Of Babies and Bathwater

At the BEC membership meeting last night, several people used the phrase “Don’t’ throw the baby out with the bathwater.” This morning I was reviewing all of the many stories and opinions shared and I realize that babies and bathwater is a very appropriate metaphor in this case. Afterall, isn’t it the recognition of water as a precious and limited resource that has us all so concerned about BEC and advocacy?

There seems to be an endless, renewable supply of water here in Northern California. Even in dry years it still rains and snows and the creeks and rivers don’t run dry. Well, mostly they don’t run dry. As a community we are slowly coming to realize that water is not limitless, and yet the majority still use sprinklers to water large lawns (and the sidewalks, more often than not), take long showers, wash our cars in our driveways, all without much thought to how we might better conserve this resource. Nor do the majority think about just how easily we might lose this easy, mostly free access to a valuable necessity. Without water, life is not possible.

Babies are pretty important too. They are the means by which we perpetuate the species and they are pretty darned cute. Although perhaps a little less cute after being up all night screaming. Still, we don’t throw them out when they scream because babies need us to care for them or they would not be able to survive. We can’t expect babies to feed themselves or pay the bills. It is not reasonable to expect babies to show respect and empathy for their parents’ need for sleep by limiting their crying to daylight hours only. However, we do expect babies to grow and learn.

Last night I heard seventeen years worth of talented, committed, passionate former board members, staff, and volunteers speak. The story was pretty much the same throughout those seventeen years: Each started out excited by the goal of protecting our environment and making BEC the best organization possible to achieve that end. Each person worked very hard at helping Barbara, and each found Barbara turning her formidable, aggressive advocacy skills on them. BEC has had seventeen years of repeatedly draining the organization of great workers and refilling with new great workers in what seems to be an endless cycle.

Water is a valuable and limited commodity. The consequences of our actions, of our thoughtless use of water as an endless, renewable resource, have led to the draining of all of California’s aquifers except for the one we all live above—the Tuscan Aquifer. Clean, plentiful water is an inextricable part of a healthy ecosystem, of which our human community and economy are an interconnected part. When one part is sick or abused, that sickness or abuse ripples out to affect the whole.

Human creations like organizations function in very much the same way. We are all part of the ecosystem—the office workers, board members, and star advocates alike. The system only functions well when the whole works together, each doing their part to create a larger, healthier whole. Both water and babies are important and neither should be discarded lightly. I think the current BEC board is no different than the many past BEC boards in valuing both, and I do not think they made this decision quickly or lightly.

The thing with bathwater and babies is that sometimes you need to change the bathwater, and sometimes the baby needs to grow up.

Grandfather

My earliest memories of my mom’s dad are from when I was about four years old. Grandpa got up very early, cooked himself breakfast and then went off to work long before the rest of the house was up and about. Except for me. I loved getting up with him. He made the most delicious waffles, with real melted butter and maple syrup that he had sent to him from back in Michigan where he was from. I would sit at the big long dining room table with my plate full and watch him cook bacon on a grill thing that sat on the dining room table while he tended the waffle iron, which was also on the kitchen table.

I loved the smell of the bacon and the fresh perked coffee, although I didn’t have (or want) either of those. I knew that it was something of an interruption, having me there to tend to and serve, so I tried not to ask too many questions or talk too much. This was very difficult for me because even back then I was very loquacious (and filled with ‘satiable curiosity!). I am certain that sometimes I tried his patience. Still, there was something so special about those mornings that whenever I spent the night at my grandparents, I would go to sleep reminding myself to wake up early enough to have breakfast with grandpa, and I was so disappointed with myself when I woke up late and he was already gone….

In the High and Far-Off Times, my grandfather, O Best Beloved, was born Giles Garth Leeth in Clare Michigan, May 11, 1922. During one of our conversations last summer, he told me about his childhood summers on the farm, and how sad his grandmother was later after selling the farm and moving to town. He told me that one of his jobs on the farm was to go out and find the newborn calves because they would curl up in the pasture and make themselves very small and hard to find, but they had to be brought in where they could be kept safe. He told me that as soon as he learned to read he read everything he could get his hands on, including women’s magazines. In high school he won a city-wide spelling contest and the prize was a trip to the 1938 World Fair in New York City.

