Literally, sleeping together

I got to thinking about this subject yesterday. A 10 yr old told me he sleeps in the same bed with his mother. I found myself justifying the possible reasons, such as their socioeconomic status, small living quarters, and the fact that at least this kid isn't a teenager because that would just be very strange. Still, even with those rationalizations I was still creeped out. It led me to examine my thoughts and feelings about it more. Why was this bothering me so much? What is so abnormal and/or "wrong" about sleeping in the same bed?

In some cultures, it is completely "normal" for a child to sleep in the same bed as a parent(s). It seems to depend on the age of the child, socioeconomic factors, as well as spiritual and moral belief systems (such as a child sleeping with their parents to ward off evil spirits). I wonder if it's primarily in the USA where we automatically fear the likelihood of incestuous relations. Could a culture's attitudes towards issues of intimacy and sexuality influence the degree to which its citizens are comfortable with "sleeping together" (and by this I simply mean just sleep next to one another in the same bed)? Or is it largely dependent upon the nature of a specific relationship?

When I think back to my experiences over the years with sleeping next to someone in the same bed and/or the potential to share the same bed, I have come up with diverse outcomes.

I have slept in the same bed with friends, though I think only female friends. There were a few occasions where male friends crashed at my place when I was living in Chicago and there was this whole awkwardness on their part (two separate guy friends on two separate occasions) about where to sleep. Both opted to sleep on my hardwood floor, even though I didn't make any sexual advances on them or do anything to make they uncomfortable when I suggested they could sleep beside me (I live in a studio with no other rooms or beds, couch, etc). I was simply wanting them to have a comfortable place to sleep. I couldn't understand it. I have slept in the same bed with my mom from time to time, my sister while she was visiting me in Chicago, and slept in the same bed beside my brother during family vacations in motel/hotel rooms...and I was fine with it. I didn't feel nervous or uncomfortable.

Do we as a society associate "sleeping together" that literally? Is sleeping closely next to someone an intimacy in and of itself, having someone next to us in one of our most vulnerable states? I wonder. This extends to lovers and significant others as well.

I've heard about people who have had one night stands, have sexual relations in bed with each other, and then go their separate ways right afterwards because one or both individuals aren't comfortable sleeping beside each other for the rest of the night. Ok, so you are comfortable enough to see each other naked and be sexual...but sleeping next to each other feels too intimate and out of the question? Hmmm. Given the norms of monogamous relationships in the US, I suppose this shouldn't surprise me.

When a couple is living together or married, it seems like it is a cultural given (I'm speaking to the norms of the US, as I don't know the standards for every country in the world) that they will sleep in the same bed. When they don't (or have stopped) for a consistent period of time, we wonder "is everything ok?" or assume "they must not be getting along/their relationship is in peril/they aren't having sex."

How is it that a bed holds that much power and symbolism, a "window" that peers into the nature of any particular relationship between friends, family members, spouses, or lovers?

I don't have any answers, but I sure do find it fascinating to ponder.....

Driving and freedom

I've never had what would be considered a "normal" driving record. I never took a driver's ed class. My dad taught me how to drive while I was staying with him one summer in Florida. After failing my driver's test the first time because the instructor in the car wasn't clear about how far they wanted me to back up, I received my license on the second attempt around the age of 18 years old. Even so, I wasn't able to totally appreciate having a license to the fullest because I could not afford a car in high school. I was lucky to have good friends that were willing to give me rides here and there, but it was a source of embarrassment and shame for me to have to depend on others.

I moved to Florida for my freshman year of college. I drove my Dad's white Jimmy truck to and from campus, as well as work and ended up buying a very cheap little white car that was on its last life. It truly lived up to the title "POS" (ie, piece of shit), yet it got me from point A to point B....that is until one unforgettable accident. I was on my way home from work at Publix, less than a mile or two away from home. I was in an unprotected left turn signal lane and there was someone on the opposite lane going the other way that was in my blind spot. Being a foolish 19 year old at the time, I thought it was clear and went for it. Once I turned, I saw a pickup truck coming towards me and it was too late. I put my foot on a gas pedal that had little to no pickup and was sideswapped. The car was totalled. No more car for Katie. I must admit, I still have a little PTSD-ish anxiety around unprotected left turns to this day.

The summer of my freshman year of college, I moved back to Texas and drove my mom's big ass conversion van. Again, it was mainly to and from work or school when my mom said it was ok for me to use it. It felt weird to drive such a huge vehicle. If you saw me driving it (the short girl that I am), you'd have chuckled. When I transferred to SWT (or Texas State University, as it's known nowadays) a few years later, I was back to square one. No car whatsoever. I think I very well could have gone 2 years without driving once.

Summer of 2001 rolls around and suddenly I am faced with driving a very LONG Penske truck from Reno, Nevada to a little country town near Lexington, Kentucky....after not having even driven ANYTHING in years. I was nervous, to say the least. I did well, despite a minor incident of hitting someone's tail light in a very claustrophobically small parking lot while turning around. Again, this was close to our destination in Kentucky. I can't remember if I helped Mom drive the Penske truck when I moved to Chicago months later in December 2001.

After moving to Chicago, however, I went my longest stretch without driving/having a car: 6 years! Driving a car to get around was a non-issue with Chicago's great public transportation of buses and trains. It wasn't until I decided to make another move (in yet another Penske truck, though not as long as the one I drove in 2001) that I found myself apprehensive and in unfamiliar driving territory again. In early March 2008, my friend Carla accompanied me as a driver in my journey from Chicago to Seattle, WA. She did most of the driving.

I drove my mom's car a few times back and forth while I was working part-time at the BBW last summer, but otherwise I was roughing it out with Seattle public transit. I went 10 months without driving a car and it was very exhausting, as well as oppressive. My work commute should be about 20-30 minutes by car and it was taking me an hour to an hour and a half...one way. Traveling so much during the week left me tired, lazy, and unmotivated to go anywhere by bus for anything else other than work a majority of the time. I really wanted a car, but I just could not afford it.

Chris made plans to visit me in May and I ended up renting a car for us to drive during his stay because I wanted us to have the freedom to go wherever we wished. Not surprisingly, I was nervous as I drove the two of us from the airport back to my apartment (a 35 minute drive, around 1:30am no less!). I drove a bit more that weekend, feeling a little more comfortable as time went on and yet, I have not had a chance to become totally confident and comfortable with driving because I have not been able to drive on a regular basis for years. Starting today, this is a whole new world for me.

I have been hesitant to get a car up until this point in my life due to my financial situation. I wanted to feel confident in my ability to pay car related bills responsibly. Yesterday I had a deal practically slap me in the face, one that would be ridiculous to pass up. My mom told me about a great deal my stepdad recently found on a 2 door Toyota Yaris. Her rationale was, 'it can't hurt to go to the dealership and talk to the guy' to get information and look at the cars. Off she and I went. After taking a look at my budget, I slept on it overnight...or I should say I barely slept, eager and excited about all the places I could go with my own vehicle.

I signed a 3 year lease on a red 2009 Toyota Yaris today! It still feels surreal....to drive and travel solo, something most people take for granted because driving all the time is the standard norm. I think I'll appreciate my new car that much more than the average person for this very reason and for all that it embodies for me now. The question now is....what to do with this newfound freedom? :)

Glock, stock, and barrel

(Picture on left: Marked bullet holes are the ones I fired...some of the other holes could have been my dad or me).

