Originally recorded on January 17, 2021.

The Loneliest Christmas

I have never been alone on Christmas. Until today. Christmas has always been an occasion where I allowed myself to experience joy, joy in the moment, joy in sensations and experiences, joy in the belief of magic. As a nonreligious but heavily spiritual person, Christmas has become a baffling holiday. My tree, the first one I ever cut and put up on my own, sits resplendent in green, white, and red lights, with hastily tucked presents in various stages of unwrap spilling from beneath. Yet I sit alone watching the cheerful electric glow feeling wave upon wave of nostalgia.

What is it that drew me to this holiday as a child? There were no passionate stories of baby Jesus told by my family other than the ones told in media, school, or books. My childhood holidays were plentiful but never glorified presents and getting. Instead, I searched for a certain resonance which I ached to find each year. I began to liken that ‘feeling’ to the heavy softness of a pink glowing snowy night. The kind I can stand in and feel every beat of my heart. 

With each passing year however, I grew older and began to lose my ability to feel that quality of awe and magic - like a relationship growing stale with disillusionment. When I held my newborn son in my arms, I fantasized of Christmas’ to come, of allowing him to experience that same joy and excitement that I once felt. And it is true, at nearly 6 years old he has found that wonder. He still believes in magic and the unknown, still freshly innocent from the skepticism of our modern society that is hell bent on cutting us off from that vital connection of flow and spirit. 

However, just as important as finding that intangible joy of holiday spirit, is experiencing that joy with others. How I dreamed of hosting Christmas at my home so I could perhaps hold that space of love and excitement for my loved ones. Children excitedly run about the house preparing for the arrival of a strange man. Telling stories to my family, sharing in laughter, food, and memories of Christmas past. And for a time, I had a glimpse of that. I played host. Filled stockings. Laid long tables in my living room for multitudes of guests and family. 

Tonight is different. This year is different. More people than ever are experiencing a lonely Christmas for perhaps the first time. Many more are coping with past and recent losses of loved ones, of lost lives, of people too faraway to share in the collective joy. 

I am not a victim. I do not pity myself or think I am in any way special in my solitude. I feel a deep, cavernous sorrow. A grief so heartbreaking it threatens to burst from the pain in my chest. The grief is not just my own and it is not just about this moment in time of lost and far away memories. I am living alone for the first time in my life - I chose to break away from what no longer held me, supported me, and nourished me. And I grieve, as much as if it wasn’t my own choice. 

As I allow the flood of emotions to rise and fall with my breath, I choose to explore questions I have - before tonight - never considered. How do I experience that purity of innocence, joy, and wonder every day - not just during an...]]>Ana and Hana say goodbye to 2020 and ring in the ever so hopeful 2021. 2021 is greeted with further isolation due to the continuation of the pandemic which is not lost on Ana who is experiencing acute isolation and loneliness during the holidays. Not only is it the very first "pandemic holiday", it is also Ana's first holidays living alone and divorced. In a vulnerable reading, Ana shares a story she wrote on the evening of Christmas night while allowing the depths of grief to take hold. Hana discusses with Ana the importance of Ana's spiritual practice during the holiday season and how she may pass on her own traditions to her son.

Originally recorded on January 17, 2021.

The Loneliest Christmas

I have never been alone on Christmas. Until today. Christmas has always been an occasion where I allowed myself to experience joy, joy in the moment, joy in sensations and experiences, joy in the belief of magic. As a nonreligious but heavily spiritual person, Christmas has become a baffling holiday. My tree, the first one I ever cut and put up on my own, sits resplendent in green, white, and red lights, with hastily tucked presents in various stages of unwrap spilling from beneath. Yet I sit alone watching the cheerful electric glow feeling wave upon wave of nostalgia.

What is it that drew me to this holiday as a child? There were no passionate stories of baby Jesus told by my family other than the ones told in media, school, or books. My childhood holidays were plentiful but never glorified presents and getting. Instead, I searched for a certain resonance which I ached to find each year. I began to liken that ‘feeling’ to the heavy softness of a pink glowing snowy night. The kind I can stand in and feel every beat of my heart. 

With each passing year however, I grew older and began to lose my ability to feel that quality of awe and magic - like a relationship growing stale with disillusionment. When I held my newborn son in my arms, I fantasized of Christmas’ to come, of allowing him to experience that same joy and excitement that I once felt. And it is true, at nearly 6 years old he has found that wonder. He still believes in magic and the unknown, still freshly innocent from the skepticism of our modern society that is hell bent on cutting us off from that vital connection of flow and spirit. 

However, just as important as finding that intangible joy of holiday spirit, is experiencing that joy with others. How I dreamed of hosting Christmas at my home so I could perhaps hold that space of love and excitement for my loved ones. Children excitedly run about the house preparing for the arrival of a strange man. Telling stories to my family, sharing in laughter, food, and memories of Christmas past. And for a time, I had a glimpse of that. I played host. Filled stockings. Laid long tables in my living room for multitudes of guests and family. 

Tonight is different. This year is different. More people than ever are experiencing a lonely Christmas for perhaps the first time. Many more are coping with past and recent losses of loved ones, of lost lives, of people too faraway to share in the collective joy. 

I am not a victim. I do not pity myself or think I am in any way special in my solitude. I feel a deep, cavernous sorrow. A grief so heartbreaking it threatens to burst from the pain in my chest. The grief is not just my own and it is not just about this moment in time of lost and far away memories. I am living alone for the first time in my life - I chose to break away from what no longer held me, supported me, and nourished me. And I grieve, as much as if it wasn’t my own choice. 

As I allow the flood of emotions to rise and fall with my breath, I choose to explore questions I have - before tonight - never considered. How do I experience that purity of innocence, joy, and wonder every day - not just during an intentional holiday? How have I never connected what I experienced as a child with a spiritual connection - a total and utter presence?  And why have I perceived this experience to only be allowed in connection to a certain time and a certain age? 

And of course the answers are within. I created that space as a child through passion, envisioning, and unwavering faith - I did it - no one else. And I can do it again and again, if I choose to, even tonight, on my loneliest Christmas. 

Originally recorded December 13, 2020.

A Discarded Toy

The day was waning, shadows from the trees long against the grass as the girl walked her dog down the lane. Though the leaves had barely begun to lose their green, there was a crispness to the air that hinted at harvest time, morning frost, and the need for sweaters. The dog ran slightly ahead, trotting toward the field in anticipation of the long expanse of grass to run through. Occasionally, she would stop to sniff at a plant here or a pile of dirt there, responding to cues that were invisible to the human senses. They approached the overgrown walkway leading to the field where the dog hesitated, waiting until her companion was with her before stepping into the shade cast by the trees overhead.

“You always stop at the same spot,” the girl said to the dog, reaching down to give a comforting scratch between her ears as she wondered out loud to herself, “Is there something you can sense here that I can’t?”

They continued down the path, the dog wandering from side to side until they reached the field, where the girl unclipped the leash and immediately the compact, furry body went flying across

the terrain in an ecstasy of joy and freedom. As she watched her faithful shadow run in widening circles around her, she felt a slight chill in the air, though no breeze ruffled the tall grasses around her. For a moment, everything seemed to pause slightly, as though the world were holding its breath. The sky darkened for a split second and all sound stopped, then everything started again, so quickly the girl thought she must have imagined it.

The dog came bounding over from where she had been investigating a shrub beloved by all the dogs of the neighborhood. Panting, she sat down expectantly and cocked her head to the side, waiting for the treat she knew was coming. The girl looked closely at her to see if she had noticed the same odd moment of stillness, but she seemed unaffected or, at least, wasn’t dwelling on it. Shaking her head to clear the fog, she reached into her pocket and held out her open palm to the waiting dog, who eagerly scarfed down the small knot of dried beef before turning around to head home.

The girl was walking down the tree-lined path behind the dog, lost in thought, when she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise in response to being watched by someone. At the same moment, the dog stopped, dropped her head down, and began to growl softly, until the girl tugged on her harness to get her moving again. She looked around, but saw no one on the path in front or behind, nor were there any noises of people in the fields and yards hidden by the trees. Once they reached the end of the path where the pavement began, the feeling began to fade until just a faint sense of heaviness remained, echoed by the clouds that had rolled in during their walk back home. The dog relaxed out of the hunting position she had adopted, trotting cheerfully back to the house.

Walking to the field the next day, late in the afternoon, the girl had forgotten entirely about any strange occurrences from the previous day. The sun was hidden behind a veil of clouds and the air felt thick with cool humidity, the moment of calm before the torrent of rain....]]>Hana brings her story of a potentially haunted toy to a close and feels the satisfaction and relief of resolving an open task, while treating her character with respect. She discusses the pitfalls of perfectionism with Ana, the experience of falling prey to the allure of procrastination, and the repeated lesson that putting things off never feels as good as finishing them. Finding methods to encourage accountability, breaking projects down into more-manageable pieces, reaching out to colleagues/podcast co-hosts for help - these are just some of the tools that Hana and Ana have developed and are still working on to make the work of writing achievable in their daily lives.

Originally recorded December 13, 2020.

A Discarded Toy

The day was waning, shadows from the trees long against the grass as the girl walked her dog down the lane. Though the leaves had barely begun to lose their green, there was a crispness to the air that hinted at harvest time, morning frost, and the need for sweaters. The dog ran slightly ahead, trotting toward the field in anticipation of the long expanse of grass to run through. Occasionally, she would stop to sniff at a plant here or a pile of dirt there, responding to cues that were invisible to the human senses. They approached the overgrown walkway leading to the field where the dog hesitated, waiting until her companion was with her before stepping into the shade cast by the trees overhead.

“You always stop at the same spot,” the girl said to the dog, reaching down to give a comforting scratch between her ears as she wondered out loud to herself, “Is there something you can sense here that I can’t?”

They continued down the path, the dog wandering from side to side until they reached the field, where the girl unclipped the leash and immediately the compact, furry body went flying across

the terrain in an ecstasy of joy and freedom. As she watched her faithful shadow run in widening circles around her, she felt a slight chill in the air, though no breeze ruffled the tall grasses around her. For a moment, everything seemed to pause slightly, as though the world were holding its breath. The sky darkened for a split second and all sound stopped, then everything started again, so quickly the girl thought she must have imagined it.

The dog came bounding over from where she had been investigating a shrub beloved by all the dogs of the neighborhood. Panting, she sat down expectantly and cocked her head to the side, waiting for the treat she knew was coming. The girl looked closely at her to see if she had noticed the same odd moment of stillness, but she seemed unaffected or, at least, wasn’t dwelling on it. Shaking her head to clear the fog, she reached into her pocket and held out her open palm to the waiting dog, who eagerly scarfed down the small knot of dried beef before turning around to head home.

The girl was walking down the tree-lined path behind the dog, lost in thought, when she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise in response to being watched by someone. At the same moment, the dog stopped, dropped her head down, and began to growl softly, until the girl tugged on her harness to get her moving again. She looked around, but saw no one on the path in front or behind, nor were there any noises of people in the fields and yards hidden by the trees. Once they reached the end of the path where the pavement began, the feeling began to fade until just a faint sense of heaviness remained, echoed by the clouds that had rolled in during their walk back home. The dog relaxed out of the hunting position she had adopted, trotting cheerfully back to the house.

Walking to the field the next day, late in the afternoon, the girl had forgotten entirely about any strange occurrences from the previous day. The sun was hidden behind a veil of clouds and the air felt thick with cool humidity, the moment of calm before the torrent of rain. Sensing the impending deluge, the girl walked faster than usual, coaxing the dog along with ear scratches and calls. As she walked, she thought she caught something moving out of the corner of her eye, but all was still when she turned her head in that direction. Walking closer, she saw a light-colored object poking out through the brush at the edge of the path. A pair of wide eyes stared at her between leaves and then she was standing in front of it. She vaguely registered the dog giving the spot a wide berth as she tried to hurry past it to the field.

The monkey was neither small nor large, about the size of a teddy bear. Its wicker straw was tightly woven and appeared to have been painted white at some point, but exposure to the elements had worn the color down to a dirty grey. It lay on a bed of leaves, one of its legs partially torn and hanging at an angle from the body. It seemed like a toy from an earlier era, too stiff and uncomfortable to hug like a plush animal, but too delicate to toss around like the plastic and rubber toys children left lying in their yards throughout the neighborhood.

Gazing down at it, the girl felt a shiver go through her body. It seemed innocuous enough, lying there in the muck, clearly thrown out by its previous owner. But who would own something like

this and why would they rid themselves of it here? The silvery white eyes were flat and shiny, with no depth to them but their stare was unnerving, the stare of a dead animal and yet somehow it felt like the monkey was observing her in turn.

At once, a breeze blew through the trees, rousing her from her staring contest with a broken toy. The girl gave herself a shake and turned to the dog waiting at the end of the path and together they walked to the field. She told herself she was imagining it, but there seemed to be a faint imprint of the monkey’s white button eyes burned onto her vision, like the aftermath of looking directly at a bright light. As she chased the dog around the open expanse of grass, the memory and image of eyes faded away.

Walking back to the house, she became very aware of the spot where the monkey lay as they neared it. Telling herself that she was being silly, she still concentrated very closely on looking straight ahead, not wanting to catch a glimpse of those shiny, creepy eyes staring at her through the deepening twilight. It was easy to concentrate on the dog trying to stretch herself to the end of her leash, avoiding the spot where the monkey lay. As she and the dog moved out of the trees and into the neighborhood, the girl found herself breathing a little more easily.

