You lose some...

Working in the addiction wellness field is challenging, often due to misconceptions in regards to the disease. I still occasionally run into folks who believe that addiction is a moral failing. They don’t believe diabetes is a moral failing. They don’t blame people with cancer when they have a relapse of the disease, or just tell them to try harder to get better. All too often, the go to solution for addiction is a 30 day stay at a treatment center, even though this approach doesn’t match the chronic nature of the disease. So the system fails those who suffer.

Where I work, one of our goals is to extend the continuum of care past the initial treatment phase and offer long-term supports and services for those with addiction. It’s worked beautifully and we’ve achieved some great results since we opened our doors in 2009. We love to share those stories and talk about how many more people stay well from addiction and are in recovery at the one-year mark. We know we are affecting positive change in the community and we believe that no one is ever completely incapable of getting better. But the sad reality is that sometimes we lose people. Sometimes life is just too much or the disease has too strong a hold on the brain. Sometimes it’s progressed too fast or too far. Sometimes, they die.

In America, an interest in death is considered odd or morbid and many of us don’t like to talk about death. It’s something we compartmentalize nearly to the point of emotional indifference and then toss around platitudes to comfort each other or express our disbelief that someone actually died. There was plenty of that during the past week, with the news of Robin Williams’ death. I was asked to comment about it for both radio and television programs and found my comments focused on us needing to get over an explanation of how this could happen to such a beloved person and change the dialogue to discussing issues like depression and reaching out for help when we feel hopeless, as those who suffer from depression and addiction often do.

Last week was a difficult week. We received news that two of our clients had died. One I didn’t know particularly well, as he received telephone recovery support, so I never saw him in the center. I do know that he completed suicide and my hope for him is freedom from whatever became too intolerable from this life. I do know that this was tough for the volunteers who make those calls to hear. They are peers in recovery who are actively seeking wellness in their lives and they hope to help others find it.

Another gentleman died from complications of another chronic illness he was fighting. He was a character. The first time I met him, he looked me up and down and said, “Nice tatts. I like you,” then walked away, saying “They got the right lady in charge” to no one in particular. He carried many labels—veteran, OG, felon—but he also carried himself proudly and fought his illnesses to the end. He was particularly bonded with his recovery coach and she discovered that she was listed as his emergency contact and asked to help make arrangements. She was the one stable person in his life, the one he could always count on to answer the phone or visit when he needed to vent or was having trouble with his appointments.

It isn’t always easy or fun, but I know we did have some impact on these lives, even if the end results aren’t something to positively report on a stats sheet. When you’re working with people instead of products, success isn’t always easily measurable and when you’re working with sick people, the life milestone of death may be part of the equation.

I plan on dying someday. At this moment, I don’t know where, when, or how, but of all the things I may think I know about life, my death is something I accept with certainty. I agreed to be born, which means I also agreed to die. We’re all terminal.

That view might help me live more in the moment and not take my life for granted, especially my recovery life and the opportunity I have to help others find recovery and wellness. Most days, I feel like it’s a miracle that there is breath in my lungs. Today was lots of little miracles—a run with the dogs, working on the yard with my Man Friend, eating Icies with my nephew, and listening to Janis Joplin while I type.

Best in Show...

At this time last week I was gearing up for the big dog show, my premier sporting event of the year. Two televised nights of dog after dog after dog. Like many other sporting events, there’s plenty of ritual, build-up, and flair. Sometimes the judges out-flair the dogs. (Google Ms. Betty Regina Leininger if you don’t believe me. She’s a wonder in purple and yellow diamonds. A wonder.) While the commercial time may not sell at ‘Merica football rates, the athletes excite and inspire lovers of canines everywhere.

To be honest, I couldn’t contain myself once the show started. Facebooking the event hadn’t been my goal for the evening, although I have been known to Facebook snark throughout the celebrity fashion parades also known as awards shows. The tabloid giggle factor always gets me there. But the dogs, oh the dogs bring me joy. All the different groups and breeds—fur babies of every shape and size, some even furless, like the beautiful Xoloitzcuintli. Of course, the Sporting Group is my favorite as it is home to the German Shorthaired Pointer. Alli and Joey wouldn’t have my vote any other way, even though I’ve never thought the breed winner to be any better looking than my beauties. Plus, Baby Walter’s repping the Sporting Group as well, so my allegiance is solid.