Grandfather was a navigator in the Army Air Corps in WWII. He graduated with a BS in engineering in 1949, and later went through a course of study in atomic energy before there was such a thing as a degree in nuclear engineering. He worked for G.E. and for Tempo (a research arm of G.E.) for 34 years, developing project plans for a variety of different areas, including propulsion and nuclear technology. Even in his last year of life he was tinkering around with different engineering inventions. He loved problem solving real-life issues and coming up with concrete engineering solutions.

He also loved to joke around. He told me lots of stories last summer about all the jokes he and his engineering buddies would play on each other at work. One I remember involved the creation of a very long sling shot which the engineers used to launch paper clips into the cubicle of the physicists at the other end of the room. (They quickly pieced together a white flag which they hoisted up over the cubicle wall.)

Grandpa loved golfing and backpacking. Some of my earliest memories are of grandpa getting ready to go on a hiking trip. He loved going up into the mountains, getting away from people and life as we know it. When I was nineteen, he agreed to take me on a hiking trip. I had never even gone camping before. He packed for me, helped me pick appropriate clothes to wear and bring, and we drove to the east side of the southern Sierras. We planned a three day, two night trip. The first day we hiked about eight miles and 800 feet in elevation and I was exhausted, but he just kept on going. It was breath-takingly gorgeous. Colors were startling fresh and vivid—the spring greens stretching every where, splashed with bright yellow flowers, and a liquid blue sky above. And the water! We camped next to a small creek that was melting directly off of the glacier, and I had never tasted anything so delicious.

The next morning I came out of the tent when I thought I heard an airplane overhead. “No,” Grandpa said, “That’s an earthquake.” It was a loud, gravelly roar like a jet engine with rocks in it. “I had no idea that earthquakes made noise!” I told him. Way up there in the mountains, with no people or buildings or cars and such, the earth shifting is a full-sensory experience—sound, sight, feel. He said it looked like rain, so we should head back instead of trying to stay another night. I had been looking forward to a light day hike and some rest before tackling the return hike, but that was not to be. He kicked my butt, walking all the way back to the car, stowing his backpack and coming back for me and taking my backpack before I could finish the last mile. I got to the car just as the rain started in earnest.

I never asked to go again. He didn’t think women could really do real hiking, and I had proven him right. I wasn’t about to ask for another round of humiliation. It’s too bad, though, because I probably could have gotten acclimated, and it truly was magically beautiful. But, at nineteen, I had no idea that some things you just have to work hard at before you can do them.

When I was a child, grandfather used to read to me. He read short stories, books, poetry. My favorite poem was “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert W. Service. My favorite book was the Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling and my favorite story in that book was “The Elephant’s Child.” The language was lovely and juicy and full of texture and life. For example (and you really should read this out loud for the proper affect): “That very next morning, when there was nothing left of the Equinoxes, because the Precession had preceded according to precedent, this ‘satiable Elephant’s Child took a hundred pounds of bananas (the little short red kind), and a hundred pounds of the sugar-cane (the long purple kind), and seventeen melons (the greeny-crackly kind), and said to all his dear families, ‘Good-bye. I am going to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to find out what the Crocodile has for dinner.” I think this is why I am a writer. [If you want to know what the Crocodile has for dinner, O Best Beloved, you will have to read the story yourself!]

My grandfather loved words (another reason why I am a writer). Back when I was just a child and eating breakfast with grandfather, sometimes he would teach me new words. I am sure, out of desperation when I just could not keep quiet for two minutes in a row (do you know how long two minutes is to a four-year-old?), he would try to keep my mind so busy that I would have to shut up and let him read his paper and drink his coffee in some peace. (Come to think of it, that is also probably at least partly why he taught me how important it is to chew your food thoroughly, at least sixty times per bite he said…) In particular, I remember having a long conversation about the word ‘irrelevant’. We discussed it until we were both satisfied that I clearly understood its meaning and use. And I used it too, on my Kindergarten teacher. She was trying to get me to do what she wanted by using a distraction technique, to which I promptly replied, “That’s irrelevant!” (Score one for the ‘satiable Elephant’s Child!)

