It's always an adventure!

This story started several months ago when I saw an email advertising a new English speaking International Creative Arts Program opening up at the University of Haifa. It had my name written all over it, so I sent them an email asking if they were looking for instructors, to which they responded they weren't, but thank you very much. End of story.

About fours week ago, I received an email - out of the blue - from the administrative assistant of the CAT (Creative Arts Therapy) Program of the University of Haifa asking if I would be interested in meeting with them?

Cool. OK

So I sent my resumes in English and in Hebrew. And waited.

On Sunday I got the call asking for me to come meet with them on Wednesday. But first I need to show a little more supervision and teaching experience. 

I have only just started supervising, so was only able to tell them about that. I have two students that I supervise. I enjoy supervising. It's very different than teaching, and obviously different than doing therapy. Which, of course, they asked me about in my interview... but I get ahead of myself.

Tuesday night I called my Papa and asked his advice, and put together what I thought was a really extensive - I forgot how extensive my teaching experience has been - list of all the different kinds of teaching experiences I have had.

Important things like WHO I taught to, i.e. the professional nature of the population I was teaching, or not; WHO invited me to come teach to them; HOW MANY people I taught to; WHERE the facility was that I taught; and HOW LONG the class or workshop was for.

I was impressed with what I put together!!

I wasn't nervous about the interview. I'm good with people. I'm a charmer. I know that. I know how to be with people when I want to be. I know how to turn on good energy when I want to. I'm good at what I do, I know that about myself too. I know how to be real and honest. I'm intelligent. I know my material. I am confident with what I know - and don't know. I'm aware of my strengths and my weaknesses and am not afraid to talk about them.

I didn't really know what they were looking for. I was going for the information. For the expereince. FOR THE ADVENTURE!! For the opportunity. To be invited by an international program for an interview is a big deal! So I went.

It was a beautiful ride. NED gave me advice to sit on the left side of the train so I could view the coast going up, and she was right! The train had wifi, so I got some work done and some phone calls made. I took the bus from the train to the university. I love an adventure! I arrived 30 minutes early, so I walked around the campus which is situated atop of the Carmel Mountains overlooking the Haifa Port. A spectacular view!

My interview was with the Director of the International Program, the head of the art therapy program (I think, as she never really introduced herself - so Israeli!) and the administrative assistant. Turns out the Head also graduated, and got his PhD, from Lesley University (where I got my masters) so he was impressed and familiar with my training. I was able to name-drop instructors which meant he knew I had learned from the best in the expressive therapy field.

OK, now another back up story:
When I was in graduate school, I started in the art therapy specialization of the program. After a very short while, I was called into the directors office and told very clearly that I could not BE in the art therapy specialization because simply I was not a good enough artist. Which is true, but at the time I was insulted. Even hurt. And angry.
I was placed instead in what was called the INTERMODAL program, which turned out, of course, to be the biggest blessing. Intermodal meant that I received training in art and music and movement and drama and voice and writing and... And as time went on, I understood that it was a subcultural thing amongst the expressive therapy world. Art therapists really have a much more different mind set than intermodal therapists. It's a nuance that only those in the expressive therapy world understands.

I am defintely an intermodal therpaist - all over the place - using this and that - going here and there - pulling different tricks out of my pocket. I am not a straight art therapy kind of gal!! In theory or in practice! I call myself an art therapist most times, because people understand that easier. But truth be told, I am an expressive arts therapist and VERY proud of it!

Back to the interview, they were looking for an instructor to teach a supervisor course to a group of art therapy students. (I remembered this course from graduate school as being one of my very important courses in my learning process and I was excited to be considered to teach it!)
Art therapy students are very anxious about learning art therapy. Even though the world doesn't function that way, they don't know that yet, and I said as much to my interviewers. To which they agreed, but they need the proper instructors for their students, which I completely agreed with. The head of the program and I really understood each other, because he was also trained intermodally.

The hours they were offering ended up being in real conflict with my private practice. Which would mean I would have to give up client hours - for less pay - which I am not willing to do right now.

So we left with the decision that they would call me to teach workshops on intermodal therapy, working with children, families, adolescents and teens. I made the connection. They liked me, "You have good energy and make a good presentation," I think were his words.

And I liked making the connection to an international university program!

Very exciting adventure - indeed!!

The best part? Falling asleep on the train ride back to Modiin and some kid poking me to tell me we had arrived at our final destination! And it was only 2:00 pm in the afternoon. I still had a day of clients and a night of rehearsals for a new show to go through.

Or maybe the best part was realizing in the middle of a client session that evening that I had one blue sock and one black sock on!? Think they noticed? Or maybe they thought it was the not-such-an-artist in me!

 I love an adventure!!

Angry, not scared!

I just keep getting angrier!

People keep saying, "You must be so scared" living there.

I'm not scared. At least not as much as I am angry!!

I'm just so angry that these bullies are allowed to keep bullying!

And I can't do anything to stop them.

They are making people so scared.

