Category: Mental Health

Some observations from the top of the far side of the hill

I’ve discovered peace is not the absence of conflict, but a condition of my spirit.

atop Steptoe Butte, Idaho, a thousand feet above the rolling hills of the Palouse area

It’s been a quick trip to the view from here.
The climb’s not been easy, nor predictable.
But here I stand amazed, a “senior.”

I’ve traded time for experience, and mistakes for learning.
I’ve gained strength, but lost endurance.
I’ve won wisdom, but lost patience.
I’ve raised hope in discouragement, and grown grit from defeat.

I’ve found that storms may cross my paths,
But don’t determine them.

I’ve seen tolerance harden to intolerance,
And pride swell to arrogance.
I’ve seen hate multiply and evil strut.
But I’ve watched kindness repulse anger,
Character rise undaunted,
And virtue stand uncowed.

I’ve lost money, but invested in family.
I’ve cried in sorrow and grieved in pain, yet laughed again.
I’ve been mistreated, ordeal-sharpened, and test-refined.
I’ve played and fought, joked and argued, lost and won.
I’ve screamed, offended; and apologized, repentant.

I’ve added girth, assembled wrinkles,
And grew perspective.
I’ve failed repeatedly,
But fewer than my tries.
I’ve wrestled with my tongue and temper,
And learned to carry more tunes than grudges.

I’ve discovered peace is not the absence of conflict,
But a condition of my spirit.

I’ve known sicknesses, but not all.
I’ve enjoyed health, but not always.
I’ve prospered in relationships, but also in regrets.
I’ve seen a lot, been through a lot, and loved a lot.

This privileged, age-afforded vista,
From this spot on not-quite-over-the-hill,
Reveals a journey far from perfect,
Yet a scuffle worth a life invested.
It satisfies my seasoned eyes, my slowing body,
An agile mind, and a grateful heart.

© 2021

Are we building people-or just running programs?

Are we purposefully collaborating with experts from other disciplines in meeting people’s needs? And are we measuring what truly matters?

credit: Visit Philadelphia

Part of why recreation and parks doesn’t receive more of the rave respect it deserves, in my opinion, is because most people notice programs far more than the objectives behind them.

That’s not surprising. It’s always easier to focus on outward expressions than on internal improvements of the mind, body and soul.

But that’s where the common disconnect begins, I believe.

When we providers declare that recreation and parks are essential community services, what does that mean to our constituents? What is our bottom-line purpose of enabling quality leisure experiences? And are we cognizant enough of it?

• Is it just a walk in the park—or is it physical exercise, stress relief and mental rejuvenation?

• Is it merely a Paint With Me class (with wine!)—is it or stretching skills and enriching relationships?

• Is soccer practice just about scoring a trophy—or is it developing fine motor skills, building teamwork, modeling good sportsmanship, and growing cooperative social interactions among diverse teens, teams and talents?

• Is it merely an object of public art—or is it celebrating a cultural heritage, invigorating a downtown district, connecting destinations, and attracting visitors, tourists and new businesses?

• Is it just an evening activity—or is it character development, anti-ganging intervention, and preventative treatment for abusive and addictive behaviors?

Are we strategically planning with such measurable outcomes in mind, or are we satisfied that it was “fun”?

Here’s the crux: Are we building people—or just running programs? Are we purposefully collaborating with experts from other disciplines in meeting people’s needs? And are we measuring what truly matters?

Because here’s the other just-as-important part of our jobs: we must show it.

Moving beyond ROIs, attendees, and social media stats, are we documenting personal and social good in our value statements? Can we point to specific cases of cleaner resources, less waste, crises averted, problems solved, and healthier lifestyles? Are we enriching our neighbors’ lives, improving the livability of our cities, and ensuring a more equitable future?

If we are to convince a wider audience of the great worth of our indispensable services (and, in turn, influence higher funding and priorities by decision makers), we must deliver whole goods. We can’t merely insist that recreation and parks are essential, we must intentionally demonstrate it—and prove it!

My brother Brian

a victorious tragic life
1958-2016

Diagnosed with schizophrenia in his mid-twenties, my brother Brian battled depression, hallucinations, voices, anxiety, and highly threatening psychotic episodes in decades of discerning what was truly real in his reality.

As if that weren’t enough, brain cancer inserted its tentacles into his frontal lobe. He celebrated his fiftieth birthday with the first of three surgeries to counter the cancer’s terrible, inevitable advance.

On a recent Christmas evening surrounded by our family, a series of seizures convulsed his central nervous system in a hostile takeover of mind and body.

The off-kilter, razor’s edge balance of a medicated life disintegrated into a chemically-induced, frantic free-for-all for his future.

Forced to abandon his already limited lifestyle, his mobility, his interests, his hobbies, and his home, Brian’s horizons shrank to a double room in a nursing home with a single window.