My grandfather was Old School. He believed that boys and men are smarter and stronger than girls and women, mainly because girls and women are “too emotional” to be smart or strong. He believed that the hard sciences were the only real thing in the world and studying anything else, like psychology or political science, was fluffy silliness. And don’t even get him started on the frivolity of religion! Mostly he would just snort and mentally place you in the “idiot” category.

Even so, his strong points were very good strong points. I was double-blessed in the careful cultivation of my curiosity from my grandfather and his daughter, my mother. He valued a sense of curiosity, and encouraged children to ask lots of questions and do lots of thinking about the possible answers. A strong questing, curiosity is my legacy and it is a rich and never-ending treasure trove.

I will miss you, O Best Beloved.

Fire

On Tuesday, May 5th, my grandfather died. He was 86 years old. He died a peaceful death at home with two of his daughters by his side, the end of a long struggle with cancer. As a lifelong atheist, he requested that we have no ceremonies for his death.

Grandpa actually had been in relatively good health until about the last two months. He was too weak to do hiking or golfing any more, but he still had mental clarity and greatly enjoyed reading and conversing. The last two months were harder and he finally asked for help. My Aunt Di, my Aunt Karen, and my mom all met at his house and worked out a schedule. My Aunt Di does not have scheduled work so she took three weeks on and one week off. My mom arranged to cover the one week rotation for as long as needed.

This was a hard time for my mom, not just because her dad was dying, but because of her relationship with her sister. My Aunt Di thinks about family and the world very differently from my mom and that has led to a strained relationship. Having to work together under these circumstances has been very draining for my mom. A small illustration: two sisters in their dying father’s kitchen. Di making the roast chicken she had cooked that week into a pot of soup. They are talking about their dad and what they can do to help him and help each other. Di finishes the soup, looks at my mom and says “What are you having for dinner?”

So, my sister and I planned to visit mom during her next week. We bought plane tickets to fly in and see her on May 7th. On May 1st, Aunt Di called to let us know that the grandpa had decided he was done, and the hospice nurse was putting him on a drip that would reduce his anxiety and, basically, keep him asleep until he died. On May 4th mom drove down to grandpa’s. She was up until 2am with Grandpa and gave him his late night dose of morphine, then finally got some sleep. She woke about 6am when grandpa’s breathing changed. He died about 7:30am.

When my mom called me, I was in the shower, so she left me a message. Since I woke, a song had been running through my head. As I got dressed, I realized what song it was. “What an odd song to be singing!” I thought, and then I got the phone message. The song going through my head was, “go tell aunt Rhodie, go tell aunt Rhodie, go tell aunt Rhodie, the old gray mare is dead.” I haven’t heard that song in years.

Mom asked me and Summer to still fly out. Brad drove me to the airport in Sacramento on Thursday and I got into Santa Barbara mid-morning. We spent the day catching up, visiting with Aunt Di and Uncle Lynn, getting some things done around Grandpa’s house, and making plans for a gathering the next day that Grandpa’s neighbor and dear friend Lee was planning. The house was oppressive, what with Di worrying, and Lynn in fix-it mode, and mom worn out from the waiting and the death and the company.

We decided to go to the beach and then out for ice cream. Back at the house, we had some quiet time, resting in the heat of late afternoon, talking about what needed to be done. We knew there was a fire, but it was on the other side of town, up in the mountains. We could see the smoke, slow columns of clouds up and away to the south. Fires happen in the Santa Barbara mountains fairly regularly, they are a fact of life, and so we put it out of mind.

My dad and his wife called and asked us to out to dinner, and we accepted. When we came out from dinner, everything had changed. The smoke clouds had merged into one huge cloud that took up a whole half of the sky. It loomed over us, and we could actually see flames on the mountain. As we watched, the fire rushed across the mountain, towards our side of town. The wind was crazy. We bought some boxes and when we got back we decided to pack up what we could since the fire had obviously taken a large turn for the worse. We got a lot of items packed up in our car and in Grandpa’s mustang. Di and Lynn showed up with their truck and helped us pack more. Then we got the first reverse 911 call letting us know that we were in a potential evacuation zone.

