Hanging on

There has been an excellent conference here at our university, which I'll write more about later. Fact is, I've been caught up in it as both participant and planner and have not had time to blog. I want to share some of the fascinating facts that some very famous authors spoke about. But it will be later when things have slowed down.
I think I've said that before--when things slow down.
They never do...

More later.
Don't give up on this blogsite.

Furnace Life

It is not as a child that I believe and confess Jesus Christ. My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt.

(Fyodor Dostoevski)

House Hunting

Today we went looking at homes with a realtor who had been recommended by our lender. If we go with this guy, we will get some special something or another--Sam knows what it is. I could care less what it all means since he's the numbers guy in this family.
Anyhow, we identified several homes we wanted to see in our price range and emailed him ahead of time so he could arrange for us to see them. I have no words to describe adequately what transpired. Let us just say that he has a voice that can cut steel and a need for an audience like no one else I know. Perhaps he was in a manic phase. In any event, he didn't come up for air the entire four hours. No questions about us, nothing interactive. Just a tirade of random facts about--you name it. We learned about his pastor who is having trouble at the church, particularly since his daughter just swallowed 100 Tylenols. Hmmm. At age 12, young girls don't do that for no reason. Now she is in a local psychiatric hospital and our realtor, the hero, is going to go speak with the pastor tonight to straighten him out about how to interact with her.
Then, he pointed out every home of every friend and client he'd ever had. In the middle of a non sequitor, he'd drop the name of someone who was driving past, along with the details of their home sale.
In a closed car without open windows, his voice was hard to take. He rambled on and on, without a break. Voluntary, rapid-fire, non-stop commentary on everything and anything having to do with him. Sam was so disgusted that he went mute about an hour into the fiasco. He nodded and had an occasional comment or two, but he shut down. That left me to --well, what does one do? Try to keep responding (read, reinforcing) his talking? Stop talking altogether? Ask him to take us back to the office and never call us again?
When we got back to the office, Sam jumped out of the car, extended his hand and thanked him for his time. The man acted like he never heard one word. He launched into a harrangue about how he was going to set the pastor straight in his dealings with his daughter.
We came home with headaches and ringing ears. He showed us only houses that were absolute wrecks. In this region there used to be 734 houses for sale. Now there are 8,000, many of them lender-owned. So many houses are trashed before the people who could ill afford them in the first place, leave.

Sam and I stopped and got something to eat on the way home. Our blood sugars had dropped, we felt ill and I just wanted to go to sleep for two weeks. That guy wore me out. How can one person generate that much obnoxia? (new word).

Sam is going to call our lender in the morning and tell him to find us someone else. It was curious that the lender told us initially, "You can change the realtor if you want to. We'll find you someone else if you need us to." Indeed, we need someone different.

I need sleep and absolute silence.

Midnight Visitor

This is who we heard outside on the back porch Friday night. He was polishing off the cat food that we left outside for Jack and Jill, our very sweet neighborhood cats. He's almost the size of an Australian Sheepdog--huge! This guy lives up in the fronds of the palm tree about 15 feet from the back porch. Sam saw him scurrying up into his nest just as the sun was coming up one morning. "He's like Dracula, flying back to his castle before he is killed by the sun."
Methinks our friend has a good thing going.

"I used to think I had some very wise things to say." Geraldine had been telling me about her work with inner city, substance-abusing, pregnant minority women. One had six children by five different men. She kept getting pregnant because she was hooking, trying to make enough money to get drugs. If she didn't have drugs she'd have to deal with the abuse in her childhood, which haunted her day and night with posttraumatic symptoms. There was no money for help, no way out of her neighbhorhood, no way to manage. Only despair, pregnant women in all directions, johns on the streets, and two-timing lovers who either beat them, sponged off them and molested their kids. She was only trying to survive.

Geraldine didn't grow up in anything remotely related to the way her therapy clients had. It was hard to even understand the logic of why they did what they did. She couldn't imagine why they kept getting pregnant, used drugs so much, and never left the ghetto. But when she finally grasped that they were trapped and didn't have a vision of anything different except what they were caught in, she was speechless. They were doing the best they knew how and her wisdom was irrelevant.

It reminds me of being a camp counselor. Having breakfast with seven giggling nine year-olds at a log table in the camp dining room, I watched something that was logical but that left me surprised. We were having hard boiled eggs, cereal, pancakes, and fruit salad. One little girl tried to cut into her egg with her fork, only to have it flip off her plate and onto the floor. It had bounced across the wooden floor that looked like it had been mopped with a bucket of mud. "Yuck!" "Ick!" "Gross!" little girls squealed, peering over the edge of the table at the egg, that had come to rest against the main support post in the dining room.
The little freckled egg owner matter of factly got down from the table, walked over to the egg and carried it back to the table.
"Yick! What are you going to do with it?" one little girl gasped.
"Watch," she said. "This is easy."
Taking the egg in one hand, she filled her glass halfway with milk. In went the egg and she swirled it around inside the glass. Using her fork, she spiked the egg and brought it out of the glass onto her plate. "See?" She looked around at the admiring girls. "Now it's clean."
Her little friends were delighted. One started to "wash" her English muffin in her milk.
I was fifteen years old and I was speechless. The girl's logic was great, and what I knew about going over to the sink, washing the egg and coming back again, seemed awkward and unnecessary.
"I don't think you should do that," I started to say in a commanding way. The little girls ignored me and went on with their breakfast, swilling breakfast sausages and pancake bits in their glasses of milk. I poured a new glass of milk to replace the egg wash glass and sat down, silent. What I knew didn't make sensse right there, just then.
I used to think I had some very wise things to say, too.

