trap.

And, more than usual, I've been feeling too close to the veil between me and the terror in our world. I'm not sure why, really, but I feel the world and the pain of the people on this planet more than I normally might. It's not that I forget about all the crazy shit humans do to their environment and the beings that live in it, but it has been quite awhile since I've felt it so deeply. Maybe it's being around the increase in crises at work (happens this time of year, when it gets cold and the first snow falls, because those who live in the woods realize they need to get inside and cannot afford to); being witness to such raw, real, excruciating need is daunting and I'm not sure I have the skills to manage it sometimes.

How do we meet human pain? I know it's an age old question, but is there an age old answer? Before I moved to the Sierra, I used to come to the eastside to manage the stress of being a witness. I came here a lot and once I discovered winter camping (and how to build a snow structure for sleeping) it added to the time I could spend in my beloved mountains. I used to crave the expanse and openness, the pure wildness of the wilderness that is here. And now that I live here fully, I still am drawn to the same feeling of Place and I still feel the relief that comes with walking on frozen ground and seeing the aspens exploding in their fall colors. And then there are these times, where I feel a combination of hopeless, helpless and fear.

The recent media attention to gay suicides and hate crimes is what really set me to thinking, to feeling the weary stretch in my well constructed veil. Of course it feels personal. The danger and the reality of life as someone different. These events call on my argument against gay marriage. Not the marriage rights per se, but the co-oping of gay culture and the comments, the complacency that comes with it. "What's the problem, now you have marriage, we're all the same, right?" It reminds me of when Obama was elected and that night the pundits on the news had the audacity to say, "this proves we are past racism in our country." Really?

Since I live in a rural area, I live in a place where the majority of folks didn't get the memo telling them that saying hate filled things about whomever is wrong. More importantly, I live in a place where difference is seen as dangerous. FoxNews is the main news source here and it is taken seriously; it is treated as fact and the fear that it mongers is absorbed without question. I work with the poorest people in the county, the people who would benefit from the dreaded "social programs" they think "others" shouldn't have, the people who get their information from television, who have come to believe that they are not "the other", the people who vote. This FoxNews deal is working. And when we "liberals" rail against it, those who see it as truth become even more entrenched in their beliefs.

Television is the opiate of the people. And, my spell check, which I rely on tremendously, didn't underline FoxNews. Maybe this is the scariest thing of all?

Am I digressing? From toast and eggs to the frightening social narrative?

With clients we are taught not to be "political" in our work. We are taught to let clients have their belief system, and we therapists shall have ours. But what of the ethical dilemmas regarding the poorest folks voting for policies that will make them poorer? Is it therapeutic for me to point this out, or is it me imposing my political agenda? When someone cracks a gay "joke" in a group I'm doing, how do I separate my life, my belief from my work? What if it puts me in danger? Is it still my responsibility? Is the danger a projection?

This I know: there are many questions. There is the grey area, the unknown, the need to be visible. There is danger, there is change, there is the human heart. There are peppers and garlic and fresh greens in my kitchen that were grown in my area because a group of hearty people believe in sustainable agriculture even here in place where the season for such things is teeny. There is poverty, there is hate, and there is lint in my dryer's trap. Today there is some fear to walk with, some leaves to scatter on the frozen ground, some ice in a creek no one has yet discovered. This is what it's like, right, to live? Right?

Answers welcomed.

Where did the time go?

There is so much to say. I think about writing often. I dream about it, "write" (usually out loud) when I'm walking, when I am in a meeting, even when I am at my spin class gasping for breath. Turns out, however, it takes time to actually write; open ended time. Right now, I don't have a whole lot of that special type of hanging out with the words time, so I am working on having two days a week where I squeeze a little more of the stated above necessary and desired time out for writing.

We are a culture who gives lee way and permission to those who say, who use, "I don't have time" as their reason, their excuse, the cause. What happened to that time, anyway? For those with kids, a job (or two), a few friends and a desire to sweat at least once a week, it's tough to find the time to get involved in the things we like, we miss, that feed us. But what about those of us who like to watch television, who hang at the bar, who work too long hours because 'time management' isn't a skill? Is time like money that way? Can't keep track, don't keep track, so there's never enough?

Today I will have five minutes to deal with a work issue that believes it deserves at least a half of day of my time. How will this go? Do I 'rob peter to pay paul'? Do I ask the urgent to wait? Do I give some of my time, the time I use to walk to work or get my notes done before leaving for Santa Cruz, to the cause? How much time do I allow it to take up in my head, this urgency that is fueled by a small glitch in the work flow that has been asked to carry years and decades of hurt on it's little back?

People like to talk. Have you ever noticed how hurt people, people with broken hearts, like to talk more than the subject seems to be able to bare? The broken heart goes to work in the person who gets bent about the way the paper clips get put away and then meets the broken heart of the person who tries to do everything right. And then what? Urgency. Scarcity. A meeting.

Whatever it is, however it pans out, it will take time.

This I know.

Stuck.

Is there a name for that place, that time between when you go to bed and then, finally, go to sleep? That place where it feels like you might have been awake forever but then something stirs you, like a puppy who needs to go out, now!, because she ate something strange and now has diarrhea, and you realize you've actually been asleep, but it doesn't feel like it-not one bit. It's a place where the mind can be busy or the body awake even though the eyes are shut and the desire for sleep, for real honest to goodness slumber, is so strong the idea of getting up, of reading, of anything other than that sweet sensation of drifting off is simply ridiculous.

