Francis Ford Copolla never had to deal with this...

My mother and I cried today... but they weren't tears of pain or frustration. Rather, they were tears of laughter fueled by memories and really bad videography ala my father. It seemed appropriate that during my homecoming we might delve into such memories with the help of some old home movies, so sure enough after I mentioned it in passing yesterday my mother dutifully set up the camera and we sat down today for a serious flashback.

As a result I relived 1987, my first day of Kindergarten, and the day I learned to ride a bike. I also watched my 3-year old sister play tetherball with herself for a solid 15 minutes... clearly this is before my father learned that just because you CAN record moments for posterity, doesn't mean you necessarily SHOULD. It was very Napoleon Dynamite. Perhaps my favorite moment was my father interviewing me after my first day of school. I'm swaying back and forth in our backyard swing and about every 2 minutes my Dad tells me to stop and asks me if I'm trying to drive him crazy, eventually sighing, "Francis Ford Copolla never had to deal with this!" Ahh, childhood.

After the laughfest, my mother mentioned something interesting. She noted how interesting it was to see how enduring some of our personality characteristics were. And she was right, I noticed myself and Liz doing some of the same things as children that we do today. Gives some credence to the nature side of the nature vs. nurture debate. So it was on my mind again tonight as I played "Crazy Aunt Lora" to my best friend Travis and Nicole's daughter, Avery. She'll be two next month and she's developing at the speed of light. I couldn't help but wonder which qualities will endure in her, and how those qualities will present themselves in the person she will be as an adult. She is so much like her parents... like Travis she loves repetition, like Nicole she likes things to be organized and "just right." Having known Travis and Nicole since we ourselves were kids, it's funny to see how these qualities have been enduring in them since childhood too.

That's one of the things I appreciate most about maintaining relationships since childhood. I've blogged about this a lot, but it's truly a special experience to see the progression of people you love over time. It's hard to feel like I'm missing that progression as a result of moving, but that's an essential part of my progression. Avery's been talking about Crazy Aunt Lora for weeks, but the first time she saw me upon my return she started crying... she didn't recognize me, it had been 1/4 of her life since she'd seen me! Thankfully, I'm learning that 6 months of separation isn't that difficult to overcome and the love that characterizes such long-term relationships is its enduring quality.

The Road Home...

It's been 6 months... more than 6 months actually. Time keeps on ticking, I keep on learning, and I keep on seeking out new experiences. One of those experiences is returning home for the first time since "truly" moving away. I haven't lived at home since high school, but I've always lived within a hour's drive of the home I grew up in, the friends I learned multiplication and sharing with, and the places that are burned into my brain since birth. On the one hand, I can't believe it's taken me this long to have this experience, but on the other hand I realize that some people die having never lived more than a stone's throw from their birthplace.

The concept of seeing old things with new eyes is one that I've been thinking about since a dear friend mentioned it in an e-mail last week. I feel like I'm returning to all that I know, but frankly, I don't know what it will be like. My eyes are indeed "new" and my perspective has changed... I'm still wholeheartedly myself, but with 6 months greater perspective. In that period I've moved to a different state (let's be honest, Texas is kind of a different country), built a support system from the ground up, started an intense doctoral program, started an intense new job, coordinated a clinical research lab, had a car accident, broken a bone (haha, okay it's my toe, but it counts!), had a family health scare, and made it out in one piece! Now that's some perspective. We'll see how it translates to good ol' Colorado... which is still, very much, my home.

I ask my group to do "final thoughts" a lot at the end of our group: a thought that reflects on the day so far and the day ahead. It's funny, I end up seeing the "doorknob effect" a lot. Clinically, it's the phenomenon of a client coming to see you for therapy for an hour but not speaking the real problem or feeling until the moment they're opening the door to leave. So my final thought is:

There's no place like home.

Love,

Laura.

Sunday Conversations

Some relationships are best described by a glimpse into their exchanges... I'm completely guilty of keeping e-mails, cards, text messages, voicemails, and verbatim memories of conversations stored away as a reminder of the people that make hanging out on this planet worth it. I joke with Travis about some of the voicemails of his that I've saved for months because every 30 days when the nice automated voice at Verizon reminds me that I should erase my saved messages, I get to enjoy the ridiculousness of his 2 minute rambling messages and laugh about them all over again.