Later that evening, at the dinner table, she brought up happening upon the monkey toy as a strange anecdote from her day and joined in her family’s laughter at such an odd item appearing in an unexpected place. The feeling of relief and embarrassment that swept through her made her realize how unsettling the experience had been until she shared it with others who reassured her of its absurdity by their amused reaction.

The days passed, growing shorter and the girl and her dog continued their afternoon routine. Each time they would approach the spot where the monkey lay, the girl would quickly glance at it before hurrying past. The dog never got any closer to the toy than she had to, hugging the other edge of the path as she ran by. The girl noticed the monkey showing signs of its exposure to the outdoor elements - the leg separating more from the body until it was barely hanging on by a few straws, the paint fading even more so that it blended into its surroundings and became harder to spot. Everything aged and changed except for the eyes, which remained a stark, staring, shiny white.

One day, as they were walking to the field, the girl noticed that the toy wasn’t in its customary spot. Thinking she must have just missed seeing it as she walked along, she put it from her mind, not wishing to dwell too long on something that made her so uneasy. However, when she walked back home with her tired companion, the girl saw that it was truly gone. Indeed, the dog showed no unease in that spot, trotting past with confidence. Although she felt somewhat embarrassed by her strong reaction to a discarded plaything, the girl felt a sense of relief.

In the days that followed, she went on with life as normal and didn’t give the mysterious toy with the staring eyes any more thought. Walking to and from the field went smoothly, with the dog occasionally stopping at random spots to bark at unseen or imagined threats. Every so often,

the hairs on the back of her neck would rise and she would look around to see if anyone was watching her, but the moments never lasted long and were infrequent enough that she didn’t make a connection between them at first. Even as the disturbances became more frequent and the girl’s rising anxiety cast a pall on her daily life, she didn’t mention anything to her family. She told herself that her hesitation to give voice to her unease was to avoid being laughed at.

Standing by her bedroom window one night, the girl was getting ready for bed when she glanced outside at the ring of light cast by the streetlamp across the street. As she turned back to her wardrobe, something flashed just out of the corner of her eye, at the edge of the light’s circle. She turned back to the window to see what was out there, but saw nothing within the lit space. All the same, she felt that sensation of someone watching her and tried to peer through the darkness beyond to detect any eyes that might be watching her. She moved from the window and continued with her nighttime routine, trying to push the event out of her mind. Had she seen a small, greyish body with a pair of bright eyes in that brief movement or had she just imagined it?

As the girl’s fears grew, she still couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone the true cause of her stress. She gave noncommittal answers when concerned family members remarked on the change. Part of her wanted to bring her fear out into the open, to air it in the light of day and confirm that it was all in her head, but the worry that confession could possibly make things worse stopped her from saying anything to another person. Even voicing it aloud to herself was too dangerous, it would acknowledge her fear as legitimate and give form to the dark shadow that haunted her.

Finally a particularly warm and sunny fall day arrived, such a beautiful day that it coaxed her out of the house with its summery feel refreshing after her many days spent inside. The dog ran ahead after they approached the tree-lined section, as though she wanted to get through it as quickly as possible. The trees were now almost entirely bare of leaves and the ground was littered with yellow, orange, and brown leaves that gave a satisfying crunch under the girl’s boots and she began to relax in the warm and calming afternoon. As she emerged onto the packed dirt of the path beyond the trees, she thought she heard an echoing rustle of leaves, as though someone was walking behind her. The girl turned to look, but no one was behind her, and the sound had been so faint as to be almost nonexistent. Telling herself it must have been a small breeze on the otherwise still day, she walked on after the dog.

Returning home, she again enjoyed the sound of the leaves crackling beneath her steps, even as the dog fairly flew past in her effort to spend as little time as possible between the rows of looming, crooked branches. This time, after she stepped onto the roadway and left the leaf-strewn path behind, she heard the unmistakable sound of steps swishing through the leaves, an uneven gait that sounded as though one leg was dragging. She tried to appear as nonchalant as possible before suddenly whirling around, but again saw no one behind her. A few leaf fragments fluttered at the side of the path, as though someone had brushed past them, but the thick pile of leaves underneath the trees appeared undisturbed. She peered around for a few seconds longer before the dog’s barking caught her attention and she hurried to catch up to

her companion. Out in the open, without the walls of the house around her, she could no longer tell herself it was silly to be afraid of a toy. Her feet barely touched the ground as she sprinted toward the house, for once outrunning the dog as they both tried to reach the safety of home as quickly as possible.

After that, she only left the house when absolutely necessary, bringing the dog out to wander around their yard instead of their former trips to the field. Sleep eluded her and she jumped at small noises, while her appetite disappeared and her body never felt warm enough, even covered in sweaters and blankets. Sometimes, during the day, she could almost bring herself to tell someone what she was experiencing, but she would hesitate, telling herself she could handle it and things weren’t that bad. Then the night would come, she would shrink from looking out her bedroom window and lie awake in her bed, imagining those flat, shiny eyes staring at her and waiting to hear the sound of small feet scraping along the floor to her bedside.

Several weeks had passed and her cheeks were gaunt and pale, her eyes red and dry from wakeful nights. Family whispered among themselves, discussing their concerns about her in low tones when they thought she wasn’t paying attention, staring at a corner of the room. The dog never left her side, providing her sole source of security, a comforting presence leaning against her on the sofa, or warming her feet while she tried to read to distract herself. Anytime she thought she was descending into hallucination or doubted her memory, she reminded herself of the dog’s reactions to the presence of the monkey. Yet, as her mind became clouded due to a lack of sleep and the continued onslaught of anxiety and fear, she began to question this recall as well. It felt as though the walls around her were simultaneously closing in, imprisoning her in a cage of fear and yet, simultaneously offering no real protection should that thing decide to finally come for her.

The nights of sleepless anxiety and days of fearful boredom stretched out, unending, until she could no longer recall what life had been like before her first encounter with the toy monkey. She stopped talking, her voice faded away as she worried about alerting the creature to her whereabouts. To mask her smell, she stopped bathing and refused to change her clothes. The dog still faithfully kept watch by her side, but she no longer meaningfully interacted with anyone else around her. One day, she overheard mention of plans to bring in a psychiatrist to evaluate her for the nearest residential mental health program. At first, she felt relief at the thought of being in a secure, locked ward, but by the end of the day, she knew that those staring, glowing eyes would follow her everywhere. Not even the institution could guarantee her safety.

That night, as she tried simultaneously to drift off to sleep and yet remain vigilant to her surroundings, she felt as though she were drowning in helplessness and fear. The incessant presence of those eyes in her mind hadn’t gone away, no matter how she tried to shield herself. There was only one thing to do to break free of the prison of her terror...

The sun hadn’t yet peeked over the horizon the next morning when the older man’s dog started barking at something by the side of the road during their first walk of the day. He couldn’t quite

see what it was at first, in the grey pre-dawn light, but as he approached, he gasped and ran the last few steps. There, half-buried in a pile of dead leaves, was the sweet girl he often saw chasing her dog through the field. She lay as though she were tucked into her own cozy bed, a small half-smile on her peaceful cold face. The man turned toward her house, the dread of the news he had to deliver slowing his steps. As he began walking away, he saw a small toy monkey cradled in the girl’s arms, the same half-smile on its face, its wide, silvery eyes shining through the twilight.

Originally recorded December 13, 2020.

Originally recorded November 8, 2020.

Originally recorded on November 8, 2020.

Written piece to follow in Episode 14, The Pen Is...Putting a Story to Bed

Originally recorded on October 11, 2020.

I sat tucked beneath the tree, my head resting on the pillow of her fibrous bark. Absently, my fingers had been twisting and wrapping the aromatic leaves of the sagebrush, each crush igniting fragrant oils into the air. My eyes gazed out across the vast stark white lakebed of the Alvord Desert. The air had begun to cool as the sun migrated closer to the mountains edge preparing for the freezing starlit night. It was here on my very first solo camping trip that I began to contemplate what it mean to ‘belong’ and to question why I felt so inextricably disconnected and foreign sitting upon the Earth. 

In times of trouble I am drawn to the plants. Over the past decade I had spent my life dedicating myself to the study, immersion, and teaching of plants and nature connection. I was attempting to bring some passion and interest back to children and adults who had grown up entirely disconnected from the deeper teachings of the natural world. The world however, didn’t seem to be ready for humans to remember this connection. I felt anger and frustration living in this society where collectively and routinely we are separate from our environment. A world that is fast paced, virtual, padded, and insulated from the natural processes and forces. A world where species are going extinct every minute and no one seems to be able to stop it. 

I abruptly got up and faltered, my body reminding me I had been sitting in one position for the better part of an hour. I looked around me to the company I kept in that moment, the sagebrush community. Silver grey shrubs littered the landscape punctuated by the brilliant purple of the various lupines blooming in the late April evening. These plants, this community belonged to one another and they needed each other to keep the delicate balance of life in this harsh ecosystem. An emotion bubbled up, envy! How could I possibly be envious of these plants? I stood there as witness, a European transplant high on my existential crisis in a land where the ancient Burns Paiute people lived (and the Burns Paiute Tribe live today) as an integral part of this ecosystem. I didn’t feel integral. I felt alien, removed, invasive, caustic. 

I wanted to cry and scream, throw my hands in the air and give up. It was in that moment that a sound had been penetrating my awareness, a screeching and calling. I stopped moving, instincts telling me to pay attention and look. My ears perked and noted the location of the calling birds. I crouched down all my senses alert, my feelings of despair forgotten. Pay attention! To the south the calling came from two black and white birds, long tailed and clearly agitated. The magpies were extremely unhappy about something and I was bound to find out what. I watched as they took turns flying up into a willow shrub then swooped down over sagebrush on the eastern side of the hill. Over and over they repeated the process but each time they flew over the sagebrush they moved further and further up the hill, as if following something. I quietly stalked closer, heart beating but breathing steady, moving at a pace that wouldn’t attract the alarming birds to my presence. Suddenly my peripheral vision caught movement, I focused in and noticed tan, brown, and white, moving quickly along the hill. As the creature came into view it showed itself as a large tailless mammal. A bobcat! She slinked...]]>Ana has been gifted the opportunity to push her writing chops at her new job and is excited to share the process of writing her first professionally published piece. Ana's co-workers help her to work through some of her writing challenges around structure and concise language by guiding her to use her strengths in writing to showcase her passion for the Earth and sustainability. A personal triumph, Ana shares a real story that weaves her vision for connecting people to nature and boosts her writing confidence.

Originally recorded on October 11, 2020.

I sat tucked beneath the tree, my head resting on the pillow of her fibrous bark. Absently, my fingers had been twisting and wrapping the aromatic leaves of the sagebrush, each crush igniting fragrant oils into the air. My eyes gazed out across the vast stark white lakebed of the Alvord Desert. The air had begun to cool as the sun migrated closer to the mountains edge preparing for the freezing starlit night. It was here on my very first solo camping trip that I began to contemplate what it mean to ‘belong’ and to question why I felt so inextricably disconnected and foreign sitting upon the Earth. 

In times of trouble I am drawn to the plants. Over the past decade I had spent my life dedicating myself to the study, immersion, and teaching of plants and nature connection. I was attempting to bring some passion and interest back to children and adults who had grown up entirely disconnected from the deeper teachings of the natural world. The world however, didn’t seem to be ready for humans to remember this connection. I felt anger and frustration living in this society where collectively and routinely we are separate from our environment. A world that is fast paced, virtual, padded, and insulated from the natural processes and forces. A world where species are going extinct every minute and no one seems to be able to stop it. 

I abruptly got up and faltered, my body reminding me I had been sitting in one position for the better part of an hour. I looked around me to the company I kept in that moment, the sagebrush community. Silver grey shrubs littered the landscape punctuated by the brilliant purple of the various lupines blooming in the late April evening. These plants, this community belonged to one another and they needed each other to keep the delicate balance of life in this harsh ecosystem. An emotion bubbled up, envy! How could I possibly be envious of these plants? I stood there as witness, a European transplant high on my existential crisis in a land where the ancient Burns Paiute people lived (and the Burns Paiute Tribe live today) as an integral part of this ecosystem. I didn’t feel integral. I felt alien, removed, invasive, caustic. 

I wanted to cry and scream, throw my hands in the air and give up. It was in that moment that a sound had been penetrating my awareness, a screeching and calling. I stopped moving, instincts telling me to pay attention and look. My ears perked and noted the location of the calling birds. I crouched down all my senses alert, my feelings of despair forgotten. Pay attention! To the south the calling came from two black and white birds, long tailed and clearly agitated. The magpies were extremely unhappy about something and I was bound to find out what. I watched as they took turns flying up into a willow shrub then swooped down over sagebrush on the eastern side of the hill. Over and over they repeated the process but each time they flew over the sagebrush they moved further and further up the hill, as if following something. I quietly stalked closer, heart beating but breathing steady, moving at a pace that wouldn’t attract the alarming birds to my presence. Suddenly my peripheral vision caught movement, I focused in and noticed tan, brown, and white, moving quickly along the hill. As the creature came into view it showed itself as a large tailless mammal. A bobcat! She slinked quickly away from the birds, no longer able to hunt now that the magpies told everyone for at least a mile out of her presence. 

