Somewhere Along the Way

I was walking home alone the other night and it suddenly dawned on me. Somewhere in the midst of the giant piles of my favorite Thanksgiving foods, some point in the middle of my joy of having my family here with me in D.C. for the holiday, some how even amidst the smiles and laughter that fill my life I had begun to mourn. I am in the process of grieving.

It started three weeks ago. Mr. J had been the first person I had met when I started working at Joseph's House. He sat on the front porch every day, smoking cigarettes, tapping his foot to a Ray Charles' tune, and greeting everyone who passed by on the street. At first, I was intimidated by him. J had been at the house for over a year, the longest of any other resident, and was clearly the patriarch of our community. He liked things a certain way and was not shy about telling it like it was. I learned quickly how to run and maintain the various forms of oxygen that kept him alive, not because I wanted to do my job well, but because I did not want him to be disappointed in me. In those first weeks, I never seemed to be good enough for him and he in turn never remembered my name.

Somewhere along the way though, I started to understand him. J reminded me of my grandfather. My Tama is constantly telling me to not eat this, to come inside, to not travel so far from home. The words can sound rough and limiting to an outsider, but I have grown up with them and I know what my grandfather is really saying. He says to not eat something because it gives him a stomach ache and he worries that my body will have the same reaction. Tama remembers all of the times that I fell and injured myself as a child playing outside so he asks me to stay in. And he remembers every day how when I first left home, I almost never made it back. With every reprimand, I hear him saying he loves me.

Mr. J was the same way. For days I could not understand why he would not let me give him an oxygen treatment if he was sitting out on the front porch. He would ask for someone to help, but then when I came, he would abruptly tell me to get someone else. When I finally demanded why he would not let me help him he grumbled, "Girl, you always come out here without a coat. I don't want you to freeze just to give me oxygen." He needed that oxygen to survive, but all he could think of was taking care of me.

Somewhere along the way, he became precious. Every moment with him, every task he asked me to do felt like an honor. J ate a hamburger every day for lunch and I don't think any vegetarian enjoyed cooking meat as much as I did making him that meal every day. Learning how to play Dominoes from him, watching crime shows with him in the living room, giving away bouquets of flowers to ladies on the street on his behalf. It is amazing how the smallest things become sacred in the presence of love.

One memory encapsulates my entire relationship with him. Near the end of a shift that had been busier than usual, J had one of his many anxiety attacks and became short of breath. I prepared his treatment and sensed that something was different. Normally during his spells, I would have to actively soothe J as he struggled to take in oxygen. But this time he seemed to calm himself just by seeing me. I administered his treatment feeling all of my presence merging with his. As I kneeled beside him, we held hands as we so often did and he turned to the men with us and said, "Here's my guardian angel. She's my angel. I don't need any of this medicine or machines. I just needed her." I went home that night and cried. In that moment, I had felt more loved, cherished, and seen than at any other time in my whole life and I knew deep in my spirit that my time with J was coming to an end.

The day before he died was the birthday of one of my co-workers and Mr. J was determined to make it a good one. "She does so many special things for us," he explained to me, "so we need to make this special for her." He oversaw the decorating process and sent people out to get the cake and gifts. He stood in the dining room playing air guitar and keeping watch so that she did not walk in on the surprise before it was ready (which she did anyway and then he lectured all of us for failing at our jobs). He sang and pulled pranks, laughed and gave everyone compliments. He knew that we all loved him and we knew that he loved all of us. The next morning, as I came to say goodbye to his body, I saw that even in death he was still smiling. Even in death, he was still caring for us.

Grief is an interesting thing. It does not always hit at once. Sometimes it numbs you into thinking you are completely fine, that maybe you are not really hurting after all. And then somewhere along the way it begins to remind you that you too are finite and human and very, very fragile. Mr. J had befriended another resident. Their's had been a bromance that blessed everyone around them. I can not ignore how J's death has impacted his friend and how we are now bracing ourselves for his death, too. I can not ignore how so many of my co-workers and myself pause at the door of J's now empty bedroom. I can not ignore the longing I feel in my chest when I look for him on the front porch and remember that he will never sit there again.

