Week 18: Resilience, Part Four (First Afternoon)

You are the Operations Manager of an airline with a regular route to a major city in a central African nation.  Due to the length of this flight, your inbound crew hotels overnight, and the following day relieves the next inbound crew for the return flight.  Civil unrest regularly interrupts access to fuel and other resources at this location.  You continue operations in the face of this adversity, until one day strikes consume the city, forcing cancellation of the inbound flight and trapping your overnight crew in their hotel.  What do you do?

After a lunch of frittatas and salad held in the sunny courtyard, we split in to two groups for the afternoon lectures.  I chose the medicine-themed talks (instead of aviation), which were held in the large lecture hall next to the auditorium.  The first presentation was by a Norwegian researcher who studies sensemaking in operating theaters.

dscn2659Sensemaking is as it sounds: the process of making sense of and acting effectively in your environment.  It is typically triggered by uncertainty and tends to be retrospective (as when we use the past to make sense of the present), but it can also be future-oriented, or prospective.  During his study, the researcher observed teams of doctors, nurses and anesthesiologists as they prepared for and performed complex operations  He found that before surgery, both doctors and nurses rehearsed not only the ‘master plan’ for the procedure, but also alternative courses the surgery could take, and the strategies to accommodate them. This seemed to enhance the performance of the teams (especially when communications supported a shared representation of events) and improve their ability to interpret unexpected events.  He also observed that throughout a procedure the team made minor adjustments from the plan in order to keep the patient stable, and concluded that what on the outside can appear to uneventful can actually be highly dynamic.  In the future, his research will focus on how these adjustments support resilient performance.

The prevailing view in many design and safety environments is that human performance is the primary threat to safe operations, and great effort is taken to minimize opportunities for us to adversely influence a system.  In addition, incident and accident investigation tends to focus on the negative effects of the people involved, focussing on errors and violations the team or crew made along the way to the terminal event.  The second lecturer was interested in rule violations as well, but not from this traditional perspective, but rather that they are evidence workers are active participants in the risk-management process.  Thus his research investigates well-intentioned violations performed to produce desired outcomes.

Hospitals are complex places where a combination of routine and acute tasks are performed.  The technology comes with one set of rules, procedures provide another set of rules, some tasks are performed so regularly they become second nature, while others are so unique they must be improvised on the fly, and all these must meet in a way that support the organization’s economic goals.  This particular study sought to explore which rules were adhered to and when, and how people adjust to match actual work conditions, available resources, and situational constraints.  The researchers observed that teams adapt work practices to the local environment, and participating nurses had limited awareness of which rules they were adhering to or violating.  More importantly, the team observed that often rule violations resulted from attempts to reconcile conflicting goals, such as adapting an infusion rate to meet an administrator-imposed appointment schedule.

This might be a good point to touch upon the weather.  When I hear Europe, I think snowy winters and mild summers, and the Julys I spent in the Netherlands and France had done nothing to dispel this perception.  I had completely forgotten that the trade winds, those warm breezes that begin in Africa, flow to South America, and then back; and the Gulf Stream, those warm waters flowing northeast from the Caribbean have fueled Portuguese trade ships from the fourteenth century onward.  This day these two phenomena had made landfall in all their glory: our lunch had been in the hot sun, and we had brought this inside to our ill-ventilated classroom.  By the end of the first lecture it was steamy, and after the second I was downright glowy*.  It was too much for me, and after a short break in the breezeway I retreated to the aviation lectures in the main, and more importantly adequately air-conditioned, auditorium.  It was here I encountered the tale of the pilots stranded in central Africa and the Air Operations team tasked to help them.

For those not familiar with aviation, an Air Operations Control Center is a big room manned by flight dispatchers who, with support from other subject-matter experts, manage the schedule, manning, supply, and flow of an airline’s flights. The researcher, a German PhD student began the story in the AOCC of a major European airline, at the desk of the Nigeria Controller.  It turns out that on this particular route, extending the overnight layover to two or more days in order to wait out lack of fuel or local unrest had become a somewhat ordinary event.  What made this particular layover unusual was that, after this crew had been stranded for several days, unable to leave the hotel for security reasons, the airline’s Security Services had advised that local unrest was about to take a turn for the worse.  It was only then, when the airline had to decide whether to evacuate the crew, that their Contingency Team was convened.

This airline’s Contingency Team consists of representatives from different departments: Management, Operations, Flight (cockpit crew), Inflight (cabin crew), Maintenance, Security Services, Outstations (locally-stationed maintenance and support personnel), Commercial (passenger interests) and Cargo.  Up until now, these departments, independently and in small groups, had been able to accommodate the occasional (and increasingly frequent) flight cancellations at this location.  Each group also had a stake in the near- to long-term suspension of scheduled operations.  The presenting researcher had been embedded in the team’s meetings, and her observations focused on how ill-defined and often conflicting goals were prioritized as the situation evolved.

The airline’s first priority was the safety of the crew, and the first decision became whether and how to evacuate the pilots and cabin attendants.  Evacuating the relief crew was a de-facto decision to cease operations to the location, an action that would carry a high economic cost.  The airline had to balance these costs with the risk their personnel could be injured, kidnapped or killed, which, in addition to being a tragic loss, would harm the airline’s reputation as a safety leader.  In the end the decision came quickly when another operator offered to evacuate the airline’s crew with their own.

The next question became if, when, and how to resume operations to Nigeria.  The team had a range of options to choose from: ceasing operations entirely and rebooking existing customers on other airlines (high economic cost), resuming operations as before (high safety cost), or anything between (balancing safety, operational feasibility and economics).  The Contingency Team quickly settled on an option that would allow them to maintain operations: adding an intermediate stop to the return flight to provide the outbound crew a more stable overnight location.

Once up and running, flights were scheduled up to three days in advance during which the Contingency Team monitored daily operations while the Planning Team investigated other options.  Within two weeks the acute local unrest subsided, and the airline returned to normal operations.  The process seemed to mirror what I had observed on my flight to DC: the airline took advantage of a short-term opportunity, replanned, took another opportunity, then replanned again, looking only at the decision immediately in front of them, with limited consideration of how a specific decision path might constrain future opportunities.

dscn2667With that, it was time for our afternoon break.

* This is a word used in the southern U.S. to describe when women perspire.  Another version is ‘glowing’.