I spent eternity in that very place last night. Not much was on my mind and it seemed impossible that my long day and hard hike wouldn't have helped the body toward tired. Still, I had a plan: to go to bed early, read a crappy story in The Sun (that wasn't in the plan exactly, but it is the way it worked out), and get a whole lot of sleep under my belt for what is going to be quite a week. I did drift off kind of quickly, as is my pattern, but then, having nothing to do with the puppy who was whining at the door first at 11 and then again at 1:30, I was awake.

The stars at 11 were fabulous and the moon at 1:30 was so silver it was well worth being out. I did think, too, "I'm sure glad it isn't snowing right now," and I startled when I heard the distinctive crunch of twigs and brush up on the hill. Thought you might want to know.

Where I'll feel this the most today is in the vocabulary part of my brain. I'll be searching for the simplest of words, you just watch. I'll go on auto pilot with certain clients if I don't keep myself on task. I'll choose riding my bike to work instead of walking. I'll make certain Mavis doesn't find any dead fish or godknowswhat to eat while we are on our evening walk. All due to spending too much time in the place where sleep is one part exactly what I want and equally just out of reach.

All in a day my friends, all in a day.

Pacing.

Let's say you are the therapist and I am the client. I sit down and say, "I'm getting ready for winter today." What would you say back to me? Would you nod, ask a question, make a comment about how you remember what it was like for me last winter? Would you bring up all the shoveling I had to do to keep the house from being buried? Would you laugh when I said, "I can manage living in a snow cave for 48 hours but not for 4 months," or would you remind me of how anxious I was during that 48 hours of cave dwelling while it snowed more than 5 feet outside?

Would you ask, "since 'everyone' asks you, 'why not get someone to help you with all the shoveling?' why not?" Or would you know that I kind of like the process of getting my thickest gloves, biggest jacket, my warmest shoes, gators and my snow pants on before I head out, two shovels in hand-the green one for the big, over the shoulder loads and the black one with the long handle to scoop up the snow that's next to the windows? Would you know I have to make steps in the berm to get up top, above the roof, so I can dig away from the house and then down to the windows? All for a little light? Will you assume the dogs go with me and that Razz loves to chase the snow I throw over my shoulder and Mavis, at least last year, gets buried completely? Do you think you'd know to ask about when the snow is over my head or about the time I got stuck, up to my arm pits, and was grateful I'd anticipated this possibility and had thought of a way to get out? Will you note your fear or will you project it onto me?

Will you notice how I shift my eyes to look up and to the right when I am trying to remember whether I told you that I make playlists on my iPod for when I am out shoveling? Will I feel like you'd understand me better if I told you what's on the play list entitled, "Missing Ruby so much and shoveling, shoveling..."? Do you think we could use this as a marker to gage where I am regarding the loss and the change and the grief I've experienced in this last year? Do you think it would matter?

I know you wouldn't bring out your DSM diagnostic manual to give me a label (because I wouldn't stand for such things), but would you think I might have an Adjustment Disorder? And when I started to wonder, out loud, if maybe I ought to be dealing with this change and my grief better or at least differently, would you assure me that I am still adjusting to having changed so much in my life and that it is still reasonable to miss my Big Dog?

Do you think you could help me calculate how many cords of wood I'll need? Or, do you think you'd note my anxiety in trying to figure out such things? Would you imagine me a squirrel or a bear when I told you how I'm noticing my neighbors piles of cut wood? Would you think to yourself or would you say out loud, "how big is a cord of wood and how long does it last?" Would you worry that this is too much self disclosure or would you feel familiar with me in asking such questions?

At some point might you ask about my morning routine and how I make sure I have kindling already cut so that I don't have to sweep away snow, get out my hatchet and make some on the spot? Might you think to ask me if I remember to put on my gloves when I am doing these chores, and when I tell you, "no, I usually try to out run the freezing of my fingers," would you think that pathological or would you file it under, "doesn't wear slippers until it hurts either"? Would you know I don't like my ears to get cold so I have a warm hat in my car and one that I keep on the mantel? Would you imagine that sometimes I like to walk in the snow barefoot because I want to feel the earth and the elements and like the look of my footprint in the fresh powder?

Did I remember to tell you I have a plan for if I cut myself while splitting wood or making kindling? Did you note that I also am very careful when I pour the boiling water from the pasta that's just cooked to perfection into the sink? Did I tell you that I used to take my glasses off for this procedure so that they didn't get steamed up, but then I realized that it hurt my eyeballs to be that close to boiling water, so I've adjusted? Would this sound mundane, a waste of therapeutic time, or would it fit right into how you've come to know me?

Do you think it would be easy for you to perceive how I am bracing myself for the cold and the wind and the living alone when it is storming so hard even the old time locals are impressed? Do you think it would be you or I who introduces the topic of fear and the tactics I use to manage the various forms of being scared? If I told you it's easier to manage the fear of a big storm, of feet and feet of snow covering my car and driveway and back windows than it is for me to deal with how scared I sometimes feel by the gangs of kids that hang out down the street from where I used to live in Santa Cruz, would you think that odd? Would you be envious?

At what point would you bring up the comfort I find in the smell of a roasting chicken in my oven when it's storming outside? Do you think that would be a good time for me to bring up how clean the dogs always are the winter because we do not see dirt for many months at a time or how much I love the feeling of my clean flannel sheets when I go to bed after a day of snowshoeing?

