Category Archives: Social Science

The Artist’s Way: Week Three (What? It Was Week Three?)

Hmm. I am not doing so well with my commitment to myself on this journey. Writing of daily pages: zero. Artist’s date: zero. This adjustment to full-time work is happening s-l-o-w-l-y. However, I have been meeting my commitment to self-care. I’ve gotten 7-8 hours of sleep nightly, took a long, hot soak (does that count as an artist’s date?), and exercised. I quit Curves again. I just never went; the place was too friendly, too much chitchat and not enough focus on the workout. At $40 a month is was also pretty costly. So I joined Fitness 19 which is overall much much cheaper, and the variety of equipment appeals more. I’ve gone each day since I joined, and tomorrow I meet with a personal trainer (I splurged on two half-hour sessions) to establish my goals, etc.

Oh, and here’s a neat bit of synchronicity regarding art. This afternoon I went on a site visit with my manager to meet a woman about developing a project to help her community garden. My manager had an important call, so I went ahead to greet her and, in the process of getting acquainted, learned that we have similar interests and viewpoints on creativity. She is an art therapist. As for the project, here is what this woman had done: she single-handedly took on a labor of love, a project in a poorer part of town, to renovate a small garden space. Her goal was to create community in a neighborhood where there was distrust and animosity, to teach children about where food comes from and to value the fruits of the earth, and to nurture creativity. (This is my summary, and I hope I’m doing her vision justice.) The garden is a lovely space. There are mosaic bricks, a mosaic birdbath, handmade tiles on the bbq grill — all children’s artwork. They grew corn, tomatoes, squash, tomatillos, and pumpkins. Right now it’s dormant and needs attention, but she got to a point where she alone couldn’t carry on. She secured grant funding to cover materials but needs help with labor. That’s where my agency hopes to help.

In any case, this amazing woman, Carla Brooke, has a website featuring the types of classes and workshops she offers. Since I dream of someday facilitating a creativity workshop (I still think about having a coaching practice), I definitely brightened up when she mentioned this. In fact, I would like — for awhile — to enroll in a creativity group or workshop. Carla’s website url is intriguing: Studio in the Trees. The intersection of art, nature, and (for me) spiritual connection is a motherlode; I simply need to tap into it. What a pleasing way to end the week! Just last night I thought to myself that maybe I ought to pack up the art stuff for awhile. I haven’t knit in a couple of weeks. I started clipping images from magazines to make a soul collage (my first), but then a wave of exhaustion overcame me; the periodicals sit piled on the coffee table. This resistance is partly real weariness, but something else is happening here.

And then there’s week four of The Artist’s Way, which involves (brace yourself) reading deprivation. Yep. Apparently I am not supposed to read anything for one week: blogs, newspapers, websites, magazines, books. I assume this also means no writing on the blog either (since that involves re-reading and editing). The point is to break away from habits and try new things. As an avid reader, this is a tall order. I need to think about whether I will follow it strictly, moderately, or not at all.

Oh, one last thing. Here’s a shout-out to Kat, the lovely facilitator of this online journey. She got engaged this week!

Makes Me Wish I Were a Kid or a Teacher

If you have a child in school or know of one, you will appreciate the fun of The Flat Stanley Project. It’s awesome. In the author’s words:

More than thirty years ago, I was saying goodnight to my now grown-up sons, J.C. and Tony (Flat Stanley is dedicated to them), and JC stalling for my chat time, asked me not to leave the bedroom. He was scared, he claimed, and when I asked him what he was afraid of he couldn’t think of anything. As I started out again, he had an inspiration. ‘I’m afraid my big bulletin board will fall on me,’ he said. I told him that that was ridiculous; the big board on the wall above his bed had been securely mounted by me, and even if it got loose it would do so so slowly that he wouldn’t even notice it, just go off to sleep, and by the time it rested fully upon him he’d be sound asleep and wouldn’t wake, so the board would just lie there all night. Then I thought of small joke and said: ‘Of course, when you wake up in the morning, you’ll probably be flat.’ Both boys thought that was a hoot and many evenings after that one, we’d make up stories about adventures you could have if you were flat. Best idea I ever had, and I didn’t even know I’d had it. Not for many months, until a friend in the kid-book business, who knew about the flat stories, suggested I make them into a book.

According to the project website, “The Flat Stanley Project is a group of teachers who want to provide students with another reason to write. Students’ written work goes to other places by conventional mail and e-mail. Students make paper Flat Stanleys and begin a journal with him for a few days. Then Flat Stanley and the journal are sent to another school where students there treat Flat Stanley as a guest and complete the journal. Flat Stanley and the journal are then returned to the original sender. Students can plot his travels on maps and share the contents of the journal. Often, a Flat Stanley returns with a pin or postcard from his visit. Some teachers prefer to use e-mail only, and this is noted in the List of Participants.”