Maybe I'm just sentimental, or silly, or incapable of letting go... but in lieu of writing a rambling blog entry myself, I'll let some of the people in my life speak for me.

So, here's a glimpse into a single day of relationships... a select sampling of today in dialogue:

Jack: "Do you like banana pancakes?"
Me: "Umm, basically I don't like anyone who would answer 'No' to that question. It's pretty much my yardstick for a quality person."
Jack: "Hi, nice to meet you, do you like banana pancakes? No, you say?"
Me: "Yeah, you don't know this but we're not going to get along."
Jack: "I see, by the way I just bought a griddle. When are you coming over for banana pancakes?"
Me: "As soon as possible."

_________________________

this is a super official email. you know because it smacks of official-ness.

bunchy which pictures do you still owe me? i think there are some but i am not sure.

ps. bring your camera today.
pps. i think jigs is coming, i hope, and that would be fun.
ppps. i am kinda dressed like an art teacher again today.
pppps. when can we have an italian-movie fest?
pppps. what are you doing tonight?
ppppps. the last two ps's had the same number of p's.
pppppps. all my ps's have proper grammar. be proud. <3
ppppppppppppppps. i can't wait to go to homestead, it's gonna be fairly rockin. okay fine, really rockin.

i hope you get this before we go.

punchy.

_________________________

Just a quick holiday party follow-up. Please vote for the following.
1) For the 3-tiered beverage fountain, I would like my beverage to be:
a. margaritas
b. straight whiskey
c. grape fanta
d. other: ______

2) As part of the party reveling, I would like to experience:
a. the world's worst R&B "comcast on-demand karaoke" on Jane's tv
b. Trivial Pursuit: The Longmont Edition
c. having an artist paint our group portrait in lieu of digital photos
d. other: _____

3) I plan to attend said holiday party on Saturday the 20th:
a. without a doubt
b. had the wrong date in mind but now I'm sorted out
c. with a faux English accent, like Madonna

happy weekending,
Jane the Very Exhausted
ps- Tom and I just had Vietnamese food, and my fortune was "you will encounter fortunate circumstances at different times in the future". Voting preference will be given to those who tell me a fortune that's even remotely better than this one.

_________________________

Me: "I should call my Mom and make sure I can use her car that day so I can meet you guys for lunch."
Fitzi: "Ha, don't you feel like you're 16 again... you have to ask to borrow the car."
Me: "I know!"

_________________________

me: No, I don't think thats measured in the discrepancies (according to the book)... but maybe you're right and we should just use the simple difference method. Let's just do the best we can and have Sara rip it apart tomorrow.

Shehzad: okie doke

I don't care too much anymore hahasee ya in the morn for the best freeman center day ever

plus dinner

me: now THAT's what I'm talking about!! :)

Shehzad: course I'll probably ask you something before then

me: haha, I know... likewise.

Shehzad: cool :) bye for now then

me: ciao for now (hey, that rhymes)

_________________________

Of all our family other than me, you're the only one that really has the capacity to write, that is, to communicate in an archaic form of communication begun with the Semites on the deserts of the Middle East 5,000 years ago, and which ended with the cell phone and Blackberry in our own times. Being able to write to you is like being able to communicate with someone in Latin, another now dead language.

You should not lose your ability to express yourself with the written word. We're one of the least permanent societies that ever existed on the earth. This email message will never be printed and will be lost to time in a year at best. If you download it to a CD, the CD will be unreadable in 10 years. If you print it, it may last 100, but by then, nobody will be able to read anyway because they've also lost the ability to write. If it were carved in stone, as were the hieroglyphs of the Egyptians, people could still read it 4,000 years later. How odd it is. The Incas were an entirely oral society, as were their predecesors, the Wari and Huani and the other societies of Sourth America in pre-Conquest times. Nothing is known of them. The ONLY reason we know anything of the Inca, who would now be extinct anyway as a result of the natural process of time, is that the Spanish "Conquistadores" sent clerics, accountants and historians to document who they were, who were their gods and leaders, so they could justify the Conquest and forced Christianization, a form of cultural and actual genocide. How ironic it is, therefore, that those very destructors preserved them for all time. We only know of the Incas because they were the regime in power (to be conquered) at the time of the Conquest. Without the Conquest, they would be as unknown as the others. I could carry this absurd monologue to its logical limits, however I will abandon that to speak of things more current and interesting.

