You’ve probably already heard the story about my sister’s birthday celebration, but I’ll tell it again just in case you missed it.  It started with the book Annie Freeman’s Traveling Funeral, which is a wonderful story about a woman (Annie Freeman) who dies.  She’s cremated, and she’d left instructions for a group of women friends to take this journey to scatter her ashes.

In the book, she has the trip all set up, with planned adventures and encounters along the way, and then of course, there’s always the unexpected.  If you’ve never read the book, I recommend it, it’s very fun.

So Julia reads it, and thinks it’s great, but – “why wait til I’m dead?  I wanna have the adventures while I’m still alive.”  She turned 50 this year, and once you turn 50, you realize that you really can do anything you want to.  At least, that’s my theory.

So that’s what she does.  All year long, Julia goes on little trips with different people she loves.  Now, here we are, December, the birthday year’s almost over, and our adventure is almost past due.

I wanted to go somewhere warm.  She’s always wanted to go to Savannah.  I wanted to see the ocean – don’t have to lay out in the sun, just need to see it, smell it, be near it.  She’s always wanted to go to Savannah.  It was the perfect plan.

We knew it might not be real warm.  We knew it was a long drive.  When we heard it was supposed to snow the day we were leaving, we even knew it would be smart to leave the evening before we’d originally planned.

We didn’t know that we’d pull into Savannah looking like this:

We left about 6:00 Sunday night, and driven through the snow, past Lexington, past Corbin (home of the original KFC, and close to where our grandmother had lived.)  It was snowy, and kind of slick, but we persevered.

We stop at the rest area on the Tennessee border.  Laugh at the sign that says, “Use caution, roads may be slick.” 

“Well, no duh,” we say.  “The roads are a little slick.  Ya don’t have to tell us to use caution!  But it’s only 58 miles to Knoxville – let’s at least get that far.” 

And we blithely head on.

5 miles, and 20 minutes later, Julia says, “Well, it’s not so bad as long as there’s a truck or something ahead of us.  Their lights give me some depth perception.  But without that, oh, geez, I can’t see – well, I can’t see much of anything.” 

Fortunately, an SUV passes us – we follow him for another 8 or so miles.  Then he picks up some speed – “No!  Don’t leave us!”  we say, half laughing, and watch his lights fade away far ahead of us. 

We creep on.

So when we see a billboard that says “Comfort Inn – Exit 141 – 5 miles” we don’t even have to discuss it.  It’s got our names all over it.

And it’s a beautiful sight – as we finally slide onto the exit ramp, we can see it, sitting at the top of a little hill.  Lining the driveway up to it are rows of Christmas lights, arranged to lead us safely in. 

“Yes!” we breathe a sigh of relief.

The woman at the desk is warm and welcoming, even if she might think we’re a little strange for being out in this.  The room is cozy and nice.  We’re happy.

Julia examines the trip tic – yes, we still have a Triple A trip tic, she loves them.  “I think we want to avoid the mountains as much as we can.”

“Ya think?” I say, then add, “Really – do we have a choice?.”

“Look,” and she holds out the map, pointing, “If we go this way, through Atlanta, see here – I think we avoid most of the real mountains, and it’s only about half an hour longer.”

I don’t even have to put on my glasses, I trust her judgment on this completely.  But I put my glass on anyway, just so it looks like I’m a full partner in the decision making.  “Mmmhmmm,” I say, and it does look like there’s a lot less elevation, “Sounds good to me.  Let’s do it.”

Of course, there is some talk about leaving early, then we realize that’s foolish.  “If we wait til after rush hour, the roads will be clearer, traffic won’t be at a standstill, we won’t have to deal with all those other drivers.”

Sounds like a plan to me. 

So we start out the next morning, after a good night’s sleep.  It’s a little slow going at first, but no real problems the rest of the way. 

I stop and get the car washed right before we get to Savannah because the snow is finally all gone, and I don’t want my car to be embarrassed in front of all the pretty, clean cars.  For some reason, the GPS on my iphone, which had been guiding us unecessarily, quits talking right when we need her.  I’m driving again, so I can’t fix it without drifting off the road, but we manage to find the hotel anyhow.

And at last here we are!  Our hotel is right in the historic district, only about a block from the river.  The desk clerk is delightful, answers most of Julia’s questions, and assures her that the concierge will be able to tell her much more in the morning.

At last, checked in, settled in, and freshened up a little, we’re ready to head out for dinner…

Last night, I stood in a roomful of people, my arm around a friend, and cried.  I wasn’t alone.  The seven young women and two men dancing had truly captured the postures of sexual abuse and the healing journey.  Their physical expression of the experience had many of us in tears – sorrow at first, but then of relief.  A collaborative effort of the Va Va dancers and Spirit Dance, it was even more beautiful and moving than I’d imagined it could be.