I stood in awe. Gratitude welled up inside of me as I began to feel less separate, less of an invader. I felt the familiar tension in my abdomen as an epiphany began to take shape and as the tension released into an awakening, I understood how I belonged and how I and others could make a positive difference. 

The solution was so obvious it was nearly invisible. I began to feel embarrassed that I was so caught up in my own head that I nearly missed an incredible opportunity - to see a bobcat in the wild. The magpies unbeknownst to them had alerted me to my awakening. They woke me from my reverie and made me sit up and pay attention. To become awakened simply means coming into awareness. These awakenings can be as incredible as seeing a wild animal up close or more subdued such as identifying a plant for the first time. Either way the results are the same; I saw something I never saw before and I am forever changed. For me awareness is a form of love. Author John Muir Laws describes love as: sustained compassionate attention. My love of plants, working with them, studying, harvesting, writing, being, eating, using medicine, are all ways that I connect to an individual plant in a sustained and compassionate way. However, I never would have taken that path if I had not had an initial awakening that led me to an awareness of something outside myself. My awakening to the plant world further led me to continuous awakenings of the natural world. I began to see plants, animals, rocks, bugs, the sky, all in a new way in a way one might look upon a lover or your child. 

In my own experience, and hearing the countless experiences of my students over the years, I have found the more I allow myself to be aware of my environment, the more I feel a sense of belonging. And the more I belong, the more investment I have to protect, love, interact with, and be sustained by the natural world. 

Perhaps you have noticed this as well, that as we deepen our relationships with plants, whether we garden, wildcraft, identify, make medicine, or enjoy the scent of a flower, we also deepen our connection to place and in turn our own sense of belonging. 

It was this awakening that the magpies and bobcat gave me - an invaluable gift. Each moment we are allowed the gift of being awakened and we as humans are given the opportunity to see, connect with, and love our environment. And not just the environment as a whole, but the small intimate connections we make at any given moment. Imagine if we stopped and listened more often to the messages floating on the wind. If we are to have meaningful conservation for our Earth then it must be in relation with the land and all the inhabitants. 

I walked back to my campsite next to the creek lined with newly leafing cottonwoods and willows. My heart was alight, the heavy despair from minutes before now gone. As the sun disappeared behind the Steen Mountain range a thud of a hoof caught my attention. There on the same hill that the bobcat slinked away stood three deer. The two males in front kept walking ignoring my presence, the female in behind however stood still and quiet watching me. She didn’t appear or feel afraid of me, instead I felt acknowledged and allowed as we held each other’s gaze with sustained compassionate attention. We belong.

Originally recorded on October 11, 2020.

The Lanternfish

Olivia wasn’t sure what first drew her eye to the girl on the veranda, but once she glanced over, the scarf drew her in. It was a beautiful goldenrod with a pattern of ruby-colored fish on it and it hugged the girl’s neck like a glowing, silky living thing. Olivia smiled slightly, the universal sign for opening a conversation with a stranger and the girl waved her in through the gate.

It was her first week in this new town and she was enjoying the solitude of her nightly walks, getting to know her neighbors at a distance, through brightly lit windows, before she’d start greeting them in person as a new librarian. As much as she enjoyed wandering through the stacks of books, breathing in the smell of paper and binding glue, she tolerated the need to interact with the public as a necessary part of her job, but not an attractive one.

She hesitated a moment with her hand on the gate knob, then turned it and walked into the long garden that led to the small house set back from the road in the embrace of a sea of weeping willows. Normally, approaching a stranger to strike up a conversation was something Olivia would do only under duress, but the girl looked so friendly and unthreatening. And there was something about her outfit that was magnetic. The jewel-toned scarf was the crowning piece, but her buttery yellow dress and crimson sweater were somehow both soft yet impeccably tailored, and her green pumps showed off her dainty feet.

“Good evening, it appears that you’re enjoying our uncommonly fine autumn weather as much as I.” The girl’s voice was bright and musical, none of the annoyingly chipper tones of the busybody mothers one found in a town this size, nor the wistful sighs of the other spinsters Olivia was lumped in with at community potlucks and town hall meetings. Yet it also sounded a bit...old-fashioned was the only word she could think of. Indeed, her style seemed a bit outdated, yet somehow timeless and classic. From a distance, Olivia had thought she was young, but from closer, she had almost an ageless appearance. A woman, not a girl.

“Yes, I always like to go for a stroll in the evenings as long as the weather permits. I’m Olivia, I’m new to town,” she said as she continued up the garden walk. A thought skittered across the back of her mind that the house itself was surprisingly shabby, especially in contrast to the vision of color and elegance the woman presents, but it all faded into the background, the house and the thought. Nearer the house, a refreshing whiff of sweet but salty air chased the mustiness of the evening away, reminding Olivia of her childhood summers by the sea. 

“Lovely to meet you, Olivia, I don’t receive many visits from neighbors so this is an undeniable treat! My name is Marina.” The woman stepped back to where she had been sitting and gestured to Olivia to join her. “May I get you something to drink? I’ve been savoring my nightly mug of tea now that the heat of summer has passed us by.”

When Olivia said that she would very much like some hot...]]>First up, a correction: This episode talks about a fish with a light on its head that it uses to lure unsuspecting victims, but that fish is called a lanternfish here when it is in fact an anglerfish *facepalm*. Many sincere thanks to Hana's brother-in-law Cody for the correction AND the incredible artwork for this episode. (Check out @cpburke.nvartwork on Instagram for more of his artwork.) Hana shares a scary story she wrote based on her fear of the deepest, darkest recesses of the ocean. She and Ana discuss her writing process, beginning with the initial inspiration that shaped her tale and moving into how she refined the tone and why she made particular stylistic choices. Plus, the scary story author's ultimate fear: is my story scary enough?

Originally recorded on October 11, 2020.

The Lanternfish

Olivia wasn’t sure what first drew her eye to the girl on the veranda, but once she glanced over, the scarf drew her in. It was a beautiful goldenrod with a pattern of ruby-colored fish on it and it hugged the girl’s neck like a glowing, silky living thing. Olivia smiled slightly, the universal sign for opening a conversation with a stranger and the girl waved her in through the gate.

It was her first week in this new town and she was enjoying the solitude of her nightly walks, getting to know her neighbors at a distance, through brightly lit windows, before she’d start greeting them in person as a new librarian. As much as she enjoyed wandering through the stacks of books, breathing in the smell of paper and binding glue, she tolerated the need to interact with the public as a necessary part of her job, but not an attractive one.

She hesitated a moment with her hand on the gate knob, then turned it and walked into the long garden that led to the small house set back from the road in the embrace of a sea of weeping willows. Normally, approaching a stranger to strike up a conversation was something Olivia would do only under duress, but the girl looked so friendly and unthreatening. And there was something about her outfit that was magnetic. The jewel-toned scarf was the crowning piece, but her buttery yellow dress and crimson sweater were somehow both soft yet impeccably tailored, and her green pumps showed off her dainty feet.

“Good evening, it appears that you’re enjoying our uncommonly fine autumn weather as much as I.” The girl’s voice was bright and musical, none of the annoyingly chipper tones of the busybody mothers one found in a town this size, nor the wistful sighs of the other spinsters Olivia was lumped in with at community potlucks and town hall meetings. Yet it also sounded a bit...old-fashioned was the only word she could think of. Indeed, her style seemed a bit outdated, yet somehow timeless and classic. From a distance, Olivia had thought she was young, but from closer, she had almost an ageless appearance. A woman, not a girl.

“Yes, I always like to go for a stroll in the evenings as long as the weather permits. I’m Olivia, I’m new to town,” she said as she continued up the garden walk. A thought skittered across the back of her mind that the house itself was surprisingly shabby, especially in contrast to the vision of color and elegance the woman presents, but it all faded into the background, the house and the thought. Nearer the house, a refreshing whiff of sweet but salty air chased the mustiness of the evening away, reminding Olivia of her childhood summers by the sea. 

“Lovely to meet you, Olivia, I don’t receive many visits from neighbors so this is an undeniable treat! My name is Marina.” The woman stepped back to where she had been sitting and gestured to Olivia to join her. “May I get you something to drink? I’ve been savoring my nightly mug of tea now that the heat of summer has passed us by.”

When Olivia said that she would very much like some hot tea, she expected that Marina would go into the house to get it, but instead she reached for a teapot on the side table, wrapped in a cozy to keep its contents hot, and poured the steaming amber liquid into a fresh mug.

The two of them sat there, companionably enjoying the sunset and the sounds and smells of the earth as night approached. Marina was effortlessly charming and warm, the type of person who you feel you’ve known forever. Olivia felt herself drawn out of her customary shell bit by bit as they talked. 

Or rather, she talked. As she was walking back home in the remnants of twilight, Olivia realized that she had hardly learned anything about Marina beyond her name. Instead, she had found herself telling her own little life story, eager to entertain this woman who made her feel equally funny and charming. It was a bit intoxicating, having such an attentive and eager listener. Strange that someone with an effervescent personality lived in a small, rundown cottage that was so set apart from her neighbors, like some beautifully colored fish hiding alone in the dark crevices of dead coral. Olivia tried to remember if she’d even noticed the house when she first moved to the neighborhood, but it all became a bit of a blur as she fell asleep, grateful to have made a friend.

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity, meeting the head librarian, filling out paperwork, learning the layout of the library and the idiosyncrasies of some of the town regulars. Every evening, she was too worn out from the events of the day to take her walks, falling into bed as soon as she had changed into her nightgown and brushed her teeth. She had almost forgotten about her enjoyable evening with Marina, especially as her introverted nature asserted itself outside of work.

After two exhausting weeks, Olivia found one evening that she still had some energy after a day of reshelving books and reminding schoolchildren to pay their late fines. The sun was still shining through the wavy haze of autumn and she was enjoying the crunch of a few dried leaves under her shoes when she walked past the silvery-grey wood fence. She hadn’t consciously walked this way, in fact she’d almost forgotten about Marina entirely, but there she was again, wearing the same beautiful goldenrod and crimson outfit with the beautiful silk scarf shining softly at her neck, drinking her tea and waving Olivia in to join her. Olivia opened the silvery grey gate and walked down the winding path to the porch, with its paint peeling off the rails and worn wooden floorboards. As they began to talk, she was grateful for the warmth of her tea. Sitting in the shade of the willows and feeling the cold begin to pool around her, she realized she had left her own sweater behind, lured by the warmth of the sun.

“Oh that’s no problem dear, I have quite the collection of cardigans. It won’t take but a moment,” Marina said, cutting off any protest Olivia might have. Indeed, faster than she would have thought possible, Marina was back with a beautifully soft sweater, this one a sunny lemon color. It fit perfectly and bathed her in warmth and softness, with none of the scratchiness of wool.

Again, as before, they sat and enjoyed the onset of twilight. Olivia had first thought to ask Marina about the town, their neighbors, to get an insider’s perspective on things she couldn’t ask her supervisor. And yet, somehow she found herself again talking about her passion for writing, her love of solitary activities like reading, knitting, and gardening. For the first time, she didn’t feel judged for her reclusiveness and desire to escape from the expectations of society. In fact, Marina seemed pleased by this, her wide eyes shining when Olivia told her that she had no close immediate family or friends and preferred the company of her books to most people.

As she rose to go home, Olivia began to take the cardigan off to give back to Marina, but the woman waved her hand and shook her head, saying, “Please, consider it a gift. I would be honored if you’d take it. You can consider it your veranda sweater, something to keep you warm for our evening chats!”

Olivia thanked her profusely for the lovely gift and made her way home through the murky evening air. As she was drifting off to sleep, she had a fleeting thought that none of her neighbors or library patrons had mentioned Marina to her in their gossip of townspeople. It was almost as if she existed in a different world, but the thought dissipated like a bit of seafoam tossed among waves.

As the weeks passed and fall turned trees gradually into plumes of rust, pumpkin, and honey-colored leaves, Olivia developed a routine of stopping by to visit with Marina. At first once or twice a week, she found that she enjoyed Marina’s companionship so much that she began to spend four, then five evenings on the veranda, surrounded by the gently waving tendrils of weeping willow. There was something captivating about the woman and Olivia felt flattered that she seemed always happy to see her and interested in her life. And she was so generous - one evening Olivia walked up to see that there was a dress laying across the wicker chair she normally sat in.

“Try it on,” Marina said, excitedly. “I was going through old outfits and found this one that I think would fit you just right and the color suits you so well!” Indeed, the garnet color was lovely, as vibrant as Marina’s own, ever-present crimson cardigan and the silk scarf that almost seemed lit from within with its golden glow. Despite Olivia protesting that she couldn’t take such an obviously well-made dress, Marina made her promise to at least take it home and try it on. “Wear it to our next veranda chat,” she said, with a gracious air, “It would make me so happy to see it on you, you have the perfect figure to show it off.” 

Another time, as Olivia was walking up Marina’s drooping porch stairs, some knothole or nail must have caught at her shoe heel, tripping her. She managed to catch herself on the railing to avoid turning her ankle, but her shoe was not so lucky. As she sat in her chair holding the shoe in one hand and the broken heel in the other, Marina said, as if it had just occurred to her, “I might have a pair of shoes to lend you!” 

