I've been at my new job for nearly two months now. It came after a traumatic end to my last job, followed by a few months of recovery, and a few months of searching for something new. I had almost given up when this one came around. I was tired, frustrated, and beginning to doubt my skill-set and my abilities. I always pictured myself working with children, teens, or young people. And now I go to work and sit across from people with grey and white hair who are older than my parents. I love how life ends up being what you don't expect and how those surprises are often what give you the most joy and satisfaction.
I'm working at a non-profit independent living seniors residence. My official job title is "Resident Care Coordinator", but in actuality I'm a family counsellor. I get to spend my days with clients who have a myriad of issues and struggles - most of who just want someone to talk to. I get to work with clients in their 60's, all the way up to their late 90's. I get to problem-solve and work together with their families, and consult and case-manage with health care professionals. My clients all have sharp cognition, most are busy, active, and living really full lives. Some are on the cusp of a move to more supportive housing and need extra support to get to the next step. I see it all, and I'm always learning.
In just the past two months....
I've learned that sometimes what people come to talk to you about has nothing to do with what they really want to talk to you about. You can have three sessions about doctor's appointments and the hum-drum of life and then ask the right question and know you've hit gold. Regrets, disappointments, and shame will rise to the surface and then the work begins.
I've learned that it's never too late to begin. You can be in your late 80's and know the time is right to do personal work to make your life better or easier, or make your load lighter.
I've learned that shame is so prevalent.
I've learned that you can keep secrets for a very long time. I've sat with clients who tell me things they've never spoken out loud in over 70 years. There are times I sit feeling like I'm sitting on the most sacred ground as things are uncovered, spoken, and brought to light. Sometimes it's like I can see the heavy burden lifting.
I've learned that older people are just like you and me.
I've learned that you can pretend your whole life, but it will all catch up with you eventually.
I've learned to sometimes speak really really loudly and enunciate my words very very clearly. I've also learned that there are times when my voice needs to be soft and soothing, just above a whisper.
I've learned that 95 year olds still like to read romantic fiction and that if you drive a scooter and get a flat tire, CAA will come to the rescue.
I've learned to not expect certain ideas, opinions or lines of thinking from people just because they're old. Age means nothing.
I've learned that in some ways, age means everything... especially when you think your memory is failing, or judgement is going, and you're scared you're losing yourself.
I've learned that you're never too old to fall in love.
I've learned to trust myself and go with my hunches.
I've learned to remind people that it's OK to need someone to help, especially when those people have lived their entire lives proving to everyone that they are self-sufficient and don't need anyone.
I've learned that you can be young in age but very very old in disposition, or old in age and as youthful as they come.
I've learned that people usually reap what they sow. If you're alone and isolated, there is almost always a reason.
I've learned to value stories more than I did before.
I've learned that I love working with seniors.
I am reminded every single day at work that my job is a gift and the conversations I have are sacred.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
The Personal is Political
Tomorrow marks the end of an era for my family. It's the first time in 32 years that my dad's name has not been on a ballot for the municipal election in the community I'm from.
32 years isn't just a season, or a good run. It truly is an era.
When I was 8 years old my dad took his first stab at local politics, putting his hat in the race to become a school board trustee. It's interesting to me that he was younger then, than I am now, when he got his start. He won his position handily that year and continued to sit as a member of the Garden Valley School Division Board of Trustees for 10 years. Looking back, I love the poetic irony of it all. Here was a man who hadn't graduated from high school himself sitting in a seat working to make the decision and policies for the schools in the community he loved. No one that voted for him cared that he had never graduated. They cared that he said what he believed and he didn't waiver. He cared about the school system because it represented the future of his town, and it was educating his own two kids. 10 years later his youngest child had graduated from high school and it was time to move on a new battle.
22 years ago my dad continued his political adventure and ran for what was then the position of town counsellor for what is now the city of Winkler. His connections, friendships, and passion won him that election, and every one since. In every way and in every opportunity he made his mark on council. My dad's never been known as someone to sit idly by when something is happening that he doesn't agree with or believe in. If he's passionate about something, you'll know about it. If he thinks something is happening that is underhanded or not in the best interest of the community, you'll know about that too. If he disagrees with you, you'll most definitely know about it. He made his positions crystal clear during his time on council, sometimes offending, usually challenging, often stirring-the-pot, but always promoting the community he loves.
My dad has never backed down from a battle or a fight he believes in, even if it wasn't the politically astute thing to do. He has championed the underdog and the forgotten, never agreeing to something just for political gain. His mantra has always been that "I'm not a politician". He's fashioned himself as a blue-collar, "every man's man" who remembers the ones that many have forgotten about. He's taken his lumps in the media and on the street, but he's never stepped back when his integrity is on the line.
