My office did not feel like its usual safe space today. I was struggling with a patient, hitting a wall in the relationship building that was key to doing good work together. Not all patients needed the same level of intimacy but we needed to have some kind of connection. Event he fiddling Leahy's playing in the background didn't have their usually centering effect on me.
Looking up from Terry's file, my eyes travelled the walls, seeking I don't know what. The painting of Dunnottar, the shelves and shelves spilling books. Books. Hope hit. Roxanne. I needed Roxanne. Before I could stand up the flashback hit me hard.
What I remember most clearly is the lapis stone resting on her chest, stark against her dark skin. I remember the curve of her cheek, built by a gentle smile as it climbed into black curls. And I remember the caramel timber of her voice as she shared a piece of herself with us. And I remember the moment our eyes met and held and my soul connected with the woman who would become one of my biggest heroes.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Sanctuary
What I needed was a place to call my own. A place where I kept the key. A place where I could learn to be me. Cassie's Place was the first space like that for me. When I moved in I was so tired and scared. Being clean had me edgy, hiding from Amos had me scared.
I remember the moment Annie opened the door for me, and the colour just over-whelmed me. It wasn't loud, but it was just beautiful, and safe, and real. We walked through the front door and I saw two other ladies sitting in arm chairs, reading. They both smiled shyly at me. One of them I recognized from way back. The wall behind them was yellow. The yellow you feel when you heat a hot, buttery roll.
Annie's husband Mike carried my bag through the living room to the stairs, and up we went. Photos on the wall caught my eye. Women. Women of all shapes and sizes and ages at gatherings, in the lake being pulled up out of the water by Mike, cooking in kitchens, sitting in classrooms, in circles, heads bowed. With their children. Getting married. Women.
Mike unlocked the door to a room down the hall. "Okay, Harriet. This one is yours. And so is this." He handed me the key, hanging from a purple plastic flower key chain. "And no one has one but you."
Annie hugged me. Mike left my bags outside the door and they went downstairs. "Come join us when you're ready." And now it was up to me.
I stepped into the room, tentative. My place. And it was mauve, Just like I asked.
I remember the moment Annie opened the door for me, and the colour just over-whelmed me. It wasn't loud, but it was just beautiful, and safe, and real. We walked through the front door and I saw two other ladies sitting in arm chairs, reading. They both smiled shyly at me. One of them I recognized from way back. The wall behind them was yellow. The yellow you feel when you heat a hot, buttery roll.
Annie's husband Mike carried my bag through the living room to the stairs, and up we went. Photos on the wall caught my eye. Women. Women of all shapes and sizes and ages at gatherings, in the lake being pulled up out of the water by Mike, cooking in kitchens, sitting in classrooms, in circles, heads bowed. With their children. Getting married. Women.
Mike unlocked the door to a room down the hall. "Okay, Harriet. This one is yours. And so is this." He handed me the key, hanging from a purple plastic flower key chain. "And no one has one but you."
Annie hugged me. Mike left my bags outside the door and they went downstairs. "Come join us when you're ready." And now it was up to me.
I stepped into the room, tentative. My place. And it was mauve, Just like I asked.
Another Family Meeting.
Another family meeting. How to say I wanted to be a therapist? Not a secretary, a teacher or a nurse. My fingers stumbled over braiding the fly-away strands of my auburn hair. It's surprising appearance the result of some recessive gene shared by my black-haired Irish father and Mutti's Gaulish ancestors.
And it was some family. Six of us, barely contained chaos bread by equal amounts of charm and pragmatism. Stemming from $25.00 spent on strudel over the six weeks it took Papa to woo Mutti out from behind the deli counter for coffee.
Looking at them both, flanked by my siblings. Anna giving me two thumbs up. My announcement flung out and now sprawled on the coffee table between us. Waiting for some response.
"What is this obsession you young people have with giving up family business to anyone who will listen?" Mutti's eyes were filled with real puzzlement, the faintest trace of her German birth lingering in her clipped consonants.
"Mutti, Cathy's Mum has shared some stories with me about her work at the hospital. And Dr. Hauer helped us so much with Anna. It just feels, right." Even at seventeen I knew it wouldn't be smart to tell them it was Winona in Girl, Interrupted that made me want to fix people's heads and hearts.
And it was some family. Six of us, barely contained chaos bread by equal amounts of charm and pragmatism. Stemming from $25.00 spent on strudel over the six weeks it took Papa to woo Mutti out from behind the deli counter for coffee.
Looking at them both, flanked by my siblings. Anna giving me two thumbs up. My announcement flung out and now sprawled on the coffee table between us. Waiting for some response.
"What is this obsession you young people have with giving up family business to anyone who will listen?" Mutti's eyes were filled with real puzzlement, the faintest trace of her German birth lingering in her clipped consonants.