As always, it seemed to be just a split second that she was gone from the porch, returning with a pair of graceful blue pumps, much like her green ones. Olivia had been sure that her feet were much larger than Marina’s, but she must have been mistaken, because the shoes fit as though they were made for her. At this point, she had gotten so used to Marina’s desire to give that she was quick to accept the shoes as a gift. It was funny, the same spot in the steps never seemed to catch her heel wearing the blue shoes after that evening, even when she was sure she’d stepped in the same spot. She almost felt a sense of welcome and comfort from the house as she spent her evenings there, the enchanting smell of the sea air that lingered mysteriously there enveloping her in its arms.

These chats had become the bright spot of Olivia’s days, relieving the tedium of days at the library and giving her something besides reading and knitting to pass the time. It was a bit odd, though, that Marina never invited her inside the house itself, and occasionally her brain would note something odd - the disrepair of the house and garden, Marina’s appearance never varying, not a hair out of place and always the same outfit and that beautiful scarf, her ability to always direct conversation away from herself, the fact that she seemed to have no interactions with other townspeople. But these thoughts always came in the space between waking and sleep and were quickly forgotten, like messages written in the sand being wiped away by wave after wave.

The leaves were starting to fall in masses from the branches, leaving behind clean, bare forms ready for a deep sleep in the dark stillness of winter and the eventual reawakening and green new growth the following spring. Olivia found herself humming a Christmas carol as she cleaned up her small apartment and dressed in the beautiful clothes Marina had given her - rich garnet dress, bright lemony sweater, satiny blue shoes. She’d even begun patterning her hairstyle on Marina’s, a wavy low chignon that, like everything else about the woman, was somehow both outdated and timeless. Everything fit like a dream and she almost felt like skipping as she walked through the crisp late-fall air. Marina had said she had something special to show Olivia and her eyes had lit up when she said it, indicating it must be something quite exciting indeed.

Olivia walked up the garden path, her eyes focused on Marina, who seemed to somehow be even more beautiful than usual, her eyes luminous and hair glistening with a lustrous sheen. The gorgeous silken scarf at her neck waved slightly, though Olivia felt no breeze. She skipped up the steps and sat in her usual spot.

Once she’d settled, Marina leaned forward and gave Olivia a white box with a beautiful red velvet bow on it. She untied the bow and opened the box to reveal a luxurious silk scarf, a mirror image of the one Marina always wore, ruby-colored silk with golden fish scattered across it. 

“It’s so beautiful,” Olivia murmured as she drew it out of the box, staring at it. Indeed, she couldn’t tear her eyes from it.

“Try it on! It will look lovely with your outfit,” Marina said, breathing rapidly with excitement and anticipation. “I’ll tie it around you, just like mine.” She reached out to loop it around Olivia’s neck and Olivia felt a slight movement, as though the scarf were winding itself around her.

Suddenly, she felt the house shift around her and an ominous creak came from the front door, open as always. She felt the scarf begin to tighten around her neck and started the pull at it with her hands, saying to Marina “Please, I think it’s a bit too tight—ouch!”

Her words were cut off in a yelp as the wooden floorboards of the porch slid toward the front door, carrying her and Marina with them. Once they were inside, the door shut with an ominous crack, as of jaws snapping shut. Olivia barely noticed the completely bare space, the lack of human presence as she felt something pierce the base of her skull and begin to send tentacles crawling down her spine, cutting off her yell of pain. Her eyes open wide and mouth gaping like a fish, she stared at Marina, who began to shrivel and shrink, her life’s essence being drained from her. As her vibrant colors faded, she whispered to Olivia, “I’m sorry, it’s been too many years of this life...I needed to find someone to take my place...now I can finally rest...forever.” Her eyes drifted shut and the papery skin and brittle bones crumbled, turning into a cloud of grey dust. In the span of minutes, there was nothing more of her but the satiny scarf that had so enchanted Olivia from their first meeting.

The twin of that one writhed around Olivia’s neck as its tendrils wound their way into her flesh. She realized that she could feel it pulsing inside her body and head, linking her to the living, breathing house. The cavernous empty space around her was slightly illuminated, the faint glow coming from her, she realized. As she felt the house secure its hold on her body and the final threads of scarf reached their fingers into her brain, she felt the screaming voice of terror in her head quiet. No longer would she worry about moving to a new town, dealing with cranky patrons, washing her dishes. From now on, the scarf tied her mentally and physically to this house, sleeping away a long winter of digesting, perhaps for many years, lying in wait for the next tasty morsel to walk by the garden gate...

Originally recorded on September 20, 2020

She sat down. It was an intentional sit. Slowly lowering herself to the cushioned chair, prim, poised, and ready. Her heart kept beat. A waltz. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. The steady rhythm calmed her. In her mind she imagined conductor’s hands, baton flying through the air holding pace, keeping steady, leading with ease while orchestrating the conversation at hand. 

Firmly seated, she raised her eyes across the room to him. There he sat eyes aglow. Waiting. For what? For the baton to drop? For the still air in the stifling room to suddenly shift, a ghost of a breeze wafting as if on cue to begin the inevitable? 

Her heart ached. Still pounding with the dance, counting, pulsing, whooshing blood in and out, up and down. He seemed so far away even if it was only several feet, it felt like miles. Miles of distance, untouchable. 

“I’m not afraid.” She stated. Only her lips moved, her eyes locked into his. He didn’t move or react. In his silence there seemed to be a placid allowing, as if he knew exactly what she was about to say and he agreed. 

He breathed in deeply, letting the breath expand his chest, his eyes not moving from hers. 

He spoke now after with the last few beats of exhale. “I might be.” 

She was not surprised by this response. His body posture gave the false impression of utter calm, yet his eyes shone with such intensity it seemed as if the emotion might burst forth in a flash of light and fear. Instinctively she wanted to reach out and touch his cheek as if to comfort a child. Her hand didn’t move. Nor did her body. The space between them had become far too great, far too expansive for such a singular journey. 

Sensing her inner conflict he offered reassurance. “I can hold this. I can bear it.”

“What if I can’t?” She asked, eyes near to tears. Her barely held back grief had begun to leak out, tearing at the seams with the pressure of holding in it. Holding it down. Keeping it close. “I’m scared I’m losing. Losing this game of pretending it’s all ok. I’m wavering.”

At this he smiled slightly. The smile spoke of understanding and immense love. He knew only too well that sense of slipping and of losing. It was his turn to feel the urge of bridging the echoing distance between them. To take her in and bring her gently to his heart so she could hear the waltz beating consistently within his own chest. The same rhythm. The same song. The same desire. 

After several measures he finally spoke. It came out in a heartbreaking whisper and floated towards her with fierce tenderness. Yet no words actually escaped his lips. It was the very essence of his meaning and emotion that transmitted instantly into her core and she knew without knowing the message he needed to send. 

A mutual acceptance filled their void and held the space within. 

Originally recorded September 20, 2020.

Bethany takes a breath and starts to read, “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who-”

“No! I said I wanted the other story, the one from the Today Times, not a Back-Then story,” Eleanor crosses her arms and pouts up at the older girl. It’s getting toward the end of their bedtime ritual, but Eleanor has been in a fussy mood all evening, demanding more hugs and treats than her usual happy-go-lucky demeanor suggests. 

Her parents have been preparing for the upcoming trip to the hospital, packing a bag for her mom and putting the final touches on the bedroom next to hers. Clearly, though she has no idea how much her life will change shortly, Eleanor feels the excitement and tension in the air. She wavers back and forth between gloriously happy anticipation and a frantic desire for everything to remain the same. Being a four year old on the cusp of sisterhood isn’t easy.

Bethany pulls out the picture book with a sprightly redheaded girl on its cover and begins to read the well-worn story yet again. As she recites lines memorized from repeated performances, she steals covert glaces at the little girl lying in her parents’ big double bed. Whenever they’re out for the night, Eleanor insists on sleeping in their bed so that she’ll “greet” them when they get home, though she almost never wakes up while being carried back to her own bed down the hall.

As if on cue, Eleanor’s eyes start to drift shut on the fifth page. Bethany wonders if there’s a Pavlovian response at work, given how often they read the Pippi Longstocking story and the fact that Eleanor falls asleep at exactly the same point in the story every time. She makes a mental note to bring the topic up in her History of Behavior Therapy class next week.

Once Eleanor is soundly asleep, Bethany stands up, careful not to shake the bed, and leaves the room, closing it until just a crack remains. She walks down the stairs of the darkened house, guided by familiarity and the glimmer of light coming from a lamp in the family room. Her feet avoid the various scattered toys by instinct.

Grabbing a Coke from the refrigerator (Paul and Marion keep their kitchen well stocked, knowing how much a college student appreciates free food), Bethany makes her way to the couch in the family room, where a pile of textbooks, handouts, and notepads sits. She sighs inwardly, thinking that she’d love to just enjoy the peace and quiet until the Camford-Strahofskis get home from their weekly date. 

When Bethany decided that she wanted to attend a huge state university two days’ drive from home, her parents immediately started calling around to friends to find a surrogate family for her. That’s how the nannying job with Eleanor came about and she’s grateful for the stability and spending money it provides. Plus, with Paul and Marion being on the faculty at the university, she knows they understand the college student perspective more than most - though their positions in Economics and Sports Marketing bear no relation to her chosen major, Psychology. 

Not only does she have a second home outside the dorms at the Camhofski residence, she also appreciates getting an up-close and personal look at the life of two hard-working professionals juggling family and career demands. Now that she’s in her fourth year of college, choices of job and family seem to be...]]>After her last piece kept things deliberately vague, Hana committed to writing a piece that was heavy on the detail and specifics. This week's piece is written from the perspective of a young woman unsure of her life's path and wavering on a momentous decision: to have children or not. Hana blends her own experiences and thoughts with those of friends to develop a story that is familiar, while being careful to double check her facts.

Originally recorded September 20, 2020.

Bethany takes a breath and starts to read, “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who-”

“No! I said I wanted the other story, the one from the Today Times, not a Back-Then story,” Eleanor crosses her arms and pouts up at the older girl. It’s getting toward the end of their bedtime ritual, but Eleanor has been in a fussy mood all evening, demanding more hugs and treats than her usual happy-go-lucky demeanor suggests. 

Her parents have been preparing for the upcoming trip to the hospital, packing a bag for her mom and putting the final touches on the bedroom next to hers. Clearly, though she has no idea how much her life will change shortly, Eleanor feels the excitement and tension in the air. She wavers back and forth between gloriously happy anticipation and a frantic desire for everything to remain the same. Being a four year old on the cusp of sisterhood isn’t easy.

Bethany pulls out the picture book with a sprightly redheaded girl on its cover and begins to read the well-worn story yet again. As she recites lines memorized from repeated performances, she steals covert glaces at the little girl lying in her parents’ big double bed. Whenever they’re out for the night, Eleanor insists on sleeping in their bed so that she’ll “greet” them when they get home, though she almost never wakes up while being carried back to her own bed down the hall.

As if on cue, Eleanor’s eyes start to drift shut on the fifth page. Bethany wonders if there’s a Pavlovian response at work, given how often they read the Pippi Longstocking story and the fact that Eleanor falls asleep at exactly the same point in the story every time. She makes a mental note to bring the topic up in her History of Behavior Therapy class next week.

Once Eleanor is soundly asleep, Bethany stands up, careful not to shake the bed, and leaves the room, closing it until just a crack remains. She walks down the stairs of the darkened house, guided by familiarity and the glimmer of light coming from a lamp in the family room. Her feet avoid the various scattered toys by instinct.

Grabbing a Coke from the refrigerator (Paul and Marion keep their kitchen well stocked, knowing how much a college student appreciates free food), Bethany makes her way to the couch in the family room, where a pile of textbooks, handouts, and notepads sits. She sighs inwardly, thinking that she’d love to just enjoy the peace and quiet until the Camford-Strahofskis get home from their weekly date. 

When Bethany decided that she wanted to attend a huge state university two days’ drive from home, her parents immediately started calling around to friends to find a surrogate family for her. That’s how the nannying job with Eleanor came about and she’s grateful for the stability and spending money it provides. Plus, with Paul and Marion being on the faculty at the university, she knows they understand the college student perspective more than most - though their positions in Economics and Sports Marketing bear no relation to her chosen major, Psychology. 

Not only does she have a second home outside the dorms at the Camhofski residence, she also appreciates getting an up-close and personal look at the life of two hard-working professionals juggling family and career demands. Now that she’s in her fourth year of college, choices of job and family seem to be more consequential and concrete than ever before. If only the correct choices were as easy and clear to figure out as the answers on her multiple-choice midterm exams.

Coming from a small town with more churches than bars, Bethany has several childhood friends who are already married and expecting their first child. Before leaving home, she had never considered the multitude of options out there, but moving to a city has opened her eyes to family structures and choices she didn’t know existed. At first, it was exhilarating, realizing that she didn’t have to make her mind up right away and could pick from seemingly unending choices. 

Lately, though, it’s been a bit exhausting to think about it. If she could just focus on her classes, her friends, nannying, and enjoying the last bit of college, when the ultimate combination of great freedom and little responsibility is at its headiest heights, she’d feel ready to take on the debate again in a few months. But she encounters reminders every day, from friends who ask if she’s dating someone serious (no) to her 22nd birthday card from her mom (enclosing a photo of her mom at 22, with Bethany’s older sister on her lap and Bethany in her womb), to the struggles and highlights she witnesses in a household with two working parents and one energetic child, sooned to be joined by a newborn.

