So after all my jokes about, "DON'T just tell me to take a bubble bath g'damn it!" as a response to conversations about self care, I've indeed found the humbleness to respond to a blog-neglected through meditative floating. Yes, there were bubbles- ginger scented to boot. And there were jewel-toned candles, thanks to a thoughtful commatriot. There was also a tabby cat glaring down at me suspiciously from her perch on the sink, and some mildew I had not yet noticed.
But more than that, there was a desire to do more with an evening than make dinner, watch Downton Abbey, do dishes, cuddle with my dog, and feel vaguely shell-shocked from a typical day at work. Not a good sign when by Tuesday your weekend never happened for you. Nor when a kind coworker mentions in the most gentle of ways that she's missed reading your blog. When you procrastinate on a blog about self care, what else must you be neglecting? And how kind to note something you can't have missed, but to show you noticed a bit of someone's life, even a tiny bit, has fallen to the wayside.
What is it about being still, and present in your body, that sets your mind unwinding? Even the process of taking the time to smooth lotion into your skin, hand on body, on elbow, on ankle and knee, is a sort of self soothing. It reminds you: I am real, I am here, this is my body, and by extension, this is my life- not just the lives I seek to touch.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, November 7, 2011
Self Care Thru Art!
So not only does my creativity lag when I'm feeling especially impacted by work, but so too does my faith in human relationships, and romantic love. These are both things I want to resist. Because what would it mean to be in this world without the creative sparking of synapses? What would it mean for my life if I lose faith in love, and partnership? I've found the perfect trifecta of (hopefully) extra $, creative endeavor & exposure to people's joy and connection: (a small) photography practice!
http://laughinglensphotography.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Laughing-Lens-Photography/181467861907943
Being around people in connection- in celebratory partnership, feeds my soul; there is no doubt about it. I wonder sometimes, at the power of focusing on what we desire in a partner. And too, I grieve at the dearth of positive portrayals of healthy and egalitarian relationships. I strive to seek out and enjoy couples who have that- to remind myself of what it is we're fighting for; not just an end to violence, but a eclipse of love.
To not only witness love as an antidote to witnessing trauma, but to be part of capturing it- I am grateful. Take a look at some of these images, and see if you are too:
http://laughinglensphotography.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Laughing-Lens-Photography/181467861907943
Being around people in connection- in celebratory partnership, feeds my soul; there is no doubt about it. I wonder sometimes, at the power of focusing on what we desire in a partner. And too, I grieve at the dearth of positive portrayals of healthy and egalitarian relationships. I strive to seek out and enjoy couples who have that- to remind myself of what it is we're fighting for; not just an end to violence, but a eclipse of love.
To not only witness love as an antidote to witnessing trauma, but to be part of capturing it- I am grateful. Take a look at some of these images, and see if you are too:
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Vigilita
Sometimes the things we need to do for healing, start with a pain. They require some tears. Demand some outrage, a recognition, a howl. Sometimes, you have to take a moment to commune in sadness to reaquaint yourself with gratitude.
In the midst of leading our volunteer training, there came an evening when I feared we were losing track of what we were really talking about. Somewhere between 'Unlearning Oppression', abuse tactics and deconstructing patriarchy we got lost. It is easy to do. We got sidetracked into defending the good men, and we lost the voices of survivors.
Now, community education can be an antidote to my vt. It can spark, and catch, and light me afire to be surrounded by minds a-opening, and stories a-shared. It can remind me that people care, and want to learn more- enough that they're there evening after evening, Saturday after Saturday to plow through some of the hardest of issues.
But this day, I felt heavy. I was sad that it is so hard for us to stop blaming women. Sad how easy it is to academisize other people's pain. Disappointed too, to be missing the community vigil in honor of Domestic Violence Awareness Month, where we honor those who have been killed this year; where we gather to grieve. I remember last year, with its October rain, hot wax from a candle on my finger pads and staining my coat. That rare moment of collective community meant something- a space so rare as to be almost indulgent.
So I bought some candles, a lighter, and printed out a too-long list of names. And after three hours of training, when they could have left, they stayed. We circled, because how else could it be done? And we read words into names, names into people, people we loved for a minute. The names circled our group twice.
I am grateful for these things: a circle of people who show up, doubly ringed though it was with the dead; candles with a deep crimson wax left in a line amongst equally vibrant leaves; a moment of silence; a moment of togetherness before we scatter.
