Skip navigation

Category Archives: interactions

eye to eye

Taking up .. Letting go

You hear about the fight/flight mechanism.  Aikido is not fighting.  Certainly there is no flight.  I get a glimmer of the essence of it all during katatetori, when uke grabs my wrist.  If I make a fist making it strong, then I’ve given uke something concrete and substantial to hang onto.  It is about me.  It is about my wrist.  If I let it go limp and surrender, uke has it completely and again it is about me.  I’ve disowned my wrist.

What then is left?  Uke has hold of my wrist.  He has hold of my arm.  He has hold of my torso.  He is holding my body.  And of course, I am holding Uke’s body.  If I see this, then I see more than my wrist.. more than his grip on my wrist.. I see both Uke and myself.  This then is the beginning point.

I see it here.

Share

Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

but no pondering weak and weary.  On this night of nights when it is no less than hope that enters the world.  Every group celebrates birth.  This night belongs to one group, while others celebrate other nights and days.  Shared all though is the belief that buried in the dust of the strugglings of daily life, there is something more.  Something just.  Something that stands above us all, as a star to which to reach.  In the wind and cold, there is warmth within.

So stop.  Pause.  Look.  For every person around you is struggling and striving and trying.  Each one feels pain and fear and sorrow.  Each travels the road alone, whether surrounded or isolated.  We enter alone.  We leave alone.

Such a burden to think yourself special.  Such a burden to think thus.  Rather see value in each life, each thing.

Ecclesiastes 1:9
Parallel Verses
New International Version
What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.

Pick things up and put things down and needed.  No more no less.  May you know that that is sufficient.

May you feel the joys of all the celebrations of seasons such as these.

 

 

 

Share

247 @ Standstill, on a Friday?

To be accurate, it was more CV (3 of 5) stop and go and stop and go ..

 

There is a lot of wild life back here behind Castro Valley.  I was heading up to this ridge,CV (1 of 5) when I saw a 2 or 3 point buck fly across the trail.  He was making tracks.  I laughed thinking he looked like he was running for his life..  then of course it occurred to me that

there are mountain lions back here.   Okay, my eyes were quite a bit wider, and I found a couple of nice sized rocks on the ridge.. as if a couple of nice sized rocks would influence a mountain lion.  Well, it was for my mental well being anyway, unless “he” showed up. Coming down from the ridge, three wild turkeys cross the road.  It was a regular 237 with

 

all the comings…

CV (2 of 5)

CV (4 of 5)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and goings…

Share

Spring rolls, code-switching, and wanderlust

In a small village in Chile, where a majority of the inhabitants speak Mapudungun, the native language of the Mapuche people, my mind effortlessly, eagerly, mutes the buzz of spoken conversation and voices soon give way to other sounds–shrill chirps and the soft flutter of wings, the squeal of angry tires on asphalt and the steady mechanic pulse of engines and machines. I notice the people walking next to me, their shoulders stooped from the weight of their weekly groceries, their bodies swathed in brightly colored fabrics that scratch my bare arms as they shuffle past. I am overwhelmed by my senses, which became heightened the second I stopped processing what was being spoken, and everything seems to move in slow motion. I can smell the small wilted jasmine on the pavement and the putrid stench of sewage and drek from the landfill on the outskirts of town; I can feel the muggy air, feel the beads of water stick to my arms, my t-shirt clinging to my skin.

Although I am fluent in Spanish, I am a complete stranger to Mapudungun. On my trips through Chile I often passed through small villages that were largely indigenous, which meant I could not rely on spoken language to interact with people. So I paid close attention to nonverbal cues like voice modulation, eye contact, and body language to make sense of what went on because those were the only things I understood.

I’ve found this skill to be incredibly important. Not only does it make me quite popular at intimate parties–I’m talking about my rad charades skills here–but it’s taught me a lot about empathy, perception, and social bonding. After returning from my travels in South America I thought it’d be a long time before I’d get to appreciate that connection, that mutual understanding between two people who communicate effectively without having to say a word, again.

