So What's the Difference?

This post appeared on Facebook recently - and I did what I always do.  I checked the source. 

And yes, it's legit.  My reaction was and is, "By what stretch of anyone's imagination is this keeping our country safe? We've become institutionalized child abusers and I am sickened beyond belief."

As one might imagine, some discussion ensued - most of which expressed concern and care and some reflecting the point of view that laws must be followed, so, logically, we must detain parents.  I will not address that stance here.  

What I will respond to is a comment which read, "So I guess I would ask....what have we traditionally done with children, when their parents break our laws and are incarcerated? I’ll answer....they go to relatives temporarily, or to foster care. I fail to see the difference."

First some background:

Since retiring I have served Guilford County, North Carolina as a Guardian ad Litem.  We are volunteers who are trained to work with children who have come into foster care and to represent their best interests in court.  This function differs from that of the social workers, who are to work with the whole family to achieve the best outcome.  In the past four years I've worked with 17 children, researched and identified the services they need, heard stories that would make a stone cry, written countless reports for the court, and (I hope) done some good for each child.  And so, off the top of my head, here is the difference as I see it:

In North Carolina, when children come into foster care it is generally after social services has worked with a family to help them overcome whatever problem has brought them to the attention of the agency.  If the problem cannot be addressed within the home, the children may come into the foster care system.  So here's

Difference #1:  The parents of the children being detained by ICE have not broken a law by entering the country.  It is totally legal to enter and request protection.  And I think most of us can agree that they did this to protect their children, not to harm them. 

Difference #2:  Children are brought into care - and by that I mean a foster home, not a detention facility - in order to keep them safe.  

Difference #3:  Every child must be assigned a Guardian ad Litem to represent their best interests. If there aren't enough volunteers - and there never are - the program has paid supervisors who take up the slack until they can identify an appropriate volunteer.  And these supervisors also work with us (volunteers) to make sure we have the support we need to do what has to be done for the children we represent. Children detained by ICE have no such advocate.

Difference #4:  Within a very brief period of time, each case must be adjudicated, and unless a child is found to be neglected, abused, and dependent, that child is returned to their home.

Difference #5:  Social workers set up programs for parents aimed at helping them become the parents their children need and deserve to grow into the best adults they can become.  And GALs work along side them for the same outcome.

Difference #6:  There are legal parameters established to protect the family.  Hearings are mandated so that family court checks to be sure the family and the children are being treated legally and fairly.

I could go on - and I probably will in another post.  But I hope this at least answers the original question.

Tuesday

Tuesday - at last - it happened.

The rigid buds unclenched their fists,

Shed the armor that had sheltered their sweet treasure,

Protecting from snow and ice and howling winds.

They opened to reveal the honeyed green of new growth,

Blossoms - tender splashes of pink, white, yellow.

The trees raised their limbs,

Lifted up the fresh faces in their arms

to be kissed by the sun.

And our hearts lifted with them.

Sally Beck

April 10, 2014

Double Retrospective - Part II

Looking back over a quarter of a century, hearing one's own voice ringing across the years; it's a surreal experience.  In revisiting that recurring dream from time past, I relived every emotion, re-experienced the grief of losing my children to adulthood, and found I was totally unprepared for the surge - the intensity - of those feelings.  At the time those words were written, Allan and Tracey likely felt only the elation of moving on, escaping parental control and building their own futures.  I feel sure they were ready for the steps they took and that they had no idea how sad I was as I watched them walk away on their own.

Now, however, our children are at the same stage in their lives where I was all those years ago.  Allan (FABIII) and Aaron have moved on to college; Lindsey is working and a mother herself; Jamie is in her final year of high school.  While I'm sure that Cindy is grateful for the solace of having Adrian and Sarah Catherine at home, I'm equally certain that both she and Tracey completely understand the words I wrote back then because they are living that time right now.

Now I know how mistaken I was in hoping to avoid having an adult child move back home.  When Tracey returned with five-week-old Lindsey in tow, it was the beginning of a year during which we learned to appreciate each other as adults and to work together on a different level.

Now I know how gratifying it is to see one's children form strong marriages, learning to rely upon each other through all life's challenges, easy or hard, welcome or not.

 And now I have experienced what I had no thought of then - the rush of recognition and love every time I've held a brand-new grandchild.  The hope and expectation of watching them grow.  The empathy as I watch my children work so hard at parenting and caring for each one.  The bitter-sweet pain of watching as they, too, weigh anchor and sail off alone on longer and longer journeys.