... Love, Dad

_________________________

Where do these people come from and how did I get so lucky to have them in my life? I love my peeps... those represented here and those I didn't happen to converse with today. There's always tomorrow!

It Really is Wednesday Again.

I kind of fell off the blogging wagon since moving to Texas, but after six months in my little corner of crazy I feel compelled to reflect a bit on the experience before it comes full circle with my return home in a week.

So, it's Wednesday again. Wednesdays are my rough days... they usually begin at 9am with me leading a hodge podge of substance abusing women in group therapy. To be honest, sometimes it's them that lead me, but that's the process. Throw in a couple of individual therapy sessions at the men's house, some B.S.ing with Shehzad over lunch, five hours of neuropsych testing, and I find myself collapsing on the couch at 11pm. Even though I'm exhausted, I end the day knowing I did something. That's really important to me... to know that my efforts at the end of the day served a purpose greater than just my own enjoyment. And strangely, I gain a sense of enjoyment from knowing I met that goal. Selfish selflessness at its finest, I suppose.

27 growing women
+ 2 hours
+ 6 criers
+ 3 apologies
+ 2 hugs
+ a sleeping pregnant woman
+ a touch of psychosis
+ a slew of denial
+ "Miss Laura"
________________
My Wednesday Morning

Something changed over the last few weeks. I stopped feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I started feeling confident, truly capable, in the work that I'm doing. I won't lie, it feels fantastic despite the exhaustion. I don't think I've ever been this unrelentingly active in my entire life, and frankly I had a twinge of regret for some of the opportunities I've missed by sitting back in life. I've changed a lot, not just in the past six months, but in the past few years. I feel like I'm closer to the person I wanted to be as a little girl imagining her life in the future, though none of the realities of my life are close to those long ago visions.

At this age I pictured myself married, living in a quaint and beautiful town, working in a professional job, thinking about children, spending time with funny and caring friends, buying a house... basically I pictured myself as a "cooler" version of my own mother. The reality is that I'm not married much less anywhere near motherhood, I'm living in Waco (heart of Bible-belt) Texas, I'm a student who shuffles between other peoples' offices to see clients who would have scared me as a child, I'm living alone in an apartment, and I'm spending time with funny and caring friends. All in all, it's nothing like my vision of who I wanted to be. Inside my head, when I allow myself to see it, it's even better than my vision of who I wanted to be. That "perfect" life I'd envisioned is so BORING! That life wouldn't have been challenging or forced me to learn... it might have been nice but it's so expected... and I expect more of myself than that.

So next week I'll be back in Colorado and likely conflicted about my role as a visitor at home. What a strange concept, to be a visitor in your own home. What a strange concept to believe that home lies in any particular place, or time, or people. Tomorrow is Shefrischmakwanzaka... the holiday celebration of my Waco family in my Waco home. I could explain the name, but it would require more backstory than I have the energy for right now. Suffice it to say, home is one of those concepts I've thought a lot about lately and to steal the sentiment of Maya Angelou,

"I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself."

Dammit, I started writing too late... now it's Thursday again. :)

These people say, "Thumbs up for Wednesdays!"

Waiting on the Platform

I took a drive yesterday... the kind that ends with the question, "Where am I and why don't I remember the last hour?" It's the nature of driving, and travel in general, that in very special moments one is able to lose all sense of space, self, and time. It's an incredible mindset I can compare only to stories my mentor Smiddy used to tell me about his mountain retreats. A man, a cabin, and a month in your own mind... things come up.

I love traveling more than most things. While its true that I enjoy the classic elements of travel (the sights, the sounds, the tastes, the people!), more than anything I enjoy the rare opportunity to feel "lost." To wake up in a foreign land, armed with only wits and a camera... no map, no plan, no expectations. Things come up. Maybe it makes me a little crazy (or only confirms that I'm actually my father's child), but I have difficulty describing my affinity for this experience. I've been craving that feeling for a while now, and yesterday I think it just overtook me. I blame it on genetics.

Ironically, this afternoon I got an e-mail from my Dad who's currently traipsing through Peru. He asked whether I thought he was going mad. He asked:

"Isn't it so that a man should do with his life what he wishes because it's his life. If Obama wants to lead his country and that's how he wants to spend his life, then he should have our support, and we gave it to him. If I want to run away from my country and become a tratamundos with a backpack and a running case of giardia, fending off robbers, shouldn't I also have the same opportunity?"