My knitting and blogging acquaintance Lain needs people willing to host Flat Stanley for her son’s project. If you’re willing, contact her via email (which is listed on her blog).

Can You Spare Some Change?

The Tenderloin knows the struggling merchants, harbors the drug deals and feels the pain of the drunk who lacks a way or a will to survive. The Tenderloin shoulders the despair of the youth shot down by the new knowledge that a virus hides in the blood, and understands the fear that expensive drugs affordable on the floors above may be unavailable to save a life on the streets below. The Tenderloin understands that sex can be just a job and that it’s the hunger from the outside, and the loneliness inside, that needs to be fed. The Tenderloin understands that though they might hide in the shadows behind the limousines arriving in the Theatres, or under the sparkle of the financial skyline, each person here thinks of this, San Francisco, as their own city and their home.

Removed from the reality of its streets, you’ll often hear people talk about avoiding the Tenderloin, saying they don’t like the neighborhood, or advocating mass demolition and removal. Even from within the district, people look down and hope that things will get better or go away.

The drunks on the corner; the old man in a wheelchair selling drugs; the undocumented immigrants who work themselves into a hidden economy and new life; the students who live here because they can’t afford to live anywhere else; and the old people who have stayed because it is their home: the streets are theirs.

–Eric Miller, New Colonist

I’m still learning my way around San Francisco. The other evening I needed to attend a panel discussion on homelessness that was held at the YMCA in the Tenderloin. I rode the Muni with my coworkers, and we walked the three blocks from Civic Center Station together. When I left after 8 p.m. alone, I re-traced my steps. I was not wearing flat shoes, did not know exactly where I needed to go, and thus felt a little vulnerable. I made my way past ragged people sitting on the sidewalk, down the hill past the Hastings College of Law. As I approached the station, I saw a woman sitting in a wheelchair, without legs, holding a plastic cup.

In the past I typically have not given money to pandhandlers. Many years ago when I was a poor working student, I literally didn’t have pocket change to spare. I needed it for bus fare and food. I lived from paycheck to paycheck. Later, living in Texas, I felt uncomfortable reaching into my pocket for money; I did not feel safe. Eventually I began handing out bottled water to panhandlers at traffic intersections. In Texas, especially during summer, water is essential.

Yet that evening I had just heard about the problem of homelessness in the city and was reminded of how incredibly blessed I am to be healthy, employed, have shelter and food and clothing; blessed that I am not addicted to a life-destroying substance, that I have education and experience to give me opportunities. The woman in the wheelchair had a frail, weather-beaten face. She asked if I could spare change; I dug into my pocket and gave her what I had. I said that I didn’t have much, and she replied, “Even a penny will help, dear.” And then she thanked me.

One hundred feet later I was approached as I headed into the station. A young man said, “Excuse me,” and began telling me his woes as we walked downstairs. He was broke, had no place to sleep that night except at a buddy’s motel room, but it would require $7. He had a wound on his leg that he was supposed to keep wrapped, and he went so far as to lift his pant leg to show me. It was indeed a raw looking wound. He kept walking along until I got to the gate. He did not ask for anything specifically and ended with “Anything you could do to help…” To which I answered that I was sorry, I could not. He expressed disappointment. He’d gone through the effort of telling his story for nothing.

All the way home I pondered the situation. Should I have given something? Why did I not? Well, I felt uncomfortable stopping to dig out my wallet to give him money. I was loaded down, my messenger bag heavy with books, my purse tangled on my shoulder. I had no more spare change in my pocket. I did not like the fact that he hooked onto me, following me down the stairs as he told me a sad story. I did not like the fact that he didn’t directly ask me for what he wanted. I felt manipulated, even if he wasn’t consciously playing me. If he’d directly asked me to spare a few dollars, would I have done so? If I’d had a buck in my pocket, I may have. So one reason I didn’t was that I felt unsafe.

Another reason is expressed by these questions: Where does it end? If I give to one person, shouldn’t I give to them all? I can’t afford to, can I? If I don’t give to every person who asks for change, how do I determine who deserves my money?

Another question: How do I know my money won’t be used to buy drugs? If someone says they’re hungry, I could offer to buy them food from a nearby shop. But that still puts me at risk. What if the person attempts to mug me in the process? And really, can I afford to buy a sandwich for everyone who asks for food?

