"This shirt may not be clean, but I am!"

Bert: Hey there Baylor student.
Me: Hi, how are you? I love that shirt!
Bert's Shirt: "This shirt may not be clean, but I am!"
Bert: You know, we got a trophy for this shirt.
Me: A trophy for shirt design?
Bert: There was this volleyball tournament, our team was awful, but they gave us a trophy for our style. A little hispanic lady from the women and children's house played, she was tiny but ferocious. We named her MVP and gave her a trophy too. Another woman had to go in an ambulance when she broke her ankle. If we get a team together this year, I think we'd be pretty damn good.
Me: I'll play if I get a shirt.
Bert: [laughs] Sorry, no staff allowed.

Lake Waco at sunset... beauty in madness.

And another day in Waco draws to a close, as good a day as any and a bolster to the idea that someday I'll feel competent at delivering therapeutic services. I saw my first individual client today... a boisterous young woman with kind eyes that seem to tell the truth even when she won't or can't. She regaled me with a tale of persecution over an offense she'd been accused of over the weekend, "I'm so angry, I got in trouble and I didn't even do it!" The eyes gave it away and out of nowhere, "Okay, I did it. It's been eating at me all weekend. I haven't been able to eat or sleep. Why do I always lie?"

An important aspect of helping people is trusting that people actually know how to help themselves, or sometimes need only to have another person give them permission to help themselves. This has taken me a long time to realize, and even longer to begin to implement in my interactions with people. I had a choice: give her the answer, or give her the ability to choose. As much as I wanted to deliver the righteous message of honesty, I forced myself to take a "free will" approach.

"What kind of person do you want to be?"

Trustworthy, respectful, a leader.

"The decision is yours..."

Of course there was more to it than that, a careful mapping of the pros and cons of confession, a pros and cons of keeping the transgression secret. But ultimately, it was her choice to make. Choose to grow, or choose to run. When the door clicked shut and I was alone again I was absolutely convinced she'd keep the secret. Those eyes, still kind, rolled back as I insisted she take the pros and cons lists and "think it over." Nope, she's not ready.

Working in behavior change, and addictions in particular, counselors love to assume the role of the psychic. Turns out, we're usually incorrect. That's the difficulty in working with people... we only know what they share, but never truly share in what they know.

Group rolled around, a fairly lively exchange of ideas. What makes a person supportive? What does it feel like to ask for help? Does anyone need help right now? She raised her hand, then buried her face in it... "This is really, really hard for me."

Confession.
Feedback.
Growth.

A reminder that we're (most of us) motivated to make our lives better, even in the face of pain and embarrassment. A reminder that even when life has beaten a person down, there's usually a kernel of hope buried deep inside that, when given permission to "pop", can result in something delicious and unexpected.

People frustrate the hell out of me, but boy do I love 'em. Clean shirt or otherwise.

Ready, Set, Busy!

Good news: I'm employed! Since leaving detox I've been haunted by the feeling that I'm not really contributing to society, though I'm confident that I've been contributing to fun-iety. That is to say that a good chunk of my time has been spent getting to know my new surroundings and the people I'll be spending the next chunk of time with. This has included a variety of activities intended to build relationships (at least that's how I'm justifying my downtime), including:

• Rupong... it's running ping pong, and it's no less than pure awesomeness.
• Racquetball... well, Crystal and I smacking a blue ball in a small white room.
• Buying fireworks in a warehouse in the middle of a field (Did you know it's against Texas state law to buy fireworks without using a shopping cart? Neither did I.)
• Watching the Waco city fireworks with the largest group of inappropriately dressed locals ever. Really. Ever.
  
• Watching UFC with Alexis and her Iraqi war veteran friends.
• Wild western dancing.
• Starting the "Bucket List" with Kara of Texas adventures we must have in the next 4 years.
  
• Losing at Rummy, Apples to Apples, and Taboo.
• Learning to sidearm a frisbee... then subsequently making Shehzad run for the frisbee for an hour.
• Accepting membership in the "Turtles"... I'm Raphael and I have the coolest weapon ever- the sai.
• Accepting another new nickname: Munchkin.
• Pool... lots of pool. And I'm still not good.
• Biking the "guns and pawns" route that is my neighborhood while pondering joining the Waco Bicycle Club.
  