Note: One unanticipated benefit of my writing drought is that the REA Symposium’s papers are now on line, available here:

Prospective Sensemaking: http://www.resilience-engineering-association.org/download/resources/symposium/symposium_2015/Rosness_R.-et-al-Supporting-prospective-sensemaking-in-an-unpredictable-world-Paper.pdf

Rule Violations: http://www.resilience-engineering-association.org/download/resources/symposium/symposium_2015/Back_J.-et-al-Rule-violations-and-resilience-in-healthcare-Paper.pdf

Airline Operations:  http://www.resilience-engineering-association.org/download/resources/symposium/symposium_2015/Richters_F.-et-al-Balancing-goal-trade-offs-when-developing-resilient-solutions-Paper.pdf

Fukashima Daiichi event: http://www.resilience-engineering-association.org/download/resources/symposium/symposium_2015/Yoshizawa_A.-et-al-Experiences-in-Fukushima-Dai-ichi-Nuclear-Power-Plant-in-light-of-resilience-engineering-Paper.pdf

All: http://www.resilience-engineering-association.org/resources/symposium-papers/2015-lisbon-p/

Week 18: Resilience, Part Three (First Morning)

Some people idolize sports figures, watching every game, memorizing stats, wearing replicas of their jerseys or clothing with their team’s emblems.  Others follow politicians or entertainers, following them in the media, keeping up with their projects, hanging on their every word.  I, on the other hand, idolize human factors researchers, poring over their books and journal articles and following their most recent work.  This morning, in Lisbon, I found myself surrounded by my version of rock stars.

The opening plenary had been a nice discussion regarding how language (absence of risk) and negative connotation (look up something for here) has, over time, limited the ‘operating space’ of safety practitioners, with resilience presented as one possible antidote.  The morning break (during which I lurked on a conversation between David Woods and Sidney Dekker, two of my favorites, swoon) was followed with lectures by practitioners who had applied the tools in the field.   The program included a lecture by Atsfumi Yoshikawa, a senior engineer with the Japan Atomic Energy Agency who was on site at Fukushima Dai-ichi during the 2011 earthquake.

For those who may not remember, Fukushima Dai-ichi is a nuclear power plant located on the east coast of Japan.  Positioned in an idyllic fishing region 160 miles (260 km) north of Tokyo, the plant consisted of six boiling-water reactors. Prior to the earthquake, three of the six reactors had been shut down in preparation for refueling.  After the earthquake, a 9.0 temblor centered 45 miles off the coast, the three operational reactors also shut down (SCRAM-ed), leaving the plant unable to generate the power required to operate the coolant pumps.  The diesel pumps kicked on, but these were located in low-lying areas and all failed shortly after they were overcome by water in the subsequent tsunami*. This left the plant without a method to circulate the water needed to dissipate the control rods’ heat, and if cooling could not be re-established the rods would have become hot enough to melt themselves in a matter of days.  Dr. Yoshikawa’s presentation was a first-hand account of the days and weeks immediately after the earthquake and tsunami.

Version 2Dr. Yoshikawa began with an overview of the circumstances, then went directly to their experiences on the ground.  They had known it was bad, so they asked for volunteers to remain behind to try to recover the plant.  Everyone who wanted to leave was given the opportunity to do so, and he had been surprised how many stayed.  He described the psychological conditions they were working under: no one on the team expected to survive, and their first act as a team was to take photos of each other for their families, all the while not knowing whether their families had survived the fifteen-foot high wall of water.  He reported that since no one had considered a failure of this magnitude, available checklists were useless, and he and his team were left to improvise a response.  He told of the difficult physical environment: work had to be performed wearing cumbersome protective suits, and tasks had to be planned and performed around the short intervals to reduce radiation risks, all the while with limited access to food, water and sanitation.   He even admitted (bravely to my mind) to disobeying his superiors and ordering fire trucks to spray water directly on the facility, the very act that prevented meltdown.

Version 2But he did not stop there.  As both and engineer and a practitioner, he was in the unique position to reflect on the assumptions and decisions  that led to the situation he and his colleagues faced.  He described how the conditions far exceeded any worst case scenarios that had been reviewed during safety analyses, analyses in some cases that he had chaired. He shared that the traditional view of safety, defined as freedom from unacceptable risk, had led them to discount the flexibility and resilience human operators add during contingencies as they respond to degrading (or in their case failed) system conditions.  He admitted his team’s successful resolution of previous events had led them to believe the system was more resilient than it was, or ever could be.  He reviewed the ‘iceberg’ model (that most threats reside unseen below the surface of everyday operations) and suggested that during emergencies, threats increase and actions intensify, creating a set of required tasks that may not be handled and increase the potential for failure. He also observed that disasters show social systems for what they really are. He ended his presentation with an apology, to his superiors, to his countrymen, and to the citizens of the world, for allowing this event to even occur.  We were all blown away by his humility and honesty, and once he had finished we sat in hushed silence.

DSCN2665So how can you follow that?  You can’t, so we broke for lunch.

More soon!

*This flooding scenario had been seen at hospitals during Katrina and would play out again during Sandy and Irene.  It is my understanding that since Sandy, hospitals and other critical infrastructure have been encouraged to relocate their back-up power sources to higher ground.  If you are curious how this is proceeding in your community, I encourage you to contact your Emergency Manager.

Week 18: Resilience, Part Two (Lisbon)

I wasn’t expecting so many surfboards.  To be honest, I wasn’t expecting surfboards at all.  But as soon as I saw them they made sense; Lisbon is a sheltered port just north of Gibraltar, of course they would have great waves.  Alas, no surfing for me, I was here for the Resilience Engineering Symposium.  But to be honest, at this point I was feeling anything but resilient.

At some point in transit I realized I had not planned this trip well.  In fact, I recognized I had not been making good decisions for a while, possibly due to my aggressive travel schedule, extended encounter with high elevations, or the resulting fatigue from either or both.  Long story short: by the time I reached Lisbon I had gotten eight hours of sleep over the previous four days and I was beat.  Even better: I had left myself no daylight to recon the Symposium’s location (a small school in the suburbs).  Fortunately I did have a nice room in a nice hotel.  I pulled the blinds and hit the sack.

The idea to attend this conference had come to me during a hike in New Mexico.  It had been a new (to me) trail, east and north of where I usually hiked, through piñon groves nestled along the slopes and canyons below an upscale housing development.  “Don’t the resilience guys have their conference this year?  Is that something I would want to do?”  I was excited, because this was the first thing even remotely professional that I’d wanted to do since leaving Connecticut.  Back at the lodge, I clandestinely broke internet silence to check the location and dates.  Woo Hoo, there was still time for me to register and book travel!  I pondered this thought during the next week (silent retreat), and once back on the road (read: experiencing sea level oxygen for the first time in weeks) I made the arrangements.