I get my passion for politics and my willingness to engage in battle from my dad. It's not an easy row to hoe, but if it's how you're built, you can't help yourself. Much to his chagrin, my political stripes are vastly different than his in many ways. We disagree on many issues on many fronts... religion, politics, world events, ideology, just to name a few. We can spar and verbally banter until the heat is on, and our tempers are flaring. And then we agree to disagree, shake hands, and wait for our next chance to do do battle. He taught me well.
This past year I was engaged in a situation where my integrity and beliefs resulted in me loosing a job I really cared about. I knew that lots of people would question my decisions, my motives, and my actions, but I never wondered if my dad would support me. I knew he would, because standing up for what he has believed in is how he's done politics his whole life. It's how he started, and tonight - after 32 years in municipal politics, it's how he's ending.
Well done, dad. You did your community, and yourself, proud.
32 years isn't just a season, or a good run. It truly is an era.
When I was 8 years old my dad took his first stab at local politics, putting his hat in the race to become a school board trustee. It's interesting to me that he was younger then, than I am now, when he got his start. He won his position handily that year and continued to sit as a member of the Garden Valley School Division Board of Trustees for 10 years. Looking back, I love the poetic irony of it all. Here was a man who hadn't graduated from high school himself sitting in a seat working to make the decision and policies for the schools in the community he loved. No one that voted for him cared that he had never graduated. They cared that he said what he believed and he didn't waiver. He cared about the school system because it represented the future of his town, and it was educating his own two kids. 10 years later his youngest child had graduated from high school and it was time to move on a new battle.
22 years ago my dad continued his political adventure and ran for what was then the position of town counsellor for what is now the city of Winkler. His connections, friendships, and passion won him that election, and every one since. In every way and in every opportunity he made his mark on council. My dad's never been known as someone to sit idly by when something is happening that he doesn't agree with or believe in. If he's passionate about something, you'll know about it. If he thinks something is happening that is underhanded or not in the best interest of the community, you'll know about that too. If he disagrees with you, you'll most definitely know about it. He made his positions crystal clear during his time on council, sometimes offending, usually challenging, often stirring-the-pot, but always promoting the community he loves.
My dad has never backed down from a battle or a fight he believes in, even if it wasn't the politically astute thing to do. He has championed the underdog and the forgotten, never agreeing to something just for political gain. His mantra has always been that "I'm not a politician". He's fashioned himself as a blue-collar, "every man's man" who remembers the ones that many have forgotten about. He's taken his lumps in the media and on the street, but he's never stepped back when his integrity is on the line.
I get my passion for politics and my willingness to engage in battle from my dad. It's not an easy row to hoe, but if it's how you're built, you can't help yourself. Much to his chagrin, my political stripes are vastly different than his in many ways. We disagree on many issues on many fronts... religion, politics, world events, ideology, just to name a few. We can spar and verbally banter until the heat is on, and our tempers are flaring. And then we agree to disagree, shake hands, and wait for our next chance to do do battle. He taught me well.
This past year I was engaged in a situation where my integrity and beliefs resulted in me loosing a job I really cared about. I knew that lots of people would question my decisions, my motives, and my actions, but I never wondered if my dad would support me. I knew he would, because standing up for what he has believed in is how he's done politics his whole life. It's how he started, and tonight - after 32 years in municipal politics, it's how he's ending.
Well done, dad. You did your community, and yourself, proud.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Home is Wherever You (and They) Are
Something funny happens when your kids grow up. They grow bigger. And they also have more stuff. In the past year our house has felt like the walls have been closing in on us a bit. Our house is relatively small for a family of 5 by typical North American standards. It's a 1065 square foot bungalow with no garage. When we bought it 13 1/2 years ago it felt really big to us. We only had wee Hannah and there were a few rooms to fill. Now we fill them up and are usually overflowing.
It was the "overflowing" part (as well as the lack of garage) that prompted us to start looking for a different house last Spring. We had really specific parameters, as well as a really specific geographic location that we'd consider. This was a move that was supposed to make our lives simpler and less cluttered with more room to breathe and less ice to chip off of the windshield. We said we wouldn't move unless it was the "perfect house in the perfect location" (something that probably doesn't really exist), because there was too much good about where we were.
We've spent the past several months weeding through listings and seeing houses. I'd say we've seen about 15 houses in since April, with the last one, for the second time just this afternoon. Until this afternoon we were pretty sure we would be putting in an offer on this one. Some things seemed perfect. It had 4 bedrooms upstairs, it had lots of room in the living room, dining room, and family room for people. We knew just how we'd gut the kitchen and start it all over again, and the yard and gazebo were beautiful. The extra-wide double garage was big enough for our vehicles and our bikes. It wasn't in the area we really wanted to live in, but we thought we could over-look that to get the other stuff.