I am saddened by the fact that I live in a world where so many are homeless. I am also grieved by the fact that I am uneasy and on guard, that this edginess mutes my willingness to help. I had some bad experiences many years ago, particularly with men. In one case I was hit in the face by a man on the bus who was egged on by his buddies; the bus driver did nothing. I moved to the front of the bus, and the man who hit me followed me up front, threatening me. The other incident involved a man who lived upstairs from me in Syracuse which involved him speaking abusively to me and grabbing my butt. And there was also the assault (committed by an acquaintance, but it still reverberates in my life).

What is my moral obligation to the world? How do I meet it? Those are the questions on my mind. I give regularly to certain non-profits that deal with literacy, children, environment, wildlife, and hunger. Should I be doing more at street level, one-on-one with humans, meeting their eyes and extending compassion? In the meantime, I’ve decided I will carry in my pocket a few folded dollar bills, easily accessible to hand out the next time my heart is moved and it feels safe to respond. I’m curious as to how you respond when approached.

Taking It to the Streets

In autumn 2004, San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom established a bimonthly event called Project Homeless Connect. Every six weeks hundreds of volunteers gather at a central location to provide homeless people with immediate care and further referrals to local agencies. Since its inception, the project has helped over 8,000 clients.

Among the services a client can receive are eye exams and glasses made on-site; legal assistance; medical care and prescribed medications; foot care; veterinary services on-site (many homeless people have animals as companions); TB testing; counseling (mental health, domestic violence, & employment); childcare slots; SSI advocacy; wheelchair maintenance; assistance getting a state I.D.; HIV rapid testing; free lunch; shelter referrals, and much more. All services and products (.e.g, glasses, medication) are provided free of charge to clients.

Some people criticize this project, saying that having this event every six weeks leaves homeless people stranded in the meantime. I attended a panel discussion featuring people heavily involved in the project, though, and given the massive coordination efforts involved, I don’t think it could realistically happen more often. Some assistance is better than none, especially if clients are given information on how to receive follow-up care with agencies. Because really, if one is homeless and needs glasses, which is better: to offer the opporunity for on-the-spot assistance, or to refer a client to go find an optometrist, go to the office for an exam, select glasses, wait, and come back later to retrieve them? Being homeless is a chaotic experience. If a need can be met more quickly, it may support the client in getting off the streets by removing a barrier.

Over 188 non-profits and 125 private corporations have become involved; a number of companies excuse their employees from regular duties and have them work at the event. At the last project there were 1200 volunteers. However, participation is not guaranteed to be consistent, and the project can always use more people. Volunteer opportunities include:

Triage: greet clients, explain the procedure, gather information.
Client support services: assist client with getting from one service area to another; act as guides, giving directions or escorting clients to areas where they can get what they need (food, to appointments, etc.)
Street outreach: go out in groups of three, engage with homeless clients, and encourage them in a supportive way to come to the “linkage station.”
Discharge: review paperwork with clients to ensure they obtained what they came for; listen to what clients still need and record their feedback concerning the care they received.

Data entry: help input data on clients.

Pre-event volunteers: volunteer outreach, phone work, packaging hygiene kits or data entry during the week prior to the event.

The location of the event is the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium (99 Grove Street at Polk). Future dates in 2006 are: February 16, April 13, June 8, August 10, October 5, and December 7. To learn more and become a volunteer, visit Project Homeless Connect. I’ll be working at the project on February 16!

Almost Eden

I worked today. Since starting my job I’ve participated in several projects yet have been too tired to write much. I will write about past projects, but to avoid the “too far behind” syndrome I’ll start with today’s.

Dawn was damp and gray. The temperature was mild and the roads lightly wet as I drove to Palo Alto. The project I worked on was at Almost Eden, a community garden set near a moderately busy corner in Palo Alto. The land on which the garden sits is donated by the Baptist church right next door, and I found the garden very peaceful. About 20 people showed up despite the drizzle. I worked with two women harvesting dragon kale and collard greens. Other people added mulch to keep weeds down, pruned roses, planted new seedlings, and trimmed bushes that were crowding the fruit trees. Almost everything is composted except for weeds; any yellow leaves I harvested, or those ravaged by slugs, were added to compost. The offending slugs, when found, were tossed into a bucket of soapy water for a quick and painless death, and since the soap was organic, the water will later added to the compost pile. People who felt squeamish about killing them were asked just to chuck ’em as far as possible to the edge of the garden.

Almost Eden provides the nutritious fruits of its garden to Bread of Life Ministries and Urban Ministries, both of which serve meals to needy people, and to the South Palo Alto Food Closet. They also offer individuals who visit Urban Ministries “pick your own” coupons in the summer. People come to Almost Eden, help with a garden chore for 30 minutes, and then pick as much produce as they can consume in week. (I love this idea especially!)

I wish I’d thought to bring my camera. As we were leaving I walked by a patch of brilliant swiss chard. The stalks were vivid red and the leaves glossy, deep green. It was an arresting sight. I will definitely go back to this garden to work, and now that I know where it is, I may also seek respite from life’s noise there.

