Only Anecdotal

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Posts Tagged ‘community

CSA

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As the buds have started popping on nearly every stick in my yard, I have become excited by the prospect of another year at my community farm. Yes, the CSA of this title stands for Community Supported Agriculture, and it is a movement that has brought me back to my time in Vermont, as well as to my childhood full of gardens and the wonder of planting things that sometimes produced beauty, and sometimes beautiful meals. Our family joined Stearns Farm in Framingham a few years ago, and our lives are richer each time we go there, not only because of the vegetables, herbs, and flowers we find there, but because of the community that surrounds the effort.

Last year, I drove in to one of the year’s first pick-ups, and a woman stopped me, and called me by name. She looked familiar, and I paused, wondering who.. where… When she reminded me, I could picture the driveway where we met, and the living room where I had met with her aunt. I was glad to hear that her aunt was doing well, and was touched that the woman had remembered me that well. These memories remain far beyond the first encounter.

My consular work gave me many similar experiences to meet people and to help a person in a moment, but also to gain something myself in the process. I sometimes run across people I met then, too. I still feel honored by the moments that many people shared with me in vulnerable circumstances, and I hope that this sharing allowed them all to get where they needed to be, and live the kinds of lives they wished for when they came to me. Going back farther, I rarely see students from my teaching days, and it has been years since I worked in my first job for a translation company, but I still remember so many students and clients from those days, and the great things we were able to achieve in these relationships.

I realize, though, that these relationships were no accident, and given the stressors in many of these situations, they could have been nightmarish, horrible encounters for both client and employee in the wrong sort of place. Likewise, a community supported agricultural project cannot happen without both a farm and a community, both responding to a bountiful harvest as well as to low-yielding crops.

We have all encountered toxic organizations, if only through attempting a customer service call to a service like Groupon that refuses to handle questions through an actual phone number. A bad culture may grow in places where employees have no reason to care, but we can foster positive environments with some consideration to the way we choose to operate our organizations. I titled this piece “CSA” thinking of a new acronym to attach to my love of this farm movement, and apply it to my pondering about working life now.

The C in my mind stands for Connection. I think about connection a lot in the work world, as I remember places where I have worked most productively–and also those from which I have made the happiest purchases. It is a joy to walk into an environment of colleagues sharing contributions, regardless of stature in the organization, where the boss can pick up a broom, too, where the most junior intern is invited to networking events, and the maintenance staff is included in team meetings. The practical worth of Viele Hände machen leichte Arbeit (more hands, lighter work) is a part of the efficiency, but intrinsic in that notion also is the sense of togetherness in the day-to-day of a company’s mission that no afternoon of team-building exercises can replicate. For the customer, it is nice to be greeted by a smiling face, no matter who opens the door.

The S is for Stewardship. I don’t mean this in the sense of fundraising and giving, but more in the way we interact in our world. No matter our position or place in society, we are caretakers of our own self, as well as of the environment in which we live. In our work, we have a responsibility to create spaces where all can shine, where strengths are appreciated, and weaknesses are supported, where the mission is more important than any individual or profit margin. It is about caring, but it is also about action, and doing something to take care of things, rather than to talk about it.

A is for Agency. We make decisions constantly as we go through our own personal day, but there is a great benefit to the organizations that acknowledge these judgements of their employees and gives them as much individual control as possible. A sense of agency is more than a willingness to remain in a role and keep a head to the grindstone; it is the idea of being a part of something, and that our efforts and expressions are unique and make a difference–and that we have agreed to the social contract involved. It makes us look forward to weekdays, to the opportunity to contribute rather than worshipping the weekends and the chance to escape the work environment. An organization may chug along with cogs to run their machine, but it will never achieve greatness without employees who have agency.

Connection, stewardship, and agency. It is easy to feel connected, caring, and intentional with our technology and the multitude of choices we can make now, but appearances can be deceiving. We are in this together, but hopefully we realize that a good life involves supporting one another and our equality, in work as in society as a whole.

 

 

 

 

 

Written by Only Anecdotal

24 Apr 2019 at 2:37pm

My Inspiration

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My mom died around midnight Saturday night.