We took the girls, and Mike's long-suffering kitchen-designing sister Corina, to see it yesterday. We spent an hour pouring through the house, taking some measurements, imagining where we'd put things and who would get which room. We came home and made lists and crunched numbers and anticipated what different repairs and upgrades would cost us. Although there were things about the house the girls liked, they made it very clear to us that they really didn't want to move. We've heard this loop on repeat since last Spring. Anytime a move seems closer or a house seems better, their refrain gets louder. They don't care if their bedrooms are minuscule or if they almost tumble down the basement stairs when there is more than one person getting their shoes on at the same time, they tell us. They like where we are and they don't want to leave. We spent some time yesterday reassuring them that we will always try our very best to make decisions for our family that are for the best for everyone, and if we went ahead and bought this house, they would have to trust us to know it was a good decision for all of us.
Then this afternoon Mike and I went back alone to the Open House to take one last look. We went expecting to be more convinced than ever that it was perfect. Only when we got there, that wasn't the feeling we got. We noticed the work that would need to be done, and not the space. Our eyes found the cracks and the curling shingles instead of place our couch would go. But it wasn't just that. It was the packing and the planning, and the fixing things here to get ready to sell this house. It was the boxes and the expense, the tightened budget, the inability to take big family vacations and sign our kids up for extra saxophone lessons if they want them. As that mountain of things accumulated, all of the good things about the house got smaller and smaller. By the time we got into our car, we both agreed that we don't have it in us right now and that sometimes, maybe our girls are smarter than we are.
Somehow we always think bigger is better, and sometimes it really is. There is nothing wrong with bigger. But there is something good and satisfying about keeping things simple and manageable and consistent. (Remind me that I said this when I'm chipping a few inches of ice off the van in January when we're already late for school.) For now, our girls crave familiarity. They don't care if their room is tiny, or if we have to leave the house in shifts. They aren't unsatisfied. They need memories and holidays and things to remember and laugh about. We'd have those in the new house too, but they would likely be interspersed with more talk about budgets and dread of anything breaking down or falling apart.
For now, this is where we're staying. It's small and squishy, but we're all together. We have places to visit and things to do. We have neighbors we love and friend's houses that we can bike to. We have people to car-pool with, and relieved kids. For now, that's all we need. In a year it might look different. But for now, this is enough.
It was the "overflowing" part (as well as the lack of garage) that prompted us to start looking for a different house last Spring. We had really specific parameters, as well as a really specific geographic location that we'd consider. This was a move that was supposed to make our lives simpler and less cluttered with more room to breathe and less ice to chip off of the windshield. We said we wouldn't move unless it was the "perfect house in the perfect location" (something that probably doesn't really exist), because there was too much good about where we were.
We've spent the past several months weeding through listings and seeing houses. I'd say we've seen about 15 houses in since April, with the last one, for the second time just this afternoon. Until this afternoon we were pretty sure we would be putting in an offer on this one. Some things seemed perfect. It had 4 bedrooms upstairs, it had lots of room in the living room, dining room, and family room for people. We knew just how we'd gut the kitchen and start it all over again, and the yard and gazebo were beautiful. The extra-wide double garage was big enough for our vehicles and our bikes. It wasn't in the area we really wanted to live in, but we thought we could over-look that to get the other stuff.
We took the girls, and Mike's long-suffering kitchen-designing sister Corina, to see it yesterday. We spent an hour pouring through the house, taking some measurements, imagining where we'd put things and who would get which room. We came home and made lists and crunched numbers and anticipated what different repairs and upgrades would cost us. Although there were things about the house the girls liked, they made it very clear to us that they really didn't want to move. We've heard this loop on repeat since last Spring. Anytime a move seems closer or a house seems better, their refrain gets louder. They don't care if their bedrooms are minuscule or if they almost tumble down the basement stairs when there is more than one person getting their shoes on at the same time, they tell us. They like where we are and they don't want to leave. We spent some time yesterday reassuring them that we will always try our very best to make decisions for our family that are for the best for everyone, and if we went ahead and bought this house, they would have to trust us to know it was a good decision for all of us.
Then this afternoon Mike and I went back alone to the Open House to take one last look. We went expecting to be more convinced than ever that it was perfect. Only when we got there, that wasn't the feeling we got. We noticed the work that would need to be done, and not the space. Our eyes found the cracks and the curling shingles instead of place our couch would go. But it wasn't just that. It was the packing and the planning, and the fixing things here to get ready to sell this house. It was the boxes and the expense, the tightened budget, the inability to take big family vacations and sign our kids up for extra saxophone lessons if they want them. As that mountain of things accumulated, all of the good things about the house got smaller and smaller. By the time we got into our car, we both agreed that we don't have it in us right now and that sometimes, maybe our girls are smarter than we are.
Somehow we always think bigger is better, and sometimes it really is. There is nothing wrong with bigger. But there is something good and satisfying about keeping things simple and manageable and consistent. (Remind me that I said this when I'm chipping a few inches of ice off the van in January when we're already late for school.) For now, our girls crave familiarity. They don't care if their room is tiny, or if we have to leave the house in shifts. They aren't unsatisfied. They need memories and holidays and things to remember and laugh about. We'd have those in the new house too, but they would likely be interspersed with more talk about budgets and dread of anything breaking down or falling apart.