 But I was dead right about two things:  That time of life when it’s just the two of you again is lovely and fulfilling.  And while the dream recurs seldom now, and the intensity of the loss is less,  in a corner of my heart I still long for the feel of small arms around my neck, for the trusting weight of a child leaning against me in the chair, for the even rhythm of sweet, young breath, for my children, safe and warm at home.

 

Double Retrospective - Part I

I received a letter from my sister yesterday.  In it she had enclosed a reflective essay I had shared with her 25 years ago.

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It is winter and bitterly cold, the kind of New England night that is stark and silent, brightly lit by the reflection of the full moon off the snow.  But I am surrounded by warmth.  In my lap as she is every night, is Tracey.  At two she is an affectionate little girl, always ready to hop up and cuddle as soon as I sit down.  Next to me in the big rocking chair is Allan.  He is five and thinks that he is too big to snuggle, but as we wrap the afghan around ourselves and begin to read a story, he edges closer and soon worms his way under my arm so that he, too, is being held.  The smell of Ivory soap and Johnson's Baby Shampoo surrounds us, for the children have just been bathed and are ready for bed.  We are enclosed in the afghan cocoon, at home and secure.

My eyes open to darkness.  Where are the children?  And then I realize - it is the dream again.  Emerging from sleep, I remember.  Allan is married.  He and Cindy have just celebrated their first anniversary.  Tracey is in Boone, a freshman at Appalachian State University.  Next to me is my husband, a comforting presence, sleeping soundly.  I lie there and wonder if my children are safe.

A hostage to insomnia, I shift restlessly, thoughts whirling out of control.  I think of how my husband and I have raised our children, fully expecting that they would become independent individuals.  We deliberately offered them more choices as they grew, first giving them the opportunity to chose between peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches, later helping them decide whether to take piano or drum lessons.  As they matured, we allowed them to venture further and further on their own.  Because God in his infinite wisdom makes teenagers obnoxious, we began to look forward to the time when it would be just the two of us again.  And when that time came, we mourned our loss.  And now I find myself lying awake in the middle of the night, wishing I could have back some of the time I once wished away.

Impatiently I roll over, searching for a comfortable position.  My thoughts turn too, to the memory of a local news program which included a story about adult children moving back home, and I find myself hoping I will not have to deal with that situation.  After all, I like my life as it is.  At last I am back in school, fulfilling an ambition I have had for two decades.  I can do as I choose because there are no children at home,  no one waiting to be chauffeured to the dentist, wanting my car, surrounding the refrigerator with hordes of hungry friends.  My husband and I can loaf around the house in sloppy old bathrobes and have conversations which proceed uninterrupted by the sound of bickering.  Relieved at last of the burden of setting a good example, we can eat potato chips for dinner.  I loved the time in my life when the children were home, but now I love this time in my  life, and I think that I am unwilling to change again.

Nor am I willing to preserve our nuclear family forever, with all the pother and the pecking order.  I certainly don't miss the ear-shattering sound of Allan's electric guitar or our arguments about the volume.  I can listen to the radio and really hear the program.  And it is wonderful to look in Tracey's old room and actually see the floor.  For years I was sure that she was walking on a pile of clothes that began in the basement.  Her dorm room still has that same ambiance, but it is 100 miles west of here, out of sight.

Perhaps we are now in the last "awkward stage" as far as our children are concerned.  I find that I am getting better at partings.  While I am happy to see our children when the come home to visit, I am equally happy to see them go back to their own lives, leaving us to ours.   Perhaps, in the natural evolution of  things, I will begin to miss them less and enjoy them in a new way.  Perhaps, as we establish ourselves in new patterns, parenthood will recede and friendship will emerge.  But I have the nagging sense that somewhere, in the far recesses of my heart, I will always long for the feel of small arms around my neck, for the trusting weight of a child leaning against me in the chair, for the even rhythm of sweet, young breath, for my children, safe and warm at home.

Musings

One of my favorite places to walk is the Guilford Courthouse National Military Park here in Greensboro.  Especially on Sunday mornings I love listening to the quiet breathing of the wind in the trees, watching the deer pick their way through the woods, and greeting other walkers, who - like me - come to experience the serenity of this beautiful place.  At these times I remember those who fought on this site, enduring the penultimate battle of the American Revolution to establish a free country, and I imagine that at some point the same peace I find here will permeate Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, the Congo - all the places where war rages.

