The Art of Being

I am infinitely more comfortable with the art of “doing” than I am with the art of “being.” “Being” does not really come naturally to me.  I want to be active. I want to fill the silence.  I want to plan activities and “do fun things.”  It is not that these are bad goals to have, not at all.  The “doing” is a big part of my job.  But “doing” is not everything.  Not even close.

Peter has been in the hospital the last couple of days.  (Don’t worry, he is much better and is coming home soon!)  When Peter is in the hospital, our home organizes it so that someone is always with him.  Because of my weekend schedule, it turns out that I have shared time with Peter in the hospital for many, many hours in the last couple of days.  (As a matter of fact, I am sitting in his hospital room right now, as we listen to his favorite instrumental CD and he snores away.)

The thing about Peter is, he is not looking to chat with you for hours.  On a normal day, not in the hospital, he is happiest sitting at his desk in his room, playing with his blocks and his “mochilla” of pens.  You can join him, sure, and sit next to him reading or resting, that’s fine.  But most of the time, he isn’t looking for you to “do” anything (unless it is make him coffee

It isn’t about “doing” with Peter.  It’s about “being.”  Sitting here for hours in the hospital, Peter and I were just…together.  We chatted, we laughed.  I attempted to translate for him.  But mostly, we sat–Peter in his bed, playing with his pens, me with my feet up on his bed, reading or watching television– listening to the “Cuban” Pandora station I created.  Just being.

This lifestyle demands a reverence for the art of being. Yes, I can complete the routine Wiki and check things off of a never-ending to-do list.  I can plan, plan, plan.  And believe me, I do.  It is a necessary part of living in a L’Arche home. But what my housemates need most from me is my presence.  Maria and Peter and the other assistants need me to be with them.  They need me to love them and give them all my strengths and all my weaknesses in the moment.  They need me sit, quietly, with the understanding that I am enough.  Me–just “being”–is enough.  In learning to accept this from myself, I am learning how to receive this from my community.  Be it the unexpected, 3-minute-long hug from Maria that stops me in the midst of my frenzied attempt to “check things off” or the casual smile in my direction from Peter as he glances up from his pens, I am a constant recipient of the gift of presence.

They just need to me to be here, with them.  I just need them to be here, with me.  It is a beautiful art, this art of “being.”

Grocery Shopping

I have not blogged for a long time, (sorry, Grammy!) but I am back! I think that my life may actually be returning to a more normal pace, after an incredibly busy pre-holiday, holiday, and post-holiday season.  It is a relief, believe me.

**After texting my college roommate about the following incident, she suggested I blog about it.  This one is worth sharing

Today I was in charge of the Monday Grocery Run.  While historically the “smaller” of the two weekly grocery runs, any run that involves shopping for 10+ people is not small.  My cart overflowth, if you will.  When I got to the checkout line after about an hour of shopping (which is a significant improvement in my efficiency), I was patting myself on the back.

I could tell that the girl checking out my groceries was confused by my very full cart.  When you are 22-almost-23 and look 22-almost-23, it does not usually make sense to the other shoppers (or cashiers) why you need 6 different loaves of bread, 5 gallons of milk, and enough bananas to feed a small army of monkeys.  Given her obvious confusion, I tried to make small talk to indirectly explain my full cart.  “Goodness, its expensive!  I really love at the end when you tell me how much I saved with my VIC card!  I suppose though, when you are shopping for a house of 10, it’s to be expected.”  She freezes mid checking-out.  She looks at me incredulously and proceeds to ask, “How many kids do you have!?”

“How many kids does it look like I have, lady!?”

Okay, I didn’t say that.  I thought it though.  I laughed and told her no, I did not birth any of the nine other people in my house, but rather I live and work in a group home for adults with disabilities.  She nodded and smiled but I could tell she was still confused.  Most people are a little perplexed when I explain what I do.  I could try explaining it until I was blue in the face, but until you come see it—the usual pile of random stuff (I originally typed “crap” and then changed my mind) on the piano bench, the artwork on the walls, the pictures on the fridge—you probably can’t fully understand our lives.  I can’t even really explain how it works, putting 10 people, with disabilities and without, in a house and saying “live together, help each other, love one another.”  Somehow though, it creates a beautiful home.

But no, I do not have any children, thank you very much.

Three month check-in

This week marks three months of me being here.  Where does time go?  I know I haven’t written in awhile, but you can chalk it up to life craziness.  Blame ND.  Three weekends ago I went to visit home-both my homehome in IL and my Notre Dame home, and this past weekend Notre Dame came to visit me here in DC when our football team played Maryland in the Redskins’ stadium.  But here I am.  Three months in.

