“Stay With Me, Buddy”

Life and Death. That is the commonality between Jack Bauer’s action adventures on the TV series 24 and working in a dog kennel in the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. 24 premiered in 2001 and spanned 192 episodes over eight seasons, with the series final broadcast showing in 2010. It followed a Counter Terrorist Unit agent, Jack Bauer, as he attempted to thwart multiple terrorist plots around the world.  I lived in the desert from 2004 until 2010. My stint there was initially a 6-month sabbatical that ended up spanning 6 years. I was healing from some deep life wounding which led me to metaphorically hide out at the home of a friend who is an AKC all-breed dog confirmation judge and breeder of gorgeous golden retrievers and Chinese Crested. I helped take care of the dogs.

I am not fond of desert creatures, especially those that can kill you. Rattlesnakes, of course. Others include Gila monsters, scorpions, Killer bees. And, I grew to despise the Colorado River toads. These toads are ugly. They have slimy, leathery, army-green skin. At an average of 7 ½ inches long, they are the largest toads in the United States. They came into our inner yard during the monsoon season. There were always 2 to 10 at any one time hanging out in the yard despite the thick stucco covered straw bale walls that surrounded the property.

One evening when I was out in the yard, I noticed a Chinese Crested foaming at the mouth and having a seizure. I called out for my friend who came running, grabbed the hose with one hand and the dog in the other and began running water into the dog’s mouth, flushing it out. She continued doing this for 45 minutes, which felt like hours. I thought she would surely drown the dog. It was unconscious much of the time and was clearly fighting for its life. I stood by dumbfounded not understanding what had happened. When the dog finally came around and was okay, I learned that it had touched the head of a toad, whose toxic poison had gotten onto the dog’s tongue and almost killed her. Evidently, the poison affects a dog’s neurological system and kills more dogs in the desert than rattlesnakes.

Now my 3 dogs came out into this particular yard many times throughout the day. I had never killed any animal in my life but I became obsessed with protecting my dogs. At first I brought out a shovel and tried timidly bopping them over the head. Then I got more serious, confidant, mad. I went into the shed and found an ax and a pitchfork. I emailed my sister: “I have become an ax murderer”. She did not understand my message, seriously wondering if I had lost the plot. In a way I had. I killed them with a vengeance only a mother protecting her baby can comprehend. At first I thought a lot about taking one life to save another. I considered Buddhist teachings. I wondered about karma. But soon I was killing those toads with no conscious thoughts at all. I took it on myself to keep that yard toad-free.

During this time frame we were watching 24. We wouldn’t miss it! It helped me with my feelings about killing the toads to watch Jack and his morally out-of-the-box dealings with Life and Death. He seemed to hold onto a bigger picture than just one life. He was attempting to save all of civilization. In one show he said to his partner, “Right now there are many lives at stake and the death of this one man is crucial in that operation. Do you understand me?” I decided I needed to take on Jack as an alter ego and found that dealing with the toads then took on even more profound meaning. I was caught in a process that I did not like and did not understand. Life and Death. Jack reminded me when I wavered...

Another time 2 litters of Chinese Crested puppies were born a few days apart and were infected within a week with Provo. They were fighting for their lives. My friend was working with them as I stood at a distance watching. She gave them subterranean shots every 4 hours and IV liquid to hydrate them day and night. Two puppies died. Then another. On the third day, she packed her bag. She was leaving to judge dogs in Pennsylvania. I asked the obvious. “Who is going to take care of the puppies?” “You are”, was her reply. “Oh, no!” I said. “I have never given a shot in my life, let alone IVs.” “No, I can’t take care of them.” As her car headed down the driveway I heard her say, “You have to, there is no one else.”

In my panic I thought, “What would Jack Bauer do?” I filed though episodes in my mind and landed on one where he had been dealing with stopping the detonation of a weapon of mass destruction. In it his partner had said to a badly wounded Jack, “You have to get up and get out there. If you don’t the entire operation will be lost—along with the lives of millions.” I vividly remember Jack agonizingly rolling up to standing and darting out of the room. If he could do that, perhaps I could take care of the puppies. During the next 4 days, I got more and more comfortable joining the fight for life with those puppies. I lost only one and the others improved. Lived.