Not that I don’t love the Dobermans, the Mastiffs, and the Bull Terriers, cuz I do. I love them all. I love watching them run around the show ring. I love the way they look at their handlers. I love. Sure, some dogs are a little funny looking or so odd looking you love them for their quirks. Sure the dog people go a little overboard, but so do the football fans, the baseball fans, and the soccer fans. We love our breeds like they love their teams; we just make our own scene in our own way. You’ll never see anyone dressed up like a Poodle at a dog show. (Yet.) Plus we don’t have to worry about our favorite athletes getting arrested. I just love it. That’s the key really.

It brings me joy to go online and look at the breed judging and see all the GSPs lined up. There’s something spectacular and funny about it, even more so in a breed with more unified coats, like Golden Retrievers. Imagine a whole row of Buddies, proudly looking up at their handlers, poised and affectionate, alert, yet loving. Making it into the Group Finals is a pretty incredible feat, a national broadcast, with dog geeks like me watching their every move, commenting on favorites and speculating on winners.

Yes, I may be a bit over the top with the Facebooking during the show, but I was surprised that some friends told me to quit commenting or even to shut up. My response was to not respond to tell them to block me. I mean, there were at least a couple of funny posts, as evidenced by the likes and the fact that more friends said they enjoyed the commentary. And something beautiful did come out of the few negative reactions because I realized I will never apologize to anyone for annoying them with my joy.

Social media is such a strange beast. We each have our own pages, feeds, and accounts. We all choose what we display about our lives. It may be honest or a complete fabrication, but there is a selection process, sort of a branding process as to what we choose to share. If someone who had never met you looked at your page, what would he or she say about you? What’s important to you? What do you value? Or maybe the more interesting question is how would you be judged? Judging is more about the lens through which the judge views life than the one standing judgment.

You take selfies, you’re a narcissist.

Drug pictures: Junkie.

Political rant 245: Ron Paul is your new god.

You post about your cats, you’re a crazy cat lady. Bet you’re single.

Oh, you’re one of those people who always has to post when you go to the gym or ran a mile cuz otherwise it’s like it didn’t happen.

Political rant 556: Obama stole your birthday.

All you post about is drinking, you might have a problem.

All you post about is drinking, you must be fun.

Underground music scene guy. I get it, you’re cooler than I am.

Quiz 2365: Which 70’s Porn Star are You? You got Long Jeanne Silver… umm…

You had a baby. So did everyone else.

You had a baby! You had a baby!

Political rant 132: All Republicans are evil.

More home remodeling pics? Rub it in, jerk, I live in squalor.

This could go on for a hundred pages, but my point is pretty simple. You choose what you put out there and yes, putting it out there allows for it to be judged. BUT, in my experience, if you share your joy, it doesn’t really matter who or how you’re judged.

When necessary, use words...

Joey came into my life through an animal cruelty case. She was considered evidence, which logically made complete sense to me, but in the place where my feelings live, evidence was supposed to be some sort of inanimate object that could be kept on a shelf in a police station, catalogued in a file box long after the case was adjudicated. At one point, a turn in the case made me having to return her to the man accused of running the puppy mill a distinct possibility. Fear, anger, more fear, a river of tears, and two attorney consultations later, the evidence was ever more important to me. The evidence, who was just to be a foster dog to alleviate stress on the shelter responsible for housing, was family.

To be honest, she wormed her way into my heart within about 12 hours. I can’t lie about that. The little brownhead is the canine version of me and I knew she belonged with Alli and me.

Protecting my family was paramount; I even went so far as to set up an underground railroad-type system of six different non-relative friends she could stay with if the case were dismissed and she was to be returned. I hoped. I prayed. Walks were more protective that winter, since I now lived in a world in which I was sure sheriff’s deputies, armed with warrants were lurking around every corner, ready to snatch my baby back to the unknown that was Turner County.

It all got to be a little obsessive since I loved my girls so much, but also because of my wacked out, over-active imagination. Somehow that imagination led me to specialty Catholic supply store. Catholic friends, don’t be offended—the first time I went to a Catholic church my observation was, “Cool, you have footrests.” It would be a cute story if I were eight. I was 19, but I was corrected—“They’re for kneeling when you pray”—and did stay for the service, er mass, but was really confused about all the up and down. Back home in the Reformed Church, we were stuck in the pews unless asked to stand during a hymn, and that was riding the pine—no cushions there.

