It's almost here...

Last week I joked with a colleague that I was thinking of trying sell my empathy and compassion believing that maybe if I could get a few coins for them I could at least feel like they were worth something.  "Well used, sold as is at buyers risk.  No warranty implied or given", I suggested.  It reminded me of that old "Simpson's" episode where the church doors are frozen shut, captivating the congregation after the service.  Reverend Lovejoy suggests he read the church bulletin to pass the time:

"For sale, one card table.  Top ripped, missing one leg, otherwise fine.  $1.00, or best offer."

It was just one of those days where a job with tangible, calculable results looked mighty tempting.  I often say that I would have done a terrible job operating a horse and plow, often looking back with one hand at the controls.

And then today is one of those days where you feel incredible lucky to have the brief interactions with good, broken people that other folks miss out on.

You recall Amber, the window jumping friend of mine?  If not you can read it here.  I was walking through the Uturn apartment building, catching who I could and reminding them of the office closure as well as making sure they had our number in case of an emergency.  I went to Amber's apartment and chatted briefly and then asked if I could see her stool.

Amber had been working on a stool for months, often frustrated because she couldn't quite get it "right".  The recipient was her 5 year old daughter who Amber hasn't seen for almost 2 years.  She lives with a foster family and while Amber has some contact through them (mainly letters and emails) she isn't allowed visitation until she can show she is more stable, something that is elusive.  She had been planning on giving her daughter a hand-painted stool for quite some time and last week Amber reported it was complete.

When I saw it I came close to tearing up.  "It's beautiful, Amber.  She's going to really like it.  Are you happy with it?",  I asked.

"Yeah, Wayne.  I really am."

Amber doesn't have a lot of cash, and unfortunately none of it gets used for much beyond a little food and too much of other things.   Amber loves her daughter and I think it comes out in the moon's eyes.  She worked very hard on that, just to get it right.  Just like so many good moms do when they make their kids birthday cakes, Halloween outfits and cookies for the bake sale.

That stool wasn't new or nice.  It was really a piece of crap.  Amber worked her magic and changed it into something remarkable, a real show stealer in my opinion.  And she did it with devotion and a tremendous amount of love.  Essential components of a great mom.

Christmas is almost here and I love it.  I've been working, spinning a Bill Mallonee track called "To Reach Out to Me."  Captures the message of Christmas and the Gospel story well.  I guess the reason that stool makes me teary was because I'm excited about Christmas, about seeing my kids open their gifts and the expressions of thankfulness and wonder.  I wish that Amber could experience the same.  She won't get to see her daughter's face when she sees that beautiful stool.  I pray that her daughter will get some sort of sense how much Amber misses her and how much love saturates that work of art.  And maybe, just maybe with a bundle of hard work, good fortune, and miraculous signs and wonders Amber will be able to join her daughter next year.

Ya gotta Hope folks.  Otherwise I might as well hit "submit" on my classified listing.

Do me a favor and hold your kids, your loved ones and your lover extra long on Christmas Day.  Nuzzle in close, whisper "I love you" and allow yourself to embrace and also feel the sense of being embraced because there just isn't anything better.

The Y in Why- Part 2

So apparently some folks didn't follow me when I took the left turn and started talking about all the "T" stuff. Let me try again.  So T is me hearing that my job at YFC has been terminated (because I just care too much). In other words a traumatic, disturbing, and/ or difficult situation.   T+1 is the hour, or day or whatever time fragment you choose desire after finding out that I have lost my job.  Make sense?

So my last suggestion was that I am leaning to believe that God is not in the why of the "T", meaning that God did not push the lever that caused my boss to fire me.  For me to look for and ask God "why?" may be doing myself an incredible disservice because I can possibly miss out on creating meaning for the event.  I think I'm confusing myself, but I am suggesting that the meaning of the "why" in an event only comes in our defining it with what we do with it.

I'm almost ready to erase this because suddenly it seems that I'm trying to make something that is pretty simple complicated, but maybe there is some good that can come out of this car wreck.

If I see God not in the "why" of the event, in other words "for what meaning did God do this" but rather I see God in the T+ moments then perhaps that does a couple of things.  First, it allows me to let God "off the hook" so to speak and allows me to trust Him faster.

Second, it allows me to see myself not as a pawn on the board just waiting for someone to give me my next move, a passive boor that hopes that good will come out of an awful event,  but rather a willing player (and more importantly a partner) that has a tremendous amount of power in creating the meaning after the event has happened.

So if someone asks, "why would God allow you to get fired?", my answer really needs to be (if I'm following my own script), "well, let's find out."  The meaning is to be created and I am a partner in that with God.