Over the years, I’ve learned there are many different factions within the safety community.  There are the System Safety traditionalists, who use tools (such as FMEAs and fault trees) developed in the 1950s to support the mechanistic systems of that age, to deconstruct and analyze systems and their hazards at the component, subsystem and system levels. There is the Human Reliability Analysis (HRA) cohort who, following Three Mile Island created methods to include human performance factors in safety analyses. (These are often dismissed by the traditionalists because they present performance ranges rather than precise failure probabilities.) The Shuttle Challenger and Chernobyl accidents brought us ‘Normal Accident Theory’, the premise that humans induce instability in systems so to increase safety designers need to control (or design out) human inputs to the greatest extent possible.  In counterpose, the High Reliability community believe it is systems that are inherently unstable, that human operators perform near constant local adaptations to ward off disaster, and we should develop methods and structures to understand and support these interventions.  Westrum raised the concept of organizational safety cultures across a spectrum from generative to bureaucratic to pathological. Crew resource management taught us to improve our communications, and Rochlin explained safety is a social construct, an agreed-upon balance between production and protection that a community takes on over time. Then there is another group, one that suggests we should not design systems only ‘to the scene of the accident’ but beyond, to not just design out or mitigate known hazards but also include elements to sustain or recover operations in the event of unexpected disruption.  These are the Resilience Engineers, the cats I had traveled to Portugal to meet.

DSCN2700 DSCN2682So I woke the next morning (not quite) bright eyed and bushy tailed (is it coincidence the Portuguese term for ‘wake up call’ is ‘despertar’?), eager for the day ahead of me.  I got up, brushed my teeth, did my hair, and put on some ‘grown up clothes’.  After breakfast, I made the trek down the cobblestone sidewalks (in princess heels, who’s idea was THAT?) to the Metro station where, after a quick stop for some Euros, I found the Yellow Line and hopped on a train.  Three stops and I was off… to a neighborhood that looked nothing like the one I had scouted on Google Maps.  After some queries I was back on the train, this time six stops in the opposite direction.  Once at the top of the steps it looked like the right spot.  But I had trouble orienting myself, and after wandering what looked the proper direction for what felt like the proper length of time I was hopelessly lost.  But no fear, there was a lobby, with what looked like a front desk. I stepped in, and what did I see?  Violet and white Symposium posters!  Somehow, despite my best efforts, I had reached my destination!

DSCN2691Once badged I entered the auditorium and found a spot towards the back.  On stage was a short, thin, greying man, describing fascinating things:  the negative language and frames used by many safety professionals, quantum weirdness, and accommodating variability within a system.  Heaven!  And this was only just the beginning.

Well, it was a busy three days so I will take a break here.  More soon!

Week 18: Resilience, Part One (Charlotte)

Resilience is the ability of a system to maintain operations in the face of unexpected disruptions.  On my way to the Resilience Engineering Symposium, I encountered a system that did not adapt well in the face of disruption.

It had seemed a simple plan, an afternoon flight from Orlando to the DC area, RON, then a quick visit at the Air & Space museum before my flights to Paris and Lisbon.  But I had not been mindful of the season; as the day progressed, fluffy white clouds gave way to a grey mass that covered half the western sky.  By the time I arrived at the gate it was raining. Then… crack!  A bright flash lit the darkened sky.  Within a minute everyone on the ramp had scurried inside, and our flight was delayed.  Parents sighed and children returned to running around the gate area. After a short interval we were able to board the aircraft, and after another delay for more lightning, we finally pushed back and were on our way.

It was Sunday afternoon, and the flight was filled with families returning from Disney World.  I lucked out and got a seat on an exit row between two software developers.  We had a nice conversation during taxi, then turned to our tablets after departure.  It was a pleasant flight; parents coordinated the return to everyday schedules while children and grandparents napped.  I had begun to nod off when I felt a change: the engines powered back and we made a wide turn to the west.

After a short interval, the pilot came over the intercom.  The Company had directed we divert to Charlotte, she was awaiting further information, and would provide updates as it became available. Three turns in holding and a long approach we were on the ground, where a gate agent came on board to provide the promised update.

I felt for the woman as she relayed what she knew.  She and her colleagues had been called from home to ‘catch’ our plane.  Their station served twelve flights a week with a limited crew even on the best of days.  She had been the first to arrive, and the rest of the team was still on their way.  Ideally she would have then provided the reason for our delay, the estimated length, and when we could expect further instructions.  But when she clicked off without passing this on, I got the sense she didn’t know any more than we did. Left to our own devices, we soon discovered severe storms were approaching the DC area and theorized this was the reason for our delay.  After a bit the gate agent returned to advise the delay would be at least an hour, so we could leave the plane so long as we stayed close.

Charlotte use to be the hub for an airline aspiring for the majors.  It is well outfitted, with long corridors for walking and healthy choices in the food court.  My seat mates had elected to remain in the cabin, so after a nice stretch of my legs, I picked up dinner (barbecue for them, salad and fruit for me) and headed back.  Our neck of the terminal was filled with families, children merrily racing around or using chairs and an improvised jungle gym while their parents updated their arrival arrangements.  It turned out the gate was locked; our poor ground crew had been called away to catch another flight, their normally scheduled evening arrival.  Once they could spare an agent our gate was re-opened and I delivered the dinners I had retrieved.

The crew, it turned out, were as restless as the passengers.  To pass the time they began giving cockpit tours to the children, then anyone who was interested in taking a look.  The plane was an older ‘analog’ 737, so when my turn came around, conversation drifted to dual ratings (did they also fly airplanes with digital cockpits), negative habit transfer (did they find themselves applying procedures from one cockpit to another), corporate culture and our ongoing saga.  It turned out the instruction to divert had been relayed by air traffic control, and the pilot had been so surprised she had verified the instruction with three different offices (dispatch, pilots office, union) before she accepted the instruction.  The pilot also relayed that the storm front had stalled, the FAA had instituted a ground stop, our sister aircraft was in the same situation we were, and, by the way, our Captain would ‘time out’ (run out of duty day) at seven pm.  After a quick primer on programming the flight management system, I left for another walk through the terminal.