I am fortunate to work in a place that embraces all of the emotions that come with grief. Somewhere along the way that made Joseph's House how it is, someone knew that mourning is a process. I already knew before I came that grief is hard. We all know that. That is why as humans we avoid things and people that will hurt us. We pull away from attachments with meaningful others out of fear that we are not strong enough to handle the pain of the inevitable loss that comes with any relationship. But at Joseph's House I am being taught that grief is also beautiful. How blessed am I to have the opportunity to love someone deeply enough to mourn his or her physical death? That is a gift. Some people go through their entire lives without being vulnerable enough to feel the hurt that comes with real companionship. I get to feel it as my job. Wow. How cool is that?

The Meditation Room

There is a room in Joseph's House specifically set aside as a place of stillness and meditation. I like to tiptoe into it when the house gets quiet and sit with Gracie, one of the four cats that roam throughout the halls, amongst the pillows and candles. In the meditation room are things needed to help someone find peace: a Bible, a statue of the Buddha, incense, books of poetry, pens and paper. I find comfort in the traditional symbols of my faith and in the newer expressions of my spirituality, but I always find myself drawn to a framed prayer hanging by the altar. The words resonate with me and I share them with you in hopes that it may help you find a place of rest as well.

"Let it not be death but completeness.

Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.

Let the flight through the sky 

end in the folding of wings over the nest.

Let the last touch of your hands

be gentle like the flower of the night.

Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment,

and say your last words in silence.

I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way."

- Rabindranath Tagore

Laugh in the Rain

On most days of the week my housemate Genesis and I commute to and from work together. Our jobs are on opposite ends of the same street, mine at Joseph's House and hers at the Northwest Pregnancy Center, an amazing non-profit that offers support and resources to mothers and families who choose to keep instead of terminate pregnancies. We joke that she works at the beginning of the street with the beginning of life while I work at the end of the street with the end of life. Even though it seems like our placements are extremely different, we have found that they are actually similar. We both deal with smelly diapers and those unsteady on their feet. We both encounter tears and the joy of innocence. Her stories only further my realization that life and death are intricately intertwined. Joy and sorrow are only made complete by the presence of the other.

On Friday, Genesis and I caught the bus headed home like every other day. We were balancing groceries while navigating the usual hectic, crowded D.C. streets. And then it started raining. Not a light sprinkle but a torrential downpour that sent everyone running for cover. As we got off our bus to run the last few blocks home, we realized that our umbrella was not going to shield us from the massive puddles at our feet or the sideways rain slapping our faces. I found myself at that moment when you decide whether you are going to look at the positives or the negatives of the situation. I decided to handle the rain by saying, "Ah, screw it," and run charging through the puddles. But Genesis took a very different approach. I turned around to find her stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, soaking wet and laughing hysterically at how ridiculous the storm was and how even more ridiculous we looked.

My life in D.C. has been a lot like that rain storm. There have been many unexpected showers that have left me feeling heavy and ready to run for cover. Three residents passing away in my first four weeks of work at Joseph's House. The frustration of not being in the same time zone or country with many of the most important people in my life. Growing anger at the brokenness of our social and political systems. Stress and anxiety over grad school decisions and applications. The shock of realizing that by the time my service year is done my favorite Joseph's House resident will probably have passed away. Sadness over the sudden end of a promising relationship. Longing for a Polynesian community here on the side of the country so far away from the Pacific Ocean. Loneliness in the midst of so many people. Homesickness. Unanswerable questions.

And yet just when I feel as if the storm will consume me, I am always offered a gift of love. Wisdom and compassionate support from my supervisors and co-workers. A normally nonchalant resident taking my hand and thanking me for everything I do for him. Calls every week from my best friend so that he can make sure I am doing okay even though he is working crazy hours for a major corporation. Homemade cards from the Krista Foundation reminding me that I am held in prayer and sustained by grace. Strangers on the street stopping to tell me that I am beautiful after the end of a work day that left me sweaty and tired. "Accidentally" finding a church community that meets me just where I am. Calls from my little sister.

And even more, I get to experience the joy of intentional community living. Being excited to come home to my house mates every day. Spending hours at the dining room table with them talking about how to restructure federal funding and which Robin Williams character is the best. Exploring the city with each other. Dancing in our kitchen to 90s hits. Pillow talks with my roommate Marlena that leave me falling asleep with a smile. Never making it through a church service as a group without laughing. My housemate Chris always being there when I need to cry. The dozens of methods we have tried to get rid of mice. Eating a whole batch of brownies in order to be brave enough to make it through a scary movie. The plans to move to Hawaii together in August instead of going in seven different ways. The prayers lit by our community candle and sealed by our held hands.