I remember one of those "Ah Hah" moments in one of my first counselling classes as I started seminary.  Dr. Russell talked about Genesis 1, about the chaos that existed and God moving into the chaos to create something new.  Dr. Russell then suggested that as counsellors (pastors, teachers, nurses, any vocation with people as your widget) our job is to move into the chaos that people bring into our offices and together with God, partner to create something new.  That was a metaphor that was very powerful then and continues to be today.

Now I know this brings up a whole bunch of theological stuff regarding the ability of God in space and time.  I can't touch that right now (both for the sake of time and for the sake of my ability).  However, my point and suggestion is this.  What if you could let God off the hook with pushing the button that created the awful thing in your life?  What if there is a possibility that when that awful thing happened that God said, "oh dear, that's going to leave a terrible mark and I wish it wasn't so."

And what if the meaning of the awful thing has everything to do with what comes T+ and you get to play an active role in it?

The Y in the Why

I've been contemplating different things as of late, one of which is meaning.  My view of providence (God's interaction with the world and us) has been all over the map as of the last decade or so.  One of the books that is on my list to finish is Terry Thiessen's "Providence & Prayer."  Dr. Thiessen was a professor at Providence Seminary when I did my post-secondary work there and he is a theological genius (not on his business card but likely tattooed somewhere on his body).  It was his course that really propelled my interest in providence and as I work with people who are hurting it is a topic that often will bubble to the surface.

In short I struggle with the idea that God is active in our daily events.  Maybe that's not it.  Maybe I struggle with the idea that God organizes daily events.  Truth be told I can really be drawn to the idea that God is distant is His interactions with us.  It makes things simpler in many ways and strangely I find it comforting.

Often I hear people ask the question, "why would this (insert troubling, tragic, disappointing, life altering event here) happen?"  This makes sense of course because naturally we want some form of meaning to appear since our body systems are in the business of trying to keep us safe.  Having a "why" answered may allow us to avoid catastrophe in the future and/ or it may insulate us and allow us to continue feeling that we're immune to awful things popping into our lives.

Quite frankly I don't know if God "allows" things into our lives.  Somehow I feel like God allowing it and God giving us the goods are connected at the hip.  I think I get that it's different.  I mean as a parent I can allow something to happen without initiating it like watching my son walk around with a clothes hamper on his head.  "That's going to end badly", I think.  But maybe bumping into the wall will help him understand that it's likely a poor idea.  Plus it's cheap entertainment.  But if I know that Cooper will fall down the stairs and cause himself significant harm I'm (likely) to stop that from happening.  I don't know my point in that but perhaps you see my struggle?   If you can't it's this: I feel like God "allowing" something to come into our lives with full knowledge of the devastation it causes is the same as God pushing it on us.  And it makes me very uncomfortable.

I'm no theologian and many people can slap me sideways with Scripture that may lay out their counter to that proposal.  I'm fine with that and I'll be the first to say I have not done exhaustive exegetical work on this.

In some ways I guess I've come to the place (which could be very temporal) that the "why" is completely insignificant and if I could be so vulnerable I would lean to the side of suggesting that God isn't in the Point T "why."  I do believe that He is in the T+1, 2 and so forth "why" though.

Let me quickly explain this.  T is the event (accident, loss, diagnosis, etc) and T+ are moments post-event.

I have run out of time to finish this off so I'll let this stew (more for myself than anyone actually reading this) and catch up soon.

"And Our Hearts Nodded"

Brief post as I sit in between clients on my Wednesday.  I read over Bill Mallonee's latest Blog Post and it's a good read that I would recommend.  I'm a Mallonee fanatic, have been for a while but have recently come to terms with it.  By that I mean that I used to feel silly for following and listening to one artist so closely. After all, there are many, many fantastic songwriters out there.  Why put so much energy into just one guy that most people haven't heard of?  As I've mentioned before it's because he "brings it" over and over again.  Sonically he can be hit and miss sometimes, I'll admit that.  But in terms of songwriting, I don't think anyone resonates with me as deeply as Mallonee.  He puts out a tremendous amount of music (57 albums and counting) and so I figure that if I love something and the amount of work to finger through is that deep and wide then perhaps it's a worthwhile endeavour to spend so much time with him.

In the aforementioned blog post Bill runs through his latest albums, sketching each song and their roots. I haven't listened to it yet, but the notes for track 2, "And Our Hearts Nodded" jumped out at me:

"How did those prophets, poets and troubadours “know?” How did they give nomenclature to the truths that cascade in rivers with us? How were they able to enshrine those same truths we so often close our ears to. Pain, suffering, deprivation, mortality." 

Bill was referencing the fact that as get older you gain appreciation and respect for writers and others whose work reflects the depth of life.  "Pain, suffering, deprivation, mortality", that is both what keeps us from listening well and the recipe for the ability to peer well into life.

And that "recipe" is what I see often in my vocation and why my vocation has become both a source of deep meaning for me and a reason that some days I just want to not think about my work.