Our one hour delay became two, then three.  I watched the sun set, did some yoga, went back to the plane and wrote some e-mails.  Word came back that our pilot had been given a duty time extension, and would be available until midnight.  Suddenly, just before nine pm there was a flurry of activity and we were asked to return to our seats; we had received a 2130 ‘push back time’ for a 2200 departure. Tired but with lifted spirits, we filed back on to the aircraft and we settled in to our seats.  We watched as the pilots updated the FMS and began pre-flight checks, ground crew arrived with the updated manifest, heard the APU spool up, and, oh blessed night, the door was closed and latched.  Everything was looking good…

And then…

“You’re not going to believe this folks.  The fuel farm at our destination was just hit by lightning.  The FAA has issued a ground stop.  Our company is sorting out our options, but we are here for the night.  The gate agents will have more information at the counter.”

My seat was in the middle of the plane, so I found myself well back in the rebooking line. The exhausted gate agents were clearly as upset as we were, but they remained professional as they slowly processed the hoard of tired and frustrated passengers.  Some of us tried to rebook on line or over the phone, but the web site stalled and we were placed on extended hold.  After catching my wits (what little was left of them) I called another airline, and was able to get a seat on their morning flight.  I booked a local hotel, got my luggage and called it a night.  On my way out I passed families huddled in corners, one parent eyes open while the rest slept.

But my day’s adventure was not yet over.  I tend to stay at the same chain when on personal travel, one that accepts pets, and this was where the courtesy van dropped me.  Upon arrival, I vaguely recalled the location from a stay years ago while on a road trip with Chewie.  But the scene was much different during these late hours as the front desk had graciously opened the lobby to local ‘second-economy’ workers sanctuary between clients.  After coordinating my stay and declining several offers of (professional) companionship, I found my room, double-locked my door, leaned both bags against it, and took a long, hot shower.

Five hours later I was back at the airport, ready for the next leg of my journey.  More soon!

 

Note: RON = Remain Over Night

Week 17: The Mailbox

In my defense, I was on pavement when it happened.

I was headed out, off to some chore I have long since forgotten.  Approaching the turn up the hill the dark green Tacoma approaching me strayed wide.  I eased closer to the curb, hoping to avoid a collision.  Then…  WHAM!!!!!

It was an amazingly loud sound, so loud I thought the truck and I had hit.  But no, there it was in my rear-view, continuing down the street behind me.  I pulled over, and got out to inspect for a burst tire, or whatever mishap had befallen me.  My truck was unscathed, but the neighbor’s mailbox…. there it was, splayed in the middle of the lawn of the outside corner house.

IMG_9518It would be a tough repair.  The post had shattered vertically along the grain.  I’d have to dig out the old post and install a new one before topping it with a box.  Visions of spending the next day, not at the mall updating my wardrobe as we had planned, but rather stewing under the hot summer sun enveloped in a swarm of mosquitos filled my mind.  Close to tears, I picked up the chunks of broken wood and arranged them neatly at the base of the torn post.  Once the wave of emotion passed, I left my contact info at the door.

I was back in Florida, with Marigold.  When I had left back in March, our visit had felt unfinished.  We were spending some more time together  before I left for the EU portion of my journey.  It was a nice but hectic week, the first the twins were out of school for the summer, and crunch time planning for her destination celebration for her mother’s seventieth.  And up until that point my stay had been relatively uneventful, fast walking three miles in the morning, helping with the little ones during the day, minimal getting lost. I should have known it was too good to be true.

“You did what?!?!?”

This one was going to be tough to live down.

Marigold lives in a military neighborhood, where it is habit for the adults to gather after dinner to catch up and watch the children play.  That night: good news, the local dark ops team, including one hubby four houses down, would be back late that night from wherever it was they had been.  Word also spread that I was the one who finally took out the corner mailbox.  Everyone, it seemed, had a story of their own.  Later, Marigold and I came up with a plan for the next day, but I still went to bed frustrated, and a bit overwhelmed at the task before me.

IMG_9519After some good natured ribbing during our morning walk, M. left for a daycare run.  She returned with some interesting news: at some point during breakfast and youngster-herding, someone had removed the old mailbox and installed a new base. Spirited by this small act of kindness and generosity, we had a fabulous time in town, trying on clothes, having a nice lunch (complete with lots of laughs), returning with bags filled with  fab new outfits.  In the evening (again after dinner as the little ones ran from yard to yard), we learned it had been our dark ops neighbor, still restless from his mission, who had helped me out.

image002Two days later, with the new mailbox in place,  I was back on the road, on my way to the next stop on my trip: Portugal!

 

Week 16: Louisianne

The theme for this trip seems to be ‘getting lost’.  I took the long way around Washington that first night, became turned back on myself the next day on Norfolk’s ring road, thought I had blown by my exit in Myrtle Beach (in that case I was just impatient), and I even missed a turn while following my friend to her home in Orlando (as in she was two cars ahead!).  That was just the first week.  Savannah, San Antonio, Albuquerque and Shreveport, the list of wrong-ways and missed turns goes on and on.  Heck, I even needed Google Maps to navigate my home town.  I have been ‘not exactly aware of my current location’ more times since February than during the decade before. My next stop was no exception.

Opelousas, Louisiana is a mid-sized town ten or so miles north of Lafayette.  Appalousa Territory when the French first established a trading post, it was next claimed by early Creole and Acadian arrivals, ceded to Spain in 1762, then acquired by the U.S during (you guessed it!) the Louisiana purchase.  Confederate during ‘the War of Northern Aggression’, Opelousas was the state capitol during the interval Baton Rouge was held by Union troops.  The area struggled during reconstruction, with severe restrictions placed on the movements of persons of color, and in 1868 it was the site of the largest reported massacre of Freedmen.  The twentieth century brought a reputation as a corridor of ill repute.  These days it is the home to the Creole Heritage Folklife Center and the hub of zydeco music.

Of course I knew none of this when I exited the highway.  All I knew was turn right, turn right, and look for the hospital.  In my defense, progress was stymied by orange cone-lined roads and detour signs.  After many well-intentioned turns (including one that took me past the Old Federal Courthouse) I declared defeat in the parking lot of a large red-brick structure that I hoped would be a recognizable landmark.  It turned out to be the Saint Landry Catholic Church, one of the oldest in this region of the country.  My friend Minerva* arrived quickly to collect me.  She lived just two streets away.

