Waiting Room

Image by Derrick Coetzee 

A late summer sun casts a warm autumn light.  Fingers of sunlight are shattered by the delicate branches of a graceful fir tree.  Below the tree, a quiet line waits for the Free Clinic door to open.  I am the last person in this line.  My quiet sigh rises into the light.  I let the filtered sunlight soothe me.    I take a deep breath and relax into the moment.

Right in front of me, a tall man fidgets.  His body crackles with restless energy.  His legs are covered with angry purple-red blotches.  They look like self-inflicted burns.

The door opens.  We quickly file pass the front desk.  A short pink form on a clipboard is thrust into anxious hands.  The electric man in front of me has sores on his knuckles as well.   He is talking to the woman behind the desk.  I tune in to the conversation after all the important things are said.

"I'm sorry, Jason but we can't help you here."

Jason thanks the woman politely and awkwardly lurches out the door.  The static generated by his presence lingers and then is covered by coughing and quiet sighs.

For most of us, it will be a long wait.  Some of us may not be seen.  The clinic can only serve so many.  Those not seen will carry the burden of our ills back into the world.

We live in the "land of the free and the home of the brave" but some days even the Free Clinic isn't free for all.  Yet, all of us must be brave.  It takes courage to crawl out of bed in the morning.  Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness teases us from a great distance.

A young woman sips the last of her water from a paper cup.  She reaches up and wipes tears from her eyes.  She tries to hide her tears but she can not.  She sniffles quietly and shifts uncomfortably in her chair.  Her pain, her need, is an embarrassment.

I've seen her before, a different face, a different person but the same pain, the same need.  I have been her before wiping unwanted tears from my eyes.  Today, I float above the tears.  I am being brave.

We all wait quietly.  We all struggle inside with the burden of being here.  We struggle to find work.  We struggle to find the money to pay for food, housing, health care.  There is never enough.  We struggle to buy our children clothes and shoes that they will outgrow all too quickly.  We struggle to hold our families together against great odds.  We struggle to keep our dignity and we struggle to summon up the hope to begin another day, to wage another battle against never having enough.

No one understands poverty better than the poor.  Yet, our voice is only a faint whisper.  The powerful can not hear.  Exhausted, ashamed of our struggles, there is little energy left to advocate for ourselves.  We blame ourselves for where we are.  We wonder what happened to the dreams were were promised as children.

"Work hard, and you'll go far."

"Everyone can be a success."

"You can be anything you want to be!"

Some how we've failed the dreams and the dreams have failed us.  Bitterness often hides behind the exhaustion.  Apathy is an armor we wear when we can't take any more.

Slowly, I become aware of the television droning overhead.  In the waiting room, a documentary about the current state of health care plays.  It focuses on the flaws in the current system and about the need for more patient-centered care.   These words are depressing.  We know what is wrong with the system through thousands of personal experiences.   We all tune it out.  It becomes another background noise, like the coughing, the crying, the cooing of a baby.  The facts are already crushing us.  We need words of hope.

People flow in and out almost seamlessly.  All that remains is a little room in which to wait.  Maybe tomorrow will be better than today.    We wait.

Please note:   I am extremely grateful that the Free Clinic of Southwest Washington exists and that I have received excellent care from the people who volunteer their time to help the low-income and uninsured in Clark County.  They are providing an incredibly valuable service to a growing number of its citizens.  They treat the people they see with dignity and compassion.  

Accepting Pell Mell and Hurdy Gurdy

Wednesday Words:  Hurdy Gurdy and pell mell.  First, a Youtube clip of Mike Smith playing a Hurdy Gurdy (a musical instrument that originated some time in the middle ages.)



The word hurdy gurdy made me think of pell mell.  Both words sound like thoughts tumbling down hill.  At least that describes the feeling that wrapped itself around my heart as I awoke. This feeling that was demanding definition but the words did not come easily.  When they did they dashed pell mell down into the valley of my soul.  They lie there. . .at the bottom. . . broken and incomplete.

pell-mell [ˈpɛlˈmɛl]

adv

1. in a confused headlong rush the hounds ran pell-mell into the yard

2. in a disorderly manner the things were piled pell-mell in the room

adj

disordered; tumultuous a pell-mell rush for the exit

n

disorder; confusion

[from Old French pesle-mesle, jingle based on mesler to meddle]

Collins English Dictionary – Complete and Unabridged © HarperCollins Publishers 1991, 1994, 1998, 2000, 2003

Both these words were a screen.  They tried to hide what I  knew.  Pell mell to the tune of a hurdy gurdy was only a means of getting to the bottom.  The confusion that I feel isn't necessary.  It is a soothing salve, preventing me from fully acknowledging the role I was playing in my own suffering.  Words can sometimes form a barrier between us and what we already know in the bottom of our hearts.


When what you know isn't what you want to know, suffering moves in.  Some where at the bottom of the hill, in the mess that lies broken and scattered, the truth also lies.  It whispers one word:  "Accept."
I repeat this word again,  "Accept."
No blame, no name calling, no self-incrimination.  What is, simply is.
"Accept"
I repeat it again, and again, and again.  I rise to meet my day.