For now, this is where we're staying. It's small and squishy, but we're all together. We have places to visit and things to do. We have neighbors we love and friend's houses that we can bike to. We have people to car-pool with, and relieved kids. For now, that's all we need. In a year it might look different. But for now, this is enough.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Forty Things
I'm forty today. Interestingly, it's a day I've been looking forward to. My twenties weren't great. My thirties had some rough patches, but they were better. If the pattern holds, I know that the forties will be even sweeter. In honor of my forty years, here are forty random thoughts about life as I know it, who I am now, how I've changed, and other somewhat useless drivel.
1. I got asked in my MFT class last night which of the roles that I play I am most proud of. I didn't have to hesitate for a second. Being a mom. No question. It's been the hardest job in the world, but the one that makes me most grateful. I'm not great at it. I mess up a lot. I make people cry sometimes. But I know that they know I love them. I'm also pretty good at saying "I'm sorry". If you can do those two things, you're probably doing OK.
2. I'm more content with mess than I've ever been. Some people might think that's not a good thing!
3. I'm getting better at saying "no" without explanation.
4. I swear like a sailor. I'm not proud of it, but neither am I ashamed of it. It's just more of me I've come to say "yes" to.
5. I will never belong to a church or organization that values me less than others because I am female.
6. I like staying home a lot. I used to want to spend my evenings and weekends out and about. Now I just want to be home.
7. When I turned 30 I was pregnant with Sasha. I'm glad I'm not pregnant with anyone today. I like our trio just the way it is.
8. I've grown comfortable with having a raw and disheveled appearance in public. Make up is often over-rated. I don't necessarily want to run into everyone I know while raw and disheveled and out in public, but I'll happily pick up my kids at school.
9. I wasn't remotely sporty as a kid, but I love watching my girls play sports. I stand up and scream and yell and may even be considered obnoxious at times. I didn't see that coming.
10. Don't expect what's not realistic. Half of the hard days in my life are because I didn't follow this mantra.
11. I fall asleep almost the second my head hits the pillow at night. There is almost nothing I love more than a glorious nap in the middle of the day. Sleep is beautiful. There have been times in my life I've used sleep as a way to cope or escape. I still fall back into that sometimes.
12. I didn't think I'd be forty and part of an Anglican church.
13. A few years ago I never thought I'd be part of any church again.
14. I am most relaxed and at peace when no one has expectations of me.
15. I know I've mentioned this a million times, but my life's favorite book is Anne Lamott's Travelling Mercies. I go back to it all the time. That book kept me afloat when little else could have.
16. I wouldn't go back to my twenties for a million dollars. I finally have a lot of compassion for my twenty year old self.
17. My two favorite gelato flavours are pistachio and coconut. Having them together is a match made in heaven.
18. Getting rid of things energizes me. When I fill a bag up to donate and can lift it out of my car, I feel 20 pounds lighter.
19. I miss living in Vancouver. I miss our friends. I miss the abundance of spectacular beauty. I miss the simple life we were able to lead. I don't get to talk to those friends often, but I hold them so close.
20. My closest friends from elementary and high school are still close to me. I think this is a great and miraculous treasure. In fact, to celebrate our fortieth birthdays, I'm meeting 3 of them in Las Vegas for a wild weekend in October. I've been dreaming of this trip for years and I could care less where we're going, as long as we're together.
21. I still don't really feel like an adult. I waste a lot of time on frivolous things and don't often keep up with the "work" real adults do.
22. One of my favorite things to do in the morning is go into Sasha and Ellie's bedroom to wake them up. I always go in ten minutes before the have to get up for the day and I crawl under the covers with Sasha on the bottom bunk. I snuggle right into her and breath in the smell of her neck and savour the warmth and slow breaths of her body.
23. I secretly wish just one of the Dugger children would rebel.
24. Does number 23 "out me" as someone who occasionally watches "19 Kids and Counting"? Damn.
25. I see the sacred all around me in ways I never used to.
26. I'm glad I married someone who cries during episodes of Little House on the Prairie and Derek.
27. I say weekly that if Mike ever dies while our girls are still in school, they're screwed. I can't even help Ellie with grade 6 Math.
28. The older I get, the less time and tolerance I have for people who aren't interested in anything but their own stories.
29. There are very few people who know me well enough, to stop my unending questions and make me talk about me. There are then even fewer people who I trust enough to tell the gritty parts of my story.
30. I like lemon more than chocolate.
31. I can't believe some of our friend's kids are grown ups.
32. I hope our girls chase their dreams instead of being hung up on what's practical.
33. I hope I have the sense to help them do that.
34. I will never be an e-book reader. I love holding real books in my hands. I think books are a little bit like trophies. Part of what I like about going to other people's houses is seeing the type of books they have out and about in their home. It tells me a lot about them. I'mprobably definitely a bit of a book snob.
35. I spent my 40th birthday evening with my family doing what we always do, and what I love best... eating pizza and watching a movie. I love tradition.