My limited experience with the Catholic church did remind me that they recognized different saints to pray to and help with certain life situations. So who would be my saint? I waited on plenty of priests at the restaurant at which I worked, but I was a little scared of that dialogue since I wasn’t Catholic, let alone go to any specific church. I didn’t want to leave the impression that I was mocking their religion or just trying to score a favor from the Universe since I was experiencing some trouble and uncertainty in my life. Same story with consulting a friend—religion is so odd like that, some people assume I’m an atheist or have no spiritual basis to my life since I am not a church-goer. So what did I do?

I Googled.

Was I looking for the saint who comforted the confused? The fearful? The saint who looked out for the attorneys trying the case? The judge presiding over the mess? The lost? The 30-something chick making herself sick with worry over losing one of the beings she loves more than herself before she barely had a chance to know her?

Then it smashed across my head like a sack of potatoes: it wasn’t about me. It was about Joey.

Oh humility.

It wasn’t about the chance of me losing her, it was about the hope for her to continue the good life we’d started.
Then I found my saint, not like a wrecking ball, but like the birds surrounded him as he preached to them. My saint was Saint Francis, the nurturer of animals and the environment. The humble man who lived in poverty and is probably the closest saint I could get to a hippie. When I was a child I would hold funerals for dead birds, usually robins, the most basic bird in these parts, but the 40 inch tall version of me knew each little bird deserved a few words before time took their feathers away.

Maybe I didn’t find Francis, maybe I re-found him.

He was with me when I was 23 and went to Paris, in front of Notre Dame. There’s a beautiful courtyard space on the Western side of the church where I was sitting one morning, taking the whole scene in, the way one has to when the buildings have centuries of history, wondering who might have stood in this spot and pondered his or her life. My thoughts were interrupted when I noticed a rough-looking man feeding tiny songbirds just a few feet away. Rough-looking isn’t the right way to say it; one could easily jump to the conclusion he was homeless.

Whatever his situation, the joy on his face was incredible. I started to take his picture and when he noticed, he stopped to pose. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was beautiful. He motioned me over.

The cynic in my thought I was about to be robbed if I walked to him.

He took my hand at the wrist, turned it over, and placed some of the bread crumbs in my hands. He pointed at the birds, nodded, and gently guided my hand towards the tiny, feathered creatures. One jumped into my hand and started pecking, tickling my palm. A second friend joined in the pecking on my hand. The man laughed at my laugh. Maybe Francis looking for me again…

But I wasn’t thinking about those experiences when I walked into the Catholic supply store that day, I was just on a mission to find a Saint Francis medallion. I knew I didn’t need a nun’s habit to pass as a Catholic, but I also knew I couldn’t get roped into any type of questioning about where I attended mass or if OG won the last big game. So, I lied. The lady at the store was so nice and helpful, but I lied. I told her it was for a gift. I’m not sure what the penance for lying to the nice Catholic lady at the Catholic supply store is, but I should probably do that. Mission was accomplished, though, as I found a Saint Francis medallion and a prayer card.

That was late in 2009 and I’ve worn one everyday since. I had to do one replacement medallion as it was lost somewhere on the bike trails. But faith, superstition, or whatever you want to call it makes me want to wear it.

Once at the restaurant, I was cleaning off a table after the guests left and I found a Mary medallion on the floor. It must have fallen off someone’s chain. The guests were gone, so I put it in my pocket without really thinking much about it. I just thought I’d toss it in the lost and found on my next trip to the host stand. I had to laugh when the table was re-seated and it was a priest and two nuns. I relayed the story to them and said, “Your presence was announced.” The priest laughed. The nuns smiled.

We all have signs and symbols woven into our lives; we place the amount of meaning we chose into them. I am always amazed when I reflect and really look for the patterns, though. Did Joey find me Francis or did Francis find me Joey? Not that it really matters in the end. Joey is curled up in the papasan chair with Alli in a big pile of brownhead bitch love, just where they should be. And I’m listening to After the Gold Rush, humbled at the love in my life and grateful it’s there, no matter the path by which it came.




Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon,
Where there is error, the truth,Where there is doubt, the faith,

Where there is despair, hope,

Where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

RIP Janoct Ajda 1949-2013, Earth...

Surprisingly, I don’t remember the first time I met him. He just always showed up at the coffee shop, telling stories about seemingly crazy adventures while riding the rails. I often wondered if he was full of shit, but the fact that I possibly knew an actual hobo was way more interesting than trying to cipher through exaggerations. And frankly, even if he made it all up, he was so captivating it didn’t really matter.

Captivating, definitely, at times to the point where I almost felt captive. The man’s attitude and energy were aggravating to me at certain points in my life, when I wasn’t healthy.

