One Person. A Hundred Monkeys.

One Person. A Hundred Monkeys.

I got the sad word today. My friend and mentor Sharon had died.

I met her many years ago when I arrived for her five day workshop for abuse survivors.  (She’d staffed and trained staff for Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ Life, Death and Transition workshops.)

Sharon scared me that week. And yet also made me feel safe. She pushed me to go to places I wanted to avoid and pushed me to do work I didn’t want to do. And when I survived all of it I began to hope that healing was possible.

So I kept going  back to workshops.

I was convinced that telling parts of my story would be the end of me. She pushed, and I told and far from being the end of me, it was the beginning. When I needed to wail with the grief deep in my bones, it was Sharon’s hand on my shoulder keeping me grounded, reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

At the close of one workshop Sharon said, “Perhaps one day after you’ve finished your school (I was getting my graduate degree in counseling) you’ll get the training and work on staff.”

Of course, I didi just that. I did my training and then started working as an apprentice in workshops. What an honor it was to be working with that staff. And what an amazing learning experience. It is no exaggeration to say that at least 75% of what I do as therapist I learned from working with them: Sharon, Shannon, Connie, Nancy and David. They were all brilliant and they taught me things about working with wounded people that can’t be learned in a classroom.

Sharon had a masterful intuitive sense and an absolute commitment to what it took to hold a space safe enough for people to do such deep work. As staff, we could do what we did because we knew Sharon was there. She held the safe space for all of us.

She insisted that being on staff meant taking care of your own stuff first. And it meant taking care of any issue that arose between the staff. We had to be clear with each other before we could work clearly with participants. She also taught me about knowing when to say goodbye, retiring her Safe Harbor Workshops long before anyone wanted her to, but also before she grew tired of doing the work.

She was smart and wise and most of all, loving. She (along with the rest of the staff) changed my life. I’m in private practice today because when I finished grad school, I didn’t want some boss saying I couldn’t take a week of vacation to staff a workshop. She made me an infinitely better therapist and a healthier person.

Staffing was hard and demanding work, but such rich work. Being able to share in it along with that staff is one of the greatest blessings of my life. The gift of it still fills me with wonder.

I know Sharon touched hundreds of lives. Through the work that I do now, both as a therapist and as staff of a similar grief workshop, her influence and her work flows on to many more people.

At the close of each workshop Sharon told a story. It was about the hundredth monkey.

The government started studying animal life on a group of Pacific Islands. They noticed on one island monkeys started washing their food. It spread one to another – monkey see, monkey do. That wasn’t so remarkable, except when the number of monkeys reached a critical mass (for simplicity, we call it the hundredth money), monkeys on another island began washing their food.

“We never know,” Sharon said as we stood in our goodbye circle, “who will be the hundredth monkey, who will be the one to be the tipping point.”

On days when I feel discouraged by the amount of need I see and the seemingly impossible mountains before us, I think of that story. And I press on, for who knows who will be that person to be the hundredth monkey, the one voice that begins to tip the scales in favor of love.

I’ve seen it happen, you know.

I’ve seen a stranger step into my life and tip it in ways beyond my ability to dream or to imagine. For such a life, and that it touched my life,  I am grateful

 

 

 

There’s always the dog door

There’s always the dog door

My brother and sister-in-law were in town for a wedding, staying in my guest room. Waiting for them to come home from the rehearsal dinner I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, falling asleep on the couch. (Allergy medicine was involved.)

They came home and rang the doorbell. I didn’t stir. They knocked on the door. I didn’t stir. They called my cellphone, which was right beside me. I didn’t stir. They called my home phone. I didn’t stir. Finally my brother came in through the (large) dog door. (My dogs were away at camp.) I still didn’t stir. After I woke up I didn’t realize they were home until I went to the back door for something and saw their car in the driveway. They were already sound asleep.

Life is like that sometimes. Not the being so tired that you’re comatose part. But the part about having to find a different way.

I’ve been listening to a biography of Muppet Creator Jim Henson while in my car. Besides his manifold creative gifts, Jim had the quality of being able to hold things lightly. Over and over again he made pitches for shows that were never picked up. He spent hours working on a Broadway show that didn’t happen. (Just today Disney announced plans for a possible Broadway Muppet Show.) He pitched pilot after pilot to the network, not just creating a proposal but creating actual muppet characters and producing skits. Either the network suits didn’t get it. Or if they were enthusiastic, they couldn’t find a time of it. For years he worked on this dream of having a weekly television show only to be turned down time after time.

Meanwhile, at the insistence of Lorne Michaels and the network, the Muppets were part of the original cast of Saturday night Live. (Yeah, it sounded strange to me as well.) Obviously, they didn’t click with the cast and writers but Michaels liked Jim so much he didn’t want to fire him.

At this same time, through the work of his agent and connections made while doing a special with Julie Andrews (who herself had been given a special because her network show was cancelled after one season, a casualty of going head to head with Mary Tyler Moore) Jim was offered a syndication deal. Originally skeptical of syndication, Jim allowed himself to be talked into it.

The Muppet Show was born. When the agent called with the news Jim didn’t ask about money or budget. He simply said, “I love you.” There was, of course, no issue with Jim being let out of his SNL contract, and everyone parted with relief.

He had his dream. Not on the timetable he’d wanted. Not in the way he envisioned. But he had his dream.

Sometimes we miss what could be possible in our lives because we insist that they can be possible in only one way and on only one timetable. But the truth of the matter is, sometimes they have to come through the dog door.

What are you wiling to hold lightly?