Anxiety’s Cut

My mind was spinning as I thumbed through the plastic pages of Bitch magazine. It’s natural to have something in your hands while waiting. Perhaps it was the promised list of the year’s best music that caught my attention but, even as I took it from the 10 foot long rack, I had no intention of reading it. I hadn’t come to read.

This was to be the first time in nearly a decade that an unknown person would cut my hair, but I wasn’t too concerned about the cut itself (I had committed to not more than a trim), rather the blind conversation-obligatory in these situations-that works to coil my intestines upon themselves like a snake ready to bite. I hadn’t come to talk, either, and could feel the familiar pangs of body urging mind to avoid discourse, so I flipped the pages, scanning slowly enough to feign reading.  

It’s rare that I make my way up to Mississippi, but Panda had come highly recommended. Besides, the parking was easy and I could be home in 35 minutes. If I sat quietly and avoided eye contact the whole affair might last a couple of hours.

Be quiet. Don’t look.

^Jody?

Shit.  

*That’s me.

Standing, I feel the coil wrap tighter and the saliva in my mouth migrate to hands.

What to do with the magazine?

I take my place in the chair.

^What are you loo--

*Tara sent me here...from Denim Salvage, I sputter. Heart beating too fast.  Inconspicuous deep breaths are in order.

^Who?

Something resembling curiosity flashes across Panda’s face and I’m instantly where I do not want to be, but where I have been so many times before. The rush to talk, to be heard, to be admired-or at least viewed as a curiosity-invariably leads me far from intention, as pressured speech reveals my true lack of skill.

*Tara, from Denim Salvage in Oregon City.

(Can’t this just be over? All I wanted was a fucking trim and to go home.)

Pupils dilate and I see a connection has been made before I hear her voice.

^TARA?! I just love her!

A black school boy pixie tops an unexacting smile. I like Panda instantly.

^We board our horses at the same place in Canby.

My students had done some work for Tara-washing recycled clothes before they went on the shelves, and I told her. It’s hard to talk to people about what I do. Most people don’t have much of a point of reference and I’m not sure how to keep things moving. Initially, they are intrigued:  You must have so much patience!  It’s nice to say and seems to make people feel good, but it’s a reflex response and hardly accurate. The truth is, I have almost no patience at all, which is counter-intuitive to my profession, and the truth of it chokes me. Still, my work is one of the only things that sets me apart from the masses and I love it and I don’t do much else and when the talk hits I can feel the chemicals inside release their spark, and I’m alive.

But it doesn’t always hit.

Chemicals thin. The charge is easily lost. Conversation stalls as I grasp for something out of sight and out of reach.

Luckily, everyone has a nephew with autism so the talk can usually hang for a few moments. Our words embrace, make laryngeal love, and I refuse to let go; but you know what they say about holding onto something. My words make for a clumsy lover and my grip begins to falter. Slack and wordless, I’m left without mystery: exposed and naked, leaving the dull taste of the known and the common.  

Panda takes to her work.

^You’ve got a little bit of a 90’s thing going on back here, I hope you don’t mind me saying.

This wasn’t always something that needed qualifying, but I’m becoming more comfortable with the distance between then and now.

*I’m at the mercy of the artist.  

With each word viscera untangle, but I don’t want to get ahead of my myself so I close my mouth and look into the mirror. Too honest. Back to looking at the floor.

I try to focus on Panda’s words. She explains that the holidays were spent with the family of an elderly client, she being the youngest by generations.

^I don’t usually like the holidays, I kind of came from a weird home. I grew up in a family of racist homophobes. It turns out I actually like people, so I didn’t fit in too well. But I had a good time this year. They were nice people.

There is a pause and I know it’s my turn. My eyes raise to meet hers.

*We went home to California for Christmas. My aunt has been sick, so it was good to see her.

Without desperation, I gently segue and tell her I’m reading a biography on Theodore Roosevelt.

*That guy lived a thousand lives before he was president:  Governor, Colonel in the Spanish American War, Assistant Secretary of the Navy, author — never stayed in one position for more than a couple of years.

A nod and quizzical look are taken as markers of interest.  

Breathing normal, speech clear.  Keep going.

*He was about as virtuous a person as there ever was.

Her turn.

^I’ve always been fascinated by Teddy Roosevelt. We did one of those president projects in school and I chose him. I think the only thing I remember is that his wife and mother died the same day.”  

*They sure did. He ended up ripping up most of the pages in his diaries that mentioned his wife. The heartbreak is actually what sent him to Dakota, where he became a rancher.  But he also said that black care never sits behind a rider whose pace is fast enough.

^What did he mean by that?

*I took it as his need to rush — to keep sorrow and self doubt behind him — with eyes straight ahead; to stare life in the face until it blinks.

The rise and fall in my chest suggest a natural rhythm. Calm. Salt and pepper clippings float softly to the ground like aborted feathers and mix gently with the ebony, auburn, platinum, burgundy, silver and slate of those who have sat in the chair before me.