The storms are not fun and I don't particularly enjoy having to walk through them alone. But I will take the rain any day as long as I get the laughter and community that comes with it.

Learn to Balance

The past few weeks have been an emotional whirlwind for me. The adrenaline of being in a new place is now turning into a heightened realization of all the things that make this home both beautiful and heartbreaking. My joy at finding that, yes, that little voice inside of me saying that the risk of moving across the country to live with strangers while doing work that I'm not really qualified to do was in fact worth taking has only grown. But so has my anger at how racism, classism, and sexism continue to keep people locked in a prison of poverty and disease. So has my sadness as I see how my own stereotypes and prejudices keep me from being an agent for good.

I find myself standing in the space where my deepest joy and my deepest sorrow intersect. I have never been here before, but somehow this place feels more authentic than any other moment that I have lived. I am finally learning things that I have been taught all throughout my life. I thought I knew them, but I realize now that I never did. For instance, I grew up in a family that taught me to respect and love my body as a temple, but I never realized until a guided meditation at work that I have always been ashamed of my body. As someone with a spinal cord injury, I have lived most of my life hyper-aware of my physical limitations, of all the things that my body cannot do. It was not until the meditation that I recognized my insecurity and then saw how remarkably I have lived and served others in spite of my injury. My body is more than its weakness. My brokenness does not have to keep me from being whole. This new awareness is a lesson my mother has been trying to teach me since I was five, but I finally learned it now as I am faced with serving people who because of illness are physically weaker than me. The irony is humbling and daily I am moved to feelings of gratitude for my body that I have never felt before.

Another lesson I have learned here is how to appreciate my breath. I have spent the past couple of years trying to foster a personal mindfulness practice. In fact, one of the things that had first attracted me to Joseph's House was their incorporation of mindfulness into the healing process. In mindfulness, a large emphasis is placed on focusing on your breath as a means of stilling your spirit and centering your life. But whenever I would sit still and try to focus on my breath I would end up breathing so raggedly that I would nearly choke. I took classes, read books, and talked to spiritual mentors about how to meditate with my breathing but nothing helped.

Nothing helped until I held vigil for a resident dying at Joseph's House. His health had been declining rapidly and as I held his hand I could feel his whole body as it shut down. At that point, the phlegm in his throat was choking the resident's airways and his weak lungs were barely pumping. Though he had once been a dynamic force of a man, now he lay crying silent tears as all of his physical strength waned.

Despite the bodily and emotional toll of his dying experience, the resident still had the spiritual strength to hold himself gently. I watched in amazement as he methodically drew breath after breath. It took me a few minutes, but I realized that he was trying to mindfully breathe. In the absence of the power to speak, or the energy to even think out a prayer, he mustered everything he had to focus on calming his breath - the only thing he had left. Though it took everything he had, he was determined to celebrate the ability to breathe. To use every breath to encounter God.

With my hand still holding his, I began focusing on my breath. My breaths came easy and natural supported by lungs that are young and healthy. His breaths came ragged and labored pushed by lungs on the verge of death. With each of my breaths I prayed for peace for his spirit. For him to have the strength to let go. For him to know how much he is loved. And as our breaths found harmony, I learned why mindfulness begins in the body with your breath.

Life is a great balancing act. I am learning how to juggle work, community time, grad school apps, and time for self-care. I am learning how to represent my culture and family while being far from home. But perhaps most importantly, I am learning how to love myself. How to balance my burning desire for social justice and my everlasting need for compassion.

Learn Something New

"We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and a mystery." - HG Wells

Washington, D.C. is an incredible classroom. At the JVC orientation four weeks ago, a staff member challenged us (the volunteers) to learn something new every day and D.C. has been more than happy to be my teacher. Some of the things I have learned here are things I could have learned in any other major city, like how to add money to my bus pass while the vehicle is moving without falling over. Trust me, that's a big accomplishment for someone graced with natural clumsiness. Other things are unique to my JVC experience, like how to live in harmony with six strangers while sharing a budget that is drastically smaller than most of us have known, incorporate spirituality into our normal lives, and all while sharing two small bathrooms. I know what some of you may be thinking, and yes it does kind of sound like being a RA again, but it is a challenge that is new and exciting.

