(Sigh) The last farmer's market of the season

For the past few years (I don't know how many) the only Halloween tradition I abide by is the last farmer's market on Old South Pearl Street. Meg, the kids, and sometimes V accompany me with a Stella's coffee in hand on this day. The kids are in their Halloween costumes, and go up to each vendor who has containers full of candy. It is the one farmer's market where I don't feel pressure to buy anything...It is all for the kids. As we walk the street, we see other children wearing their costumes. Oh, and dogs, too. Today we saw a dog dressed as a sheep, and a dog dressed in a Broncos jersey to match his owner.

I love this day. This routine. I don't care how long we stay. I don't care if one of the kids isn't at their best. I just love...A) Being with Meg and the kids (and V) and B) Being at the last glimpse of Summer/Harvest time/Community time...whatever it is called. It is a ritual where, if I have anything to do with it, these kids will be teenagers; reluctantly wearing their costumes (Darth Vader for Luca? Princess Leia for Mia? Let's see how much I can influence them...) and probably carrying coffees of their own. Mia will want to look at the clothing racks along the sidewalks; Luca will want to eat whatever is in sight and will be texting all his friends.

I like to think of this ritual as something I can be a part of that is bigger than me. I know Meg (V) and the kids go home to their own daily rituals. I don't have those. I wish I did. So, I find ways I can nestle myself into my friends' 'tribes'. I think my friends who have kids think their kids are a burden to me for some reason...but they are not. They fill a space for me...a space I don't have but a much needed space all the same. Those walks where you and I meet and you push the stroller along are a treasure to me. Those dates at the mall where your 3 year old runs all around the play area are golden. Those times I come to dinner and make paper airplanes so your precious 8 year old can outdo me are priceless. Those nights at your house over a glass of wine or a movie as the kids slumber...I say to my friends: Those are the moments that I treasure.

It is funny how a farmer's market can have all sorts of meanings attached to it. Let's make it a quick winter so we can be there again, strolling along the stalls and feeling like this day is a part of something bigger.

A place called home

Among the many things on my plate, I am tasked with visiting a site that catered to a population with whom I am uncomfortable. This task is for my Multicultural class, a class in which I love and has helped me look at life and people in a different way. The population I have chosen is homeless youth. I am not uncomfortable with the homeless, but youth...let's just say I don't have them on my radar for my social work career.

I ended up getting connected with Urban Peak, a homeless shelter for youth. Maybe I should say re-connected...I volunteered there in high school making lunch for the youth. I wound up making breakfast this morning and it was an interesting experience. Being in the shelter, there are all those shelter smells...body order, unwashed hair, the smell of people being in a small space together, sharing the most intimate of moments...sleeping. That time we all have to ourselves, to think and dream and just...be. When I got to the kitchen, I was told there were leftover eggs, potatoes and pancakes I could heat up, which I did. The smell of this food lingered with me all day. It wasn't a really pleasant smell, actually. Day old food heated up just isn't the same as a freshly cooked breakfast, with bacon and eggs in the pan and spices that make for a savory meal. This meal smelled stale, sad, broken...much like the lives of the youth I served.

At the SafeHouse, things are different. Food is fresher; the women cook lively meals full of spices and each meal is cooked fresh; there are no leftover meals. At the youth shelter, I felt like what the teens were offered was an afterthought. I am not saying this to demean what those at the shelter do everyday, but the comfort of cooking is probably not their speciality. I started thinking of the comfort of home. Last night, I walked into my parents house and dinner smelled delightful. The table was set nicely, and I knew I was walking into a comfort that I have as a privileged person. These youth I saw today were left with the smell of sleep, day old eggs and hopelessness.

I wish for everyone that scent can be a beacon of hope. Those Glade candles that smell of apple pie; the Anthropologie candle I light every night that smells of sweetness and comfort. I wish for these privileged smells to be a part of everyone's life, knowing that they are the scents of home.

3 down, 2 to go

I am breathing a sigh of relief, sipping a Coors light and under the covers with the laptop, finally ready to actually post something real. I had a huge realization lately that I need to stop being so intense about grad school and let it flow. My teachers keep talking about self-care and after 6 weeks of classes I am finally going to listen to them.

I just finished 3 midterm assignments today-a presentation, a test and a paper. I haven't taken a test in something like 13 years so I was a bit rusty on my study skills, but I think I did alright. I have another paper due next week as well as another presentation and then midterms are over, with finals just around the corner.

