An open letter to kinship and foster parents and group care staff

Dear___[your first name here]____,

I see how hard you are working to not lose your cool. I hear that you have lost your cool. I know how hard that first week was: How much school work needs to get done? How can you get more vitamin-rich food into your picky eaters? How can you find a minute to grab a shower? How do you explain Coronavirus and Pandemic to a child who suddenly lost their family visit this week? What about all  those field trips and outings that were planned? How does video technology work and what device can be used?

How do keep the group home clean when there is a 13 yo AWOL'ing every night and returning every morning? How do you keep up with the changing demands when the routines of your group home were turned upside down literally overnight. You have staff away sick and your throat feels scratchy and the new cleaning regime is a full-time job to itself. How will you get through this?

And that's on top of you trying to make meaning out of the things you suddenly just lost because we landed in the Age of Physical Distancing and also support other important people in your life.

As many of you are aware, scared and stressed adults scare children. The sense of safety for all of us is compromised by the pandemic. You are now in the unique situation of being The Central Adult who these scared and stressed children are looking to as a way to figure out how to respond. Even though the service team of case managers, family wellness workers, youth workers and therapists are here for you, it's suddenly only over the phone or by video call. I know it's not really enough.  

The children and youth we work with are highly sensitive to stress from adults in their environment and of course, that translates to their own nervous system acting in fight/ flight or collapse. Co-regulation depends on the adult finding their calm response and setting that tone with the child.

One of the most effective things caregivers can do is take two minutes to sit, close your eyes, breathe a few deep breaths and bring the activation of your own nervous system down some. 

Consider implementing a morning routine with yoga or meditation. If you encounter resistance, set-up an option for kids to be away from the group, but close enough to observe. Young teens might buck it, but many will welcome it. These kinds of relaxing techniques provide soothing and some will benefit from it greatly and perhaps use it for the rest of their lives. 

These are unusual times indeed, but it’s hard for me not to consider that this is also our time to shine as a dominantly compassionate species. Front line caregivers are such an important and unrecognized support to these vulnerable children and youth. 

My wish for you is that you will move past the cycle of heightened response- collapse and feel your feet on the ground and be able to take a breath. 

I see how hard you are working- often understaffed and over-stressed. 

I appreciate your hard work on behalf of the kids who don’t know how to thank you.

Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you~ from all of the children and youth and from me.

Warmly, 

Heather 

Oh this labyrinth!

Oh this labyrinth! Oh this labyrinth!

The words must be written twice!

I love it. I hate it. I mourn that its going to melt even though we are months away from the threat of higher temperatures.

I worked to make the patterns (you already read that post). I had SO much help from my husband and kids (same post) and now the beautiful pattern sits there. Because I have more to do in the world than simply walk the labyrinth and write about the insights I have gained from it, I often am required to just walk past it. I am leaving to go to work. I walk past it when I come home feeling world-weary. I rush past it to run an errand and home again with my arms full.

It, the labyrinth, simply stays put.... and looks at me. Observing me as I am meant to observe it. I want to yell: Stop looking at me!!

It simply stays. Lit up beautifully (now) with lights all over- except one part of one outer loop. It's perfect the way it is. I love it. A perfect spiritual path just staying there. Waiting. Looking. Mocking, almost. 


What a metaphor! Or as I like to call them now: effin-metaphors!

My spiritual path lies in wait for my own body and mind to settle in to it's direction. No judgement (Yeah, okay I'll admit it: the judgement is mostly all mine and not the labyrinth's per se.) And as I am busy in the to-and-fro of life, spirit stays steadfast and waiting until it is called upon.

I LOVE my labyrinth. I love, adore, honor and cherish it. I have developed a strange attachment to something that is made out of small snow mountains and Christmas lights. I check on it before bed. I relish, with a warmth in my chest, when I look out at it from the bedroom window. I love it because it stays. Like a dog waiting with a wagging tail. It's there for me when I am coming and going. (The loyalty of spirit should not be compared to a snow path or a dog, but there it is.)

I HATE my labyrinth. It is mocking me. Calling me. Telling me how inadequate my attention to spirit and inward reflection really is. It shows me every day that I'm out of balance and how ridiculous I am for not simply choosing... simply choosing... to step on to the spiritual track and allow myself to breathe out my anxiety and breathe in my calm knowing my self and self worth. What's it take? 10-15 minutes? I can't find those few minutes to reorient to spirit and my authentic/ aligned self?

I HATE the way it simple sits there like it knows it all.Sometimes I want to stick my tongue out at the dummy-know-it-all-labyrinth. 



10:30 pm.

I walk my labyrinth. I'm putting on my boots near the back door and I'm mumbling under my breath: "Well, I guess I better walk the stupid thing." and I'm out the door with my ear buds in and my phone in my coat pocket. The music helps set a calming tone and drown out the naysayer doubts in my head.