Still more lessons I have learned are things that only D.C. can teach me, things I would never have imagined, like how the city's quadrants are divided not only by geographic lines but also by racial and class lines. The segregation in our nation's capital is shocking and hearing the stories of why certain populations are forced into or out of an area is mind boggling to me. I and my housemates frequently, if not daily, notice other things, too. Like how the presidential candidates talk about fixing the economy and understanding the experience of the "normal" American, yet have both proposed cuts to programs and agencies like the non-profits we work for that provide much-needed resources to the families and individuals who need it the most. We see how tourists come to D.C. to see the sites and never walk far enough off the National Mall to see the poverty in open view a block away. We see systems of oppression that we studied in college play out in the real world around us and are humbled by all who are teaching us how to make things better.

Perhaps the most important lessons I have learned so far, though, were taught to me by someone who I hope to never forget. Madeleine was very ill when I began my time at Joseph’s House, and by the end of my third day of work she had died.

When I first heard of Madeleine, a feisty woman from Cameroon, I had been excited. She spoke French, a language that I had loved and studied for nearly four years. I had every intention of walking into her room with a big smile and striking up a French conversation. But when I met Madeleine for the first time, she had just woken up from a nap distressed and in pain. I was too nervous to use my rusty French and instead fell back into speaking English, a language that was comfortable enough for me to hide behind but foreign enough not to comfort her. I knew enough French words to soothe her panic, but I was too scared of her pain. I regretted my decision instantly and even more so the next day as I sat vigil at her bedside. As I held her hand in mine, trying to ease her labored breathing with my own easy breaths, I realized that I would never get a chance to have a conversation with her in any language. The next day, Madeleine passed away so peacefully and quickly that no one was able to catch her last moment on this Earth.  

Life is really, really, really short. Someone you love may be here one day and gone the next. In the short time that I had with Madeleine she was unable to show me the knowledge of her life. But in her death, a passing so beautiful and sacred that I still feel it in my spirit, she taught me to never allow fear to keep me from extending love. Say the things you need to say. Be with who you need to be with. Feel what you need to feel. Do what you need to do. And above all, take gentle care, for every moment is a miracle and a mystery.

Pack Another Scarf

Patty is going to be my job supervisor this year, and though she and I have only communicated through a telephone interview and via numerous e-mails, I already know that I like her. As the Executive Director for Joseph's House, the hospice I will serve at, she is a busy woman, yet she has always taken time to answer my many questions (and there have been a lot!) with thoroughness and compassion. And at the end of each e-mail, after saying how excited the Joseph's House family is to meet me, she tells me to "take gentle care."

This phrase caught my attention from the very first e-mail. Take gentle care. Maybe Patty can already sense that often I take care of others better than I take care of myself. That I struggle with holding myself gently. Maybe after over a decade of working at Joseph's House, a resting home for formerly homeless men and women dying from AIDs and other terminal illnesses, Patty knows that every life needs to be handled like a precious, fragile gift. Either way, her words are a gracious reminder to me.

I've spent the past six months in eager anticipation of today. In a few hours, I will hop on a red-eye plane to the East Coast landing just in time to begin my Jesuit Volunteer Corps (JVC) orientation in Pennsylvania. After a week of preparation, I will then travel with my six housemates (yep, I get to share a bedroom again!) to Washington, D.C. Our first week there will be spent visiting the different work placements of our housemates and then on August 20th I finally get to begin my time at Joseph's House. I can't wait!

Now that the time has come to leave this Washington, though, I have to admit that I am nervous. Nervous that the one bag I am allowed to bring to orientation may just be a little too big. Nervous that in the midst of all my excitement I have perhaps not prepared my mind and spirit as well as I could have for a year that will be wonderful but also extremely challenging. Nervous that I may not be as much of a blessing to the people I will meet as I desperately want to be.

Yet as all the doubts line up, another voice speaks saying "take gentle care." Not just of others, but first of myself. Take gentle care. A deep breath. And it will all be alright.

It is going to be a crazy year! To find out more about what I am doing and where I will be, check out these sites:

http://www.josephshouse.org

http://www.jesuitvolunteers.org

Next stop -- the East Coast!