A few days before he left for Peru he went to the doctor about a nagging cough. Days later he had a heart aneurysm diagnosis and a his doctor's tentative "Okay, it's a bad idea but you do what you want.". In my own heart, I never doubted he'd go. He is mad, but so am I. We're addicted to the adventure of new places, things, and people. We're addicted to losing ourselves in those places, things, and people. I recall my own solo adventure across Italy, waiting in the dark on the platform at the stazione, feeling completely and wonderfully lost. Yeah, it's not for everyone.

When I heard about my Dad's heart, I thought a lot about my own. That which I truly love has never been material, it's experiential. In the absence of all things tangible, (most of us) have only our memories: those moments of feeling lost, unexpected words, the blood red Texas sunrise as I shoot down the I-35 overpass to class, the chill of a Colorado morning, familiar voices, a gentle touch, all mixed with a little pain and hope. So while I think my Dad is indeed mad, I understand his desire to create these memories. Life exists only in this very moment... but love exists in all those memories embedded in our hearts. If that won't fix an aneurysm, then...

Lost.

When it all sets in...

It's been ages since I last wrote, and it feels as though ages have passed since I started this journey. Technically speaking, it's been four months, but time has a strange pattern of slowing and speeding up depending on your situation and your mental state. I think it finally set in for me in the last few weeks... like a weight was lifted from my shoulders. It stopped feeling like a fleeting experience punctuated by thoughts of panic that (in the immortal words of Gob Bluth) "I've made a huuuuge mistake."

I'm actually comfortable here. When I manage to practice what I preach... that whole "gratitude schtick" I find that I've got good friends, challenging and inspiring work and academic opportunities, my health, the support and love of those from home, a nice apartment, and absolutely no reason to not take advantage of all I've stumbled upon. I don't know quite how to describe it, except that I've also made the decision to practice that whole "control schtick" I always blather on to my clients about, meaning I'm making the conscious effort not to worry about what I don't control. Which, let's be honest, is most things. Dammit, I've gone and counseled myself again!

Highlights of the past month or so:

1. "Harvest Night"- I made a pumpkin pie for the first time ever!
2. Lived through my first uneventful Hurricane (Ike).
3. Avoided (by 6 inches) stepping on a copperhead snake in Cameron Park- thanks Shehzad!
4. Broke my toe and inserted the term "sausage toe" into the lexicon of my entire class.
5. Biked on said sausage toe past every conceivable road kill in Texas, allowing for my first glimpse of an armadillo. And don't even get me started on the miniature donkey farm.
6. "Mexican Night"- with the second years, a good time was had by all.
7. "1920s Murder Mystery Night"- dressed all flapper-like, again a good time was had by all. Enjoyed Crystal's rendition of Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade all evening to distract from the fact that she was the murderer.
8. Survived the Motivational Interviewing training I inadvertantly volunteered to be a trainer for.
9. Got a surprise "push up" from the ladies in my group therapy. Some of my favorites: "You allow us to be the individuals we are and not the label we have acquired," "You were the one positive thing that I got out of being in here the first three weeks I was here," "Your kindness, gentleness and genuine concern for us has touched all of our hearts and has made an impact on me that will last a lifetime," "You make us think but we enjoy it," and the classic, "Thank you for being the only counselor that shows up to class every time you should." It was a real struggle for me to find my confidence in leading groups, but I'm glad I stuck with it.
10. After much practice and a stopwatch snafu I'm now authorized to administer the WAIS!! (Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale)
11. San Marcos trip with Crystal was an amazing vacation from Waco and a chance to bond with my friend!
12. Homestead Heritage, where it's pretty much a cult but you eat sweet potato fries and feel like you're at home. Shehzad and I have already set a date to return at Thanksgiving.
13. Crystal's birthday was a success- giant llama cookie and kayaking on the Brazos, you really can't beat that.
14. Oktoberfest with Jack in Dallas before he departed for another "round the world" adventure.
15. Saw the play "Urinetown" with Shehzad, pointing out that I did not have to go pee the whole show!
16. Made macaroons for my professor- got the final cancelled... they were THAT good.
17. "Ratatouille Night"- banana chocolate chip pancakes, pajamas, watching Ratatouille, recipe for relaxation right there.
18. Cinema Paradiso date with Kara, we laughed, we cried, we made tofu tacos.
19. Dr. Pepper Hour- I still can't get over this, every Tuesday afternoon free Dr. Pepper floats for all Baylor students.
20. Monday margaritas with Lex- she drinks, I eat chips, she talks sex offenders, I talk substance abusers. It's weird wind-down from a day of practicum.
21. Swimming, falafels, living room aerobics, frisbee, dancing, singing, and many other random moments that make me wonder how long we can keep up this pace.