Summer was due to fly in at 11:45pm and we didn’t know if we would be allowed back into the neighborhood. We tried calling hotels—everything was booked. The news said that 8,000 had been evacuated. We watched television reports, trying to decide what to do. Di and Lynn agreed to stay at grandpa’s until we came back. That way if the evacuation order came they could call us and tell us not to come back. Summer’s plane got in early—we met her at the gate and told her, “Welcome to Santa Barbara! We’re driving home.”

About that time we got the message from Di that the evacuation order had come. She also let us know that my dad had called looking for us and asked us to call. They said they were all ready to put us up for the night. That was much better than starting the drive back home at midnight, and they live only five minutes from the airport. We had breakfast with them in the morning and then just started home. It was pretty squishy in the car, what with all of our gear and some of grandpa’s stuff too.

It had been a hectic 24 hours for us all so we decided to stop at the beach and spend a little time soaking up the sun and re-energizing. Still, it was a very long drive home and we were all very happy to get to Chico.

Years ago, when my grandma died, it was two days after my grandpa evacuated her from another Santa Barbara fire. I think it is only fitting that his death was also met by fire.

My ECE Nightmare

Dr. Bruce Perry of the ChildTrauma Academy has a graph that shows how the amount of money we spend on programs designed to “change the brain” is in almost direct opposition to the developing brain’s ability to change. We spend the majority of our money in increasing amounts at about age fourteen when our brain structure is already mostly set; we spend almost no money on children below the age of three when the brain has the highest capacity for change. This is a problem.

A long-time friend of our family is a college professor and for years he has said that we need to invert our system: college professors should be paid the least and Early Childhood Educations (ECE) should be paid the most. Dr. Perry’s graph supports the supposition that we would get the biggest bang for our buck if we did, indeed, re-prioritize where we spent our educational money.

The research clearly supports a move towards making sure that we spend more money on our 0-5 caretakers/educators. The current idea has been that we can achieve this change by requiring pre-K workers to have more formal education. The CARES program in California was based on this ideal—increase the standards by encouraging Early Childhood Educators (ECE) to get more education. Many ECE workers have jumped at this idea leading to a whole batch of people now finishing up varying levels of degrees. Great, right? The only flaw is that these people are being told that if they want better pay, benefits, and more professional respect, they should leave the ECE field.

But, let’s say that this changes. Let’s say we flip our priorities overnight and suddenly pre-K caretaker/educators now earn a modest average of, say, $40,000 a year. Doing this work would suddenly look a lot more attractive to a lot more people. Just the fact of earning a nice living wage would automatically increase the respect the field would be given. While all of the ECE workers that I know would agree that, if we put our money where we say our values are, we would be paying ECE caretaker/educators a whole lot more than $40,000 a year, I think most would also be happy with earning a comfortable living wage and some benefits. If more people are attracted to the field because the pay is good, then we can raise the professional standards. The way things are now, higher standards means higher formal education.

So my concern is—what will all of that higher education make of raising our children?

Here is my ECE Nightmare: A future where pre-K workers are highly educated technicians, dressed in stark uniforms, monitoring babies in a scientifically designed, structured, and controlled environment. There will be shelves of bins, each labeled with the developmentally appropriate age and the brain growth designed to be stimulated by the items in the bin. The ECE Specialist will check the notes on each baby or toddler and pull out the appropriate activity or place the child in the “correct” environment in order to make sure that their brains receive the right stimulation at the right time. All of the 0-3 babies would be together, separate from all of the pre-school children, separate from the elementary school children who would continue to be sub-divided into their respective age groups…

My ECE Nightmare is a monoculture world, where babies are raised in uniformity, and the lack of diversity weakens the whole.