INVITE PEOPLE INTO YOUR LIFE
I think I was jealous that someone knew how to live so large. And large wasn’t about things, it was about ideas and experiences. The mayoral runs weren’t about winning. They were about doing what he thought was right. They were about getting people involved and communicating. Janoct was so good at bringing people into his realm.

WORK HARD & MAKE THINGS RIGHT
I remember a Sunday in August, back in 2010, that terribly hot summer. I’d been griping to the slumlord, bless his soul, about getting the trees trimmed. They hanged awkwardly into my yard and were taking over his. They were growing into the house. You read that right.

I was getting ready to go to a Dylan concert in Lincoln and as I walked out into my backyard, who did I see all rigged up in the slumlord’s trees? Janoct, of course. The man could work like a horse. There he was, in his 60s, the tree probably had a couple decades on him, a hundred degrees outside and he’s yelling, “Hey girl!” without missing a beat.

One of the larger branches he was trimming fell and took a little notch off one of my fence pickets. It really wasn’t a big deal, but he apologized and said he’d make it right. He replaced the picket within the week.

DO THE UNEXPECTED
Janoct was a fixture downtown, stopping in at the local shops and events. Back in September of this year, I was involved in a recovery-themed art show. Since my medium of artistic expression is cake, I designed and caked a special cake for the show.
We hadn’t run into each other in awhile, so I was pretty excited to see him and experience that energy he brought everywhere. There’s a great picture of us taken that night.

I pointed out my cake and he said, "Girl, you can't bring a cake and not expect a Black man to eat it."

I told him to go ahead and have some. I figured we'd eat the cake at some point during the show anyway. He marched right over to it and cut a big hunk out. Some of the attendees were worried that I would be upset, like he’d defaced the cake or something. It was pretty awesome. He grabbed the hunk of cake and brought it over to Haskett’s for our friends to enjoy. Leave it to Janoct to turn my cake into performance art.

KNOW WHEN TO BE QUIET
I remember sitting by the window at the coffee shop one day, just wanting to not be bothered. Because someone who doesn’t want to be bothered would naturally go to the coffee shop where she knows 90% of the patrons. I did the “My ear buds are in and I’m obviously working on homework, so move along” set up at my table, thinking that would kindly move people along.

I had recently been through a strange break-up and the details of said break-up were still spilling through the community, as they often do. Of course, several people stopped to say something… who they were or what they said escapes me now, but what I do remember was Janoct walking over to my table with that, “Hey girl” look on his face and he just kissed the top of my head and walked away.
At that moment, I was thinking, “What the hell?” Still being hurt and unhealthy myself, I was slightly offended by his gesture. I was such a ball of anger at that point in my life. I just sat there and fumed a bit, pissed off at anything and anyone.

I thought of that moment today and I bawled. Janoct, one of the most talkative people I’ve ever met, showed me kindness in the most gentle way, with a kiss on the top of my head. He knew I was hurting, shit, the whole town knew I was hurting and instead of trying to get details from me or offer advice, he simply let me know he cared.

Cycling Newsman said, ”Janoct talked to everybody. There were times when it seemed that life was just one long conversation to him, just bouncing from person to person as they passed in and out of his sphere.”

For those of us fortunate enough to stay in the sphere awhile, we’ll be telling his stories and missing his smile. No matter how you knew him—Candidate, Christian, Hobo, Storyteller, Friend, you won’t forget him. And if you didn’t know him, stop by Black Sheep or M.B. Haskett and I’m sure someone will fill you in…

RIP Janoct Ajda 1949-2013, Earth

I Love the Paws...

I did the TC Marathon over the weekend. I've been starting to reflect on the experience and hoping to craft a decent blog for you, dear readers. It was a bit overwhelming, to be honest, and I just can't process it all yet. So I had to do something silly in the meanwhile.

I drove up to St. Paul on Saturday afternoon and was doing a bit of radio hopping. The drive up Highway 60 was a bit nostalgic for me, thinking of driving up to the Dome for a Twins game with my family and of traveling lots of highway miles for high school events. The radio stations are great while traveling--I love local commercials. But the format was predictable in the country, classic rock, or pop formats. I listened to a lot of pop radio. Full disclosure, I am not a pop music hater. I love me some Katy Perry, Kelly Clarkson, and Pink. But the song I kept hearing over and over again was "Applause" by Lady Gaga. And I also love me some Gaga. So I penned 2BDL-appropriate lyrics... there may or may not be an Instagram video of the birth of this floating around. I'm sure Gaga will use these alternate lyrics on her next tour...