But what I get to see is courage, hope, understanding, frustration, bravery, rage, heartache, sacrifice and, well, you fill in the blank.  And if I'm smart about it I'll take what others have seen and experienced from "a life on the road" and use it as backing and fortification, softening and empathy in my own sense of self. Character is built largely through the "recipe" listed above but I hope that I can borrow what has been learned and built from others.  Partly because I'm terrified of building my own character through my own personal suffering and partly because I think it's how we're created; to be able to "lean in", listen well to each other's stories and feel our "Hearts Nod."  In many ways this is why I often wonder if I'm a bigger winner than many of the people I work with.  They teach me far more than I can ever teach them.

From "Cities of Ruin"

"They say in heaven you'll get your real name
Carved into a precious stone
Drifting through those cities of ruin
On your way back home"

Scene 12, Take 14

If you haven't figured it out by now there is some pattern to my posts.   Outline a character, put them in a context, share an amusing or challenging anecdote and then fill in some of the blanks with what can often look like a hard luck story.

I do this all on purpose of course, but not to play Russian Roulette with your emotions.  I don't intentionally get you laughing and then pull the rug out, but it does happen from time to time.  Which is what happens on a continual basis when you work with people in general and people with extremely difficult stories in particular.

But the reason I have adopted this tactic is to (hopefully) give you a rounder picture of the people I work with and (hopefully) of people in general.  If you would see a Keith or Vicki on our streets you would likely ask the question, "what's wrong with them?"  They don't look that appealing truth be told.  But they are people with great senses of humour, deep insight, quirky ideas and though they at times smell worse than most people you encounter (depending on your line of work) they are pretty normal.  The exception on the "normal" tag is often the profound hurt and loss that they've experienced in their lives.  Acts of commission and omission on their lives have left marks (at times cavernous) deep and wide through their hearts, souls, brain chemistry and ability to be whole.

How different are you and I?

We all have a suitcase (sizes may vary) with "stuff" that has shaped us and continues to shape us and informs our perceptions, reactions, etc.  What I've discovered and encountered is that people almost always have good reasons for what they do.  It's almost never random or off the grid.  Often when I hear stories from our tenants that help me understand their own story I am convinced I would make similar choices (or worse ones) if I had their script to read from.

This doesn't excuse, rather it reveals.  Awareness brings understanding and often compassion, or at least on good days.  And awareness also brings responsibility to put in the necessary work to be different.  But that doesn't take away from the power of the script.

So I tell the stories of the people I work with in order to allow them to be people and not simply characterchers, and to give you just a tiny sliver to help explain why they are like they are.

Wouldn't it be nice to let other people in sometimes so they could see why you get defensive when someone asks you about your parents, why you look away from their gaze when they ask you how you're doing, why you feel a numbing cloud that seems to come over your mind when someone is upset with you?

Wouldn't it be nice if you knew the answers to those questions first?

I digress.  The bottom line is we all have a script that we read from and it's more than dialogue.  It's actions, it's direction, it's commentary.  So kids, the message today is have a deep compassion for yourself because there are good reasons why you do what you do.  As you're doing that remember to extend that compassion to your family, friends, co-workers and even that SOB neighbour of yours.  It's hard and quite frankly sometimes nearly impossible depending on the amount of hurt that you have experienced and are experiencing.

So start with yourself and then extend.

In the wise words of Bill Mallonee and his song All That is Dear to Your Heart:

We're blind folks reading the braille of our heart
We're all spies breaking codes everyday
Sooner or later it comes down to love
Received then given away

Peepholes and Pizza

Vicki came into Uturn after coming to Brandon on a bus from Winnipeg and eventually ending up in the Centre for Adult Psychiatry.  In the previous 5 months she had stopped using cocaine, meth and alcohol and was escaping a very dangerous environment in Winnipeg where she was connected to some pretty nasty people capable of doing very nasty things.

Vicki could be, uhhhhh, well random is too polite but since this is a family show we'll stick with that.  It was amazing to see where the conversation could go in a heartbeat with her.  One such chat sticks out in my mind very, very clearly.

We were sitting on the couches in the Uturn office chatting about how things were going when, without any hesitation, Vicki said, "I am pretty sure my pizza was stolen."

 "Your pizza?", I asked?

"Yeah.  I put it in the oven and then I took a shower and then when I came out of the shower I thought, 'wow, that pizza smells good.'  And then when I opened the oven door there was nothing there.  I know it was Shaun."

I closed my eyes, trying desperately to wrap my head around someone stealing a pizza out another person's oven when I said, "so you are pretty sure it was stolen?  Why do you think it was Shaun?"

"Yeah, because he likes pizza.  He likely smelled it in the hall, came in and took it when I was in the shower."