I already see this in the work I do at the daycare. Specialists come to the daycare from time to time, to work with a specific child or to do an overall daycare assessment. They talk to the children in soft, patient tones, gently trying to convince the kids that it is best to use your words even as one kid bashes another over the head with a block. I don’t know about you, but when someone is trying to hit me in the head, I don’t try to reason with them by using my words. No, I first defend myself, often using verbal volubility and sometimes adding physical action if necessary to protect myself.

Don’t get me wrong, specialists are great. They do much needed work with children in ways that ECE caretakers/educators can’t because of the holistic nature of the work we do. We are with the children day-in and day-out. What they need to learn from us is how relationships work, how community works, and they learn that by example. The children need to see us get angry, frustrated, sad, silly, irritated, and so on. How else will they learn how to handle their own emotions? They need to see us as we relate to each other, as we relate to other children, and as we relate to them.

Children also need to see other children relating to each other. Older children dealing with younger children show the youngest where they are going, how to get there, and some of the things they will learn along the way. Age stratification of children disrupts this continuity. We already have too much age stratification in our society; The Continuum Concept by and the brain research done by Dr. Bruce Perry and others show that we need to start re-integrating our communities if we want to optimize the brain growth of our babies. So, my fear is that requiring ECE caretaker/educators to have higher academic degrees will lead to Specialists raising our children and, thus, to my monoculture nightmare.

Higher education, at least at this point in time, teaches us to follow instructions, fill in the proper blanks, and jump through all of the right hoops in order to be awarded a degree. Academia has become isolated from the real world, lost behind the scientific model. Objective observation and careful manipulation of variables is not anything like the real world. The scientific model is an amazingly useful tool and we owe much to this way of thinking; however, it is very important that we do not forget that it is but one tool among many in a world of amazing complexity and diversity.

Raising babies and toddlers is messy, chaotic work. You often have to follow your instincts in order to find the path that works for this particular child at this particular time with this particular issue. You have to be creative. You have to be willing to take risks. You have to be open to thinking outside the box.

Of course, you can only think outside of the box once you know what the box is and how it works. Because of this, 0-5 caretaker/educators should have a solid grounding in child development, basic psychology, general sociology, and some anthropology. They also should have experience with music and gardening, with dance and animals, with singing and art and other forms of creative innovation. I am not anti-education, I just think that ECE workers should have more than formal education as a professional base. ECE workers should be able to integrate both the emotional-creative-intuitive-right and the logical-linear-literal-left halves of their brains and bring those skills to the work they do with babies and young children.

Formal, higher education should only be one component in developing skilled 0-5 caretaker/educators. My monoculture nightmare would be greatly eased knowing that the path to becoming a professional pre-K caretaker/educator included flexibility, creativity, and diversity, in addition to formal education.


Resources:
The ChildTrauma Academy/Dr. Bruce Perry

http://www.childtrauma.org/
The Continuum Concept by Jean Liedloff

http://www.continuum-concept.org/

Universal Neglect

One of the continuing education classes that Jen and I are taking right now is a weekly brain development series. It is based on the work of Dr. Bruce Perry and the ChildTrauma Academy. This Wednesday we focused on Neglect, and how it impacts the developing brain. A neurological definition of neglect is “…neglect occurs when the important neural systems in the brain do not receive sufficient quantities and patterns of stimulation required for those systems to develop normally.” In other words, what would be neglect at one point in a child’s life, would not be neglect at another time, depending on what patterns of stimulation a child’s brain is needing at a particular moment in time.

This is different than the legal definition of neglect, which has to do with child abuse. Often this legal form of neglect does not happen in isolation of other forms of child abuse, and so the two often become almost synonymous. In our class we did cover this more traditional definition of neglect. Dr. Perry talked about how lack of stimulation of our senses can atrophy the brain. We saw MRIs of a normal three year old and a neglected three year old and saw how much smaller the later was. And while all of this is fascinating and important to know, this is not the information that excited me.