While visiting my family in Florida last week, I had the privilege of experiencing something I have never experienced before....shooting a gun. I had no idea what to expect, thus I kept my expectations to a bare minimum. This was the best possible mindset for me to have, especially since I know myself well enough to know that if I thought about it too much, I might freak myself out to a point where I would change my mind about following through with the bold (for me) undertaking. The United States seems to have such a cavalier attitude towards guns, that to most people shooting a gun may not sound like that big of a deal. Not for me though.

Although it has always been "normal" for me to see my Dad carrying a gun when we'd be out and about (he's a cop), I have had a very standoffish and slightly fearful attitude towards guns. I didn't like them and never even considered using one! I'm not sure what changed my mind, perhaps my unquenchable and curious thirst for new experiences. I like pushing past my comfort zones and challenging my perceptions, especially when it comes to proving myself wrong. Yes, I am that rare human specimen who would rather be proven wrong than right. Call me crazy, but I get satisfaction from being reminded that the human imagination can conjure up some real doozies that most times aren't reflective of reality. For instance, we humans have a way of thinking the worst possible scenario or making inaccurate assumptions. Prior to my experience of having shot a gun, my mind created images of me accidentally shooting myself or freaking out that I could unintentionally hurt someone else, drop the gun, get hit by others in the range....and this was me fantasizing at the bare minimum! Imagine what I could have conjured up in my mind if I had REALLY thought about it. With that said, my motto (as much as possible in life) is "Feel the fear and do it anyway"(also the title of a psych/self-help book, fyi)....so I did it. :)

First came the gun instruction with Dad. We sat on his couch in the living room and he showed me his .40 Glock. He showed me how to load the bullets, told me a little bit about the mechanics, and told me I needed to say "I got it" when he handed the gun over to me (safety precaution). He also showed me the proper way to hold the gun when in shooting mode, as well as posture. Knees should be slightly bent and according to Dad, "It should be a surprise" to hear the gun go off if you pull back on the trigger with the padded tip of the index finger ever so slowly.

Seeing as it was the day after July 4th, the Shoot Straight gun range was pretty dead inside (yeah, bad pun, huh? haha). This was fine by me considering having more people around might have heightened my anxiety. We walked into the place and there were guns everywhere. Teeny tiny size guns, medium sized handguns, and shotguns. There were also lots of dead animal heads on the wall. Again, such a thing would have bothered me in the past, but I was open-minded to experiencing something out of my usual realm of comfort and understanding.

Dad and I approached the counter to "check-in," meaning we had to sign our names on a sheet with the time. I laughed when I saw the three options of gun target pages hanging behind the counter: the standard human body silhouette outline, one that had smiley/sad faces, and this is what got a chuckle out of me....a laughing zombie. Not your average run of the mill looking zombie, but a laughing zombie. Those gun folks sure do have a sense of humor! Even though I was tempted to get the zombie target paper, I was intent on taking this new experience seriously...mainly because I really wanted to know how skilled I would be at something that I barely just learned from Dad's brief gun instruction "lesson." I went with the body outline.

Before heading back to the area where the shooting happens, I was told that I needed "eyes and ears." I put on the plastic glasses and ear muffs. Dad and I walked through the double doors of the target practice area. There must have been about 8-10 "stations" where people could go to stand and shoot, though only half were occupied. Bullet casings filled the floors around us, the temperature in the room oppressively hot. Dad took out the contents of his gun bag: Glock, magazines (for those not in the know, that is what you load the bullets into and then load into the gun), and bullets. I was starting to get really nervous. This was really about to happen, no backing out now. I had to rise to the challenge, no matter how scared I was starting to feel. Dad told me I could change my mind and stop at any time if I wanted to, but I didn't want to give in to my fear of the unknown.

I approached the mini gun 'counter' and focused my eyes on the target 21 feet ahead of me. I concentrated on doing everything exactly the way Dad told me to do to the best of my ability. As you can see, I did pretty well. Although my arms were a bit shaky at times from nervousness, 60 rounds later I left with a feeling of accomplishment. Once again, I have surprised myself at being able to do something I had not previously fathomed I was capable of doing. My dad repeatedly told me I did well for it being my first time with a gun. I thought maybe he was exaggerating or just saying so to be nice, until he told me that some fellow cops he knows are poor shooters/too cocky to learn how to shoot a gun well.

I can't say shooting a gun was "fun" per se, nor can I say with certainty whether I will shoot a gun ever again. What I do know is that it definitely wasn't what I expected, in the best possible "prove me wrong"kind of way.

"Do no harm"

I'm currently reading an informative and eye opening book ("Better" by Atul Gawande) about issues doctors face. I'm halfway through the book so far and I have to say that most of the things mentioned are not things I don't already know as common to the profession (interesting as it has been to still read about).....from germs and sanitation to malpractice and the convoluted, frustrating arena of insurance.

What I find intriguing and thought provoking, however, is the chapter the author devotes to the subject of doctors as 'legal executioners,' physicians who provide the lethal injections to death row inmates and/or are present to make sure it is being done correctly and effectively, as well as confirming when the prisoner is officially deceased. It raises an ethical catch 22 of what exactly is "harm" (ie, the doctor shall "do no harm" to the patient) and what becomes more important, fulfilling societal duties when called upon to do so or strictly adhering to medical ethics and laws with no room for interpretation?

"Execution has become a medical procedure in the United States. That fact has forced a few doctors and nurses, asked to participate in executions, to choose between the ethical codes of their professions and the desires of broader society. The codes of medical societies are not always right and neither are the laws of society. There are vital but sometimes murky differences between acting skillfully, acting lawfully, and acting ethically."

I find it funny (ironic) that Americans spend so much time debating the whole abortion issue, yet this particular issue doesn't seem to be discussed. Isn't it another side of the same coin? Doctors "helping" in an unconventional way, yet "harming" if only looked at from the perspective of the Hippocratic oath. The author tells readers that it was hard for him to find doctors willing to talk to him about this topic for the book, even the very doctors who have been present for and/or performed lethal injections! As with doctors who perform abortions, there is much controversy and risk of backlash from the community. It is no surprise the doctors who spoke to the author insisted on anonymity in exchange for knowledge and discussion on the subject.

Some of the examples he gave of doctors' experience with legal injection was borderline semantics.....those that did not inject the drugs themselves, but basically monitored from a distance. Others had more direct involvement.

While I continued to read about this convoluted issue, I also wondered....how could anyone BESIDES a doctor give an injection? Doesn't it do MORE harm to have someone without skills and credentials provide a risky medical procedure? A doctor is the most competent person for this, not a warden. The author talks about executions gone awry when physician involvement has been minimal to none (therefore violating the 8th Amendment of abstaining from cruel and unusual punishment) .

If one perceives lethal injection as a medical procedure legally sanctioned by the state, is the doctor essentially fulfilling a duty to society or can the doctor shun such procedures in favor of protecting individual ethical and moral values?

The death penalty is one of the few controversial subjects that remains a very grey area for me. It's not that I'm indifferent; it's that I'm not informed enough to have a firm belief either way (for or against). Reading about this aspect of it makes me realize even more the intricate complexities it entails.

Intimacy, redefined

I'd like to share an excerpt from a book I'm currently reading ("Mating in Captivity" by Esther Perel) because it really resonated with me. I've been reflecting on this quite a bit lately...how it pertains to my own relationships with people.