But today was the final day for this kind of walk.  The Sequester will bring about the close of the park on Sundays, and if our Congress doesn't pass a budget it (and other national parks) will close down entirely.  As I wandered into the park headquarters and greeted the staff this morning, as I paced out the double loop of this lovely place, what I felt was despair.  I have disagreed with our national leadership before, but I have always believed in that leadership.  Today I felt abandoned.  I walked and wondered who is advocating for the beauty of our country, who is even considering that a "shut down" diminishes the quality of life for all of us, who cares about the needs of others enough to think beyond dogmatic policies that fail to consider that we're all in this together.  And I prayed for the emergence of leaders who understand that listening is as important as speaking, that service to others is the ultimate measure of our worth, that what we do to the weakest among us defines our humanity.

Cat Call

Your human rendering lacks nuance

Fails to explore the full range of emotion

Found in my song.

Meow?

Where the unremitting character of the sostenuto?

The range of the falsetto?

The creativity in the rising dynamics of the fermata?

The tragedy  of the minor key?

Where the heartbreak of tremolo?

The artistry of the tessitura?

The angst of the cadenza?

Meow?

Know that I am both concert master and conductor!

Then you will understand my need.

Arise my minions.

It is time to break our fast!

 

Communion

 

The most ancient ones list to one side,

Validating the wisdom of deep roots

And the essential of judicious bending  -  of yielding to the storm.

Their trunks are rough and scarred – evidence of time’s tests  –

But robust and secure.  Supporting a leafy canopy,

They reach out, seek each other, shelter smaller species –

Haven from burning sun and angry tempest.

 

The song of wind and woodland fills the air –

Whispering swirl of leaves above the groan of old timber –

One incomplete without the other –

Sound echoing the movement of new growth

Dancing in the breeze and breathing in the moist air

Of a spring shower.

 

Beneath these boughs I bend and breathe - one with the woodland

Inhale the new day -

Release anger and regret -

Open my heart to give and receive -

Share this moment – all we really own.

 

Sally Beck

May 5, 2013

Boston

For the past six years Fred has run the Boston Marathon.  The journey and the event were a high point of the year for us.  For Fred, there was the challenge of maintaining the physical, mental, and spiritual strength to complete this difficult course.  My own battle was to overcome anxiety as I waited for him to finish.  But there were joys too.  Meeting new people.  Enjoying four whole days together away from work.  The excitement of exploring this beautiful city.  The Duck Tours.  Lunch at California Pizza. 

As I look at the images of the explosions and their aftermath and think about these horrific events, I am truly saddened.  The joy in the crowd was one of the highlights of the event for me; and it's been darkened by this terrible act.  I keep praying for those injured and those who helped.  And I struggle to pray for whomever was angry enough to commit this atrocity.

Belly Up to the Bar

Belly up, belly up to the bar boys
Let your money be seen
Only drink by day or night
Or somewheres in between

 

The Unsinkable Molly Brown

 

Don't ask me why.  My mind just wanders into strange places while I'm looking at mundane sights.  Lately this song streams through my head as I watch the finches at the bird feeder.  The occasional female finch manages to light and grab a bite.  Titmice and chickadees flit in and out.  But usually what I see are male gold finches and house finches camped around the feeder, while several of their brethren wait for a free seat.  Frankly, they are eating us out of house and home. 

 

Perhaps it's the long, cold spring, or maybe the word of our year-round feeder has just spread through the avian masses.  Whatever the reason, I'm buying 20 pounds of feed a week.  So there's the cash outlay - and then there are the bar fights.  Our own little birdie entertainment system.  Everything that's worthwhile comes at a cost.

 

 

 

 

 



The Zen of Knitting

It's a beautiful thing - rosewood needles looping a new row of yarn through the previous one.  Making slip-knots, really, and watching them grow into a shawl, or a sock, or a sweater.  Creating the open spaces of lace knitting to produce an airy scarf.  Knitting around and around in a circle, creating a strawberry or Lorax to warm the head of a toddler.

Meditation with needles and yarn.  String art. A quiet spirit.  A gift.

Domestic Warfare

Drama - one of the least appealing aspects of teaching middle and high school.  When I retired, it was the part of the job I missed least.  It's hard to lament the loss of dealing with who stole who's boyfriend, mean girls, wedgies in the guy's locker room; not that I mean to downplay the importance of these issues to 13-year-olds.  It's just that the mediation had become exhausting.  Anyone who's taught will understand.  Multiply your family drama times about 300 and you've got it.