Then there was Jessie. He was the Chinese Crested foundation stud dog at the kennel. He was old with dingy white curly hair and bad breath. He had always been a scrapper with other male dogs and with age had become even crankier. One morning I was cleaning the kennels and feeding the dogs. I had a young male dog with me in the hall, I don’t remember why. I came to Jessie’s metal door, opening it carefully so as not to drop the pan of food that I held in my left (non-dominant) hand. As I leaned over to put the pan down, Jessie leaped over me, ran to the end of the hall and attacked the young dog. 

The screaming was deafening. Without thinking I hurled the pan backhanded at the metal kennel wall near the fighting dogs. It hit with a clang and ricocheted right into Jessie’s neck, hitting the spot that can kill. The noisy kennel went silent. He was lying unconscious on the floor. I ran to him and picked him up. His eyes rolled back in his head and turned from a deep rich brown to a steely grey. I massaged his neck and found myself spontaneously saying the words Jack Bauer said in just about every episode. “Stay with me. Stay with me, Buddy!” The fear of losing the most important dog in the kennel petrified me. I kept massaging, coaxing him to stay with me, stay alive, come back. After about an hour he began to move in my arms and I was startled to hear my quiet sobbing. Life and Death. Jack and me.

Group Therapy Nightmare

When my son was born in 1979, it quickly became clear that making my living as a professional free-lance musician was not going to work. Oddly timed, fluctuating jobs, which required a lot of daily practice, did not go together with taking care of a new baby. After collaborating with a career counselor, we identified that being a psychotherapist might be a good choice for me. I started immediately working on a master’s degree, double majoring in transpersonal counseling and creative arts therapy. When I finished, I continued on with my studies and received a Ph.D. in Women’s Psychology.

After completing my masters’ degree I hung out my shingle and began a 30-year career as a psychotherapist in private practice. It took a number of years to come into my own as a therapist. I had to discover my strengths and get help with my thin-skinned vulnerable weaknesses. I began to identify my career as a calling and saw it clearly as “soul” work. I gradually established a spiritual practice that encouraged people to be where they were and helped me expand my skills as a listener and witness. I became passionate about and dedicated to my work. Even the challenging aspects were fascinating to me as well as satisfying.

My strength and what I loved most was bringing symbols to life, especially through spontaneous drawings and dreams. My gift was facilitating group process. Sexual abuse was a continual theme throughout the years in my practice and I would guess about 75% of my clients had been 
 abused. Many presented with no awareness or memory of the abuse and then through our work with their symbols and feelings, the deep wounding would be revealed and the healing process would begin.

This story happened about 20 years into my work. I had two weekly therapy groups called “Women’s Dream Weaving Circles”. My story happened in the group that had been meeting with the same people for about 2 years. That group had become cohesive with a high level of sharing and trust. I would start each group with a guided meditation as we sat in a circle on the floor.

One day in our brief check-ins that followed the meditation, an older woman casually mentioned she had been sexually abused. She told this flippantly and laughed as if it was a funny joke. All the other women froze, stopped breathing and energetically pulled away from the woman and from the group. I knew in that instant it was going to be the hardest group I had ever facilitated.

With everyone coming unglued and wanting to leave, I focused initially on the group members. Slowly they opened up and said what had happened had felt like a betrayal--after being what they all thought was a safe place to be honest. They began to talk about the affect the glib presentation had on them. Even after talking and sharing feelings everyone was still pulling away from the woman and waiting for the time the group would be over so they could leave. I knew this situation was critical and the fracture could be the end of the group. I was painfully aware of what was happening and was trying hard to keep it from falling completely apart. 

I decided to give the group members the job of holding the energy of the Circle while I worked with the woman. They seemed to like having a focus outside of themselves. I asked the woman if she was open to working on what had happened for her. She readily agreed. As I began gently working with this woman it didn’t take long for lashing anger to come to the surface. The anger was powerful, clumsy and misdirected. I could feel the groups’ anxiety increasing even more than before. I had lost control of the group.

I asked the group members if it would be possible for them to send healing energy to the woman if she sat silently in the middle of the circle. I asked the woman if she would do that. Everyone reluctantly agreed. I was watching the clock along with everyone else—like every minute brought us closer to being able to get out of there. The whole thing was a mess!