Will you notice the cracks in my armor or the breath I take when I'm speaking from my desire or my wonder? When my tenderness shows, how might you address it so that I feel you see me clearly? When I describe the bear in my backyard or how Mavis feels when she lies next to my leg will you know I am telling you something special? Will you comment on my expression when I try to articulate the difference in snow textures or how it feels to be in single digit temperatures? Do you think I will ever be able to express what the winter silence sounds like? Will you wish you knew as well?

Will you feel disarmed when I tell you "thank you" or will you feel the same?

State Capital.

Today I head to Sacramento to attend meetings and workshops put on by the State of California for those of us who work as drug and alcohol program directors for our county. That's my job title these days, and if you know me, you'll know there's a little irony in that. I'll go from my small county existence to a large county for the small counties meetings. Here, I'll be in a large hotel conference room in what now feels like a very large city and discuss the effect of budget cuts on our small counties. I'll represent the smallest county there--12,000 people at last count, and shrinking. We have 4.2 people per square mile here in Mono County, which seems about right; after all, I saw four people (and six dogs) when I was hiking after work yesterday.

This will be the first time I'll consciously prepare myself to go from a two stop light, no traffic town to trying to find my imbedded driving fast on the freeway memory. I learned to drive on LA freeways, so I do know how to manage heavy metal rushing around me at high speeds. Still....to be around the city takes an odd combination of tuning out and paying attention. "I'll take the notice but don't notice plate please."

The hotel where I stay prides itself on giving their guest "a home town feel." One way they do this is to remember your name, so I'll be Ms. Roberts for the next three days. Of course, I am living in a small town in a small county where I am beginning to experience the phenomenon of "being a local." Just yesterday Scott the postal worker remembered my name when he handed me the package of tea I'd just purchased over the internet. Donna knows me at Vons and Lynne always greets me by name when I come into her pet store. This will only increase, of course, as we get past the "how do I know her/him" look when we see each other about town. You have to be here awhile before the locals will give you the nod. You have to prove your salt, get through a few winters, before the person who sees you everyday is willing to remember your name.

At my meetings there will be a panel discussing the effects of medical marijuana on the treatment of addiction. I'm interested to see if there will be a collision at the intersection between rigidity, hysteria and reality. Mammoth and Mono County is just beginning the dialogue about medicinal cannabis dispensaries. There's a lot of, "we're not like that" in the political talk, but as the director of drug and alcohol services for the county, I can tell you otherwise. Just as a citizen walking the trails ("what's that smell?") I can tell you we are in fact "like that." Doesn't take a rocket scientist or a 'drug counselor' to figure out snowboarding culture demands a bong hit or two. Not to mention, all the poor young people I see with "back problems", who got their pot card in LA.

At this conference I'll be interested in the dialogue between those who do, those who did and those who might benefit if they would. I think I see a cultural tide changing, but can we adjust? Will each "side" see the other's point of view? Will anyone say, "mellow out man" or "dave's not here"? Will I?

Big city politics for a small county gal.

A scramble.

This morning I want to write about how keeping confidentiality for clients over the years has made this therapist weird. Okay, weirder. I also want to make sure I have time to walk the dogs and then walk myself to work. This morning I was hoping to have the wherewithal to link confidentiality, loneliness and gossip together, but I still need to make my lunch and begin packing for the trip I'm taking to Sacramento tomorrow. It's chilly in the cabin and I've already voted against making a fire by donning my sweatshirt, but I still haven't rummaged around for my slippers and my toes are cold. I think my slippers are in the closet in a box marked, "winter clothes." A box of wool and polypro that will soon be replacing cotton t-shirts and shorts. I've been thinking about how it was, and to some degree still is, a special burden to hold peoples' lives in my heart and mind, to be at a party and have the group there talking about someone I'm working with and not be able to participate in the conversation. How the code of keeping confidentiality makes the therapist be a therapist instead of a person at the party or sometimes even a friend.

But, I've got some things to get to before I head to work. I want to be able to put something good in my training journal, after all, and a brisk walk to work, and then home, would be just the thing. I also want to be out in the fall chill, see the yellow in the aspens beginning to show, maybe catch a bear on her way in for the day. And I need some time to walk myself through a conversation I'll be having at work with a therapist who did not keep her oath all that well and now has some trouble with the legal system as a result. She said, "you don't know how hard this is," and rather than be offended, I was reminded-oh, but I do.

Anyway, I'll get to it. I'll write about therapy and confidentiality and about how the client will say, "you only show up, you only care, you only say nice things to me because I pay you." I'll write about the work of a therapist to keep a relationship safe, I'll write about the strangeness of being so involved in that relationship but having that involvement be invisible, I'll write about love.

Now, instead, I'll get outside and freeze my ears, watch my dogs chase the impossible to catch squirrel and breathe in some of the thin air. I'll wander a little and be glad for the trees and squawking jays. Later, I'll write.

Commitment.

What's the difference between commitment and routine? Is it that I have a commitment to feed my dogs and a routine for doing so? Can you have one without the other?

While I may be a complex human being, I have a pretty simple life. I don't like the feeling of chaos and stress so I take care when saying what I will or will not do; I have "no's" at easy reach, and think about what's at stake if I come upon a "yes." I've learned to measure my energy and desire to do things, see people, or take on new tasks. And, whew, it sure has taken me a long while to feel comfortable with this, with basically my having a conversation with myself about how I might feel if I do or do not do say 'yes' to a request; as if my life, my energy, my comfort is less important than someone else's. But you know that story, right?