In the midst of leading our volunteer training, there came an evening when I feared we were losing track of what we were really talking about. Somewhere between 'Unlearning Oppression', abuse tactics and deconstructing patriarchy we got lost. It is easy to do. We got sidetracked into defending the good men, and we lost the voices of survivors.
Now, community education can be an antidote to my vt. It can spark, and catch, and light me afire to be surrounded by minds a-opening, and stories a-shared. It can remind me that people care, and want to learn more- enough that they're there evening after evening, Saturday after Saturday to plow through some of the hardest of issues.
But this day, I felt heavy. I was sad that it is so hard for us to stop blaming women. Sad how easy it is to academisize other people's pain. Disappointed too, to be missing the community vigil in honor of Domestic Violence Awareness Month, where we honor those who have been killed this year; where we gather to grieve. I remember last year, with its October rain, hot wax from a candle on my finger pads and staining my coat. That rare moment of collective community meant something- a space so rare as to be almost indulgent.
So I bought some candles, a lighter, and printed out a too-long list of names. And after three hours of training, when they could have left, they stayed. We circled, because how else could it be done? And we read words into names, names into people, people we loved for a minute. The names circled our group twice.
I am grateful for these things: a circle of people who show up, doubly ringed though it was with the dead; candles with a deep crimson wax left in a line amongst equally vibrant leaves; a moment of silence; a moment of togetherness before we scatter.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Assignment #3:
Get a dog! No, really. I imagine that trauma workers have more pets than your average botanist or teacher. In-spite of the crazy schedules, in-spite of the low pay, nothing says comfort and soothing like a pup. I spent the first day weeping, for no reason that I could figure out. She unlocked something in me, and I probably needed a good cry. But by now, blogging with a dogs sweet head on my right foot, brown rice cooking and the cat doing who knows what, I feel at peace. It doesn't make sense- this will mean spending more time taking care of another being, BUT in a way that somehow manages to take care of me too. Already I've walked streets in my new neighborhood I've never seen, been in the rain more, laughed more, been sleeping better, getting up earlier, and happy to do so, not pushing snooze. We'll see.
*Bringing her home from the county shelter*
After two years of unknown history, time on the street and in a shelter, she, like many of our participants, like many of us at some point, needed a fresh start. And I do know that healing begins with the power of words, in this case, a name: Athena. The mythology of Athena captivated me on a trip to Greece this year with my Mom. I adored her because of her Owl totem (my cat is named Owl), and because she was both a badass warrior, and wise- focused on learning, and meaningful arts. I found a pendant in the winding streets of Santorini, pleasant to rub between my fingers and it makes me feel brave and whimsical with her serious profile on one side, and a rudimentary Owl on the other.
I fell for the Sanctuary of Athena at Delphi, in spite of being horrifically cranky that day, and couldn't get enough of the mysterious Tholos, a 4th-century-BC rotunda.
*Owl carving from nearly 500 B.C. that we saw in Athens*
So now I have an Athena and an Owl, and my wish is that we make each other happier, healthier, loving, and trusting in the goodness of people. Its something we could both work on, and what better way, than to do it together. Little ms. shy dog came to work today, and with my one foot inside an Ugg boot, and the other under a dog hiney, I heard the joy in my own voice as I returned calls- an enthusiasm that could almost sound fake. But for the truth of it.
*Bringing her home from the county shelter*
After two years of unknown history, time on the street and in a shelter, she, like many of our participants, like many of us at some point, needed a fresh start. And I do know that healing begins with the power of words, in this case, a name: Athena. The mythology of Athena captivated me on a trip to Greece this year with my Mom. I adored her because of her Owl totem (my cat is named Owl), and because she was both a badass warrior, and wise- focused on learning, and meaningful arts. I found a pendant in the winding streets of Santorini, pleasant to rub between my fingers and it makes me feel brave and whimsical with her serious profile on one side, and a rudimentary Owl on the other.
I fell for the Sanctuary of Athena at Delphi, in spite of being horrifically cranky that day, and couldn't get enough of the mysterious Tholos, a 4th-century-BC rotunda.