"But it sounds like you're not sure if it was stolen or not.  Where else could it go?"

"I know right?  So I think you should evict Shaun because that's not cool."

I just slowly nodded by head, trying to put together a response and look concerned enough to not have Vicki think that I thought she was crazy.  During this moment there was a pregnant pause which ended with Vicki stating, "and someone stole my peephole."

Still trying to cobble together a measured response from the great pizza caper I responded, "uhhhhhhhhh, your peephole?"

"Yep it's gone.  But don't worry, I put a piece of Kleenex it the hole."

"So it's been quite the week for you", I said.  "First, your pizza was stolen, or so it's assumed, from your oven and then your peephole from your door was pried out."

"Yeah.  Truth be told, I'm not feeling completely safe around here."

Later that day I took a stroll through the Uturn apartment building and, sure enough, there was an entire Kleenex stuffed into the peephole in Vicki's apartment.  At lease she took care of it.

Vicki worked extremely hard to make a different life for herself but it was very, very difficult.  She had so many obstacles from her addictions (that she was doing really great with) to mental illnesses to trying to adjust to a new city.  Overall she was doing really well but one day she got some money that she wasn't expecting which put her in a really good mood.  At the same time she was with an unsavoury character who had heroin in his possession.  Another Uturn tenant was with both Vicki and the other guy and didn't want to use any needles but didn't want to leave her alone either.  Sometime during that night of drinking and drugging Vicki overdosed and died.  It was the first loss of a tenant that I experienced in Uturn.  I truly believe that if the heroin hadn't been available right in that moment that Vicki wouldn't have searched it out which is extremely sad.  The combination of feeling excited, a negative influence and available drugs along with a severe lack of impulse control led to her death.

Every time I look at a peephole I think of Vicki.

A Perfect Dreary Sky

A brief post:

I love driving in the rain.  I don't know what it is about it exactly but it pulls at my heart quite frankly.  Dark brooding skies, rain on the windshield and watching the water run off the blades as you pound down ever blackening asphalt.  And the best time to drive in the rain is the fall with all the resplendent colours being drenched in a chilling rain and those low lying clouds that move much faster than their counterparts, seemingly having a mind of their own.  Ahhhhhh, that's the stuff.

It truly draws something out of me, out of a deeper source than a bright, sunny day.  Don't get me wrong, I love summer days.  Especially if I get to spend them with Julie and the kids at a park or out on the water with a fishing rod in my hand.  But days like today are connected to a different anchor, and I don't mind that.  I know, I know.  Rain is lousy for farmers at this time of the year and there are many in these parts.  I'm sorry about that but me enjoy it won't make it last longer.

Gray, dreary days are beautiful.  This afternoon I'm going to go to Starbucks, treat myself to a Pumpkin Spice Latte and meet with some of our tenants (hopefully they'll show) and hear more of their stories.

Enjoy the long weekend.  Be thankful.  Hug your kids. Get on the floor and play with them.  Pay attention to the tenderness of your wife's kiss.  Linger longer in the arms of your lover.  Reach out a little to someone who doesn't have any of the above to go home to.

Enjoy the long weekend, folks.

Fragile Strength

What I've been considering is, how do we define the character of people?  Are humans resilient or are we fragile?  Perhaps the answer is a resounding, yes.

I work with people all the time, either trying to be a partner in healing or livingly different or trying to help people see that it may be a good idea to address some pain or areas to be different in.  I prefer the latter.  I don't know how good I really am at motivational interviewing.  People suffer with an immense spectrum of emotional pain and/ or psychological symptoms without being aware of the source.   As the source is understood and named it's often like uncovering a fossil; the first sight of it looks incredibly significant but as the excavation continues it becomes clear that it's much larger than first considered.  And often those bones have their source in childhood to a certain degree, or at least something can be discovered there that helps explain other choices, decisions and consequences.   And as I work with the person and we gently excavate an area we highlight hurts, longings, disappointments and grief together.  In that process there can be healing of a variety of proportions.  For some the "dig" is sufficient.  For many others it is only a part of their restoration and often the more challenging work comes in putting things in an order that feels like it brings more vitality and life.

It's hard work to be different.  Friggin' hard work.  I see it all the time in my work with Uturn and as a therapist.  It's not only hard work but it can be incredibly challenging work to overcome all the hurts, unfulfilled longings, disappointments and grief.  And there is a difference between hard work and challenging work.  I remember transferring the sand out of our enormous sandbox when we sold our house and taking it to our new place.  I figured out (because I'm a little ridiculous about these things) that there was about 3000 pounds of sand in that box and I moved it using a shovel, a wheelbarrow and my father-in-laws trailer and then replayed the scenario once I got to the new place.  That was HARD work, but there wasn't anything challenging about it.