“Universal neglect” and “social and cultural de-evolution” are what caught my attention. Dr. Perry says that if you look at our brain in an anthropological context, we now have a culture that is socially and culturally malnourished. We have stratified ourselves down into smaller and smaller, more homogenized units until the average household size is now less than three. Our handouts have a graph that show the average household size in 1500’s was twenty, in 1850 it was ten, in 1960 it was five, and we keep dropping. We keep infants at home alone with one or two care takers, our elders are in separate living facilities, we keep children age stratified in our schools and in their extra-curricula, structured activities, and we over-schedule our lives and our children’s lives. A large chunk of our non-scheduled time is taken up by TV, and no matter how varied the programming is, the brain chalks all TV up as only one type of experience.

What all of this adds up to is an anorexic social and cultural experience for our brains. For adults, this is not a healthy thing. For babies and children, this is devastating. Perry says, “The genetic potential for healthy socio-emotional functioning—to be empathic, to share, to invest in the welfare of the community—is better expressed in children living in hunter-gatherer bands or extended families or close-knit communities in comparison with our compartmentalized modern world.” This is what Dr. Perry calls Universal Neglect. Our culture as a whole does not provide “…sufficient quantities and patterns of stimulation required…” for our brains to develop normally.

Pretty depressing stuff, in one way. And yet it is also exhilarating, identifying a source for our universal unrest, our apathy, our sense that things just aren’t right, even when we seem to have everything. Now we know a major cause is that our brains are, literally, starving. We are starving for more and varied relationships, we are starving for multiple deeper relationships. We are starving for community, real community built on continuing, multiple, diverse, and meaningful interactions and experiences. Identifying a cause allows us a place to begin again, and that is a hopeful thing.

I have been saying this for years, and it was just nice to see that the latest brain research backs me up:)

Keep It Flowing

Keep it flowing. That’s what Lynne Twist says in her book The Soul of Money. Money is one of the most useful ways of enacting our values, of expressing and taking steps to enact our vision of a better future. Fear shuts us down; fear stops the flow. Economically, things are tough right now, and they will likely get tougher. This is all the more reason to invest in each other, to invest in our communities, to work together. We have to ask ourselves, do we want to live in fear, or do we want to work for hope?

Keep it flowing. We do not just exchange paper when we buy something, be it with cash or check or charge. We exchange ideals, we pass on hope or fear. It is all in what we buy and who we give our money to. Some of us are struggling just to pay the bills, to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. But even we find ourselves with a little extra change, a couple of loose dollars here and there. When I was a kid, my mom used to save up her pennies and dimes and then take us out to Big Al’s for ice cream. We didn’t have much, but we kept what we had flowing.

Some of us are not struggling—we have enough to take care of ourselves and our families and then some. Even so, it is hard not to buy into the fear, hard not to clench down on what we do have, trying to keep ourselves safe. A closed fist feels safer, less exposed, than an open hand. But a closed fist also cuts us off from each other. An open hand allows us to unite, and united we are stronger. I am not saying don’t save. I am saying we should not save out of fear, but out of hope for the future. Keep it flowing.

We have a beautiful opportunity right now to grow a healthier, stronger nation. We have an opportunity to refuse to live out of fear, and instead to choose to live in hope. We have an opportunity to help ourselves by helping others, and in the process to grow stronger, more resilient and more vibrant communities. Shop locally—support those people in your community who run small shops, restaurants, co-ops. Hire locally—if you have some extra, hire someone to organize your garage, clean your house, weed your yard. Donate locally—small local nonprofits are the most vulnerable during economic downturns, and yet they hire your neighbors, help your community, and make a direct difference in the place where you live.

President Franklin D Roosevelt said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” This is our challenge: to give into fear, or to open up to hope. That choice is enacted, in large part, through how we spend our money.

End of Year Letter, 2008

Early Childhood Education Work
In early March, Jen and I went to an Early Childhood Education conference in Sacramento (ECE; means ages 0-5). Lisa Murphey, the Ooey Gooey Lady, was the keynote speaker. She talked about her experiences running her own home daycare. We laughed about the parents who try to drop their kids off early, and the ones who habitually pick up late (often the same ones), and how amazing it was that people started paying her on-time after she married a big burly guy and he started working with her. She also talked about the skewed ideas that people have about daycare work, like the time a mother dropped off her kid and two big bags of laundry. She told Lisa, “I figure that you’re here all day.”

