Some evidence is anchored there

My training tells me to use the best evidence-based practices.  Of course the way we gather evidence varies. I sat with other substance-abuse counselors yesterday.  The session was on reality therapy.  I remembered how I feel more real in the presence of fellow addictions folk, perhaps because I am more real with them.  Probably evidence varies.  Sitting in the mis-matched chairs in the treatment center there is concrete evidence we are all human and everything is not perfect.  No one pretends it is different.

All the research presented

Is from years ago.

She is quick to point out

Some research has been done

On this,

Some evidence gathered

Years ago now.

People will choose to do

What they want to do.

Find out what floats

Their boat.

Call it

Their Quality World.

Seek out the positive thoughts

Like sails

On the horizon.

Anchor them in the harbor

Of the ocean

Of their Quality World.

As an afterthought,

A piece of flotsam, perhaps,

Remember to take your time

Slow down

Breathe in

Breathe out.

Remember your office

Offers

Safe harbor.

Some evidence

Is anchored there.

Reality Therapy

Today I will attend a workshop on Reality Therapy for Addicts.  It reminds me of the group meeting at the halfway house when one member said he was feeling existent.  Another member laughed and mentioned the acronym S.O.B.E.R. (Son Of a B****, Everything*s Real).  Yep.  Reality therapy.  Probably helpful for all of us.

Today*s topic :

Reality Therapy.

I have no idea what it involves,

But reality seems

Like a good idea

Most of the time.

When my ears were being cleaned out

Yesterday,

Hydrogen peroxide masked

Any sound from the outside,

Bubbled and spit,

Champagne popped in my ears.

Today*s topic

Is Reality Therapy

For addicts.

My ears are clean,

Ready for reality.

I will see

How it applies

To therapy with the addict.

I*m sure somehow

It will be helpful

To me.

In thanks

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  This year we*ll help with the Soup Kitchen Thanksgiving at Trinity, Aurora, and then have a three person vegetarian, diabetic-friendly home-cooked meal with lots of Reddi-Wip and canned cranberry sauce, with the can marks left intact.  Where tradition is involved, detail is important, whether it be particular food, particular songs, or even a roomful of men in recovery offering what they are grateful for every Wednesday night at 6:20 after dinner.

Every year

Thanksgiving reminds me

To name out loud

The big and small things,

The people especially near and dear;

Even the squirrel who sits

In my office window;

The children who sing

The Wheels on the Bus

Followed by

Jesus Loves Me

At approximately 11:45

Every morning.

Every Sunday

Communion reminds me

To hold it all Holy

Bread and wine

Becomes Body and Blood,

Transforms the people gathered

Outside in,

Inside out.

One week away

From the halfway house,

I remember gratefulness

At 6:20

Every Wednesday evening

After dinner.

All of it flows.

All of it echoes

Together

Always.

Last day

Some days the reflection is the day itself.  Few words.  Today is my last day at the halfway house.  I have had no extra moments to write.  Even with no extra words for reflection, I am exceedingly grateful.  Diocesan Convention tomorrow.

We are never paid what we are worth

I write this knowing it may not be heard as politically correct.   I write it as a first level licensed professional counselor (LPC) who has both so much particular experience (as priest) and not enough countable experience (as therapist) to be employed in a system which will only reimburse second level licensed counselors (LCPC).   Both seem to be used as reasons not to employ me.  I suspect, once again, it is, in part, a translation issue.  I may as well be speaking Pakistani.  

But really, beyond the counseling profession, in all of life, none of us is ever paid what we are worth.  

I am coming into my last week at internship.  It has been a blessing, all the way around.... the men in the halfway house, the counselors.  I have watched lives changed almost weekly.  I have paid for the experience.  It is well worth it.  In reality, I could never pay enough.

I have never been paid what I*m worth.

No one has.

A friend worked in Pakistan.

It was customary for foreigners to hire young men

To run errands.

The friend thought it demeaning

To the young men.

So he didn*t do it.

He was brought around by a particular young man.

In Pakistani the young man said

This is how I make my living,

It is an honorable living.

He was hired.

Happily he ran errands.

He was paid the going rate.

Of course

The rate was not

What the man was worth.

It never is.

I have never been paid what I*m worth

No one has.

I am a priest with degrees and licenses,

Soon a certificate.

I have years and years

Of experience.

Every place I go

There are things to learn,

People to learn from.

Most of my experience now

Is not for pay.

Still I need to be paid.

This is how I make my living

It is an honorable living.

I will never be paid what I am worth.

No one ever is.

Before yesterday

When I returned to the halfway house, there was one client who remembered me and welcomed me back.  Like everyone there, he is regularly screened for drugs.  Like everyone there, the behavior goes beyond particular drug use.  Like everyone there, he is in the process of learning new behavior.  Like everyone there, he understands a part of what recovery is about.  Before yesterday, I could say that I cared.  Yesterday, I didn*t.  Today, I do.  