Then a couple weeks ago my friend invited me over to his place for a family barbecue. Over the years I had heard bits and pieces about them, but apart from meeting his siblings and a cousin or two they had largely remained a mystery. Needless to say I jumped at the opportunity to make new friends and bond over food and drinks (my favorite type of bonding!).

He warned me that I’d probably feel a little awkward being there since they mostly spoke to each other in Vietnamese (this was especially true among his parents, uncles and aunts, less so among his cousins). Fueled by genuine curiosity about his family–and perhaps more importantly the idea that it’d kinda sorta be like traveling again (it had been 10 months since I had really traveled…I was desperate and my wanderlust demanded some sort of gratification)–the prospect of spending an evening being the odd one out didn’t bother me.

And you know what? I had a great time. We ate some yummy food (my friend’s sister had made tasty spring rolls and his cousins had grilled delicious meats), drank stuff and enjoyed each other’s company.

As it got cooler we arranged ourselves around the bonfire. It was here, during frequent lulls in the conversation and occasional calls for “another round of drinks!”, that I felt for the first time in months that feeling of being lost yet grounded at the same time. My brain, numb to the unfamiliar sounds of Vietnamese, began picking up on other clues to try to infer what was being said.

Many of my observations focused on social codes and cues. I paid particular attention to how my friend’s family signaled their acceptance of me as a viable member of the group. I noticed that as the night wore on they became more comfortable with my being there because they would “code-switch”, shift between Vietnamese and English, more often in an attempt to include me in the conversation. This could have been out of politeness, but I’ve gathered from similar experiences that if the group wants you there, they’ll make an active effort to involve you in whatever it is they’re doing.

Alcohol, a common facilitator of social bonding, also played a small role in their recognition of me as a friend (as opposed to a stranger). For example, I poured the first drink for myself but after that a cousin would fill my glass and invite me to drink with him. I realize that the culture of drinking differs across societies and generations, and what the family members demonstrated may again be nothing more than politeness, but I saw it as their way of signaling that I was being included.

Was I out of my comfort zone? Hell yeah. But if traveling has taught me anything it’s this: I don’t want to live a life where I’m not pushing boundaries or breaking down the walls that keep people away from getting to know me; I want to be okay with feeling a little uncomfortable or awkward in new situations; life is supposed to be messy and confusing and nobody really has shit figured out in their 20’s no matter what your high school counselors tell you and even if they do that’s okay you rock anyway. So yay! to having new experiences without having to travel very far and yay! to learning more about how (differently) you see the world when you shut up for a couple of hours. I guess my high school counselors were right about one thing: actions can speak louder than words.

Share

Passing in the Night

My fiance and I recently celebrated our engagement by heading to Napa and doing Napa things – eating good food, tasting fancy wines, and seeing the sites. We were new to the area, so we decided to take a ride on the wine train our first day there. A friend of ours had suggested it as a way of seeing the sweeping vineyards while enjoying a delicious meal and getting pointers on places to visit. So, after booking tickets, checking in, and waiting until the last minute for an upgrade, we found ourselves in the fanciest car.

This car had velvety seats, fancy table cloths, seat-to-ceiling windows, and a freshly picked orchid on the table. Wide-eyed, we looked around at the finery and vaguely made settling-in motions. I took out my camera and laid in next to my cell on the table. We put our backpack on one seat, then another, then hid it under the fancy tablecloth. We grinned as our eyes darted around the fancy interior. We didn’t even notice that there were other people on the train until the ladies sitting across the isle from us offered to take our picture. I guess we made it pretty clear that this was a special occasion for us. One of the ladies took our picture and then told us she would take another when our complementary glass of champagne came. We thanked her and went back to acting totally normal.

The waiter came with our free champagne and we took another picture in which my fiance had his eyes mostly closed. The waiter asked if we were celebrating something, so we told him we were, and he gave us each a second complementary glass. Vineyards went by outside of the large windows and the food came, each course outdoing the one before it.  About half way into the trip, we finally realized we should return the across-the-isle ladies’ favor, so I offered to take their picture. They were grateful and moved into postition. They sat close together and smiled in a complementary way that made it feel like they’d done this many times before. It only took one shot for them to take a great picture together and, impressed, I handed the camera back. I sat back down at our table and took pictures out the window.

