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.