Saying Yes

Sometimes I worry I am not doing life well.

This is one of those times.



Growing up one of my favorite films to watch was the early 90s version of "Father of the Bride." (As a grown-up one of my favorite films to watch is still the early 90s version of "Father of the Bride.") Even as I child, I have always identified with Steve Martin's character, George Banks. He is loving, hard-working, funny, and loses his cool in dramatic ways. He looks like he has it together but is clearly on the brink of disaster as major life events unfold around him. Like George, I could hastily separate unneeded hot dog buns in the supermarket.

As George's inner monologue reflects on the events surrounding his daughter's wedding he keeps restating that all the chaos is worth it--as long as he can kiss the bride at the end of the evening. As fate would have it, he ends up in all the wrong places at the wrong time and has to keep things together behind-the-scenes. Because of all the commotion [SPOILER ALERT] he doesn't get to see his baby girl head out the door and into married life.

Nina, his wife, is shown with a pained expression as the bouquet is tossed down the staircase.

"He missed it."

And I would be lying if I didn't say that is how my life feels this season.




I was diagnosed two summers ago with an intense case of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). My most anxious moments come from circumstances where I am unable to see people I love and have experiences I was looking forward to. When I can't attend the celebration or line up my schedule with the visiting friend or make the journey I get completely let down. Not an, "Oh bummer! I was looking forward to that!" let down. An intense realization and frustration that the experience will never happen again, whether good or bad, and I was not a part of it. It makes my heart physically hurt.

This season of my life has been especially painful.

These past few months I have said "No" many more times than I have said "Yes". I have missed important life moments for family and friends. I have given up opportunities to see people that I don't get to spend much time with. I have excused myself from great fun, good conversation, and well-liked Instagram pictures. How many texts have I sent that started with, "I am so sorry but..."?

And for what?

For countless working hours and the things I am involved in at church.
For my family as we support each other through life and health highs and lows.
For my laundry and bills and vacuuming and groceries.
For much-needed sleep.
For my own sanity.

Any person with common sense would point out that these are healthy choices. Saying "No" in these circumstances is usually a wise decision with my body and spirit in mind. In the spirit of 'Self Care' I have to take care of me so I am able to take care of others.

But it is still saying that dirty word--NO.

Saying "No" sometimes feels like I am telling someone I don't appreciate them. Or that I am uninterested in activity outside my office. Or that I am dying. None of these things are true (...usually).

So why miss out on all these great experiences? If they are so important and will be so sorely missed, why not just buck up and say Yes to everything?!  



Maybe I am.

Maybe I am not saying "No" at all.

Maybe I am instead saying "Yes" to the less exciting, less conventional, and less appealing parts of life.

And maybe those "Yes"s will end up being the best choices in the long run. Because they will ensure that I am doing my job fully and loving my family well and allowing me to keep my car and wear clean clothes and eat.

They will make sure I don't end up in jail for grocery aisle meltdowns over hot dog buns.

Yes.

Significant

James Bergen, my pastor and teammate, is a man who uses his words carefully. He puts weight into what he says and does not waste his breath with rambling, gossip, or "thinking out loud". In his sermons, conversation, and witty banter you can tell he has thought through what he is going to say. He is in tune with what is going on around him and rarely repeats himself.

Which is why I find it interesting that, after a few weeks of repeatedly throwing out a particular word in my own conversations, I can trace it back to him.

That word is significant.

sig·nif·i·cant/siɡˈnifikənt/

adjective sufficiently great or important to be worthy of attention; noteworthy.

This autumn was an attention-grabber for me and many people around me.

My Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in October and was immediately thrown into a season of consultations, procedures, and well-wishes. She has had to step out of her classroom, her community, and her normal routine in order to heal. Instead of wandering through the rows of desks in Room 52 and speaking about Japan or Islam or compound sentences she is trying to get comfortable in her living room recliner. It is a huge shift on all accounts. And not just for her but for her family, her coworkers, her students. 

Within my own community and around the world it seems there are recent events and conversations that have changed the course of history on an individual and global scale.