Dessert comes as we head back, and we try to quickly savor the decadent flavors while also trying to have enough time to look around the rest of the train. The across-the-isle ladies have already left their table to explore, and after ordering some tea for when we get back, we get up to do the same. We walk the length of the train as it rocks its way back to Napa proper, sticking our heads out windows and watching the tracks appear behind the train as it leaves them behind.  When we start to recognize the view, we dash back to our car and our table to pack up before we have to leave. We find there really isn’t much to pack, so we sit and drink our tea. I notice the across-the-isle ladies are back from their train exploring adventure, so I make some small talk with them. As we pull into the station, I ask them if they’re celebrating anything.

“We’re getting married tomorrow,” they say. “After 24 years – finally!”

Share

Chaos, empathy, and the welfare state

“I must be America’s worst nightmare.”

He was dressed in jeans and a baggy grey sweatshirt, with shoulder-length hair combed neatly back. A red gym bag covered the tops of his Converse. His voice was steady, good-humored even, but the hands that moved restlessly in his lap belied his anxiety.

The worker turned away from her computer to give him a steady look. “No, you’re not.” She smiled, “You’re gonna be okay. Okay?” He absentmindedly ran his hands through his hair and then smiled back and nodded, looking a little more confident.

Sitting in the back, an observer during this interview, I tried putting myself in his shoes: I was 30-something, going through a divorce, and crashing at my uncle’s apartment while I looked for a job. My unemployment insurance benefits had ended several months ago and with no other income I couldn’t afford to buy food. So here I was, at the welfare office, applying for food stamps. Even though these troubles were not mine, their weight crushed me; I could feel my body begin to slouch in the chair and there was an unusual pressure on my chest. I struggled to sit comfortably.

As an Eligibility Worker in the Public Assistance branch of the county government I find myself in the middle of chaos and hardship. I’m the one responsible for determining whether clients are eligible for a variety of public assistance programs (e.g., CalFresh (food stamps), Medi-Cal, General Assistance, CalWORKs, etc) and despite the laws and policies and regulations–or because of them–it’s almost always a “grey area” kind of job where confusion has a free reign.

During my interview for the position I was asked what I thought would be challenging given the nature of the work. At the time I came up with two concerns:

  1. I was afraid of miscalculating budgets, especially ones that would result in an eligible/ineligible client being deemed ineligible/eligible.
  2. I was not looking forward to having to turn clients away when I knew they needed help but who were legally ineligible for public assistance (this happens for a variety of reasons, such as being undocumented or making even a few dollars more than the income cutoff).

After a week of shadowing seasoned Eligibility Workers, I realized there was a third very real challenge: learning how to do my job without becoming emotionally involved.

I know it sounds horrible, but hear me out. Eligibility work is incredibly draining. Each case worker has about 500-700 clients and is constantly seeing people shuffle in and out their office. Most of these clients have very compelling reasons for being on welfare, and those reasons are never pleasant. Imagine interviewing hundreds of clients and listening to all their stories…it’s enough to make anybody go crazy; and yet there are so many amazing individuals who do that job every day.

I’m not saying that I wish I didn’t care or that I wish I wasn’t capable of caring…I very much want to care! The whole reason I’m venturing into this field instead of going to medical school like I had planned (mom if you’re reading this…sorry, but I don’t regret it) is because I want to better understand the social and environmental roots of disease and poverty in order to alleviate problems down the road. Being an Eligibility Worker gives me the opportunity to interact with those most affected by these social and environmental factors, and I find it hard to believe that anybody who spends time with these clients doesn’t care about their well-being.

So it’s hard for me not to feel for a guy who thinks he’s “America’s worst nightmare” (I have other issues concerning the implications of that statement, but that’s a post for another time). Anyway, what I want is to be able to empathize with my clients while at the same time maintaining a degree of objectivity.