She had been struggling for many years with a number of chronic conditions, all beginning with a diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis in her forties. Over time, things became harder and harder, her lungs and heart weaker. She rallied forth, every time. She was strong, invincible I thought. But the cold she caught in a short-term rehabilitation unit was finally too much. An infection developed, and within two days, her kidneys failed. There were no heroic efforts to intubate or dialyze–my mom knew a long time ago that she never wanted those things. She talked to us for as long as she could, until she faded, and never awoke. I will always laugh as I think that she said she was sorry she would miss Downton Abbey this week.

My mom died an ideal death. The one blessing of losing my dad in 1985 was that it gave us plenty of time as a family to discuss death, and not to fear it. My dad had lung cancer, and was sentenced to certain death over three months before he actually died. In that time, we as a family spent our time in an endless cycle of work, dinner, hospital, home. Repeat. Several panics before the end–this is it–he pulled through, only to writhe in pain. I remember even as a twenty year old thinking that the fears of morphine addiction seemed ill-placed, as did the very arrogance that surgery on a dying man is a good idea. As I recall, we were never given a choice of what should happen, and if we were, we were probably still seduced by the notion of medical miracles. The last words I remember hearing from my dad are “It’s all right. It will be over soon.” He must have seen my frightened face, my anguish at the intensity of his suffering. I avoided all doctors and hospitals as much as possible–for years–until my own children were born.

I have spent an enormous amount of time in hospitals since then, in all sorts of situations. I have to say, I am most often impressed by the care and knowledge I see, and my mom had remarkably good care at the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit of St. Luke’s Hospital in Kansas City.

If the acute care of her final days was beyond excellent, the long-term care options preceding that time were filled with anxiety and frustration. Too little money to afford assisted living or private home care, she pieced things together, accepted mediocre services until they became more cumbersome to allow than to refuse. (The one exception was the man she found to drive her on errands. His name is Diego, and he could not have been kinder.) My mom worried, a lot, and she became sicker.

I was frustrated, because I am supposed to know my way around this. But then again, looking at the fantastic facilities where my mom died, considering the costs of those heroic efforts that many people do try, thinking of the enormous blessing that my mom’s Medicare and supplemental insurance will pay for it all… I imagine we can create long-term care services of similar quality. As we see the shift in the years to come from the sexy world of specialties and surgeries to primary care and prevention, we will feel the difference in our lives, all of our lives. We have to.

Written by Only Anecdotal

4 Feb 2013 at 5:26pm

Take a Village…

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Who knew that a hairdresser would be one of the top wishes of so many home-bound people I see. A vanity, some might say, but looking good can make an enormous difference in the way a person feels.

Not too long ago, I spent seven years in a small village in Vermont. It was the setting for Hitchcock’s “The Trouble With Harry”, but it could be the setting for nearly any imagined perfect New England picture storybook, the white houses in the hills (most often covered in snow), dairy farms dotting the landscape, along with the sugar houses. It was real. I lived in such a white house, with a dairy farm across the street.

Now, the thing I had not thought about much before I moved there is that dairy farmers work harder than anyone I have ever known. It is grueling, incessant work in an often-brutal climate, and not for much glory–or sustainable income. As a result, many dairy farmers run some other business on the side. The dairy farm across the street from us had a beauty shop,  called The Beauty Hut, and when it was open, Cindy styled hair and entertained the local ladies with the latest gossip. She also rented videotapes.

Several days a week, Cindy moved her operation down the street to the rest home across from the Presbyterian church and preschool. Several of Cindy’s customers lived in the rest home, and were not able to get to her shop ver easily. Cindy ended up working in the rest home full-time later on, when the dairy compact expired, but that’s another story.

We knew the rest home well, as many of the people who lived there went across the only painted crosswalk in the village to go to Sunday church. Several years before we arrived in Vermont, the church had raised a lot of money to put an elevator in so that people who could not use the stairs could still make it downstairs for the Sunday lunch, and up the short distance to the sanctuary.

It was a pity that the schools were not quite as forward thinking in their accessibility. Many a grandparent missed the Academy graduation, because there was nowhere to park. Once, when I spoke with the village principal about this, he told me to park in the grass, next to the fire lane. After I had written a letter, called the ADA office in Boston, complained for several months, the custodian went out to the front of the elementary school and put up a sign. It was not the way it was supposed to be, but it was close, and it helped a lot of people besides my son. Unfortunately, a few months after we left Vermont, my neighbor Cindy went to the school and took a few pictures for me: the signs were gone. Such was the feeling in the schools: good riddance.