People have gotten married.
Had children.
Applied for grad school.
Broken bones.
Felt their city shaken with violence and fear.
Felt their neighborhood redeemed with warm blankets and a demand for reform.
Seen God move in ways they never expected.

This is an important time.

sig·nif·i·cant/siɡˈnifikənt/

adjective having a particular meaning; indicative of something.

In the Liturgical calendar, we have just started the season of Advent and, with that, the beginning of a new year.
(Are we supposed to sing "Auld Lang Syne" for this transition?) As a Church we talk about the birth of Christ and God's redemption story for the world. We sing songs, make crafts, and give gifts to celebrate this special season. For the kids I interact with, this is the highlight of their year! For some of the adults I spend time with, this is the most stress-filled and anxiety-producing time of the year.

There is a lot going on.

People are attending church services.
Buying presents and decking halls.
Serving food to the less fortunate.
Waiting in lines.
Complaining about the corporate approach to Christmas.
Praying with power for their community and world.
Seeing God move in ways they never expected.

This is an important time.

sig·nif·i·cant/siɡˈnifikənt/

adjective of, relating to, or having significance.

I am engaging this season with confidence and exhaustion. There are many big events and meaningful conversations that have occurred for me in a short amount of time. From writing papers to wandering trails I have seen God's ultimate authority and my own emotional and physical limitations. It is a beautiful season in my life but one that is still plagued with doubt and fear and distraction. But I believe it is going to be good. And I believe it is worth paying attention to.

This is an important time.

May your season be significant.

Single

I recently logged into my eHarmony account after many months of neglect.
And it made me laugh.

A couple of years ago some friends helped me decide that online dating was going to be worth my time (building a profile), my energy (re-reading that profile), and my finances (paying for said profile). I tried my best to describe Caitlin Baird and find pictures that showed my make-upped and natural faces, my hobbies and interests. Realism was my main goal. Forget the glamour shots or anything that showed me standing up on a snowboard--boys need to know I have frizzy hair and bad balance! When I was satisfied with all my answers, from Xavier Rudd to Salt: A World History, I put myself out into the technology-based dating world and waited to see what transpired.

Would Caitlin Baird's Love-Of-Her-Life be eHarmonious?

My first five matches were guys I knew from college.
My only correspondence was from some man in India.
My (few) sent messages were never returned. [Except that one organic farmer who told me he had just started dating someone he met at a coffee shop and used all the right forms of "their" and "there". Props to you, bro.]

So after three payments of nearly one hundred hard-earned dollars I called it quits and haven't logged on again since.

Until now.

Why now?

Because I hate being single.



Honestly, I never thought I would come to this point. The term "single" seems so trite. I prefer telling people that I am "not seeing anyone" or "spending lots of time with family and friends" or "home on Friday nights figuring out what the heck I am going to do with myself while all my family and friends are out having a good time." But not Single.

For one thing, Single is equated with lonliness. And I have never considered myself lonely. My life is overflowing with beautiful family, friends, and former strangers. My social calendar fills up weeks in advance, usually before my professional schedule, and takes precedence over chores, appointments, and sleep.

I'm not lonely.

Also, Single usually means you are dating but have not entered into a long-term relationship. As in, I am Single because the guys I've gone out with haven't turned into a boyfriend. But what if you aren't being asked out? The last date I was asked on--and they said it was a date--was when I was in college. Seven years ago.

PAUSE
This may be the point in this blog where I start talking about the fact that it seems my generation is not able to define what is a date and what is not. We won't go there...this time.
PLAY

I'm not turning down dates.

Lastly, and technically, Single is a tax bracket. Which I DO, in fact, check when I file my taxes every year.

I'm not defined by the IRS.

So why am I finally owning this title? Me who rolls my eyes when someone who has been Single for five weeks says they can't handle it any longer? Me who snorts when I am told, "God has the right guy out there for you somewhere. Be patient." Why now, right before my 27th Halloween, do I finally own up to my state of being?

Because I finally feel it.