Before yesterday

I could say that I cared.

He was the one who was glad

To see me

Four weeks

After the seizure

When I returned.

There you are

He said

There you are,

I*ve wondered where you were.

I knew I*d been noticed.

Before yesterday

I could say that I cared.

Yesterday he talked about

Dealing with four women

Including the mother of his child.

I listened to the guys

As they tried to show him

Up one side and down

The other

How he was still using,

Even though drugs were not

In the picture.

Using and dealing

Women.

Before yesterday

I could say that I cared.

Yesterday I realized I*d been

Used and dealt.

Today I care.

Sober

I have had a new feeling word added to my vocabulary: existent.  When a person has gotten used to not feeling anything, existent can be a good place to start.  Across the room from existent was exuberant,  Quite the range.

The group began with mindfulness,

Shorthand for closing our eyes

And being quiet for a time.

Then came the feeling word,

A group rule,

A house rule.

Last night they were also asked

For weekend plans.

The second to the last guy said he felt

Existent.

Everyone knew

What he meant.

So much of chemical use

Is escape from the world

As it really is.

The last guy asked

If everyone knew the word sober really meant:

Son Of a B****, Everything*s Real.

The laughter lasted

A long time.

I never would have thought existent

Was a feeling word.

Clearly

It is.

Hearts sing

I took four weeks off of internship after the seizure.  Now that I*ve returned, I find a different experience.  Somehow I have more to offer, more to expect, more to experience.  I even have more in common, somehow.  More of me combines with more of them.  Tonight is music night in group.  Tonight I expect harmony of a different sort.  We all have color to add to the group.  I am grateful.

It*s music night

At the halfway house.

The guys will bring in songs

That speak to their recovery.

There is something about the way

Words and music combine.

Hearts sing.

Last night was gratefulness

After dinner.

One of the new guys said

He was grateful

For adding color

To the house.

There are a lot of ways to sing

At the halfway house.

Last music night the group next door

Applauded through the walls.

There is something about the way

Words and music combine.

Hearts sing whether they are in the room

Or not.

Four on the floor

There are similarities between school and recovery.  Thank God we sit in pews in church.  No way to lean back and go over backwards.  I have been a fan of movable chairs in church.  Maybe this is one of the arguments for pews.

When my son was in second grade

He was placed in the class

With those who needed

Special attention.

A class full of those

Who needed special attention.

As near as I could tell,

He didn*t.

The teacher introduced meditation,

A darkened room,

And sitting on the floor.

At the parent-teacher conference

She said the only thing

She was concerned about,

Was my son leaned back on his chair.

That was it.

Really?

That was it.

I told her there were other things

That seemed important to me.

In the halfway house

One of the rules is

Four on the floor.

Yep.

Thank goodness there are also other things

Like

Keep coming back

And

Coming back

And

Coming back again.

It*s like forgiveness

Seventy times seven times seven

Times infinity.

It*s like all the forever things

We know are right and good

And meant to last

More than a lifetime.

Four on the floor

(OK)

But

Keep coming back

And coming back

And coming back

Again.

More lessons

What a blessing to be at the halfway house, to be learning from the staff and the clients there.  My vision is still wonky.  I still have epilepsy, though I hope the increased seizure meds mean that I won*t have another seizure.  I have a lot to learn, as well as a lot to give.  Part of what I continue to learn is the receiving piece, something I could ignore when I was reasonably self-sufficient.  Again, I am blessed to be at the halfway house.  Perhaps all of us are only halfway there.

I continue to learn

To receive.

It*s not so easy

With genetic arrogance

Which says

I can do it all

Myself.

I can*t.

Of course I can*t.

I was never in control

Anyway.

Now I have to ask for help

Or spend a lot of time

In squint.

Now I wait for the trainer

To lead me to the next place.

I could travel on the train to Union Station

And back out

To Glen Ellyn,

Hours on public transit to go

A short distance.

Or I could ask for help.

I was never in control,

Anyway.

I watch the guys in the halfway house,

Caught by human foible,

I watch them

Learn to ask for feedback.

I think

They are not in control.

Just like me.

We are all in recovery from something

I am back at the halfway house and grateful for it.  As I sit and listen to people talk about feeling like they are walking about with a sign over their head... the feeling is familiar.  My sign says different things at different times.  Nothing like wearing a clerical collar, or even having a seizure (not to equate the two :) ).  Someone last night asked me if the seizure meant I had epilepsy... and I said yes it did, thinking about the sign over my head, not unlike the sign that everyone in the halfway house wears simply by being there.  