As she settles down for a night of studying for midterm exams, Bethany tries to imagine her future, 10 years from now. She’s applied to several master’s programs and is anxiously awaiting acceptance letters, but she already pictures herself in an elegantly appointed, calming office where she sees patients for therapy sessions. Some of the details are fuzzy - who her clients are, if she’s in private practice or part of a larger organization, what city the office is located in, how she treats them. Luckily, those can be gradually filled over the next few years. What she can never figure out, but feels increasingly pressured to do, is what that life looks like outside the office. When she finishes her sessions and the last client goes home, does she go home to her own family? If she works with high-needs clients, how does she balance after-hours emergencies with being a parent who goes to all the dance recitals and reads bedtime stories?

Being present in Eleanor’s life from almost her first days, Bethany has witnessed the struggles of Paul and Marion raising their little girl far away from family. While Paul has done an admirable job of shouldering his share of parenting, Bethany never sees him confronted by his inability to flawlessly “have it all,” something reserved for Marion. The preschool has Marion listed as the first contact, she’s the one who keeps track of all doctor’s appointments, and Eleanor runs to her first to have wounds kissed. Bethany’s afternoons and evenings with Eleanor give both parents some necessary time for themselves, but she sees traces of the sacrifices Marion has had to make it her tenure-track career, delaying a study publication or turning down a conference speaking opportunity. She obviously adores her child, but her life path forces her to make difficult decisions, often without the time to truly weigh the options. Bethany wonders if any of her past choices ever come back to haunt her.

“You’re so good with kids! Of course you’ll be a great mother.” If Bethany could get a dollar for every time she heard that when she was out with Eleanor, she’d pay off her school loans in no time. Each time she hears it, she feels a slight increase of that invisible weight, the expectation of her impending motherhood. Even Marion said it once, surprising Bethany because she’s never discussed her uncertainty or feelings around having a family with her. But how can she discuss it openly with someone who has already made her decision? With whom can she be honest about her ambivalence and questions? There’s no Questioning Women of Childbearing Age Club at her university.

Bethany reads through her lecture notes from this term’s statistics class, dutifully writing down key concepts on the notecard she’s allowed to take into the midterm. If only all life processes were as easy as this, learning the material, studying it, and demonstrating that she understands it, with a simple grade at the end of the semester to prove that she’s mastered the topic. No one is pressuring her to take this particular psychology course or write her final paper on that particular subject matter. And, most importantly, if she signs up for a course that is not what she expected or just doesn’t work for her, she can always drop it. Nothing about children is that cut and dried and REVERSIBLE.

Bethany hears the car pull into the driveway and starts putting her schoolwork away in her bag. When the Camhofskis come in, she’ll ask them what they ordered for dinner and which movie they ended up seeing at the theater. They’ll start getting ready for bed and Paul will carry Eleanor back to her bed while Marion rubs her swollen feet. Bethany will head back to her dorm room, a little sad to say good-bye temporarily to such a heartwarming and cozy scene, but also happy to return to her own sanctuary, with no dried food crusting on her desk or stuffed animals tripping her. No small, scared voice in the middle of night waking her up with stories of a nightmare, no tiny body crawling into bed with her.

Is that what she wants? The answer remains unclear.

Originally recorded September 16, 2020.

Hana: write a fiction piece on an older person living out of the end of their life and how they’re addressing trauma they experienced earlier in life.

Alva sits at the window and watches the clouds moving across the sky. Quietly humming to herself, she tracks the movements of sunlight and shadow on the ground and trees with her eyes and sometimes a half-raised finger, pointing at a particularly bright or dark spot. Most days, she doesn’t want to wear her glasses because the nose-pieces bite into the delicate skin on her nose, so most of the patterns outside are blurred. It was worse when they lived in the house near the airport, the sound of planes taking off and landing always throwing her back into days when loud noises meant fear and possible death, but the tasteful and deliberately calming environment of the retirement community doesn’t allow for such disruptions, so she can watch the clouds at her leisure.

Once upon a time, just sitting at the window would have been a rare luxury, time spent alone with nothing else to do, no existential worries wearing on her mind if she tried to relax. The days of children asking her unending questions and ever-present piles of laundry and dishes waiting to be cleaned are long past, with those children tending to their own families’ needs. But lately, she’s been thinking more often back to the days before she was a housewife with a comfortable middle-class life, when the stresses of daily living were a threat to her survival.

“Honey, can I get you anything?” the soft voice of the nursing assistant floats into the room, disturbing her reverie. 

She likes the earnest young woman who is so eager to please and will talk about her dreams of becoming a nurse one day, but the slight condescension of a woman calling her “sweetie,” “dear,” and “honey” when she’s never known true hardship is grating at times. She feels more kinship with the nurses, CNAs, and therapy assistants who have come to the US fleeing political upheaval in their own countries.

“Thank you, Heather, but I’m fine.” Alva turns back to the window and resumes her train of thought.

She finds conversations with others tiring these days. She’d rather continue the discussions in her head with people long gone. Full of excruciating memories and deep loss, these conversations feel like home to her in a way that inane small talk with chipper young people never will.

A therapist she saw many years ago once said, “Processing your past experiences will help you put their traumatic effects to bed.” For someone supposedly so aware of the human condition, Dr. Feelgood (she doesn’t remember his actual name) was supremely unaware of the comfort of anguish. It may not feel pleasant, reliving these memories over and over, but it feels familiar. Why would she want to say goodbye to dear faces that are long gone, even with the sharp pain she feels at the sight of them in her mind’s eye?

Alva realizes that the nursing assistant is still waiting expectantly in her doorway. She stops mid-thought and looks questioningly at her.

“Mrs. Thompson…,” she hesitates, reluctant to bring up something upsetting, but Alva is braced for the inevitable question. It comes out in a rush, she wants to get on with the rest of her day, “I didn’t see your name on the list for this week’s shuttle, which stops by the cemetery, should I add you to the...]]>In response to Ana's prompt to write a fiction piece on an older person living out of the end of their life and how they’re addressing trauma they experienced earlier in life, Hana reads aloud her short description of a moment in time for Alva, her protagonist. Ana pushes Hana to continue working on the aspects of writing she finds uncomfortable, including vulnerability and emotion.

Originally recorded September 16, 2020.

Hana: write a fiction piece on an older person living out of the end of their life and how they’re addressing trauma they experienced earlier in life.

Alva sits at the window and watches the clouds moving across the sky. Quietly humming to herself, she tracks the movements of sunlight and shadow on the ground and trees with her eyes and sometimes a half-raised finger, pointing at a particularly bright or dark spot. Most days, she doesn’t want to wear her glasses because the nose-pieces bite into the delicate skin on her nose, so most of the patterns outside are blurred. It was worse when they lived in the house near the airport, the sound of planes taking off and landing always throwing her back into days when loud noises meant fear and possible death, but the tasteful and deliberately calming environment of the retirement community doesn’t allow for such disruptions, so she can watch the clouds at her leisure.

Once upon a time, just sitting at the window would have been a rare luxury, time spent alone with nothing else to do, no existential worries wearing on her mind if she tried to relax. The days of children asking her unending questions and ever-present piles of laundry and dishes waiting to be cleaned are long past, with those children tending to their own families’ needs. But lately, she’s been thinking more often back to the days before she was a housewife with a comfortable middle-class life, when the stresses of daily living were a threat to her survival.

“Honey, can I get you anything?” the soft voice of the nursing assistant floats into the room, disturbing her reverie. 

She likes the earnest young woman who is so eager to please and will talk about her dreams of becoming a nurse one day, but the slight condescension of a woman calling her “sweetie,” “dear,” and “honey” when she’s never known true hardship is grating at times. She feels more kinship with the nurses, CNAs, and therapy assistants who have come to the US fleeing political upheaval in their own countries.

“Thank you, Heather, but I’m fine.” Alva turns back to the window and resumes her train of thought.

She finds conversations with others tiring these days. She’d rather continue the discussions in her head with people long gone. Full of excruciating memories and deep loss, these conversations feel like home to her in a way that inane small talk with chipper young people never will.

A therapist she saw many years ago once said, “Processing your past experiences will help you put their traumatic effects to bed.” For someone supposedly so aware of the human condition, Dr. Feelgood (she doesn’t remember his actual name) was supremely unaware of the comfort of anguish. It may not feel pleasant, reliving these memories over and over, but it feels familiar. Why would she want to say goodbye to dear faces that are long gone, even with the sharp pain she feels at the sight of them in her mind’s eye?

Alva realizes that the nursing assistant is still waiting expectantly in her doorway. She stops mid-thought and looks questioningly at her.

“Mrs. Thompson…,” she hesitates, reluctant to bring up something upsetting, but Alva is braced for the inevitable question. It comes out in a rush, she wants to get on with the rest of her day, “I didn’t see your name on the list for this week’s shuttle, which stops by the cemetery, should I add you to the group?”

Alva lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding as she thinks of a response. It’s no use telling this optimistic, naive girl that the bodies buried there are not the ones that make her cry out in the night or occasionally weep silent tears. Yes, it’s almost the anniversary of her husband’s death, but their relationship was a long, mostly happy one. She feels gratitude and closure when she thinks of him. She’ll go to visit him and tell him she misses him while she lays a bunch of sunflowers on his grave, but he is not one of the ghosts who haunts her.

“Yes Hazel, thank you for reminding me. You’re such a good girl to ask,” she says, again turning her head back to the window. 

As she hears the girl’s footsteps fade away down the hall, she starts to hum a tune that reminds her that everything she experienced so many years wasn’t simply a nightmare, that she is still the broken survivor who built a family and life from the ashes. A tear slides down her cheek and she smiles wryly, at home with her pain.

Originally recorded September 16, 2020.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“That!”

“What did I do?”

“You sighed.”

“I sighed!? I don’t even remember doing it!”

“Doesn’t matter, you did it.”

“And you didn’t like it?”

“No. I hated it. With a fiery passion.”

“How fiery?”

“As fiery as the depths of hell. I felt it burning deep in my gut like those burning farts when you feel like your butthole is literally on fire.”

“Why is that?”

“Why is what? Why do I hate your sighing so much?”

“Ha ha, no. I mean yes, but no. Why do butt holes burn like that?”

“I don’t know, cause your insides are dying?”

“I thought it was more to do with caustic chemicals burning their way through your anus. Can’t you just see it?”

“Ick. That’s disgusting.”

“It’s true though! I mean why else would it happen?”

“You are deflecting.”

“Deflecting your farts?”

“No! Jesus. The whole reason we started this conversation. Stay on track!”

“So no more burning buttholes?”

“Seriously. Stop.”

“You hate my sighing. That’s where we started this and you haven’t exactly told me why.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh come on. You can’t throw something at me like that and then retreat when I call you on it. Own it! Why don’t you like my sighing?”

“I…I feel like when you sigh like that, you are tired of me.”

“Tired of you? In what way?”

“I don’t know! I just feel like you are disappointed in me all the time and that you have these nonverbal that are infuriatingly passive and then I suddenly feel like I have to read into to understand why you are frustrated with me and…and it’s not fair!”

“Whoa, I had no idea. Seriously, my sighs are just that - just sighs. Why do you feel like you need to read into it?”

“Well, it always happens when we are talking about something that I am interested in and that you don’t agree with or aren’t that interested in the subject. It’s like you are obligated to hear me out but are annoyed that you are obligated.”

“Wow, I am only partially following. And - I am engaged and listening. I am rarely bored with you.”

“Oh yeah thanks dude.”

“Not like that! Of course there are times when I don’t follow you or aren’t entirely enthusiastic about a conversation but I never intentionally use sighs or groans or any other flippant nonverbals to passively express annoyance. Not even unintentionally. Now I might poke at you or rile you up but that is purely out of love.”

“Still 8 years old aren’t you?”

“Chronically.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I guess I am feeling tender today and I just want you and your support and I feel like everyone was pissed at me today and I am bleeding like a stuck horse, and I want to scream and cry and run around the neighborhood waving my arms about like a mad woman.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“You would.”

“Come here. No come closer, closer. I’m not...]]>Who among us hasn't struggled with writing a series of "She said...he asked...they cried...she exclaimed," treading the fine line between too repetitive and too esoteric? After her discomfort writing dialogue in her most recent writing exercise, Ana develops a piece that is ONLY dialogue, channeling her theater experience and memories of improv practice into a prompt that encapsulates a humorous, real conversation. The process causes her to reflect on her creative process, both in the present day as a writer and musician and its roots in her childhood play.

Originally recorded September 16, 2020.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“That!”

“What did I do?”

“You sighed.”

“I sighed!? I don’t even remember doing it!”

“Doesn’t matter, you did it.”

“And you didn’t like it?”

“No. I hated it. With a fiery passion.”

“How fiery?”

“As fiery as the depths of hell. I felt it burning deep in my gut like those burning farts when you feel like your butthole is literally on fire.”

“Why is that?”

“Why is what? Why do I hate your sighing so much?”

“Ha ha, no. I mean yes, but no. Why do butt holes burn like that?”

“I don’t know, cause your insides are dying?”

“I thought it was more to do with caustic chemicals burning their way through your anus. Can’t you just see it?”

“Ick. That’s disgusting.”

“It’s true though! I mean why else would it happen?”