In L’Arche, the first three months are basically a discernment process, through learning and doing, of whether or not this is where you are supposed to be.

This is where I am supposed to be right now.  I feel it in the deep parts of my heart, already, after only three months.  It is scary to admit that out loud, because I am still fearful that I will jinx it.  But there you have it.  This is where I am called to be.  It isn’t easy, and sometimes I miss sitting on the futon with my roommate or the couch with my mom, more than I can put into words.  There are days when people annoy me, when I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of fully caring for someone else, when living in community is just…hard.  But this is growing up.  This is me, figuring out who I am.  And L’Arche—this L’Arche, my L’Arche, is beautiful.

I wish I could better describe Maria’s hugs.  Within her arms, I feel safe.  She pulls you in so tightly, as if to tell you, “You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve got you.  You are not alone.”  And I’ll be honest.  Sometimes I feel afraid.  Sometimes I worry that I am too far from home or that I am not qualified to be responsible for someone else, as I am just learning to be responsible for myself.  But then Maria hugs me.

There are a lot fewer pretenses in my home than in the rest of the world.  For many of the core members, pretense is simply impossible.  Therefore, they just live their lives fully expressing who they are exactly as they are.  It makes me want to be more like that.  Here I am world.  No fakeness, no pretending.  Just being.  It is a lot harder than one might imagine.

There is so much beauty in my life here.  There are some gross things (I won’t go into detail…).  There are some irritating things and confusing things and difficult things.  But there is so much beauty.  I was able to share this beauty, if but for a moment, with some of my dearest friends from college when they visited last weekend.  I cannot even explain the joy I felt in being able to introduce this part of my life to that part of my life.  I just want to share what this place is with everyone.  Please come visit me (said in hopeful tone, nudge, nudge).  I can try to explain what its like, but it doesn’t make sense until you see it…

One of my favorite quotes/prayers is by Pedro Arrupe.  It reads, “Nothing is more practical than
finding God, than
falling in Love
in a quite absolute, final way.
What you are in love with,
what seizes your imagination, will affect everything.  It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you do with your evenings,
how you spend your weekends,
what you read, whom you know,
what breaks your heart,
and what amazes you with joy and gratitude.  Fall in Love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.”  I feel like this might be happening with me and L’Arche (said in whispering tone, as not to jinx it…)

Grownups

Sometimes I feel entirely unqualified to be a grownup.  Or at the very least I don’t measure up to what I am discovering is an unrealistic understanding of “grownup”.  Kudos to you, Mom and Dad, because I think that whole “grownups are all-knowing” thing comes from the two of you knowing the answers to the questions that I would ask.  Or at least pretending?  I am presently feeling a bit like a fraud grownup.  For example.  I was on “drop-off” duty this morning.  Obviously, I printed out directions there and back AND took the GPS because let’s be serious, even though I’ve driven it before, I rarely actually know where I am going.  We get there without a hitch, I sign them in and go to drive home.  And I can’t get the key to turn in the ignition.  I did everything I could think of, but there are only so many options when it comes to turning a key.  I used my tried and true technology approach, where I got out of the car and got back in (the equivalent to turning off your computer and turning it back on).  No luck.  I sat there contemplating how embarrassing it was going to be to go in and ask the man sitting at the desk to come out and help me turn the key in my car.  Especially since I was wearing hot pink pajama pants because I did laundry last night and started sharing time at 6 am this morning and all other pants were either wet or still in the dryer in the basement.  On my second try calling the house, Megan answered and after I explained to her what was going on, she explained that when that happened you just had to jiggle the steering wheel while turning the key and that should work.  Obviously? How the heck would I know that?  How the heck would a grownup know that?

Then I get home and get a phone call from the person in charge of all of our property stuff who is away on a retreat, reminding the house that some guys would be coming to look at the leaky something or other.  “But not to worry because Jonathan would be there and had it covered.”  False.  They show up and I am the only one here.  I don’t even know what is leaking.  Sure come on in, guys.  Again I felt like a real grownup would know what was leaking and whether or not you’re supposed to follow worker people around when they’re in your house and what kind of small talk you should make.  And a real grownup would not still be wearing the hot pink flannel pajama pants.  So I let them in, walked them up and then sat in the kitchen drinking my coffee.

Moral of the story?  There is no possible way that real grownups know the answers to all these questions.  So is everyone around me just rolling with the punches pretending to know what is going on?  Probably.  I can do that.  Roll with the punches. Go with the flow.  Learn as you go.  All things that a scheduled planner such as myself really struggles with.  But I am trying. I guess this is part of growing up now, isn’t it?