Monday March for Maturity

Recently, in a moment of self-awareness,  I realized that I was sprawled over the coach in a rather child-like position.  My inner critic chided me for "not being more  grown-up."

But exactly, what is grown up?  I know that we have an age to define the line between childhood and adulthood but we all know that "growing up" happens over an entire life time.  Inside most of us, still feel a much younger age than we are.  If you don't believe me, just start asking people, "What age are you on the inside?"
A recent informal poll discovered that most of us present chose an inner age between 12 and 18.

This topic of maturity has haunted me lately.  I'd been feeling like some how I'd managed not to "grow up."   So, I decided to figure out what maturity means to me.  I went straight to the Internet and searched "maturity".  Emotional intelligence caught my eye.

Here's a little test developed by Nick Arrizza MD   Just how grown-up are you?  According to Nick, I've got some growing to do.  I would agree.  I'm re-framing my disappointment with enthusiasm for something to work on.  I may not be completely grown-up but I can pretend, can't I?

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/180972

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The Emotional Maturity Questionnaire

Please rate each item as outlined below according to your life experience.

Assign:
a "1" score each time you answer "Rarely",
a "0.5" score each time you answer "Sometimes", and
a "0" score each time you answer "Often"  to each item in the questionnaire.
Then add up your total EMQ score.


Questions:
1. I look to others to validate my decisions before I act on them.
2. I tend to follow rather lead others.
3. Taking responsibility frightens me and so I avoid it.
4. Being on my own makes me feel uncomfortable.
5. I rely on others to make me feel secure.
6. I tend to make snap decisions.
7. I rarely stop and think through what I'm going to do next.
8. I tend to make impulsive decisions.
9. I'm generally an anxious person.
10. I tend to worry a lot.
11. My mood is easily affected by what is taking place around me.
12. I am a moody person.
13. I've been told that I'm moody.
14. I tend to get angry or frustrated easily.
15. I'm not very successful with relationships.
16. My relationships tend to last only a short time.
17. My relationships are very turbulent.
18. I don't enjoy looking after children or pets.
19. My confidence level is low.
20. I have trouble speaking in public or to strangers I don't know.
21. I often feel like there is something wrong with me.
22. I indulge in feelings of self pity.
23. I tend to complain about how others have hurt me or made my life difficult.
24. I often blame my parents for how I am.
25. I dislike myself.
26. I'm afraid that being honest will make my life more difficult.
27. I tend to tell people what I think they want to hear and not what I feel.
28. I need others to approve of me for me to feel good about myself.
29. I'm afraid of rejection.
30. I'm afraid of disapproval.
31. I tend to turn to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes or something else to take away my emotional pain.
32. I have trouble opening up to others.
33. I have trouble feeling relaxed around others.
34. I fear others will think there's something wrong with me
35. I have trouble managing my money.
36. I neglect my health.
37. I tend to ignore my healthcare practitioner's advice.
39. I'm a loner.
40. I hate being alone.
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A total EMQ score of:
1. Greater than 30 is a sign of good emotional maturity.
2. Between 10 and 30 a sign that you will likely have some challenges ahead in your life if you fail to address the relevant issues.
3. Less than 10 is sign that you are going to run into significant trouble if you haven't already.
If you want support in improving your EMQ, your life and your chances of success then kindly visit the web link below where you can set up your introductory telephone consultation with me at no risk to you.

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/180972

A Few Good Women

It's been over a week since I attended a "cousin reunion."  It is limited to the female cousins on my father's side of the family.   It gives us a chance to really talk.

I've wanted to write about this event but haven't quite known how.

I love my cousins.  While, they probably know more about me than I do about them, thanks to my blabbing in this blog, they still always feel familiar in a good way.

Those of us born in the 50's and 60's were very lucky.  Our parents got together often for picnics, potlucks, birthday celebrations.  We saw our aunts, uncles and cousins frequently.  Most of us lived in the same area.  Many of us went to the same school, same church.  Our lives crisscrossed in so many ways that sometimes we'd long for anonymity.  We wanted to be defined by something more than the clan to which we belonged.

People several towns away could tell what family most of us came from simply by our facial features and body type.  We were as easily identified as a Holstein or a Guernsey or a Black Angus.  Most of the time they could even accurately guess who my father was.  If they guessed incorrectly, they were always very close.  "No, Uncle Herman isn't my Dad".
But it was close enough.

Growing up, I used to hate standing there waiting while they played this guessing game.   I felt I could never win.  I didn't want to be labeled so easily.  I didn't want the gossip circuit in town to refer to me as a "typical Hendricks."  I would imagine them shaking their heads and saying, "That's a Hendricks for ya."

I longed not to be so well known by the people I'd meet.

In time, I got my wish.  Almost every stranger's face I'd see was exactly that, a stranger.  And, I was a stranger  to them.    I had learned to see people without looking at them.