“You are deflecting.”

“Deflecting your farts?”

“No! Jesus. The whole reason we started this conversation. Stay on track!”

“So no more burning buttholes?”

“Seriously. Stop.”

“You hate my sighing. That’s where we started this and you haven’t exactly told me why.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh come on. You can’t throw something at me like that and then retreat when I call you on it. Own it! Why don’t you like my sighing?”

“I…I feel like when you sigh like that, you are tired of me.”

“Tired of you? In what way?”

“I don’t know! I just feel like you are disappointed in me all the time and that you have these nonverbal that are infuriatingly passive and then I suddenly feel like I have to read into to understand why you are frustrated with me and…and it’s not fair!”

“Whoa, I had no idea. Seriously, my sighs are just that - just sighs. Why do you feel like you need to read into it?”

“Well, it always happens when we are talking about something that I am interested in and that you don’t agree with or aren’t that interested in the subject. It’s like you are obligated to hear me out but are annoyed that you are obligated.”

“Wow, I am only partially following. And - I am engaged and listening. I am rarely bored with you.”

“Oh yeah thanks dude.”

“Not like that! Of course there are times when I don’t follow you or aren’t entirely enthusiastic about a conversation but I never intentionally use sighs or groans or any other flippant nonverbals to passively express annoyance. Not even unintentionally. Now I might poke at you or rile you up but that is purely out of love.”

“Still 8 years old aren’t you?”

“Chronically.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I guess I am feeling tender today and I just want you and your support and I feel like everyone was pissed at me today and I am bleeding like a stuck horse, and I want to scream and cry and run around the neighborhood waving my arms about like a mad woman.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“You would.”

“Come here. No come closer, closer. I’m not going to bite you! Ha ha not like last time no. I just want to feel you and tell you I love you.”

“I love you too. Jesus Christ was that you?!”

“Guess my insides are dying.”

“I preferred your sighing.”

Originally recorded on August 23, 2020.

Every Little Thing

It’s hot. The air is thick with it. From horizon to horizon the sky drops to a pale blue as if the very sky itself is bleached out by the sun. Being outside however, is better than being in the sterility of that building. Out here there is movement, breath, life, natural sound. Not the beeping of incessant machines or the constant squeaking of soles on polished, reflective floors. 

I breathed in the languid breeze, thankful to be moving in a straight line and out of that oppressive environment. Three more hours and I will be done with my twelve hour shift, the last shift of my week. Three more hours my mind kept repeating. As my feet moved across the bumpy, scalding pavement my circular thoughts stayed back at work. 

What did I miss with that last vital check? Shit, did I give the correct dosage? Person after person had begun to fuse into one needy patient. My compassion had begun to slip. Years ago, in the beginning, I faintly recall an impassioned, empathetic version of myself. Now I could hardly muster a genuine smile or word. Get through my shift. Get home. Lie down. Sleep. Just…sleep. 

Just as my eyes dropped to nearly closed, lost in my reverie of sleeping, I heard a woman’s voice call out. Eyes wide open I whipped my head around to hear which direction the appeal was coming from, my body tense and poised for action. 

The road I had chosen for my daily walking breaks lined the marshy wetlands. Tall grasses, cottonwoods, rose bushes, and vining blackberries fenced the aging pavement. I loved the openness of the marsh and watching the birds flock through the seasons. During mid summer as it is now, the swallows in particular tend to swarm, eating bugs out of the air in their playful, loving dance. Often I would see the perfect trio of swallows sitting evenly spaced on a power line and I would hear in my head “Three little birds, on my doorstep…Cause every little thing will be alright…don’t worry…”

The voice called out again and reminded me of the other not so quaint inhabitants of this place. Modern day nomads living out of run down cars, trailers, or tents had also begun to flock midsummer and rapidly take over the otherwise peaceful nature of the wetlands. I couldn’t help but feel disgust and outrage at the sight of these people and what they are doing to this street, not to mention this town. Coarse, disturbing language, dropping f-bombs, and abusive vitriol floats on the wind mixed with the putrid scents of decaying rot of carelessly discarded litter. I am disgusted. How dare these people litter the beauty of this landscape? All I want is a peaceful place to walk and get away from despair and pain. 

So when this voice began to call out in the direction that I could no longer ignore was mine, I felt that growing seed of resentment that had become a constant companion during countless moments of a single day.

“Ma’m!”

I’m not a Ma’m! 

“Ma’m!”

No! I don’t want this, I don’t need this right now. 

“Excuse me, can you help me?”

Screw you, I wanted to scream at her but my instinct to help when asked was far too engrained and I found myself walking toward the pestering voice. As I got closer to the caller I noticed that it came from a large, white, box van with windows taped over by pieces of cardboard and tapestries for privacy. The back doors of the vehicle were blocked by a...]]>Ana dives into a fictional piece about writing a first person story that connects healing from trauma with the help of the Earth. Ana discusses with Hana how daunting the prompt initially was for her and how the process of writing this piece gave pause to reflect upon codependency, compassion fatigue, and questions who might be our healers.

Originally recorded on August 23, 2020.

Every Little Thing

It’s hot. The air is thick with it. From horizon to horizon the sky drops to a pale blue as if the very sky itself is bleached out by the sun. Being outside however, is better than being in the sterility of that building. Out here there is movement, breath, life, natural sound. Not the beeping of incessant machines or the constant squeaking of soles on polished, reflective floors. 

I breathed in the languid breeze, thankful to be moving in a straight line and out of that oppressive environment. Three more hours and I will be done with my twelve hour shift, the last shift of my week. Three more hours my mind kept repeating. As my feet moved across the bumpy, scalding pavement my circular thoughts stayed back at work. 

What did I miss with that last vital check? Shit, did I give the correct dosage? Person after person had begun to fuse into one needy patient. My compassion had begun to slip. Years ago, in the beginning, I faintly recall an impassioned, empathetic version of myself. Now I could hardly muster a genuine smile or word. Get through my shift. Get home. Lie down. Sleep. Just…sleep. 

Just as my eyes dropped to nearly closed, lost in my reverie of sleeping, I heard a woman’s voice call out. Eyes wide open I whipped my head around to hear which direction the appeal was coming from, my body tense and poised for action. 

The road I had chosen for my daily walking breaks lined the marshy wetlands. Tall grasses, cottonwoods, rose bushes, and vining blackberries fenced the aging pavement. I loved the openness of the marsh and watching the birds flock through the seasons. During mid summer as it is now, the swallows in particular tend to swarm, eating bugs out of the air in their playful, loving dance. Often I would see the perfect trio of swallows sitting evenly spaced on a power line and I would hear in my head “Three little birds, on my doorstep…Cause every little thing will be alright…don’t worry…”

The voice called out again and reminded me of the other not so quaint inhabitants of this place. Modern day nomads living out of run down cars, trailers, or tents had also begun to flock midsummer and rapidly take over the otherwise peaceful nature of the wetlands. I couldn’t help but feel disgust and outrage at the sight of these people and what they are doing to this street, not to mention this town. Coarse, disturbing language, dropping f-bombs, and abusive vitriol floats on the wind mixed with the putrid scents of decaying rot of carelessly discarded litter. I am disgusted. How dare these people litter the beauty of this landscape? All I want is a peaceful place to walk and get away from despair and pain. 

So when this voice began to call out in the direction that I could no longer ignore was mine, I felt that growing seed of resentment that had become a constant companion during countless moments of a single day.

“Ma’m!”

I’m not a Ma’m! 

“Ma’m!”

No! I don’t want this, I don’t need this right now. 

“Excuse me, can you help me?”

Screw you, I wanted to scream at her but my instinct to help when asked was far too engrained and I found myself walking toward the pestering voice. As I got closer to the caller I noticed that it came from a large, white, box van with windows taped over by pieces of cardboard and tapestries for privacy. The back doors of the vehicle were blocked by a makeshift metal rack that held heavy duty, black plastic containers with bright yellow lids. They were stacked three high and were comically balanced askew as if a set designer for a movie created this montage specifically to have a quaint and eccentric vibe. 

There was notably less garbage around this area, yet the unfortunate circumstances of the occupant’s situation clung in the air. Leaning precariously out of the driver’s side of the van sat an extremely heavy-set woman who appeared to be in her mid to late 50’s but could have easily been 10 years younger. Her legs and body faced out toward the street and her left hand held tightly to the van’s inside wall as if terrified the van would spit her out at any given moment. 

Her stringy, unkempt hair was pulled loosely back and her wide, full cheeked face had creases of pain etched in. What caught my eye however, was her feet. One foot was propped on the edge of the van completely normal is sized in a worn out sneaker, while the other foot dangled bare hanging just above the second, empty, worn sneaker. Before I could investigate further the woman spoke again. 

“Hey, can you look at my foot?”

Finally resigned to my reality that I was stuck in this conversation I took a deep breath and replied. “Hi, do you need help?” The woman nodded and adjusted herself slightly then pointed with her free hand toward her naked foot. 

“Yeah can you look at my foot?”

My God, I thought, she doesn’t expect me to touch it? I recoiled at the thought wanting simply to walk away and continue on. “I mean I can try to take a look. I’m not sure what you need or how much I am able to help but it looks pretty bad. Did you injure it in some way?”

Even from eight feet away I could tell that this was no “injury”. The foot looked grotesque. Two, no, three times its normal size, the swelling was significant and appeared to be missing the big toe. Scaly skin, red and white patches obviously incredibly inflamed and terribly unhappy. The size of the woman, her unhealthy lifestyle, and missing toe all pointed toward a metabolic disease. Diabetes - probably type two. 

“My foot,” the woman slurred, “it really is bad and it hurts. Do you think I should put my foot in that shoe?” 

“That shoe there?” I could barely keep the incredulousness out of my voice. The woman again nodded in answer and readjusted, clearly uncomfortable in her perched position. “No, no I don’t think that would be a good idea to try and put your foot in that shoe. It looks very swollen!”

The woman chuckled and then grimaced. “It’s a real bitch I got it looked at but they didn’t really do nothing - just sent me back - keeps me up at night. Can’t take pain meds cause of me being an old addict.” 

Because this was the most she had spoken at once, I hadn’t noticed before that she was missing all four upper front and lower front teeth. Her speech was slurred and muddled. Definitely a user or a former one. 

“I can’t get to the clinic or hospital - can’t walk - it’s not far but they don’t help me anyway. Not like my husband can carry me.” She laughed ironically at this. In that moment I noticed two black and white paws poking out beneath the van. In the shadows a pair of cocked ears and two shining eyes looked out back at me wary yet relaxed. The woman had continued to speak in her haphazard way as I began to lose track of the conversation. Half her words were lost to my ears as her lack of teeth inhibited her pronunciation…living on streets…trying to be legal…allowed to live…can’t sleep at night…in pain…foot needs surgery…

“Us people on the streets, we’re nothing. You know, we’re trying to live but l got disabilities. My husband and me we’ve got insurance but they can’t do nothing for my foot. I go in they take off the wraps and hurt me and tell me to go.”

I was at a loss of words. I’ve had plenty of patients in similar situations that I simply could do nothing for. I asked her if she could get to the clinic or hospital but their van is broken down and obviously she can’t walk. Somewhere deep in my chest I felt a twinge. If it wasn’t for the dog beneath the van snapping at a fly and taking my attention off of the woman I would have missed it. I felt sympathy. I still felt annoyed and disgusted by the scene before me but the feeling stopped me. I didn’t like it. I worked so hard to build my callousness so that I could work, do my job, function. This won’t do. 

“Do you have the numbers to the local charities who can help?”

The woman scoffed. “They can’t do nothing. If they pick me up they just leave me there and I have to pay for a taxi home and I don’t got the money for that shit.” My feelings ofhelplessness swelled - this woman truly was in need of help and I was a medical professional for God sakes. I decided I had to do something, anything, even just the relieve the guilt that was building.

“Look I know people, I do medical work. I am going to get a hold of some people I know who work with disadvantaged populations in the area. I will try and get you some sort of transport or maybe medical supplies? You really shouldn’t have to suffer especially if you do have insurance.” The woman smiled a toothless grin. Her eyes shown with such gratitude that I felt guilt creep in futher.   

“Thank you Ma’m. Thank you. You have no idea what this means, your help.”

“Oh, I forgot to ask. Can you feel much in your foot?”

She laughed which turned into a phlegm filled cough. “No I got diabetes. That’s why they took my damn toe.”

“Well you don’t want to lose your whole foot if you don’t…” She interrupted my admonishment 

“I know! I’m not an idiot. All the doctors say that, that’s why I’m asking for help!”

I flushed in embarrassment. My comment made her feel bad, terrible bed side manners. I needed to move on and get out of this conversation but I vowed to call my contacts and find out what services she could receive. As I waved goodbye I thought to ask her name. 

“Sheila. Just Sheila.” She said as she shifted once again with a grunt looking sadly out across the marshy grass. 

I did my Christian duty as I was taught. I tried to get a hold of my colleagues but no one answered. I felt angry and I wasn’t sure why. My job is to help and heal people and I did absolutely nothing for this woman. I can’t even get a hold of my so called friends for guidance I thought bitterly. Walking down one of the hallways of the hospital a colleague and occasional friend stopped me. He grabbed my arm in passing and said. 