36. Mike should be grateful I'm so low-maintenance.
37. I think forty sounds a lot younger than it did when I was a kid.
38. I'm getting better at being mindful and compartmentalizing what I'm feeling.
39. I base my prayers on Anne Lamott's book Help, Thanks, Wow. Really, what more is there to say?
40. I'd really like a "pause" button, because this is a pretty sweet spot in life.
1. I got asked in my MFT class last night which of the roles that I play I am most proud of. I didn't have to hesitate for a second. Being a mom. No question. It's been the hardest job in the world, but the one that makes me most grateful. I'm not great at it. I mess up a lot. I make people cry sometimes. But I know that they know I love them. I'm also pretty good at saying "I'm sorry". If you can do those two things, you're probably doing OK.
2. I'm more content with mess than I've ever been. Some people might think that's not a good thing!
3. I'm getting better at saying "no" without explanation.
4. I swear like a sailor. I'm not proud of it, but neither am I ashamed of it. It's just more of me I've come to say "yes" to.
5. I will never belong to a church or organization that values me less than others because I am female.
6. I like staying home a lot. I used to want to spend my evenings and weekends out and about. Now I just want to be home.
7. When I turned 30 I was pregnant with Sasha. I'm glad I'm not pregnant with anyone today. I like our trio just the way it is.
8. I've grown comfortable with having a raw and disheveled appearance in public. Make up is often over-rated. I don't necessarily want to run into everyone I know while raw and disheveled and out in public, but I'll happily pick up my kids at school.
9. I wasn't remotely sporty as a kid, but I love watching my girls play sports. I stand up and scream and yell and may even be considered obnoxious at times. I didn't see that coming.
10. Don't expect what's not realistic. Half of the hard days in my life are because I didn't follow this mantra.
11. I fall asleep almost the second my head hits the pillow at night. There is almost nothing I love more than a glorious nap in the middle of the day. Sleep is beautiful. There have been times in my life I've used sleep as a way to cope or escape. I still fall back into that sometimes.
12. I didn't think I'd be forty and part of an Anglican church.
13. A few years ago I never thought I'd be part of any church again.
14. I am most relaxed and at peace when no one has expectations of me.
15. I know I've mentioned this a million times, but my life's favorite book is Anne Lamott's Travelling Mercies. I go back to it all the time. That book kept me afloat when little else could have.
16. I wouldn't go back to my twenties for a million dollars. I finally have a lot of compassion for my twenty year old self.
17. My two favorite gelato flavours are pistachio and coconut. Having them together is a match made in heaven.
18. Getting rid of things energizes me. When I fill a bag up to donate and can lift it out of my car, I feel 20 pounds lighter.
19. I miss living in Vancouver. I miss our friends. I miss the abundance of spectacular beauty. I miss the simple life we were able to lead. I don't get to talk to those friends often, but I hold them so close.
20. My closest friends from elementary and high school are still close to me. I think this is a great and miraculous treasure. In fact, to celebrate our fortieth birthdays, I'm meeting 3 of them in Las Vegas for a wild weekend in October. I've been dreaming of this trip for years and I could care less where we're going, as long as we're together.
21. I still don't really feel like an adult. I waste a lot of time on frivolous things and don't often keep up with the "work" real adults do.
22. One of my favorite things to do in the morning is go into Sasha and Ellie's bedroom to wake them up. I always go in ten minutes before the have to get up for the day and I crawl under the covers with Sasha on the bottom bunk. I snuggle right into her and breath in the smell of her neck and savour the warmth and slow breaths of her body.
23. I secretly wish just one of the Dugger children would rebel.
24. Does number 23 "out me" as someone who occasionally watches "19 Kids and Counting"? Damn.
25. I see the sacred all around me in ways I never used to.
26. I'm glad I married someone who cries during episodes of Little House on the Prairie and Derek.
27. I say weekly that if Mike ever dies while our girls are still in school, they're screwed. I can't even help Ellie with grade 6 Math.
28. The older I get, the less time and tolerance I have for people who aren't interested in anything but their own stories.
29. There are very few people who know me well enough, to stop my unending questions and make me talk about me. There are then even fewer people who I trust enough to tell the gritty parts of my story.
30. I like lemon more than chocolate.
31. I can't believe some of our friend's kids are grown ups.
32. I hope our girls chase their dreams instead of being hung up on what's practical.
33. I hope I have the sense to help them do that.
34. I will never be an e-book reader. I love holding real books in my hands. I think books are a little bit like trophies. Part of what I like about going to other people's houses is seeing the type of books they have out and about in their home. It tells me a lot about them. I'm
35. I spent my 40th birthday evening with my family doing what we always do, and what I love best... eating pizza and watching a movie. I love tradition.
