"Starin down the stars, jealous of the moon."

Self-confession: I am a socialist.  Okay, I do not honestly consider myself a socialist but I do honestly believe that my father considers me one.  It is hard for me to share my serious thoughts.  There have been too many occasions in which I’ve either been on the receiving end or the witness to a diatribe on the political or religious or economic or stereotypical failings of any given group of people.  I have a very distinct memory of being warned not to associate with a set of siblings in my neighborhood because they were a particular kind of poor people; ungrateful, free-loading, destructive, dramatic, chaotic.  But they were my friends, we watched Doug together, but their parents had some mental illness, and more often than not I had more to eat than they did.  I know the tension with that family set the stage for my career as a social worker.  That tension is part of my hard thing.  Helping other people who aren’t grateful for it or deserving of it became equated with economic travesty and social oppression.  Sometimes I wonder if losing myself in the service of helping people to understand themselves, be empowered to live better lives, and help their children isn’t just a reflection of my need to convince my father I’m not a socialist.  Because, truly, if being grateful or deserving is a requirement for grace, then what does that say about my God?  What does that say about me?  I am scared to admit, but entirely confident that I have a pattern of not being grateful for God’s will.  I have pushed back; I have run in the other direction, I have slammed the door.  Can he handle it or more importantly will he?  And will you? 

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My arms are stretched out as far as they will go.  My legs are stretched out like I’m in midst of a jumping jack.  I push myself to float on my back with as little resistance or correction from my body as I can muster.  I’m alone in the moderately sized pool of my hotel.  My body begins to rotate to the right.  Arm adjustment.  Neck twitch.  Leg adjustment.  Try not to move.  Trust that the water will carry you.  Arm adjustment.  Stiffen back.  Fingers reflex.  Try not to move.  You won’t submerge.  You won’t submerge.  What is there to be afraid of?  Arm adjustment.  Head adjustment.  I can’t stop.  Breathe.  Relax.  I feel weightless.  Arm adjustment.  Leg adjustment.  I can’t control the reflex.  I can’t trust that I won’t submerge even though submerging wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it?  I wonder when I get to heaven if I’ll be able to float without defense?

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I think we write darkly because the struggle is dark.  And we have dark places that no one else knows about.  Is it all of me?  Heavens no.  But it is there. 

You know, it wasn’t supposed to be this way. 

Sometimes I have to remind myself of that.

The struggle wasn’t a part of the original plan, at least not to this extent.  We’ve always had a choice and with a choice there’s a struggle.  But THIS struggle is a whole other animal AND it is a very REAL struggle. 

That’s the part we forget.

“Oh take me back to the start”

We think that every struggle is the first struggle—Adam and Eve and that damn fruit.

But it’s not.  How could it be?

We are lost.  We are lost and AND we’ve not always been lost.  We are perpetually attempting a return to the start—when I knew Him and I knew myself as His creation. 

It is a dark and desperate and difficult journey through shit.  It should be a struggle.  And if it’s not a struggle then

I don’t think you really get it.

Maybe we write darker because it is dark.  The struggle is dark and real.  It’s not who we are but if we cant name it,

                                        we may mistake it for who we are supposed to be.

Fact: I wrote some fiction.

It is cold.  Not the light jacket cold or the raise the thermometer a notch cold.  The cold that can’t be inhaled.  It shocks your lungs, it gets stuck inside your nose, and it creates ice on the tips of your eyelashes.  Shallow breath.  Folded arms.  Adjust your hat to fit your ears more snuggly.  Inhaling scarf fibers.  Clunky boots. 

It is quiet.  The snow swallows the sound of the city.  All you can hear is the traction of your boots making weak attempts to grab the snow as you walk as briskly as you are able. 

You are starting to sweat from the back and forth movement of the coat.  Step. Step. Step. Left Right Left Right.  The quiet, the aloneness of your boots is unnerving.  You glance around nervously expecting to see someone.  Footprints, tire tracks, small patches of snow undisturbed, a cloudy night sky bright enough to bring feelings of hope and peace.  Step step step, left right left right.  Hat adjustment.  Check nose for numbness.  Almost there. 

Why did I think this was a good idea??  Nervous glance, quick step.  Finally!

Force the gate open against the resistance of the pile of accumulated snow.  Up the steps, knock on the door  not too eager, not too slow--its cold.  Shift, shift again.  Rub gloves together.  Adjust hat.  Nose is numb, that’s going to hurt. 

Door opens.  He smiles.  “Come in!”  I remind myself not to rush even though my body would like to dive into the warm oasis.  “How was the walk?” 

I hear myself say “Good, pretty.” 

“I love the snow…it’s so beautiful.”

 I fail to muster more than a nod.  Small talk portion of the evening...check.  He invites me to sit.  I chose the chair furthest from the one I know he prefers.  I like chairs that surround you.  I was going to be needing that tonight. 

“So, have you thought about it,” he says casually and yet we both know more of my effort has been spent in trying not to think about it. 

“Yeah…yeah I did.” 

He waits.  I hate it when he waits.  Sometimes I just want to scream “What do you want from me?!” 

“I don’t know, it’s just hard….I don’t know what to do.”  He nods.  I hate it when he nods. 

“I just don’t know what the point is anymore.  What’s the point?” 

“What do you think the point is?” 

I could just leave.  I could leave his stupid reflective listening and go.  My slightly defrosted nose begins to protest my plan to return to the cold.  “The point is that I need to do better.” 

No response..really?

 Fine.  “I mean, I do want to do better I just don’t think I can.”