*Owl carving from nearly 500 B.C. that we saw in Athens*
So now I have an Athena and an Owl, and my wish is that we make each other happier, healthier, loving, and trusting in the goodness of people. Its something we could both work on, and what better way, than to do it together. Little ms. shy dog came to work today, and with my one foot inside an Ugg boot, and the other under a dog hiney, I heard the joy in my own voice as I returned calls- an enthusiasm that could almost sound fake. But for the truth of it.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Self Care Assignment #2: Take a Break!
I find another way to deal with vicarious trauma is to RUN AWAY FROM IT! Ha, but seriously. The most meaningful way I’ve found to reboot, refocus; return to myself is by travel. Even a small weekend trip into the great Pacific Northwest will do wonders. I spent this weekend in Ashland, Oregon. There’s something about putting miles between yourself and your work, leaving the week behind… Knowing that you’ll be back, you’re not giving up, but by god, you’re taking a pause. When you’re away, nothing really has to be done; I am responsible for no one’s happiness but my own. Time management becomes about, ‘in what order shall we eat, walk, drink tea, journal, read, talk, window shop and see plays?’
(Last year's Mom & Daughter Ashland trip)
I find my sense of wonder, curiosity, passion is actually just below my epidermis. My skin isn’t thickened at all! Its all still there, thank you! Thank god, its still there. I really NOTICE the clove in my tea, I eat apple chicken Gouda sausage, taste yellow raspberry jam under the sun- and it tastes like sun, and sample chocolate cherry tomatoes! I learn that Manzanita is a kind of tree, not just a beach in Oregon, and that it is a beautiful red inside, almost like blood. I notice the light play across the countryside, I notice the minute autumn changes, and comment on the weather, and its not mundane, its with wonder. I get away, and my joy can be found not just in the small daily doses of lunch breaks, and reading books from the library, and being in communion with friends.
Now certainly the goal is that eventually these small daily doses will be enough. My friend’s dad used to give her a spoonful of honey once a day. I believe her and him that the honey did no doubt provide protections, inhibit allergies, etc. etc. provide some kind of remedy. But to me, the health benefits seemed more to do with strengthening the heart, the hearth. I always thought the image I had of them was in fact as sweet as honeycomb, and I can see it as though it is my own memory: a dad-hand, a silver spoon, amber honey, fed with love to a little girl; “a spoon full of sugar helps the…” In this world, protecting a child must feel nigh impossible, and I imagine with a shiver that kind of vulnerable optimism, to believe that this daily ritual would provide a daughter with protection.
(Another joy, watching families enjoy the last day of summer, knee deep in Lithia creek)
So, although running away is less a dose of regular sweetness and love, and rather a gorging of goodness in the manner of baklava and the like, this weekend was just what I needed. Who knew what I needed were plays about singing pirates, deep sleep, spending time with one of the few people I love so much that we can just be quiet together, so ourselves, no need to censor. As we drove through a dark Friday night to Ashland, there was indeed a smoky ashyness to the air, and all the recent forest fires lit the setting sun ablaze- just the color (I now know) of Manzanita heartwood.
(Mom loving the inukshuks. I like that people are drawn to this meditation, of rock on rock and improbable balance and patience)
(Last year's Mom & Daughter Ashland trip)
I find my sense of wonder, curiosity, passion is actually just below my epidermis. My skin isn’t thickened at all! Its all still there, thank you! Thank god, its still there. I really NOTICE the clove in my tea, I eat apple chicken Gouda sausage, taste yellow raspberry jam under the sun- and it tastes like sun, and sample chocolate cherry tomatoes! I learn that Manzanita is a kind of tree, not just a beach in Oregon, and that it is a beautiful red inside, almost like blood. I notice the light play across the countryside, I notice the minute autumn changes, and comment on the weather, and its not mundane, its with wonder. I get away, and my joy can be found not just in the small daily doses of lunch breaks, and reading books from the library, and being in communion with friends.
Now certainly the goal is that eventually these small daily doses will be enough. My friend’s dad used to give her a spoonful of honey once a day. I believe her and him that the honey did no doubt provide protections, inhibit allergies, etc. etc. provide some kind of remedy. But to me, the health benefits seemed more to do with strengthening the heart, the hearth. I always thought the image I had of them was in fact as sweet as honeycomb, and I can see it as though it is my own memory: a dad-hand, a silver spoon, amber honey, fed with love to a little girl; “a spoon full of sugar helps the…” In this world, protecting a child must feel nigh impossible, and I imagine with a shiver that kind of vulnerable optimism, to believe that this daily ritual would provide a daughter with protection.