The woman began to cry when she got into the center.  These people she had trusted were rejecting her because of the way she had shared this difficult issue in her life. I suspected she had gotten the same reaction by trusted others when the abuse was happening. I suggested that the group members hold hands to ground us and as a way of feeling solidarity. I felt inadequate and terrified that our group would terminate after we had just reached a point where some deep work could be done. Was being done. Was happening right then!

Just as I was completely void of ideas and had practically given up, I saw out of the corner of my eye the flash of a quick movement. My dog, Johnnie, was running at breakneck speed through the open double doors into the room. He jumped over the connected trembling hands of the group members and landed in the lap of the woman. In that instant the tension broke. Everyone began to cry with relief. I took a deep breath. Johnnie had rescued us from what had felt like an impossible situation. After that awful nightmare session, our group was much stronger and continued together for five more years.

Tai Chi Spell Broken

The most amazing thing happened at my Tai Chi class recently!

A few years ago my friend Jenny and I kept falling for no good reason on our dog walks. One day, 4 1/2 years ago, we talked and decided to do something about it. We started going to the Tai Chi class at the Recreation Center twice a week. Tai Chi allowed us the opportunity to move slowly, learn about balance, and basically learn about where we are in our bodies while moving. In the first 3 years neither of us fell.

A series of joint replacements the summer before last made it impossible for me to continue the class. I struggled just to walk. Three months after the hip surgery, I fell. My balance was horrible. I had no idea where my body was in space. 

I had intended on going back to Tai Chi when I finished my physical therapy, but kept finding excuses and reasons not to go. I finally sat down and did some writing about it. I discovered a greater obstacle than the physical pain:  issues with the teacher!

Marcia is fantastic when it comes to teaching how the body works. She is superbly intuitive and clear when it comes to seeing what the body is doing and how to make it to work properly. She is also narcissistic, eccentric, erratic, and controlling. Occasionally, out of the blue, she will blast a student in the class in front of everyone.

The fist time this happened I had a very strong negative reaction but said or did nothing. I was like a deer in headlights--fogged over and frightened. This belittling behavior kept happening sporadically, and the entire class walked on egg shells knowing another outburst would certainly happen. Jenny said she dealt with it by doing the Tai Chi and ignoring Marcia. I tried this but it didn't ease my anxiety.

I hadn't been aware feelings of anxiety and physical pain were blocking my going back to class. About this time I had my 4th and 5th fall in 2015. I knew that I had to get myself back to class--for me.  Every time I thought about finding another class I would acknowledge Marcia was excellent at what I needed plus the class had become a community and support system for me. I made the decision that if Marcia jumped on me or someone else I would simply go to her after class and tell her that her behavior was unacceptable to me and if it happened again I would bring up the problem in class...

The day of the amazing thing, Jenny was whispering to me about her new adult coloring book. She was so excited about feeling her creativity coming back after a long hiatus. Marcia glared at us for talking and then her curiosity about our interaction overcame her and she inquired about our conversation. 

Jenny animatedly shared her story, embellishing it to include that her son had sent her a copy of the book Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. Marcia launched into stories about the drawing classes she had taken. She spoke at length about how the point of taking any class is to have the teacher tell you that you’re doing a great job. Jenny said she didn’t want to take a class as she had too many voices inside her head telling her stuff—she didn’t want or need someone on the outside doing it, too.

Then Marcia talked about a watercolor class she had taken where the teacher only said critical things. She said, “Now, that is the kind of teacher you should run away from.” 

We resumed Tai Chi mode and were seriously and intently doing the form. I was aware of my intense focus on my body when I felt Marcia move near me. I could feel her eyes piercing right through me. As we stopped what we were doing she was standing right next to me. I felt and heard her suck in a chastising breath...

Without hesitation I said, “I bet you are about to tell me what a good job I am doing?” For a brief second she looked shocked. Then the class laughed and by this time I was looking at her and she laughed, too. The entire class at that moment knew we had a new point of reference from her bullying. It was like this great weight had been lifted. The spell had been broken. 

It was AMAZING!