I walk in: "I'll find spiritual comfort in 15 minutes and head back inside. Here we go. Let's do this thing."

I keep walking. "Ahh... breathing. Letting go. Easing in. Leaning in. I really *do* love my labyrinth. Forgive me for all my negative thoughts."

I finally reach the centre.

The neighborhood dogs stop barking. The music, with the labyrinth, have been talking on their own. They tell me a forgotten story about love and unconditional value and connections with all things on earth and in the stars. I remember. Did you think I could have forgotten?! (I had forgotten, but I won't admit it.)

I inhale and face South. Inhale- West. Again-inhale- north. Inhale.... East. I stand again toward the North and remind my self that this forgotten story is not that old nor that forgotten. This is the place of my own self--- truly "MY divinity in MY own backyard". How on earth or in heaven can you forget your own divinity in your own backyard? And yet I do. Multiple times. Over and over again. 

(Gawd damn effin' labyrinth.)


I walk out. I let go some more. I feel my shoulders come down from their place of standing guard around my ears. I know I am loved. I know (even more so) I am loveable.

I keep walking out. " Ahh...breathing. Letting go. Easing within. Allowing." I know this place: I love you. I love me. I could write a book about the heavens and the stars and our place on earth and the meaning of love and truth and light. Why would I ever doubt it? Why don't I stay home and walk this labyrinth all the time- like three times a day? And write the book because I know it all. I understand the all the answers to all the big questions.

I reach the exit. I turn and face the labyrinth. I stand in awe at my own transformation.

Again.

I bow my head and whisper: thank-you. thank-you.

I don't know exactly to whom I say thank-you: my spirit guides and friends? Yes. My own self? It's my creation. My family? Because without them I wouldn't know how wonderful it could truly be?

Yes. That's who. All of them and me.


I miss my labyrinth.

I mourn you already. I'll miss you when the sun is warmer and the snow walls are melting. I'll have rings of Christmas lights in the brown grass before I give you up.

I'll find you in other places, I know. Spirit is not only in this snow-path and only right here. But right now I feel like a child who knows the vacation days are numbered. I need to eke out of you all the wonder that I can.

Winters are long, but this year won't be quite long enough for me.

Let me take that as a metaphor for this life and eke out of it-- my 80 years or more, I hope-- all the wonder that I can. Let me remember, that somewhere inside of me, I know love and spirit so well that I could write a book. Let me remember that all of this is as close as my own 'backyard'. It's all right there and waiting for me to choose to reorient to that place.

This is the gift of my labyrinth.

Oh this labyrinth!

:-) With a knowing love,
Heather. 

The heart of attachment

 I trust you with my vulnerability. 

This is the heart of the matter of attachment: I trust you with my vulnerability. I show you all of  who I am: The worst of me and the best of me; the part of me without a mask.

I trust that when I show you this, you will not repel. You will not look away. You will not pretend that I didn't just show you and keep on with other conversation.

I trust that you will not respond to me with harshness or with criticism. When I am vulnerable with my feelings I trust that you will not tell me I should "get over it" or my feelings are wrong. Feelings can't be wrong, but they can be dismissed and that hurts.

I trust that you will not take for granted this part of me that I am sharing with you. I trust that you won't be careless or reckless with this delicate part of me. 

I trust that you will listen and that you will do your best to say that you understand. Or in those times that you don't understand what I am saying, you will simply say: I'm here for you. I will listen and I will be with you. 

When I show you who I am or when I express my feelings or my needs, I am sharing my vulnerability with you. I want you to know that when I do this, I am offering a gift and not a problem. 

I don't mean to be an inconvenience. Maybe I am 92 years old and I am wondering if my concerns will be deemed as unworthy and dismissed as dementia. Maybe I am 2 months old crying alone wondering when I will be held again. I don't want to be a nuisance or a headache. I am trying to tell you who I am and I am sharing with you all of who I am.

I love you. I am attached to you. I am connected to you. All of this means: I trust you with my vulnerability. Hold it carefully and appreciate the gift as it is given.

Does it always look so soft? No. Sometimes I am lashing out- afraid of trusting. Sometimes I am yelling or criticizing or throwing a tantrum. Sometimes I am fearful that you cannot hold this gift I offer gently and so I start right off with a fight or with blame. I am ashamed that when I show you all of who I am, you will reject it and so I try to make it something to be repelled or rejected. Sometimes my fear of this delicate vulnerability that I hold is so great, it looks like I am angry with you. But I am not angry. I am afraid. Anger is only the cover. Really underneath the anger and the tantrum is the fear of my vulnerability being rejected. That you will see all of who I am- those moments of weakness- and you will reject me.

Please understand that at the heart of my connection to you; at the heart of my attachment to you is the yearning to trust you with my vulnerability.

Show me how I can be and not be afraid. Show me how I can share with you this innermost part of attachment/ connection/ love and trust you with all of who I am-- trust you with my vulnerability.