(Another joy, watching families enjoy the last day of summer, knee deep in Lithia creek)
So, although running away is less a dose of regular sweetness and love, and rather a gorging of goodness in the manner of baklava and the like, this weekend was just what I needed. Who knew what I needed were plays about singing pirates, deep sleep, spending time with one of the few people I love so much that we can just be quiet together, so ourselves, no need to censor. As we drove through a dark Friday night to Ashland, there was indeed a smoky ashyness to the air, and all the recent forest fires lit the setting sun ablaze- just the color (I now know) of Manzanita heartwood.
(Mom loving the inukshuks. I like that people are drawn to this meditation, of rock on rock and improbable balance and patience)
Monday, September 19, 2011
Rose: Love in Violent Times
I went to Crater Lake for the first time this summer (bad Oregonian!). In three days I swam in three waters: the Rogue River, Diamond Lake and Crescent Lake, and in each I was blessed with coolness, calm, clarity. It was a trip of goodbyes. It was beautiful, and sad, and right. While there, I brought the intellectually incompetent but thoroughly YUM sequence in the Sookie Stackhouse novels (if you don't know what those are, no way am I telling). My darling friend, who I've seen grow into the most beautiful person and feisty feminist brought 'Rose: Love in Violent Times'. A much more meaningful campfire-side read. It is by Inga Muscio (what a great name), the author who wrote 'Cunt'- which I have quoted onstage, but shamefully never read.
Although the advocate in me wanted to write a letter to the county library complaining that they don't have 'Cunt' OR 'Rose' on their shelves, I decided to simply not. Self-care assignment this week: Amazon.com it. :) Perhaps another tool? Certainly, I adore the cover. Looks like one of many tattoos I've admired in this, the Rose City. If you're thinking, 'shopping as assignment number 2? Jenny, lose the retail therapy', please know there's more on my mind; like cathartic Zumba classes, a thought provoking sermon at the First Unitarian Church I frequent and the desire (and fear) to get my "float" on- but there will be time for all this and more.
Are there texts that have moved you? Enriched your life, given you that- 'ahhh, I feel I am a better human for having digested this'?
Rose: Love in Violent Times
With trademark precision and razor-sharp wit, Inga Muscio explores the impacts of passive violence, abuse, war, and cultural trauma on our most intimate lives in order to uncover a path toward healthy and imaginative sex and love.
Rose breaks new ground in answering a fundamental question in most feminist and antiracist writing: how do we identify, witness, and then recover from trauma—as individuals, as families, as communities, and as a country? Muscio's ability to address dire topics with a unique freshness and bravery allows her readers to confront the true brutality of a violent culture, then to react powerfully with righteous rage and hopeful determination.
Chilling, eye-opening, and thoroughly enjoyable, Rose offers a fresh and exhilarating perspective on achieving empowerment and self-possession.
About the Author
INGA MUSCIO is the author of Cunt: A Declaration of Independence and Autobiography of a Blue-Eyed Devil. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and has an extensive lecture schedule across the nation.
Although the advocate in me wanted to write a letter to the county library complaining that they don't have 'Cunt' OR 'Rose' on their shelves, I decided to simply not. Self-care assignment this week: Amazon.com it. :) Perhaps another tool? Certainly, I adore the cover. Looks like one of many tattoos I've admired in this, the Rose City. If you're thinking, 'shopping as assignment number 2? Jenny, lose the retail therapy', please know there's more on my mind; like cathartic Zumba classes, a thought provoking sermon at the First Unitarian Church I frequent and the desire (and fear) to get my "float" on- but there will be time for all this and more.
Are there texts that have moved you? Enriched your life, given you that- 'ahhh, I feel I am a better human for having digested this'?
Rose: Love in Violent Times
With trademark precision and razor-sharp wit, Inga Muscio explores the impacts of passive violence, abuse, war, and cultural trauma on our most intimate lives in order to uncover a path toward healthy and imaginative sex and love.
Rose breaks new ground in answering a fundamental question in most feminist and antiracist writing: how do we identify, witness, and then recover from trauma—as individuals, as families, as communities, and as a country? Muscio's ability to address dire topics with a unique freshness and bravery allows her readers to confront the true brutality of a violent culture, then to react powerfully with righteous rage and hopeful determination.