• Establishing a new epicurean adventure plan: Every Wednesday "Gyna the GPS" will lead Shehzad and I to a new Waco dining experience. Today was Pei Wei Day! Hooray!

Waco Works!

But in all honesty, I'm thrilled to be back in the world of substance abuse counseling. Sitting in on groups today my mind began swirling with ideas, plans to bring new concepts to my work setting, and a renewed passion and respect for all that I've learned and am yet to learn from my peers and clients.

Today, in an effort to non-threateningly discuss adaptation in a group of 20 addicts and alcoholics, I decided to solicit advice about my own transition. So I told them: "I just moved here from Colorado, and I've gotta say... Texas is a lot different." Laughter and nodding, and then wonderful feedback. It was directed at me, but really it was directed by and to the group. "Put yourself out there and get involved." "Don't pre-judge and be open minded." "Let go of your pride about how things were done where you come from." "Be patient." Words about moving between Colorado and Texas, words about moving, words about being confronted with new situations, words about being confronted with new feelings- their wisdom was all of these things. It reminded me how much I can learn from any person, and also why I've pursued this transition to really participate in the learning process.

I've been thinking about running. Are my clients running away from using or toward recovery? Am I running away or toward? For a long time it seemed all I knew how to do was run away. Run away from life, from problems, from new things, from bad feelings. I still catch myself running away, but more and more I want to be the kind of person who runs toward life, toward growth, toward new situations, toward the things that terrify me. I've been running almost every day. I don't know if it's the altitude, or the sweltering heat, or the abundance of downtime, but it seems to get easier every day.

Tomorrow, I think I'll go for a run.

"Out of the silver heat mirage he ran. The sky burned, and under him the paving was a black mirror reflecting sun-fire. Sweat sprayed his skin with each foot strike so that he ran in a hot mist of his own creation. With each slap on the softened asphalt, his soles absorbed heat that rose through his arches and ankles and the stems of his shins. It was a carnival of pain, but he loved each stride because running distilled him to his essence and the heat hastened this distillation."

- James Tabor, from "The Runner"

Surf's Up Dallas

Now there's a lot that I'll do for a good story... which I can virtually guarantee every time Jack and I get together. I can also virtually guarantee that at some point I will begin feeling like a decrepit old woman in comparison to Jack, who is not only the most social person I've ever met but possibly the most energetic. He's the kind of person who derives energy from meeting new people, whereas I enjoy it but re-energize with some cherished alone time.

Somehow we lived together for a year in relative harmony, and have been able to stay in contact for the 7 years since. In those years Jack has traveled and lived in more places than I've got fingers and toes, and is the only true nomad I know. Yesterday he told me that I'm the most stable figure in his life, which was strange for me to consider coming from my background (see the post where I pine over my elementary school pals). But I digress...

In his travels, he has taken up the practice of couch surfing with such vigor that someone should really be paying him for it. He belongs to a rather professional organization of couch surfers who have ensured that anywhere you go in the world you can find a free and hopefully friendly place to lay your head for a night or two. He's been hassling me for ages about joining, which I've always declined based on the presumption that I'd end up ax murdered by an antisocial I met on the Internet. But he finally tricked me into a wetsuit. That's right, surf's up Dallas.

I've been in Waco two weeks, and with school on the horizon I decided I'd better get a day in with Jack before things get too crazy. Luckily, he's in Dallas for a few weeks where he has yet to pay for lodging and as a result has met, per his evaluation, a disproportionate number of attractive but virginal female couch surfers. That's Texas for you. So we started at coffee, took the trolley to our sarcastic criticism of modern art sculptures, discussed mythology in the Dallas Museum of Art, talked city planning over Chipotle, saw Get Smart, and stumped 4 Whole Foods employees over the location of baking soda (we MUST make Grandma Toll House's family recipe, after all). That's the illogical yet enjoyable progression of a day with my friend.