I'm ready to admit it... wholeheartedly... I'm a total dork. But luckily there's other dorks here, who are strangely dorky in the same way. I truly, truly never anticipated my graduate school experience this way. I truly, truly resisted a lot of it initially. I truly, truly am grateful for coming to a place of appreciation and acceptance.

I wonder what it will be like to go home for Christmas and see those people and places I haven't for 6 months. But before my mind goes there, I'll make the conscious effort. I can't control it.

"Make it a habit to tell people thank you. To express your appreciation, sincerely and without the expectation of anything in return. Truly appreciate those around you, and you'll soon find many others around you. Truly appreciate life, and you'll find that you have more of it."

-Ralph Marston

"Vitame Vas Na"

What's the only event in Central Texas in which you can run a 5K, eat kolaches and fried pickles, dance to polka, play horseshoes, and belt karaoke tunes for a host of Czech transplants in a single day? C'mon... I don't need to say it by now. Who knew months ago when I wrote about my home away from home there off I-35 that such a small dot on the world map would give birth to what will hopefully become a yearly tradition for this Colorado girl? Clearly not me.

So the 5K was, in a word: HOT! I did not

accomplish my goal of "running" its entirety (damn hill at mile 2!), but I posted a decent time all things considered. My running companions, as predicted, kicked my ass. I've unfortunately discovered, again as predicted, that Tejas can have a somewhat deleterious effect on one's nutrition, fitness, and general health. Case in point: run a 5K, eat some kolaches. Some things in life aren't worth adhering to strict rules for... new culinary experiences (fried pickles) among them. Again the principles of balance and moderation come to the forefront of my thinking, which is something I've been thinking a lot about lately. Not those concepts per se, but the art and sometimes perils of "thinking".

Perhaps its the effect of beginning my cognitive behavioral therapy class, or having my own irrational thoughts mirrored by my clients, or that I still wake up some mornings with the belief that I'm in my "old life." Thoughts are incredible agents of change, and so infrequently are we taught to examine their validity. I've been making a more conscious effort to really look at those fleeting ideas that pass between my ears constantly throughout the day, and I'm shocked to find how often they're based in old school insecurities and riff raff from decades ago. It's true, those who pursue psychology in a professional capacity usually are quite curious about their own psychological underpinnings. That's certainly true of myself and my class compadres, and frankly, I'd be concerned by any mental health professional who didn't take a long hard look at him or herself.

So much of our lives are lived completely within our own heads. Even in those heart-to-heart moments we share with the people in our lives, there's volumes that goes unsaid, unrecognized, undone. There's a profound sadness in that isolation, but also a profound joy. No one will ever know me better than myself, and likewise I will never truly "know" anyone in that sense. But somehow it works, and somehow people converge in the same location and connect over those little shared joys despite the mental disconnect. Like the joy of Billy Joel's "For the Longest Time", done karaoke-style with Shehzad and Kara, in a glorified barn, in the Heart of Texas, under a Czech flag, in this weird and wonderful concept of living despite all "thinking."

"No matter where you go or what you do, you live your entire life within the confines of your head."

-Terry Josephson

From D-Town to San Antone

If you're going to move to Texas, might I recommend the creation of a Bucketlist? Sure, sure... the idea is a blatant rip-off of a movie I've never even seen, but it has given my presence here a kind of structured adventure that has actually ensured that I appreciate the eccentricities of my new locale, and my new companions for that matter.