I’m sure if the Eligibility Workers could read this they would roll their eyes at my wishful thinking and say wryly, “Good luck with that.” So, I’m going to say something now that I may or may not change my mind about down the line (the cool thing about desires and hopes and dreams is that they’re constantly in flux since they represent a “you” that is invariably changing over time). I want to document it now (and what better way than to post it on the interwebs for everyone to see…) so I can look back days (weeks? months? years?) from now and see how much (or how little) I’ve changed. So here goes: I know this makes me sound naive, but I’m determined to find that balance between empathy and aloofness.

And if I can’t, I’m okay with erring in favor of the emotional drain. When it comes down to it, I chose this field because it excites me; the people I work with inspire me; the people that need me motivate me. As long as that holds true, it’s worth it. So I’ll keep checking back to see where I stand. Maybe I’ll still have the same passion for this job; if I don’t, I hope I will have learned from it and be able to find something else that kindles that same passion. Either way, I’m gonna be okay. Okay?
Share

Systems-Check

Most Friday nights I go with my fiance to a movie night put on by some of our friends. We watch a movie and go out to dinner somewhere afterward – Thai, Vietnamese, Indian, Italian, Mexican, whatever sounds good that day. We call it Movie Night, and at the end of a long week, it’s nice for everyone to get together and decompress. At dinner we talk about a wide range of topics, moving from one to the other as a new story is told or a funny meme is remembered.

For a brief moment this last Friday, we talked about empathy.

Empathy: [noun] the feeling that you understand and share another person’s experiences and emotions; the ability to share someone else’s feelings

I’ve been thinking a lot about empathy because my fiance and I were recently in a car accident. It was a five car pile up on a freeway that was reduced to two lanes because of construction. After the accident happened, we blocked off one of those two lanes for a couple of hours – we undoubtedly caused some awful rush-hour traffic.

My emotional progression and certain details of the accident come back to me pretty clearly, just not the details that the police and insurance companies wanted from me. I don’t remember how fast I was going or if I saw anyone in my rear-view, but I do remember that the first emotion I had, after making sure my fiance was fine, was fear. I was scared the other drivers would be angry – I was afraid of being chastised, of being blamed, of being hated for having been involved.

I panicked. I, we, had been in an accident. Who knew what the damage was to my car. Outside my vehicle were unknown entities with independent and unpredictable reactions that I would have to come face-to-face with if I left my car. We were the first car in the pile-up, so I just stared at the stretch of empty freeway in front of me, thinking how rare it was to see car-less freeway during rush hour. Another car pulled in front of me and stopped, blocking my view of the emptiness. I was frozen because I didn’t know what to do next.

So I sat, I breathed, and I ran through a mental systems-check:

Legs – online
Torso – online
Arms – online
Neck – online
Head – online, but not processing input – error detected.

I started looking around for solutions. The problem-solving parts of my brain kicked in and shoved the panicked bits off to the side for sanity’s sake. The car was off and in park. The emergency break was on. My GPS was on the floor. The knickknacks in the cubbies of my dash were all over the floor and the front seats. My cellphone was working. The front of my car seemed fine from inside, all the doors looked OK and my mirrors were all still on.

As I looked in one of my side-view mirrors, I saw someone getting out of their car. It suddenly occurred to me that other people had been in this accident with us, and that some of them may not have come out of it with all systems online, like we had. A more human part of my brain turned back on. I still couldn’t bring myself to let go of the steering wheel and take my foot off the brake, so I asked my fiance to go check on him, and he did. I spent my alone time letting go of the wheel and taking my foot off the break. I took a deep breath and I left the car.

I went straight for my fiance where he stood talking to the guy who had been in the third of the five cars – smack-dab in the middle of everything. Something that looked like the floor of the trunk was smashed up against the driver’s seat, which was leaning back at a strange angle. The front of the car was completely crushed in and the dashboard was smoking. The guy had gotten out of his car and was walking around talking to people, but I asked him if he was OK. I’m not sure if I was asking for his sake or mine, and I don’t know if I was asking whether he was physically or mentally OK. Maybe I was asking everything and hoping for the best on all accounts. The guy looked at me with wide eyes and a blank expression that made it seem like he almost didn’t understand my question. He said he was fine. Just a little disoriented. I noticed his glasses on the driver’s seat and asked if he needed them. I noticed his hands were shaking wildly as he reached for his broken frames. Only then did I notice that his airbag had deployed and now lay draped across the front cup-holders and the passenger’s seat.