However, yesterday I encountered drama in my own back yard - literally.  The noise of the battle was what first drew me to the window.  Inside the ring of bricks surrounding the birdfeeder, a squirrel was stuffing his face with the seeds that littered the ground, and simultaneously declaring his displeasure.  Surrounding him were three crows, voicing their own dismay in a language that sounded like a cross between a caw and a whimper (you'll just have to imagine it - that's the best I can do).  The scene was reminiscent of old westerns, with the cavalry huddled inside the fort, surrounded by marauding Indians looking for a point of weakness.  One crow was digging in the dirt with his beak - perhaps sharpening his weapon, or maybe just trying to look busy and keep a low profile.  The other two paced back and forth, a couple of strategizing generals.

Their battle plan evaporated in a flurry of gray; the squirrel had launched a pre-emptive strike and the crows retreated, screeching in outrage and losing all pretense of dignity, while their attacker turned and withdrew to his fort.  Each bird responded differently to this indignity; one continued to dig nervously with his beak, one paced around the feeder - apparently deep in thought - while the third took the offensive.  He flew at his opponent, fluttering and pecking, only to lose his courage as the squirrel turned and jumped at him, chattering in outrage. 

This was no epic battle; it only lasted about ten minutes and it ended in a draw.  Ultimately, no lives were lost and there were no clear winners or losers.  Unless you count me.  I gained a good laugh and a renewed appreciation for drama.

Back to the Start

Several years ago I got into really good shape.  I was running 3 miles per day (although I'll grant that I wasn't setting any land-speed records) and my weight was actually where it should be.  And then I got comfortable; the weight began to creep up, and I bought new clothes. I kept walking every day and sort of lulled myself into believing the spread was just a normal part of the process for women moving on past middle age.

But there comes a time when one must admit that "normal" isn't a good enough excuse.  So after researching ideas and giving the idea a whole lot of thought, I decided to try Apple's "Couch to 5K" program, a method designed to help out-of-shape folks progress from strolling to running three miles over a nine-week period.

Today was day one.  The program for week one calls for three sessions, each including a 5-minute walk, followed by alternating 60-second runs and 90-second walks and a 5-minute cool-down walk.  It was harder than I thought it would be, and also easier than I feared.  It felt great to actually break a sweat, to have followed my little iPhone coach's instructions, to stretch out afterward.  I look forward to keeping it up.

However, right now I'm just hoping the Aleve kicks in soon.

Being Right and Social Media

 

Being right in the sense I'm using the word isn't a political stance.  It's an insistence on the correctness of one's personal opinions.  If you had full access to my Facebook account, you'd find that I have friends from all parts of the opinion spectrum.  But you'd also find that when any of us posts an opinion, the respondents all "Like" or affirm those opinions.  Those who disagree just stay on the sidelines. In all honesty, I must include myself among the sideline sitters.  Seldom is there real dialogue aimed at understanding each other.

 

An exception occurred in my little corner of  the Facebook world a few days ago when I had a true discussion - an exchange of ideas - with a former student who generally expresses opinions much more conservative than mine.  Frankly, I'd always thought this young man probably belonged to the Tea Party movement, and I'd probably still think so if we'd not stopped expressing our own views and asked questions about and listened to each other's judgments.  We discovered that - at least on the issue of gun control - our ideas are much more similar than either of us had thought.  We don't fully agree, but we found areas of understanding and respect.

 

Which leads me to consider a little saying in a tiny frame that sits on my desk:  "Listen without defending.  Speak without offending."  Which leads further to the realization that I can't change how others interact; but I can work on my own attention to remembering this phrase.  This may be a baby step - but I think it's a step in the right direction.

Gift Wrapped

'Twas the week before Christmas and our great-grandson got - the flu!  No fun for sure.  But it was truly a gift of sorts.  Monday he spent the day with us and was liberal in handing out hugs.  What's better than those intentional, snuggly, heart-felt hugs from a two-year-old?  At the end of the day I needed aspirin for the achy muscles and I think I went to bed at 8:00.  And I wouldn't have traded even a minute of the day.  So very grateful for the sweetness and purity of baby love.  I pray that the day comes when we may all love each other as wholly and sweetly.  And how perfect to have experienced it as we wait for the celebration of the coming of Love in the world once again.