"Mutti, Cathy's Mum has shared some stories with me about her work at the hospital. And Dr. Hauer helped us so much with Anna. It just feels, right." Even at seventeen I knew it wouldn't be smart to tell them it was Winona in Girl, Interrupted that made me want to fix people's heads and hearts.
Hands
My great-grandmother Ruth's hands were, in their 70's, gnarled, veiny and strong. Attached to her tiny, 4' 10" body, they chopped fuel for her wood stove one minute and lifted translucent cups of tea the next. They were feather soft on your face as she kissed you goodbye and conveyed pure joy when she clasped them to her chest in delight. Bakers of legendary scones, I often wondered if she held up to the light, would you see through them like you could through your earring-stretched lobes.
Her daughter Margaret drove to California in the late 40's. She was the rebel in her family. We have one picture of her from that trip and I often wonder what she saw as she drove highways from Victoria to California. In my mind's eye she is Gina Davis in Thelma & Louise - gorgeous scarf on her head and hands on the steering wheel of a convertible.
Miles go by as she drives, wind trying to tear the fabric off her head. Did she grip the steering wheel hard enough to cramp her hands? Those same hands that put a needle on a record that told me the Bible story of David and Jonathan. The story that brought me to Jesus at age five.
She birthed my mother Kim in 1955. A shy, insecure girl who tried to fly under the radar so she wouldn't catch the attention of my grandfather in his drunken hours. Her hands held books, many books, over the years of my childhood. They also made bread, such far reaching bread that somehow my uncle would always show up just as it was being pulled from the oven.
Later those hands were decorated with beautiful rings. Usually with clear, European lines, sometimes with amber or garnets, but mostly silver and stunning. Hands that held my baby boy moments after I did, that had rubbed my back often during the twenty-four hours it took to birth him.
Her hands are veiny and arthritic now, but still work hard stocking shelves for 12 hours a week. Then they can do more important things like touch the pews in the Church of St. James after walking the Camino. So she can drive with twelve hours across Montana, Wyoming and New Mexico, laughing with my sister and Curtis' Deanna en route to Austen, Texas. No head scarf or convertible for this road trip, but I still think the wind blew through her hair as her hands held the wheel.
I can only pray my own hands, Sam's hands, will tell such good stories. Isn't that why I am here? To do more with them than simply drop change in fare collector on a bus or correct endless addresses in a database that makes good works possible. Hands that have changed hundreds of diapers, created many pans of lasagna for special occasions, folded Star Wars and Pokemon underwear, or coaxed feelings of adoration and ecstasy from tender flesh.
Hands that cramp in the thumbs now when its cold, fumble with a bit too much weight, swell on hot days. Yet, they still sooth hurts, hug and ruffle hair for comfort. That spot on the back of Iain's neck where his three cowlicks centre which desperately needs to be tickled.
Hmm... perhaps those stories themselves are sufficient and precious enough. Perhaps it is enough that my hands do the handiwork of the one whose own hands were pierced for me. That they do the work of loving, and mothering, and caring that He called them to. That they hold this pen to tell the stories He gave them. Isn't that worth finding out? I think I know.
Her daughter Margaret drove to California in the late 40's. She was the rebel in her family. We have one picture of her from that trip and I often wonder what she saw as she drove highways from Victoria to California. In my mind's eye she is Gina Davis in Thelma & Louise - gorgeous scarf on her head and hands on the steering wheel of a convertible.
Miles go by as she drives, wind trying to tear the fabric off her head. Did she grip the steering wheel hard enough to cramp her hands? Those same hands that put a needle on a record that told me the Bible story of David and Jonathan. The story that brought me to Jesus at age five.
She birthed my mother Kim in 1955. A shy, insecure girl who tried to fly under the radar so she wouldn't catch the attention of my grandfather in his drunken hours. Her hands held books, many books, over the years of my childhood. They also made bread, such far reaching bread that somehow my uncle would always show up just as it was being pulled from the oven.
Later those hands were decorated with beautiful rings. Usually with clear, European lines, sometimes with amber or garnets, but mostly silver and stunning. Hands that held my baby boy moments after I did, that had rubbed my back often during the twenty-four hours it took to birth him.
Her hands are veiny and arthritic now, but still work hard stocking shelves for 12 hours a week. Then they can do more important things like touch the pews in the Church of St. James after walking the Camino. So she can drive with twelve hours across Montana, Wyoming and New Mexico, laughing with my sister and Curtis' Deanna en route to Austen, Texas. No head scarf or convertible for this road trip, but I still think the wind blew through her hair as her hands held the wheel.
I can only pray my own hands, Sam's hands, will tell such good stories. Isn't that why I am here? To do more with them than simply drop change in fare collector on a bus or correct endless addresses in a database that makes good works possible. Hands that have changed hundreds of diapers, created many pans of lasagna for special occasions, folded Star Wars and Pokemon underwear, or coaxed feelings of adoration and ecstasy from tender flesh.