They say things as if

No one has ever felt them before,

Said them before.

As if they are the first

To walk the path of recovery.

It winds out into the world,

Circles back home again.

We are all in recovery

From something.

To something.

This seems important

To note

In this halfway place.

Everyone is uniquely made

Special

Just like everyone else.

Where do we come from?

Where will we go?

From this halfway place.

We wind out into the world

Circle back home again.

It is all so familiar.

We are all in recovery

From something.
To something.

Trees walking

I was reminded of the two stage healing of the blind man today (thank you, Steve).  Sometimes insight comes in stages.  Sometimes we stop at stage one and decide it*s not worth it.  I returned to the halfway house yesterday and found two men who made it through the halfway house program, dropped out of the three-quarter house and were back on the streets using and selling.  I was sure they*d make it.  I*m learning.  I*d prefer not to learn this.  Sometimes when we see trees walking we think that*s all there is, and find it easier to return to life pre-healing. something with which we are familiar.

For as many as Jesus healed all the way,

All at once,
What about the man

Who saw trees walking,

Then had to choose healing number two?

What about all the people Jesus did not heal?

The crowds and crowds and crowds,

The men who left the halfway house

Poised on full life,

Who have gone back

To the beginning again?

What about them

Back to drink and heroin

Back to sales on the streets?

What about their mothers

Who weep?

What about those who are back

To square one

Or minus one?

What about the people

Jesus healed half way

Then it was back to square one

Or minus one?

Who tried to make it

Three-quarters and slid

To square one

Or minus one?

What about those who only saw trees walking

And decided to quit?

What about those who have to decide

To start all over again

Or decide they will never make it?

What about all those

Jesus waits for

At square minus two?

The change

Everything is done for the next doctor visit.  Yeah!  I believe it is important to mark accomplishment in small increments.  It allows me to notice things like fall advancing, and having conversations with Jeff like which parts of fall we appreciate the most.  I am almost done with internship, and though it will now take longer, I see possibilities for the finish, no matter what the next doctor says.

The trees did their thing overnight,

Made the flip to fall.

My husband likes the green

With hints

Of orange and yellow,

The burning bush in front

Just beginning to turn.

Me?

I am an autumn girl.

Give me full throttle color:

Deep blue sky

Made more blue

Framed In yellow and orange and red,

The window open at night

Cool and crisp like the way

My husband bites the Honeycrisp apple

With relish,

Juice drips on his chin.

I call for autumn.

I like the season fully turned.

I wait for it to show its best

most colorful side,

Its coolness,

The harvest fully gathered

Before winter.

It all lines up

Today I was supposed to be done with internship and on to the next chapter in my life.  Today I am reminded again that it all lines up... just not in the way I had planned... exactly.  Right.  This is not new.  At all.  Yet it is... again... new.  

Today was the finish line,

Supposedly

The last day of internship.

I was focused.

Then it changed to next week.

Then

There were other plans

Somewhere.

Oh I*m not going to say God wanted me

To have

A urinary tract infection,

A seizure,

A resulting concussion, but it seems

The right people were lined up

To catch me,

To call the ambulance,

To understand my laughter when it seemed the doctor

Didn*t know

the President of the United States.

The right people called on the phone this last week

At the right time.

The right person was there

To marry years ago,

Said the right thing

In

I will.

It seems I discover new rightness

Every day,

When I look at it,

Skewed or straight,

It lines up

Exactly right.

It lines up

Even down to my telling the doctor

In the emergency room

Last Wednesday

It is Wednesday.

It lines up even down to

My husband and the doctor

Being amazed.

Lint Traps

I*m back to thinking that all of us could use a good stint in a halfway house or even communal living.  We do it as families, but sometimes we don*t get the shared nature of it all very well.   Last night in small group we coined out two guys to a recovery home.  I will miss them!  At the same time, we had new guys who couldn*t understand why the lint traps were such a big deal.  In the halfway house, dirty dryer lint traps have consequences.

There*s nothing like work in a halfway house

To show the importance

Of cleaning dryer lint traps,

Or not leaving the dirty butter knife

In the cupboard

Out of sight.

These sound like small things,

But the guys learn that small things

Grow like Topsy

As my grandmother used to say.

They lead to consequences.

 Consequences arise

From lint

And butter knives

And doors left open

To the smoke deck.

Community consequences.

There*s nothing like the daily reminders

In the halfway house

Of consequence;

Reminders

That all of us contribute

To the mess

Or cleanness

Of a place.

The Wall

It is interesting to me to note who stays, who leaves the halfway house, and how they stay, or leave.  Sometimes the story seems clear, sometimes it gets clearer in time, sometimes it remains muddy and I*m left wondering if the whole idea is just to say to someone: See?  I gave it a try...when really all the effort went to maintain the facade, and the wall was hardly there at all.  