"In my work with patients I stress that intimacy isn't monolithic; nor is it always consistent. It is intermittent, meant to wax and wane even in the best relationships. The family therapist Kaethe Weingarten steers us away from looking at intimacy as a static feature of a relationship; she sees it instead as a quality of interaction that takes place in isolated moments and that exists both within and without long-term commitment. There's the synchronization of dance partners, the sudden identification between strangers on a plane, the solidarity of witnesses to a catastrophe, the mutual recognition of survivors---of breast cancer, alcoholism, terrorism, divorce. There's the intimacy between professionals and those they serve---doctor and patient, therapist and client, stripper and regular. While we expect to experience these discreet moments of recognition in ongoing relationships, they are not necessarily bound to any overarching narrative. They can be circumstantial, spontaneous, and without follow-up. Informed by Weingarten's ideas, I no longer look at relationships as being either intimate or not. Instead, I track each couple's ability to engage in a series of intimate bids rendered over time. Sometimes the emotional weaving is done through talk; often, it is not. Building a bookshelf for your lover, changing the snow tires on your wife's car, and learning to make his mom's chicken soup all carry the promise of connection." ---Esther Perel

I have intimate conversations with people on a regular basis during my "sessions" as a therapist. The interesting thing is that unlike most relationships, this form of intimacy is built upon an unreciprocated relationship. The client reveals his/herself, while the therapist provides unconditional support, trust, and "safety" to do so. Despite the best of professional intentions, it is sometimes impossible and sometimes even important for the therapist to reciprocate even the slightest of intimacy in return (appropriately, of course) when it can further enhance an intimate 'space'. This may be revealed in certain words of wisdom imparted to the client, based on the therapist's personal experience. Sometimes it can be a client's recognition of the therapist's observable idiosyncrasies. In any case, I think it speaks to our human need to connect in intimate ways.

This excerpt really resonated with me because I agree with the idea that intimacy is not a constant. Nor would we want it to be. We may think we do (I certainly have), but think about it. Where is the mystery, meaning, and sense of fulfillment that comes with nonstop intimacy? How can one appreciate intimate connections without periods of disconnection and complacency? I can say this only in hindsight. Of course, it is easier to reflect upon than during times when intimacy seems like a distant memory in one or more relationships...where complacency seems to never end. I love how it continues to pleasantly boggle my mind though. For instance, how you can go the longest time feeling so incredibly close in a relationship (whether romantically or in friendship, with family, even colleagues)....only to feel you don't really know the person, or they you when something 'new' is revealed, or something 'old' remains hidden.

As I'm realizing, however, it's not black and white. It's shades of glorious gray. As stated above, it waxes and wanes. Instead of judging and/or placing expectation upon intimacy in relationships, we can allow ourselves the freedom to let go and let it happen in its own time. I think there's a tendency for people (myself included) to automatically personalize an absence of (or what feels like a "decrease" in) intimacy. Insecurity gets the best of us. We think we're not trustworthy, attractive, or "enough" of whatever particular quality for intimacy to 'kick in.' It can be easy to get stuck in a mindset that intimacy follows some pre-packaged cookie cutter style of progression instead of an intriguing and more often than not, spontaneous process.

Awareness, reflection, and compassion (for ourselves and the other) is key to savoring opportunities for true moments of intimacy, in all kinds of relationships. We can bitch and complain about what is 'missing,' or we can shift our perceptions to something more meaningful in the long run. Interestingly and paradoxically, I have found that when I release the necessity for intimacy, that it flows more freely.

Opening yourself up to intimacy within yourself is also significant, recognizing your own vulnerabilities and how that may help or hinder intimate interactions. I have been working on this alot lately. I have a tendency to allow my moods to be influenced by my relationships, specifically in regard to people I am close to and ones I yearn for that sense of closeness. Sometimes I drive myself crazy with why this particular person isn't attentive to me (or at least to the degree I'd like) or why another person won't open up to me. I'm learning I don't always need to know the reason and if I do, it will make sense in time.....with a sharing, a revealing, an undefinable gesture. That is intimacy.

Knowing thyself

I've been learning alot of new things about myself lately, good things. I am more content with myself, things about me that will likely always be at the core of who I am and things that are changing as I grow and become older. One of the biggest changes I have noticed about myself is how much I have come to enjoy being a day (versus night) person. When I was in my twenties, I loved the excitement of nightlife. The hustle and bustle of the city and people watching activated my senses with the utmost curiosity, what the night had in store for me. Since I have moved to Seattle and entered my thirties, however, I am noticing a whole new side of myself that is ready to start my day early and savor its possibilities. I like venturing out into the beauty of nature....mountains, flowers, gardens. This is what fills my senses and gives me the simplest of joys now.

Last weekend I went to Portland, Oregon with my mom. No particular reason; just for fun. We spent the day hanging out with our friend, shopping and eating delicious food. It occurred to me that my favorite meal to eat in a restaurant now is breakfast. Eggs, potatoes, toast, fresh squeezed orange juice, and french pressed coffee makes for a divine meal in my book. And what a way to start the day! Among a few of the things I found amusing about myself during that trip was the fact that I found myself annoyed by a large group of obnoxiously intoxicated twentysomething 'kids' sitting behind us in a restaurant one night. While the dinner we had was delicious, I was eager to get back to the hotel room for some solitude and to pamper myself with a bubble bath. My mom chuckled at the irony of her wanting to take a shower and my wanting to take a bath (a role reversal)....a sign to myself that I have entered my thirties with new personality qualities and a shift in lifestyle.

On the way home from Portland, we stumbled upon a Lilac Garden and tulip farm. We did various fun things while in Portland, yet this was the most satisfying part of my trip....an unexpected and spontaneous adventure off the beaten path. With the smells of lilac flooding my nose and my eyes glued to the lens of my camera, I blissfully snapped away and took it all in. I was in my own personal heaven. I thought about my grandparents and how much I missed them, yet felt their love so strongly as if it were yesterday that I could see them in the flesh (they have been deceased for over 15 years).

I love tulips. I value intimacy with people whom I really care about. I loathe crowds and loudness. I appreciate the city for its intrigue and nature for its fresh air, beauty, and simplicity. I like exploring during the day and time to myself at night. I like living in a quiet, residential neighborhood that is not too close and not too far from the city....just right. I like taking photos and expressing myself creatively. I like being appreciated for my thoughts and what I can contribute to others, whether family, friends, clients, or absolute strangers. I am living more in the moment, practicing what I "preach" (to my clients) with mindfulness and gratitude.

I like doing more things for myself that I wouldn't do before, either because I thought it cost too much money or I was too busy with being a city girl. What do I mean by this? In a word: pampering. Massages, getting my nails done, spending $35 on an impromptu invite to see David Sedaris (love him!), buying flowers and domestic items for my home, and traveling/going places. When I was younger, I was always the kid who would use her birthday money to buy Christmas presents for family members. It became more natural to do things generously for other people, yet not so much myself. It still feels weird to me sometimes to spend money on myself. Once in awhile I will catch myself thinking, "Do you really need that?" or "If you can spend money on yourself, why don't you get this, that, or the other for so and so?" Perhaps I secretly believed that I could only be loved and appreciated if I did something thoughtful and unexpected, rather than it being possible that much of what I have to offer cannot be reduced to materialistic actions. I am still generous with others, but I demonstrate it in a much broader sense now.

Life is good. :)

An inside look at mentally ill offenders

Interesting and (sadly) accurate reality of the mentally ill offender...