 

I’ve got the joy joy joy joy

**I am going to begin by patting myself on the back for just a second, please bear with me.  I am on the cooking schedule FOUR TIMES this week.  I’m not entirely sure how/why this happened.  BUT. Yesterday I made chicken tetrazinni for twelve people, today I made tacos for fourteen.  And the food has been pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.  (I believe can thank the genes that I inherited from my mother for that.) Okay, done with the self-adulation and on to the actual point

Tonight, there was a moment at dinner when I just leaned back in my chair and looked around.  There were fourteen people at the dinner table tonight.  It is hard for a room not to be exploding with energy with that many people present.  We also all happened to be in really good moods.  There was lots of laughter and calling down across the long table and story-telling and silly jokes and joy.  Lots of joy.

The chef gets to lead the prayer after dinner.  I decided to keep the happy juices flowing.  As we passed around the candle, we shared something that brings us joy.  The responses ranged from hippos to flowers blooming in the spring to finding certainty about an uncertain future.  Joyful things.  For me, it was the fact that yesterday I skyped with my parents at the computer in our main room and my family here got to meet my family there.

After a prayer of gratitude for all the joy in our lives, we ended with Maria leading us in song.  It went a little something like this.

“I’ve got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart! Where? Down in my heart! Where? Down in my heart! I’ve got the love of Jesus, love of Jesus down in my heart.  Down in my heart to stay!”  The whole table was singing and laughing.  The song ended and began again as people remembered the verses from their childhood.  The joy was real and tangible today.  Down in my heart to stay

 

 

To accompany

Words are very important here at L’Arche.  We are not on duty or working a shift, we are sharing time.  My housemates with disabilities are core members.  When you are paired with someone for support, for feedback, for life…it is called accompaniment.

To accompany: to go along with or in company with, to join in action, to exist in association with.

I know, providing a definition for a word is so incredibly “6^th-grade-attention-grabber”.  But it is important to understanding my life.  I am “going along with and existing in association with” a lot of people right now.  I am not alone.  I have mentioned Maria before—with her songs and her laughter, a woman who has a profound depth that is often overshadowed or hidden.  I am her accompanier.  This means I am in charge of her doctors’ appointments and her medicine and her hair appointments and her money.  I am the one who runs to the store to buy her mouthwash when it runs out and I am the one who works with her on her goals and plan for the upcoming year.  I am Maria’s advocate.

But accompaniment is not unilateral.  She is my accompanier too.  She is the one making sure that I have a place here.  I’m holding her hand, but she is holding mine too.  When we do her prayers at night, she is praying for my brother just like I am praying for hers.  When we are sitting on the couch and I put my head on her shoulder and she pulls me in for a hug, I can guarantee you she is the one advocating for me.

We have team accompaniment too, when someone comes in and meets with the assistants in our house to help us communicate with each other effectively, by “joining us in action”.  I have a role accompanier, one of our home life coordinators (my boss) who “goes along with me” in my role, providing feedback for me and supporting me through my transition into my role as an assistant.

I think that if the world had more people intentionally walking together, intentionally accompanying each other, it would be a much better place.  Example number seven hundred million and eleven why L’Arche can serve as a model for life.  And that, friends, is your vocabulary lesson for the day.

FJ

“Do you wanna meet Fuzzy Jesus?”

(Let me give you some free advice, friends.  The answer to that question is always yes.)

Allow me to introduce you.  My housemate Lynn, devoted yard-sale-goer and collector of all things bizarre, has in her possession “Fuzzy Jesus”.  He is over a foot tall.  He is a piggy bank. He is hot pink.  He is fuzzy.

Go ahead, reread that.

Lynn has a hot-pink-fuzzy-Jesus-piggy-bank.

Unexpected, bizarre, and absolutely wonderful–that describes a lot of what happens here

Dinner is served!

I woke up this morning A WHOLE HOUR BEFORE MY ALARM WAS GOING TO GO OFF.  Why, you ask?  Because I had a nightmare that someone was driving me away from my house in a pickup truck when I was supposed to be making dinner and I was freaking out because it wasn’t going to be ready on time and I was “just wasting everyone’s time” (this is what I yelled at the dream truck driver).

I think it is safe to say that I was a little bit nervous about cooking dinner for my house for the first time today?  I lived in a dorm all four years–I’ve barely ever had to cook for one person, let alone twelve!  There are so many factors—timing, food restrictions, preferences, so on and so forth.  The sheer quantity of food that must be made to feed (at least) 12 people is a bit absurd.  It’s enough to drive me, the queen sleeper, to lose sleep.