Geraldine and I talked for several minutes about how the women's logic made sense, given their context. Although they looked like down and out addicts, there were some good qualities and clear logic that wouldn't typically be visible to outsiders. They were generous with one another, sharing cigarettes, watching each other's babies, "watching the back" of each other. One girl gave a diaper to another woman who didn't have anything for her baby. It was clear that she had taken this woman under her wing and was trying to watch out for her. The context and meaning was just very, very different from anything Geraldine or I would know.

There are some things we can't weigh in on, shouldn't weigh in on. And there are some situations in which we can ask questions, introduce new ideas, respectfully explore. But always from a position of not knowing. There is too much in the lives of others that comes from a place that is unlike our own experience, that when we assert that something they do, feel, or think should be the way we do, feel, or think about it, then is when we have overstepped our bounds. We are interpretive bullies who would be better off being quiet.

When I was a teenager and struggling internally about what to do with my musical future, people used to tell me that if I just did X, Y, and Z, then I would have success, happiness, and a bright future. But they had no idea of my context and how impossible any of their suggestions would be for me to attempt. So, much of their wisdom was useless to me. In later years, as a client in therapy, the therapist began to tell me what I should do, how I should feel, and what choices would be best for me. Then she told me how I really felt and what my inner needs were. I was speechless, because she had reduced me and my context down to a story line that she could understand but that had no relevance to me. She wasn't interested in my framework. I never went back.

I love the comment that Job (in the Bible) said after God swooped down and put him in the hot seat. "I thought I knew, but now I put my hand over my mouth." He realized that he had been rash and that his wisdom didn't shed much light on God's actions or God's ways. After another chapter of questions, he said, "Now I detest myself and repent in dust and ashes." You can't be more repentant than that.

Most of us would do well to put our hand over our mouth and listen rather than blurt out "wisdom" that makes sense to us but not to others. Being tentative and speaking from a not-knowing stance can open doors for communication that don't come from asserting our own beliefs in foreign places.

Life of Riley

This is my furry little "baby," Otis. You've seen him here before. He's been a real joy to have around. He's either calm like this, or else tearing through the house with his tail in a playful S-curve and his hair up on his back.

Otis is a bit neurotic. Which fits, because I probably am, too. Like owner, like pet, right? Anyhow, we have tried everything to get him to drink out of a dish on the floor like a normal cat does. Nothing doing. I bought a special cat water fountain. He did pretty well with it for a short time and then "Blech!" and that was the end of it. He won't touch it. So then we went through weeks of him begging water from the tap in the sink, licking the water off the shower walls after we got out, and (ick) even drinking out of the toilet. I finally got this little blue Pyrex bowl and put it in the sink. If we dribble water in it, he drinks out of it. Otis will wake me up in the morning asking for water in the sink. I know this is what he wants because as soon as my feet are on the floor he makes a beeline for the sink and looks expectantly at me. If you click on the picture above, you will see that the water is dribbling on his head, not even going into the bowl. Yup. That's how he likes it. He goes through the morning with a wet head and doesn't seem to think much about it. It must not penetrate into his little tiny, rodent-like brain that he doesn't need to do that.

This little guy loves to play, even though he looks pretty daft and low energy in this picture. Coming out of the bathroom in the morning, I'll gasp as this grey blur races straight at me, then veers off and dashes into the bedroom and under the bed. If a cat could laugh, he would be howling. When we lived in Washington, Sam used to chase him up and down the stairs in the duplex where we lived. Sam would shout, hoot, and call out, "I'm going to get you!" and laugh maniacally, stomping up the stairs after Otis. It wasn't until we were ready to move that I learned that the tenent on the other side of the duplex thought Sam was chasing me up and down the stairs. "I'm going to get you!"

Indeed.

Otis is a snuggler, especially during cold weather. Here, he is snuggling into my flannel sheeted bed and pillows. Make no mistake: this is his bed. I'm merely allowed to sleep there, if it doesn't crowd him. If I accidentally push or kick him during the night, we hear a little protest: Fhrrrrrh! It's impossible to get him to move over or sleep in a different spot than what he chooses for himself (which is in some non-negotiable place like between my knees or against my stomach). Roll him over and he will lie on his back and look up helplessly and confusedly at you. But he won't get up or move over. Methinks he's a bit spoiled...

A fat, sleepy cat in a patch of sun. He is the picture of contentment. I'm really grateful for this little guy who makes my life so pleasant. What a delight.

Excursion

Mother and I went on an excursion a couple weeks ago. I've just gotten some of the pictures developed and thought you may enjoy some of the spring flowers we saw.