Myla

I met Myla in 2007.  We were among 100 teachers chosen to train and act as literacy coaches - teachers who were to help teachers do their jobs better and more easily. From the first, her soul shone through her sweet eyes and her razor-sharp intelligence cut through to the heart of what teachers do: create with love and work harder than anyone else on earth for the sake of their students.  That year she also discovered that she had ovarian cancer.  And we all know what that means.  But I remember with absolute clarity her exact words as we talked about her situation.  "All will be well."

And all was well.  She received treatment, her children rallied around her, she lost her hair, and she continued to work with the students she loved and with those of us who were blessed with her presence.  After the first round of chemo, as her hair began to regrow, we all bought tiny barrettes and wore them as a sign of solidarity and support and love.

This isn't a happily-ever-after story - but it's a story of great joy.  Myla has gone on before us.  But every year Facebook let's me know that November 13th is her birthday, a time to celebrate.  Then, a couple of weeks ago, while sorting through a box of odds and ends, I came across that tiny green barrette.  And I felt Myla's presence and knew she was right: all is well.

Compromise

We've recently survived two weeks of political conventions.  Perhaps more than any other time in my memory, the murky difference between truth and fiction has been blurred.  Statistics may be - and have been - skewed to mean whatever the publisher wants them to.  So, more and more, I've been contemplating what place compromise has in our system of governance.

We must compromise with others to get along in the world.  But that doesn't mean compromising who we are, who we've been, who we hope to be.  Obfuscating past stances belies basic principle.  I think of Mitt Romney's approach as the governor of Massachusetts to universal health care, which he now seems to deny.  And yet Massachusetts folks appear to be quite content with this paradigm - a structure strikingly similar to "Obama-care."  I think of the funds both parties want to deduct from Medicare - in very different ways - and Ryan's denial that his plan makes the same deductions as does the Democratic approach - with different outcomes. These compromises impinge on principles like honesty and clarity.

In contrast, compromise in terms of issues may be defined as moving a step to one side or the other of a topic to accommodate other points of view.  We need to be very clear about this.  Recognizing that our fellow citizens may have valid perspectives that differ from our own is important to our political system – and to our lives together as human beings. If our candidates are being held hostage by those whose votes they want, if those who govern our country have no room to change and grow, we cannot progress as a culture.  I fear for our country if we - and our governing bodies - cannot or will not differentiate between principle and issue.

Sticks and Stones

Some thoughts on reading this morning's paper:

In an editorial a writer calls those who advocate banning the sale of automatic weapons "anti-gunners."

Larry Pittman, a member of the the North Carolina House of Representatives, labeled Planned Parenthood a "bloody, indecent, immoral organization."

It's nothing new, but our cultural tendency to alienate others by bashing those who disagree with us rather than to discuss disagreements civilly is not one of our more endearing characteristics.  If there weren't good reasons on both sides of an issue, there wouldn't even be an issue.  Our political discussions have devolved from being the art of the possible or the art of compromise to sophomoric name-calling.  Sad.

And Back Again

I never imagined that just steering a boat could be so challenging.  On our recent trip to England as we traversed the Severn and Avon Rivers we discovered that the physical demands (standing at the tiller, maintaining the water supply, checking the engine daily, operating unmanned locks) were demanding. For one thing, the boat was 44 feet long and weighed around 15 tons, a lot of vehicle to manage.  Then there were the emotional demands (overcoming a fear of weirs, dealing with surprises along the way, compensating for upstream vs. downstream, mechanical breakdown, the sheer immensity of the rivers and the power of the water).   I freely confess that at times I was terrified, exhilarated, uneasy, anxious, proud.

In retrospect I see this experience as a trial of our individual and corporate mettle.  It may not have been a vacation in the sense of relaxation, but it sure was an accomplishment.  And I'm proud of us all for doing it successfully.  Thank you, Tracey and Jamie, for a marvelous experience!

Pushmi-pullyu

Do you remember the story of Dr. Dolittle?  If you do, you likely also remember the Pushmi-pullyu - a sort of two-headed llama who was never sure what direction to take. How like all of us as we try to figure out our lives. What's the best path?  I'd like to, but...  Stay or go?

Decisions...decisions...decisions.

Black Dog

Winston Churchill called it the black dog in the corner - that sudden dark mood that springs out of nowhere and overtakes one's world.  I think he said it well, certainly describing the experience better than the sterile scientific term: clinical depression.

The scientific approach sounds so cold - as though emotional pain is just a condition to be addressed analytically and coolly.  But those of us who struggle with the black dog know that it takes some whispering, some empathy, some understanding to overcome the darkness. Bless the listeners of the world for their willingness to do just that.