PBS Frontline: An intimate look at the lives of prisoners with serious mental illnesses. What happens to them after they leave prison or jail? Why do they return at such alarming rates?

On fires and flames

When I hear the word 'fire,' it's one of warning: "Fire! Get out of here quick! Hurry!" It's usually a signal of danger, even the difference between life and death, or having a home versus being homeless. It used to be one of my fears as a child. What if there was a fire in the house and I didn't know about it because I was asleep....would I make it out alive? Or say I did make it out alive, what would happen next? If everything burned to a crisp and I had nothing but the clothes on my back, where would I go and how would I get new clothes and all the things of a 'normal' kid's life? I'm not sure if these are 'normal' ruminating thoughts for an elementary school age child, but this is what I worried about back then. Looking back now, I wonder why I didn't just let my mom worry about that for me. After all, that's what parents are there for....to protect and take care of children until they are old and mature enough to do it for themselves.

Even flames were a challenge for me. For the longest time, I couldn't even light a match. No, let me rephrase that...I DIDN'T light a match. Or do that silly thing people do where they get their finger wet, then run the finger back and forth through the flame of a candle (very nonchalantly and sometimes in a cocky manner, might I add). Surely they had some kind of superpower (skin of steel?) I was lacking, I thought. Me? I was petrified of burning myself. It would be such my luck to accidentally gain the title of 'unintentional firestarter' or 'unfortunate burn victim at her own hands.' No, I knew better to leave some proverbial stones unturned in my youth. I could appreciate a nice campfire with LONG sticks to roast marshmallows for my 'smores and fires in fireplaces carefully made and monitored by other people.....but that's as close as I got.

It wasn't until I was in my apartment in Chicago one night a few years ago that I had an urge to see what it would be like to set a piece of paper on fire and watch it burn a little....you know, like you see in the movies when the bad guy finds some incriminating evidence that can be used against him. He surreptitiously throws the document onto a burning fire in a fireplace (I never understood that one, because someone could still come along and find the remains.....kinda defeats the purpose of being discreet about getting rid of your evidence) or takes a lighter to the edge of the paper until the flames consume it almost entirely.

Since I didn't have the luxury of a fireplace in my tiny studio apartment, one night (bored out of my mind with too much time to kill, I imagine) I decided to muster the courage to light a piece of notebook paper on fire. Would it burn quickly? Would it burn slowly, at an angle (like in the movies/tv)? Would it smell bad? Would I be able to blow it out in time once I notice it burning too quick to keep under control? These questions piqued my curiosity. Keep in mind, I was the girl who could barely light a match in her youth. I 'graduated' to being able to light candles by the time I reached high school and college, but nothing as challenging as this. If the paper burned too fast, it had the potential to become uncontrollable, hazardous, maybe even start a fire in my apartment. That's all I needed: "Woman loses everything in apartment fire that spiraled out of control, after setting ablaze a sheet of notebook paper to satisfy her curiosity. Who is curious now?"

Still, it was a chance I was willing to take.

Traveling reflections

(Picture on left: "Neal Page" and "Del Griffith")

Traveling has a way of putting me in a reflective, nostalgic mood/mode (as if I need help in that department!). Whether on the road, on foot, or in the air.....traveling holds meaning for me in both the old memories I can recall and the anticipation of new memories about to be created.

It astounds me how there are some people out there who have never been on an airplane, nor even ventured outside of the state where they reside. It saddens me and simultaneously gives me an appreciation for all the experiences I have had, far and wide across the US.....and anticipation for future travel adventures.

As I was en route to the Seattle-Tacoma Airport on Wednesday (and as I likely do each time I am headed for a traveling destination), I recalled different memories of the people I would soon be seeing and wondered what memories this particular trip would bring. Flashbacks of airport and airline memories in general also filled my mind. I remember being both excited and somewhat nervous traveling to and from Florida by myself when I was a kid. I was really young when my parents divorced and soon after, my dad moved to Florida....hence, the need to travel to see him.

I can't remember how old I was the first time I flew on a plane by myself, but I do remember sitting in a window seat at age 12 or 13 reading feminist author Naomi Wolf's "The Beauty Myth".....intense reading material for a young teenager. Sometimes I wonder if traveling by myself as a youngster paved the way for the self-reliance and independence I proudly embrace now as an adult. I remember sitting in the seats of numerous airport 'gates' (Why do they call them 'gates' anyway? Are we animals trapped behind fences?)......LaGuardia, Atlanta, Las Vegas, Chicago, Tampa, Boston. I remember the days before terrorism was an everyday possibility, a time when you could go to the airport and carry pretty much anything in your bags without scrutiny by the TSA.

I especially remember how exciting it was when loved ones could actually greet me at the 'gate' as I stepped off the plane. All the unpleasant symptoms of airline travel (ears out of whack, sleepiness, hunger pangs, having to pee really bad, impatience, bodily discomfort from having to sit in one spot for a long period of time) suddenly disappear those 5-10 glorious minutes leading up to who was waiting for me at the gate. Heart beating fast with anticipation, I would hurriedly exit the plane and be overwhelmed by a sea of faces looking past me for their loved one as I sought mine amongst the crowd. Whom would be spotted first, me or my 'greeter?' A rush of joy ran through me in that moment of recognition, which typically involved a long-awaited warm and welcoming hug. I miss the days of gate greetings. And airline meals, albeit even if barely more edible than hospital food. I still chuckle at signs posted at baggage claim: "Many Bags Look Alike." Well, no shit, Sherlock! Are we as a society lacking that much common sense? Actually, yes....but that makes for another blog in and of itself.

I liken how I feel to one of my personal favorites: "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles," a John Hughes movie from the 1980's starring Steve Martin and John Candy. It centers on the weird, crazy and sometimes frustrating experience of traveling from point A to point B.....mainly what happens between point A (place of departure) and point B ( place of arrival). Both the experiences and the memories created from such experiences embody a sense of significance for the two main characters......what they are grateful for, what they learn along the journey, and a reminder that they must have a sense of humor or they will (and do) lose their sanity.

A violent significance

(Art by Salvador Dali)

I have been busy, busy, busy this month (!), including in my dreams it seems...or rather, nightmares mostly. It occurred to me today after having told a handful of people (friends and coworkers) that dreams of an intense, violent, and/or tragic nature have been the recurring theme. I'm usually one to be pretty good at interpreting and making sense of even the weirdest of dreams I am prone to have, but these are in a world of their own. The only thing I can postulate is perhaps I am feeling scared and vulnerable about something in my waking life that is being revealed in my dreams. What do you think?

Here are a series of nightmares I have had recently:

1. I am in Chicago hanging out with my friend Scott and his female friend. They are talking about a party they would like to attend later and Scott asks if I can go to the building next door and see if his other female friend would like to go with the three of us. I acquiesce. When I enter the apartment, sun is streaming through. It feels radiant and warm. I spot a young woman standing in front of a window. She is wearing a dark colored, long flowing dress. She looks beautiful. We make eye contact, but she says nothing. Her eyes, however, convey a sadness. Before I can speak, she opens the window and I wonder what she's doing. She sticks her head out and then the rest of her body....purposefully! As if in a movie, I see her falling, falling, falling. The building I walked into was only a three or four story building, but suddenly her fall makes it seem like it was 50 floors. I want to help her and I feel powerless. There's no turning back. She is going to die. Before she hits the ground, the scarf around her neck whips back, 'hanging' herself to death before the impact of the ground does it for her. The ambulance arrives and I search for my friend Scott, feeling guilty that I couldn't stop her in time and wondering how the hell I'm going to tell my friend that his friend just committed suicide.