 “What makes you think that you aren’t doing adequately?” 

Duh.  “How can what I’m doing possibly be adequate?” 

“That wasn’t my question.”  What does he want from me?? 

“Fine, I know that I can do better, I just need to stop acting like a dumbass.” 

He shifts in his chair, “I am just struggling with how simple you make it sound.” 

Okay, okay I’m intrigued.  “What do you mean?” 

“Your belief is that you need to do better AND that you are not doing better because you are making stupid decisions, correct?”

 “Yeeaaah….” 

He shrugs, leans back into his chair, “I’m just not convinced.” 

“Isn’t the point to be better?!”

“It depends on what better means.”

 “Better means…better!  If I was better, things woudn’t be so hard!”

 “Ahhhhh.”  What is ahh??  Ahh???

 “Well, that’s different.  You are assuming that things aren’t hard in and of themselves, that it’s you that is the problem.”  

Skeptical eyes.  “I mean, things can be hard, I just feel like…I don’t know.” 

He knows what I know.  “You should be better.” 

I can’t look.  I can feel my heart beating fast.  I feel ashamed.

I consider bolting right now when he stands up and walks out of the room. 

Sigh.  Arms fold.  Shift in seat.  Where did he go?  Why would he just leave?  I hear footsteps again.  Sit up, unfold arms, refold arms. 

He reenters the room, smiling again, food in hand. 

“Here,” he hands me a big bowl of chips and a coke.  I manage a “thanks.”  He sits next to me and takes some chips.  I follow his lead. 

After a few chips and a dramatic conversation with myself, I engage…”so what do you think?” 

I wish I could stuff it back into my mouth and break in into little chip size pieces. 

He looks at me, confidently and says “Its just not that simple.  Someday, not today, but someday I promise that you won’t feel like you have to protect yourself against me.  But, until then…how about tomorrow?” 

Sometimes I think he tries to distract me while I’m trying to process, “Sure.” 

Sure?  

A few more chips.  A sip of coke.  Scarf, check.  Protesting nose, check.  Adjust hat. 

He opens the door, I walk out and through the gate that has appeared to accumulate more snow, further impeding passage.  “Don’t forget, it’s just not that simple!” He yells to remind me, as I begin the trek back home.  Step step step left right left right.

The day a child taught me the Lochness monster is really JUST a shark

I used to work with this kid who was the textbook example of what the "fight response" looks like.  Award for the most and severest suspensions in a school year---check.  Award for the most expulsions without actually ever being expelled---check.  My agency uses an assessment that has a designated rating in order to reflect that he caused others in his life fear due to the intensity and frequency of his rage.  He was in Kindergarten but he had experienced a grown person's life and then some.  He had a great personality, easy to relate to, would give you the shirt off his back.  Nobody could help him and some wouldn't.  

There is a particular fear that comes with helping a child with extreme behavior, specifically if you are directly intervening.  I think someone would prefer it to be called "anxiety" because that is prettier but the whole business is messy, and I think fear is appropriate to the mess.  Safety issues for all involved, policies, procedures, politics, not to mention which approach to use and to switch to when the first couple don't work, worst case scenarios---oh, and that's in the first 10 minutes.  Luckily, for both of us, my fear response is "freeze."  

I don't like to freeze.  (Reference my last blog post in which I wrote an ode to my love for planning...and the one before that in which I compared control to a parachute).  I was convinced for the longest time that freezing made me a weak person.  I don't automatically have a response.  I'm not sure right away.  I would prefer to let you go first.  I'm not going to jump yet and maybe not ever.   

I spent the day making feeble attempts to decipher what I was reaching for in my day to day, in response to a prompt from a writing course I'm taking.  Much of my energy during the day is spent in deciphering the motivations, reachings of other people; parents, children, teachers, colleagues.  It was an interesting challenge to expand that to myself whilst continuing the pursuit in others.  I think in an effort to guide my ambition, my caseload decided to throw a few curve balls.  

Peace.  As a social worker, that seems a bit of a no brainer, but its just not that simple.  The words that are burning...it's just not that simple.  I'm not that simple.  The conflict is not that simple.  The resolution is not that simple.  God is not simple.  My lack of prayer life is not that simple.  Condemning domestic violence between two adults with mental illness...its not that simple.  The really hard battles are not clear cut between one thing and the other; they are clearly covered in shit on both sides.  I love words.  Words, context, interpretation can be simple or complex.  Words can be manipulated to simplify or complicate.  Words can be withheld to simplify or complicate.  Peace.  Peace for my heavy spirit.  Peace for your heavy spirit and her heavy spirit and their heavy spirits.  Today it was peace for my insecurity.  Peace for the child who thinks he is bad for taking a pill.  Peace for his father who wants to die due to suffering from physical pain.  Peace for the child who doesn't understand social cues.  Peace for the parents who love each other but are both depressed and struggling.  Peace for my feelings of failure.  Peace for the child who continues to cuss out his parents and run away.  Peace for my feeling inadequate.  Peace for the parents who experience a rehash of their own trauma every time they discipline.  Peace for the mom fleeing from her husband.  Peace for the husband afraid for his child.  Peace for my tired mind.  It's just not that simple.  

I went camping for a few days this past weekend.  And came back in all of my campfire smoke-smelling-bug spray covered-still wet clothes in bags-sunburnt forehead-refreshed spirit glory.  I could write an entire blog on camping, but for now, I just want to mention the stars...numerous, beautiful, flickering, awesome.  He knows them all by name.  His Sovereignty is not confined to circumstance.  It's just not that simple.