This visit was another of those unexpected and meaningful gifts that almost didn’t happen that I’ve received time and again during this voyage.  I had met Minerva years before, in Vegas. Kenny, her youngest brother, had been killed in the same accident as Kevin.  During the first year we had become close, and I had been the one she had called, raw with outrage and pain after an Air Force representative had cold called the family, informed them additional remains had been discovered, and asked where to have them delivered.  But she’d had a little one to keep her busy, life goes on, and over time we had lost touch. At some point while driving through Texas I had the thought it would be nice to leave flowers at Kenny’s grave, to let the family know someone still remembered.  Once in for the night I found his resting place on line (the internet is AMAZING) and came across her name in the obituary.  I dashed off a Facebook** friend request, and within minutes we had arranged to meet.

Her home was filled with love: the accumulated possessions of her, her husband recently passed; her daughter now away at school; and her husband’s mother’s last years. Bouquets of silk flowers were tastefully placed on most lateral surfaces, and the shelves lining the dining room were covered with photos: her two older sons, her mother and father, her husband and daughter, and Kenny, his smiling portrait placed lovingly next to a plate commemorating President Obama’s inauguration.  The next hour was spent in her well-appointed family room, feeling each other out and entertaining her dog before heading out for lunch.

I rode shotgun in her bright orange sedan, as the eclectic downtown architecture passed outside the window: multi-story red brick federal buildings, worn and discolored with age interspersed with low, swooping mid-century moderne buildings, titles still written in loopy cursive above their wide-paned glass storefronts.  The narrow cement-block streets reminded me of my hometown as the seams cla-clunked under our tires. Over lunch we continued our conversation: catching up on those still with us, lovingly reminiscing about people long gone (but not forgotten), and sharing our experiences as surviving spouses (she was at the stage where the paperwork was complete and she had to begin making decisions).

DSCN2602 DSCN2604After lunch we went to the Memorial Park.  It was south of town, bordered by pine groves and equestrian farms. Minerva had not visited in a while; her father had become so upset the last time he’d been hospitalized, and she hadn’t wanted to visit alone.  We cleared lawn debris from the marker, righted the fallen angels left to watch over him, and placed a new boquet of flowers, red, white and blue to commemorate the forth of July, in the vase.  Minerva told me the stories of those resting alongside: two children killed in an car accident, a teen who had choked on a snack (her poor parents unaware in the next room), a mother who had succumbed to a long fight with cancer.  We drove back to her home in near silence.  Before I left, she confided how much she wished she could reconnect with the squadron members who had reached out to her after the accident.  Another Facebook moment- over the next week we were able to do just that.

DSCN2615The next day another friend share the lighter side of Louisiana: Barbecue!  One of the joys of this leg of the trip was that I was able to connect with folks I had missed on the drive west  This friend had been a colleague in Connecticut, one of our customer liaisons now retired and  working part time for an offshore air ambulance operator. Once the steaks (pork chops and burgers) were on the barbie he gave me a tour of he facility.  It was the cleanest hangar I’ve ever seen, (seriously, it could give the Thunderbirds a run for their money), every tool in it’s place, every hazard clearly marked, and not only the floor but walls buffed to a shine.  He also let me poke around their helicopters.  It always fascinates me how work as envisioned by designers differs from work as performed by operators, and how end users accommodate products to suit their needs.  My exploration, as always, was a rich learning experience.

Over lunch I met his colleagues: the Director of Maintenance, the Director of Safety, various Aircraft Maintainers and their Office Goddess.  I was grateful for how quickly and warmly they welcomed me in; by the end of lunch we were joking and laughing as if we had known each other for years.  (The Sikorsky tees in my truck may have helped.)  During lunch I met their mascot Crackie, a mid-sized dog of indiscriminate (but likely Sheltie) origin who was more than happy to help with any stray (or not-so-stray) meats.  It turns out she used to be one of a pair, the other a grey cat named Smokey who used to keep the hangar free of varmints.  Apparently they used to be introduced to visitors (especially oil company executives) as ‘Smoke-n-Crack’.  Gotta love that aviation humor!

Belly and heart full, I was back on the road by mid-afternoon, just in time to hit rush-hour traffic in New Orleans.  (On the bright side, it is an excellent way to see what sights can be seen.)  My next stop would be back in Florida with my friend Marigold.

More soon!  (And sooner than last time, I hope!)

*Still changing names to protect the innocent.

** Some of you may have noticed I have shut down my Facebook account.  I have mixed feelings about this.  Yes, it was fabulous to reconnect with friends old and new, but I also found myself exposed to and mired in some nasty conversations.  (In one case my then-home-address was shared as a trophy within a ‘patriot’ community, in another someone in the same community offered to come to said address and help IS ‘FGM’ me and any minor female relations.) I may reconsider this decision in the future, but for now am appreciating the break.

Week 15: Nellis

I am one of those people who believe that if you jump the net will appear. So I jumped… and reached the point where I expected the net. But I was flailing wildly; either the net was well below me or I had landed (possibly in my sleep) and been flung wildly in another direction. Seeking refuge from the shifting ground, I headed west to my adopted hometown and a stop that was well overdue.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

The northeast edge of the city.

A small alcove adjacent to the 66th Rescue Squadron.

DSCN2562It had taken four trips for me to actually make it. The first two had been during previous passes through the city in March and May. And earlier in the week I had driven to Nellis with the express purpose of visiting the memorial. During all three visits I had been distracted by other chores, and left the base without stopping in. This day, this trip, was for just this one thing.

DSCN2570It felt weird driving along the perimeter road. I had driven it hundreds, perhaps thousands of times a decade before, but this time was different. Yes, there were new fences and walls, testament to security increases since my last visit. But this was also the first time I’d driven the road with this specific purpose.

As I got closer I could see the years since 9/11 had left their mark. Back in the day the squadron had been housed in a lonely outpost to the northwest side of the runway. Now the once solitary office and hangar were part of a fully developed complex. I parked in the once bare-earth but now paved parking lot across the street and took a deep breath.

I had reached Las Vegas exhausted: physically from long hours on the road (and cushion), a rigorous retreat schedule, hiking, and the altitude; and cognitively from rapidly changing venues, new experiences, and the constant planning the trip entailed. It had been a relief to reach Vegas, the place I considered home, sheltered by friends and surrounded by memories. I also welcomed the opportunity for this pilgrimage, something I felt I needed to do.