Creeping Up On Old Age

Sometimes it feels as though there is just no way to go through the process of growing older without feeling wildly out of control. Or wildly controlled. Or simply wild. I am beginning to believe that retirement is a glorified way of giving or forcing us to take the time and space to deal with the myriad of feelings that are conveniently covered over by the busyness of our lives when we are young and pressured by the responsibilities, needs, and demands of our outer world.

I used to poo poo the idea of growing old. I didn't believe it would ever happen to me--I would stay young and active and avoid what I saw as the deterioration and demise of "those old" people. I lacked imagination and understanding that growing old is a process, like childhood, adolescence, adulthood and mid-life. In my fear of it, I had underestimated the enormous possibilities of growth old age had to offer.

Growing older draws on the totality of the inner work we have or have not done throughout our lives. The more we know ourselves and the better we understand the journey this life has presented, the better equipped we are to open our arms to welcome old age. It is the soul that begins to emerge more and more as "what is truly important". All else--the body, life's emotional highs and lows, people, activities and things, even the mind--all shift to make way for the soul.

It is this shifting of the importance and necessity of giving attention to these things in a new way that gradually and sometimes suddenly creates the process of old age. I don't know exactly when it starts. It began surfacing into my awareness and trying to get my attention in my early 60's. At first I was aware of tension around letting go of my identity in the world. Inner fights would erupt about things I had wrapped myself up in that had defined me and given me place: psychotherapist, professor, artist, musician, writer, workshop leader, athlete, mother, lover, sister, friend...

There were coos and what felt like terrorists trying to take over large areas of my life.Surprisingly, after a while the rebellions gave way to gladly moving to live in new territories. New worlds began opening up to me that I had not even imagined. New people who also lived in these new places showed up and old friends, colleagues, even family members dropped or slid away with little angst.

With new landscapes and horizons to explore and the time to do it, I began to feel a new curiosity begin to surface. It was similar to the excitement I had experienced in my 20's when the perceptions I had grown up with and never questioned blew up and were replaced with a candy store of new ideas which shaped new ways of thinking. Wider views of spirituality, the world, diversity, sexuality began to show up in the people I met, books and life experiences. Meditation, philosophers, new and old pioneers in thinking, Carl Jung, Rumi, Feminism, the Vietnam War, drugs, sex and pregnancy, all catapulted me into my adulthood. I was never the same. I never wanted to go back.

Growing older is magnifying my curiosity once again. Silver sneakers classes, my changing and sometimes painful body, TaiChi, reading, writing music movies, traveling, volunteering, and exploring classes on things I never thought about before are central in my life now. My grandchildren delight me and provide me with a new point of reference. Releasing, releasing, releasing is my new mantra. Letting go is my new way of living. Becoming a wise elder is my new ambition. Living out my life with grace and authenticity my new pathway. Being  is my dream. Old age is my gift.

I Remember Her

I remember the moment clearly in a hazy kinda way. I was with a large group of girls lingering in a small gas station bathroom. Or was it just Margo Grutzmacker, Karen Bergman and me? The floor was made of concrete. Or was it dark vinyl tile. The track meet was over. Or were we on our way there? Karen was anxiously opening and closing the door, watching in case our Coach showed up. Or was that Linda Labee?

I remember the feeling of being trapped. Peer pressure pushing down, crushing my fragile sense of Self. There was a voice in my head screaming “NO!” but no sound came out. A deer in headlights had more ability to walk out that door than I did. No matter what I thought or felt, I was paralyzed.

I remember glancing at my watch. I looked down at its flat face and it stared back at me blankly. In that moment, I knew I was in this alone. Then the hand moved and I was startled and closed my eyes but I could not get away.

I even remember the name of the town: Wahoo, Nebraska. I knew my name and who I was before that day. She felt as though she was someone I might have known a long time ago. She was seventeen. Or was she sixty? Or sixteen?

I remember her as someone I would recognize in a 1968 high school yearbook. The black and white marbled background gives her a sense of place. Her hair is teased and curled up at the ends and the white crisp collar on her blouse is freshly starched and ironed. The irony between how she looks and how she actually feels is imperceptible at first viewing. But her eyes. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the sadness in her eyes. The grief of growing up wounded stares back at me with hollow emptiness.