Leaving town, we drove past this gorgeous hillside of color. I think it is a member of the ice plant family but I don't know the name of it. This grows in profusion around Southern California, probably because it doesn't require much water and it loves the sun. The flowers are typically this vivid pink or a brilliant red color. It is so shocking to see it that you can't help but stop and look. (Click on this and any of the pictures to see an enlarged version).

We drove up to Running Springs, California, home of the famed "Daffodils." I write this in quotes because although these flowers grow anywhere, going "up to the daffodils" means going to this specific spot on Fredalba Road. You can park in the parking lot at St. Catherine's and walk the about a quarter of a mile onto the private hillside of several residents.

As you may know, last year there were fires all over Southern California. Quite a few houses burned to the ground. The fire trucks weren't able to even get in to the fires for the larger part of a day and night because of heavy fog, smoke, and uncontrolled fires. I wondered if I'd find anything up there. But there stood the little house that the originator of the Daffodils used to live in. She died some years ago, I think, and other people keep up the hillside as best as they can.



The fires came right up to the back of the property. In fact, the heat must have been so bad that well over half of the bulbs were cooked in the ground. I can't think of another explanation for why there were so few daffodils there.


Still, the fires didn't kill off everything. This jaunty little cluster of Grape Hyacinths didn't seem too bothered by the fire. You can see all the charred trees behind them.

This private little heaven was born out of a widow's grief. A woman lost her husband and as a way to keep herself occupied and coping with her sadness, began to plant flower bulbs. She started out with 100 and ended up planting over 100,000 over the course of several years. Usually there are hundreds of thousands of flowers covering the hillside. This year was a bit different. Many lay cooked in the ground.

The founder of this place created a series of meandering paths back and forth across the hillside. Every so often you'll come to a little flat area with a bird bath and benches to sit on. All around these are barrels with hyacinths, tulips, and other beautiful spring flowers.

You can smell these hyacinths before you see them. One lady said, "I love the smell of these out here, but in the house they make me nauseated." I agree.

There are quite a variety of daffodils on this hillside. Midway through the walk there is a display that identifies all the various types of flowers. I like these dark-faced beauties very much. They are a lovely contrast to some of the more pale and delicate daffodils on the hill.

I love this picture. I think I may blow it up and frame it.

Mother loved the flowers, even though there weren't as many as there used to be up there. We were probably a week early. As you can see in the background, the flowers haven't all bloomed yet. (That's St. Catherine's in the background).

I was delighted to snap this photo of her with such a big smile on her face. I think I just said a Laurel and Hardism and she cracked up.

This was our trip. It was beautiful weather, a gorgeous sky, and cool air. Mother was happy, I was lighthearted, and it was delightful to be able to enjoy the spring together this year. I hope you have enjoyed being part of our very happy day.

The Sky is Green...

Found here

Every now and then however, there seems to be a student who wants recognition or notoriety. They will do anything to get it: disagree with the teacher, make outrageous assertions, jump up in class and wave their arms or flop over the desk, cry--whatever it is, it is large and obvious. Or they work to create a student pecking order that places them front and center. Let me be clear about what I think of this: it's obnoxious.

Me: "It's important that we as therapists do our own emotional work because we can only take our clients where we ourselves have dared to go." (The sky is blue.)

She: "I disagree. It's ludicrous to think that I have to be raped to work with people who are raped, to be the victim of violence to counsel victims. I just think that... (The sky is green)." She goes on for about 10 minutes with questionable logic, arguing against something that she thought I said but that I didn't. It goes on so long that the other students begin squirming. I am stuck between trying to encourage her to express herself and to be sure I understand what she is saying, and to shut her down because of what she is trying to do in the class.
Me: "I think you and I are talking about related things but that are different, fundamentally. I'm speaking of the internal process of learning how to be vulnerable, aware. Bowen says that we can only help our clients become differentiated as much as we ourselves are--"
She: "I think that is short-sighted because life is fluid...(the sky IS green)." A long story ensued about her chance meeting with a man on a plane who is now her best friend.
Me: "Help me understand how your story ties in to your ideas about life being fluid and that it is not necessary to understand the internal process--"
She: "Oh yeah. I'm just saying that...(the sky is green)."
Me: "I understand your point and we have different views of this. I'd like to move on."
She: "I will prove to you (that the sky is green) by the end of this class because (the sky is green)."
Me: "Thank you. Liz, you were about to make a comment..."
Liz: "Thank you for noticing that I wanted to talk, Dr. B. I think that perhaps what we're talking about here is the difference between looking at (the sky versus the clouds in the sky)."
Me: "Thank you for pointing that out. I'd like to move on to discuss (what you think of clouds)."
She: "Well, (clouds are not what you think they are.)"

And off we go.
I wonder how Jesus would have dealt with this dynamic. He would be able to say the perfect thing that could take the conversation deeper and redirect the speaker to face the issues that drive them to behave this way in the first place. Meanwhile, I struggle along as I try to affirm, block, redirect, and acknowledge. I hope that my students benefit this quarter as we begin new classes.