Their website also provides pdf files with instructions on composting, recommended produce to grow in the Bay Area, and a schedule of what to in your garden and when. Anyone interested in volunteering with the Almost Eden Garden Project may contact them directly. Or, if you would like to work with a team of people, contact Hands On Bay Area to join. Becoming a volunteer with Hands On requires only one hour of your time for orientation, after which you may sign up for whatever projects interest you as your schedule allows.

The Artist’s Way: Week Two Check-In & More Thoughts On Identity

As I forecast, my energy and ability to keep up with TAW while acclimating to my new job has been less than ideal. I wrote daily pages one day out of seven. I’m okay with that; I don’t feel guilty or as though I’m failing. I have missed handwriting in my journal, however — something I didn’t imagine I’d feel.

The artist date was last Saturday. It’s just going to have to count, even though I did it with a friend. We had lunch in San Jose and spent the afternoon at the San Jose Museum of Art. The exhibition was intense, featuring political work that was chock full of strong imagery. I also made a small craft (the eyeglass holder). Alas, no knitting occurred, nor did exercise happen. In good time…

I’ve been thinking about identity. My team did an exercise called What’s My Lens? We were instructed to write down five words we’d use to describe ourselves to someone we’ve never met before, someone perhaps from another country. After we did this, we each listed those words on a whiteboard and provided an explanation why we chose them. Then we also added other words we use in self-definition that we felt it important for each other to know. The exercise was confidential, so I’ll speak for my experience only. It was an amazing excercise; some very personal and rich information was shared. The facilitator said she was blown away. I think it really established the foundation of trust among us.

The point of the exercise is to remember that we each filter reality through our own lenses. For example, none of us noted our race in our top five words. The facilitator reported that the same exercise done with African-American women results in race being among the first five. Something to think about: we live unconsciously with some of our lenses. They are so woven into us that we forget they exist.

This exercise coincided with the first exercise in Maisel’s book on creativity, in which he suggests one write a 2,500 word autobiography. I haven’t done it yet, but I’ve written one in the past for a graduate class, and I will again. The five words I chose at first were: creative, woman, spiritual, learner, and writer. In telling the stories behind those words, I revealed a huge amount of myself. I also added cat lover, sexual assault survivor, bisexual, married, introvert, and homebody. You may ask, “Why would you tell your new coworkers that you are bisexual?” Well, it came up in the process of talking about my experience as a woman in this world and in my spiritual journey, and even though I’m married to a man, I do not negate my prior relationship with a woman two decades ago. In the circumstance, it was not too much information, nor was it scary to reveal it. It’s simply one facet of my life.

What I was struck by, later, was the fact that I did not list depression as a lens. There are many other lenses it didn’t occur to me to mention that my coworkers did (about birth order, where one grew up, age, economic class growing up). Depression has been integral to my life for so long, yet it simply didn’t occur to me in that exercise. I take this to mean that the illness is being managed well. It was an interesting “Aha!” moment.

Self-Portrait Tuesday: The Child Within

This photo was taken February 1965, when I was 20 months old. I don’t know exactly when the picture was taken, although I imagine it to be on a Saturday afternoon, and my mother would have begun to prepare supper. My Dad worked two jobs. He was an elementary school teacher, but supporting a family on that salary was a stretch, so he worked some evenings and each Saturday at a family-owned furniture store. Perhaps he had come home from his second job and in greeting me, plopped his hat on my head. Maybe that happened, and they decided I looked too cute not to memorialize with a photo.

This photo is special. When I was mired in my depression during graduate school, I struggled with deep self-hatred and self-destructive thoughts. In my therapy, one approach I tried was to detach from that kind of selfishness and to see myself with more compassion. So I pulled this photo out from the childhood album, framed it, and set it on my home altar. When I felt acutely harsh toward myself, I would look at this photo and ask myself if I would treat that child as heartlessly as I was tempted to treat myself in that moment. The answer, of course, was no. How could I imagine hurting that sweet-faced little being? Then I would wend my way back toward her in my heart, remembering the fact that she and I are one, and I would soften toward myself. It was a powerful tool. Being able to genuinely love others is rooted in a healthy self-love. I would give love to others but did not feel it for myself. I came to understand that this was not really lovingkindness, but rather it was my wish for love projected onto others. I hoped that someone else would give me the positive regard I wouldn’t give myself, the kindness I believed I did not deserve, the tenderness I rejected when it was offered. In truth, I was loved by others, but I wouldn’t receive it. When I learned to be compassionate toward my being, I became receptive to the love that had always been there. This photograph was an essential component of that process.