This desire to make decisions with someone else.
To plan and pay double for trips out of town.
To have a shoe-in for weddings and parties and concerts.
To make use of the the other 75% of my king-sized bed. (I literally sleep on the edge. And don't move.)
To share life more closely with someone.

And you know what? Even if I hate the feeling, I am glad I am finally here.

Better start looking for some cute profile pics.

Day 20: Hey, Turn It Up! (September 23, 2008)

            Uncle Thomas took center stage this morning and gave a devotion based on how the Pharisees, a sect of religious rulers during Jesus’ ministry, were such hypocrites when they should have been godly men. He spoke on how we, as Christians, find ourselves so many times being individuals who can say wonderfully profound things but can’t find the passion within us to live out our convictions. Offering is a big deal in churches here so everyone in the congregation dances down to the plates on Sunday mornings. Thomas said that we like to do the dancing to the front of the church but many times only pretend to give a gift back to God. He does a great job of making things culturally relevant here.

            I started my new assignment today in the Monitoring and Evaluation section of the Clinic. It is the data processing group so my first job was to take the patients already put into the computer system and write them into a government directory which they will take in a few weeks. It is a bit tedious and, because of my attitude towards handwriting, really makes my hand hurt. Though my current task isn’t the most fun I really enjoy the atmosphere. The ten other M&E staff are my age, there is constant American and Nigerian hip-hop blaring from speakers, and all the girls wear heels. Basically I feel like I am back in my classes at Edison. I think I am going to have a more difficult time remembering everyone’s names since we don’t get to look at each other as much as other departments! This takes up my morning and afternoon shifts at Faith Alive so I will have to get used to writing hundreds of dates and names every day. If I wasn’t helping them out so much I would probably ask for a job that would allow me to step outside...

            Adrie started her task of calculating all ARV drugs given out over the past six months in the pharmacy so we were both really out of it by the end of the day. We ate dinner (Mac and cheese plus fresh papaya) and I started my first of several hundred loads of hand-washed laundry. It is pretty fun to try and wring out your jeans over a bucket in the bathtub. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that everything will be dry by next week! We decided there was not much we could do besides stare at the wall so we chose the next best thing and watched Across the Universe on my laptop. There is something very bizarre about finishing a movie and coming back to reality in Nigeria. Sometimes I forget that I am really here.

Six Months

After multiple Google searches I have discovered there is no symbol or gift that represents six months of a relationship. Which makes sense because, honestly, in the grand scheme of things, that isn't a very long time to be a part of someone's life.

Unless you have spent six months at North Fresno Church.

People who have worked in a setting that forces you to create a culture quickly--camp staff, fire crews, team teachers--understand there are some areas where you must discover your role and agenda almost immediately. You live in close quarters, do everything together on your work and social calendars, and maybe even split the cost of utilities/groceries/Redbox rentals. (I miss you, Wabern!)

This isn't quite like that.

This is more than setting routine with coworkers or accomplishing big tasks through team initiative.
This is more than creating goals, making lists, and following through with plans.
This is more than sitting on the couch every night and watching (or not) The Walking Dead together.

This is six months of making a community PART of your life. Not ALL of it.

And it is the best.

So in honor of this non-anniversary, I want to share six things I love about being a part of NFC:

1. The airport is a normal hangout spot. Whether a team is being sent on a trip, an out-of-town guest is arriving, or an individual is heading off into a new chapter of life you will find a large group standing in the terminal. Even before breakfast.

2. There is ALWAYS something going on. On any given day you will encounter someone in the office, a person fixing something outside, preschoolers and chalk drawings, a basketball game, arias from a practicing choir, and people having conversation in the parking lot.

3. Our kids understand who God is better than most professors of theology. From our preschoolers to our teenagers, it seems the best person to seek out with a Big Question around here is someone younger than you. These kids love being part of the Kingdom and will tell you about it. They will also tell you about the best dance moves and coolest superheroes.

4. People spend time together. Outside of church. On days other than Sunday. "Plancake" breakfasts, pool parties, and game nights are happening all over the place and it is the best way to turn your see-them-once-a-week friends into real family.