That was when I really looked at him. This man, who I’d never met before and I would never meet again, probably never even talk to again, was standing outside of his beyond-totaled car and couldn’t take his eyes off of the wreckage before him. I gave him the same mental systems-check I had given myself, and the tests came back exactly the same. We were in this together. I left my fiance talking to him, slowly bringing his human systems back online with simple chatter and a friendly presence. That was when my head re-engaged.

I proceeded to verify for myself that everyone who had been involved was OK, and everyone was. The cars, not so much, but the people were physically unharmed. What I gathered from talking to everyone was that we were all in the same mental place; we all understood and shared one another’s personal experiences, emotions, and feelings about what had just happened. We had all been in an accident, we were all in shock, and we were all scared.

And we were all checking in with each other to make sure the others were OK. I knew that when the time came to settle claims and assign blame that stories would change and guilt would be passed like a hot potato, but in that moment we were all just trying to get a grasp on the situation and we were leaning on each other to do that. It was like an extreme, forced empathy between strangers who may never have even been friends in real life, and while we hated each other just a little for having been involved in the accident, we were all overwhelmingly happy that everyone came out of it with everything functioning. The money, the heartache, the time that would be spent dealing with this loomed over us, but it loomed over all of us, and we all knew it. We spent our time waiting for the cops to show by expressing our own coping mechanisms at one another. I blurted out things that needed to happen, even though they were already happening. I must have said “we need to swap insurance information” at least five times, and each time someone calmly reminded me that we were already doing that. At one point I walked over to the lady who had pulled in front of me and we swapped stories about what had happened during the accident and compared notes about how we were feeling. She asked me to check her door and I told her why I thought she couldn’t open it. I took a picture of it on my phone to show her. We even laughed about something – I don’t know what, but it was freeing and we did it together. Eventually the cops came, business was taken care of, tow-trucks were called, and those of us who could drive our cars were on our way.

The degree of this empathy, it’s strength, wasn’t clear to me until I was speaking with my insurance agent a few days later. He assured me that he would pursue the party found guilty for the cost of my repairs.

Pursue: [verb] to follow or chase somebody/something, especially in order to catch them

When I heard him say he would “pursue the guilty party,” I wanted to tell him not to. We had been in that accident together, all of us, and none of us deserved to be “pursued.” Responsibility should be taken, matters of money and liability should be settled, vehicle repairs should be made and disagreements resolved, but no one should be run down and villainized. I wanted justice for the man who damaged my car, even though he had damaged my car. He was a person, and I knew that because I had felt the same things he had when we had stood on the freeway that day, eyes glued to the vehicular carnage. I honestly don’t even know the guys name, but I didn’t want him to suffer more than he had to. I was there in that mental space with him that day. I understand what he was going through. Twisted metal, blown-out windows, insurance card unaccessible in a jammed glove compartment – those things had been real problems that needed seeing to. “Pursuing the guilty party” was not a problem that even made it on my list of things that needed dealing with.

All of these partially digested experiences and emotions came bubbling back to the surface when we talked about empathy for those few minutes at Movie Night dinner. It was a short conversation, a passing series of unimportant remarks about the strength and effectiveness of empathy and the role it plays in many different social interactions. It felt good, though, to be able to talk about this thing I had experienced, even if we were only talking about it in the abstract. It was nice to remember how, in the aftermath of the accident, empathy had reminded us that we were all human and we were all in this thing together. And it was even nicer to realize that these people sitting around me – discussing movies, psychology, biology – were choosing to be empathetic toward me, and I was choosing to be empathetic toward them. The forced empathy I had so recently and vividly experienced threw into strong relief how amazing voluntary empathy is, how lucky we are to have it, and how little we appreciate it when we get it from others.

I looked around the table at the people I have chosen to empathize with; the same people who have chosen to empathize with me in return.

All I could do was smile as the conversation moved on to cats chasing bears up trees.

Share