But I digress.  I could get lost in discussion on the development of psychopathology , etc. but my discussion has four parts.  First, we all experience emotional pain or discomfort to a certain degree.  It may or may not be lifelong.  It may or may not be invasive.  It may or not be overwhelming to the point of shutting down our systems.  But we all experience it.  Don't forget that when you're dealing with your friends, family and neighbors.  They likely won't show you but they are experiencing something they feel like they could live without.

Second, it can be hard to beat.

Third, people have an amazing capacity to keep moving while under a mountain of hurt, pain and challenges. I am constantly reminded of the resiliency of people to continue forging relationships, holding down jobs, keeping their families together, being active in their churches while all the time fighting terrifying fights that go unseen and unnoticed.  Being a Dad and Sunday School teacher while at the same time having a very real struggle with trying to remain alive.  I witness spectacular things.

Fourth, I hate that it's so hard to get in the clear.  There's a part of me that wonders, 'God, why couldn't you have made us a tougher stock?'  Thicker skinned, heavier armour?  (Huh, just had a thought about that but that's fodder for a different post).

It's that last point that frustrates me the most and gets me confused as I try to characterize people.  Are we so fragile that bad relationships as kids can affect us our entire lives?  And of course it's much more complicated than that, but do you get my drift?  And on top of that, the process of fixing how we live because of those bad relationships can take a very, very long time and may never be complete.  Perhaps the fact that it can take so much work to rectify bad childhood relationships (and I'm just using that as one example of where the coloring starts going outside the lines) tells us how critical and significant the hurts, bumps, bruises and gashes are that happen to us.

And yet, see my third point.  So the question is, are we fragile or are we strong?  The answer is yes and I have to get used to the tension in that.

Get on yer Boots

We had a tenant once who we affectionately nicknamed "boots" because he wore those large, brown winter boots during the late fall, winter and into early June.  You know the ones.  They are kinda old school with the dark brown toes and sole with a lighter brown exterior and a huge tongue with white fuzzy stuff on the inside with  laces that were striped dark brown and beige.  They're huge boots.  And these huge boots on a young guy with zero grace or awareness of himself made for a very unstealthy individual.  Our office is on the second floor and you sometimes need to buzz up so that the door can be remotely unlocked.  We would here the buzz, let the person in and then hear the tell tale, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP up the stairs.  I had gotten so good that I would call it after the second THUMP; "That's Boots!"  And for those of you that know me, I'm friggin' deaf.  He wouldn't tie those things up either.  The big 'ol tongues would hang open and the laces trailing behind.  Plus he would wear either a big wool winter coat or a tweed sport jacket, depending on the day I suppose and who he had to meet.  And he would typically pair the tweed sports jacket with a grubby t-shirt and over sized sweats.  He was always a sight.

One day I was alerted that someone was in the office to see me.  As I walked out my door I saw Boots standing at the front counter.  Boots was never completely clean shaven but he didn't really have much facial hair either so he kind of looked like he got into a fight and someone threw Nair on his face.  He was standing at the counter looking out of sorts.

"What's up, Keith?", I asked.  "Shouldn't you be at work?" Boots had been working part time at McDonald's and was doing pretty well (or so I thought), cleaning off tables, emptying garbage, etc.

"I got fired!", Boots half shouted.  Boots had an extremely loud voice.  You always felt like he was yelling at you.

"Oh, that sucks.  What happened?  Did your supervisor explain why?"

"Ohhhhhh yeah!", he replied.  Now he began getting pretty animated.  "Yep, he told me alright and I just can't believe it."  He began pacing a little and started swinging his arms.  Boots was a pretty big hand talker when he was talking about menial things like TV commercials and parking meters.  Now it was clear that Boots was a man becoming undone. "I mean, it just doesn't make any sense!!"

"Ok, Keith.  Well, what reason did he give you?"

"TARDY!!  He said I was tardy!  Can you believe that?!?!  I mean, I never, ever gave anyone a problem."  With each sentence his hands got higher and higher and he began swinging his arms like he was defending himself  from a swarm of wasps.  "I never had a bad attitude.  I was always polite!  It just doesn't make any sense!"

As Boots gave me his rebuttal for being turfed from McDonald's it seemed that it wasn't matching the reason he actually was fired.  Clearly, I need to clarify something.

"Uh, Boots do you know what being tardy means?"

"Yeah!  It means having a lousy attitude and talking back and not listening to your boss.  I can't believe I got fired for that!  I never, ever..."

"Right", I cut Boots off.  "Uh, Keith.  Tardy means being late and not showing up on time.  It sounds like you were fired because you weren't arriving for work when you were supposed to."

Keith slowly put his hands down to his side.  His eyes went up towards the ceiling.  There was a very pregnant pause and then Keith said,  "Oh.  Yeah, that makes sense.  Ok, see ya Wayne."