Always laughing, me and Jack yucking it up in Dallas

Around dinner time I pulled my old Civic into the driveway of a pseudo-mansion, aka Jack's pad for the next few nights. Now granted, most couches are located in dorm rooms and ragged apartments, but in my indignation I wouldn't even agree to a night in this Taj Mahal. After all, these are strangers! But I was welcomed into Kenny and Ricardo's home with smiles, energetic conversation, and a drink by the pool (which I politely declined). Then came Anna, a talkative graduate student from Hungary. And then Pamela, a middle-aged blond with a wicked laugh, and her boyfriend Vincenzo, a polite and timid Italian. Then Linda, the petite airline auditor with frenetic speech punctuated by piercing stares of interest. There were some others, but these were the ones that would hop on the surfboard for the evening.

It was a strange experience that included boardgames, me baking cookies, many many bottles of wine, and finally my resignation to surfing a rather classy couch (okay, bed with 50,000 decorative pillows) when the thought of driving to Waco in the middle of the night became unbearable. So, what did I learn from an evening like this?

1) Holy crap, I like talking to people but these people LOVE talking to people. By the end of the evening my ability to converse with any meaning was nil, and I was the only sober surfer. I'm relatively confident they're all still talking at this moment.
2) Some people are kind and trustworthy and will open their home to an indignant stranger like myself with little hesitation. Though I don't think I'd do it, there's something I admire in that foolish trust. It's almost romantic in its naivety.
3) A lot of interesting people with varying backgrounds can laugh for hours over dice and trivia.
4) Its okay for me to not be indignant for a night.
5) I'm completely drained, where's my alone time?

I got up early, trekked the Italian marble and chandelier hall, and left one surreal world for another. And that brings me to now, where I'm still not "home" but slowly building a life in Waco. Right now would be a nice time to have that romantic, foolish trust... but I've come to accept I'm ever the skeptic and am not able to let people into my life as easily as Kenny and Ricardo and the other characters in my Dallas beach movie. It's frustrating, I'm meeting people but I'm guarded and haven't been fully myself. I feel bad about it... a lot. But it's a process and, as always happens, I will come to know these people and to let them know me.

And I won't even make them wear a wetsuit.




A classic parting shot at Chipotle, or a comment on the broken American political system... you decide. I love a company with a sense of humor.

Home Away From Home

It's been a week now. A week that can only be described as... mixed. A week that's surfaced hopes, goals, and every insecurity I'd ever buried within myself. I don't really know why I started blogging (haha, best word ever!) but there's something in telling a story that seems to calm the ups and downs of experience and focus all those moments and thoughts into something meaningful, if only for myself.

I suppose I could rack my brain to remember and chronicle all of the experiences of the past week, but instead I'll choose just one: The Little Czech Bakery inside the Shell Gasoline Station in the town of West, Texas. That's I-35 Exit 353, in case you too need a home away from home.

I won't lie, I was feeling good and down. I cherish being busy, it gives me focus and motivation to keep doing what I'm doing plus some. So when I'm not classically busy and I'm also physically isolated, it takes effort not to think my way into life 20 years from now. Not a good scene, indeed. It got so bad that by mid-afternoon I had thought myself into being the 45-year old cat lady who hasn't left her apartment in 2 years, and that is NOT me. I needed a reality check. I had to get out.

Now there was a period in my "youth" in which I was intensely interested in genealogy. I pestered my parents with questions about the "Old Country" (of which there were a few), poured over tattered black and whites of my great grandfather in his bakery, and giggled at snapshots of my father in a Christening gown. I was intrigued by the mysterious (and still argued over) origins of my last name, and loved to engage my father in stories about his Army days. An interest in our heritage is a phase I think we all go through in our journey toward self-discovery.

I only met my father's mother twice: once before I was old enough to form memories, and then again as a teenager. By that time I'd already formed an opinion about the woman my father was estranged from for 8 years, and she'd begun to deteriorate from Alzheimer's. It was, above all, an odd experience. I remember her telling me (50 times in 2 days) about her time as a "Bohemian actress." Of course my father later pulled me aside to clarify this was actually a short stint in the high school drama club. I did not, at that time, associate being Bohemian with any particular culture. For some reason I thought Bohemian was synonymous with quirky and artsy, not the people formerly known as Czechoslovakians.

But when my father began receiving unsolicited postcards in broken English from the Czech Republic, my interest in genealogy suddenly resurfaced. It went on for years, every 6 months or so an exotic picture with claims of family ties would arrive in our mailbox. My father ignored them, convinced it was a mistake or a scam, until the pictures came. Photos he recalled seeing as a young boy in Chicago, of people with no names but familiar faces, and the kicker: a military photo of his grandfather in the Spanish Civil War. Finally, he wrote back. What began was a correspondence that would end with a trip to the "Old Country" and connection to a culture I'd only recently begun to associate with.