The almost mullet is gone now; sides attenuated. I’m 43 and, aside from what Panda assures is only a receding hairline and not a global thinning, nearly hip.

A gentle dusting about the neck accompany the removal of the Barber’s cape and thin, white Sanex strip, leaving it soft and cool. Panda suggests the house organic spray might work well with my hair and produces a small, clear bottle containing six ounces of milky liquid.   

Take my money.  You’ve given so much.

*Thanks for the cut and talk.

^Thank you, I enjoyed it, and tell Tara I said hi!

It’s over.  

The door glides shut and I step into the frigid vacuum of a Portland winter. The neon above reads Rudy’s. Running my fingers through the new fuzz on the back of my neck, I am six again. Tonight, my pace was just fast enough.  

On Bearing Down

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

7:54 p.m.

Now we all play

We’re the moth to the flame

We were aware of the danger

But we could not look away

My eyes are open

--Typhoon

Mental exhaustion can bring the body to a grinding halt; as I sat at the table and watched my hands slowly cradle my head, fingers caressing temples, I knew this to be true. I rose at 5:15 and the time clock whirred its digital clunk at 5:52. Fifteen minutes in silent meditation was all the morning would allow; students arrive at 9:30.

When working with people who experience life vastly different from you, one has two choices: give yourself over completely to their needs, or fail.  Some days, however, a teacher can let go of ego to the fullest extent of their ability and still not get deep enough inside the mind of a student. The pain of those days is akin to childbirth in that, those who experience the suffering quickly forget so they will continue the work which it wrought.   

On How to Kindle Passion in the Work

Monday, January 22, 2018

5:44 p.m.

By Dad, hope you have a good time writing. 

I'm beginning to stretch a bit at work, finally. The adjustments I asked for in November have been made and the 13 days of work since the new year have played out much as I envisioned, aside from the inherent unpredictability of the work. Students were arriving prior to the arrival of much of my staff, whose hours also called for them to leave before the students left for the day. Inherent pitfalls were twofold:  the ability of the staff to collaborate was severely impaired and team members were forced to jump onto a moving train of spastic behavior.  This was alright for my aides who understand the constantly evolving needs of our student, but for those new to the worlds of special needs and mental health the learning curve is long, slow, and likely daunting.   Training new staff, directly in the classroom, on the inner workings, shifting needs, nuances, communication styles, and learning modalities of people with Autism and Intellectual disabilities is, without question, one of the most challenging metal slaloms a teacher can perform. 

However, the most important thing a new team member can do to support students is watch a teacher’s nuances in communication with each student. Studies suggest that only 7% of communication is verbal.  That leaves a lot a room for nuance, which can only be learned after prolonged exposure to a person.  Assistants who emulate teachers who have spent this time with students are much more equipped to serve and more likely to view days not as “Good” or “Bad” but as days of learning in which more tools are added to the box. 

My new assistant (the first granted request) has proven extraordinary at noting nuance.  There is very little time during the day in which her student, with whom she works in a one-to-one capacity, does not require attention.  It is also the case that verbal communication is not this student’s most effective mode of communication.  As a result, nuance in the student’s communication style is vital in our work with him.  After spending weeks as the student’s one-to-one aide, I was prepared to share all I had learned with anyone who would listen; my new aide has proven to be the right person.

The program’s new hours (one hour less at the beginning of the day) has been equally as powerful as obtaining a new aide.  During that hour, the team is able to debrief, share insight from the previous day, discuss any new protocols, and address student needs and behaviors. As the classroom teacher (there is only one teacher in the district that serves this population), this hour also grants the opportunity to educate the staff on methods of working with young people in a class that has the widest disparity of needs I have ever seen.  Understanding that a workday cannot be filled with only talk of work, I am beginning to also use this time to learn two minutes more about their lives; I enjoy hearing their stories. 

Those two components, one hour of collaborative time with staff and an aide for my neediest student, have altered my outlook on and approach to the work.  The staff enjoys the time spent adjusting today based our understanding of yesterday, and I am afforded the flexibility to tend to an ever expanding and dynamic caseload. 


Asking for that which one needs to better do the work they want to do is a critical step in renewing a passion hindered by arbitrary boundaries erected by money and ignorance.  If the boundaries are not lifted the work is impeded and the passion loses its brilliance. 

On Recovery, Part II

Sunday, January 21, 2018

4:30 p.m.

Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea

Joy to you and me

--Three Dog Night


Mood is to disposition as weather is to climate.

On Recovery

Saturday, January 20, 2018

12:29 p.m.



Dad, I had every single 10!