And that was it.  With a big smile he turned around and walked down the steps; THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

Keith had a severe learning disability, anxiety and a mitt full of other challenges.  One of the biggest problems he had was the inability to say no to people.  Unfortunately the users and the takers find guys like Boots to prey on.  He had about 5 or 6 guys that would use him for him money, his apartment, his cell phone, etc.  I remember taking him to pay his cable bill and he had over $350 for the month on his bill, most of the charges Pay Per View movies almost all of which his "friends" purchased.  He received a personal injury settlement from MPI for a vehicle accident and one of the installments was $2500.  We did our best to have him give us the money for safe keeping but failed.  Out of all of that cash he spent about $100 on himself and the rest was spent buying clothes, food, booze and drugs for his buddies. At the end of his time at Uturn he just couldn't keep people out of his apartment that were doing him and others in the apartment building harm.  I had to evict him.  His ability to choose was so severely limited and at that point in his development it became clear that living in Brandon just wasn't a good option.  He went back home to rural MB to live with his parents.

I've met a lot of people, many I won't necessarily remember.  I don't think I'll ever forget Keith's big smile, goofy laugh, generous spirit and those gigantic boots.  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.  Thanks for letting me get to know ya, Boots.

The rest of the story...

So here's the story left untold in my last post re.  Amber.  About two years ago I left work and started driving around the front of the Uturn building to go home.  As I passed by the building I saw Amber staggering up the sidewalk and into (literally) the front door.  My years as a youthworker and the thousands of dollars I spent getting my counselling degree helped me see that something was up.  I pulled my car over and went up to Amber's apt where I met her in the hall.  She was indeed severely under the influence.  She was very happy to see me but not so happy after I suggested that she was in no shape to go out.  I insisted that I make her some supper and I managed to find a package of wieners in the fridge and prepared them as to her request:  boiled, with a side of French's mustard, no bun.  After she ate and I wiped off the excess mustard off her face I told her to go to bed and sleep off whatever high she was on.
"Yep, absolutely...", she slurred.
I walked out of the apartment, unconvinced that she was actually capable of keeping the resolution she had just made with me.  5 seconds later my hunch was confirmed and Amber was walking out of her apartment door.
"Where do you think you're going?", I queried.
"C'mon Wayne, I was just going for a walk."
I turned her around and guided her back in her door and watched her take off her vinyl, leather look jacket.  As she wandered to her bedroom I exited again, waited for 5 seconds and re-entered the apartment finding Amber putting her jacket back on.
"Soooo, whatcha doing?", I asked.
"Going to bed."
"You're putting your jacket on."
Incredulous, Amber snapped at me, "Yeah, Wayne.  That's what I like to do. I sleep like that sometimes."
I sighed and told her that she needed to stay in her apartment or else I would have to phone the police.  As I exited her apartment once again I quickly got on my cell to see if I was just throwing a bluff up.  I found out that the Crisis Stabilization Unit was full, and the Centre for Adult Psychiatry didn't do intakes with people under the influence.  Amber wandered out again.
"Amber, you're not leaving the building!", I scolded and shuffled her back into the apartment.
"Fine!" She yelled at me and walked to her bedroom where she changed her clothes and came out.  "Happy now?!?"
It's 6:30 and I've made supper for a high, drunk lady and wiped mustard off of her face while trying to convince her to stay in her apartment for the last hour which is akin to arguing with Laurel and Hardy about "Who's on First." Yes, I am ecstatic.

I leave the apartment and stand in the hallway.  5, 10, 30 seconds rolls by and I'm still alone.  A minute or two more passes and still no Amber and no sounds from the inside to suggest she is making any plans on trying to cross the threshold of her apartment.  I sigh in relief before realizing that I forgot to grab her prescription meds that were on her stove.  Shoot, I should really take those as a precaution.
I walked into her apartment and saw no one.  Excellent.  I walked over to the kitchen area and spotted said drugs and grabbed them, stealthily moving to get out while the gettin' was good, feeling like it's been a job well done.  I stopped just before leaving and then realized that it was soooooooo very quiet in that apartment.  Could she have passed out that quickly?  I thought it would be good practice to checking on her.  I knocked quietly on the door; "Amber.  Amber?"
I turned the door knob and cautiously peeked in.  Her mattress on the floor came into view, and then some blanket, a pillow, and the end of the mattress.  There was no Amber in the bed.  I checked the closet.  No Amber in the closet.  I checked the bathroom and the maintenance room.  No Amber anywhere.  I stood in the middle of the bedroom with my hands on my hips slowly turning around trying to figure out if perhaps I was drunk or high because clearly there was no Amber where I thought there really should be an Amber.
Then I saw the open window with the screen removed.  Amber's apartment at that time was on the top floor which would have made it just over the height of two stories or about 25ft.  'Not really', I thought to myself.  I slowly walked over to the window and slowly peered out the window expecting to see a broken Amber sprawled out in the parking lot.  I looked out and saw nothing but the snowbank beneath her window.  It was March and immediately under Amber's window was a small snowbank, a motorcycle in the snow, a snow blower and the large support for the deck above.  As I looked into the snow bank I could see the imprints of two hands and two feet right smack dab in the middle of all those obstacles.  The footprints were rather close together and the distinctive hand prints were more spread out at 45 degree angles of the foot prints.  Amber had done the Frogger and made a run for it.