5a. Questions are encouraged. Everyone in this community is given the freedom to ask questions--without anyone rolling their eyes. There is no stigma to "question your faith" and individuals are able to think about the bigger facets of life with someone by their side. They are open to thinking through radical and sometimes contraversial thoughts...

5b. And no one pretends to have all the answers. But if you do want some clarity talk to a child. (See #3 above)

6. They love well. This is a community that is ushering in the Kingdom and strives to love God and each other in all they do. People don't see volunteering their time as an obligation, giving their resources as a charity, or serving others as work. Everything is done because of love. And I feel that love for me.

And I love them, too.

Happy Six Months, NFC Family!

Placing Hands on Heads

I'm preaching this Sunday.

This is my first sermon--that is, if you don't count all the lessons prepared for campers and middle school students, talks to camp staff and high school clubs, and that one time I was asked to speak to a group of Nigerian college students for an hour-and-a-half the night before we left the Plateau--so I was glad to hear that I was able to pick a passage of the Bible that pumps me up.

As I've been preparing what I am going to say about my two great passions (Jesus and Kids; referencing Matthew 19:13-15) I have had an overwhelming amount of personal reflection and emotion. Which I'm sure is true for any preacher, but, seeing as this is my first time and all, I wasn't anticipating the mental breaks required to sing and laugh and blog.

It has been great. And tiring.

As I read through commentaries and pray and discern what this part of Jesus' life means for my own, I am completely taken with this one truth:

Jesus placed his hands on kids' heads.

Most scholars agree it was a Jewish custom for a parent to take their young ones to the Temple to be blessed by a person of spiritual significance. That person would bless the child by placing their hand on the little head and reciting Scripture or a prayer or whatever words they thought sounded best. Then the parent(s) would thank the spiritual man (women weren't holding those roles yet) and take their kid back to the car and promise them McDonald's for not crying or sticking out their tongue.

Jesus also placed his hands on kids' heads.

As parents brought their children to Jesus to be blessed they got a talking to from his followers. The disciples told the adults to (in the words of JoJo) Leave [Get Out]. That might be because kids are not as clean and can be loud and don't understand theology and are sometimes super annoying. Or because they thought Jesus didn't have time for crying babies in all the highly-spiritual work that had to be done.

But Jesus took those kids and put his hand on their head.

Jesus blessed those children more than the religious leaders when he touched their head.
His blessing was more than recited words.
It was an act of undiluted love.
Because Jesus loves kids.

---

I am fortunate to have parents who love me and desire to see me get blessed in life. I am equally fortunate to have people outside of my family who love me and desire to see me get blessed in life.
But I think I am most fortunate to have had both of those things present as a young child.

There were (and still are) people in my life who have filled the role of Rabbi in placing their hand of blessing upon my blond curly head. People who were able to see past my young age, my lisp when I spoke, my moments of sassiness, my inexperience. People who said I had a talent for singing and speaking, the ability to work with kids younger than myself, a knack for telling funny jokes and good stories.

As I read this passage over and over I become more thankful for the people that were Jesus' hand in my life as a child. My parents brought me forward, hoping for a blessing to be extended, and there were people that followed through. And I can't go on any longer without giving them a proper typed-out Thank You.

So, in no particular order (and knowing that I will unintentionally leave out of dozens who should be on this list) Thank You to:

Karen Mussleman for showing me how to love Sunday School.
Debi Ruud for training my voice to sing loud and clear.
Jen Plantenberg for giving me my first camp experience as a camper and years later as a staff member.
Val Hannemann, Char Cole, and Doob Jessup for allowing me to help kids when I was still a kid.
Chris and Francois Doyle for instilling a desire and ability to dance.
Mrs. Acree for teaching me how to speak in front of an audience.
Willie Nolte for always pointing me to Jesus.

You all helped me become the woman I am today. And that woman is much cooler because of it.