My dear friend Jane wrote a blog about the way a life list can catapult its creator into new and interesting situations almost as if by magic. That Jane is a wise, wise lady... and though the Bucketlist that my "Turtles" and I are ever-creating seems to be more time-limited, it's taught me to two-step, led me to a Hare Krshna temple, let a death-row prison officer serve me real Texas barbeque, put me close to death on a horse called "Mama", and had me volunteering in order to sample the finest salsa and margaritas in all the land. I've historically stated that I engage in a lot of random adventures purely for their kitsch and storytelling value, but this is getting ridiculous. And when I say ridiculous, what I really mean is... ridiculously awesome.

So, I've been able to sneak away for a few short road trips... the first to Dallas, and then a longer stint in San Antonio. More and more I'm embracing the idea that any place is what you make of it. Sure, Waco isn't the epicenter of culture and excitement, but even in a place like New York City which is brimming with those qualities, you can make yourself miserable.

I'm a firm believer that you can turn the most mundane surroundings into something enjoyable, and it's time to start practicing what I preach. Which is why I will be participating in yet another random event this Labor Day weekend... oh yes my friends, it's WestFest. A veritable explosion of Czech culture in a podunk Texas town filled with kolache and polka and what promises to be another checked box on the Bucketlist. Shehzad and I will be undertaking the full experience by running the Kolache 5000 Fun Run (a thinly veiled 5K justification for eating apricot pastries for an afternoon). This is life in Waco.

I'm sad to say that with "real school" (i.e. fall semester) starting, these days of lame adventure have a very short shelf life. I was sitting in supervision today feeling completely overwhelmed, thinking of how to recruit children to practice IQ testing on, when things got really clear all of a sudden. Put it on the list, make it an adventure, think outside the box, and things get easier almost as if by magic. On that note, 8am Assessment looms and this Waco warrior is tired from 10 straight hours of substance abuse counseling. This is life in Waco too.

I'm starting to get used to this.

Starting.

"You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses."

- Ziggy (the man)

Lord Bean and Pops.

I hear that autumn is coming, and if the flash-flood extravaganza of the past few days is any indication, it may already be here. I don't know how to mark the seasons here... there's no snow, it only gets slightly less oppressively hot (or so I hear). I can't look to the mountains for golden aspen trees, or relish in crisp, cool hikes at Chautauqua. There's just flat, and grass, and a tree here and there. I am craving Colorado, and bad.

I got an e-mail from my Pops today, really an extension to a previous e-mail. In addition to laughing at how ridiculous my father can be, I had a twinge of homesick sadness for all of the people I've neglected to keep in better touch with since my move. Most of all my father.

I've always had a special connection with my Dad. I'm sitting here thinking of how to best describe such a connection but it's difficult to articulate. Is it the way we can talk for hours about everything from politics to Peruvian textiles, or that from my earliest memories he always treated me as though I had something valuable to say, or my childhood years when we'd sit in his chair together reading National Geographic, watching 1950s sci-fi movies, and listening to The Corries? I think it's that more than any person in the world, my Dad knows me. There are countless things he doesn't know about me, but he knows me all the same.

Me and Pops worship the great Lord Bean in Vienna, Austria.

Laura,

I looked at my email to you from last night and realized it was titled "geese and group therapy," but I didn't say a word about geese in the email. It was on my mind because the skies are thick with geese these days. The weather is signaling the coming of Fall and all the geese are flying back and forth along the Front Range, especially at sunset, finding their way to their wintering grounds. It's impossible to go outside and not hear the "honk"-ing of hundreds or thousands of geese overhead. Nobody has ever seen so many geese before. It's incredible. Also, there are two pairs of "Swainson's hawks" that have taken residence outside my office, the first time I've ever heard of the bird or seen a hawk in Longmont. They're huge and have an eerie cry that sounds like all the wilds of the mountains. The birds are huge and people are stopping on 17th Avenue to look at them and photograph them. I'll try to get a picture today and send you one. In the foggy wine-sodden hours of last night when I emailed you, there seemed to be a clear correlation between geese and group therapy, but in the bright, coffee-stimulated light of day, I don't remember exactly what the comparison was, but you have a good imagination. Bye again.

Love,

Dad

Thanks Pops. I'll do a better job of keeping in touch, I promise.

What I Learned in Rehab.

Ever wonder what your childhood self would say to see you now? I think back to my childhood self and think there's no way that young, innocent girl would ever believe who and where I am today... and then, I'm really not that different in many core, essential ways. Part of my fascination with psychology is this idea that we are products of a wobbly teeter-totter of genetics and environment. I get the opportunity to investigate this tenuous balance in-depth each day I sleepily stumble between the stately Southern mansions that house the residential drug and alcohol rehab facility where I work.