I couldn't believe it.  After calling the police, driving around for 30 minutes and calling my supervisor it was suggested that I go home and let the police find her.  I thought before I would head home I would drive up 18th st, arguably the busiest street in Brandon and a lousy choice for anyone trying to keep away from prying eyes.  Well, anyone straight that is.
So there she was, staggering down 18th st on the sidewalk with her jacket hanging half off her shoulder.  I drove past her and pulled into a business half a block ahead of her in order to cut her off.  As I started walking towards her a Manitoba Hydro truck pulled over on the street and slowed down beside Amber.  Amber took a hard left, walked through the snowbank, opened the passenger door and sat down in the truck.  It look choreographed it was so perfect.  I jogged up to the truck, waving my arms at the driver and walked over to the driver side window.
"Do you know her?", I asked.
The driver was wide eyed.  "No, no,no.  She just looked like she was in bad shape and I wanted to make sure she was ok."
"I see.  Well, I know her and I'll take care of her.  Amber, C'mon, let's go."
"Ahhhhh, Wayne.  You're no fun!", she whined slumping her head down like a 4 year old being told to stop eating chalk.
I managed to get Amber into my car and we drove to the Emergency Room as a precaution where she was checked out and deemed healthy enough to leave.  That didn't go as smoothly as it sounds, but really, you get the picture of my evening already.  There's no need to make this any longer than it already is.
As we drove back to the apartment I asked her if she remembered jumping out the window.
"I jumped out the window? Really?"
"Yes", I said.  "Really."
"Woah!!  I did that!  I f***ing did that.  I own that s***!  I own that!"
Sigh.  Yep, I couldn't argue with that I suppose.  No one in their right mind would have made that jump and I don't think anyone could have jumped a second time without seriously hurting themselves.
We headed back to the apartment where we bumped into another tenant who was Amber's friend, ordered some pizza and sat in Amber's apartment.  By this time Amber was coming off the high quickly and was becoming coherent again.  We chatted about choices, good and bad and how concerned I was for her.  Manitoba Hydro buddy seemed like a nice enough guy.  But don't fool yourself, there are too many opportunistic individuals in the nice city of Brandon who would play the role of vulture in seeing someone like Amber that night.  This evening I was around and quite frankly it was just a matter of good timing that I saw her kiss the front door with her drunken face when I did.

Now that Amber is back in Uturn we don't talk about that evening often but when it comes up, Amber laughs a hearty laugh.  And I laugh with her because it truly was a special night.  You either laugh or you're going to cry.

Do you see what I see?

I'm supposed to be at a lunch meeting with a tenant but since he didn't show I'll take care of this instead...

This morning I met with one of our tenants in Uturn (transitional housing for homeless young adults) for coffee.  I walked over to her apartment, knocked on the door and waited.  I could hear music on the other side of the door and knocked louder which prompted the shuffling of feet.  The door opened and "Amber" stood in front of me awash in tears.  She immediately spun on one heel and walked toward her soft, pink rocking chair.  As we sat down she began describing a morning dominated by an endless barrage of voices with invisible sources.  Amber suffers from psychosis and despite all the different anti-hallucinogenic drugs her doctors have tried over the years the auditory, visual and olfactory (smell) hallucinations continue.  This morning was particularly bad.  We sat and chatted and I tried to be empathetic, encouraging and soothing.  She talked about "them", the characters that she hears and sees and occasionally can smell, what they say to her and the conspiracy they have against her.  I listen as best I can and try to be as present as possible with her.  My mind wanders at times to try to understand what my role is, how can I be a catalyst to something different right now but I find myself grabbing at unseen straws.  There is no miracle here this morning, no "AH HAH" moment that re-wires Amber's traumatized brain and allows the apparitions to fall silent and "reality" to become something much more clear.  Unfortunately the one (or handful) of things that stops the voices for a while is alcohol and prescription drugs which has led to a significant dependence on these substances.  This isn't unusual for sufferers of mental illness and Amber slips often and self-medicates in order to press "pause" on the nightmare that is the majority of her days.