We left Vermont because it was so hard to put together services for my son. A man with developmental disabilities who used to run errands for the town hall had left, as well. He was included in the life of the village, yes, but he was unable to get all the help his family needed to keep him at home. Another woman with autism lived still with her aging parents. Her sister lived with her husband and daughter next door. The woman’s mom rode with me for half the year to Montpelier, where we went through the Rural Autism Project. She told me of her fears, aging, her promise to her younger daughter that she would never have to be the one to care for her sister. But the options were limited otherwise. It was one thing the Rural Autism Project could not answer, and she left the courses midway.

The preschool was the best year for my son, with a lovely teacher who just understood what to do, and two very good aides for my one child. My son thrived, and walked every Friday with the other kids across the street to the rest home. The residents all knew us, and we visited often, talked to people as my kids admired the fish tanks in the front porch.

Sometimes a rest home resident got sick and had to move to the next village down. It had a nursing home, set back behind the general store. For a few months, we had a French conversation group in the memory unit. Many of the people lit up when they heard French, and could say things they never said anymore in English–or so we heard. Some of our students had spoken it as children. One woman used to teach it herself. Cindy’s mother-in-law lives there now, just down the road from where she lived all her life.

I have been thinking about this life now, as the leaves this year are surely crimson and gold with the weather we have had. I had never imagined myself living in such a rural setting. It was hard, in many ways–everything was a much bigger effort, from shopping for groceries to getting the wood stove going in the morning. I saw an older population, accepted and folded into the small village in their homes, in the rest home, and often in the nursing home if necessary. The services were not like here–it was more a matter of people watching out for one another. It may be the only way to survive in such a small community–you have to be accepted in the community.

I remember waiting for Ernie at the general store one day as he filled a shopping bag with the items on a neighbor’s list–she can’t get out just now, he told me. Someone was going to take the bag up to her house. I thought of how we can adapt to help people more, and I think that even in our big urban and suburban communities, people often do help out if they understand what they can do, and how.

But that was key. I do not want to paint too rosy a picture of our lives in Vermont; we left because despite the generosity of state funding, we could never find the appropriate help for my son. Problem was, few seemed to understand that people with disabilities do not have to be limited in what they are able to do. They can be taught, and challenged to do more, if differently–but that requires some degree of expertise, and a greater degree of hope.

The rest of the world moves at a different pace than Vermont, and perhaps at times with less willingness to embrace the idea of progress.  Sometimes people were surprised that my son even went to school; others resented the spike in the town budget for my son’s education. Our house was egged once. The fights with schools there were just as difficult as they are here, if in different ways. It was rare to battle with arrogance, but not so rare to battle with inexperience. There were just very few kids like mine, and few opportunities, then, for professionals who could live there. Too often, my son became the school special mascot more than just another student–a sentiment of pity that I resented enormously, although I realized at last that it was the best they knew to do.

And so, I find myself thinking of that frustration, along with the loving acceptance of disability that we found from so many people. I think of the messages I heard so often in that bucolic setting, respecting the elders of the community. I remember the veterans marching to the cemetery on the common every Memorial Day. I remember the ladies and their hairdos, and Cindy. Everyone knew that the older people had earned their time, that we should take care of them, and as I think back, they did understand the most basic thing about people: that they are people, and should not be forgotten or left out.

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As I think of villages, I visited the new Edward M. Kennedy Health Center in Framingham last week, during their opening ceremonies. What a lovely space, such an amazing feeling to walk into an environment filled with optimism and hope. I have seen many of the health center’s patients in my own work, often meeting them in the cramped spaces where these talented professionals managed to do great things for years. My friends Claudia and Marcia, social workers who call me once in a while, now have room and privacy for the valuable work they have always done. I can only imagine where things can go from here… (and will write more about this in the next few weeks).

Another noteworthy item from the news: Eric Coleman, doctor who created the Care Transitions programs, has won a MacArthur Foundation “genius” award. Coincidentally (?), this was announced on the same day that Medicare began to penalize hospitals for readmitting certain patients within thirty days of their last hospital discharge. Dr. Coleman’s work has been much lauded as the programs spread… but are they enough? And on this, I will write more in the next weeks, as well.

Written by Only Anecdotal

8 Oct 2012 at 8:25pm