His is not the archetypical story of Exalted Hero, Exemplary Leader, or Inspirational Honcho.

Yet…

Brian the mild-mannered gentleman, Brian the good-humored wit, Brian the patient and enduring soul, was ultimately the unlikely overcomer of some of life’s harshest punishments.

Though his accomplishments may be meager trifles measured against society standards; though his aims were modest and he consumed, perhaps, more than he contributed, his life, tragic as it appeared, was neither futile nor impotent.

Perhaps like many other so-called burdens to society, his purpose was intended for our collective benefit. Perhaps he was singled out to demonstrate to all of us how to bear an unfair burden. Maybe his gift of humor in the midst of a lifetime of suffering was to show us how to accept grace and how to give grace. Feasibly his sacrificial mission provided a broader perspective on our own discomforts, disappointments and disabilities. Patience through the worst of times? Decisively. Perseverance in perpetual pain? Resisting the ravages of mental and physical illness? Enduring when there simply is no other option? Emphatically yes, yes, and oh, yes!

I am sorry I came to recognize these realities late. But I rejoice in witnessing his ultimate triumph in carrying these unpleasant duties to completion at the finish line.

And to hear our Father say, “Well done, My good and faithful servant! Enter into the joy of your reward prepared in advance for you!”

Messing around in a small town

the learning legacy of engaging peers in free-spirited, unsupervised outdoor play

Chapman Quarries is the smallest incorporated borough in Pennsylvania, with a population in the 2010 census of 199 people. It’s where my dad’s family was established, and where his dad, granddad, and nearly all his male relatives worked the slate quarries.

While I didn’t grow up in town, that’s where church was and where my cousins and grandparents lived and where I spent a good amount of time. And it was the only place apart from school recess where I was able to freely interact with a lot of other kids outdoors. Three childhood memories tell a connected story:

Ice skating on the dam. The nearby quarries both used and generated a lot of water, and before Hurricane Agnes’ flood broke it in 1972, the dam was an idyllic nook in the woods. All the kids would walk out the back of town down “the dam hill” to amuse ourselves on the frozen lake. (It was a good joke to tell the new preacher about “the dam hill!”) I wasn’t a very good skater and I remember my cousin Judy telling me that I spent more time lying on the ice than skating on it. The older kids would build a bonfire off to the side, and we’d spend the better part of the whole day freezing, thawing, and “just messing around,” as we called it, with never a grown-up in sight.

Skateboarding on Main Street. The town was founded on a great hill after slate deposits were discovered in the 1850s, which brought an influx of hard-working families from Cornwall, Wales and Devon to work the quarries. When the skateboard craze hit some hundred-plus years later, it drew all their young descendants to Main Street with short, metal-wheeled boards to mess around. (Metal wheels were the leftover technology from roller-skates, which took a special key to adjust on your feet. And—let me tell you—roller skating on uneven slate sidewalks just wasn’t even fun!) I remember my cousin Craig telling me I had to get a skateboard with clay wheels—they’d work a lot better and I wouldn’t be spending all that time lying on the concrete than riding atop it. Like sledding, we’d walk to the top of the hill and ride the boards straight down the center of town, pausing only when someone would yell “CAR!” The old folks in town wished we wouldn’t go so fast because they didn’t want to see us get hurt. But no one stopped us.

Swimming in Claude’s Pond. Deep, water-filled Fisher’s Quarry was the destination of choice for the older teen boys to go skinny-dipping and wash up when it was hot. (This had also been the common practice of all the previous generations.) But I had that opportunity only once, living out of town as I did. Instead, my pappy would occasionally drive me and my brother and sister and a couple of cousins to his friend’s farm pond where we’d go wading and swimming and messing around. The older teen boys would drive there themselves and bring a long wooden plank. They’d extend it over the deep end of the pond and secure it with one of their jalopy’s front wheels to create a perfect diving board. The bigger boys allowed me, as a non-swimmer, to take a few turns, and after some tentative jumps into the shallows, I ignored my own caution and jumped out as far as I could. I remember my cousin Robert hauling me out of the water, saying that I shouldn’t spend more time lying on the bottom than floating on the top.

I learned a lot from my cousins. And from going outside and getting involved.

Like mine, most Baby Boomers’ childhoods were characterized by the habitual frequency in which we engaged our peers in free-spirited, unsupervised, outdoor play. It was there that we learned leadership and cooperation in picking teams for a pick-up game, and creative problem-solving in building a treehouse over a creek. We exerted our bodies while managing risk, and stretched our imaginations while messing around. We discovered both ourselves and our places when we pushed our limitations and our possibilities. Our self-development sprung from self-reliance.

A copious body of research now proves what we then knew, but didn’t understand: that social interaction in connection to nature is essential for our physical and mental health and our intellectual and social development. May we extend that legacy to both encourage and enable it with our children—and theirs.