The Arc Camp and Amelie

I have a knack for winding up in really random arrangements. The startling thing is, I usually don't realize that it's a little odd until I'm up to my neck in a pickle, realizing that I should have run while it was pooling at my ankles.  If this sounds concerning, it's really not. It's more just funny. I am wide-eyed and chatty and a bit of an open book, but not altogether naive and reliant on friends who say things like, "Sarah, if it's weird after fifteen minutes, you don't have to do it."  (dear friends, thank you for that, by the way)

During my school/work limbo, it was through such a roundabout way that I worked at the ARC camp with special needs children.  Hey, I thought, I like little ones, and while I didn't have experience with this particular population, I felt confident.  If you promise not to pass judgement, I'll tell you that I never felt particularly drawn to working with special needs children, so I saw this opportunity as a means to render a match. For better or for worse, I can be pushy with myself that way. Sometimes it makes life rich, sometimes after much hammering, I realize that "oh yes, square pegs really do not fit in round holes." 

I admit, I am ashamed that in working with these campers, I ever imagined I could make anything happen at all.  A bit embarrassed that I actually thought, "oh let me use my skills to provide them services." 

Well, when I type it out like that, it really doesn't seem so shameful now does it? After all, that is why one gets hired for a service position, and helpers in particular always experience this sort of rub.  I guess, as I am processing, the greater issue was that I marched (first faux-pas, never "march," it's obnoxious), right into my camp counseling duties and forwent opening myself up to them.  Unknowns are daunting and sometimes that very human diffidence is easily compensated for by control. But, let's do ourselves a favor and try to learn from the newness rather than keep it in line. I am not preaching.  Hindsight is 20/20.

On day # 1 of camp I still was so arrogant as to assume that my expectations might be the real thing.  By day # 2 I realized I was wrong, not to mention I was plum tuckered out.  By day # 3 I was ready to quit.  The past 72 hours had been marked by tantrums, dirty nine year old diapers, food allergies and compulsive swearing that made me wonder whether or not a mis-diagnosis had occurred. Terrets, perhaps?  Truly, I had never seen or heard anything like it. Oh yeah, add in 100 degree heat.  Every. Single. Day. My life felt as repetitive as all get-out.  Like a nightmarish routine.  And I think routines in general are nightmarish, even without tantrums and food allergies. 

One day, mid-June, I came home from camp in desperate need of a hug, chocolate and a glass of wine. Apparently, I also needed to watch the movie Amelie. If you've never seen it, please do. It's artsy and eloquent and wonderful. It spoke to me that sweaty June day because of a particular clip explaining Amelie's desire to help.  Helping, for Amelie, has to do with a) love and b) simplicity.  Nothing more, nothing less. She does not seem overburdened by deep care or deep concern, she just follows a pull to give of herself, and nothing has ever been easier. She keeps to her pure little way and it is lovely. 

I tried to carry this with me the next day at camp.  You know why? Because Amelie fit so perfectly with the Arc Camp.   Here I was, given this great opportunity to help in a very simple sort of way in part, because I was working with very simple individuals. I was doing quite menial tasks, but if I was patient, and present, and if, for one little boy, I drew 28 hamster wheels, life was perfect.  The next moment it might be imperfect, but then I drew hamster wheel #29 and it was perfect again. 

I had been furrowing my brow far too much about what to do and why to do it and how long the tantrum would last.  This tantrum was lasting, yes, but it would also pass, and in the meantime, my hand was on his shoulder. 

And a hush:

You are loved. You are touchable.  You are human and you are worthy. 

To my Arc campers: Thanks for loving me back.  You are dear, and far more patient than I. 

Blessing Hearts

I'm a fan of Southern culture. Now, if you are a born-and-bred Southerner (I am not), the charm may be less conspicuous to you.  Yet having grown up in a quite lovely, but altogether rough around the edges corner of New England, I will tell you that I like the niceties.  Some Yankees that I know (slash die-haaahhhd Red Sox fans slash avid skiiahhhss slash Hahvaaad grads) are quick to call the friendliness phony.  It very well might be. But, it also might not be. Besides, most days I like warm and friendly people and unless you catch me in some nightmare, I usually am one.  So, to my Down-Easters, I say: "Don't worry, they don't want anything from you."

I'm not even sure that a memoir would do the differences between Waco, Texas and Boxford, Massachusetts adequate justice. Sometimes driving around, I'm obliged to re-articulate to myself how it is again that I ended up here, because it just feels, so, well, random.  Remember, Sarah? Remember?  You were working in that cube and you felt like a caged bird or something, and you wanted an adventure and liked the idea of cowboy boots, and "y'all" and social work and here you are. When I tell myself that story, sometimes I feel pretty cool and fly by the seat of my pants, and sometimes I feel like a flake. Maybe there's not a difference.

I sound flippant.  Let me clarify.  Even when I feel my feathers in the wind, I am filled with divine peace and gratitude. I am convinced that God led me to this sweet little spot in the center of Texas, and has graced me abundantly with community that has helped me to heal and trust and believe in a God that has come and is coming and wants me to be a part of it all. 

Still, the culture shock is funny.  And I'll be frank: as much as I'm a fan of southern hospitality...the "m'ams", and the "dowhat now's?" , and the little grocery baggers who say these things to you as they help you out of the HEB, I still miss many things about my roughish and rustic New England town. Am I allowed to miss it and not want to go back? Because I do.  I deeply miss it but am quite content staying right here. 

I'm also hopelessly nostalgic so sitting with the memory can be fun. Let me indulge for a moment:  I liked that the houses were all two-story clapboard colonials. I liked that there were lots of windy roads and stone walls, and town commons, and things and places and buildings established in the 1600's. And, no offense to barbeque or anything, but I liked that there could be things at a party besides well, just that.  Or beans.  There will be always all sorts of beans as long as I am in Texas. 

So, this brings me to the real reason I started writing. The point, if you will, though I usually hate dragging in the point. I used to think the expression "bless your heart" was really odd.  If you didn't know that it's Southern, I'm here to tell you it is.  Sort of like the equivelant of "wicked" in the North.  Perhaps, such expressions could be a greater metaphor for their respective regions. I won't go there.  

I first heard "bless your heart" when I was at my friend Lauren's house in Memphis.  She had a rash on her arm, and her mom kept looking at it and "blessing her heart." I'm really not a literal person, but I did keep thinking, why is she saying that?  And like many idiomatic enigmas I come across here in the South, I first, wonder if it's a Southern Baptist thing. But, "bless your heart" is not.  It's more of a thing that you say with a smile and an emphatic twang and it's mainly just for fluff. I never really liked bless your heart because I thought that it meant something bad or gossipy or rude was on it's heels.  Not that I never participate in these things, but if we're going to be sassy, let's call it what it is and not guise it with the blessing of the heart. 

So, I've found a new-found love for this expression.  Do you want to know why?  On Christmas Day (yes, I worked on Christmas Day), a seven year old boy came into my office.  He is the quiet type that speaks with insight when he does in fact, speak.  And unfortunately, in the chaos of my work environment, I get to listen less frequently than I wish.  He said: "Miss Sarah?"  I said, "Yes?" He said: "I made something for..." I looked up, and he was pointing at me.  I said, "What do you have?"  He showed me this: 

And, I melted a little bit.  What do you even say besides, "I'll put it up on my door!"  I have never met a more sincere blesser of the heart.  He's allowed to say that one :)