“Hey Zara! Saw you making some friends with those homeless people down the road.” His smile wasn’t particularly kind. “Starting to do some street work?” He laughed. I felt defensive but tried to ignore is jabs. 

“No just a woman asking for my help as I walked by. Nothing I could do really they’re hopeless.” I added for affect and immediately felt yet another pang of guilt. 

“You know I walk there all the time even wearing my scrubs sometimes and she has never once stopped me for help.” He shrugged and walked off letting his last words ring down the hall. That is strange I thought. I wasn’t wearing anything signifying that I was a medical professional nor was I making any indication at all that I was willing or wanting to help. Just my unlucky day I decided and moved on to finish out my shift. 

A few hours later however, as I was walking to my car the woman, Sheila, floated into my thoughts. Annoyed that she had managed to wriggle into my thick exterior I decided that I may as well just drive by her van. The compulsion surprised me. As I turned onto the road I noticed flashing lights up ahead. A firetruck and several EMT’s were outside the van and I as I slowed to a stop to turn around and watch I noticed Sheila sitting in the grass outside the van being spoken to by the medics. A man in dressed in a baggy t-shirt and shorts that I hadn’t noticed before, (her husband?) stood awkwardly aside. He was short for a man, maybe 5’8, but then I noticed he stood a bit hunched, head bowed and to the side. The leash of the dog I had noticed earlier, a Border Collie now that I could see it in the open, was wrapped firmly around his hand holding the incensed barking dog back. The man must have sensed my observation because he turned and faced my car and looked directly at me. His grizzled dark brown beard covered his mouth but his eyes drilled into mine. Kind, sad, resigned. I turned back forward and drove home. 

The next day I took my walk. The vehicles of filth still lined the road and I could see the white box van up ahead. As I neared it I saw the man again. Still hunched, slowly shifting objects around on the ground. Before I could stop myself I called out.

“Hello! My name is Zara I was helping Sheila yesterday and then I saw the medics later. Is she ok - did she get help.” The man stopped and stood up. He smiled as he saw me, recognition in his dark brown eyes. I was struck by the kindness in them. His eyes did not hold my gaze long, as they dropped down and up, anywhere but on me. 

“Oh, she’s asleep.” He jerked his thumb indicating the van. It was pushing 90 degrees outside - it had to be sweltering in the there. “Medics took her last evening. Didn’t get her back till midnight or so. She’s sleeping. Real tired.” He repeated. As if feeling the conversation was through he turned and began picking up the sacks of garbage. 

“What did they do to her foot? Did they clean it or bandage it or offer any medical advice for long-term care?” 

The man stopped again but instead of turning towards me stayed facing the van.

“Oh, uh they brought her home too late. Haven’t talked to her.” 

“I see. Well I guess I mean I walk here all the time so if you need anything my name is Zara. May I ask your name?”

At this he turned fully around and smiled broadly with brightness in his eyes. “David.” He nodded and shuffled away ending the engagement. 

The summer dragged on with bursts of heat waves and my daily walks found more and more people converging with tents, RV’s, campers, and trash. On the 100 degree days the stench of the rotting garbage sent me into gagging fits and yet I couldn’t keep away. Sometimes I’d pass by the box van and Sheila or David were out and I’d wave and exchange pleasantries. 

Work also shifted. Some of my calloused exterior began to melt away and I began to “see” my patients once again. The hardness in my chest that sometimes threatened to suffocate me as I lie awake at night, had began slowly to subside. Every once in awhile I even felt the smallest indications of joy. 

The last time I saw Sheila she was using a walker waiting outside the van. I immediately walked up to her and called out. 

“Hi Sheila!”  She immediately lit up and said hello back. She looked very pretty. Her usually unwashed hair was combed back and wetted into a pony tail. It even looked like she had put on make-up. 

“I’m waiting for my ride. Going to go to the hospital and get surgery on my foot soon! They gotta take an infected bone out. Sucks. I hate them hacking at my foot but it should stop the pain and I might be able to walk normally again.”

I was thrilled and told her so. I commented on how nicely she looked today and she smiled bashfully. 

“You know Zara, I really want to thank you for helping me.” 

“Sheila, I did nothing!” 

“No you did more than you know. You’re a kind woman.”

My heart swelled and tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t believe how much honor I felt toward this woman’s gratitude. I honestly didn’t do anything. I couldn’t even get a hold of my friends to help! 

“I am so sorry I couldn’t do more. I know your situation is difficult and I can only imagine. You’ve been through so much.”

Sheila laughed toothlessly. “Still got life in me yet! David and I are fine. We are getting a new camper! We will have a real bed and everything!”

I walked away that day back to yet another shift with a lightness in my step. If I had only known that would be the last time I would see her maybe I would have said something more. 

The seasons began shifting from the stifling heat of late summer to the last hurrah of early Autumn. It was a cloudy day and threatened to rain. Many of the inhabitants of the road had moved on with the seasons. Sheila and David’s white box van had transformed into a 1970’s camper, tan with darker stripes. The metal rack from behind the box van and been refashioned to the back of the camper, still comically piled with the black boxed, yellow lidded containers tied down with bright orange straps. 

David stood at the back of the camper, his dog loyally sitting heeled next to him. He looked more stooped than usual, something about his body language alarmed me. 

“Hi David!” I called. 

He didn’t look up. Just stared out at the tall waving grass watching red winged black birds flit and call “Pumkin eater!” in the now increasingly wet marsh. 

I kept a respectful distance not sure if I was going to scare him. I called softly again. His overly baggy t-shirt hung loosely over stained denims that looked about as forlorn as he. The Border Collie turned to stared at me but decided I wasn’t a threat and turned back to look at the marsh along with his master. 

“Hello.” He managed. His head bobbed down and up not making eye contact. 

“Are you ok? How is Sheila?” 

David turned his head down firmly and hunched even further over. A tight knot began to form in my abdomen. I knew that look all too well. 

“Did she…is she here?” I stuttered. 

“Sheila, she uh, she didn’t make it.” He choked out. He cleared his throat and began shifting his weight nervously. “I’m sorry to tell you.” 

I couldn’t speak. The heaviness of this news slammed into me and a wave of emotion threatened to crash over me. 

“David I am so, so sorry. I just..don’t know what to say. I am going to miss her.” I added lamely. 

He nodded slowly. “She was my companion. She took care of me. Always knew how.”  At this he turned and looked at me. “Thank you for helping her.”

I was about to argue that I hadn’t but he stopped me with a raised hand. 

“Sheila was a very kind soul. She liked you.” 

“David, I never asked her and you probably don’t even know, but why did she ask me for help?” A ripple of a smile moved across his face. Distant, nostalgic, loving. 

“She saws things. Saw people. She saw you.” 

I was confused, what did that have to do with anything? She was the one who needed help. I frowned in confusion, “David what do you mean she saw me?”. 

He turned away and I watched his eyes follow a sudden swoop of swallows fly through in front of us. His eyes twitched watching each one...]]>9b62ec9f-130d-4a0e-bcac-0e01a06a92cbWed, 26 May 2021 05:00:00 -050039:05yesfull14Ana & Hana...Discussing Jewish IdentityHana writes a piece about her identity as a Jewish person and discusses it with Ana, delving into her family history and the experience of being the grandchild of Holocaust survivors while living in Bavaria, the historical home of the Nazi Party.

Originally recorded August 23, 2020.

Hana - what is it like to be a modern Jewish woman with my parents’ and grandparents’ experiences and their influence on my development?

This is such a large question, I could spend the rest of my life writing about this and wouldn’t be able to cover it entirely, in part because my perception of my Jewishness continues to change throughout my life as I gain new experiences and insights into myself and my family. Growing up in Los Alamos, I was a member of a small, close-knit, and very quirky Jewish community. I was used to not knowing a lot of other Jews and encountering Jewish kids who seemed to want to downplay their Jewishness, something I believe they did because it was associated with nerdiness or being the “other.” Many of my friends and acquaintances were quite religious, whether they were Catholic, LDS, Baptist, or some other Christian denomination (to be totally honest, I get confused easily by Protestant sects - Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian,...my eyes glaze over and I assign them all to a big box in my head where they sit all jumbled together). They would go on mission trips to Mexico to build houses and were active in their church youth groups. 

I was also very involved in the youth group at our Jewish center - we weren’t a synagogue or shul and were unaffiliated with any larger movement, I think to remain as inclusive as possible in a community where the nearest other options were an hour away in Santa Fe. Our youth group was affiliated with a Zionist organization, something that I’ve been unpacking in the years since my eyes were first opened to the fact that the Israeli-Palestinian-general Middle East situation isn’t one- or even two-sided. I was so involved that I became our youth group leader and joined the regional board in 9th grade, eventually becoming president of a territory spanning the Mountain West from Montana to El Paso (the rest of Texas we wisely left in its own region) and organizing and attending multiple conventions for hundreds of kids ranging in age from 8 to 18. I was also very involved in our local community, serving as a Sunday School teacher and attending bar and bat mitzvahs regularly every year of kids I had babysat at numerous High Holiday services.

Outside of the youth group, Los Alamos’s small Jewish community, and my scattered extended family, I knew no other Jews. My few experiences at summer camp didn’t leave me with a favorable impression of other Jewish kids, especially my first encounter with Jewish American Princesses when I was 15, at camp in New York for what I still consider the worst month of my life. By the time I was an adult and meeting other Jews in college and afterward, I found that I felt awkward in large groups of other Jewish people. I didn’t feel like an imposter, but it felt strange to NOT be the “other” for once. This also produced a strange, underlying anxiety in me, as though gathering in large groups was drawing too much attention and asking for trouble. This, from a culture that has passed down its stories of continued persecution for generations and has instilled an almost pathological protectiveness and anxiety alongside its vaunted emphasis on education and debate. 

Once I left Los Alamos and stopped going to services on a regular basis, I felt detached from my Judaism for a number of years. This had begun earlier, when I realized at age 13-14 that I no longer believed in God, leading me to believe that I could no longer consider myself religiously Jewish. In my early 20s, Judaism was purely a cultural touchstone, one where I could host Passover seders and make jokes about anti-Semitic conspiracies, but which no longer...]]>Hana writes a piece about her identity as a Jewish person and discusses it with Ana, delving into her family history and the experience of being the grandchild of Holocaust survivors while living in Bavaria, the historical home of the Nazi Party.

Originally recorded August 23, 2020.

Hana - what is it like to be a modern Jewish woman with my parents’ and grandparents’ experiences and their influence on my development?

This is such a large question, I could spend the rest of my life writing about this and wouldn’t be able to cover it entirely, in part because my perception of my Jewishness continues to change throughout my life as I gain new experiences and insights into myself and my family. Growing up in Los Alamos, I was a member of a small, close-knit, and very quirky Jewish community. I was used to not knowing a lot of other Jews and encountering Jewish kids who seemed to want to downplay their Jewishness, something I believe they did because it was associated with nerdiness or being the “other.” Many of my friends and acquaintances were quite religious, whether they were Catholic, LDS, Baptist, or some other Christian denomination (to be totally honest, I get confused easily by Protestant sects - Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian,...my eyes glaze over and I assign them all to a big box in my head where they sit all jumbled together). They would go on mission trips to Mexico to build houses and were active in their church youth groups. 

I was also very involved in the youth group at our Jewish center - we weren’t a synagogue or shul and were unaffiliated with any larger movement, I think to remain as inclusive as possible in a community where the nearest other options were an hour away in Santa Fe. Our youth group was affiliated with a Zionist organization, something that I’ve been unpacking in the years since my eyes were first opened to the fact that the Israeli-Palestinian-general Middle East situation isn’t one- or even two-sided. I was so involved that I became our youth group leader and joined the regional board in 9th grade, eventually becoming president of a territory spanning the Mountain West from Montana to El Paso (the rest of Texas we wisely left in its own region) and organizing and attending multiple conventions for hundreds of kids ranging in age from 8 to 18. I was also very involved in our local community, serving as a Sunday School teacher and attending bar and bat mitzvahs regularly every year of kids I had babysat at numerous High Holiday services.

Outside of the youth group, Los Alamos’s small Jewish community, and my scattered extended family, I knew no other Jews. My few experiences at summer camp didn’t leave me with a favorable impression of other Jewish kids, especially my first encounter with Jewish American Princesses when I was 15, at camp in New York for what I still consider the worst month of my life. By the time I was an adult and meeting other Jews in college and afterward, I found that I felt awkward in large groups of other Jewish people. I didn’t feel like an imposter, but it felt strange to NOT be the “other” for once. This also produced a strange, underlying anxiety in me, as though gathering in large groups was drawing too much attention and asking for trouble. This, from a culture that has passed down its stories of continued persecution for generations and has instilled an almost pathological protectiveness and anxiety alongside its vaunted emphasis on education and debate. 

Once I left Los Alamos and stopped going to services on a regular basis, I felt detached from my Judaism for a number of years. This had begun earlier, when I realized at age 13-14 that I no longer believed in God, leading me to believe that I could no longer consider myself religiously Jewish. In my early 20s, Judaism was purely a cultural touchstone, one where I could host Passover seders and make jokes about anti-Semitic conspiracies, but which no longer held a deeper meaning. I had several friends who were also Jewish, but none of us fit the stereotype of New Yorkers who liked to argue and hated hiking. We all enjoyed going to pancake breakfasts at the local Hillel, but I never thought about attending Shabbat services there and only went to High Holidays services when it was convenient. I joined a nominally Jewish sorority during my junior year of college, but rarely participated and was almost proud of being a slacker sister. The fact that the sorority wasn’t limited to people who identified as Jewish also reassured me that it wasn’t too Jewy, too revealing of my otherness.

