Seeing Shelter

Sitting quietly tonight, this nearly overwhelming tightness in my chest keeps me awake and intensely uncomfortable. It's hard to stay with this. I want to run as the pressure builds. 

Images appear. The client at an HIV treatment center who overdosed and died. I see him. Can't stop him. I see myself as a child, helpless and terrified. Can't stop her either. Can't stop what is happening to her.

The scene shifts. I see a weathered photograph in a fragile metal frame standing on my grandmother's bureau. I am age eight or nine. In that photo, a little girl a few years younger than my child self is staring out. She is naked to the waist, standing barefoot, wearing shorts in a forest somewhere in Poland. Wavy brownish hair down to her chin, her expression neutral yet piercing in its innocence. Her eyes say everything that matters.

My grandmother does not say much, just a long, disgusted sigh followed by, "she was killed by the nazis." She quickly turns away and heads for her favorite room, the kitchen. I hear the sounds of cookware in motion. But those eyes keep me locked in place.

Now I see my girl self with this forest girl out of time. No longer frozen, two become one. I'm crying, my tears falling in that forest. Grown up me wants to hold this forest girl close, now able to face the horror and see what pierces it. Autumn rain is falling on the branches through layers of canopy down to her hair and naked chest.

The tightness releases in my chest as tears continue to fall. My breath opens. We are safe. I know what I must do - keep facing this fear, this pain, facing while standing in that forest beside her.

I am determined to turn towards those I have hurt. Determined to stop though have failed many times. Now I see the trees all around, feel the bodies sitting upright beside me. We are awake. We will not fail.

I adjust my posture, leaning forward.

"A" True Story

This morning stepping into our apartment building elevator, I spot a little red-haired boy and his strawberry blonde sister beside their mom. He's wearing an SF Giants cap and his sister a Yankees cap.

I say to him, "You're a Giants fan?" and his mom says, "actually, he has a collection from lots of teams." Just then, the boy shining a bright smile looks at me and says confidently, "actually, I'm an A's fan."

Without hesitation, his sister chimes in, "me too!" Mom is chuckling silently. "OK!" I say, "Go A's!" and the kids now go, "A's!" The door opens and the three of them step off. 

The boy quickly turns back to me and we stand there smiling as the door slowly closes.

Heart of You, Heart of Me

I'm walking towards the South Ferry subway station down in Battery Park when I hear guitar strumming. I stop, turn back and see a guy wearing a sky-blue sweatshirt and softly faded blue jeans. He smiles as our eyes meet. The melody is soothing while invigorating. I stop and listen. My eyes are drawn also to an older fellow with a scraggly grey-white beard sitting at the other end of the park bench. He's wearing a baseball cap that says in bold yellow, "Vietnam Veteran." 

When the song ends, I introduce myself and sit down between them. "I'm Jesse," says the guitar player. Jesse tells me he's been walking and hitching around the country for a year now carrying only a guitar and some clothes. Originally from Ohio, he arrived in NYC a few days ago.

Writing and singing songs as he goes. Says they are "prayer movin' through me." When he plays, people stop, people smile, can feel the good vibe. The other fellow on the bench says, "Hey, I'm Jimmy. Man, I like your songs, makes me feel good." Then he tells us he's a Vietnam Vet. Tells us about working down here on 9/11/01. He says, "There were ladies high heels everywhere. They were from the ladies who kicked 'em off, running barefoot." He sighs and pauses, then looks away in the direction of tall buildings for a moment. 

Just then, Jesse starts strumming his guitar softly. Jimmy turns back towards us and tells a few more stories of a more hopeful note, about his wife and son, about moving on from hard times including the Vietnam War and Iraq and Afghanistan where he says his son has served. He says, "nobody knows how it hurts unless they've been there." Jesse and I nod our heads, "yeah." 

When Jimmy leaves, Jesse and I talk about travelling, about getting lost in a good way, about walking in the mountains. He asked if I'd ever been to Nederland, CO. "Ha!" I said, "Been closeby, Boulder last month." And so we talk some more. I say I write songs also.

He smiles and hands me the guitar. I play a song and tell him wrote it when in a Cancer Center "playroom" with a boy in pain sitting in a wheelchair who wouldn't speak. I say, "I looked out the window up many stories and saw all these windows. And the song came through me, called it, 'Look Out the Window.' And as I played it, that boy came to life." Jesse smiles and nods his head like he gets it. When the song's over, I hand him back the guitar. He says, "you have a real sweet voice." That inspires me to sing harmony as he plays a song. 

After a few rounds of this, as we're singing, the wind picks up. Rain drops started to fall. I ask, "what's the name of that one?" He said, "dunno." I say, "I like the refrain: 'Heart of you, Heart of Me'." He smiles.

I hand him a wondercard and invited him to stay in touch saying, "wanna hear where you land next." He laughs and said, "OK!" 

Chazak!