2. I am working in a shoe store and about 15 feet ahead of me, I see my dad and my stepsister on either side of my stepmother. They each have their arm around her, trying to hold her up. Her head is down and she looks unconscious or at least about to faint. I wonder what is going on. Next thing I know, there is a hole in the palm of her hand and all this blood spurts out of it. Before I can make sense of this shocking occurrence, she is on the ground....and her body was split in two, like someone sawed her in half. I could see the inside of the lower half of her body (inside her abdomen). My dad and stepsister started screaming and crying. I'm watching in the distance and I start to shout. I am so freaked out that the sound I made in my dream materialized a bit out loud and I woke myself up from this hellish nightmare.

3. I am in my work building (though it doesn't look like my 'real' work building), about to go up the staircase to the second floor when suddenly an older woman comes barreling around the corner in the opposite direction and rudely, abruptly runs into me. Out of frustration, I tell her to watch where she's going. She is standing in front of me at the bottom of the stairwell and pulls out a gun, pointing it at me. I tell her I will do whatever she asks; I don't want to die. She leads me up the stairwell, gun concealed and still on me nonetheless. I'm trying to think fast. What do I do? How do I keep everyone safe and alive? When I get to the top of the second floor, I notice there are no therapy rooms for our sessions, just one huge room where I see kids jumping around. They don't see us and I'm relieved for that. Unfortunately, neither did my coworker Melanie when I attempted to surreptitiously get her attention as she walked past me. She was intent on getting to her next session, undeterred by any and all distractions. The woman with the gun put her hand on the doorknob to our therapist office and I stopped her, saying it was locked and didn't need to go in there anyway. Next thing I know, however, we are in the office room. I made up my mind in the blink of an eye, fight or flight mode. I chose to fight. I told the woman I didn't care if I got shot in the process; I was not going to let anyone get hurt. I went for the gun she was holding. We struggled for the gun and a gunshot went off, hitting no one. I handcuffed her to the wall. I also remember either her or I making a comment about her mental health history and/or whether she needed a referral to see someone.

"Chapter" 3

I had said that I wasn't planning on posting anything more from my 'book' writings on here, but after having a handful of friends telling me they wanted to see my writing on here as I go along (if it even becomes a book, see last blog entry)....I have decided to go ahead and put it on here. Who knows, maybe you guys can help give me feedback and direction with it...see something I'm missing at the moment. I'm really unhappy with this particular piece not flowing well and sounding boring, but here it is nonetheless.

I had no idea what I was in for with my new role as 'substance abuse counselor.' I must sound like a broken record, but I can't emphasize this enough. How could I comprehend a title I knew little about to begin with?

Waking up at 4:00am to start my day was an arduous adjustment, in and of itself....especially since I had always been a night owl. Thus began the period of my life of chronic sleep deprivation and mass consumption of coffee (my own growing addiction). While I appeared calm and collect on the outside, I became more guarded, vigilant on the inside of my mind.....with everything that had to do with the job. Just the thought of having to travel around 5am in the dead calm of morning with random strangers brushing past me on the sidewalks, or the possibility of being confronted by a dangerous criminal on the sparsely filled train car was enough to raise my anxiety level. It took me months to get to a comfort level of fearlessness on my commute. Even still, I exercised acute awareness and precaution as I walked down desolate streets.

Six days a week, this feeling spilled over into my work hours. Unarming a security system in order to walk through the door to my workplace was standard operating procedure, a mere tip of the proverbial iceberg. Constant alert was necessary. I imagine it's somewhat akin to what it must be like to live on the streets. You can never truly relax, because if you do....that's all she wrote. Street smarts (aka 'common sense') is absolutely essential. More about this later.

As I said, the first two weeks were spent at the downtown office. I became acquainted with two other fellow colleagues, who would be joining me at the new clinic we would be 'opening' together. M. (the office manager) and A. (the nurse) had worked together at another methadone clinic that had been shut down due to financial reasons, so in essence I was the only one who was totally new to this experience. I instantly took a liking to M. the moment I met her, a kind woman with a warm personality. She was instrumental in helping me through the most stressful and scariest of times, a pseudo-counselor in her own way.

First things first....building up an existing caseload of clientele that had transferred from the clinic where M. and A. had worked, in addition to juggling and learning the ropes of daily operations. I was literally learning everything from scratch. M. and I became engrossed in learning how to use the computer program, as there were 40-50 clients whose information we would need to put into the system. We tried to coordinate the transition as smoothly as possible. This entailed knowing ahead of time when to expect a particular client to come in to be 'dosed' and/or receive their 'pickups' in work lingo.

A client's frequency in coming to the clinic was dependent on different factors, according to length of treatment and 'proof' of consistent sobriety.

New clients require the most intensive level for obvious reasons: they are at highest risk of continuing drug use and need constant monitoring, guidance, support, and behavior modification. A majority of addicts get high for years. The longer they have been addicted, the longer the recovery process. One must have a minimum of at least one year of heroin dependence to be considered for methadone treatment, though as I have mentioned a large percentage have been doing it for years. Trying to help someone get clean and change their overall well-being can be as exhausting as parenting a young child or teenager. Every client is different. There is no 'one size fits all' treatment approach. Try telling the clients this when they don't get what they want though!

Due to the highly addictive properties of heroin, many addicts choose methadone as a supportive 'tool' as a part of their overall recovery process. By this, I mean they cannot stop using heroin cold turkey (whether for mental or physiological reasons) without medication to ease them into sobriety. The only somewhat close analogy I can make to this is what the nicotine patch does for a smoker. For some people, quitting is impossible without the assistance of a patch to gradually decrease the amount of nicotine absorbed in the body. The same can be true for heroin addicts. Cravings and withdrawal symptoms can be downright intolerable without medication to make the transition more comfortable.

While methadone can be effective if utilized properly, it is still a narcotic that is tightly regulated by the DEA and in turn, the clinic staff that oversees methadone related procedures. It entails just about every aspect of the job....bringing in new clients, collecting urine specimens, and strict guidelines on how much methadone a client is allowed to have in his/her possession outside the confines of the clinic. Safety is also a top priority, methadone kept under lock and key by the nurse. As the counselor, I only had access to the security code at the front door. The nurse only had access to the nursing station security alarm, for obvious safety measures.

What's behind door number 2? ("Chapter 2")

I used to be somewhat of a control freak. I thrived on structure, planning, organizing, working ambitiously at whatever it is I wanted. If I did A, B, and C, then D, E, and F would happen. Or so I had believed. The way I viewed life, people, and even myself changed that summer of 2005. I became more uncertain. The more I thought I knew, the less I knew. The instances in which I felt like I didn't know what I was doing, what was going to happen....those seemed to be the times I felt most free, most alive. Surrendered to the unknown. Eventually even an unexplainable comfort arose in me in such moments.