Chilling, eye-opening, and thoroughly enjoyable, Rose offers a fresh and exhilarating perspective on achieving empowerment and self-possession.
About the Author
INGA MUSCIO is the author of Cunt: A Declaration of Independence and Autobiography of a Blue-Eyed Devil. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and has an extensive lecture schedule across the nation.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
B, B- and parkside dining
Okay, so I'd say I get a B, B- on my first assignment. I may have started off too boldly, taking a lunch break being soooo radical, you know. I did follow the rules- no eating lunch at my desk, looking through barred windows at drug deals, pimps, neglected dogs, or other shockingly depressing or drab urban sadness. I didn't forget, eat lunch as I drive to a home visit, or otherwise ignore the potential of these magical (unpaid) thirty minutes of my day. And though I didn't blow them off, neither did I quite know what to do with my lunch break. I also ended up eating at 3:30. But, a work in progress it is.
I stumbled into this week's assignment by virtue of a blessed one hour between the courthouse and a work meeting. I ended up sitting on some wizened tree roots, eating my couscous and beets, shaded by a glorious green umbrella. I grew up calling this southeast park "Funner Park", thinking that was its name. Till this day my oldest friends are still calling it that too. My Mom called it Funner Park after the humble labrador I grew up with, who she called Funner when she got her as a baby, and thought, "My life is sure going to be a lot funner"- an entirely lovable and intentional grammatical fumble for my librarian Mom. It is the park where I learned to climb trees; the deal used to be that my scared of heights mom (one of two things she's afraid of) let me climb as high as I wanted to, knowing I'd have to get myself back down, because no way was she coming up after me. It is also a park where I had my 11th birthday party, a park I fell in love in, a park I said goodbye in, a park loaded with nuances and my own humble history, and a far more nurturing place to dine than my desk.
The belt of my dress tapped me in the breeze, and it startled me. The quiet and peace was in total contrast to the restraining order room in the courthouse that I'd just left, with its overload of crisis instead of green grass. It seems endlessly strange that both can exist at once; that in one tall building, in one small city, people can be detailing incidents of abuse to total strangers, while in this green place, there are only happy people are under a wide blue sky, and a breeze that flirts with your clothing.
Who are these people walking their dogs in the middle of a workday, or playing basketball, or taking their kids to the park? Another woman diplomatically finds a different shady tree patch and takes her time spreading a blanket; she's obviously more practiced at this mid-day relaxation. A slight young man as wide across as my left thigh steadily loops by me. In thirty minutes, he laps me five times, I eat my lunch, I imagine the woman reads twenty five pages, three families come and go- and I feel a bit more like myself. I am literally grounded, and the roots hold me. I feel startled by the normalcy, and although I still can't understand the contrast I've witnessed, and witness everyday, I am able to recognize that it is so. As I walk back to my car past the community garden, I let myself notice the happily drooping tomatoes, the orange flamingos someone has added alongside their veggies, and the sunflowers. Its good to notice these things. And instead of multitasking, I'm thinking that when I have a yard, the only fence I want to have will be of sunflowers just like these. They will grow to be taller than me, and birds will eat their seeds, and I'll plant the rest, and the next year, I'll plant those sunflowers' sunflower-babies, and so on...
I stumbled into this week's assignment by virtue of a blessed one hour between the courthouse and a work meeting. I ended up sitting on some wizened tree roots, eating my couscous and beets, shaded by a glorious green umbrella. I grew up calling this southeast park "Funner Park", thinking that was its name. Till this day my oldest friends are still calling it that too. My Mom called it Funner Park after the humble labrador I grew up with, who she called Funner when she got her as a baby, and thought, "My life is sure going to be a lot funner"- an entirely lovable and intentional grammatical fumble for my librarian Mom. It is the park where I learned to climb trees; the deal used to be that my scared of heights mom (one of two things she's afraid of) let me climb as high as I wanted to, knowing I'd have to get myself back down, because no way was she coming up after me. It is also a park where I had my 11th birthday party, a park I fell in love in, a park I said goodbye in, a park loaded with nuances and my own humble history, and a far more nurturing place to dine than my desk.