This week I hope to instill the same desire to bless in our adults at North Fresno Church, all of us who are trying to be more like Jesus but sometimes end up looking like his disciples. I hope we can not be afraid of letting our youngest lead and will instead walk alongside them. I hope we can really look for the talents in the sons and daughters growing up around us and remind them of what they have. I hope we can encourage the parents who are holding their children out for a blessing.

I hope we can do good things for the kids who are looking for a hand.

...Both literally and figuratively.

Jesus loves kids.
So should we.

The T Word

Twenty

My current ejection fraction. When assessing a heart's ability to perform cardiologists use the EF to determine what percentage of blood in the left ventricle is being pushed out with each heartbeat. Anything below 40 gets categorized as heart failure.


Tired

My current state of being. Even when a person loves what they are doing with their time and who they are doing that time with, a busy and mentally-stimulating schedule can lead to fatigue. Nine hours of solid sleep a night is normal for a toddler.


Trust

My current mantra. It can be hard for a person to put faith and hope in those who are meant to help, like doctors and pilots and sixth graders, even when that person can understand what the others are doing. It can be even harder for a person to put faith and hope in those who are meant to help, like God and Jesus and the Spirit, when that person realizes they will never understand what the others are doing.


Transplant

My current fear. When a heart reaches a certain level of damage there is a chance that--even with the assistance of medication and technology and healthy eating and exercise--it won't be able to properly function again. So a new healthy heart is needed to replace the one that is failing.


Today

My current goal. The present twenty-four hour time frame gives people a reference to where they are in history. It is issued a date that cycles in a twelve-month calendar in relation to the sun and the seasons. It is not the past (yesterday) or the present (tomorrow). It is the now. And it is what you get to enjoy.


Truth.

Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise

This morning I put on a t-shirt that has been folded at the bottom of a dresser drawer.
At one point it was my favorite top to wear.
In the last three years it hasn't seen sunlight.
Why?
Because the last time I wore it someone asked if I was pregnant.



I don't think I am speaking just for women when I say that the issue of body image and self-esteem is a real daily struggle. We don't have to be told by the media what shapes, sizes, and colors a "healthy body" is supposed to look like; we already know. And we know best when we stand in front of the mirror, or see a candid photo of ourselves, or listen to words spoken from the mouths of babes regarding our appearance.

A healthy person is supposed to fall within their designated BMI.
A healthy person is supposed to be flexible and have good balance.
A healthy person is supposed to have strong clean fingernails.
A healthy person is supposed to hold a kale salad in one hand and a acai detox smoothie in the other.
A healthy person is supposed to smile and be open about everything going on in their lives.
A healthy person is supposed to take selfies in exotic places with captions like "Only 14 miles to the top!" or "Greenland today, Taiwan tomorrow!"

So what about those of us who don't fit all (if any) of those Wikipedia-approved descriptions?
Does that make us an UNhealthy person?



The past three years of my life have been an interesting journey in the notion of health. When I felt the need to move on from a place that I love dearly and into something new I was at my heaviest--weight-wise and emotion-wise. I wasn't eating well--heck, I was hardly eating at all--and was tired, drained, and confused. I spent the next year taking off some of that weight exploring new places by moving my legs and (in the process) endured multiple sunburns, scars, and poisonings. (Systemic poison oak and a nasty spider bite in three months. Bad luck, yo.) I spent a snowy winter wearing a constant sinus infection. I started passing out at work. I was diagnosed with a heart problem. Before the first two years of adventure were up, I found myself frequenting doctors' offices.

During my first cardiologist appointment, Dr. S looked at me and asked this question: "Caitlin, do you think you are a healthy person?"

I didn't smoke, drink excessively, or do drugs. I wasn't feeling depressed or overly anxious. I was hiking thirty miles a week and had lost ten pounds since my last weigh-in a year earlier. I ate three meals a day and could carry fifty pounds. Yes, I was healthy.

He sighed. "No. No, you're not a healthy person."

And no amount of hot yoga or chia seeds or CrossFit was going to fix me.