I left off by telling you how the methadone job opportunity fell in my lap. What I haven't told you is that I also thought I would be working where B worked, at the downtown clinic. B thought one of the employees would be leaving soon and that I could be his replacement. I called her boss to express interest. I met with him for a very informal interview (he took a phone call within minutes of us stepping into his office). I don't recall him scrutinizing my resume'. He was overly nonchalant, so much in fact that I questioned whether he was all that serious about considering me as a potential candidate for hire. Only now in retrospect can I reflect on this as being a very telling snapshot of his personality and how he operates, even in serious matters. As unsure as I was about the interview, I did have one thing going for me. B. told me loyalty was an important trait to him. If B. was recommending me as a new employee, I must be worth him taking a second glance of consideration. Still, I waited with bated breath. Especially after I heard what I was truly up against, the risk I was willing to take in the name of obtaining full-time employment...anywhere. I was in for a shocker.

If I were to take the position, it would not be downtown. It would be at a brand new clinic he was in the process of opening up on the northside of Chicago. He already had two existing clinics, one in the suburbs of Chicago and the other near downtown. The epitome of a businessman attempting to close a successful deal, he strategized and bargained. We could both benefit, he coaxed. With my help, he could establish another avenue of his business in the hopes of longterm growth, professional profit, and the utmost reputation of what we could offer to 'consumers.' With his help, I could seize the opportunity for what it would ultimately turn out to be: one helluva learning experience.....nothing I could ever find in a graduate school textbook or the most experiential/role playing of intellectual classes. He was offering me the School of Hard Knocks.

I knew what to expect from academia. Papers, practicums, analyzing hypothetical situations. I didn't know what to expect from this. I would be the only counselor, working with only a few other staff members. I would not be micromanaged, nor have supervision readily available. I would need to deactivate a security alarm to walk through the door every day for safety reasons. I would be starting my day while most people in the city of Chicago were still sleeping, 6am. I would have to put on somewhat of a front that I knew what I was doing or I would be eaten alive by manipulative addicts. I was scared shitless. And I accepted the position.

The first few weeks were devoted to rudimentary training basics and then.....I was on. my. own.

How it all began

I officially started writing for my potential 'book' today. We'll see what happens with it. For now my goal is to just write. Intricate details and concerns will come later, if it's meant to be. Here's what I have thus far:

If you were to tell me 10 years ago that I would one day work with heroin and cocaine (and everything but the kitchen sink) addicts at a methadone clinic, I would: 1. have no idea what you're talking about, asking 'What is a methadone clinic?' (that's how nieve I was back then) 2. have thought you were crazy and 3. think you must have me confused with someone else.

During graduate school, Introduction to Substance Abuse was a required course for all students regardless of the specific master's program they were in. I remember thinking the class was interesting, and somewhat intimidating. Aside from a lame DARE education class I had to take in 6th grade and exposure to pot during high school and college, I had no knowledge or experience with drugs and addiction.

It was Winter Term of 2003. The best assignment for the substance abuse class entailed a requirement of attending three ("open," meaning they are open to non-addicts as well) 12 step meetings of my choice and then writing a short paper about the experience. I remember being completely fascinated by each one, in very distinct ways.

I went to Alcoholics Anonymous, Crystal Meth Anonymous, and Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Alcoholics Anonymous seemed the most open, welcoming, cheerful, and spiritual of the three. A young twentysomething woman approached me afterward to ask me if I needed a sponsor. I was touched, even though I was not in need of help. Narcotics Anonymous was the night to AA's day. My least favorite of the three, I found it to be secretive and borderline creepy. Crystal Meth Anonymous was especially unique. A room of 15-20 gay men sitting in a circle, with me being the only woman. I asked if they were comfortable with me being there and that I would leave if they were not, but they graciously accepted me into their circle. I listened to their powerful stories and even joined them for dinner at a nearby restaurant, an after-meeting ritual of theirs.

I was in awe of their process of healing, a resilience from darker times in their lives. After completing my assignments, I began to think about what it would be like to work with individuals struggling with addiction and recovery. A part of me thought "I want to do that someday." That chance would come sooner than I ever could have imagined.

In the same class, I remember my professor (brilliant though he was) only barely touching the surface of heroin addiction and the brief mention of methadone. Granted, there was an incredible amount of topics to cover for an intro class. Looking back, however, I wish he had spent more time educating the class on heroin addiction treatment and methadone maintainence. The only thing that was mentioned about it had a negative connotation and if I recall correctly, fed into the myths and judgmental attitudes prevalent in society. It is sad that even academia (especially in psychology!) can perpetuate negative stereotypes. But I'm getting off topic.....

Two years later, spring of 2005. I was studying nonstop for my master's exam in marriage and family therapy. In the midst of my overly prepared study time, my anxiety level continued to rise. The clock was ticking and I would soon be thrust into the 'real world.' This means....I needed to find a full-time professional counseling job. I was slightly freaking out and networking, networking, networking.

My marriage and family peer T had some students from our program over to her place for some drinks and appetizers one night. I started talking with B, whom I had lost touch with since she graduated months prior. Curious as to what she had been doing since I last saw her, she told me she was currently working as a counselor at a methadone clinic downtown. I became all the more curious, especially after she informed me they might have a potential opening for another counselor.

I asked question after endless question on that night and days to follow. I remember having a very interesting conversation with her over margaritas at Cesars shortly thereafter, learning all the fascinating and intense details of the job.

While I did not know what I was getting myself into, needing to find any counseling job was a driving force for me at that time. Had that not been the case, I might not have pursued the job opportunity. I was persistent about obtaining the position and about two months later, I would be working at a methadone maintainence clinic.....with absolutely no applicable knowledge or prior experience of addiction whatsoever.

New developments

After having felt crappy for so long, I recently made a conscious choice to make taking care of myself my top priority. This may sound simple, but for those of you who know me well are well aware of my tendency to put others first and put myself last. I finally realized I cannot do it anymore; it's just not healthy. So now I'm currently being mindful of what I need to do for myself to be healthy, joyful, and passionate about life while balancing taking care of others. This means I am getting back into exercise, alternating between walks during the week and running in my neighborhood on the weekends. I'm also eating ALOT of veggies and fruit. While I would like to drop some weight (and need to do so), I am not focusing on that as the ultimate goal because I want to be able to stick to this healthy lifestyle. Weight loss will be a secondary perk to this vital change I'm making.

A few weeks ago I had a physical done (bloodwork) and got the results the other day. Turns out I have low Vitamin D levels. Normal levels are between 40-100 and mine is 11! That's what I get for living in a minimal sunshine area. My doctor recommended I take strong doses of Vitamin D (which she prescribed) for the next 12 weeks....so I'll be doing that too. That's the update on my health.

In other news....

This really has nothing to do with what I was just talking about, but I found it to be funny and amusing....maybe even 'meant to be' (haha). On my commute to work on Wednesday, an attractive man sat beside me....which never happens, especially considering there are rarely attractive men on the bus. I wasn't sure why this particular guy seemed intriguing to me, but let's just say it was an enjoyable distraction to that part of my commute. I wanted to say something to him, but what's the chance I would see him again and furthermore, what would I say? There is a fine line between being friendly and being creepy. I didn't want to be the latter.

Yesterday (Friday morning) I happened to take the same route (there are two possible routes I can take and I switch off depending on the day,etc.), again on my commute to work. 10 minutes later, imagine my surprise when I look up at a man walking down the aisle looking for a seat.....and it was HIM. And he sat BESIDE ME AGAIN. I almost couldn't contain myself (nervous and amused by this coincidental event) and once again, I froze. I almost busted out with a comment about the fog (it was extremely foggy), but all I could do was glance at him now and then when he wasn't looking/paying attention. I must think of something to say to Hot Bus Crush. Help, my readers. What are some good, subtle things I could say without being lame? Haha.