Yes, giving me more work. But I would rather it not have to happen!

Just angry that it has to be happening. So not necessary.

It's just so much easier to love and get along.

Bullying is just so mean and ridiculous!

And makes me so mad!

My Surreal Manicure

Tuesday is my day in Jerusalem.

I usually see four to five clients on Tuesdays, but due to some cancellations and the fact that my nails needed a real professional manicure, I decided to make an appointment at the salon I have been going to for years at the Plaza Hotel on King George Street in the center of the city.

Getting a manicure, for me, is part of my personal I AM A CAR (see below) initiative.

So there I was innocently watching the manicurist try to rebuild my damaged nails, placing the first coat of polish on, when we suddenly hear the siren. Not sure what it was at first, we both hesitated.

Then, she takes off, running down the hall.

I decide I should join her, only after my phone rings and ELY is crying to me on the other end. She is on her way home from school and has just gotten off the bus at the central bus station and doesn't know what to do. She is crying - hysterically! I walk calmly towards the bomb shelter of the hotel, talking ELY through her tears of what to do, "Get to a wall, get down low, put your hands over your head, take deep breaths, you're going to be okay. Are people starting to move around you?" I just kept talking to her. Poor thing was so scared.

I have a theory.

My father taught me that terrorism is exactly that. From the word, terror. Their goal is to instill terror. Their goal is to make you so afraid that you don't move or exist or live. And if you do that, then they win.

I've taken my father's words and changed them a little. I like to look at the terrorists as big bad bullies. They are nothing but bullies!

Why do people bully? Usually because they are jealous of the other person. Or because they want something you want. Or because they feel bad about themselves. Or because they were never loved and are looking for attention.

We can't let the bullies know they are bothering us. We can't be dumb, of course. We can't walk into  their arms and ask them to bully us. But we can chose not to let them bother us. We can even laugh at them.

So this is the message I give to ELY, as I am walking back down the hall to the salon and she is getting back on a bus to go home. Don't let the bullies win. Yes, that was VERY scarey. But don't let them bully you. Go have fun with your friends. Laugh. Tell jokes. Live.

And I went back to having my nails done. Albeit with a very shakey manicurist!

That's reality. We keep going. We don't let the bullies stop us from living -

Not even for a manicure!!

I am a Car

Although I might hate putting money into taking care of my car, I do it because I have to.

I get the oil changed regularly.

I get the wheels checked and rotated.

I get the car washed to clean out all the gunk from in and around the motor and inside the car.

If there is an unfamiliar noise, I take it to the mechanic, and I have it taken care of.

The windshield wiper fluid needs refilling.

The battery even needs changing every so often.

I'm sure there is more.

And I am the one to take care of it.

It's always been my responsibility.

I've always known how much it cost, and swallowed hard knowing it had to be done anyhow.

No guilt involved. Just a 'have-to'/'need-to' basis of doing.

So last week after suffering for three days with a migraine and the onset of random heel pain, I decided it was time to think of myself like a car.

I need maintenance.

No emotion needed or involved.

In order for me to run, I need to be taken care of.

If something hurts, or I am making a funny noise, then I need to take care of it.

No guilt involved. No emotion. Just take care of it.

No mean or stupid voices of 'suck it up' or 'you are fine.'

I get to ignore those voices. 

I am a car. When I'm a car, there are no mean voices.

I just take care of what needs taking care of because I need to be able to work or run or function or be.

I don't have to worry about how much money I am spending on myself because I am a car and that is what happens when you have a car.

Cars cost money. They need care. They need maintaining. They need fixing. They need tune ups. It costs money. It's money well spent, because you need your car to be able to run.

So do I.

I am a car.

And I can even be an Alfa Romeo if I want! (inside joke- guy I once dated compared me to an Alfa Romeo, but that's for another post...)

I'm a car.

Beep beep.

And I'm worth it.

Another parallel process.

That's psychobabble. It means two people are experiencing the same or similar emotion at the same time.

It happens to me with my clients all the time.

So, for example, when someone decides they come into a session and don't speak because they feel that what they have to say isn't important and why should I care anyhow?

Something about this sounds familiar. I realize that is my parallel process to blogging.

Why should you care? I hear people say that to me all the time. "I don't want to read all your personal thoughts!"

Now I know there are the few who do care; And do read and do want me to write. But there is that part of me, like my client, that feels: Why bother.

Except they say to me: You get paid to listen and act like you care.
I don't pay anyone to read or care.

So blogging is really about believing I have something to say that is worthwhile. That I have something to say that is meaningful or worthy of being written, said or read.

See, it's a parallel process.

Formatting still off - sorry!

Wish I knew how to fix it...

Have I really not written anything since July?!?! Wow

Sorry about that.

Will keep trying...

P.S> Looks like I fixed it!! :)

What if there were no one else left in the world?!

