understanding (n.)

At a local market, Portlanders pay a pretty penny for balsamic vinegar.

Can anyone else explain the mysterious workings of the twin mind? 

Arizona (of Grey's Anatomy): "This is not general surgery on a miniature scale. These are tiny humans. These are children. They believe in magic. They play pretend. There is fairy dust in their IV bags. They hope, and they cross their fingers, and they make wishes, and that makes them more resilient than adults. They recover faster, survive worse. They believe."


My current clients are tiny.  They are victims of physical abuse, sexual abuse, neglect.  They come from families with multiple stressors:  poverty, racism, violence.  They have PTSD.   Many of them do not come from homes where they are told how wonderful they are or how much they are loved.  They soil their pants and we call it "sneaky poo"* .  They have severe separation anxiety and we spy on the "scary feelings."  Their stuffed animals talk to them and give them strength and magical powers to overcome fear.


Sometimes they play in weird ways with dollhouses.


Something always comes out of dollhouse play.


And little bit by little bit, we work on the things that are big and scary and bad.  Because those things, it turns out, aren't really a match for the fierceness of my shortest clientele.


And we end sessions like this:


My 6 year old client:  "Lisa!  The big hand is on the 11 and you said when it got on the 11 it was time to put away our toys!  Can we play with the paint next time?  I got goldfish crackers today for snack.  I love goldfish crackers.  I love cheddar!  I'm so glad I'm not allergic to cheddar 'cause then I couldn't eat CHEESE!!  And next time, can we talk about our feelings some more, too? AND play Connect Four?"


My friend, I also love cheese and Connect Four.
But I do  kind of dread dollhouse play ...


(*  Freeman, J., Epston, D. & Lobovits, D. (1997).  Playful Approaches To Serious Problems.  Norton & Company:  New York.)

Portland Aerial Tram, mentioned last week.
Coming up.

... a girl, like me, who walks by herself across campus at 9:30 pm several times a week, starts to get a little concerned about her safety.  And a girl, like me, who is a social worker, knows what kind of crazy trouble people find themselves in.  And a girl, like me, has no, NONE, excuse not to safety plan a little.  And a girl, like me, who has a deputy prosecuting attorney for a partner, hears irritated words from partner because partner is genuinely concerned for my safety.  And a girl, like me, who has many good social work student friends, hears many admonishments about safety every time we have class.

So this week, I swallowed my pride and called Campus Safety when I got off the bus for an escort across campus. These nasty little nagging voices kept saying, "Soft!  You're soft!  You know how to hurt people and take people down using a side arm bar takedown and now you're all city soft!"  And to make things worse?

The security officer was female.

But the true icing on the cake?

Apparently, it's common practice for PSU Public Safety (oooh, I hope that shows up in a search engine now) to put a girl like me, who  just needs an escort, in the back of the Campus PD car and drive alllll the way around campus to where I need to be.

A little mini parade!  For all to see!  In the BACK of the PD CAR  Behind the gate.  On the plastic seat.  With no handle inside because you can't get out until they let you out.

 And then maybe it's common practice (or maybe it was just my lucky day) for the driver of the car (2 officers!) to go as fast as possible around corners.  Turns out they're a little bored at night.    I can hear you say it now:  "Isn't a little humiliation worth your safety?"

NO.

I'm going to the running supply store tomorrow to buy pepper spray, and if I can't find any, I'll buy the bear mace at REI the employee did his best to persuade me NOT to buy.  I don't need to be the central figure in any more Campus PD parades.

(Shoes isn't pleased with my re-found independence.)

When I have my uncomplicated little camera with me, I tend to look at things differently.  Hence, my new Monday posts.   {In the land of diagnosing mental illness and treating very hurt children, it is right and fitting and good to look at something different.  And.  I love this city, for all of its strange, idiosyncratic, hipster-as-religion quirks.}


Downtown.
From the Tram.
A usual part of my Saturday commute.

... and all of the detainees had come out of their cells and were waiting by their doors for rec to begin, i looked around in the early morning stillness and saw each of them for their vulnerability and their potential.   all of the past offenses (the whining, the misbehaving, the arguing) melted away and it was a sacred time of being able to see their genuine selves.  i wondered if they knew how beautiful they were.

then rec started and the whining resumed.

they were still beautiful,

this week i started leading my first parent group and it was a big group  - 16 parents in all.   their backgrounds were remarkably different, their goals were different, their perspectives were different.  some parents had elected to be there; some had been ordered by child welfare to be there.  in those two hours of group, however, they were vulnerable and scared and optimistic and looking for things to change.  it was a sacred time of being able to see their genuine selves.

i wondered if they knew how beautiful they were.

It's Sunday.  It's Sunday and I'm sitting here in my little kitchen.  I've just cleaned my tiny apartment and I'm about ready to get my things ready for school tomorrow.

I'm sulking, I think. After what was a very lovely lunch with my amazing goddaughter and her amazing parents, Shoes left early because he has legitimate, serious things to take care of at home.  After three years, I would think that the leaving and the distance and the schedules would get easier.  It's never gotten easier.  But what am I complaining about?   That I have an amazing, loving partner who's entirely supportive of my graduate school endeavors, despite the fact that I moved four hours away?

Some complaint.

Shoes and I spent the weekend working on wedding things.  Finalizing attendant lists, working on the website, looking for invitations.  Doing some precursory thinking about our registry.  (Shoes would like to register for a house.  And a puppy.)

Tomorrow marks day 1 of my last Winter term.  In total, there are 20 weeks left of school for me.  Tomorrow, the chaos that is school, research, my job and my internship starts over again.  I'm determined, however, to not let it own me like it owned me last time.  With a term of this "final year" business under my belt, maybe I'll succeed in taking back control and Occupy Graduate School.

The year looms large, and although I can't see it's actual form, it's shadow precedes it everywhere....

I hope it's a friendly sort of giant.