Job memoir writing project

I had an epiphany on my commute home from work today. I realized how many friends of mine have commented on my writing lately and it got me to thinking how I could best channel my creativity/skills and also be motivated at the same time. So you know how for a long time now I have been half joking that I'm going to write a book someday about my methadone clinic job? Well folks, the time has arrived. Not officially, of course....but it's in the works.

I'm brainstorming right now and will likely devise a rough outline of topics/ideas to cover....and then start writing a 'manuscript' on my computer. It also occurred to me that I really don't have any friends who are writers (professionally anyway). I really wish I did, as I could use the guidance and feedback of how to go about all this. Perhaps it will just take some extra legwork on my part and a few trips to Borders for 'how to write a book' guides. Hmmm.

More to come soon. Stay tuned. :)

Exercising courtesy

As much as I criticize Seattle for being an asshole when it comes to certain aspects of its 'personality,' I have recently discovered a more endearing quality about its city folk. Having gone jogging in my neighborhood quite a bit in the past week and a half, I have observed something very odd and refreshing that is unlike any other city I've been thus far. Generally (anywhere), people drive with a sense of manic eagerness to get to their destination. You have to be on guard and protect yourself from getting run over, maimed by an oversized powerful scrap of metal. Not so here.

While the slow driving here can certainly push my impatient buttons, it also has its perks.....take for instance, as a jogger/runner. At first, I thought it was just a lucky break when I was waiting to cross a moderately busy street with an ongoing influx of cars going by in both directions....and they STOPPED to let me cross. (And there was no crosswalk, stop sign, cop around,etc. to account for this unusual behavior!) Maybe the timing was just right, that I caught them at a generous, courteous moment. Except it kept happening. Today and yesterday. I almost felt guilty for these people having stopped in their tracks for me! It's all so new to me. I smiled and waved with appreciation, of course.

Do Seattleites have an uncharacteristic respect for those who exercise or something? Regardless, I'm impressed with their sense of exercise courtesy....

Creativity...and Dad

Yesterday I came across and contributed to a brief survey on women's creativity. There were questions to answer I had not considered before, such as asking who or what encouraged me throughout the years to be creative, the definition of creativity, what holds me back creatively, and what inspires me. All very telling answers came of this. It was as if this survey was reminding me of something I either had no awareness of or lost somehow.

My definition of creativity was by no means academic, more simple and tailored to what it means to me as an individual. I think I said something about "to be known and seen, expressed outwardly" or something to that effect. I known 'known' and 'seen' were the primary words I used. Things that inspired me were people, beauty (nature) and feeling personally touched by something. When I thought about what stifles my creativity, I began to make sense of this malaise I've been feeling lately. I remember my top answers being monotony/routine (in my life) and the perception that no one 'sees'/cares about my creativity (but how can they know and see it if I don't do it? ha!).

I thought about who were my biggest sources of creative inspiration over the years, as far as people in my life (not celebrities or other famous people). My dad, my grandfather (mom's father), and my mom immediately came to mind. Particularly Dad....

During my teen years, it was customary for me to spend summers in Florida visiting my Dad. My fondest memories of time spent with Dad involved hanging out with him at the photography studio in Tampa that he shared with a few other avid photographers. As Dad worked alot (his day job as a deputy for Hillborough County Sheriff's Dept.), this made the time I was able to spend with him all the more valuable.

Photography was the one commonality between us that facilitated connection and the ability to connect for its own sake. Dad had a music system set up and turning on the music real loud was one of the various studio rituals he went through as part of the creative process. I remember being fascinated with the fancy, yet technical looking studio lights always lingering in the background...just waiting to be used for enhancing a featured object or person.

Sometimes Dad would even let me be the subject of a 'photo shoot,' allowing me to try on different hats, boas and such as he snapped away. Being a kid who always struggled with my weight, it was the one of the few times in my life where I could experience feeling beautiful and the positive attention of being a 'model.'

Dad and I would also occasionally take little photo adventures together, he with his professional Nikon and me with the Pentax he gave me when I was around 13 I think. At that time, I remember thinking it was the coolest and most 'grownup' thing anyone had ever given me. I wondered how worthy I was of such a serious gift. We would take pictures together at Busch Gardens, Lowery Park Zoo, vacation spots in North Carolina, St. Augustine (my top favorite places with Dad). As I think about my sense of spontaneity and adventure with photography now, I can't help but smile and attribute this to Dad's influence.

Then there was the darkroom. You know those 'if' question games where someone asks you 'if you could pick (fill in the blank).....what/where would it be?" Well, if I had to pick my absolute favorite room of all time I would pick that studio darkroom. There was something magical about it, like it represented a mysterious element of untapped creative potential. Especially when Dad flipped the lights off, the only light emanating from the small box of faintly glowing light at the top of the ceiling so that he could see just enough to develop and print the finished product into black and white. The ritual of pouring the three necessary chemicals into their respective trays. Stop Bath was my favorite. I just liked the weird sound of it, like the photo was getting a cleansing bath that would wash away anything that would take away from the beauty of its overall attraction. The mixture of chemical smells in the air gave me both a creative high and slight revulsion.

I spent so many hours in that room with Dad that if I count the hours I watched him and observed with a voyeuristic curiosity for the creative process, I could have gained amateur photography intern status. We talked about more topics in that room than anywhere else before or since then too. Maybe literally 'being in the dark' lends itself to exploring those things that usually remain hidden.

"She's dead"

I was first struck with the magnitude of death on a quiet afternoon in the spring of 1988. My mother was at the college taking a final exam, having neared the end of her bachelor's degree program. Our next door neighbor usually came over to babysit/supervise me during the time mom had to be at school. This particular day for whatever reason though, I happened to be home alone. I cannot remember what I was doing in those moments before the phone rang, only that I was in the living room and it was afternoon because it was still light outside. I answered the phone in mom's office alcove area around the corner from the living room. It was a nurse.

She asked to speak to my mother in a very grave tone of voice, emphatically telling me my grandmother was sick. Even at 11 years old, I was highly intuitive at sensing when things felt somewhat amiss. Being that I was alone and had no grownup to turn to for assistance with the emergency, I had to think quickly. I remembered that my brother Alex's dad Kenny had mom's pager number in case of emergencies. I told the nurse that I would have her paged, as I jotted down the hospital number. I called Kenny and relayed the information.

What I remember most vividly was what I did after I hung up with him. In a daze, I walked over to our white plush couch in front of the big living room window of our second floor condominium. I stopped in my tracks and stood in front of the window, looking out, staring. It wasn't raining. It could have been cloudy or it could have been sunny. All I do know is in that moment I knew my grandmother was dead. It was like she was whispering in my ear, reassuring me and giving me comfort in my distressed moment of solitude. My eyes welled up with tears that couldn't quite let go. I was holding out for the possibility that I was imagining something, like a child who is afraid of monsters under the bed that do not exist.

Needing to be with someone, I called Kenny back. He picked me up and took me back to his apartment. Watching tv with him and Alex, I waited with nervous anticipation. Minutes felt like hours. I was scared to know what had happened to this woman whom I loved more than anything else in the world. The moment mom arrived through the door with puffy red eyes and a sad demeanor....said it all. "She's dead, isn't she?..." I remember thinking and possibly saying aloud.

Yes.