The belt of my dress tapped me in the breeze, and it startled me. The quiet and peace was in total contrast to the restraining order room in the courthouse that I'd just left, with its overload of crisis instead of green grass. It seems endlessly strange that both can exist at once; that in one tall building, in one small city, people can be detailing incidents of abuse to total strangers, while in this green place, there are only happy people are under a wide blue sky, and a breeze that flirts with your clothing.
Who are these people walking their dogs in the middle of a workday, or playing basketball, or taking their kids to the park? Another woman diplomatically finds a different shady tree patch and takes her time spreading a blanket; she's obviously more practiced at this mid-day relaxation. A slight young man as wide across as my left thigh steadily loops by me. In thirty minutes, he laps me five times, I eat my lunch, I imagine the woman reads twenty five pages, three families come and go- and I feel a bit more like myself. I am literally grounded, and the roots hold me. I feel startled by the normalcy, and although I still can't understand the contrast I've witnessed, and witness everyday, I am able to recognize that it is so. As I walk back to my car past the community garden, I let myself notice the happily drooping tomatoes, the orange flamingos someone has added alongside their veggies, and the sunflowers. Its good to notice these things. And instead of multitasking, I'm thinking that when I have a yard, the only fence I want to have will be of sunflowers just like these. They will grow to be taller than me, and birds will eat their seeds, and I'll plant the rest, and the next year, I'll plant those sunflowers' sunflower-babies, and so on...
Monday, September 12, 2011
Homespace, Honeysuckle & Holgate the cat
Today, self care is:
A squeeze on the arm from a survivor, letting go of some formality in exchange for warmth and humanness.
Checking in with a coworker after a shift in the Courthouse.
Changing the radio station from sadness on NPR, and instead rocking out to mindless music in the Smart Park.
Taking lunch at my apartment; breathing in my colorful homespace instead of racing back to the office after the courthouse.
Leaving work before 6:30.
Putting on comfy sweats. Being barefoot.
Having a beer in the backyard, with a kitty named Holgate on my left foot. Okay, the beer part is probably not recommended best practices for vicarious trauma, but the cat surely is.
Hummingbirds feeding on honeysuckle above my head.
And nothing planned for the evening. Mmmmmmm. Not rushing off to the next thing is rare for me, and glorifying in this hush, this pause, feels like such an essential and simple gift to myself.
What about you?
A squeeze on the arm from a survivor, letting go of some formality in exchange for warmth and humanness.
Checking in with a coworker after a shift in the Courthouse.
Changing the radio station from sadness on NPR, and instead rocking out to mindless music in the Smart Park.
Taking lunch at my apartment; breathing in my colorful homespace instead of racing back to the office after the courthouse.
Leaving work before 6:30.
Putting on comfy sweats. Being barefoot.
Having a beer in the backyard, with a kitty named Holgate on my left foot. Okay, the beer part is probably not recommended best practices for vicarious trauma, but the cat surely is.
Hummingbirds feeding on honeysuckle above my head.
And nothing planned for the evening. Mmmmmmm. Not rushing off to the next thing is rare for me, and glorifying in this hush, this pause, feels like such an essential and simple gift to myself.
What about you?
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Assignment #1!
Alrighty, assignment #1:
Actually take my lunch break this week. Woah-ee, starting big. Well, it is only a four day week, so hopefully I can make it. You may laugh, and if so, you have WAY healthier work habits than myself, who normally nukes my leftovers, and goes right on back to my desk to do a combo of: work e-mail, gmail, and facebook, while normally answering my desk line, and work cell and personal cell if calls or texts come in. Sometimes I ignore calls, (boundaries, go me!) and sometimes use the time to do some banal thing like call my car insurance, or slowly drink a glass of water while standing in front of the AC. But mainly I eat, multi-task and then am absorbed back into work as a matter of course. I can easily forget I've already eaten, because what's to remember? Have I truly enjoyed my food? Taken a moment for myself to center, recharge, or do any number of healthy things? The answer is typically no.
Coworkers are extremely respectful of the food on the desk = lunch, i.e. let's try and actually take our breaks, and one actually tiptoed out of the room when she saw me, mouthful of polenta, to save her question for after my delicious thirty minute break was up. When I first started, it was the hot dog days of September, and partly because I didn't know folks yet, partly because our office is pretty damn dumpy and dreary, and partly because being new is SO incredibly exhausting, I would eat my lunch perched on the porch, trying to focus on the rose bush a foot in front of me, instead of the general poverty and sketch-ness of the streets surrounding. I've known coworkers to go for walks on lunch- one of whom got solicited for sex work, all in all a brave endeavor, but not one that sounds particularly soothing. I once tried to have a game-time lunch in support group room, when I was obsessed with 'Things' but only one person came and it degenerated into planning an activity for support group based on the game. Which, was of course fun too, as I love to geek out on that sort of advocate-y stuff.