DSCN2568 croppedI approached tentatively, not sure what I would find, not sure what the locals would think of this civilian interloper. The memorial was set in a small courtyard by the front door of the squadron. The original dedication, a scale helicopter and marker, had been expanded over the years and now also honored a pilot fatally injured during a ‘hard landing’, a flight engineer lost during a Medevac mission, and five killed during a bloody multi-day firefight. I stopped to read each plaque, and took photos of the area. At some point I realized, this was my first visit to the memorial, and feel a bit odd that it has taken me so long. I’m not sure when the tears began, just that there came a moment when I had to sit down and let them come.

DSCN2574 - Version 2“Hey.” I hadn’t expected to see anyone who remembered Kev, but here was one, a flight engineer, newly cross-trained at the time of the accident, now a senior NCO. He seemed genuinely glad to see me, and after some conversation, gave me a tour of the squadron. The space had changed; offices turned in to briefing space, carpet replaced with tile, the PJs (pararescuemen) moved to their own training complex on another part of the base, but the camaraderie was still there. Once caught up, he sent me on my way with a mug for my coffee and a green feet sticker for my car. I was struck again by the kindness extended after so much time because of a shared memory. This was the first time I also sensed the guys needed to reconnect as much as I did.

DSCN2578 - Version 2On Saturday I met some friends at a park on the south side of town for a run. We started out alongside (in?) a series of storm channels that dumped us in to the dry washes and lava beds along the edge of the desert. It was late afternoon, and hot as the dickens, but it was great to be out on trail, my first time along the terrain beneath Henderson Executive’s departure path, a route I had flown many times years before. As usual I was the last to the mid-trail beverage check, so I grabbed a some water and kept going. At one point, while still ahead of the pack, I lost trail. In frustration I scanned the desert, amused to see the hare’s hazard yellow shirt bobbing across the black and grey terrain ahead of me. I disregarded trail and followed him in a lazy arc, with the pack catching me as we reached pavement. After more water and chips, I headed back to the homestead for a long soak and good night’s sleep.

DSCN2588DSCN2584The next morning I was back on the road. I had been hearing a lot about drought during my drive, and the low water levels at Lake Mead while I was in town. On my way out, I stopped in Boulder City to look for myself. Boy was it was a shocker! I would later hear the last time Lake Mead was this low was back in the 1930s while it was being filled.

More soon!

Week 14a: Chimayo (and some Way-Back Machine)

Northern New Mexico’s Rio Grande Valley is known for many things: the art scenes in Santa Fe and Taos; the unique flavors of the local cuisine; and the stunning vistas of and from the Santa Fe National Forest.  I agree these are all fabulous, but these are not what draws me back to the area again and again.  For me it is the missions and their associated miracles: a wooden staircase crafted by hand with only wood and water, a glowing painting of Jesus, and soil with the power to heal.

My first visit was in the spring of 1999, on a cross country road trip who’s reason now eludes me.  The three of us, Chewie the Wonder Dog, my faithful Brown Land Cruiser Wagon, and me had left Albuquerque earlier in the day on a pilgrimage for yarn, a hand grown, hand-spun, hand-dyed (using only local plants) wool available only at a small shop in Taos.  (Don’t ask me how us knitters know these things, we just do.)  Along the way we detoured east to visit the small chapel in Chimayo.  Back then it was off the beaten path, a small brown state sign the only marker on the one-and-a-half-lane-wide road to alert you of it’s presence.  We turned in, a tight turn since we almost missed it, and parked the Cruiser at the far end of the empty lot under the only tree.

DSCN2528DSCN2536
It was quiet back then.  Chewy and I were were able to explore the sights along the muddy and half-paved roads together.   At the chapel ann usher offered to watch my girl; once inside I looked back to see her worried face peering at me through the doorway.   Bright morning light beamed through the windows along the top of the room onto dark wood pews, aged white walls and the altar.  Below the low fence, was Jesus, straining on the cross, rust red blood streaming from his hands and the barbs of his thorned crown.  Below him was a gold cross, a large heart at it’s center, and to his right, placed carefully against the wall, was another cross, also life size, crafted from branches of a local tree, with the long leg shortened with wear.  Across it, hand-written using a large black marker were a name, military unit, and two dates one year apart.  A marker told the story: during the late 1960s it had been carried hundreds of miles on foot by a father, on pilgrimage to the chapel, requesting protection for his son serving in Viet Nam.  The history reassured readers the son had made it home alive and intact.

To the left of the altar was an archway.  Once through there was a small alcove on to my right and a long, low-ceilinged room to my left.  I turned right, and kneeled at the small hole in the floor, my open ziplock next to me, and touched the earth before touching my now sandy fingers to my forehead.  Then it was a scoop of soil in the baggie, for later.  Once back on my feet I turned to the room behind me.  Piles of crutches leaned against one wall, while photos and hand-written testimonials lining the other.  I took my time as I made my way though, attention caught by some photos and reading several of the stories.  Once outside I rounded the corner towards the front door.  Chewie was still with the disinterested usher, gazing in to the chapel.  She was so intent I was almost to her before she turned, saw me, and gave me a full-body wag.

One of the things that always surprised me about Connecticut was how many folks were aware of this far-away place.   Foodie friends knew the local cuisine; word got out I had the soil, and colleagues would occasionally appear at my desk for a commission; engineers associated with high-altitude certification testing would mention side trips from Pagosa Springs.  So I should have expected it when at last year’s Christmas Party the conversation veered to rural New Mexico.

It was one of our investigators, boasting of the best chiles he had ever tasted.  The tale began in Albuquerque on the last night of a trip for a class or investigation.  His appreciation for the local flavors had come up, and one of his hosts knew just the spot to indulge him.  At the end of the day they piled in the car and begin driving north, the hour or so to Santa Fe, another half hour to Espanola, and then off on a side road, soon dark and winding.  As the interval drew on and on my colleague became convinced he would never be seen or heard from again.  Then, out of nowhere, appeared the ranchero, where, he made sure to emphasize, the chile sauce had been exquisite.
DSCN2535I spent the afternoon after the end of the retreat retracing his steps.  My friend BR drove in, and together we made our way north.  The town had some new polish: paved and curbed streets, mud paths replaced with wood boardwalks, and the gift shop now had a building all it’s own.  A grotto had been built behind the chapel to house the many photos and requests received in recent years. Inside the chapel, the Vietnam cross had been removed and the crutches in the vestibule were arranged on posts along the walls.  But the soil was still there, and I needed it, so I kneeled in the small room again.

