Are We There Yet...Are We ALMOST There?

G-damn Effing Bullshit

This stupid plantar fasciitis has me seriously bummed out.  I should not have run yesterday.  I need to take time off from running.  That is the horrid truth.  If I continue running on this right foot not only will it never get better and probably get worse, but running with a limp will probably fuck up other parts of my body, like hips and knees.  I'm facing this hard truth.  And it hurts.  I'm addicted to running.  It's my peace, solace and joy.  It makes me high and happy, especially at this time of year when the weather is changing and there is mud and just being outside makes my son say, "I feel so alive!" as he did on a walk with our friend Nichole on Saturday.

But here's the thing that really ticked me off: Today I made an appointment with the podiatrist who successfully treated my plantar warts a few years ago.  He had a cancellation and can see me Wednesday morning, which is great.  Sure, he'll probably tell me to stop running for a while, which is why I've been avoiding him, but maybe he can make some other suggestions to speed the recovery.   But in order for my insurance to cover this visit, I need a referral from my primary care provider.  So I called them, but since they haven't seen me in years, they want to see me before they will refer me.  They are in Island Pond, 45 minutes from St. Johnsbury where I work and where my podiatrist practices.  The reason they haven't seen me in years is because, A: I go to Planned Parenthood for my pap smears and annual pelvic exams because I believe in the work of Planned Parenthood and I like the practitioners there, and B: I'm generally very healthy so why would I need to visit my primary care provider?  So I have to drive up to Island Pond tomorrow morning so the kindly P.A., Jim, can poke my heel and arch and I can say, "ouch" and he can refer me to the podiatrist.  Okay, I know that in the scheme of things this extra step isn't that big a deal or inconvenience.  But it's stupid.  I have a classic case of PF and I don't need Jim to diagnose it.  What a waste of resources! But really I think my inability to cope properly with the minor irritation of the health care system has more to do with the fact that thinking about not running for weeks or more on end makes me feel crazy and depressed.  How will I cope with every day life without my morning and long runs?

I might just have to take up cycling.

Family, Jungle Hippies, Papayas

I'm just back from my trip to Hawaii. I'm pretty sure I ran around the rim of a volcanic crater early this morning in Volcanoes National Park, but then Harper reminds me that must have been yesterday morning. No matter, I haven't slept in a bed since, so it feels like it was earlier today.

It was a good and varied trip. I got to spend some QT with my godson, Luca, and his parents, who let me call him my godson, even though I'm not sure any of us know what that really means. Luca is an amazing, cheerful, easy-going little guy, made all the more precious by the fact that he had a rough start in life. One of my favorite things he does is looks deeply into your eyes for a long time with this wise, loving gaze. It makes my eyes well up with tears. I love him.

His daddy, Andi, made us delicious dinners each night and fabulous double espressos each morning and his mamma, Nicole, took me on a circle island tour of Oahu and a 48-hour adventure to The Big Island. I won't try to recount all we did, but some highlights for me included sitting at Waimea Bay on the North Shore of Oahu, watching the surfers:
(and the lifegaurds hollering in the idiots who had no business being out in that surf; "swim IN Buddy, straight IN"):
eating a "shrimp plate" from Macky's Shrimp Truck:


hiking down into and back out of a volcanic crater, soaking in a natural, salt-water hot pond and taking a trail run (just this morning!) on a portion of the Crater Rim Trail.

I enjoyed the Puna region of The Big Island, known for it's farms and, um, sweet green bud, if you know what I mean. I found the Jungle Hippies to be quite dear and loved their little town of Pahoa, which looks like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie (except with Jungle Hippies!) and has an incredible northern Italian restaurant (BYOB), and a pretty rowdy bar across the street.

On our last night together, Nicole and I made a dinner of fresh Ahi on the grill, pan roasted green beans, and, most importantly, fresh papaya. As I was cooking the fish I asked Nic to prepare the papaya as a side dish. I have never particularly liked papaya, but something told me it would be good with the Ahi. And Nicole squeezed lime onto it! It was the most perfect combination of flavors!

Had I only discovered sooner the joy of papaya a la lime served with a savory dish! As we left Hilo this morning (or was that yesterday?) I saw vendors selling the lovely green/yellow, orange-fleshed papayas, 5 for one dollar! Alas, the Dept. of Ag. would not let me bring any home (I knew better than to try).