Why is this? Well, part is my own belief about the importance of being reliable. Part is growing up in a family where there was great emphasis on follow through. And then there is the pesky deal about being a girl, where a "no" can ruin your ability to be accepted or be "normal." I mean, girls are supposed to be all about the "yes." "Will you do this for me?" "Well, yes, of course, because if I say no you might not like me." "Will you put yourself second for your family...your job....your kids....your role in the society?" "Why yes, of course, for if I should say 'no' what would you think of me? What if you thought of me as 'selfish'?" Stuff like that.

Carol Gilligan wrote about this in her work, "In A Different Voice." Not about yes's and no's exactly, but about how girls find their identity in relationship. There can't be a lot of "no I won't" if you want your relationships to work. It's a risky business to put yourself first.

But, I digress. Really, this thought began when I opened my cupboard to get my morning medicine for my thyroid, the one I take routinely (have for close to 20 years now), and thought about how I'm not as committed to my calcium and vitamin D3. I can't take them all at the same time, so that explains why the latter couldn't just become part of the regime of the former. I am what we call, "medication compliant" when it comes to the thyroid hormones but not so much with the Ca and the D3.

This lead me to think about my new relationship with Chris Morgeson, the trainer dude who, like I said in an earlier post, has qualified eight times in the World Championship Hawaii Ironman competition. That's two miles of ocean swimming, 112 miles on a bike (often in terrible head winds and always in heat) and then 26.2 miles of running. All in one day. Imagine the commitment to be able to do this. Jeeze.

Okay, more digression just took place. Mr. Morgeson told me part of "enjoyment and compliance" involved keeping a training journal. Now, I know how to keep these, I still have mine from all the years and years I committed to cycling. The pages are all funky from the sweat that dripped off my hands while I was writing things down at the gym. Today will be day four of my new journal, the one I am ultimately keeping for myself, but also the one that Mr. Ironman will be going over with me. I have to write down what I've eaten/ingested, my activity/exercise, my sleep, and how long I've stretched for. Nothing like writing all this down to bring awareness to the task or to the piece of toast I'm eating.

My process goes like this: I really like keeping track of things, so the act of writing it down is a huge pleasure, an easy commitment and routine. Okay, so the easy part, the enjoyable part, is keeping the training journal. But what does one write in this kind of journal? Things that have actually happened. Right, so then I have to make sure I have something worth writing down for "activity/exercise" not to mention writing in each thing I'm eating. Yikes. This is getting real.

Perhaps it's accountability first, and then the effect of the activity later? Now that's worth pondering. Did you notice part of the daily confession includes "stretching"? Ugh. I love the result, but really do not enjoy the process, and I find it easy to "forget". So, last night I thought, "I'll just cheat and say I did." I live alone so it's not like anyone could tell on me. My dogs certainly will keep it to themselves for fear of missing a meal should I retaliate. But, as I am wont to do, I noticed the thought, the urge, and took note; then I stretched. The commitment to this is to do it no matter what. The commitment I made to myself and the accountability I have to Mr. Heavy Metal Drummer Ironman Coach is why I signed up for this, right? It's not just for the result, it is for the process.

In therapy, most people come in with a goal in mind. They want to feel better, get their partner to change, or my favorite, "just be happy." It's another post (or three) to write about Americans and our notion of happiness, but it is what most folks say they want. Suggesting that learning to live with the hard feelings, the depth, the shitty stuff that happens in the world never goes over very well, so, in the beginning, I keep that to myself, that there is no "happy ever after."

In therapy, the process becomes the mission. If a client wants a particular something or other to happen, to feel better or perhaps less scared, then it will be their commitment to the process, to stick it out no matter what, that makes the difference. Just like in the world of fitness, nothing comes easy and there are no corners to cut if you want what you say you want. You can't just write down that you went to therapy, you actually have to do it. It doesn't mean life is drudgery, it means that life is life and if you take the easy road you don't get the prize you are looking for.

Tonight when I'm doing my stretching-fifteen full minutes-it will be about commitment because it sure isn't about routine. I'll think about my mom who says things like, "I can do anything for 15 minutes, an hour, a day, a week," when it comes to going to the dentist or having surgery or sitting through the symphony she really doesn't like. It's the cloth I am cut from, the one that won't let me cheat in my training journal, damn it.

How about you? Is routine simple and commitment difficult? The other way around? Am I the only one who spends this much time pondering such things?

Quite likely, I suppose.

Half full.

Shit happens. It's a fact. As you know, the cliche is to talk about your glass--half full or half empty? Do you measure what you have, how you feel, what has plopped itself on your path, or how much is in your bank account through your comparison to others, by what your family of origin thinks of you, by your culturally fueled sense of entitlement? How much control over this do we really have; can one fill the half empty glass or can things go so wrong that the half full receptacle goes dry?

Clients come in and tell their stories. They reveal some basic parts of their personality and their perspectives just in the telling. There's the person who just lost his job and has gone back to working at a fast food restaurant for double shifts because he needs to support himself and likes to feel productive. There's that guys neighbor, who has been living with her mom for three years now and complains, bitterly, that life is not fair because the only jobs out there are at fast food restaurants and she just can't see herself doing that. What's the difference between these two folks? Do you know?

Marvelous are the people who take a whole lot of terrible knocks in their life and still look for the good or, perhaps more importantly, decide not to dwell on the bad when it comes to how they view their friends, family members, co-workers. Tedious are the ones who use gossip as a way of communicating and use toxic anger as a way of "telling the truth." What is it about me that I see this as a choice? Is it? Or is it hardwired, entrenched?