So, thank you, Amelia and Christianne, Kenn, Stephanie, and Jacqueline, Beate, Olivia, Jasminh, and Alan.  For all the work and practice you put into the dance, of course, but for all the feeling too.

Beyond that, the whole day was amazing.  I think I’m still too close to it to describe it well – it’s all superlatives in my mind.  And maybe a little blurred.  So many people came.  People I know, people I care about.  Lots of people I didn’t know.  Some folks I got to know.

New artwork in the art room speaks to their experience of the exhibit.  People wrote their feelings, drew their feelings, spoke their feelings.  Themes of sadness, hope, strength, courage, wisdom… pain.  

I had a conversation with someone – I don’t remember her name.  “It has to go together,  doesn’t it?” she said. “It’s only through that struggle, through facing the really horrible things, that you develop compassion.”

And I had to agree.  

Last night, the dancers created healing through connection.  Two dancers joined hands and began to dance together.  They connected with a third.  Moving as a circle, they surrounded each of the other dancers, one by one.  Slowly, tentatively, each dancer arose and joined the circle. 

As the circle grew, I could feel the strength of the connection, and it mirrored the feeling of connection in the room.  Brought together by art, united by shared understanding of loss and pain, we were a circle of dancers too.  Encircled by paintings and drawings that reflected lifetimes of sorrow and healing and wisdom, we were supporting and uplifting each other.

The performers leaned on each other, moved together as one, joined in closest community.  And then – one by one – they began to move away.  Joyfully now, moving with freedom, dancing apart and together and apart again.

I think we left the exhibit in the same way – stronger, more hopeful, dancing joyfully into the night. 

My last client of the day came in tonight and settled into her chair.  “So,” I said, as I always do, “What are we working on tonight?”  I didn’t know what to expect.  She had missed her last two appointments, so it had probably been 6 weeks since I’d seen her.  

“Well,” she said, and she shifted a little in her chair, “I think I might need to get a new therapist or something.  I don’t know.  Maybe it’s me.  It’s probably me.  But I just don’t feel like I’m making much progress.”

I thought a moment, nodded.  “Well, you’re right, of course.  We’re not making a lot of progress.”  She looked surprised that I’d agreed, and maybe a little offended, which amused me. 

But we went on to talk about why that might be, without me even mentioning the fact that she’d missed her last two appointments.  We talked about change, and she was quick to say that she thought change was scary and she didn’t much like the idea of it, even though she knew she needed to change. 

We talked about the cycle of change, and agreed that she was in the contemplation stage – thinking about changing, not ready to do it.  I talked about therapy.  I said there were three paths to change.  The first one was the quickest and it involved doing new things – going to group, trying new things at home.  I said, “But when I suggest those things…”

She shook her head, “No, I’m not gonna do that.”  

I agreed, “Right.  You’re not ready to do that.” 

The second path, I said, involved thinking about things differently, talking about using wise mind, identifying automatic thoughts.  I said, “But when I suggest those things…”

She shook her head, “No, it don’t seem like those things apply to me.”

“Right,” I said.

“The third path,” I said, “involves you coming in and just talking to me about whatever you want to talk about.  Then I listen.  I tell you what I hear you saying.  You talk some more, I listen.  That’s old school therapy, and it takes a long time.  We can do that, but you won’t make a lot of progress real fast.”

So we went on talking, and she began to be able to describe what she thought she might want to change about herself, and really did some good work in the session.  And she felt better about therapy, and I told her how helpful it was that she could come in and say she didn’t think she was making any progress.

But I was thinking about it while I was driving home.  I thought, you know, it’s like if you decided to renovate your house, and you hired an interior decorator or a contractor or something.  And if the contractor came in talking about tearing out walls and ripping up carpet, it would make you a little nervous.  And if you agreed in theory that it might be a good idea, but then he came back with sledge hammers and saws and ladders and buckets of paint, you might not want to let him in. 

I thought, if I’m going to make major changes in my house, I want to walk around with the contractor for a while first.  I want him to admire the things that are nice about my house.  I want to feel confident that he won’t ruin anything that’s good now.  Then I want to think about it some more.  Try to imagine it.  Look at paint chips.  Spend time at Lowe’s. 

I wondered how it seems to our clients – is it like we’re rushing into their heads with our little psyche sledge hammers poised, ready to wipe out all the thinking errors?  Yikes.  No wonder so many of them don’t come back, just quietly disappear.  On the discharge summary, we say, “No longer seeking services…”  and code it “2.”  I wonder what stories lie behind all the “2’s” I’ve used to terminate my charts.  

“But wait -” you may be thinking, “Your client wasn’t complaining about you moving too fast, she was complaining about moving too slow.”  And you’re right.