I remember the rage behind those eyes. Childhood split in two by adults simultaneously too overly protective and too lax. I was extraordinarily immature and ill equipped for adulthood, which was just around the next unknown corner. I had no skills to deal with Vietnam War protests, street drugs, sexless faces found the next morning in dorm beds and across the room unprotected feelings breaking the heart of whoever I was becoming.

Oh, yes! I remember that girl. She was the one who broke into a run in front of the high school boy’s track team. They were all sitting in the bleachers listening to their coach’s instructions and watching me run. I took one extra lap after I’d put on my sweat pants and all the other girls had gone back to the school. For some reason I was craving attention and feeling powerful. My new leather cleats securely gripped the cinder track and I felt long lean legs under me pounding the ground rhythmically with self-confident strength. Suddenly I was flying. I was suspended, senses heightened yet too far away, as in all accidents when time stops. Feet groundless—accelerating forward movement, unstoppable as my right foot caught the edge of my grey sweat pants and pain seared my hands and pride.

I remember it took my dad a long time to pick the cinders out of my chin, knees and hands when I got home. I don’t remember much other than his annoyance and obligatory irritation with the task, really. Pain had a way, even then to lift me up above the room and stop the tears from flowing.

I distinctly remember Karen saying it would be okay. But, there was nothing in me that believed her. A quick click of a Bic, the tip lit...  I inhaled, and the rancid, repulsive heat filled my mouth. My throat closed quickly in self-defense trying to block the putrid, pungent explosion. I choked—then gagged—then felt shame and was embarrassed in front of the girls who were all older than me.

I remember each year after that trying to stop. Trying to quit. Trying to fight off the nicotine creature that ruled my life.  She lay silently lurking, watching my every move. She was cunning and crafty, a calculating, sly master of illusion. She embodied the trickster and seemed to have no feelings at all—just dangerously corrupt, sneaky deception. She loved to exaggerate and contort every feeling I had with insidious lies and a mischievous smile. She had her devious ways to easily convince me I could not live without another and another and another cigarette to cope and simply to be okay.

It hurts to remember how unconscious I was as a smoker. I didn’t care that I was hurting myself. I didn’t care that I was separating myself from the people I loved most. I painfully and desperately yearned to connect with them. But smoking was more important, more urgent. I did not notice when I threw my butts on the ground or when non-smokers were around me when I smoked. Secondhand smoke was no concern to me. No. I didn’t care about anything... except smoking. I always kept track to make sure I had enough cigarettes. I knew where my lighter was at all times. I lived for and could not wait until I could light up and feel that warm calming sensation being sucked into my lungs—even standing outside in weather 17 degrees below zero. Smoking was always at the back my mind. I knew when I would have my next cigarette. I did whatever I needed to smoke because I loved smoking more that I loved anything or anyone. I loved smoking more than myself.

I remember the last cigarette I smoked. Actually I had many last cigarettes...and honestly, the absolute last one is as vague and obscure in my mind as the first. But five, maybe six years ago, smoking stopped. One day her grip on me loosened and slipped completely away taking the addictive behaviors along with her.

I remember feeling lost without her at first. I had lots of extra time to think. Struggle. Feel. I shouted out for her to come back. I didn’t think I could live without her emotionally abusive, toxic companionship. But when she didn’t show up that day or the next I began to live my life.

I remember one day a year or so after I stopped smoking realizing I was relating to my life as an adult for what seemed like the first time. No longer a scared teenager hiding in a gas station restroom—I had real opinions, thoughts that were my own and lots of ways to express my feelings. I had a voice. I knew myself pretty well or at least I was open to learning.

I remember the struggle that young woman endured because I stayed away, crippled without the skills or support to make the leap from adolescence to adulthood. Her life lost it’s light and was clouded with overshadowing anguish. She masqueraded for years as an adult. Shrouded by hurt, as eclipsed as she was, she fought for survival with anyone or anything she could grasp onto. I am grateful to that tenacious teen for her willingness to persevere and triumph, even when life seemed insurmountable and overwhelming. Could I have made it without her sassy attitude, her tenacious drive, and her will to live? I think not.

Every day now I remember the courage in her reckless abandon, her lousy judgment, and her catastrophic mistakes. I remember the agony that weighed her down, the burdens she shouldered. I remember her potential that would never come to be. I remember how severe she was on herself and the choice she made over and over and over every day to live.