Last year I visited my father's cousin Jiri, who goes by George if you speak English. George is an interesting character for certain... 28 years old, a pastry chef at the Four Seasons Prague, and a man with more generous energy than anyone I've ever met. He recently wrote that they're considering giving him a television cooking show there, which I actually believe having seen his smiling face presenting intricate chocolates and towering-tier cakes in Czech magazines. One of my classic memories of George was a visit to his "museum." In my great grandmother's hometown of Milin, where George's parents and sister still live, they've given him a room in the town museum which is packed to the door with antique relics and random finds. Wagon wheels, 1950's toasters, an artifact from the 1300's he found in his backyard, and on and on. That's the kind of character my second cousin is. It's kind of fantastic.

George and his Grandfather, Milin, Czech Republic

So, feeling overwhelmed and undernourished, I took a (very short) road trip to the town of West, a respite from the heat and isolation of my current Waco. When I exited to a sign that read, "Czech out our Kolaches" I felt the cloud begin to lift and my yearning for apricots and poppyseed begin to grow. What's more, I felt a yearning for connection, for meaning, for understanding in a foreign land. I don't know that anyone understood me, but the gruff woman who sold me 3 authentic kolaches and then wished me good day, reminded me of my time with George and the strange connection that ties people by blood who'd never otherwise meet.

This post has nothing to do with graduate school, or my class, or Waco, or changing nearly every aspect of my life. And I think that "nothing" is just what I need right now. Oh, and a kolache.

In the Beginning...

I'm overcome, at 1am. Sleep escapes me and is replaced by the profound hope and sadness of overthinking anything and everything... more yet to come. Oh, so much more to come.

The Art of Leaving

Well the moving fairy has tapped her wand and granted me a few extra days to collect myself in Colorado before, what will surely be, a trying road trip to Texas. I have been unsuccessful in my quest to convince my mother that I will be perfectly safe driving alone... and when I say alone I really mean without the quirky woman who gave me life and is the only person on Earth who doesn't like music (no, really). Signe suggested books on tape, in particular Hank the Cowdog, which we listened to on a lengthy car ride to Keystone as kids. It's just nostalgic enough that I may avoid becoming homicidally irritated.

The past couple of weeks have been some of the most surreal, fantastic, and emotionally mixed in memory. I've felt incredibly sad, ridiculously excited, unpredictably apathetic, and very loved. I'm finding that leaving is much more difficult than I had anticipated a few months ago during the interview process. I finished out my final days of work with a "Stale Cake and Soda Party," a tribute to my lamination obsession, weeks of reminiscing past adventures, and a 64 year old homeless alcoholic in tears. "If you're really going to Waco, hell I'm gonna miss ya' kid."



Leaving is an art: defined not only by its subject but also by the style, medium, technique, and perspective of the artist. I'm making a conscious effort to adopt gratitude as my brush stroke, infuse my paints with optimism, and compose my canvas with reverence. I want to appreciate how lucky I am to have such wonderful, funny, and loving people in my life. I want to keep far, far from my mind the reality that many of my relationships with these people will likely change. But in the words of the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you waaaaaant."

You can, however, make a plan to get schnockered on Hungarian booze with your father (at his suggestion) to mark your departure.

You can dance to "Thriller" in Converse All Stars with your detox shoe twin.

You can descend Mount Sanitas while periodically asking your fellow sure-footed warrior, "Are you sure we're on the trail?"

You can dance at 1am to gothic folk revival music with your middle school locker partner and your high school art class comrade.

You can eat expired chocolates with your pinky in the air and the giggle of epicurean adventurers in your ear.

You can quote South Park with Fitzi-La and Jong E Nong.

You can drink monkey wine and eat salmon with your zombie-loving former co-worker and a friend who begins each phone message, "Laura, Laura Loo... where are you?" (adapted from Scooby Doo theme music)

You can talk about your move to Waco and their move to Taiwan in the same conversation.

And you can throw a small, plastic bus down the stairs to the shrieks of a 17-month old who's parents call you "Crazy Aunt" and were in Mrs. McMillan's 4th grade class with you.