When all the ways I’d tried to move her didn’t work, then we didn’t begin to move at all until she complained that our progress was too slow. 

That’s what I love about therapy. 

This is a post I did yesterday for the American Slaves, Inc. blog I’m sharing on that website.

As a white person – an older white woman – I’ve watched the “correct” term for descendants of slaves change repeatedly. I remember as a young girl watching a children’s “made for TV” movie very early one morning. Everyone else was still sleeping, so I had the TV, an old black-and-white set, turned down low. The movie was about the desegregation of schools, and in the movie, two little girls, one “colored” (as we said then) and one white, became friends.

I remember one scene vividly. They’re talking about race. The white girl says to the other girl, “What should I call you?” The “colored” girl smiles and says proudly, “Negro. That’s what I am.”

Still smiling, she asks, “What should I call you?” And the white girl smiles shyly and says, “Caucasian, I guess.” I remember thinking “Caucasian?? That’s weird.” And I wondered if “colored” people thought being called “Negro” was weird too. The scene has stuck with me all these years.

Maybe I remember it so vividly because the show was interrupted with updates on the news of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assasination. I am ashamed to admit that I didn’t recognize the irony of that at the time, and even more ashamed to admit that I was dreadfully disappointed that I missed the rest of the movie.

As a teenager, I remember the shift to “Black” as the correct term. “Black pride” and “Black is beautiful,” reading Soul on Ice, Manchild in the Promised Land, and the poetry of Langston Hughes – it all seemed very exciting. It seemed very far removed from the old days of slavery, and we thought – I thought – that true equality was just around the corner.

Of course we know now that it wasn’t.

The TV series “Roots” came next, and again there was a shift – “African-American” was the new term. And again, that seemed very exciting and hopeful.

But it got a little confusing when I realized not all “black” people wanted to be called “African-American.” And I’d remember how I felt when the little white girl on TV said she was “Caucasian.” So sometimes, I’d ask, “Do you prefer being called Black or African-American?” Sometimes I’d try to guess. I mean, if someone’s wearing African clclothes, “African-American” seemed to be a pretty safe bet.

Then, about twelve years ago, I started working in the West End. I worked with an “African-American” woman named Ayo, who was very focused on connecting people with their African heritage. She was adamant that “African-American” was the only correct term, and was quick to let me know that anything else was racist. So of course I used “African-American” exclusively for years.

Then I read America’s Little Black Book and became connected with American Slaves, Inc. Suddenly “African-American” was no longer acceptable! But this shift in terms is different.

It seems to me that previous changes have been an effort to put more distance between the descendants of slaves and the history of slavery. I wanted to support that effort, thinking that was the path to ending racism. Norris Shelton challenges the idea that distance between the past and the present is the goal. He embraces the connection with the past. He makes it clear that the shame of slavery does not belong to the descendants of slaves.

Mr. Shelton takes this idea to it’s furthest extreme and refers to himself and others as “slaves.” I understand his point, but can’t possibly imagine myself ever referring to descendants of slaves as “slaves.” In any case, I’m interested in other people’s thoughts on this, and on their ideas about the numerous name changes that descendants of slaves have undergone.

Let me know what you’re thinking!

That’s my horoscope today. “The pressure’s really on.”

It seems like a good start for my first post to this blog, since I feel like I have a hundred things all going on at the same time. And it’s better than my horoscope a few weeks ago, which said, “The list of things you’ve been meaning to do is getting pretty long.” I was kind of indignant about that one – after all, I don’t really need my horoscope to nag me.

But, horoscopes aside, there are so many exciting things going on that I don’t know where to start. In the book She: Understanding Feminine Psychology, Robert Johnson says that one of the psychological tasks women are called to master (or to mistress?) is to do one thing and do it well. If I understand him correctly, he’s talking about that ability to have a million things swirling around you and still be able to focus on the one thing that most needs doing. And to do that one thing well before you move on to the next.

I think I used to do that better than I do now. Now I can’t even pick one thing to focus on in this post!

Johnson says we need to take an eagle’s perspective before we focus in – step back far enough to get the whole picture, I think he means. When I step back, I see a kalidescope of events and activities, chores and challenges, that intersect and intertwine with each other.

So I just spent waaaay too much time trying to create a visual of that. Which is not my strong suit anyhow, and it didn’t turn out anything like I wanted. And now I can’t even get it to copy and paste here. Ok. Enough of this.

This was supposed to be a fabulous first post on my first blog, but really, it doesn’t matter, cause I haven’t told anyone I’m doing it!! So it is what it is. And it reflects what’s going on with me much better than if I’d done some great writing or succinctly explained one of my projects.

So I’ll be back…