Things around the house often got 
broken. When someone is as focused as Carol, plastic doesn’t stand a chance. Spills happened. Fridge doors weren’t always closed. Lights sometimes got left on. Details, really. She’d take note of my comments or encouragement and leave herself notes to remind her to pay more attention to various things.
While I was often frustrated by power loss or odd messes, I could never be angry with Carol herself as she’d make every effort to get it right next time. How many conversations did we have about grace, about the idea of home and safety?
One day she approached me just inside the back door, her hands shaking and her eyes avoiding mine. I just wanted to take her in my arms and protect her from whatever it was threatening her! As she explained her fears I was at first torn inside. She feared my reaction.
A small night-light had gotten broken. Bits of brittle plastic had not withstood impact with her bag and then the floor. Carol had tried to make it right, to fix it. She’d tried to glue the bits back together and made an, uhm, interesting job of it. It was not to be repaired. It needed to be thrown out and replaced, but the issue at stake was not the little light, but Carol’s heart and mind.
“What is that in your hand?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I was a bit thick and answered, “The n-n-n-night light! I broke it! When I tried to glue it I made it worse and I . . .”
“Carol!” I said gently but firmly to get her attention back. “What is it made of?”
“Made of? Plastic and . . . . .”
“Yes, plastic. Just bits of plastic. What’s more important, Carol, you or bits of plastic?”
After a hesitation, “I know you want me to say me, I’m more important, but I broke it and when I tried to . . .”
“Carol, you are far more important then that little thing. And now you’ve spent far too much emotional energy on bits of plastic. Go to the shops and get another one. That’s all. A couple of dollars and it is replaced. There is no emotional attachment to that little thing.”
She then went on to explain, again, to me about the conditions in which she had previously lived where she was blamed for every little broken thing, whether she was nearby when it happened or not. That was a house where there was no grace, only blame and penalties and abuse.
I reminded Carol again of grace, how we all have to have a supply handy for each other as we went through each day, making mistakes and possibly offending or misunderstanding each other. “That’s what it means to share a home, to be safe and to belong.”
I was sorry for her distress. I was happy to be able to remind her of values I wanted to weave through her very soul. This world is a harsh place. We need to treat those we love with grace. Otherwise, it’s just too hard.
At times Carol’s need for predictability compelled her to have backups for her backups. She had two bicycles, several swimsuits, plenty of cans of coffee, bottles of juice, bags of bags and bags of paper towels. She had heaps of lotions and medications and all the things she might one day need and the supply might not be continuous. We talked of boundaries and of how she needed to set them and maintain them for herself. When needed, I helped with those boundaries, but only with her consultation and agreement. Her belongings seemed to spill over in to communal space and would have to be corralled. Technically Carol paid rent for one room, but over time, as others came and went, she had the whole downstairs to herself. When I interviewed potential housemates, my main criteria were whether Carol would feel safe with them or not. If not, they were optional. Carol’s safety and sense of belonging was not.
When Carol moved in she was another wounded bird for whom I longed to give refuge. Over time, she grew into a friend. She brought certain things to our house that it now lacks, that I miss dearly. The birds also miss her. I tried to keep up with their feeding after she died. There was enough bread in her fridge to last several weeks and enough seed for many feedings. I talked to them a bit and told them she was gone.
The plants, some of which should have died a season earlier, thrived under her daily waterings. Caring for them became part of her routine. I’d sometimes awake to running water or the sound of her calling the birds. Funny thing was, highly intelligent people can even water plants when it is raining. It’s not always about the plants. It’s sometimes about the need to nurture something to care for something, to maintain the routine.
to be continued . . . .
broken. When someone is as focused as Carol, plastic doesn’t stand a chance. Spills happened. Fridge doors weren’t always closed. Lights sometimes got left on. Details, really. She’d take note of my comments or encouragement and leave herself notes to remind her to pay more attention to various things.While I was often frustrated by power loss or odd messes, I could never be angry with Carol herself as she’d make every effort to get it right next time. How many conversations did we have about grace, about the idea of home and safety?
One day she approached me just inside the back door, her hands shaking and her eyes avoiding mine. I just wanted to take her in my arms and protect her from whatever it was threatening her! As she explained her fears I was at first torn inside. She feared my reaction.
A small night-light had gotten broken. Bits of brittle plastic had not withstood impact with her bag and then the floor. Carol had tried to make it right, to fix it. She’d tried to glue the bits back together and made an, uhm, interesting job of it. It was not to be repaired. It needed to be thrown out and replaced, but the issue at stake was not the little light, but Carol’s heart and mind.
“What is that in your hand?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I was a bit thick and answered, “The n-n-n-night light! I broke it! When I tried to glue it I made it worse and I . . .”
“Carol!” I said gently but firmly to get her attention back. “What is it made of?”
“Made of? Plastic and . . . . .”
“Yes, plastic. Just bits of plastic. What’s more important, Carol, you or bits of plastic?”
After a hesitation, “I know you want me to say me, I’m more important, but I broke it and when I tried to . . .”
“Carol, you are far more important then that little thing. And now you’ve spent far too much emotional energy on bits of plastic. Go to the shops and get another one. That’s all. A couple of dollars and it is replaced. There is no emotional attachment to that little thing.”
She then went on to explain, again, to me about the conditions in which she had previously lived where she was blamed for every little broken thing, whether she was nearby when it happened or not. That was a house where there was no grace, only blame and penalties and abuse.
I reminded Carol again of grace, how we all have to have a supply handy for each other as we went through each day, making mistakes and possibly offending or misunderstanding each other. “That’s what it means to share a home, to be safe and to belong.”
I was sorry for her distress. I was happy to be able to remind her of values I wanted to weave through her very soul. This world is a harsh place. We need to treat those we love with grace. Otherwise, it’s just too hard.
At times Carol’s need for predictability compelled her to have backups for her backups. She had two bicycles, several swimsuits, plenty of cans of coffee, bottles of juice, bags of bags and bags of paper towels. She had heaps of lotions and medications and all the things she might one day need and the supply might not be continuous. We talked of boundaries and of how she needed to set them and maintain them for herself. When needed, I helped with those boundaries, but only with her consultation and agreement. Her belongings seemed to spill over in to communal space and would have to be corralled. Technically Carol paid rent for one room, but over time, as others came and went, she had the whole downstairs to herself. When I interviewed potential housemates, my main criteria were whether Carol would feel safe with them or not. If not, they were optional. Carol’s safety and sense of belonging was not.
When Carol moved in she was another wounded bird for whom I longed to give refuge. Over time, she grew into a friend. She brought certain things to our house that it now lacks, that I miss dearly. The birds also miss her. I tried to keep up with their feeding after she died. There was enough bread in her fridge to last several weeks and enough seed for many feedings. I talked to them a bit and told them she was gone.
The plants, some of which should have died a season earlier, thrived under her daily waterings. Caring for them became part of her routine. I’d sometimes awake to running water or the sound of her calling the birds. Funny thing was, highly intelligent people can even water plants when it is raining. It’s not always about the plants. It’s sometimes about the need to nurture something to care for something, to maintain the routine.
to be continued . . . .
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