This dilemma matters to me not just because it is a curious one. It matters in my work with clients and within my relations with family, friends and co-workers. People take their "glass" very personally, you know, and the fullness (or lack there of) always has a reason or a story to explain why. The guy I saw some years ago who was invested in "pointing out what's wrong because it's true," was a challenge for me. He couldn't see how his negativity and criticism was pushing people away; he really felt that his anger, which of course was hurt, shame and fear all mixed together, was a way to keep himself from the worry of being abandoned or hurt more. He's the guy who really had a lot going for him, but at the same time was lonely as shit and couldn't see why. You probably know guys like this at your work place or in your family. He's the one who complains a lot about the same things-the people in his life who don't do things right/well/correctly-and who drips with negativity when talking about his life even though you can see that he has a lot of what he says he's always wanted. Eventually he's the guy you avoid because interactions with him are unpleasant and annoying. He's the guy who comes to therapy to talk about all the terrible things in his world. The therapist then has to figure out a way to lead him to a fuller cup by way of conversations about how his toxicity won't keep him safe, only lonely.

Culturally we allow for this dialogue. We have television shows that speak to this base part of our personality; where saying shitty things is "honesty" and that "turning the other cheek, finding the good," is naive. It's that black and white thinking, again, and we are reduced to being right or being wrong, and who wants to be wrong? This guy I'm talking about, he was so concerned about being seen as a failure at relationships all he could do to manage that feeling was to find the failures in others and point them out before anyone might see his. The world is full of these folks, and so are therapy offices. Projection is abundant and, whoa, look out when it comes your way.

When Obama came along I was entranced by the tone he set. With Bush, there was a hostile, black and white, we are right, therefore you are wrong, tone. Obama spoke with an entirely different language and set out to redefine how we talked about difficult issues. Politics aside, these two narratives kind of speak to the glass. One is a way to see how we contribute to the problem and to be accountable for that and the other is to make the problem be about anything, anyone else so that we can bask in self righteousness. Problem is, the more self righteous the more bitter, the more "right" the more alone.

I guess it's kind of like 'emotional obesity.' The cultural phenomenon of taking the easy way out. Does my engaging in the toxic gossip about my family make me feel better in the moment? If yes, then have at it. Do I want to go for that walk the doctor keeps nagging me about? If no, then fire that doctor for not being supportive. Do I have to really imagine that the woman at the gas station, the one who was calling me a 'bitch', is frustrated and lonely or can I just scream back at her and feel vindicated? It's stuff like this, where the dominant psychological point of view is fueled by revenge, that keeps us stuck and the glass half empty. In therapy there is a little ditty that sums this up, "do you want to get even, or do you want to get better?"

If I see myself as a failure, am I? If I use anger to protect me, does it? If I still feel love for the person who hurt me, am I an idiot? If you act in ways that I don't like, should I hate you? If I don't feel safe, am I really in danger? If I point out her/his failures, will it shield me from mine?

If I see my glass half full, like I do this morning-brimming actually-am I a fool?

Compliance.


It would seem that now, at the end of the work week and after the first full week of trying out the writing blog, I have run out of things to say. The brain is a little numb from being on call, some especially intense focus on work projects, and from having a whole lot of contact with people during the week. I've also just started working with a trainer, my spin instructor Chris Morgeson, who, if you look him up, is an eight time World Championship Hawaii Ironman qualifier. He was also a drummer in a heavy metal band for a bunch of years and is about to run the Chicago Marathon "for fun". He's an intense dude and let me know last night after he had the spin class do "only two 15 minute hills at 80% effort," that he expects "enjoyment and compliance," with the training schedule he's setting up for me. I chose him because my middle name is "compliance" but still, I'm feeling a little intimidated.

Because I was in the ER twice during my call schedule, I now have a little bit of comp time to burn; this morning I don't have to be in until 10, and at the moment I feel like I'm on vacation. Mavis the alarm clock got us up at 6, and now the two dogs are really hoping to get down to Lost Lake, in our meadow down the street, for their morning walk. They clearly feel like we are on vacation too.


Next week I'll be in Sacramento for my quarterly State run meetings. It's a long story, but it is where I am learning what feels like millions of acronyms and where I have become aware of just how small of a small county Mono County is. We have somewhere around 11,000 people in the entire county and soon I will know just about all of them. Or so it seems. Anyway, in Sacramento, when I am not in meetings, I get my hair cut, go to Traders Joe, eat asian food, and will have some time with Erica, who very kindly comes up to meet me. It's a nice break and chance to enjoy the benefits of a very large county.


I'm still trying to sort out how to write about my relationship between dread and fear; about gossip and belonging, and to find a way to explain how I know what I know when it comes to therapy. Small tasks, but I will be compliant. And, I will enjoy myself. Most definitely.

Lunch.

My mom used to pack us the most amazing lunches. So good, my fellow high schoolers would meet me at the bottom of campus in the morning to see what they might get a bite of. "Did she make that egg salad again?" Everything in my bag (paper) would be portioned out perfectly and there was always a napkin folded neatly and placed along the side. I loved these lunches and it wasn't until I was a parent and trying to follow suit that I understood what it took to face tuna before breakfast and the energy it must have taken for her to make her three kids lunches for all the years and years and years that she did (not to mention breakfast and dinner).