And, eventually, I learned just how lucky I am to come from a big family, one that celebrated so many things with cousins and kin folk.  Baptisms, First Communions, birthdays, 4th of Julys, holidays, weddings, and funerals took on an added meaning when shared with family.

Without a doubt, our family suffered the typical family dysfunction.  Descendants of German immigrants we were never hugged or loved openly enough.  Criticism was the norm, negativity a defining characteristic.  Yet, for all these shortcomings, after all the years, all the personal neurosis, we cousins, still make an effort to come together once in a while.  We reminisce, share stories of our parents, who as siblings are/were remarkably alike.  It's the best kind of therapy, sitting in a lawn chair under Kim's patio, sharing food.  Yes, all of us are pretty good cooks and love to eat.  We get that from our parents.

When I leave and return to my life, where so many people are absolute strangers, I carry the memory within my heart.  I have a big, flawed family who provides an anchor in a world with so few anchors in it.  My family helps define who I am.  Despite our individual differences, our unique talents and abilities, they remind me that on the face of this huge planet, there is a special group of people who belong to my special clan.  I belong.  It is my birthright.  I am very grateful and extremely honored by my relationship with them.

So, heres to my cousins.  I love you.  Always have.  Always will.   But in my typical, stoic, repressed German way you may not always have been sure.  "Die Katze" is out of the bag now.

The Shimmering Sewage

Image Credit

For those of you not familiar with the term: septic tank. . . it is a holding device that accepts the gray water and sewage in a residence not served by city septic service lines.  Tanks are served by drainage channels that help siphon off overflow, etc.

With this opener, I bet you're dying to read more.   I can hear you now,
 "Great!  She's writing about sewage.  How pleasant?!"

It's not pleasant but it is inescapable.    Into each life, a little sewage must fall.

Can sewage shimmer?  I want my Saturdays to shimmer with potential, with the supernatural, the miraculous. This Saturday seems to be mired in a stinky cesspool of limited options and borderline despair.  Life sometimes does a wonderful job of crapping on one's happy especially if a significant portion of that happiness has been an illusion.

While there is a bit part of me that longs for an eternal, mystical youth that floats along on pixie dust and gossamer wings, it just isn't my destiny.  There is no pixie dust and no gossamer wing is going to hold me up.  No, if I'm to discover the shimmer, the magic, the mystical in my daily life, I'm going to have to look for it while face down in a nasty mud puddle into which a little sewage has seeped.

When I was a kid, my Grandma Laux's ("Gram" to me) house had a small drainage ditch that ran outside of the  bathroom.  It came up along side a lovely flower bed complete with a metal wishing well.  The grass on the banks of this small trench was always lush and green.  It seems the kind of place the fairies would have played.  But this ditch was not the stuff of fantasy.  It was sewage draining from the bathroom.  It often smelled foul and occasionally, we'd step in in and cover our tennis shoes or bare feet with its nasty gray goo.  Then, with much noise and drama, we'd race to the outside water faucet and rinse off our foot/shoe (or feet/shoes if you were so lucky) loudly squealing:

"YUCK,  OOH . . . DISGUSTING!"

I'd forgotten all about that ditch until now.  The memory is so strong that I can even smell that ditches peculiar and unpleasant odor.

That memory rapidly rolls into another.

When still quite small and living on my Grandparents farm after they'd moved to town, the septic tank began to bubble.  Outside the bathroom, under a large fir tree, the most amazing lifting of sod occurred.  Somehow, the septic tank burst its confinement underground.  The collecting gases and matter caused the sod above the tank to rise in a perfect mound.   Threatened with a certain horrible death if I walked across it, I studied this spot from a safe distance, occasionally tossing a rock or branch on top of the bulging earth.  Sometimes it would ripple.  Some fascinating and frightening alien seemed to simmer just below the surface, just out of view.  Danger can be very enticing.

I don't remember what happened to the rising mound.  Was the tank replaced?  I have no idea, but I do know that I never walked over that spot and never had to face that certain and horrible death by sewage.  Well, at least not literally.  Psychologically, I'm convinced that I've experienced several "deaths by sewage."

In writing this, I have learned that sewage may play just as important a role, if not a more important role, in my life than shimmering.  While I do believe that a little shimmering in life is a good and healthy thing, maybe, just maybe, learning to deal well with sewage is more important.

Friday Run Wild, Run Free

Image Credit

On this particular Friday, I'm taking a much needed mental holiday.  I found the perfect article to share on a blog called Metta Drum.    Now, free from the pressure of having to write a word, I'm going to let my mind run wild and free for a little bit.  It needs some fresh air.  Freely, I wander over the landscape between my ears.

Run No More

Every once in a while, a day of reckoning comes.  The things you've worked so hard to deny, to overcome, to ignore, bring you to your knees.  You stare reality in the face.  It overwhelms you. 

"Deal with me!" it demands.

I am the deer in the headlights.  Please pray for me.

 Image Credit