The funeral was in a pretty white church in Derry. She was buried in the stunning dark purple dress she wore to Mom's wedding the previous summer, her favorite color. I remember being afraid to go up to the casket where she lay, being that close to death. I had never been exposed to a dead body before. I was repulsed, frightened, sad, and curious all at once. I studied her face and what I could see of her body that lay there. Her silver tinted hair looked the same. Her soft, wrinkly face was no different. Her eyes were closed, as in a peaceful sleep. But there was no voice and certainly no breath. It looked like her, but it didn't "feel" like her anymore.

The most influential person in my life has also been my first experience with death. Perhaps it is no surprise I have spent my adulthood exploring the philosophical....

Philosophizing

As you may have noticed, I haven't written on here in awhile. I'm not sure what's going on with me.....lately I feel like I have alot on my mind and no clear way to articulate it or am completely blank on inspirational writing material. It makes me sad too, because I don't feel completely "whole" unless I write. Does that make sense?

Tonight I was chatting with one of my close friends and he commented seemingly out of nowhere that he doesn't like not seeing me write. Another partial reason I've temporarily gotten lost with it is that I don't feel like anyone cares about my writing anymore. There was a time when I felt like knowing I had readers who were interested in my thoughts, ideas, and feelings really drove me further into a passion for it. It's been said that one should do something simply for the sake of doing it and/or for oneself regardless of others. I agree, to an extent. At the same time, that's like telling a painter to paint something that brings out all their inner passion without having the additional pleasure of sharing it, having it be seen and known by others. When I write, it is my way to be seen. How can I be seen if I'm writing to an empty audience? I don't know. I'm getting more and more philosophical for my own good as more years zoom by.

So, here's what I propose...to myself and/or to whomever few people actually read these words across the screen......I cannot promise I'll write every day or something that will be super exciting, thought provokinge, etc. All I can do is promise to seek that which has been hidden for whatever reason, to bring back the creativity in whatever way I can....even if it's in the mundane for now. Thank you for this, Eddie. With that said, here are a few things that have been on my mind the past few days......

Have you ever read a book set in an era and country which you knew nothing about, other than the fictional (and perhaps semi-real) descriptions.....and found yourself utterly intrigued to go there someday to see if it's anything like your imagination? This is how I felt when I finished reading Tolstoy's "Resurrection" yesterday. Russia. Colorful and rich with history, though only bits and pieces of knowledge imparted to me. It never caught my attention....until reading classic Russian literature. Now I'm driven with a curiosity to experience the actual country. Is it anything like the traveling I've done there in my mind?

This happens for me with dreams and fantasies too. Do such people, places, and experiences exist outside of the power of our minds? Is something any less "real" to evoke the deepest of emotions if it's not in the physical realm? It has been said that nothing is quite as powerful as fantasy, that anything more "real" cannot live up to that imaginary expectation. Anything to an extreme is dangerous territory though, I suppose.....both "real" and "imagined." One interesting example.......

Death and dying/grief and loss issues seem to be front and center themes in many of my therapy sessions with clients lately. Each person presents with their own unique narrative and in that way, they are incomparable. I was especially touched by a session I had today, a teen who drew me a picture of this recurring bad dream she has that ultimately gave me the interpretation she is still mourning the loss of a family member she was close to who died of cancer. My client has fears that her own parents will die/be taken away from her. Even though just a dream, she experiences it as something very vivid and real.

Where does reality end and creativity begin for us human beings? How can we blend the two to help us heal/transcend pain, sorrow, and loneliness....instead of adding more to the heaping mess of emotional wounds? This is the philosophical case I'm currently trying to solve.....

Enlightenment and classic literature

I consider myself lucky to have crossed paths with exceptionally intelligent people in my life, many of which have become my friends. Still, I have to wonder what it would be like to live in an exceptionally intelligent society. Sadly, it's almost unfathomable to me.

The other night while conversing with my mom and brother, somehow we got to talking about compliments. Mom was curious to know, "What would be the highest compliment someone could give you?" It took my brother and I a few moments to contemplate one all-encompassing word to describe who we are as individuals. Alex came up with 'genuine' (which I like) and for me it was 'enlightened.' It's not so much that I see myself as enlightened as far as an end result, but rather a process on the way to an enlightened state. This would be the highest compliment because it speaks to all aspects of who I am as an individual....in regard to knowing thyself, the world, and its inhabitants. Enlightened is a word that sums it up for me, with utmost humbleness.

I am reminded of a disappointed friend who recently shared that he wishes he had friends who liked to read/intellectual discourse more than just going to the bars for fun. I know only too well how he feels. Even though I have my share of smart friends, the ones I can have literary and philosophical conversations with are few in number.

Then there was some higher education article link my mom sent me a few weeks ago detailing the depressing commentary of aliterate people in this country, those who CAN read and choose not to do so. Or intellectual poseurs who have "impressive" books they have never opened, only displaying them on ornate bookshelves for aesthetic purposes. Being the bibliophile I am, hearing this thoroughly disgusts me. Mainly, I feel pity for others who haven't had the experience of reading a classic literature novel and all it can evoke.

For example, right now I'm reading Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy's "Resurrection." Each time I read a classic, it is as if I'm reading it for the first time. Each novel presents itself to me in a unique way. It challenges my intellect with the words it uses to describe details (not the "dumbing down" words we are consciously or unconsciously privy to in everyday mainstream society dialogue), words I may have forgotten I knew the meaning of or sometimes encouraging me to learn new ones. Through in depth character development, there is the opportunity to see through the psychological and emotional lens that can impact the characters to do what they do. These are significant aspects that cannot be found in a fluffy blockbuster film. I would even go so far as to say not even in a majority of contemporary fiction. It seems getting a book published in the 21st century has more to do with who you know and how much money you have than it has to do with real talent. Or how much a writer's work has the capacity to be both timeless and a worthy contribution to humanity (in what it has to teach, inspire one's imagination, or both).

Furthermore, classic literature is one of the few genres that is rich with layers of complexity. It examines the dynamics in relationships across the board (between friends, lovers, and family members) and how those patterns influence the outcome of events unraveling throughout the story.

Universal themes (love, power, forgiveness, guilt, religion/spirituality, romance, lust, the various forms of prejudice one may face, secrets, redemption, the list goes on and on) and moral implications.

"Resurrection" has me contemplating something I learned many years ago in a Sociology class (Intro to Criminology). I remember learning various theories that served as possible "explanations" for criminal behavior. I can't remember the name of the theory, but basically one in particular talked about lack of community resources being a motivation for individuals to go down a path of crime that they normally wouldn't under more 'supportive' circumstances. One of the main characters in the novel feels a sense of guilt that he led his one true love down a downward spiral of prostitution, theft, and murder. The way he responded to her years before, he feels, may have made the difference between her being a 'good' vs. 'sinful' woman. If he had the courage to love her and not repress his true feelings, her future (and his) could have taken a different path. In a way, he feels it was HE who did all those 'bad' things for which he must seek atonement. It made me think twice about how much responsibility we have to others. Perhaps it's the small part of compassionate 'idealist' in me that strongly resonates with social responsibility and looking out for other's welfare. Yes, we make our own choices and it's ultimately up to oneself to create our own reality.....yet, I feel both individual and social concerns are at stake.

See what I mean? The layers are endless with classic literature.

I hope one day I live in a society that places a priceless value on the humanities (creative arts and education) because as it stands, we aren't as 'human' as we could be.

"The unexamined life is not worth living."
---Socrates