As Laura van der noot Lipsy said at a conference I was at recently, "Take your breaks! People fought hard so you could have those breaks in your work day!" She may have even said, 'people died so you can have your lunch break'. Apparently, even guilt for the activists that have gone before doesn't work, so now I am trying something new. I'll let you know how it goes this week- if you have found this practice to be helpful- or not, or have thoughts for healthier lunchtime or 15 min break to-dos, please do share! :)
Actually take my lunch break this week. Woah-ee, starting big. Well, it is only a four day week, so hopefully I can make it. You may laugh, and if so, you have WAY healthier work habits than myself, who normally nukes my leftovers, and goes right on back to my desk to do a combo of: work e-mail, gmail, and facebook, while normally answering my desk line, and work cell and personal cell if calls or texts come in. Sometimes I ignore calls, (boundaries, go me!) and sometimes use the time to do some banal thing like call my car insurance, or slowly drink a glass of water while standing in front of the AC. But mainly I eat, multi-task and then am absorbed back into work as a matter of course. I can easily forget I've already eaten, because what's to remember? Have I truly enjoyed my food? Taken a moment for myself to center, recharge, or do any number of healthy things? The answer is typically no.
Coworkers are extremely respectful of the food on the desk = lunch, i.e. let's try and actually take our breaks, and one actually tiptoed out of the room when she saw me, mouthful of polenta, to save her question for after my delicious thirty minute break was up. When I first started, it was the hot dog days of September, and partly because I didn't know folks yet, partly because our office is pretty damn dumpy and dreary, and partly because being new is SO incredibly exhausting, I would eat my lunch perched on the porch, trying to focus on the rose bush a foot in front of me, instead of the general poverty and sketch-ness of the streets surrounding. I've known coworkers to go for walks on lunch- one of whom got solicited for sex work, all in all a brave endeavor, but not one that sounds particularly soothing. I once tried to have a game-time lunch in support group room, when I was obsessed with 'Things' but only one person came and it degenerated into planning an activity for support group based on the game. Which, was of course fun too, as I love to geek out on that sort of advocate-y stuff.
As Laura van der noot Lipsy said at a conference I was at recently, "Take your breaks! People fought hard so you could have those breaks in your work day!" She may have even said, 'people died so you can have your lunch break'. Apparently, even guilt for the activists that have gone before doesn't work, so now I am trying something new. I'll let you know how it goes this week- if you have found this practice to be helpful- or not, or have thoughts for healthier lunchtime or 15 min break to-dos, please do share! :)
Friday, September 2, 2011
Starting...
I'm calling it 'a work in progress' because I know it is going to be hard work, and I'm hoping there will be progress. I feel like there has to be some progress, because this feels so truly like what I need to do. I know it is hard work dealing with vicarious trauma, because I've been trying- and failing. Dealing with and trying to understand vicarious trauma is difficult, just as the work that it stems from is gut-wrenchingly hard. I am a domestic violence advocate in Portland, OR. I have a job I adore and am honored to do; a job that challenges me, teaches me, moves me on a daily basis. I get to meet the most amazing people in my work; both the survivors I work with, and my coworkers- who are the most varied, kind and incredible group of women. I would like to be consistently grateful for all that. Instead, I am often exhausted, drained, uninspired, sad, namely- depleted.
My best friend introduced me to vicarious trauma when she was doing Teach For America in the most deprived of school systems in New Orleans, LA. It was with a kind of reverence, or more so desperation, that she told me about a book, "Trauma Stewardship" by Laura Van der noot Lipsky. Her book is the single most compelling and validating piece of literature I've found on this topic. At that time, I could see the affects on my friend, always so much easier then recognizing them in ourselves. She was doing an extraordinary job teaching her students, and her so recently a student herself, and- she was being set up to fail. She was throwing all of herself into generations of trauma, and her light was dimmed.