36. Mike should be grateful I'm so low-maintenance.
37. I think forty sounds a lot younger than it did when I was a kid.
38. I'm getting better at being mindful and compartmentalizing what I'm feeling.
39. I base my prayers on Anne Lamott's book Help, Thanks, Wow. Really, what more is there to say?
40. I'd really like a "pause" button, because this is a pretty sweet spot in life.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Drowning In White Privilege
It hit me again today, as I read the morning paper, how surrounded I am.
Surrounded by something most right wing commentators would deny even exists.
My oldest daughter is nearly fifteen.
She is on holidays, so she sleeps in late in a bed with clean sheets.
She doesn't lock her bedroom door at night because she knows she is safe inside and outside.
She pins quotes from academics and literary giants on her boards, together with color palettes and ideas for a new bedroom.
She has friends who tell her she is beautiful and worthy.
She gets told every day that she is loved, sometimes more than once.
She wears clothes that make her feel good in her body.
She has parents who set boundaries and limits and walk with her through all of her choices so she doesn't feel alone.
She's never run away from home.
Never been in legitimate fear for her life.
She's never been placed in care because her circumstances weren't safe.
She's never had to look for a decent place to crash for the night because she had no where else to go.
She's never had her face on the cover of the Winnipeg Free Press.
She's safe and sound.
White and privileged.
Middle class.
Indulged and encouraged.
And she wasn't found wrapped in a tarp floating in the Red River this week like 15 year old Tina Fontaine.
When I looked at Hannah this morning I was overwhelmed by how different her one shot at life was, compared to the one Tina got.
I was overwhelmed with the way I had everything in my arsenal as a mom to give her everything she's needed for her chance to be.
Money, safety, doctors appointments, school, support....
....but I'm white, you see. She is too. So is her dad.
Tina wasn't.
She was a 15 year old First Nations child, disposed of in a dirty, filthy river.
May I never drown so much in my white privilege that I can't come up for air long and often enough to see those fighting to stay afloat around me.
Surrounded by something most right wing commentators would deny even exists.
My oldest daughter is nearly fifteen.
She is on holidays, so she sleeps in late in a bed with clean sheets.
She doesn't lock her bedroom door at night because she knows she is safe inside and outside.
She pins quotes from academics and literary giants on her boards, together with color palettes and ideas for a new bedroom.
She has friends who tell her she is beautiful and worthy.
She gets told every day that she is loved, sometimes more than once.
She wears clothes that make her feel good in her body.
She has parents who set boundaries and limits and walk with her through all of her choices so she doesn't feel alone.
She's never run away from home.
Never been in legitimate fear for her life.
She's never been placed in care because her circumstances weren't safe.
She's never had to look for a decent place to crash for the night because she had no where else to go.
She's never had her face on the cover of the Winnipeg Free Press.
She's safe and sound.
White and privileged.
Middle class.
Indulged and encouraged.
And she wasn't found wrapped in a tarp floating in the Red River this week like 15 year old Tina Fontaine.
When I looked at Hannah this morning I was overwhelmed by how different her one shot at life was, compared to the one Tina got.
I was overwhelmed with the way I had everything in my arsenal as a mom to give her everything she's needed for her chance to be.
Money, safety, doctors appointments, school, support....
....but I'm white, you see. She is too. So is her dad.
Tina wasn't.
She was a 15 year old First Nations child, disposed of in a dirty, filthy river.
May I never drown so much in my white privilege that I can't come up for air long and often enough to see those fighting to stay afloat around me.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
ABC's, 123's, and Mental Health Education
So much has been written and published today about mental illness and suicide since the news of Robin William's tragic death broke yesterday. In times like this I find myself "peering in" as the words appear. I read them gingerly and cautiously with fear close behind.
I am afraid, in these days, that those who mean well and wish to offer their form of healing to those who are in despair will lead them further to the cliff's edge. I've seen this, even today. Perhaps you have too. There are the posts and articles about the steps that only the Bible can offer for healing mental illness. They read as if to say, "If only Robin Williams had known God, this wouldn't have happened."
I don't know how to address all of this. I do know that for many years now, I think I have had a pretty good idea of what will make a difference in combating the pain and isolation of mental illness. It can happen by bringing the dark dogs of depression and other disorders out from the dark and dusty corners, wiping the cobwebs off of them, and placing them into the light. Naming them. Holding them up. Looking at them from all corners and from all angles. But the key to this exposure is being sure it happens early and often.
When I was a young girl, I spent hours thwarted by bouts of anxiety. I didn't have a name for it. All I knew is that when the weather got bad in the winter months I'd spend chunks of my school day looking out the classroom window consumed with fear. Fear of blizzards, of icy roads, of drifting snow and bad driving conditions. My dad worked on the road and I wanted him to make it home. When the snowflakes started my stomach would get tight and my mind consumed. The fear took up so much space in my heart and mind there wasn't any room left for anything else. If I tried to turn off the fear and worry I felt I was being disloyal and betraying my role as the keeper of fear. If I worried, and it consumed me, I was doing my "job" to make sure my dad would make it home at the end of the day. Seeing other kids excited about the snow or enjoying the coming of a blizzard irritated me. I felt isolated and old. I had a job to do, and that job was to worry. There was no time for fun or games. If I left my post, who knew what the outcome would be?