I’ll be honest.  I did a lot of motherly conferring on this one. Mom, can you send me the recipe?  Mom, is this the right tomato juice? Mom, will doubling this recipe fit in the crock pot?  Mom?  Mom?  Mom?  I am positive that some of the texts I sent her during the food prep today probably made her wonder whether she taught me anything at all over the last 22 years.  But I did it.  We had chili, cornbread, salad, and for dessert (a rare treat in our house) we had apple crisp.  It was served on time, people actually wanted seconds, AND there was some left over.  Not to brag or anything, but for my “maiden voyage” (as it was referred to) it couldn’t have gone smoother.  Don’t worry, I won’t be getting over-confident in my abilities, the next couple of times will probably still very much include Mom’s input.  But hopefully I won’t have nightmares about it next time…

Chapters

The other day, I found myself crying on the phone to my roommate.*  It was confusing.  The day had been a good one—I had been on routine and things had gone smoothly, I had gone to the gym, we had prayer night (one of my favorite L’Arche things).  I had even turned down an invitation to go to a bar to hang out with some of the other assistants (mostly because of the very early mornings and the fact I sometimes have some old-woman sleeping habits).  And yet I was crying on the phone, missing my…my what?  My friends?  My family?  My life as I used to know it?  Part of what was upsetting me was that I couldn’t figure out what was upsetting me.  It had been a really good day.  Really good days should not produce tears, right?

This spurred quite a bit of reflecting, some really good discussion, and a few more tears.  Then a bit of self-awareness/understanding hit me.  This is my life now.  And let’s be serious, I am incredibly blessed. The L’Arche lifestyle is fulfilling to me.  I was basically handed community and family and a social network on a silver platter.  I feel confident that this is where I am called to be right now. My life is really, really good.  But it is finally beginning to hit me that this is my life.  Like my real life.  This isn’t a summer internship that is going to end in a few weeks.  This isn’t something I am doing until I return to my other life.  This is my life.  And that is scary because it marks a definitive end to the “Notre Dame chapter” of my life.  It isn’t that those people will be gone from my life, because they are still very much a part of me (technology is a wonderful thing).  It isn’t that I won’t carry my time at Notre Dame in my heart forever, because I will.  It’s just that when I have a good day now, it doesn’t end with me sitting on my floor in McG eating pretzels with Nutella recounting the good things that happened.  And that, my friends, is scary.

So where does this revelation/understanding leave me? It leaves me with four years of memories that shaped and formed me.  It leaves me with a wonderfully supportive family and life-long friends.  It leaves me with a really good life, now.  And yeah, I miss being with my friends who really know me.  And yeah, I wish I could have taken Luke’s picture before homecoming.  And yeah, life would be way easier if we could just figure out that whole apparating thing.  But I had a really great chapter that led me to another (at least I can speak for the first 6 weeks) really great chapter.  And that is not so scary, right?

**Disclaimer: I hesitated to post this, because me crying usually makes my mom worry about me and I didn’t want to do that.  But we skyped today, Mom, remember?  And you saw my face and I am fine Love you!

Como un abrazo

(Seeing as two of the core members in my house primarily speak Spanish, we speak a lot of Spanish here.)

I am finally beginning to do routines myself, with someone else simply “shadowing” me,  to answer my questions and help if I need it.  This is a very happy milestone in my orientation.  It feels so good to begin to pull my weight and be a contributing member of the community.  But more importantly, it is in the “doing of routines” where the real relationships are formed. Suddenly, I am not just the girl at the dinner table.  This happens in the moment when I put the toothpaste on the electric toothbrush for Peter and, since I am someone who uses a good-old-fashioned toothbrush, I turn it on before he puts it in his mouth.  This, of course, causes toothpaste to fly everywhere.  Boom.  The ridiculousness of the moment brings us a little bit closer.  It happens when William wakes up on the complete and total wrong side of the bed this morning and we had to battle our way through each and every step of the routine, including the choosing of the t-shirt that he wore UNDER his button-down.  Boom.  Our relationship just got a lot more real.

I am beginning to realize just how important touch is.  There is so much to be said about the simple act of holding Maria’s hand as she walks on the uneven sidewalk, and about physically supporting Peter as he transfers from his bed to his wheelchair.  It changes things when I am the one massaging in William’s shampoo and the one putting on Peter’s socks and shoes.  As I was helping Peter into his gait belt today, he had to lean forward into my arms as I reached the belt around him.  “Como un abrazo,” I told him.  Like a hug.