Hands that cramp in the thumbs now when its cold, fumble with a bit too much weight, swell on hot days. Yet, they still sooth hurts, hug and ruffle hair for comfort. That spot on the back of Iain's neck where his three cowlicks centre which desperately needs to be tickled.
Hmm... perhaps those stories themselves are sufficient and precious enough. Perhaps it is enough that my hands do the handiwork of the one whose own hands were pierced for me. That they do the work of loving, and mothering, and caring that He called them to. That they hold this pen to tell the stories He gave them. Isn't that worth finding out? I think I know.
Monday, May 5, 2014
C is for Cats and Dogs (The Truth About)
Curvy. Botticelli Babe. Rubenesque. Soft. Buxom.
These are all positive words to describe my body type. I have struggled with weight gain since a tonsillectomy collided with the hormone rush of taking birth control pills. I don't know if it was inevitable or if I just threw some wacky switch in my body but I have gained a few pounds a year since then. Approaching 40 seems to have leveled it off again, but the challenge of losing it has also increased.
I don't generally identify with other "curvy" chicks in Hollywood but rather with those who embody what I consider to be an attainable ideal. Janeane Garafolo is an example of this. Shes cute, pretty even and curvy. But not fat. I just want to be not fat.
I especially love the fact that she scores a hot dude that's tall with wavy hair. Because so did I. I want to be "not fat" for him as much as myself. And for my other dudes. My little dudes. So I'm never that Mom that embarrasses her kids on the playground.
So tonight was about a 4 km walk in the crisp spring (umm are we sure it's not November???) air in my 'hood. It really is the hood. And it felt good, though my legs are jello now and I can feel my perpetual dehydration very strongly.
On to the next steps. Drink more water and go to bed earlier.
These are all positive words to describe my body type. I have struggled with weight gain since a tonsillectomy collided with the hormone rush of taking birth control pills. I don't know if it was inevitable or if I just threw some wacky switch in my body but I have gained a few pounds a year since then. Approaching 40 seems to have leveled it off again, but the challenge of losing it has also increased.
I don't generally identify with other "curvy" chicks in Hollywood but rather with those who embody what I consider to be an attainable ideal. Janeane Garafolo is an example of this. Shes cute, pretty even and curvy. But not fat. I just want to be not fat.
I especially love the fact that she scores a hot dude that's tall with wavy hair. Because so did I. I want to be "not fat" for him as much as myself. And for my other dudes. My little dudes. So I'm never that Mom that embarrasses her kids on the playground.
So tonight was about a 4 km walk in the crisp spring (umm are we sure it's not November???) air in my 'hood. It really is the hood. And it felt good, though my legs are jello now and I can feel my perpetual dehydration very strongly.
On to the next steps. Drink more water and go to bed earlier.
B is for Big
Licking the popcorn residue off her fingers and sighing happily as the credits rolled, she looked over to him and asked, "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a kid again with the knowledge you have now?"
He thought for a minute, tapping his bottom lip with his index finger before replying, "No, not really. But it's an interesting idea."
"What age would you wanna go back to?"
She answered immediately, "The age of 10. To when John was still alive. Just for a day. Just to hug him one more time."
"It's always amazed me the moments that sear into your memory. There was this one day when we were supposed to be getting ready for church. Joe and I got into a fight while brushing our teeth and my toothbrush punctured the back of my throat."
"What?!" he exclaimed, sitting up on the couch and leaning towards her. "Did you have to go to the hospital?"
"Yeah. Stitches. Hot young doctor." She giggled. "Ridiculous that a 10 year old would notice that, but I did."
"Dad wasn't too impressed though. We were always getting into trouble for fighting." She paused for a moment, remembering.
"But what I remember the most was him taking us to Beacon Hill Park to have a picnic with KFC. And me having to swallow. Wanting to just eat the coleslaw or pudding or something, and him making me eat chicken."
She leaned back on the couch smiling wistfully. "Yep, I'd find myself a fortune teller, make a wish and go back to being 10. I'd tell him I love him and just sit and snuggle for awhile."
He thought for a minute, tapping his bottom lip with his index finger before replying, "No, not really. But it's an interesting idea."
"What age would you wanna go back to?"
She answered immediately, "The age of 10. To when John was still alive. Just for a day. Just to hug him one more time."
"It's always amazed me the moments that sear into your memory. There was this one day when we were supposed to be getting ready for church. Joe and I got into a fight while brushing our teeth and my toothbrush punctured the back of my throat."
"What?!" he exclaimed, sitting up on the couch and leaning towards her. "Did you have to go to the hospital?"
"Yeah. Stitches. Hot young doctor." She giggled. "Ridiculous that a 10 year old would notice that, but I did."