As I made my way to the exit, my eye was caught by the interior wall.  It was now covered with photos, with a six-foot stretch dedicated to wallet-sized official service member photos.  They were mostly men, mostly brown, the Stars and Stripes behind them in official photos. And it struck me, each had been sent or placed by worried family.  I saw suffering, the suffering of physical separation and the fear it might be permanent.  I remembered how callously their suffering had been tossed aside in the zendo.  And I could see the political, cultural, and theological stories, even among the best intentioned, that generated the need for their service.  Still raw from the days before, my heart ached and my eyes began to mist.

DSCN2525“I’m hungry,”  my friend rescued me.  We made our way to the Rancho, and were seated at the edge of the garden.  I had enchiladas, he had pork.  The meal was divine.

 

DSCN2529 DSCN2531On our way out, we stopped back in town for chile, some for me, some to send to friends back east.  My eye was caught by a colorful building to one side of the Trading Post (okay, Gift Shop).   It was the Santo Nino Chapel, built to honor a vision of baby Jesus reported to bring relief and solace to prisoners.  I would later learn this was the saint the locals prayed to during their long march in Battan, and that survivors and families still made a pilgrimage of thanks to the chapel each Easter.  But by this point the weekend had caught up with me and I was eager for a nap.  Choosing to save this for another day, we were soon on the road to Santa Fe, where I would pack up and begin the next leg of my journey.  And tires hummed on pavement I looked to the future, stops in Nevada, Florida, Portugal and France.

Week 14: Shattered

The last of my scheduled retreats was intended as an indulgence: a weekend spent planting heirloom seeds with a master gardener.  I had studies with this teacher before, her reverence for the earth clear in her words, and was looking forward to the wisdom she would share as we planted the gardens.  It looked to be a fabulous weekend: clear skies and warm earth, perfect for the task at hand.

DSCN2153 DSCN2172The day before the retreat began I went for a farewell hike.  I had really enjoyed exploring the area on foot: the architectural details of the homes around the center; trails with their quiet and views; and the people an animals I met along the way.  One favorite was a dog, a white Shiba Inu with a brown mask across the left side of her face.  I never discovered she lived, but I loved it when I caught a glimpse: her shiny white Subaru Outback barreling down the road, plume of red dust in it’s wake, with her holding court, window down, from the bench seat behind the driver.  She had the feel of indifferent royalty as she gazed out at the world (or perhaps that was just the wind in her face), and I found myself hoping to cross her path every time I stepped on to the road.   This day I was in luck: after only a few minutes she came around the corner, and I waved at her human as she approached.  They stopped and I was able to share how much I had appreciated the sight of her during my stay.  (There was also some conversation about humans as dog staff and ‘strong willed’ dog temperments.)  After a wave goodbye, the rest of the walk was spent in the hills, taking in the mountain air and city views one final time.

On the first day of the retreat our group split, half traveling to Prajna Mountain Refuge (nestled 9600 feet up in the Santa Fe Wilderness) and the rest of us remaining in the lowlands to touch up the beds we would be planting the next day.  I had spent the days before weeding and composting beds, so I raised my hand when they asked for volunteers to tidy up the labyrinth.  It was nice work, slow navigation of the maze with a bucket and trowel, teasing interlopers from between the rock borders.  The sun rose, the air grew warmer, and I began to glow with the heat of the day.  I filled one bucket with grass and other opportunists, transferred them to the wheelbarrow, then filled the bucket again, and again.  After an hour or so I become lightheaded when I stand.  Familiar with this from yoga, I sip from my water bottle before pressing on.

DSCN2499The next time I get up I am so dizzy I almost fall down.  Through the haze of fading consciousness I hear Sharon’s voice from the week before, encouraging us to be kind to ourselves.  Time to put theory to practice.  I steady myself with a few deep breaths then make my way to the cool of the kitchen where I rinse my hands, wipe my face and drink some water.  Still unsteady,  I refill my glass and take it to the porch for rest.  I settle in and regain my bearings, just in time for one of the teachers to pass by and address me in a low voice: “Lightweight”.

DSCN2502My foggy mind was suddenly clear, stunned by the casual aggression of the aside.  I was reminded of how once we put a name or label on something we only see the label, and subsequently gloss over the true nature of the person or situation.  I thought of the fundamental attribution error, how we judge ourselves by context and others by inherent traits, and how easy this makes it to judge ‘us’ as good and ‘them’ as bad.  Then, in an instant, my heart broke open, recognizing how we separate ourselves so thoughtlessly: judge and judged, right and wrong, oppressor and oppressed, strong and weak.  With this awareness I felt one with all beings, complete with a full-body buzz.  I sat in the shade, sending lovingkindness to all beings.  I sipped some more water.  I wondered if this is what enlightenment feels like.  After a while, I went back to my room, showered to cool off, and curled up to ponder this new insight.

But my insighting was not over for the day.

After dinner, we gathered in the zendo to share our groups’ adventures.  The other group had meandered in caravan through foothill towns on their way to the Refuge, stopping in Chimayo, famous for miracles and hot chiles (pronounced chee-lays), and Truchas, a Spanish Land-Grant town where the chapel ceiling is stained with blood from past monks’ flagelations. They shared their experiences planting at high altitude, that the work that had seemed overwhelming when they began was accomplished in time to allow explore the area.  Our group reflected on the preparations and plantings we had accomplished.  There was much reverence by both groups for the old ways.

The lecture then turned to Memorial Day.  One teacher explained it had originally been the last Monday in May, so this weekend was the True Observation of wartime losses.  She told the story of how red poppies came to commemorate battle, and of a recent art installation that used poppies in protest of Iraqi and Afghani civilian casualties.  The other teacher jumped in and shared her views of corporations and the military and how they were responsible for so much suffering and destruction, before turning to her opinions on the increasing use ‘mindfulness’: in corporate programs to increase productivity, by the military and VA to help soldiers cope with their experiences, and shared a caution to no confuse ‘wholehearteness’ with mindfulness.  She finished by mentioning (with distain) the term ‘mindful fracking’.

As the evening progressed, my heat- and altitude-compromised mind came to hear not so much the words as the black-and-white sentiment behind them: one side all good, the other all bad.  I though of friends who deliberately work in dark places, hoping to bring some light.  I thought of the language as a tool of violence, and the growing recognition that demonizing and dehumanizing language is the tipping point between civil war and genocide.  I heard language patterns the same as those used by my white nationalist or “add more military” friends when they described brown people, Middle-Eastern extremists,or others they disagreed with .  I heard a wave of compassion towards the people on one side and complete derision of the other.  I painfully recognized something I should have seen long before: there is a difference between anti-war and pro-peace.  I wondered whether I’d been looking for one in the home of the other.  My heart broke open further.