Last summer I went to a memorial service for my high school basketball coach, Sylvia Holly, and one of my teammates told me she still thinks about those lunches. How, "she even made the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches seem special." It was my mom's way of taking care of us, doing her job (as she saw it) and she was really good at it. And now, there's a gaggle of us walking around, 35+ years later thinking of her killer tuna or the turkey on wheat while rummaging through the fridge to make sure there is some food to grab after the morning meeting.

At my work people always want to know what I'm eating; they want a bite or a sniff or the recipe that I never cook from. I didn't plan this, to be like my mother this way, but I am ever grateful to be so. That I have a relationship with tastes and smells, that I love the process of cooking, it's all my mom. She'd take us to do the weekly grocery shopping and I loved it. I'd wait back a little when she approached the meat counter and see her pick out something to ask the butcher about. She had friendly relations with these guys, she'd inquire about their kids, would ask about the best way to cook a certain cut of beef, and I could see how this mattered...to them, to her, to us.

My relationship to food is not just eating. It's about the color of the plump tomatoes I'll cut up for a snack and the thought I'll put into dinner. It's about the lovely tea I am drinking this morning and the time I'll spend at the (tiny) farmers market in my town. It's even about the nuts in my "food drawer" that my co-workers raid when the urge hits them (my mom loves mixed nuts). It's about pleasure, creativity, connection....and, the perfect egg salad.

Two beers.

Rare is the person who has been arrested who tells the truth about why or shows even an iota of accountability for their actions. The smorgasbord of responses to the, "how can I help you," intake question is meager. You have three items to choose from: 1./ arrested for a theft crime? "I was framed, the cops hate me." 2./ taken in for drunk driving? "I only had two beers." 3./ picked up for pot? "It wasn't mine, I was holding it for a friend." This is a true story. In all of the years I've worked with people, adults and juveniles alike, the stories are the same. It's as if they all went to the Excuse 101 class on what to say when the cop is tapping at their car window, red and blue lights flashing, wondering why they are weaving and the car reeks of stale booze. Did you go to that class? The one where the instructor told you to say, "only two beers" or the one that got your parents to call me because they too are convinced that the baggie of weed in your backpack, the one found by the copper at your school, was your friends, and that you've only tried it once.

Seriously, this very phenomenon happened in my office twice yesterday. The one picked up for burglary who was framed, who had an arrest record as long as my arm and was, "being watched by the cops 24/7." No shit sherlock. In a town this small, law enforcement knows you pretty well, and with all the times they've been called to your house, I'm guessing they have their collective eye on you. Then, later in the afternoon, the not yet 18 year old (read: can't get a medical marijuana card for his "bad back") who got busted for smoking on campus ("you smoke on campus and don't think you'll get caught?"), but cleverly answered the officer about "that baggie in your pocket?" "Not mine, I'm holding it for a friend." I won't go into the story about a woman one of the interns called me about who was "acting funny" but told him she'd "only had two beers."

Okay, so what gives? People don't go to excuse classes (I've asked) so how come the vast majority use the same lame stories to try and get out of their predicament? It must be part of our cultural narrative for it to be occur with such prevalence. What else could account for the lack of imagination?

New interns always come in telling me how they need to help client #1 in their repertoire, because "he really was holding it for his friend." They think I am jaded when I tell them some variation of, "he's lying to you, how can you help him be accountable?" until they too have heard it from client #4, 5, 11 and 27. I tell them, "pity the poor kid who really was holding it for his friend," because with all these stories, 1 in 13 is the actual account. Okay, I made that ratio up, but it seems about right.

The last guy who had the "only two beers" tale was stumped when I asked, "how big were those beers exactly?" His blood alcohol was four times the legal limit, so I joked with him that "two pony kegs might be more like it." Come on fella, think before you start telling your story, either tell the truth or get on the imagination wagon.

I realize we are not a truth telling culture. I believe that some people are indeed framed by law enforcement. I think marijuana should be legalized. Still, what is it about these stories? How about taking a stand or (gasp) being accountable? Is this too much to ask?

Puppy love.

Mavis is my ten month old puppy. I told her last night that we didn't have to get up early today, no alarm would go off to yank me from deep sleep into the dark morning. I made sure there was lots of enthusiasm in my voice so she'd get the message, and I'm pretty sure she did, but when the first light showed, she couldn't help herself and woke me to tell me how glad she was to see me. She loves to put her ever growing head under my chin and whimper while we are working on getting up for the day. She rolls onto her back, splayed out for a belly rub, sticks her cold nose into my ear, bites at my hand. It is such a sweet ritual I don't dare sour it with my wish for a little more slumber or my grumbles about getting up in the darkness. This morning, in spite of our talk last night, I was grateful for the Mavis alarm at six instead of the phone alarm at five. It's the small and the sweet things that make a day, really.

Mavis came into my life about a month after I had to put my beloved Ruby down. She was among a litter of puppies left in a box on some winter cold sidewalk in Reno and was available for adoption. I doubted myself on my way up to meet her (a four hour drive, with a storm on the way); I didn't know if my desire to fill some of the void was reasonable or if it would....would what? Be wrong to feel some comfort while also feeling such profound loss? I couldn't tell what was "right" but I was very aware of my belief that there was a correct way to do this, to grieve and be alone during the biggest winter we've had in 20 years. My compass was missing; I'd lost my ability to "know thy self." I was lost and I knew it, I couldn't tell what was instinct, what was desire, and what was me clawing at whatever I could to stop myself from falling through space. Still, while I drove past the motel where Ruby and I stayed the night before I got the news that she had a tumor invading her spine, our last night, with little Mavis sleeping on the seat next to me, somehow the juxtaposition didn't matter. Life was going on and now mine had Mavis in it.