When I think of that young girl now, I feel sadness and compassion. If only I'd had a name for what I was living through then. If only I could have had someone take that anxiety and put it up on a shelf and studied it with me - helped me to see that my only real job as a child was to "be"... not to worry, not to ensure the safety of others, not to stop the weather if only I prayed or wished or hoped hard enough...
When I spend time in school now, as a parent volunteering or as a substitute teacher, I see the dark dogs lapping at the feet of children nearly every time. They are nipping at heels and tugging on leashes, and so many of the children I see are powerless to stop and silence them. No one has given them names for what they're feeling. No one has illuminated the dark space around them so that they can see their reality for what it is. No one has said, "This isn't who you are and you don't need to live like this. Let me support you in helping to find a better way." I can't think of a more fitting place to do this than in the elementary school classroom.
If mental illness was part of every child's elementary school education, we would be shocked at the reduction of stigma in our communities. We'd be able to give those things that are held in secret a name. They wouldn't look as scary and wouldn't need to be as hidden and covered if we knew their names and could call them out. We'd give children the gift of having a vocabulary to explore their feelings and challenges. Things aren't as intimidating when you know their name.
If I'd had a name for what I experienced as a child, I'd have had power to control it. To call it out. I'd have been able to tell fear and worry and anxiety they were not who I was and were definitely not my job. I'd have been able to shine a light on the dark places. I'd have been lighter and laughed more. I'd have spent more time making snow angels and less time begging God to stop the blizzard.
The Province of Ontario is on the right track with this. They've started implementing mental health education in all schools and are working to develop mental health literacy among all students in the province. This is a step in the right direction - one that Manitoba's department of education could learn from. But there needs to be more.
I want to see more mental health professionals working within the early years, middle years, and senior years of all schools. This is particularly important in the early years - before stigma has a chance to solidify and settle on young hearts and minds. I want to see more accessibility to counselling services within schools in the early and middle years. Having counsellors available one or two days a cycle, or not accessible at all isn't enough. I want to see Guidance Counsellors having actual legitimate training in techniques and interventions to help students cope. I want to see classroom teachers incorporating mental health literacy into their classrooms and giving their students the names and terms they need to describe what is nipping at their heels.
I want to see every child who is dogged with depression, anxiety, or another form of mental illness have the voice and the words to point to it and to say, "This isn't me. This doesn't define me. I am bigger and stronger, and with support, I will be OK." Imagine how the world would change if children understood this. Imagine how the shame and need to conceal would melt away. Imagine those children as adults, having years of practice, skills, and language at their disposal to fight whatever they struggled with.
Let's work to end the power of mental illness by empowering our children to believe and know that with support, there is hope.
I am afraid, in these days, that those who mean well and wish to offer their form of healing to those who are in despair will lead them further to the cliff's edge. I've seen this, even today. Perhaps you have too. There are the posts and articles about the steps that only the Bible can offer for healing mental illness. They read as if to say, "If only Robin Williams had known God, this wouldn't have happened."
I don't know how to address all of this. I do know that for many years now, I think I have had a pretty good idea of what will make a difference in combating the pain and isolation of mental illness. It can happen by bringing the dark dogs of depression and other disorders out from the dark and dusty corners, wiping the cobwebs off of them, and placing them into the light. Naming them. Holding them up. Looking at them from all corners and from all angles. But the key to this exposure is being sure it happens early and often.
When I was a young girl, I spent hours thwarted by bouts of anxiety. I didn't have a name for it. All I knew is that when the weather got bad in the winter months I'd spend chunks of my school day looking out the classroom window consumed with fear. Fear of blizzards, of icy roads, of drifting snow and bad driving conditions. My dad worked on the road and I wanted him to make it home. When the snowflakes started my stomach would get tight and my mind consumed. The fear took up so much space in my heart and mind there wasn't any room left for anything else. If I tried to turn off the fear and worry I felt I was being disloyal and betraying my role as the keeper of fear. If I worried, and it consumed me, I was doing my "job" to make sure my dad would make it home at the end of the day. Seeing other kids excited about the snow or enjoying the coming of a blizzard irritated me. I felt isolated and old. I had a job to do, and that job was to worry. There was no time for fun or games. If I left my post, who knew what the outcome would be?
When I think of that young girl now, I feel sadness and compassion. If only I'd had a name for what I was living through then. If only I could have had someone take that anxiety and put it up on a shelf and studied it with me - helped me to see that my only real job as a child was to "be"... not to worry, not to ensure the safety of others, not to stop the weather if only I prayed or wished or hoped hard enough...