DSCN2484 DSCN2506The next morning we were back in the garden, and with some good news.  Several local stewards had extended samples of heirloom seeds: Tepary Beans, recently correlated with lower diabetes rates; blue and white corn that had been developed in this very valley; local squashes and legumes; and one hundred seeds of the famed Chimayo Chiles (recovered from a can in the back of a barn, the first time this strain had been planted outside the village); each with it’s own history, lovingly shared.  After a hearty breakfast and a blessing ceremony for the land, the planting began.

DSCN2523 DSCN2521We worked as a group at first, turning the soil, hoeing rows, entrusting the earth with seeds, but as the day grew warmer and the task list shorter we broke away to other things.  We shucked the last of the previous year’s beans and corn, then ground the corn on a stone.  We painted prayer flags that when raised would send our wishes in the five directions (and also flutter the birds away from the garden).  After lunch there was music, residents on guitars and a banjo, and even some singing.  It was a jovial atmosphere, filled with the satisfaction of meaningful work.  By the time we cleaned up I had dirt under my nails, between my toes and in my nose, always a good thing in my book.  But I was still unsettled by my perceptions the day before.  It would take some time before I made sense of these thoughts.

Week 13b: Lovingkindness

I did not realize when I began this journey that there is a rift in American Buddhism.  It has to do with mindfulness: who can have it, how much is enough, and how it is used.  In one camp are those who espouse mindfulness-based stress relief (UMASS), mindfulness-based emotional intelligence (Google), or other teachers who believe directed attention towards ‘real-world’ situations and the thoughtful action that results can reduce suffering and make the world a better place, with even a little better than none.  The other camp believes these practices dilute or corrupt the dharma, and should be discredited in all but the narrowest of applications.  My desire to use the teachings to help my friends with survivor guilt (and others with PTSD), I had placed myself smack in the middle of this debate.

Memorial Day is the day we as a nation have set aside to honor military members who have given their lives for their country.  This is a conflicted time for me,  Yes, before Kevin was killed this weekend heralded the advent of summer, and was usually packed with barbecues and festivities.  Since his passing, it has been much more thoughtful and introspective.  This year decided to try something new: instead of spending these days on trail, or raising a glass of The Good Captain, I would spend the weekend with Sharon Salzburg and her teachings on Lovingkindness.

Sharon is a jolly soul.  She is one of a group of westerners who brought Buddhism to the west during the 1960s and 1970s.  In her case, she took a semester off when she was 18 to study with a teacher in India.  When she returned five years later, it was with Jack Cornfield and Joseph Goldstein to found the Insight Meditation Society in Barre Massachusetts.  The practice she is most known for, lovingkindness practice, is the process of letting go of judgment and being kind to ourselves and others.

Sharon began the retreat by admitting the practice had seemed silly when her teacher had first introduced it years ago, but that over time she came to see that it works. After several amusing anecdotes she introduced the practice: breathing in “May all beings be happy”, breathing out “May all beings be peaceful and safe.”  In again “May all beings be healthy,” and out again “May all beings live with ease.” We spent an interval practicing this on the cushion, first visualizing ourselves as we practiced, then someone who brings us joy, then someone we are neutral to (or don’t know well or at all, like someone we see on the train every day), then someone we have aversion towards.  Then we expanded our lovingkindness to all beings in the world, and closed with ourselves again.  I am surprised that the narrow band of faces that appear before me during the visualizations, the same five or six that came to mind while on the cushion in Connecticut.  I wonder if maybe I need to get out more, or at least spread the wealth.

DSCN2177We then take the practice outside.  The instruction is to walk, pacing the practice with our steps instead of our breath.  If something catches our attention, such as a bird, send it lovingkindness then return to the practice.  I select what seems the easiest suggestion, “happy” with my left foot and “peaceful” with my right, and head out to explore the trails of the park next door.  In the beginning my steps are slow, zendo pace, but I soon shift to my normal trail pace with the thought I can etch the words in to everyday walking or hiking.  Along the way I bless the stream, many trees, and the swings and slide at the playground.

DSCN2174 DSCN2166At lunch I am graced with an open chair to Sharon’s left.  After some silence, giving someone else the opportunity to bask in her wisdom, I jump in.  During the drive from Marin I had been pondering the Stanford Prison experiment.  For those not familiar, this was the protocol researchers at Stanford designed to explore the idea of bureaucracy of evil during which a group of college-age students, many of them active in the anti-Vietnam-war protests of the day, were randomly assigned to be a guard or prisoner and asked to play their roles in a simulated prison environment.  The ‘guards’ quickly became so aggressive towards the ‘prisoners’ that the expected two-week protocol was halted after five days.  Many dharma centers have prison outreach programs, where they counsel and teach mindfulness to inmates.  My question began with how prison outreach groups have great compassion for those trapped in the prison system but often demonize those enforcing it, despite the fact these are two sides of the same coin.  This led to a broad discussion at our table regarding how institutions can create suffering for all involved. At some point I mentioned my desire to deepen my practice to help friends and other vets afflicted with PTSD.  I mentioned accident investigators, and the secondary and vicarious suffering they experience during their work. I mention that when my co-workers discovered I would be studying meditation, several asked me to come back and teach them what I learned.  Sharon suggested I become a Mindfulness-Based Stress Relief trainer.  And isn’t it great, she said, that I have the credibility to bring the teachings to these communities.  I beamed, inside and out.

I am sure there was more to the retreat after this, the usual ‘mindfulness isn’t about what is happening, it is about how we relate to what is happening’ or ‘we don’t practice to be great meditators, we practice to have a more balanced, connected and aware life.’  But I was on Cloud Ten: Sharon liked my idea, and she liked it so much she gave me direction.  I spent my free time googling the process and investigating the prerequisites.

Sharon closed the retreat with a story about the first time she really saw lovingkindness practice work.  It was in the 1970s, during the week before she taught her first retreat.  They were ahead of schedule, had a few extra days (bonus meditation time), and she decided to perform the practice towards herself.  On the last day she went to the washroom, and somehow a large glass bottle of soap slipped through her hands and shattered on the floor.  “You are such a klutz,” her inner dictator dutifully informed her, quickly followed by a new voice: “…. but I love you.”  With this encouragement for us to be kinder to ourselves, the weekend is over.  And, for the first time, I really think I can do it.

Happy.  Peace.