I missed my friend. I hardly heard from her, and when I did, that passion, conviction, and sass that I love about her was absent. I hated what this greater cause was doing to one person, this individual I love so dearly. I felt like no larger change was being accomplished, and that it was essentially destroying yet another individual. The good news (I hope) is that healing is possible (I'm told). She is now thriving in a much more manageable position in the bay area. She still works with youth, but in an agency that recognizes burnout, that values connection, smaller caseloads and a team-based approach, and that provides comprehensive coverage for therapy, acupuncture and other healing bodywork. They hold trainings on vicarious trauma. She told me recently about something she learned: that for ever act or experience that impacts us traumatically (witnessing another's pain, systems failures, etc.) we need to do a protective or healing action. This helpful tidbit made my stomach sink. It seemed impossible to me. It made sense, but every traumatic incident? I have to respond with a protective, healing, inspired attempt to EVERY incident? I can easily meet two dozen survivors of domestic violence in a week. There are women I work with for hours on a restraining order or accompany to court, who call me the next day, and I cannot recall their story. There are also stories I cannot get free from.
When the issue you're working with is overwhelming, and the trauma you're witnessing is numberless, how can we at the end of the day be able to truly take the care that we need to? How do we find the energy to care for ourselves with the same passion with which we care about and strive to support others? How come doing the healthy things you know you need to do seem like the very last thing you want to do, especially when you need them the most?
This project is my response to these questions. I've been searching for a tool like this, and I haven't found it, so I guess it is mine to create. I've put off starting this project for months. I've mulled it over with friends, I've composed entries in my head, but I felt intimidated to start. And, let's face it, creativity is the first thing to go when I'm feeling especially impacted, so I was stuck in this catch-22, of, "yikes, something's gotta give" while simultaneously mired in secondary trauma. The thing is, even having written this small beginning feels a little better. I feel a bit more myself. And a bit more hopeful, and that after all is the point of all this work.
My best friend introduced me to vicarious trauma when she was doing Teach For America in the most deprived of school systems in New Orleans, LA. It was with a kind of reverence, or more so desperation, that she told me about a book, "Trauma Stewardship" by Laura Van der noot Lipsky. Her book is the single most compelling and validating piece of literature I've found on this topic. At that time, I could see the affects on my friend, always so much easier then recognizing them in ourselves. She was doing an extraordinary job teaching her students, and her so recently a student herself, and- she was being set up to fail. She was throwing all of herself into generations of trauma, and her light was dimmed.
I missed my friend. I hardly heard from her, and when I did, that passion, conviction, and sass that I love about her was absent. I hated what this greater cause was doing to one person, this individual I love so dearly. I felt like no larger change was being accomplished, and that it was essentially destroying yet another individual. The good news (I hope) is that healing is possible (I'm told). She is now thriving in a much more manageable position in the bay area. She still works with youth, but in an agency that recognizes burnout, that values connection, smaller caseloads and a team-based approach, and that provides comprehensive coverage for therapy, acupuncture and other healing bodywork. They hold trainings on vicarious trauma. She told me recently about something she learned: that for ever act or experience that impacts us traumatically (witnessing another's pain, systems failures, etc.) we need to do a protective or healing action. This helpful tidbit made my stomach sink. It seemed impossible to me. It made sense, but every traumatic incident? I have to respond with a protective, healing, inspired attempt to EVERY incident? I can easily meet two dozen survivors of domestic violence in a week. There are women I work with for hours on a restraining order or accompany to court, who call me the next day, and I cannot recall their story. There are also stories I cannot get free from.
When the issue you're working with is overwhelming, and the trauma you're witnessing is numberless, how can we at the end of the day be able to truly take the care that we need to? How do we find the energy to care for ourselves with the same passion with which we care about and strive to support others? How come doing the healthy things you know you need to do seem like the very last thing you want to do, especially when you need them the most?
This project is my response to these questions. I've been searching for a tool like this, and I haven't found it, so I guess it is mine to create. I've put off starting this project for months. I've mulled it over with friends, I've composed entries in my head, but I felt intimidated to start. And, let's face it, creativity is the first thing to go when I'm feeling especially impacted, so I was stuck in this catch-22, of, "yikes, something's gotta give" while simultaneously mired in secondary trauma. The thing is, even having written this small beginning feels a little better. I feel a bit more myself. And a bit more hopeful, and that after all is the point of all this work.
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