Client asked me tonight, as we were playing a game with some therapeutic cards, what I would do if there were no people in the world for me to have to connect to.
 If I was all alone. What would I do?
It was such a great question.
Totally unrealistic. But a great question.
Only because I realize I depend so much on other people for my self-worth.
On how I interact. On how meaningful a relationship I can make with them.
How loved and important I can make them feel.
What if there were no other people?
And I was all alone?
What would I do?
Color?
Dance?
Play?

Not really sure - Gotta think more about it...

On turning 46.......

So I've been waiting for this birthday for awhile. 46 always seemed like such a neat age to be. It's double 23. The age I was when I was newly married and had just given birth to Dov. Living in Lowell, a new stupid bride, thinking I knew what I was doing. It's half way to 92. Around the ages my grandparents were when they finished their time in this world. Which gives me a lot more years, if it's meant to be, for me to live. 46 is such a great mid life year. Such a great rounded number. Its an even number. I like even numbers. I am completely satisfied with 46. I can look back at 46 years and smile. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, and having lived in 8 (maybe more) cities: 3 and a 1/2 years living in Bangkok, Thailand, while my father worked for the public health service; attended elementary, junior high and high school in Frederick, Maryland; 2 years abroad studying in Israel; 2 years of college in New York City; a bachelors degree, a masters degree, a boyfriend or two, a couple dates (some great, some horrible), a husband for almost 24 years, four kids, and lots of kids who aren't my biological kids. And don't let me forget moving to Israel! Many friendships along the way - many maintained, some renewed, some let go of; a growing extended family. I look in the mirror and I know I have made a difference in the world. I know my kids know I love them. I know there are lots of kids who know I love and care about them. I know I have met hundreds, if not thousands of people. I know I have people who love me. I've baked a lot of cookies. Made a lot of parties. Laughed a lot. Played hard. Seen a lot. Sure, there is plenty I still want to do, accomplish. Sure, there is more I could do, accomplish. But at 46, I am very satisfied. And thankful. And blessed. And smiling. So, thank you for 46. Guess I'll just keep going...

Apologize for the new format!!

It's changed and I don't know how to fix it?!?! Where are my paragraphs and line breaks?! Will try to figure it out. Til then, hope you don't get a headache trying to read my post!!

Of Memories and Cow Tipping

Today I spoke to my supervisor about false vs. real memories. I was asking in reference to the patients I have who are victims of childhood sexual abuse. It is very common for these victims to question their memory of the actual abuse, for fear that they are making it up, or they only remember parts of it. I hear the questions all the time, "is it real? How do I know it really happened? Am I making it up?" It got me thinking about my own memories, and how I know what is real or not? Here are a couple random things I remember and know are real: 1. I remember playing in the mud of the houses being built on our street in Cloverhill with Angie Shewbridge. I remember loving the feeling of the warm summer mud between my toes. 2. I remember having a dog named Buffy who used to bark alot at night. 3. I remember seeing my Aunt in her open casket at her funeral and wishing she would sit up and yell, "Surprise!" 4. I remember a couple of dates with guys I'd like to forget!!! 5. I remember watching my soap opera, The Guiding Light, while in induced labor with DB. 6. I remember tripping on a rock while out power walking the week before we moved out of our house in Boston. There are lots of random memories I know are real. Just because I remember them and trust that I know they are real. People ask me all the time whether I remember living in Thailand? My usual answer is that most of my memories are from photographs. I couldn't prove I lived in Thailand based on my own memories, except I have pictures to prove I was there. And so the memories of my house and my dog and the trees and the fence around our house and my stepping on my bunny rabbit help to validate my memories. Or create them. I tried to think of a memory that I can't prove. How it feels to question my memory? I thought of my lifelong story of going cow tipping as a teenager living in Frederick. I have told people for years that I went cow tipping when I was a kid. I say that I remember at least going once, maybe twice. But when I thought about it today, I realized I'm not really sure if I ever did go cow tipping?! I have a memory of the field on Yellow Springs Road, and I have a memory of climbing over a fence, and I have a memory of seeing cows standing up sleeping in the field. But I do not have a single memory of ever REALLY touching or pushing over a cow! I can't tell you who I was with? And I can't tell you what the weather was like that night? (I guess I remember that it was night?) But I remember going cow tipping. But did I REALLY?! Have I been making it up based on my imagination all these years? This is fascinating and frustrating me. And I feel I need to figure it out for myself. Especially if I want to help to understand my patients better. How do we know what we remember is true? What do you think?

Random post

Since its been so long since I posted anything, I thought I would write something random that I was thinking about today. In Israel, today's date is 7/5/12 - we write it day/month/year here. Anyone know what 7/5 means to me? If you guessed my English birthday, you are correct. In the US, I would write my birthday as 7/5. July 5th. The day I was born. I like that date. And it's coming up soon. I was thinking that I'm going to be 46 on 7/5 this year. 46?!?! Geesh - That's old. A least older than 45! That's as far as I got though. It was just a thought with a smile attached to it :) Happy not really birthday to me!! Sarah Smile :)