As we in the American culture test and calculate and screen what is Good For You, and through that determine what is Bad For You, perhaps we are coming to harmful conclusions. The World Health Organization defines health as "a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity." We are so focused on the physical and mental part of this that we are actually causing some of the social stresses. We are telling people who is in and who is out of the "healthy" box we have created. 

And for those of us who fall outside the boundaries, the act of getting healthy may be the most unhealthy part of our lives. 

Pouring out finances and making time for the machines at the gym. Focusing on our Beach Body and planning far-away summer adventures in the name of self-care. Posting bare-stomach photos and keeping the social media world updated with every mile we have jogged. 

Boosting personal self-esteem? Yes. 
Encouraging social well-being within a community? ...I don't have an answer for that yet.

Gym memberships. Superfoods. Training technology.
Healthy. Wealthy. Wise.



I am in the midst of getting healthy. And I say that with a little irony because the fact of the matter is I, as a woman with a heart defect, may never be considered healthy again. Which is okay. Because for the first time in years I can ride my bike to work. I can laugh when a preschooler pokes a pimple on my nose. I can do a sassy dance when I look in the mirror. 

So I am going to wear my favorite shirt again. 

Bless You Baby

I ran across my multi-colored well-worn journal from sixth grade clearing some space in my closet. I read through each page hoping to rediscover cutesy nostalgic stories and kid-friendly prose.

27-year-old Caitlin Baird is not impressed with 12-year-old Caitlin Baird.

As I looked over the sparkly blue gel-penned words my heart sank; for the most part, my young thoughts were not directed toward school assignments or family fun or outdoor adventures.

My mind was stuck on boys. And popularity. And getting my way.

I was a Mean Girl.



The past few seasons of my life have been overflowing with goodness and grace and questions. Through college courses, miles on the trail, countless hours spent with campers, and long conversations with people near and far I have grown in my understanding of Who We Are As People. I am a woman who is seeking the Lord, connecting with family and friends, and encountering adventure in national parks and coffee shops. I desire justice in the world. Love without boundaries. Peace. Hope.

A lot of transformation has occurred in my mind, my body, my skill-set.

And yet there are parts of me that remain the same.

Just this past week my staff at North Fresno Church had the opportunity to look deeper into our group-wide strengths with Professor Trent and his knowledge of interpreting Strengthsfinder results. I had taken the quiz my sophomore year at FPU and was not surprised when my results came back as a duplicate these seven years later. What the test understands to be my strengths resonates well with who I am and what I can bring to the table. While I spent our training session focusing in on my teammates, I have since come back to this question:

If I feel I have changed significantly in the past seven years, should that be reflected by a shift in my strengths?

If I feel like there has been change in seven years, the feeling is even more amplified thinking back fifteen: I am not the same person I was as a sixth grader. Not even close.

The sixth grader who got in trouble on multiple occasions for talking (and laughing. LOUDLY.) in class. The same girl who focused on the cute boys in the crowd and in the process of hunting them down forgot her girl friends. That kid who spent her chores money on jewelry and nail polish and hair clips and Beanie Babies.

She wrote awful things about people in her journal. She used the word "idiot" to describe herself and "stupid" when her friends did something she didn't approve of. She plugged in Bible verses on the days she had no encounter with a cute boy or trip to the mall.



No, not her. I don't like that kid at all.
Don't put her in my cabin.
Don't ask me to intervene in her rants.
Don't expect me to talk to her when she has another thing to cry about.
Just don't.

But she has been put in my cabin. She has been put in my care.
I've found that girl crying on the sidelines of the game when she is out before her best friend.
She has spent hours talking about boys and makeup and how much she views herself as dumb.
We've walked for miles and she has nothing good to say about anything.

Sometimes she has blond hair and sometimes she has brown eyes.
Sometimes she is rail-thin and sometimes she wears uncomfortable shoes.
Sometimes she is a He and sometimes she is seventeen.
But every time that kid I want to stay away from finds me.

They need me. And I need them.
Because they are me. And I am them.

I can love the Mean Girls and Boys in this world and know they can look back in fifteen years and be thankful for the transformation that will take place in their own lives.