"The Paws"

[Verse 1:]
You sit here waiting for me to grab the leash
To crash the critic saying, "Is it short or is it long?"
If only love had an I.V., Brownhead I could bear
Being away from you, I found the vein, put it in here

I love Alli’s paws, the paws, the paws
I love Joey’s paws-paws
Love the Brownhead paws-paws
Love for the way that you run and run with me
The run, walk, run, walk, run

Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real far)
Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real fast)

(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real far
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real fast
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run

[Verse 2:]
I've overheard a theory "That is just a dog"
Hell no sir, watch your tongue, & come with us for a jog
Those little Brownhead babies trained me for a marathon
They’ll go for 20 miles and be your heart when you get home

I love Alli’s paws, the paws, the paws
I love Joey’s paws-paws
Love the Brownhead paws-paws
Love for the way that you run and run with me
The run, walk, run, walk, run

Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real far)
Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real fast)


(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real far
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real fast
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run

[Bridge:]
Run, run
Run, run now
Ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo
Ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo
Ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo
Ooh-ooh

I love Alli’s paws, the paws, the paws
I love Joey’s paws-paws
Love the Brownhead paws-paws
Love for the way that you run and run with me
The run, walk, run, walk, run

Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real far)
Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real fast)

(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real far
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real fast
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run

B-I-T-C-H-E-S

More Than Words...

I just saw a little comic, like a drawing, not a short comedian, on The Book that caught my attention. Drawn by a 14 year old, it was a four panel illustration titled, "The Value of a Dog."

The first panel showed a girl siting in the corner, all by herself. She's curled up and her head is down, she's obviously upset about something. In the next panel, she starts to cry and her dog pokes it's little face into the frame, matching it's sniffs with the girl's sniffles. In the third panel, the dog approaches her and she looks up, while in the final panel the dog is snuggled into her arm, comforting her as she wipes her tears away.

Sigh. Sniffle. Truth.

My favorite part of the comic is that there are no words. The intuitiveness of a dog. I know they can't speak our human words in our human languages, but I doubt they would even if they could. They are far too smart for that and they trust their feelings in a way that is completely foreign to most of us humans. Many of us are fixers or we over process our feelings, like we can't just own the feelings; we have to assign special meanings to them (yes, I am totally guilty) or inflate our senses of self-worth with them.

Both of the bitches are being extra snuggly and protective tonight. They pick up the energy. It was one of those days in which a few tears were shed. Two people I care very deeply about are struggling with cancer. One had some pretty good news, while the other's wasn't so great. Two people I love more than nearly any other humans are struggling with addiction. One got wasted today and the other called me from treatment to say hello. I have to recognize that balance and be grateful that there is healing in this world. And I am going to try and help my friends with a cue from my Bitches--that sometimes, just being there for them and their families, is the best gift I can give. No words are needed. A listening ear and a hug, just like the paw that's draped over my foot as I type.

There is an art to demo...

It's quiet in my house. It isn't particularly late, but the Bitches are napping, as is Man Friend. The dishwasher is sloshing along in all its glory. I wonder if it realizes it will be the first appliance to go once I've saved up the money for a new one. I wonder why I always personify inanimate objects.

Yes, the remodel is still going. The going is slow, but I have three turtle tatts and only one hare, so you know where I fall on that side of the story. It's always functional--we won't starve for lack of ability to cook. And while it might be easy to get frustrated at the lack of speed in the process of the remodel, I can't help but think it's a larger metaphor for what's going on in my life.

For anyone who had never been to my house before the wall came down, (and yes, there were Gorbachev jokes) you'll just have to imagine how dark and small the dining room felt. Now, with the wall between the kitchen and dining room out there's an open run through the entire south side of the house. Natural light at the dining room table is no longer a dream.

Just getting the wall down was quite a feat, as the house was built in 1925, when lathe and plaster was the norm. I knew that hanging pictures was a chore, but I didn't appreciate the dusty, choking mess of ripping into that beast. Man Friend was completely in charge; he kept saying, "There is an art to demo."

I had TV images of home improvement shows with sledge hammers and wrecking balls in mind when I heard demo. I was afraid. New motto? #trustmanfriend

I never contemplated the finesse of an artisan in relation to doing a demo. I was thinking Shaq when I should have been thinking Grant Hill.

We're both in states of change, Man Friend and I, and I think it may result in a huge time of growth for each of us. If we're lucky, our relationship will be included. I guess we're both doing some life demo and my usual bull in a china shop approach to change seems extreme and a bit immature when I remember that there is an art to demo.