Amber is one of my favourite people.  She is funny, smart and extremely creative.  She paints, writes poems and songs and she is the source of one of my favourite Uturn stories.  I'll save that for another time but there's a part of it where Amber jumps out of a second story window and lives to tell the tale.  Part of what peeked my interest in meeting with Amber this morning is that I am singing the song inspired by her and the second story leap in my church on Sunday (spoiler alert) so her story and life have been more on the front of my mind this week than usual.  

I get overwhelmed at times when I think about Amber's future and others like her.  Truth be told I've been overwhelmed by a whole bunch of things lately but something that has brought some brief relief is being aware that a lot of me feeling overwhelmed isn't about the right now, it's ruminating about unknown future events. So as I consider my sense of frustration at God ("don't you think this would be a dandy time to step in?"), medical solutions, upset neuropaths and neurochemistry gone awry, I recognize that my role is to be present in the moments that seem overwhelming and terrifying for Amber.  To offer suggestions and tools when she feels more stable and consistently let her know she is loved, cared for and cherished.  I can't take away the alternate reality that Amber experiences but I can work hard at bringing those elements into her reality.  Looking beyond that and it becomes difficult to hold the course...

Meandering

I could comment on the fact that my last post was Feb 2010, but I won't.  I do have the scene in my mind from Monty Python's "In Search of the Holy Grail" where the "dead collector" has a fellow over his shoulder who keeps saying, "I'm not quite dead yet..."

A couple of months ago my family was driving in Brandon, heading home from watching "Despicable Me 2" when Julie suggested we take a detour and drive down a random street just to take a look at the neighborhood and any possible homes for sale (we contemplate moving every so often).  I immediately slowly shook my head and kept driving muttering something about "let's just head home." My keen wife sighed slightly and said something to the effect of, "you don't have much meandering in you, do you?" I recall I stiffened becoming slightly defensive and muttered some type of awkward retort.  

I contemplated her observation later and realized how accurate it truly was.  I suck at meandering.  I enjoy getting things done in the most efficient, fastest way possible and if there are any possible detours in my plan I get rather annoyed.  I likely have an big A with a straight line to a corresponding big B tattoo somewhere on my body.  Like almost all traits this can come in very handy and it can really bite a guy in the ass. When I start a task I typically put my nose to the grindstone so I can get it done, often wanting to get jobs or chores completed before anything else happens.  The ass biting part comes in when  I seemingly don't (or can't) allow myself to take that detour when it presents itself and/ or just recognize that getting to "the end" is not always the point.  As I thought about Julie's comment I recognized how I have a difficult time just reading a book for the enjoyment of it as opposed to just soaking in the info.  When I start a book I just want to get to the end.  There is a felt sensation of slight anxiety because I just want to "get it done."  This explains why fiction has never been a draw to me, there is little "information" to be gleaned.  I'm much more inclined to read books that directly impact my vocation.  Songwriting is something I thought I enjoyed but I have come to realize I enjoy the final "product" and not the process so much.  I have tremendous difficulty with leisure time with no specific aim or final "product."  

Enter swimming lessons at Treherne.  Our girls had two lessons a day, morning and late afternoon with a gap of about 5 hours in between.  Three of the five days we were there we spent the down time in the pool and the other two days were "leisurely."  My wife is much better at this than I am so she suggested to basically play rural tourist and take in the sites and sounds of the area.  We took in the Treherne museum, toured the Bottle Buildings (there's no explanation required here.  They are buildings made of... bottles), drove down the road and had a snack at the Holland windmill, bought fresh donuts at the Treherne bakery and I think slowly drove down every street in Treherne.  Pretty sure people thought we were creepy creepsters but that's alright.  I had a great week.  It took time for me not to feel anxious and allow my sense of urgency to rest, but as the week wore on I felt an increasingly greater ability to allow myself to be leisurely.  As far as meandering goes, you can't get much more meandering that driving up and down the streets of Treherne just because you want to check out the town.  And a couple of times it was my own initiative...

Unfortunately as the week ended so too did my ability to be a little leisurely.  On the Saturday after our swim week Julie was working and all the kids were with their grandparents for a few hours in the afternoon.  I had worked my butt off in the morning trying to take care some of the things neglected after a week of essentially being away from the house and I told myself that I would sit down with my guitar in the afternoon and play or maybe even post something on this blog that was on life support.  I actually opened the computer and then I thought, "hmmmmm, I should really weed whack" which led to a full lawn care session, etc., etc.  In the end my detour that invited me was left standing alone in at the Soc Hop with no dance partner.  So I'm not a pro at this yet.  

The reason for a new post?  This blog is part of my self-care I think.  Who knows, it might be three more years before there's another post.  But in the end it's not life or death and perhaps that's one of my issues, that I over-think my choices and decisions too much.  Scratch out the "perhaps".  It's hard to meander when almost every choice feels like it has much weight which on a purely cognitive level doesn't make sense but we're all so much more than our cognitions.  But that's a different post...