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. 

Paying Attention (to paper towels and other things).

I use way too many paper towels.  Last spring, I house-sat for a lady who is a committed eco-friend. I am not.  I am probably more in the camp that wears the "love my planet Earth" t-shirts.  I know that's kind of embarrassing and I'm working on not falling into trends quite so readily.  Marketer's dream: yours truly.  For what it's worth, I haven't actually bought any of those t-shirts or the tote-bags pictured below, I just think they're cute sometimes. 

Anyways, this gentle friend of the Earth used seventh generation cleaners, and didn't have cutsey note-pads,  but most of all she didn't have any paper towels in her kitchen. Not in her kitchen, not in her pantry, not in her bathroom, not in the mudroom ( I looked). Nope.  No back up paper towels.  Instead she had a basket of colorful hand towels that I grit my teeth to dirty, but then remembered oh yes, there IS a washing machine, and it IS just lemonade.  All in all, her house was lovely and the dearth of paper towels made it all the lovelier. 

Ever since then, I have paid more attention to the amount of paper towels I use and am embarrassed. Microwave a potato? Wrap it in a paper towel. No time to mop? Spray a little Clorox, swish around the paper towels with my foot ( you know you've done it too).  Got two minutes? Spray the countertops and swipe 'em clean. Maybe I just need to calm down and not wipe things so much or something, but it's kind of second nature.  Regardless, I am spending way too much money on paper products and continue to give HEB grocery stores my livelihood in return for those little point coupons that amount to oh, three dollars. 

So when I eat up these paper towel rolls, it makes me think about bigger and more abstract things  (I'm totally normal, promise). As much as I try to be a good steward of the things that have been given to me, hence entrusted to me (yikes), and give back and share like we sang about in our pre-school performances,  I am still an avid consumer.  Of paper towels, yes.  But of other things too.  Of pretty and comfortable and illustrious things that do wonders for my ego so I might feel quite in control and quite in charge. Two news-flashes: a) I am not. b) Pretty, comfortable and illustrious is American code for debt and waste and consumption. Read: Anxiety. 

 Tricked? Are we all tricked into this grandiose business of striving but never actually arriving, all the while forgetting to empty out, breathe in and perhaps enjoy the view.  Only then are we grounded, feet on the floor, eyes open wide and deep enough to receive the unspeakable joy that comes about in our awe and interest, serenity and curiosity, gratitude and love. The things that make us human, for crying out loud! Only then in great grace and wisdom, after we have opened up, can we give back.  Cheerfully. 

As I am writing, I am reminded of an anecdote that Kierkegaard uses to illustrate, well, something of much richer significance than the parallel I'm drawing, but I don't remember his profound point.  I just remember the story, and it went like this: 

There was a  man riding home in a carriage on a dark and cold night. In his little carriage he arranged pillows and lanterns so he might settle in comfortably and enjoy the ride. The burning lamps, however, made the stars dim, and it was a beautifully starry night. He didn't see the stars. 

Poor old man! He was occupied with lanterns and pillows rather than the star-show. His view was lacking. And his world stayed small. 

Some people might say its okay, to be careful and stay safe, and keep gathering things around us, and do perfunctory things obsessively like use paper towels.  And maybe it is just okay. Promise, no judgement. I totally would have nested my carriage like Kierkegaard's friend.  But life is miraculous, star-shows and all and like Wendell Berry says, can we please not give up on it?  I'd rather sip out of a simple, cool and clear glass, trusting that it will in time run over again, instead of fretfully gulping down some scroungy mixture I know I can concoct whenever I need it. Hello, acid reflux. 

So, here's to paying attention in 2010.  To what we use and what we grab and what we hoard. Are we full? Are we open? Are we gracious? Or, are we skrimping by with our three dollars worth of HEB points?  

Look up! Look Down! Look All Around! There are star-shows.  Promise. 

Simple Truths

If you can't go deep, than you can't go high. 

Sometimes these words ring true.  But, not always.  That is: Does getting to the heart of things always beget freedom? Or, sometimes (if not all the time) is that free and fresh feeling a gift given to us and not at all the work of our own hands? 

May Sarton once said, "Go deep enough, and there is a bedrock of truth, however hard."  I like her insight, but I'm not sure if I cling to it as tightly as I once did.  Now, my affinity for a view like May's developed in and around a lot of things:  a liberal-artsy education for one, a penchant for all things philosophical, my idealism, and as I'm learning, my aversion to simplicity. 

I don't say "aversion" because I don't like it-- it's just a little counter-intuitive for me. I think it's hard to be simple in our culture. There's too much buzz about simple living and too many ways to "do" simplicity.  Which part of simple living are you going to embrace? Recycling?  Eating organic (or is it all-natural?) foods only? Committing less? Meditating every morning? Spending more time with friends and less time in the office? We have to wade through the options, which I guess is the point. I am not a very good wader.  I get distracted, and see each option as too opportune to forgo. Sometimes these "opportunities" makes for lots of mind-clutter (read: anxiety), sometimes these "opportunities" make for inspiring vision (read: daydreaming). 

In general I like this part of me, because I think it makes me a pretty deep person.  I don't mean extraordinarily intelligent or philosophically profound, I just mean deep. To me, life never feels simple because, well, there's just a lot out there.   Living is rich and full and brimming with deep suffering and joy. And I am curious about these things, and would like to feel them, and know them. Elizabeth Browning said it best: "Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes-- The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries." 

I don't just want to be a plucker, I want to take off my shoes.  But I wish I could find a way to make this simple in my life. 

The problem (or blessing, somedays) is, I think and see and dream a lot in layers.  Anyone with me here? The most concrete example I can give is that of language.  In college, I studied this theory explaining words as meaningless out of context. In short, language is loaded and therefore useless at face-value. For example, the word rain is a lament when spoken by a farmer whose crops are dying from drought. This is markedly different than a child looking out the same window, lightly singing, "rain, rain, go away."  The mood, the tone and the speaker all matter-- not just a tad, but significantly.  And it is only when we consider this significance that we can actually glean meaning from one. single. solitary. word.  

So, I do this.  Not just with words.  But with life.  Don't worry, I'm not totally neurotic or anything; I don't think it is a diagnosis-worthy condition. But, I get a little sick of the devil's advocate game I play and the pitter patter in my head.  You ask me why she said that snide remark that hurt your feelings? Well, tell me what she had for breakfast, her last conversation with her boyfriend, whether or not she thinks sarcasm is an appropriate way to communicate, and perhaps, the way that her mother addressed her growing up.  Then, I might be able to shed some light on the situation. It takes some time.  Not to mention all sorts of energy.

I used to get really obsessive about just figuring it out.  Figuring out A through Z (then back up to L then down to Q) before drawing any conclusions.  There definitely is good in that process.  Like they say, it's the journey, right?  But, I don't think such a journey is the only way to the one true thing--  to the rich experience that I, and I'm sure most of us, crave. Or as Elizabeth would say, to the thing that moves us to take our shoes off.  

Sometimes, the reality or the end result, is just given to us, and quite quickly, without notice, preparation or due process. Sometimes the emotion is that raw, that deep, that real, that it simply does not matter. It does not matter how you got there, because it just is. 

In the line of work that I am in, I have the deep (deepest for that matter) privilege and sorrow of seeing people overcome by things that just are.  There is no rhyme or reason that warrants the simplicity and sincerity of grief.  And sometimes, if the timing is right, I am genuinely overcome too. For them? On behalf of them? Because of them? I'm not so sure which one it is.  

Still, I have no choice but to take off my shoes. 

It's as simple as that.