I'm visiting with an elderly Jewish woman wearing a sparkly blue Yankees cap with purple peace signs painted on it. She's sitting up in her hospital bed, about to be discharged after a very extended stay resulting from multiple complications. Our conversations over these weeks keep a simple Hebrew word going, "Chazak!" ("Strength!)"

Today, offering her my hand as I have each visit, I say quietly while firmly, "From strength to strength." She grips my hand, as she has each time. She has shared how hard it is to keep going and what gets her through. She has told me often how absurd life can be, "all the meshugas."

Now, squeezing my hand with hers, she laughs and says, "Strange to Strange. Yes." Now we're both laughing, a laugh that fills the room and my whole body.

Grace

Visiting a middle-aged woman in emotional distress following her surgery, I hear her tell me she feels “desperately alone.” She says that after years in alcohol recovery, this sense of aloneness “triggered my relapse.” As we go deeper, her eyes squeeze shut then tears spill out. She chokes out,“God. I want to...feel God. But I can't."

We say the Serenity Prayer together. She shares more about God of her understanding and her desire to reconnect. She acknowledges that her primary need right now is "serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”

She bursts into tears. I guide her in breathing in “God” (silently saying it to herself) and breathing out “Serenity.” This is a method called Attuned Breath Centering, which I developed. Her breath eases. I leave and say will visit her the next day.

The next morning, I visit and we say the Serenity Prayer together. Then, unexpectedly, she bursts into tears saying her sense of aloneness is excruciating, and the Attuned Breath Centering difficult to continue. Something sparks in me, remembering how the palliative team approaches pain management. I ask her, “This part of you that thinks she is desperately alone, rate how alone on a scale of 0-10?” She says, “8.” Then I ask her, “Now imagining this part of you that feels God’s presence, how strongly does she feel this on a scale of 0-10?” She replies, “7.” For a moment, I am uncertain what to do. Then, an image comes to me. I ask her to imagine a wire fence with lots of open space between the wires. On one side stands the alone part of her. On one side stands the part who feels God’s presence.

I say, “Now the one who feels presence offers her hand through the fence, palm facing up. She offers it to the one who thinks she is alone. Tell me what you notice. Please refer to each part of you as “she.” Then you can witness all of you.” She nods her head, “ok.” I encourage, “Tell me, what’s happening?” She breathes a few times and replies, “I” then corrects herself, “She accepts the hand. They are holding hands.” I invite her to breathe into this sensation of holding hands.

Then I say, "Now imagine that as these two are holding each other's hand, the one who feels God's presence, holding clippers in her other hand begins to cut through the fence. Take your time and tell me what is happening." She pauses then says, "they are still holding hands." "OK," I say, "now the hole is growing in this fence and now there is just open space between them, joining them. Let's breathe into this sensation of open space."

After a few minutes, I ask her to rate her aloneness. She smiles with wonderment, her body visibly relazed and her breath slow and deep. She says, “Zero.” Next I ask her, “would you like to name the part of you that feels God's presence?” She pauses for a few breaths and then smiling once more looks up and says softly, “Grace.”

I hold out my hand. She meets me halfway. Our hands rest together on the bar at the edge of her hospital bed. We breathe silently, the room brightens and I feel a tingling sensation in my body. As I release my hand, she says with tears in her eyes, "thank you. I never knew..." I smile and nod my head to acknowledge her words. I echo hers, saying softly, "Grace."

You Must Fight

Visiting a man in his early 80’s who is recovering from hip surgery, I ask, “what keeps you going?” He looks me dead in the eye and says with fierce convicton, “You must fight.” I pause as he does. He adds, “even if it hurts.” He continues, “I had surgery yesterday and I am walking today. They don’t want you to be in bed. If you stay in bed you will sink into the bed and never get up.” He pauses again. I meet his gaze.

Then his tone shifts and he says, “I was married 56 years. My wife died three years ago.” His voice cracks. I say, “it hurts?” He nods his head silently. After a long pause, he says, “Preparation."

I give him a quizzical look. He continues, “Did you know that in that one word are contained over one hundred words?” I reply, “no I didn’t.” He says, “You know how I know?” "How?” I reply. He says, “I took out a dictionary. There is no b,c,d. I started with a. Then e, i..." I resist the urge to question the veracity of what he is suggesting and pay attention to the one word he named. I say, “So many words in that one. Just look for the ones that are there.”

His calmly determined gaze is impossible to ignore. He says, “You tell people. Tell them.” I reply, “I will.” He relaxes his gaze and thanks me. I acknowledge this, turn, and head for the open door.

Be Well

Visiting with an elderly, Jewish, female patient; I say to her, "zay gezunt." The words mean "be well," or "may you be well."

She asks, "When I said that to my father, he said, 'zay mir gezunt.' What does that mean?" I reply, "May we be well."

Her eyes fill with tears as she nods her head in recognition. We are both smiling.