That detachment changed when I began my graduate studies in social work, which happened during the three consecutive years when my three remaining grandparents all died, cutting off a major link to my family’s history. Learning about intergenerational trauma and placing religious and ethnic identities within the larger context of intersectionality and systems of power and oppression, I developed a keener sense of my “otherness” and began to see it as something to be explored, rather than hidden away and ignored. I bitterly regretted not having asked my dad’s parents more about their experiences surviving the Holocaust, pogroms, lingering post-war antisemitism, and the transition to life in a new country after they emigrated to the US. My maternal grandparents, whose parents moved to the US before the Nazis came to power, had also left much unsaid about their own Jewish identities and experiences before they died.

I’m not quite sure, in my mid-thirties, how I would describe my relationship to Judaism and my Jewish identity. Especially now, having moved to Bavaria, the former beating heart of the Nazi Party, I am constantly aware of my Jewishness. Whether it’s seeing place names like Dachau, or being asked about my German last name, there are constant reminders that make it hard to feel completely at ease. For the first year here, I was reluctant to disclose my Jewish background to any Germans, something that has changed as I’ve become more comfortable with the German language and the cultural mores of rural Bavaria.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve also become much more aware of the incredible diversity among Jewish people around the world and in the US. So often, the cultural image of a Jewish person in the US traffics in common tropes - the strident New Yorker, the self-deprecating comedian, the Hollywood liberal celebrity, the East Coast intellectual. But the reality is much more interesting and varied than that and what my own experience has exposed me to. Jews from non-Ashkenazi traditions - Sephardi, Mizrahi, Persian Jews, Ethiopian Jews, Indian Jews, Chinese Jews, mixed race Jews, people who have converted or whose parents have converted - these all contribute to a rich tapestry of identities that have as our common thread a religion and its cultural traditions. I was reading recently about a resurgence of interest in Jewish identity among young Polish people - people who come from Jewish families but, much like the conversos of Spain and its colonies, didn’t realize it because their parents and grandparents hid that aspect of their identity in order to be safe from continued persecution after the end of World War II. Decades after the fall of the USSR and 75 years after the Holocaust ended (but not widespread antisemitism in eastern European nations), people in their 20s and 30s are discovering a part of their heritage that they never knew existed before. The fact that there are so many stories of discovery, reinvention, connection, rivalry, loss, fear, perseverance, joy, kvetching and kvelling gives me hope in my continued journey with my own identity that there will always be new things to experience, enjoy, and learn from.

Ana - The Single Life: A Reflection

My break-up with my ex was heartbreaking, freeing, and utterly transforming. And I was only 21. So young, so confused and bewildered, and terrified. My personal toolbox was nearly empty and so I had no awareness of how and why I behaved and thought the way I did. When I was with my ex, I was entirely negatively attached. We had trauma bonded and created an incredibly toxic codependent relationship. It was so caustic that I spent most of my days feeling physically ill because he wasn’t with me. Our relationship at that point was long-distance but short enough that I would waste away my weekends with him trying desperately to get my emotional and intimate needs met. When I returned home from these visits or “weekend booty calls'' as I began to refer to them, instead of being emotionally buoyed, I felt drained. Unhappy, angry, and lonely. Loneliness is a theme that I can follow the storyline of even in my first memories. Scared, sick and scared, always searching for someone to tell me it’s ok and that these scary thoughts and feelings aren’t real - that I would actually be ‘seen’. 

The final ending of my relationship with my ex, though incredibly painful, was exquisitely freeing. I didn’t have to show up to anyone but myself. I didn’t have to be continually disappointed with someone or angry that my needs aren’t being met, yet confused as to why I didn’t actually know what they were. All my focus turned inward. I remembered that I loved to be social and I began to refocus on more friends. I found the friend group I had been longing to be part of. To feel part of something, to not feel so isolated and alone. I put myself out there. I began to date and allowed myself to have fun. 

With my nights truly alone, I began to create more routines for myself. Even though I had never lived with a partner at that point, having a partner in my life filled up my head so much that I didn’t know how to just be “me”. All my thoughts were about him and my unhappiness in our relationship. But being single, somehow made me happier and more fulfilled. This was when I began to write music. I would sit in my room in the house I shared with my sister and write and write and play and play. I would journal like mad and yet I still struggled. Struggled with my circular thoughts and internal talk of self hate and loathing. 

Loneliness. I couldn’t break free of it. Loneliness in relationship, loneliness without. Even then I wanted to be held in a way that transformed me, that saw me, that made me feel a sense of comfort, contentment, and calm - a way that I have never found in myself. So instead of doubling down on focusing inward, I focused out. I began the search for a ‘real’ connection, but only through the guise of romantic connection to a man.

I ran from myself. It was too dark and ugly anyway to think I could ever truly be loved and healed from the inside. My God, if I had had the insight then to seek help and guidance and to understand that the mind numbing, anxiety-ridden world I lived in wasn’t healthy or a livable truth. I had resigned myself to thinking that this is what life was and that it was all I deserved. I was convinced that I was unlovable, broken, shameful, ugly, and cold hearted. Yet, I knew I wanted the holy grail of love. It was as if I was on a fantastical quest to seek out a mythical creature, a creature only in my dreams and...]]>The podcast gets off to an intense start, as Ana discusses a piece she wrote on the last time she was single - her senior year of college, giving rise to a discussion around vulnerability, growth, and what it means to be in a relationship. Hana's piece then takes the episode in a completely different direction, addressing how trauma plays a crucial role in the actions of governments and countries, while still giving insight into her self perception as a writer and person. Originally recorded on August 16, 2020.

Ana - The Single Life: A Reflection

My break-up with my ex was heartbreaking, freeing, and utterly transforming. And I was only 21. So young, so confused and bewildered, and terrified. My personal toolbox was nearly empty and so I had no awareness of how and why I behaved and thought the way I did. When I was with my ex, I was entirely negatively attached. We had trauma bonded and created an incredibly toxic codependent relationship. It was so caustic that I spent most of my days feeling physically ill because he wasn’t with me. Our relationship at that point was long-distance but short enough that I would waste away my weekends with him trying desperately to get my emotional and intimate needs met. When I returned home from these visits or “weekend booty calls'' as I began to refer to them, instead of being emotionally buoyed, I felt drained. Unhappy, angry, and lonely. Loneliness is a theme that I can follow the storyline of even in my first memories. Scared, sick and scared, always searching for someone to tell me it’s ok and that these scary thoughts and feelings aren’t real - that I would actually be ‘seen’. 

The final ending of my relationship with my ex, though incredibly painful, was exquisitely freeing. I didn’t have to show up to anyone but myself. I didn’t have to be continually disappointed with someone or angry that my needs aren’t being met, yet confused as to why I didn’t actually know what they were. All my focus turned inward. I remembered that I loved to be social and I began to refocus on more friends. I found the friend group I had been longing to be part of. To feel part of something, to not feel so isolated and alone. I put myself out there. I began to date and allowed myself to have fun. 

With my nights truly alone, I began to create more routines for myself. Even though I had never lived with a partner at that point, having a partner in my life filled up my head so much that I didn’t know how to just be “me”. All my thoughts were about him and my unhappiness in our relationship. But being single, somehow made me happier and more fulfilled. This was when I began to write music. I would sit in my room in the house I shared with my sister and write and write and play and play. I would journal like mad and yet I still struggled. Struggled with my circular thoughts and internal talk of self hate and loathing. 

Loneliness. I couldn’t break free of it. Loneliness in relationship, loneliness without. Even then I wanted to be held in a way that transformed me, that saw me, that made me feel a sense of comfort, contentment, and calm - a way that I have never found in myself. So instead of doubling down on focusing inward, I focused out. I began the search for a ‘real’ connection, but only through the guise of romantic connection to a man.

I ran from myself. It was too dark and ugly anyway to think I could ever truly be loved and healed from the inside. My God, if I had had the insight then to seek help and guidance and to understand that the mind numbing, anxiety-ridden world I lived in wasn’t healthy or a livable truth. I had resigned myself to thinking that this is what life was and that it was all I deserved. I was convinced that I was unlovable, broken, shameful, ugly, and cold hearted. Yet, I knew I wanted the holy grail of love. It was as if I was on a fantastical quest to seek out a mythical creature, a creature only in my dreams and fantasies, that would break the spell I felt I was in. To find that feeling that swells in the pit of my stomach into my chest and out. At the time I believed it resided only in another human. One who chose me out of the crowd, who could see my inner light and beauty, that would be the key to unlock this hidden feeling that I only partially believed to be real. 

Of course the truth is that a golden nugget of understanding can only be found within. What I have discovered since is that once I began to find it within, then I could seek to blend it with others. I learned that the truth must be first understood and known in me, and that truth is falling in love with myself. I’ve always heard that one cannot fully love another unless you can love yourself first. How was I ever supposed to understand that unless I actually experienced it first? Seeing isn’t believing, feeling is believing. 

Those glorious nine months of singleton still live in my memory as one of the best years of my life. Because other than my painful search for self love; I was having fun, letting go, spending time with friends, finding and cultivating new passions, and living for myself. 

And here I sit, 14 years later on the verge of allowing myself to be single once again. Craving the time alone to cultivate a love affair with me. And knowing now, finally, that the holy grail was real after all. I had just needed to do the work to look in and to find the tiny, ever present, ever glowing radiance, that is the essence of my boundless love. 

Hana - The Intersection of Trauma and Diplomacy

It was while watching Ken Burns’ Vietnam documentary series that something occurred to me that was so simple and true, I was embarrassed that I had never thought of it earlier. As an American and someone who had worked with Vietnam veterans, I had learned about the traumatizing effect the war had on Americans who were drafted to fight in a strange country, only to come back to the US and face the disapproval and shunning of a nation. I had thought about the stresses faced by those who were waiting to be drafted and those who evaded it through various creative means. I also thought about the impacts on the families of the soldiers who went overseas to fight and either never came back or came back a different person, with anger and anxiety that wouldn’t be recognized or treated for decades. 

What I had never considered was the impact on an entire nation of people who were living through a civil war and foreign occupation simultaneously. Hearing throughout the documentary the stories of south Vietnamese government officials, North Vietnamese soldiers, Viet Cong, and numerous civilians caught up in the conflict, I was amazed and ashamed. How had I never considered that the American impacts of the war would pale in comparison to the Vietnamese? In hindsight, this makes perfect sense. Our education system is pretty egotistical, considering everything from an American (meaning Western, European, Christian, male, educated, cis, straight,...) perspective, with the occasional tangent to “round out” the canon by referencing apartheid, Marie Curie, and maybe the Boxer Rebellion thrown in for good measure. Why would American schoolchildren need to consider one of our most embarrassing foreign policy maneuvers from the point of view of the country that, for all intents and purposes, beat us? And, to make matters worse, a Communist country one-third our size?

Once I realized how much more traumatizing the Vietnam War must have been to the people of Vietnam, it opened my eyes to the impacts of other wars and conflicts on the populations of other countries. Yes, South Africa had its Truth and Reconciliation process and post-war Germany did an admirable job acknowledging its role in the horrors of the Holocaust, but how much support have the people of Chile had in processing the terror of the Pinochet regime and have the Tutsi people of Rwanda been given the support they need to recover from their own attempted genocide? Thinking more broadly, even for the victors and perpetrators, what work has been done to help them deal with committing or witnessing atrocious acts? When an entire population of a country has gone through something terrible, how does it affect the collective psyche? When the entire Global South is still carrying the scars of the mercantilism and colonialism of centuries of Western European countries, how can they effectively deal with the new challenges of a warming planet? And how do those impacts show up in the decisions made by that country in domestic policy and foreign policy?

I began thinking about this on a policy level with Israel - a country that is polarizing in its creation, continued existence, and actions toward its residents and neighbors. I have Israeli cousins and, while I don’t know them nearly as well as my American family members, I know them as reasonable, normal individuals. Reconciling these relationships with a voting population that continues to support an administration that has committed human rights abuses is difficult. However, once I placed the Israeli population in the context of a generation that fled genocide in Europe and passed down a fear-driven and survivalist mindset, their actions start to make sense. This is not to justify continued oppression of Palestinians and of course there are other complicating factors, but placing a population within its historical context makes things understandable, which is the first step to finding common ground and thence, to creating change.

Most of the world’s major contemporary societies stigmatize mental and emotional health challenges and their treatment. Yet how much more effective could cross-border and cross-cultural exchanges be if diplomacy were informed by trauma-focused therapy? Is current trauma research applicable to country-level conclusions? How much more effective could organizations be in brokering peace talks, implementing health programs, reducing corruption and human rights abuses, and undoing the harm of imperialism and colonialism if they worked with a trauma-focused lens, placing countries’ actions in the context of historical events?

I’ve been interested in a career in diplomacy since my high school days and, though it’s been on the back burner for about 20 years, living overseas has made me more aware of the US’s place in a larger global context and has reignited that interest. It might be a pipe dream at this point to overcome the reluctance to incorporate therapy in something as tribal and mercurial as foreign policy (especially with populist administrations on the rise). But just because it’s unrealistic doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.