Turns out I can live my random life and enjoy the strange and wonderful moments that seem to punctuate it. This painting, though crafted on a canvas of uncertainty, is alive with brilliant colors and a heart full of love. My paint can spilleth over.

The Things We Carry

Stuff. I've got loads of it... and most of it (I've come to realize recently) is completely unnecessary. In undertaking the arduous task of packing all of my stuff, I've found that I own approximately 5 gajillion pens, stock 40 types of salad dressing, and have saved (in the most surprising locations- sock drawer?!) each pay stub from every job I've ever held. Now how did I acquire, or rather retain, this much pointless... let's call it what it is: crap? The only explanation I've come to is a delicate balance of invisibility and stability. Allow me to elaborate.

To retain any volume of "stuff", which I'm broadly defining as "the things we carry," one must have a certain degree of stability. For example, the majority of my clients carry all of their stuff in a single and meticulously organized pack. Actively pursuing an addiction doesn't lend itself to stability and thus the things my clients carry are few. In three years I've searched the packs of hundreds if not thousands of indigent addicts and alcoholics and have made some bizarre finds: half-eaten sausages, transcendental literature, hammer and a ski mask (yikes). But by and large my clients have been reduced to owning only the necessities: food, clothing, and some method for managing the mind (sometimes the Bible, sometimes crinkled photos of kids taken away, often 40 oz. of liquid escape).

I remember one particular incident when my coworkers and I took a client's clothes and replaced them with our stock blue flannel PJs (standard practice when putting someone on a hold). As it turns out, the embarrassment of publicly sporting jammies can be quite effective at keeping drunk clients from splitting. In any case, this client would not be deterred from his pursuit of the next drink by a silly set of flannels! Instead, he decided to "borrow" the shirt of a passed out, mentally unstable, straight-up crazy homeless man before "escaping" out the window. I became aware of his transgression when the formerly passed out came storming down the hall, tongue ablaze with garbled but obvious insults.

Alas, our escapee would not enjoy his freedom for long and was soon returned by a pair of irritated Boulder uniforms. Naturally, I pondered how to prevent the melee that would certainly ensue when I returned the shirt and the two clients reunited. As a courtesy, I decided to ask Mr. Bare Chest if he wanted to press charges for the theft of his shirt. I'll never forget it, even in his drunken state with eyes wild from whiskey, he said, "He must have needed it more than me." Perspective is a funny thing... and sometimes intelligent and caring philosophies are revealed in the most unexpected ways. It's a good reminder for me to keep my ears open, even and especially when I'm not expecting to hear anything worthwhile.

I, on the other hand, have had stable housing all of my life. It's only in those dreaded times of relocation that I've been forced to examine the necessity of the things I carry. So yesterday, in the midst of 4 hours of dreaded time, I bagged up some of the stuff I really don't need and meticulously labeled it for its trip to the local donation center. I did this a while back with all the clothing that no longer fit as a result of my weight loss. I kept having premonitions of admitting clients wearing oddly familiar shirts and jeans with the bottom cuffs worn out. Of course this would be followed by a swell of pride and gratification for "doing my part." But isn't my part better done by not consuming and accumulating this crap to begin with? Which brings me to the other part of the balance of possession: invisibility.

In keeping with the American desire to drive the bigger Hummer, own the latest mega-computer, and sport those $150 jeans that everyone is wearing these days, its easy to turn a blind eye to all the stuff we acquired before our focus turned to that fancy new dining set we're lusting over. [Sidebar: nobody actually wants a fancy new dining set, which is why its the hallmark of the "lesser" showcase on the Price is Right showcase showdown. Everyone knows you bid on the showcase with the trip to New Zealand- hello!?] I propose that in concert with stability it is that focus on the new and next which has made all I already have nearly invisible. Thus the 50 gajillion pens. Something about packing the things I carry has dropped the veil of invisibility. Suddenly I'm acutely aware of all I have, and the swell isn't pride and gratification but embarrassment and gratitude.

This is getting long and hypocritical as I sit amongst plenty which is not bagged and meticulously labeled for donation. Progress not perfection, I guess.

"An object in possession seldom retains the same charm that it had in pursuit."
–Pliny the Younger