We can outgrow crushes: "I really love him." [Jan 23, 2000]
We can learn to love ourselves and others: "I hate that guy." [Jan 26, 2000]
We can accept our strengths: "I feel so lame not being able to do it." [Feb 18, 2000]
And We can learn to appreciate life: "I'm so proud of me!" [April 25, 2001]

Is that Mean Girl still a part of me? Is that, like my strengths, a core piece to who I am as creation?

I am glad my journal entries now reflect the thoughts of a woman who looks a little nicer, appreciates a little more, and loves a little better. She is able to take care of sixth graders with a greater depth than some other adults. After all, she was one of them.


"TGIF." [April 7, 2000]

Brown Paper Packages

If there is one thing I love in life is it finishing something well.

As a detail-driven woman I have notoriously finished papers days ahead of time just to spend hours the night before it was due agonizing over the right adjective to use to describe the plight of honeybees or the way I feel about safety in a Sunday School classroom. I want my finished work to be perfect. Well-rounded. Tied up with string.

So after years of turning in completed assignments, wrapping up adventures with all to-do boxes ticked, and transitioning from one thing into another with some amount of ease, I am now struggling with the feeling that I can't finish anything.

ANYTHING.

And not just the big things in life, like leaving a job, but the little things, too. I have a handful of movies saved in my Netflix queue with less than an hour left til the credits roll. I have a half-eaten yogurt in the fridge. I have an unmade bed.

What happened to me?

Where did my zeal for checking things off a list go?
When did my ability to respond to everyone in my inbox disappear?
Why did my refusal to ever leave a commitment early evaporate?



My first week at Redwood Glen, training to be an OAC Counselor, seems like a pivotal time for all of this. I showed up for my summer position ready and willing to do whatever was asked of me. I had worked hard in my past jobs and was known for being efficient, a girl who got the job done. I was energetic, positive, and incredibly excited for a new experience.

Within the first few days that all changed.

My team walked through every event our teenage campers would experience, every event we were supposed to be able to do and support them through, and I failed miserably. I was unable to follow my teammates up the Vertical Playpen; my scrawny arms could not hold my body weight long enough to get from one element to the next. I sat on the top of the Leap of Faith, frozen in fear and embarrassment, and clumsily pushed myself off the pole toward the trapeze bar a few feet from my reach. As we climbed the Ventana Trail up the staggering Big Sur cliffs, surrounded by lupine and breathing salty air, I fell to the back of our quick-footed staff. I didn't mind coming in last but my mind started to worry I wouldn't be coming in at all. I couldn't finish our high-ropes elements, I couldn't do what our campers were supposed to, I probably couldn't finish this hike. I wouldn't be able to finish this job.

I sat down in the shade of an oak just off the trail and started to weep.

I honestly don't remember the conversation I had with my boss, Ben Ward, who came back to join me under that tree. All I know is that we ate sandwiches and eventually I was walking again. We somehow caught up with the rest of the team. People lightened my load by taking some of my gear. We took photos of the sweeping ocean view. We picked dandelions. We talked about condors and wildflowers and good movies and government conspiracies.

And then we were at our campsite.

I finished that summer well: I loved my coworkers, I hiked miles of Big Sur wilderness, I even made it to the top of the Vertical Playpen the last week with my campers cheering me on. I walked into an Outdoor Education position days after wrapping up and started a new adventure.



I wish I could say that is the end of this story but the fact is my time at Redwood Glen, my time as an Outdoor Educator, did not finish as I had planned. My over-looked health and well-being started to make itself known just a few months later. Since then it feels that I have not been able to end anything on my own terms; nothing has felt truly finished.

Leaving positions earlier than anticipated.
Not being able to give hugs and eat meals and take pictures.
Missing events and activities and conversations.
Nothing tied up with string.

And it frustrates me. I feel cheated and tired with so many open-ended leavings that bleed into the new things I am trying to experience.

Incomplete and Insecure.