But you know what? I have decided to tell myself, "it is what it is." Maybe I don't get all A's this term. Maybe I don't present as well as I used to. Maybe my APA citations in my paper aren't always buttoned up. Maybe I choose not to participate in class on a day I feel more introverted. I went into this program with this notion that I was going to be a top-notch, stellar student. But that kind of perspective hasn't led me to enjoy life along with all the craziness of grad school. Who says I have to choose? So, I decided to start that self-care my teachers talk about. I went for a walk with Liz on Monday morning. I started reading a great fiction book, something I haven't done in a while. I make time to watch my favorite TV shows, and I give myself a day off every week. These are just baby steps toward enjoying a balance-of being a student along with everything else life has to offer. Besides, no one wants to pour their hearts out to a stressed out social worker.

This weekend I will have some of that balance. Paper writing, yes. Saturday, though, will be my day off. I am getting my hair cut and colored which is always a treat. I get to finally see the Schultz family to catch up over dinner. Maybe I will treat myself to a coffee at Tattered Cover and a stroll amongst the bookshelves. Or a nap. Or a walk at the park. I can't let these little things in life become commodities...

Remind me of this post during finals, will you?

5 weeks in

This week I am celebrating my halfway point through my first quarter of the social work program at DU. Midterms are this week and next, which means I need to focus on studying for a test, writing a literature review, and preparing for a presentation. My brain is spinning but tonight I am setting aside time for a little Project Runway on my DVR and a walk with the dogs. Tomorrow I will get serious.

Point, Counterpoint, Triggers

I had never heard of the word "trigger" before. I have recently become aware of this word and its meaning since starting social work school. A trigger in some regards can be something that reminds us of a good or bad experience in our lives. Triggers are around all the time...some more prevalent than others. What is important about triggers is that they bring up a feeling or make us react in a certain way. That is why they are called triggers. Consider the trigger on a gun. Your finger can linger there and let whatever is bothering you fester and then go away...or you could snap and pull it, with consequences you weren't sure of to begin with.

I had a trigger today and I didn't pull it back nor did I let it go...I just let it be. I went to mall and was enticed by the thought of hot chocolate during our cold spell. I went to Godiva because, quite frankly, if you are going to have hot coco that is the place you want to visit. As the guy behind the counter was ringing me up, he asked for my email address. I gave him my Regis address (where all the spam goes). As he typed, he asked me..."Is it under Michael?" I looked at him hesitantly and I said, "Yes, it is under Michael, he is now deceased, but he bought me Godiva hot coco every year and I just love it and its time to buy more..." The poor guy behind the counter. He looked slightly miserable. "I am so sorry," he said. He put the hot chocolate can in a bag and refused for me to leave before I picked a free truffle off the bottom shelf. Reluctantly (smile) I obliged and picked a hazelnut chocolate something and was on my way.

I stopped walking so fast, letting in what I was feeling. Every year, Mike proudly gave me Godiva hot chocolate for Christmas. It was our go to drink in the winter evenings, or if neither of us could sleep, or if I just wanted a small sweet treat. It was a special gift. Something he knew about me that no one else did. Something that meant the world to him when he went to purchase it. I kept walking, and I kept feeling stronger, and I kept knowing that Mike led me to that Godiva shop...that I don't need him to be alive for me to have this joy in my life...that I could actually enjoy this hot chocolate and have positive memories...the trigger became a good thing.

I have had a lot of good triggers lateley...Reconnecting with an old friend and feeling like that connection was never lost to begin with...the fall weather leading to trees changing that make me want to create my nest...the "how to" write a research paper when I thought all was forgotten...lots of good triggers and yes...even that darn hot chocolate was a good trigger.

To end the evening, do you know what I did? I walked into Tiffany and CO. It is not a store I ever shop in, nor should a social worker be shopping there. But there is this bracelet...THE Tiffany bracelet...with the clasp and the heart...and I have been wanting it for years...and I realized no one will buy it for me...and I bought it. And I justified it by...trigger: Missing Mike but knowing there are so many other bessings in my life. Point: Be happy and a spontaneous. Counterpoint: Be a little reckless. And I combined them...I became happy when I bought something I have wanted for years...I have been happy without it all this time so I will be happy with it...If Mike knew I wanted this (as much as the Godiva hot chocolate) it would have been under the Christmas tree this year.