My refrain during this time was, "there is no comfort," and it was true. Still is to some degree. There is a lot to say about this event, this dog Ruby, this experience of dread and knowing and doing what was right by her and by me, but that will come at another time. For now, I just let it all come through me because the only thing I can think of that might stall the pain for a little bit would be to shoot some heroin and I'm not inclined to do that.

Turns out Mavis has serious issues with her joints and bones. She's on a steady diet of pain medications and can't do a lot of the things puppies like to do or most of the hiking I'd like to do with her. There is the possibility that the final decision to alleviate her pain will come well before the ten years I had with Ruby. The vet tells me her bone plates will be done growing when she is a year and a half old, and then I'll know "which way this is going." That's this coming April, when I'll know if I have a few more months or a couple of years with my little alarm clock.

These are the times when I wonder about people who are deeply religious and/or the ones who have a psychological make up where their thinking is very clearly one way or the other; black or white. They may look strident from the outside, but maybe that is what comfort looks like.

In psychotherapy we pay homage to "the grey area," we tell clients "life is complex, complicated," and have the goal of helping them "sit with uncertainty". But really?

Okay, yeah, really.

Ruby is gone, Mavis is lying next to me, the Sierra sun is shining on my right shoulder and warming me for our morning walk in the meadow. I'll see clients today who are fresh out of jail, who are still shaking from detox from alcohol, who are doing everything they can to manage the reduction of their SSI (is it mental illness or is it poverty that makes people look, act, be crazy?). I'll greet the checker at our market who has been standing in one place for 6 hours, "do you need help out with that?," I'll wave to one of the cops I just saw in the ER, I'll talk to my co-worker about her evening, her long drive home, her attempts to manage her loneliness. I'll be in the grey all day. And when Mavis wakes me tomorrow morning I'll start all over again, in the dark this time, adjusting to the light.

Endurance.

Quite a number of years ago I saw a therapist who had a good reputation and was very expensive; something we are lead to believe goes hand in hand. I saw her for about a year before I believed my conclusion that she wasn't a good fit for me. I tried to dialogue with her about my perspective of therapy, where there is a conversation within the relationship about the relationship, but she remained steadfast in her psychoanalytic point of view and our discussions about a subject or topic would become circular, a closed system, and only about my feelings, never about context. She taught me more about how it feels to be on the other side of the "dominant cultural belief" in that she would hand out comments that were, for me, cultural, not personal, and then would not entertain any discussion about the matter.

Yesterday I dragged/walked myself up Tioga Pass for the 30th annual Tioga Pass Run, along Highway 120. There were 101 participants this year, more runners than walkers and a whole lot of cars, motorcycles, and huge RV's "sharing" the road. I struggled more this year than last, at least I think this is true, partly because I didn't train as much and partly because I got it in my head that it was too hard for me to do and lead myself to believe I could quit at mile 6 and then again at mile 9. I knew I wouldn't (so did you) but I spent an awful lot of time thinking I could or would. 12.4 miles and 3200' of elevation gain. It's not easy. I thought of this therapist, Jane, somewhere around mile 7, because we had once had a one sided conversation about that very area (mile 7) when I had come in just after riding my bike up Tioga Pass and told her of the struggle. It was one of a handful of times I realized she didn't understand me, and would not see it as a cultural difference. I'd come in proud and feeling accomplished for having pushed through the struggle; she reflected that I was "immature" for having chosen to struggle at all.

The culture is of the endurance athlete. There are many of us out there. Any event I do to, perhaps a century (100 miles of cycling) or at a half marathon (13.2 miles of running/walking/crawling), there are always a lot of participants. Some of these events are in their 30th or even 40th year. There we are, a large mass of nervous people who've spent hours upon hours, most of which are solo, in a bike seat or out on a trail, waiting for the event to begin. The events themselves are a big deal, but it's the hours and days of training that make the athlete.

At any rate, I left therapy after it became clear Jane wasn't going to help me with some of the things that came up in my head while I was cycling (which I was doing at the tune of around 300+ miles per week back then). I'd come in for a session after doing the Davis Double (203 miles on a Saturday), and wanted to talk about how, during the last 30 miles of the ride, in the flats, I'd been cruising along at an average of 18-19 mph, and kept saying in my head, over and over, "I can't do this, I can't do this." Well, of course, I was doing it, and riding at a good clip for having just finished 170 miles of hills. I wanted help understanding why I might be saying, "I can't" when I was. Jane, instead, wanted me to talk about "why you do things that are so hard." "I'm an endurance athlete," wasn't considered a proper answer and though she wouldn't tell me if she'd ever done anything like this (of course) she didn't seem to be a person who knew a bike seat or a trial for more than, say, a cruise around the block.

Okay, so it's a legitimate question, right?, why do I do things that are so hard? But it's also a legitimate answer, "endurance athlete." Still, she wanted to pathologize a part of my identity and I wanted to get at the reason for the "can't." It was a classic case of being viewed from the mainstream notion of "normal" and having the result be that my behavior was pathological, abnormal. What we were never able to get to was my point of view that her seeing me from her psychological belief of "normal" is a cultural point of view, not a given. And so, to maintain my identity, to keep myself from taking on the pathology if you will, I had to leave.