Flash forward to November, and Jen and I are at the California Child Development Corps statewide meeting in San Leandro. A group of 40 ECE home and center workers gathered to work on building the profession, networking, and creating an action plan for the year. I don’t think anyone in that room had less than a B.A. degree, and several had M.A.s. We all groaned together when we were told that someone with a two year nursing degree could land a $40,000 a year job, with benefits. That compared to the $8-$12/hour ECE work pays (often with no benefits). I spoke with one woman who, when she complained at her center, was told that she should leave child care in order to get better pay now that she has a BA.

In other words, we want our children cared for by those with little education and low pay expectations. We pay janitors and house cleaners more than we pay the typical 0-5 child care worker. And this is even though the research clearly shows that the first five years of a child’s life are the most important for future academic success. We left with a healthy respect for the amount of work needed to make any real change for society’s youngest. And a determination to try anyway…..

Brad and Nikki Finally In Same State
After a year and a half of living 2,000 miles apart, Brad packed up his house of 13 years and moved from Milwaukee to Chico. I found a cozy apartment in an old Victorian house that has been split up into units. We live in a cool neighborhood near downtown. Our expenses went up and Brad’s income went down, a difficult adjustment for us both. On top of that, Brad was grieving the loss of his family, his close friends, his successful job, and his ability to smoke indoor anywhere, so it was a hard fall for him.

I had the chance to take a part time job with the Butte Environmental Council (BEC) for better pay than the daycare, so I cut back my ECE work and started at BEC in October. The work is challenging, trying to organize a fairly disorganized office, and rework outdated and ineffective systems. I like this kind of work. However, as the months have gone by, more and more duties have been piled onto my list, overfilling my work hours and leaving more undone than done every day. Mostly this is due to the way the place is managed. That and a toxic organizational environment have pushed me to look for a different job. It hurts my heart to say this, but I will also be leaving the ECE field entirely as soon as I am able to find a “real” job (a living wage and maybe even benefits!).

Because of all of these difficulties, living together again with Brad has been challenging. I think we both thought the transition would be easier than it was. Even so, we made it through and are back in sync. I am very happy that he is here living with me.

Down Economy an Opportunity
As all of you know, the economy sucks. Budgets are tight all around, and nonprofits are starting to feel the pinch. Chico has one homeless shelter and it lost a $200,000 grant this fall; it is likely it will have to close. Stories like this are everywhere, brooding like storm clouds.

And yet, signs of giving still peek through. A couple of weeks ago my mom and I saw a guy go out of his way to flag down a homeless man so he could give him a sweat shirt. I know a woman going through a divorce who, even so, has started keeping an elderly woman company and assistance. Almost everyone at my church has been generous with their time and their money, making sure that we can keep doing the work that we do. Sure, we are all stressed, but aren’t we in this together?

And that is the key, I think. We have had recessions before. We will get through it somehow. That isn’t the point. The point is what we do with this opportunity. We have a beautiful chance right now to grow closer, to make our connections deeper, to build real community based on a new idea of shared responsibility for and care of each other. Don’t we all deserve food and shelter and a little something of beauty in our lives?

When times are tight, we are tempted or forced to sacrifice the beauty; some of us may be forced to sacrifice shelter and food. If we pull together, if we share what resources we have, if we let others help us where we need it, and we help others where we can, then no one will have to lose the basics, and no one will have to go without some beauty in their lives.

Hope for the Future
Jen recounted this toddler story the other day: “Aarish once again bit Caitlyn. I knew I needed to try something different so I said to Aarish, “Aarish—Caitlyn is hurt and she needs your help. Please take her inside and help her clean her owie.” He took her hand and as they were walking off together, he asked her, “Caitlyn, what happened?” Caitlyn responded, “You bit me Aarish.” “I’m sorry,” he said, as he continued to help her inside.”

As we move into 2009 and a whole new Presidency, I have hope. I have hope that we will try something a little different. I have hope that we will use this time of struggle to break down some of the roles and rules that keep us separated and powerless. I have hope that we can build deeper, closer community.