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.

Glorious sky.

Last night at midnight I was called to the hospital emergency room to evaluate a person who was in harms way. It's part of my job, at times, to carry the beeper and respond to potential psychosis or poverty (or both) at all times of the night. And there she was, at the age where it is safe to call her a 'youngster', all lonely, chemically imbalanced, beat up and agreeable. I found her a place to stay for the night and a ride to get there and, at the bewitching hour of 3 AM, she thanked me and went on her way. Then, outside in what feels like too cold for September, there was the enormous black sky with such an abundance of stars and planets I almost lost my breath. Times like these, I am amazed at just exactly where I am.

Stories.

In psychotherapy lore, someone once said or wrote (I hardly ever remember who or when, or if I made it up myself, when I quote things I've heard or read, but that is another story) that if you ask a client to tell you the three main stories their family of origin tells about them (at, say, the dinner table when you first introduce them to your new girlfriend), you the therapist will know everything you need about the role and place your client holds in their family and, therefore, in the important relationships in their world (friends, work, kids, lovers). I don't know if this is true exactly, but it is interesting to think about. At any rate (my friend Kate said, maybe still says, "at any rate," kind of like how some people, but thankfully no one I know or want to imitate, say, "any whoooo," and I like the way it sounds so adopted it many years ago) I was thinking about some of the stories I used to tell while teaching therapy. There are certain ones, stories or metaphors, that would come to mind and, because I was the "teacher" out of my mouth, and though I did not plan to say them at a certain time or juncture in the life of the intern, I figured if the story was there it had a purpose.

At any rate...when people are learning to do therapy there is a point where they start to get nervous about the content they are exposed to. That is, if the intern is able to keep a client in the room with them for more than three sessions in a row, the client will begin to say why it is that they are really there. Rare is the client who knows this when they arrive, they usually are convinced the presenting problem (as we like to call it) is the problem and all they need is a new strategy to fix it and get on with their lives (this is America after all where we buy advice and want a quick and lasting fix). But, as the interns are taught, "the presenting problem is never the problem you will end up working with." The underpinnings, if you will, may be what we like to label a "trauma reaction," but in real terms would be the shame of molest or the utter hopelessness that has been sapping the clients vital psychic energy since they gave up trying to get their parent to stop drinking and pay some decent attention to them. When this occurs, when the content of the original story comes out, or tries to, the energy in the room changes dramatically, the clients face looks young, and the agony or shame or all of the above is palpable and big and so, so painful.

At this point, most reasonable mortals look away. We get uncomfortable and want to change the subject, or more often, offer "fix it" advice. But, the therapist can't. We are supposed to stare right at it, hold it, give the client a chance to experience this pain, this drenching shame and sadness and we are not supposed to flinch; literally or psychically. Imagine, how the therapist sits there listening to these stories, sometimes the worst things and feelings that can happen in a human beings life (someone's baby died or they were attacked on the way home from a party they weren't supposed to be at), and not leave or avoid or look away. Now, imagine this therapist is new to the work and is scared they will harm the client because they don't know what they are doing or are stirred up by their own feelings of hopelessness and discontent, and they want to look away, to flinch. The common refrain is, "how do I do this? We didn't learn anything about this in school."

I never have an answer about the 'how to.' It's one of those times where the intern thinks the supervisor/teacher is an expert and I/we are not. We are making it up as we go along too, and maybe we have a few strategies to notice when the client is trying to tell one of these stories, maybe we know more about what shame looks like on a human face, but we don't know any better how to sit with the enormous pain of when the client begins to crack open, we just know that we are the witness and that is a big job. Still, this is where my story about not flinching comes in and I told it every year, perhaps like clock work, though I wasn't keeping track.

It goes like this: Listening (deeply) means you can't flinch, no matter how scary or terrible it is. There was a time when I used to play softball with a really good team in Santa Monica. I don't particularly like playing softball, but I had what is called 'a good arm' so I was recruited and gave into the peer pressure for two seasons. Mostly I was a center fielder, due to the 'good arm', but one year I got to try my hand at shortstop which meant more action and a ball, the softball which is actually just as hard as a hardball only bigger, was going much (much!) faster when it came my way (physics is like that). At any rate, one day we were doing drills and practicing picking up grounders (balls coming at you around the speed of light on the ground) and throwing to first base. I loved this drill, until, one time and one time only, the speedy grounder hit a bump right before it got to my properly placed glove and hit me smack in the mouth causing me to bleed profusely and be in some pretty nasty pain. More than anything, it scared the crap out of me. Even now while I sit here writing about it, 31 years after the event, I can hear the noise of my head being hit by a hard, fast moving object, and I flinch.

After I put ice on my swollen face I decided to practice the "get back on the horse" method of working out the fear and did all that I could to follow the ball from the bat and into my glove. Only now, even just in the tiniest of ways, I would move my head to the side or close my eyes. You can't do this in softball. Any movement away causes you to miss the ball or, worse, get hit by it. So, in order to do it well you have to watch the potential damage to your face all the way into your glove. No flinching.

By now, if I am telling the story right, the interns think I am brave and, more importantly, funny, and those who are looking to be taught something useful are impatient. So here is where I say, "this is what listening to the client's story is like. You have to follow the ball right into your glove even if you know it's going to hurt. Watch where you want to move your head, just a little, or close your eyes, just for a second. It's a natural response to want to avoid the pain you see coming, but your job (and for some, your calling) is to watch yourself want to flinch but make yourself stare right at the moving object, right into the pain."

To not leave the pain. To hold your gaze when the client is telling you their deepest secret, steeped in their most agonizing shame. And then, to do nothing. Just sit, listen, witness. This is therapy, or perhaps life. It would be just like me to get them confused.

Two worlds.

For me, things happen in my head well before they actually occur in the world. I think of something I want to do, like move to a new place, start a new job, live where my heart has always felt at home years before I actually step off and do the free fall. Sure, there is planning, and that is part of it, but I think this process has more to do with my cautious nature or sensitive reactions. I've learned to trust this bubbling up of "things to do." Move to the Sierra? Sure. Snow camping? Why not? Create a (mostly) photography blog? Will do. Teach? Can I? Write? Hmm, really?

I've been writing these very words for a long, long time (in my head) and have even dictated important and vital stories to the air while walking in the forest here where I live, but I haven't written them down. I spend time with these ideas, mull them, until there is a moment where I have to give them over. Still, at least right now, I have the words I am writing and the ones I am jotting down on the pad of paper next to me. The ones I dare say and the ones I dare not. The two worlds.

The list of reasons why: I love to write, need to. Love the feeling, the focus. It's like cooking, or hiking, being a radio dj, shoveling a big heap of snow, or listening very carefully.

The reasons why not: It's revealing, scary. I don't spell well. It's too public, too exposed, too much to say. Too much.

Still, the risk is the thrill and the task, if there is one, will be a mending. Do the two worlds collide or blend? I suppose we shall find out.