"Dad wasn't too impressed though. We were always getting into trouble for fighting." She paused for a moment, remembering.
"But what I remember the most was him taking us to Beacon Hill Park to have a picnic with KFC. And me having to swallow. Wanting to just eat the coleslaw or pudding or something, and him making me eat chicken."
She leaned back on the couch smiling wistfully. "Yep, I'd find myself a fortune teller, make a wish and go back to being 10. I'd tell him I love him and just sit and snuggle for awhile."
Saturday, May 3, 2014
A - Z and Back Again
A friend of mine recently did a blog series on the letters A to Z that inspired to me to pick up my "quill" again. I have discovered the reason that I don't write is because I'm afraid I'll never write that "great" novel. However, it bugs me to no end that I don't write. The purpose of this exercise will be to just write, for writing's sake. Whatever happens after, happens.
A is for Avengers
I never was much for comic books although Superman has always been my favourite Superhero. This is due, in large part, to my girlhood crush on Christopher Reeve. However, I also watched Lois & Clarke and Smallville. Of the two, Smallville definitely holds up better to the test of time.
After meeting Rik, I soon discovered I shared his love of comic books turned into movies. In fact, I discovered that the world of comic books had many very interesting characters to ponder and observe having grand adventures. Thus began my relationship with the likes of the Watchmen, Hellboy, and most recently, Avengers. Oh, Avengers!
Before I wax on, a tangent, if you will allow it. Many years ago I was introduced to vampires. I can't remember if it started with Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice or Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the TV series). What is important about my introduction to vampires is that at some point is also introduced me to Joss Whedon. Joss created both the movie and TV versions of Buffy and the man is truly brilliant. After Buffy came the perfection that is Firefly. Firefly led to Serenity which brings us back to Avengers.
Oh Avengers! Oh Joss Whedon!
It is a given, in my opinion, that the invention of film and TV as forms of media has not been an entirely positive experience for humanity. There is too much that is not edifying, that is in fact detrimental, to our society. However, there are instances of this type of creativity that have been a definitely positive impact. I am thinking of educational benefits, globalization to an extent, and intelligent entertainment. No one does positive entertainment better, in my opinion, than Joss Whedon.
Joss' ability to seed everything he touches with smart, wry humour makes watching it all an absolute pleasure. My love of Avengers is due almost entirely to this gift that Joss has. The rest is due to Robert Downey Jr. being present, but that's another blog post. It is truly funny! And it's smart. And the women are strong. And the men aren't dumb. Sterotypes need not apply. And yet the "comicbookness" is not lost. There is a healthy dose of cheese. The film does not take itself too seriously. The entertainment value is definitely in it's place as an action/adventure film. However, you don't have to feel like you are "dumbing down" to watch it.
Avengers. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Joss Whedon. My kind of comic book.
A is for Avengers
I never was much for comic books although Superman has always been my favourite Superhero. This is due, in large part, to my girlhood crush on Christopher Reeve. However, I also watched Lois & Clarke and Smallville. Of the two, Smallville definitely holds up better to the test of time.
After meeting Rik, I soon discovered I shared his love of comic books turned into movies. In fact, I discovered that the world of comic books had many very interesting characters to ponder and observe having grand adventures. Thus began my relationship with the likes of the Watchmen, Hellboy, and most recently, Avengers. Oh, Avengers!
Before I wax on, a tangent, if you will allow it. Many years ago I was introduced to vampires. I can't remember if it started with Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice or Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the TV series). What is important about my introduction to vampires is that at some point is also introduced me to Joss Whedon. Joss created both the movie and TV versions of Buffy and the man is truly brilliant. After Buffy came the perfection that is Firefly. Firefly led to Serenity which brings us back to Avengers.
Oh Avengers! Oh Joss Whedon!
It is a given, in my opinion, that the invention of film and TV as forms of media has not been an entirely positive experience for humanity. There is too much that is not edifying, that is in fact detrimental, to our society. However, there are instances of this type of creativity that have been a definitely positive impact. I am thinking of educational benefits, globalization to an extent, and intelligent entertainment. No one does positive entertainment better, in my opinion, than Joss Whedon.
Joss' ability to seed everything he touches with smart, wry humour makes watching it all an absolute pleasure. My love of Avengers is due almost entirely to this gift that Joss has. The rest is due to Robert Downey Jr. being present, but that's another blog post. It is truly funny! And it's smart. And the women are strong. And the men aren't dumb. Sterotypes need not apply. And yet the "comicbookness" is not lost. There is a healthy dose of cheese. The film does not take itself too seriously. The entertainment value is definitely in it's place as an action/adventure film. However, you don't have to feel like you are "dumbing down" to watch it.
Avengers. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Joss Whedon. My kind of comic book.
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