When I spend time in school now, as a parent volunteering or as a substitute teacher, I see the dark dogs lapping at the feet of children nearly every time. They are nipping at heels and tugging on leashes, and so many of the children I see are powerless to stop and silence them. No one has given them names for what they're feeling. No one has illuminated the dark space around them so that they can see their reality for what it is. No one has said, "This isn't who you are and you don't need to live like this. Let me support you in helping to find a better way." I can't think of a more fitting place to do this than in the elementary school classroom.
If mental illness was part of every child's elementary school education, we would be shocked at the reduction of stigma in our communities. We'd be able to give those things that are held in secret a name. They wouldn't look as scary and wouldn't need to be as hidden and covered if we knew their names and could call them out. We'd give children the gift of having a vocabulary to explore their feelings and challenges. Things aren't as intimidating when you know their name.
If I'd had a name for what I experienced as a child, I'd have had power to control it. To call it out. I'd have been able to tell fear and worry and anxiety they were not who I was and were definitely not my job. I'd have been able to shine a light on the dark places. I'd have been lighter and laughed more. I'd have spent more time making snow angels and less time begging God to stop the blizzard.
The Province of Ontario is on the right track with this. They've started implementing mental health education in all schools and are working to develop mental health literacy among all students in the province. This is a step in the right direction - one that Manitoba's department of education could learn from. But there needs to be more.
I want to see more mental health professionals working within the early years, middle years, and senior years of all schools. This is particularly important in the early years - before stigma has a chance to solidify and settle on young hearts and minds. I want to see more accessibility to counselling services within schools in the early and middle years. Having counsellors available one or two days a cycle, or not accessible at all isn't enough. I want to see Guidance Counsellors having actual legitimate training in techniques and interventions to help students cope. I want to see classroom teachers incorporating mental health literacy into their classrooms and giving their students the names and terms they need to describe what is nipping at their heels.
I want to see every child who is dogged with depression, anxiety, or another form of mental illness have the voice and the words to point to it and to say, "This isn't me. This doesn't define me. I am bigger and stronger, and with support, I will be OK." Imagine how the world would change if children understood this. Imagine how the shame and need to conceal would melt away. Imagine those children as adults, having years of practice, skills, and language at their disposal to fight whatever they struggled with.
Let's work to end the power of mental illness by empowering our children to believe and know that with support, there is hope.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Monday With Lucie
A million years ago I used to be a teenager who loved to babysit. There were two little girls who were on my "favorites" list. The older of the sisters had ginger hair and freckles, while her little sister had dark hair and brown eyes. Until they moved away, I got to watch those two little girls grow up, and I loved it.
Now I have a teenager of my own who babysits. That older sister that I used to look after? She has two girls of her own and just happens to live not too far from me. Now my daughter babysits for her.
Hannah fell in love with little Lucie the moment she met her. She met her when she was drinking a bottle and was just learning to sit up. Now she's two and she is precocious, adorable, observant, and full of silliness and chatter! She also has a new baby sister at home, so the girls and I thought it would be fun to give her mom a break and have a day with Lucie.
We played...
...and built things.
We met some tiny new friends...
... and we snoozed away the afternoon with a soother and a stuffy under each arm.
And we danced. We swung our arms from side to side and did the toddler shuffle while bouncing up and down. We still remember how it's done.
I was the lucky one who got to lay down beside Lucie at nap time. We chatted quietly until her eyes got heavy and breathing got slow. I loved listening to her breathe and suck her pink soother. I watched her chubby hands gripping the necks of her stuffies and her little chest go up and down with each deep breath.
When she woke up the chatter began in earnest. There was so much to say and so much to see! I think those conversations used to exhaust me, but now they gave me life. As I was making supper, my own three girls were playing and chatting with sweet Lucie. I got to stand at my stove and just listen. It sounded beautiful. I could really hear what she was saying and take the time to savour the sound of her voice and her belly laughs. And for a moment, Lucie faded into the background and the questions in my head became louder...
Did I laugh loud and often enough when my girls laughed?
Did I spend too much time getting them to play on their own when they only wanted a companion?
Did I stop and savour their words, their blossoming vocabulary, and the sound of their footsteps following me from one room to another?
I hope so.
Oh, I hope so.
I wish I could do it again... just for a day...
A Monday with two year old Hannah. We'd sit and read book after book after book because she'd never tire of them. Then we'd do it all over again.
A Monday with two year old Ellie. We'd walk to the playground and I'd push her on the swing and hold her hand as she goes up the big big slide.
A Monday with two year old Sasha. We'd color deliberately and carefully, just the way she likes to. Page after page.
There'd be no hurry and I'd savour it all.
For now, I've got my days with fourteen year old Hannah and eleven year old Ellie and nine year old Sasha. We do the things that need to be done and go for bike-rides and sit side by side on the porch, each with our own book.
My Monday with Lucie reminded me that the good stuff happens on any given Monday, of any given week.
I hope I see it and hear it - all of it - more fully. Even the slamming doors and eye-rolls and exasperated frustration. That is the good stuff too.
It tells a story of its own.
I don't want to be in too big a hurry to turn the pages too quickly.
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