Now I am aware of longing for the essence of her boundless energy, her enthralling imagination and the endless joy she felt when she turned everything in her life into a work of creation. At times, I remember that even though I abandoned her then, now I celebrate us both. And, that makes all the difference.

My mother would stop talking to me. Sometimes I wouldn't know why. Other times I thought it was just another of her ways of pretending that she wasn't angry. She pretended that nothing was happening a lot. She was a very angry, unhappy woman who I haven't come to appreciate until 35 years after her death. Now I wish she could have known me as an adult and I could have known her from this place in my life. 

I can still be triggered by silence. A cold shoulder can drive me into a frenzy. Like at the place where I live-- an apartment building for seniors over 62. This story isn't for the faint of heart so proceed with caution...

The resident manager was (I use past tense because she is on "medical leave") a inconsistent woman who would be friendly at times and at others she'd come flying out of her office yelling and screaming. When approached by a resident to ask for help or requests for problems were made she would immediately say, "no". She would say she would not talk about it, then or in the future. If you pressed the issue she would say, "no, not over my dead body". After a blowup, she would seek you out to apologize and pretend she was your new best friend. 

It is clear why she would trigger my mother for me. The inconsistency, the yelling, the silence all brought back feelings I would rather not have. After 3 years here I met a woman who had filed a claim with HUD because the manager hadn't spoken to her in 4 years or dealt with her requests for reasonable accommodation. I was appalled. As we talked I could see the parallels with my own experiences and how this was more widespread than I had known. She had a pro-Bono lawyer who was representing her through the process. Currently, the claim was at Civil Rights under investigation.

What was becoming clear was that the resident manager was exercising bullying control. This was creating deep fear in the residents. Our survival was being threatened by her behavior. Our worst fear of being out on the street was threatened and possible. Infraction notices and illegal threats of eviction were known throughout the building. Home as a "sacred space" was not even imaginable in such a crazy, scary situation.

I began to speak with people about their experiences and a group of 4 of the residents wanted to write affidavits documenting their personal stories of silencing and yelling by the resident manager. We did this initially to support our friend but also to have a voice that might be heard by Civil Rights, HUD and the property management company. Clearly, there was a far-reaching problem at our residence and it needed attention. 

About a month ago there was a knock at my door and 2 residents came into my apartment and asked me to sign a petition to keep the resident management because they said her job was in jeopardy. I asked them how they knew that. They would not tell me. I knew the 2 of them were the biggest gossips in the building, had no life other than to talk about others and they had a symbiotic relationship with the resident manager. They were known "moles". I told them I would never sign something that I did not know the source and they left in a huff.

Several weeks later I started to hear rumors about myself and the others who had written affidavits. As time went on I heard personal and confidential information being spread throughout the building. When I would walk through the lobby or meet residents in the hall there would be that old cold shoulder or silence...shunning, shaming, judging silence. 

Soon after that one of the residents told us that she had seen the papers from all the claims, letters from lawyers, the information presented to HUD and Civil Rights and the affidavits we had written. She said the resident manager had given this to the 2 women who had gone door to door with the story that we had filed lawsuits to get rid of her. Cease and desist letters were sent to them from the pro-Bono lawyer and a letter to the management company was also sent. Soon after this, each resident received a written notice that the resident manager was now on medical leave.

At the time of this writing, the truth is that the affidavits were not about getting rid of the resident manager but an administrative inquiry into her egregious behavior and concern expressed about here not responding to our requests for reasonable accommodations. What she did by sharing this confidential information was illegal. I do not know what is going to happen next, but I do know that it is wildly uncomfortable  to be living in an environment where there is such a hateful climate of  gossip and silence. I have written the lawyer, who had promised protection in case of retaliation and am waiting to hear back about what is next. The building has been divided intentional lies and I do not think peace can be reinstated.

The drama, the silence, and the deep-seated rage is familiar. As I stay steady and do my best not to get sucked into the emotions of the situation I find myself growing in the knowledge of myself as a strong, healthy adult. I am no longer a child who has no choice about the yelling and silence. I am a woman with a voice who is proud to stand up and use it. I feel connected to all those who came before me seeking to be heard for our civil rights. I stand on their shoulders as the process continues to unfold and reveal more and more. Time will tell what will happen.