Today I saw a felon cry. A man so institutionalized by the prison system that his note requesting a meeting with me was signed with his inmate number. A crack addict so conditioned by the correctional culture of fear and violence that I could count the number of times he's looked me in the eye on a single hand. All of those behaviors are very clearly a product of environment... except the tears he labored to keep within, those were very clearly the product of a kind human being concerned about his love, the woman who supported his entering rehab and making a better life for himself.

I've been sitting across from this man, my client, for weeks now. As I've watched him tumble over his words and avert his eyes, I've been haunted by this nagging insecurity that there's nothing I can possibly say or do to help someone so very different from myself. But today I got it. I mean I got it again. For a while when I first started my new job it felt as though I'd lost my confidence in my ability to counsel, even though my years in detox had put me face to face with people from all walks of life. Despite our environmental influences, at the core most people are motivated and affected by the same things.

It took a teary felon to remind me that while I haven't spent years in prison, nor been addicted to crack, nor lost my family and children, nor lived on the streets, I have indeed been to rehab. More critically, I'm human. I suppose that's the only true requirement to be of assistance to an addicted person... though knowing the nitty gritty of drug culture (Who knows what a fry is? Hint: it involves embalming fluid!) sure comes in handy sometimes.

Moving to Waco has been such a roller coaster of emotion, I've allowed my focus to drift back to all that I'm missing and those things that aren't "just so." So there it is, the biggest and best lesson I've learned (multiple times) in rehab: gratitude. There will never be enough and things will never be "just so" and with that as my standard for happiness I'm assured to live a life of disappointment. Or, I could have more than enough and things are "just right because they just are" and suddenly, though nothing measurable has changed, life is easier. The world is full of possibilities again.

And they paid me to teach me that... how lucky am I?!

And... scene.

So much has happened, not the least of which is I've survived my first semester of graduate school. I've also discovered that professors give A pluses, which is nice for the ego but carries a "gold star, pizza party, spell-a-thon" element that makes me dream of 3rd grade. Actually, our final day did include eating pizza on the classroom floor and watching Hitchcock's take on psychotherapy (Spellbound, ripe for laughs with the right crowd!)

Last day of Frisch's class, in the words of Shehzad: "Merry Frischmas!"
(missing Alexis, she's taking the pic)

I've also managed to get relatively comfortable at my new job, and even more exciting is that I no longer actively dread leading group therapy. Matter of fact, I'm getting better at it (most) times. I decided to change my group philosophy, and sometimes I have to giggle to myself to see how much it's been able to impact the group dynamic. It's another example for me not to be afraid to try something new. My heart swells when I hear my clients believing in themselves... nauseatingly Pollyanna perhaps, but in some way I hope that my groups contribute to that.

Why do alcoholics and addicts always introduce themselves with that label? "Hi, I'm Laura and I'm an alcoholic." I won't lie, it bugs the hell out of me, and my group members are fully conditioned to this practice. Here's where my new approach creeps in... now my members introduce themselves with one of their identities, but it's not always their addict label. "Hi, I'm Laura and I'm a superstar" (one client has adopted this as her new identifier, much to the delight of her peers). It's incredible what a belief in your own worth will do, and that's become my primary goal in group: encouraging self-efficacy and self-worth. What's the point of learning new skills when you don't feel like you deserve any better?

I'll have to say the highlight, however, was a client who in our "final thoughts" round in group said, "I just want to thank you Miss Laura. You make me feel intelligent." Heart. Swell. So that's why I do this? Or maybe it's for the laughs... the house supervisor was shocked to learn that my "accent" is not Russian and that I am, in fact, a US citizen. I was laughing over that tidbit all morning.

So things are what they are. I'm learning, I'm growing, I'm challenged, I'm tired as all get out, I miss home and the people I love, I'm beginning to love the people in my new home: it's a mixed bag as per usual. I've got my little "family" of Turtles (derived from the Teenage Mutant Ninja variety, or the only famous foursome we could think of at the moment), and somehow I've picked up the nickname "Babunchkin." Maybe the house supervisor caught wind of that and thus the Communist comparison, who knows.

More on the adventures that were Dallas and San Antonio soon!

"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