Yesterday I found my client

Went over the wall.

Of course he didn*t tell anyone.

Now I wonder why he was even there

At all.

There were pieces to the story

I will never know.

I do know

He did not find serenity

Here.

He knew the patter,

The steps.

He knew what to say.

He knew that he knew

Everything

Except

How to make this work.

On Friday

He went over the wall

Which is hardly a wall

At all.

Goals

The internship experience continues interesting and frustrating and clarifying.  Two-thirds through I name my goals.  Two-thirds through I find out that being available MWTh 1-9:30 PM doesn*t mean exactly that I need to be there MWTh 1-9:30 PM.  I was reminded by another intern: Remember you*re an intern.  You*re not being paid for this.  I, of course, have not been paid for a lot of what I do, and was treating intern time like I do any commitment I have made, paid or not.  Now, two-thirds through, I find that it means: Let them know when I won*t be there.  So now I have Monday evenings with my daughter.  A gift.

Two-thirds through the internship

I compile goals.

They have bullet points to match

All the pieces I have already done

With one or two yet to do.

I would not have known

The particular ways of the halfway house

Before I began.

At the beginning, I was asked

Do you have anything in particular

You would like to do?

I said

I*d like to learn whatever I can

About how this place works.

When you don*t know the particulars

It*s hard to know which particular things

Are there.

I did not expect I would eat dinner

Three nights a week

With the guys.

I did not expect ten minutes

Of gratefulness every Wednesday.

I did not expect

Two-thirds through

That I would be so clear

About next steps.

Prognosis

The education continues (always).  I guess I understand the need for prognosis, but really, even with a good sense of discernment and observation, I am wrong often enough in my predictions to give me pause.  After all, my own prognosis changes from day to day.

Monday I wrote a treatment plan

For someone who left treatment

Later that day.

Yesterday

I wrote the discharge summary,

Including the prognosis.

At dinner one of the counselors said

He wished we could discharge

In three sentences:

He left.

He did (well/ not so well/poorly)

In treatment.

We expect (good/not so good/disastrous) things

In the future.

He said

That should be enough.

Really

That should be enough.

Why work with people? At all?

One of the other interns I work with said yesterday that he wanted to be an addictions counselor because of the light that goes on when someone understands why they can*t go back to using.  It was a hard day yesterday.  Two group members left the program, both a surprise to me.  Sometimes I think I can tell who will make it this time, and who won*t.  I can*t.  It is humbling.  Still I am hopeful.  More humble, still hopeful.  It*s not just alcoholics and addicts or the mentally ill that fit in this category.  I know it*s me and everyone I know.   I know we can do things to nurture things along, but it*s up to the individual grabbing on that*s important.  Until then, we throw seeds willy nilly, and God holds the sparkle until we*re ready, each of us, to grab on.

It*s when you catch that look in their eyes

And you know they get it

He says.

I think of seeds planted,

Which ones grow

The exact right spot for germination

Which can never be determined

By us,

So we cast seeds willy nilly,

On rock and loam,

In the veritable desert.

We look to see the particular sparkle:

It says

A little more water here,

A windbreak there,

Put this one

Under a growlight.

Even

This one is best nurtured

In the light of the moon and stars.

We can only wait to catch

That look in their eyes,

Even knowing

This time may only begin

The sparkle

God holds the rest of it safe

Until the eyes and heart

Are ready.

Poet or no poet

There is change at the halfway house.  Guys come and guys go.  Sometimes they move into the recovery home, sometimes they move out on their own, sometimes they make it a week, sometimes it*s simply not time for them to be at the halfway house... a variety of reasons... really.  Friday the poet moves on.  He has always made sure I did not stack my own chair, or put it up on the table after community meeting.  Last night someone else from group grabbed my chair.  The poet laughed.  The other guy from group said Someone needs to do it.  It know it is not a small thing.  Not small at all.  Still, I only know a little of what it means.

This morning I wake grateful

With the cat at my feet,

No appointments to keep

Until this afternoon.

Grateful

Only somewhat awake

There are no appointments.

I won*t need to speak

Until 1:00.

I spoke with the poet yesterday.

He wrote in prison,

Letters and poems for the guys

Who couldn*t write

Letters and poems for girlfriends.

He says he did not write

In the halfway house,

Because there he has a cell phone.

The poet always flanked me

In group.

Now I think maybe

I flanked him.

Last night another group member

Made sure to take care

Of my chair after the community meeting.

The poet smiled and laughed.

I will see who flanks me

Next week in group

After the poet has moved on.

I will see who has been designated

For me to flank

Next week.

Now that I have a morning

Without speaking,

I can see the possibility

It has all been determined

Already.

Poet or no poet.