I didn't realize I wasn't well until very recently. While there was never a moment that went by in which I wasn't questioning what I had just done or said, I never directly connected those feelings with depression. Though I had, at times, used the word to describe a mood, the global nature of my condition was still unknown. Anxiety, depression's younger sibling, was a word that I more commonly understood.
The social settings that brought me the most acute perturbation were those in which small groups of people had already gathered, only moments ago strangers. As soon as the words would spew from my mouth I'd recoil, stomach and neck muscles constricting. The problem, from my present lens, was twofold but without hierarchy. I would attempt to impress my interlocutor with ideas and stories loosely based on what they had been talking about, then wildly direct the conversation into unexpected territories.  A spastic ejaculation of verbal, immature milt. Being aware of the uncomfortable place in which I had placed myself, I would then lose grip on the signals my brain would send to my mouth, and in place of words I would revert to exaggerated nods and look for a quick escape. Having a minor panic attack each time you open your mouth has a way of perpetuating the practice of negative self-talk.

The Three Markers

There was once a man.  Really, he was more a boy, both in mind and in body.  The boy played games, read, and studied with all of the other boys.  Some days, he was good, he loved the world and it him.  Other times he was disobedient and incorrigible.  HIs school mates liked him well and he had no enemies, still his mind was not at rest.  Many boys minds’ are not at rest, but this boy (unlike most boys and men) came to understand that it could be and he sought to make it so.  He put himself through many trials and still he searched.  

One day the boy stood for a moment in silence, mindful of the beat of his heart.  He had felt the thrumming many times in the past.  Craning his neck toward the ground, he watched as his chest rose and fell.  When he brought his head back into alignment with his spine he beheld a figure in front of him.  It was he, himself.  The boy saw himself as others might and became conscious of himself in the world.  The cosmos kissed his brow and thoughts of past and future faded like an early morning brume.  

As all boys must, he became a man.  He put his schooling aside and set out on foot, rucksack on his back, journal in hand. The man called no place his home nor did he claim citizenship, for the world was his home, a train his bed, conversation his pillow.  

His boots, caked in mud, carried him from beach to mountain and from mountain to valley.  He sat for three days under the hallucinogenic influence of ayahuasca, mind bending and pushing beyond its limits into territory uncharted and exquisite.  In a more distant land, he floated down the nam as the sun shone on his pale skin and he drank warm Mehkong until the stars revealed themselves to his inebriated eyes.  By night, he made love, he read his books and he spoke and he listened.  Each of these places were beautiful to him.  The people he met were part of him, and he loved them.  In every moment he maintained a beginner’s mind.  

Once, the man sat atop a rock which stood next to a road and looked upon its travellers.  A great flood, from time immemorial, had committed the rock to stand in that spot, that men might one day walk beside it as they tread the great road.  The road disdained its migrants and dug from itself deep holes so that they might fall in, and threw upon itself heavy stones that blocked their path.  Despite the violence the road offered, it was the only road for miles and all who hoped to travel that country were forced to use it.  He met eyes with those who happened to lift their gaze up toward the scalding sun, cool sweat dripping from their faces.  Their eyes seemed strange to him, cataracted.  Ofttimes, he would call to them on the road, his only answer a distant stare and the smallest breath of dust as dirt fell from their tired feet.  

Only the young took notice of him.  They would make faces at him and point to the heavens on those occasions when the sky lit up.  The children loved the man and pulled the tails of their parents’ garments, but most paid no mind, always moving toward their destination.  At times, the very old would meet his gaze and they would share a gentle smile.  Every so often, a body would attempt to ascend the rock, sometimes a woman, others a man, never did one succeed.  He sat upon the rock until his back grew sore, and resumed his journey.  

The man made his way to a town, taking refuge at its inn.  He supped that night in the kitchen of the inn and shared stories of travel with the other boarders. On a night, one of the lodgers spoke to him with words he had only seldom heard.  Ideas sprang from their minds with such voracity as to cause them at times to stammer.  The sun made its way from West to East before they waned.  As they slept, their dreams interwove, experiences blended, and they achieved symmetry.

The pair sojourned for many years together, spreading good will wherever they might walk.  When they were approached by others, which was often for they conversed easily with strangers, they emanated the message which had wrapt their focus since their first night together.  The words they spoke were easy and they listened with every intention.  Each mind they met found a place of ease.

“My cow will not give me milk,” one would say, “what will my children drink?”

“Away with you and your cow to the city, where the men buy their milk from the grocer.  Charge those that live there a quart of milk for their little ones to ride your barren cow.  Then, you’ll be rich in milk, the townspeople will thank you for the respite, and the children will call you hero,” said Tijan, the friend of the man.  

Tijan and the man moved across the country.  Their every thought intent on the now.  It was more than once that Tijan pulled his meek coverings from hips to ankles and squatted.  And as he let depart all that his body could not use, he felt every muscle contract, and noted.  When he happened upon a woman’s fervor, Tijan gave of himself each moment, each gaze, each thrust, in euphoric symmetry.  

His friend, when he ate, tasted every grain as it grazed his tongue.   When he walked he felt the earth and denoted cobble from pebble.  

Epiphany, a Haiku

Epiphanic love

Acceptance of satori

Gratitude engulfs