I thought of this time in Jane's office yesterday when I was really struggling and felt like maybe I didn't have the endurance to to it, to get myself to keep walking up that one steep and unforgiving "hill." Right about then a runner went by me and said, "this is so freaking hard, I wish one of those cars would just hit me so I could get this over with," and I felt right at home.

In the quiet morning.

Shhh, don't wake me. I'm up early to go and try to walk to the top of Tioga Pass from the bottom. 3000' of gain in 12.4 miles. The 30th annual "run" put on by a local guy who's "isn't it great to be out here?" enthusiasm is so big it got me up this morning even though I slept through my (phone) alarm for three of the first five minute intervals. Not even sure if I can do it this time, but of course I am going to try. For the t-shirt if not for the views. Oh, and the accomplishment.

Was called out to the hospital again last night. Just about an hour before I was going to hand off call to a co-worker so I could sleep well for today's event. The ER was as busy as I've ever seen it; broken arms, head injuries, bad coughs, chest pain. And, a woman who was here on vacation who cut herself up pretty good. Her family is a deeply intimate look at what financial crisis can cause; a woman, her husband, their two kids jammed into an exam room, blood on his shirt, her pants, terror in the eyes of the five year old, and milk on the face of the youngest. Immigrants who work hard in the service industry, hours cut to less than half, feeding their family but losing their car to the repo man, here to "get away," an offer from a friend who had a voucher for a motel. Her husband thought this would help her with her bad thoughts and quiet mood; she couldn't take the tranquillity here, the pressure of all that is going wrong with none of her typical distractions. The pressure to feel better when she can't. She didn't want to die, she just needed something to give. Skin will do that if the object is sharp enough.

She was grateful to talk. She was visibly relieved and ready to go back to the medications that had helped her in the past. They felt empowered by their plan of action and I was grateful to interview someone who wasn't intoxicated. She clutched the paper with the phone numbers of clinics in her area where she might find connection. He wept with concern. I headed home thinking of them and their little family having a chance to, at least, deal with how hard they are working to keep from the despair that lingers, and that this woman, by making her wounds visible, had done them a favor. Now they can relate, understand, remember.

These interactions matter, I tell myself. We all, in that room surrounded by the sounds of a busy emergency room, re-set our balance. Now, they will head home and I will head up. Whew.

Things to do.

Today is the day I'll change out my sheets for flannel; not the comforter cover just yet, but the bottom sheet for sure and never the pillow cases. I really don't like flannel pillow cases. I'll wonder when it will be too cool to dry my clothes on the line. I will eat some of the bread I got from the local bakery and I'll cook up the many tomatoes that came from a local farm; tomatoes, basil and garlic for a red sauce that I will use and freeze. I'll take my morning meds, drink my tea, write, and I'll cry when I dust around the box of my beloved Big Dog Ruby's ashes. I always do. I'll go to the dump with my recycling and garbage, get a permit for gathering wood (as in trees, not sticks) for my winter heat, check my post office box. I'll tell myself I really should watch the Netflix I've had sitting around for quite awhile now (Nurse Jackie episodes), but I won't, preferring to read, write, get some good sleep before tomorrow's event, the Tioga Pass Run. I'll try to finish the peanut butter that's lost it's oil and is almost impossible to spread, I'll pay the rest of my monthly bills and write to my landlord about getting the chimney swept. I'll take the dogs on a good hike somewhere where they can run and swim and where my phone works (I'm still on call); I'll continue my new habit of exploring some of the tributaries to one of the lakes I visit regularly. I'll think about the woman I saw yesterday who surprised herself by telling a story about a time she was in prison to the group I was facilitating; I'll remember the look on her face when she realized she was talking to her neighbor and best friend's sister (it's a really small town) and felt exposed, psychically naked, and then pleaded for everyone to keep her confidence. I'll remember thinking how very few of us really keep these things to ourselves and how I have been trying to figure out how to write about confidentiality, belonging and gossip. I'll decide to wash the dog beds tomorrow, and will periodically look out my back windows for the bear we've had visiting the last couple of weeks. I'll wish I'd already written the card to my sister that I have been working on, make some of the phone calls I have been putting off, talk to my partner about the "tomato class" she went to. I'll read various accounts about 9/11 and get choked up when I see the photos of people grieving; I'll remember how hopeful I felt about our chance, as a nation, to set an example when the rest of the world opened it's arms and hearts to us. I'll feel self conscious about writing this and relieved for having done so. I'll fold my laundry, finally put away my duffel from my trip to Santa Cruz last week, make a play list for the Tioga walk. Always, I'll have some music in my day and I'll watch how I still remember playing certain songs on the radio when I was a dj or feel the power of a good harmony. I'll be excited about camping next weekend, daunted by how quickly it's cooling down, will look for my slippers. I'll remember how, just after 9/11, JT and I had to figure out what songs to play on the air for our weekday radio show and how she selected, "It's A Wonderful World," by Louis Armstrong, for the first song to play after the news and how I felt deep respect for her at that moment; I'll remember how hard we worked during that period of time to bring different voices to the air and how we received threats after interviewing a Muslim woman about the true nature of the Qur'an. I'll think about how ridiculous people are and how much I believe in our humanity. I'll wash my dishes, put lotion on my dry hands, wonder when my dead toenail will finally fall off. I'll pet my dogs, give them treats, vacuum their hair from the carpet. I'll feel my throat swell up with tears of gratitude, check my Facebook page, take photos for my (other) blog. I'll be glad you are there, happy to hear Erica's voice, pick up some litter along the trail, forget to eat lunch.

All in a day's work.