So I am left to wonder, if a person never has closure are they able to whole-heartedly start something new? Can life go on if you never wrap anything up?

At this point I think so. Because as messy as life can get, and as imperfect as endings and beginnings can be,

Take Care

I'm exhausted.
Not the kind of tired after you have run a race, the one with aching legs and a sweaty brow.
Nor the one where you need dream-free sleep for a few days and then feel rejuvinated.
No, this is the state of fatigue that ebbs at every internal and external part of who you are.
It wears at your soul.
And in this exhausted state I am finding disillusion and apathy and mucus.
But in this current position of forgetting words and missing cues and juggling schedules I have also discovered something stronger, something unexpected.


These past few months have been my first experience with caretaking; in autumn playing the role of recovering patient and more recently taking on the title of nurse for my healing Grandma.

I have struggled on both sides.

As a person in need I constantly felt like a burden, felt as if people were wasting their time on me, which made it difficult for me to graciously recieve love. Through family and friends and flowers I was transformed into a more accepting Taker, a more appreciative Comrade, a more understanding Daughter. I can now say "Thank You" with a more astute recognition of who I am thanking and what I am thanking them for.

I can accept love through help.

When my housemate, the lady I know more formally as Grandma, took a turn for the worse a few weeks ago, it was an undisputed knowledge that I would be there to take care of her. Not to "return the favor" of the countless hours she spent meeting my needs as a patient, simply because I love her.

I can give love through help.

Accept love. Give love.

... but is that all there is to it?



My good friends Laura and Yoon Fow have what I consider to be one of the most stress-filled, under-appreciated, undoubtedly difficult professions. These two have dedicated years to working with and caring for the basic needs of a group of mentally ill and emotionally disturbed adults. They clock in long hours to see that all their patients get a healthy routine; meals, medication, entertianment, sleep. They have both been physically attacked and emotionally cut-down. They have had to do bizarre things and come up with crazy regulations to ensure the safety of their community.

Laura and Yoon Fow, and the many others in their line of work, know the meaning of exhausted.

Anyone can see that as caretakers they are giving love. And I'm sure it isn't as obvious (to them or to us) that they are recieving love, but I know there are moments they feel it.

Accept love. Give love.

But there has got to be more.


When you are looking after the well-being of another person every part of you is engaged. In the past few days my hearing has become that of a Scotts Valley deer; in the middle of the night my ears catch every little cough that comes from the bedroom next door. My eyes have grown into the size of a Crestline owl and I can see even the tiniest piece of fuzz on the floor that might cause one to slip. I'm acquiring the stealth of an Oakhurst mountain lion as I silently watch from around corners and through open doors while Grandma sits and reads and sleeps.

I am turning into a caretaking beast!

Which is why I was so surprised that my animal instinct slowly morphed into a sluggish, biting, preschooler with a cold.

After doctors appointments and making meals and running errands I hit a wall. And the love that I was pouring out continued, but my actions became mixed with bitterness. I started to dislike Grandma's body for trying to rebel against her. I started to question the medications she took. I started to distrust my own intuition and ability to help. I love Grandma so much that I was starting to hate everything around her that wasn't quickening her recovery.

So I sneezed and I snarled at anyone or anything that tried to come help her.


This morning, as we sat across the living room from each other, each with a box of tissues and a magazine in hand, I realized Grandma wasn't reading. She was looking over at the fireplace with a far-off daze. I located the nearest phone in my peripheral vision, in case it was time to call 9-1-1 again, and started to stand up.

She looked over at me and sighed. "I am so content to sit here right now." And went back to her Guideposts article.

And that is when I realized what I was missing. I was unhappy with everything she was going through while she was glad to be in a warm house with a cup of coffee. She was glad to be healing with something to read and a person to talk to.

Contentment.

So I am releasing the wild animal back to its' respective places and allowing myself to regress into normal task-oriented worry-prone slightly-germaphobic yet ever-helpful Caitlin and finding some peace in this situation.

Because if Laura and Yoon Fow and Grandma are satisfied I should be, too.


Accept love. Give love. Find contentment in both.