As I drifted in and out of sleep on my long flight from Honolulu to Chicago, I kept thinking about the papaya and how my old friend taught me something new about how to eat them. I remembered that incredibly simple, relaxed and delectable dinner at our lazy lahua in the jungle. And I thought about how happy I was to have visited my friends in Hawaii and to be going home to my family in Vermont. And 30,000 feet up, everything already seemed so long ago; Hawaii, so far away, and the space between, truly vast.


I captioned this one: What Happens In Honolulu...

Work...or, Because I Can

I've had this blog for a while now and I've written very little about my work. It's hard to talk about my work in the abstract and I work in a small community so need to be careful what I say. I also find it very difficult to talk about my work with people who don't also work in my field. I find that violence against women is an often misunderstood topic and it's challenging to educate people about the myths, realities and sociopolitical underpinnings.

Recently both my mom and my boss have expressed concern for me in regards to my work. My boss mentioned being worried about me and my mom asked me if I could keep doing this. I've been actively involved with the Battered Women's Movement since 1994. That's a pretty long time, I guess, and lately, I have been wondering if maybe it is time for a change. I've been feeling, from time to time over the last month or so, burnt out, overwhelmed and very sad. And I think I'd make a pretty good professional baker or lunch lady.

One thing that may be contributing to my career malaise is the small, second job I began last August. I co-facilitate a weekly group for men who batter. It's really hard, mostly because it feels futile and hopeless. Maybe one out of ten men in a group like that will actually change and stop being abusive. Maybe. But I'm also pretty certain that more than one out of ten will use what they learn in the group to increase their control of their partners and twist the content of the curriculum to manipulate their family. I've already had the experience (more than once) of listening to a guy very competently identify his abusive tactics and talk about how he's going to change and then go assault or otherwise intimidate and control his partner. Working with the group has opened my eyes and I'd like to close them again. I believe that more intensive programs have the potential to be more effective and I also don't think I'm the best person for a job like this. I've been hounding a colleague and former co-worker of mine who has much more experience running groups like this to take over for me and I'm hopeful that she will soon. It's not just that I want out (I do) but I also know Cyndy will be a much better co-facilitator. In the meantime, she's been a godsend of support for me.

I mentioned to someone recently, only half-joking, that I didn't think I could change jobs because I don't know how to do anything else. And the truth is really close to that: I do this work because I know how. I do this work because I can. And it's not just that I have the education, knowledge and experience to work with survivors and educate my community. It is true that I know how to help a woman and her kids escape. I know how to listen with compassion and without judgment. I know a lot of practical stuff, like how to get a protection order, what the steps are in a rape exam and where to go if you need financial help because you've been "involuntarily displaced." I know the rules and I know how to challenge community members and service providers when they're not following them. And I know how to break the rules when THAT is the right and just thing to do. But in addition to all of that, I have the resources, the support and the personal capacity to keep fighting this fight. The people who live in my house love, support and care for me, as do my parents, extended family and in-laws. I have friends, here in Vermont and in other places who make me happy, fascinate me and make me proud. I have a circle of co-workers and comrades who totally, totally get it when I'm angry and sad and who I can call on to do just about anything. And I have community members who support our work in all kinds of ways, from the older man who donates 10 bucks every year to the Sheriff who sends 2 deputies out after-hours at my request and his expense to give a woman the opportunity to run if she chooses. And I can run and cook and I have really great music and beautiful mountains and woods all around me. And red wine. So while my cell phone was going crazy at 8:00 on Friday night with work-related brainstorming and planning, this week I have a massage scheduled and next week I'm going to visit one of my oldest friends and her family in Hawaii. It's all about the balance and keeping the cup from getting too empty. My cup is always pretty full. Sometimes it even runs over. And I believe that "work is love made visible."

So I'll keep doing this work because I can; I absolutely can! So I have to and I will. And I want to. It is truly an honor and a privilege. It's really hard sometimes. Sometimes it breaks my heart and I cry and yell. But I have so much to fill me back up. And it doesn't take much to make me happy. And make me smile with glee. Like this, for example:


The Emotions - Best of my love - The Emotions