15 weeks down. 89 to go.
I hesitate even to write tonight. Maybe I should hold off until next week when I feel better, but one week from today, I'll be celebrating one of my dearest friend's wedding back in Texas.
I wonder if that's what has me down. The more I think about the four days I'll spend back in Dallas, the more I think about how much I miss home. The double-edged sword of being a homebody and a wanderer, I suppose.
The brutal truth:
I'm exhausted. This six-week session, as you may have noticed, has been quite the trip on my body, my nerves, my existence, my everything. Lots of change, growth, transition. Too much, really. Too much at too fast of a pace where I find myself fighting to keep up, hoping not to lose myself in the storm.
Writing all of this seems pretty melodramatic, but hey, it's where I'm at tonight. I'm lonely. I'm tired. I miss my family and my friends, and I miss the opportunities to be me however I needed to be me. Here, I'm limited. I have 5 days a week to bring as much of me into a job with kid who don't really appreciate my personality and hobbies. I have 2 days a week to do things that I love to do, but to also build relationships inside and outside of camp. At the end of the week, I make a sacrifice one way or the other and pay a price for it eventually.
I know I'll be okay. I know I'll survive. I know it's worth it. I know that I won't give up. I just hope I won't let myself lose myself in the process.
Some inspiration in the form of music for myself--and for my mom, so she doesn't worry too much after reading this post:
When my life is like a storm
Rising waters all I want is the shore
You say I'll be okay
I'll make it through the rain
You are my shelter from the storm
Everything rides on hope now
Everything rides on faith somehow
When the world has broken me down
Your love sets me free
I am not my own
I've been carried by you all my life.
-Addison Road, Hope Now
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
my water bottle is hurt.
14 weeks down. 90 to go.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be thrown 50 feet into a tree.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be kicked repeatedly.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be covered in dirt.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be kidnapped and buried.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be dented and disfigured.
I'm glad I'm not my water bottle, but in so many ways, I feel like I am my water bottle.
I watched Clash of the Titans last night and found myself oddly relating to Zeus. In no way would I ever really compare myself to a god or supreme being or creator, but here I go:
Zeus's people--the ones he protected and cared for--rebelled against him and declared war on him after years and years and years of love, protection, and sanctuary. He then had the option to set Hades free over his people in an effort to win back their worship. Zeus was said to have loved humans too much.
To have loved them too much.
This morning I walked into the juvenile division of the courthouse and pressed assault charges on one of my campers, and as I walked out of the courthouse, I asked myself, "Have I loved them too much? Is that why all of this is happening?"
I feel powerless and helpless right now. The storm has yet to settle, and it feels like my campers have cut off my hands and feet. Some of my campers just don't get it. They don't get that for some of them, it's their last chance. They don't get that someone somewhere saw something within them that could bring hope and change into a damaged life. They don't get that there are individuals who have pushed pause on their own lives to live with them and give them 24/7 attention and help them walk through problems. And for some of these kids, they choose to continue on with these self-destructive choices without considering the consequences.
So here come the consequences, and it breaks my heart to think that the chances are greater that he'll repond negatively and end up in a facility that won't care about whether or not he succeeds.
I'm just not sure what else it takes to save this group. It's not as simple as riding out the storm. It's about finding the right way to fight at the right time to wake these kids up to see the consequences without bringing down the iron fist. It's about tough love. Unconditional love, but it's about realistic love. Love that still experiences consequences and pain and struggle and victory.
Have I loved them too much? No.
Have I loved them the right way? Not yet.
This program should not have to exist. This type of experience should never be lived. I should not be here.
But I am, and we're living it, and it does exist. And there are kids that benefit from this program. I watched one graduate this week and cried as I told him how proud I was that he took hold of this opportunity, and I know there are others like him who need this place, who get it, and who want this opportunity. I just hope I can figure out who they are before it's too late.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be thrown 50 feet into a tree.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be kicked repeatedly.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be covered in dirt.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be kidnapped and buried.
If I were my water bottle, I'd be dented and disfigured.
I'm glad I'm not my water bottle, but in so many ways, I feel like I am my water bottle.
I watched Clash of the Titans last night and found myself oddly relating to Zeus. In no way would I ever really compare myself to a god or supreme being or creator, but here I go:
Zeus's people--the ones he protected and cared for--rebelled against him and declared war on him after years and years and years of love, protection, and sanctuary. He then had the option to set Hades free over his people in an effort to win back their worship. Zeus was said to have loved humans too much.
To have loved them too much.
This morning I walked into the juvenile division of the courthouse and pressed assault charges on one of my campers, and as I walked out of the courthouse, I asked myself, "Have I loved them too much? Is that why all of this is happening?"
I feel powerless and helpless right now. The storm has yet to settle, and it feels like my campers have cut off my hands and feet. Some of my campers just don't get it. They don't get that for some of them, it's their last chance. They don't get that someone somewhere saw something within them that could bring hope and change into a damaged life. They don't get that there are individuals who have pushed pause on their own lives to live with them and give them 24/7 attention and help them walk through problems. And for some of these kids, they choose to continue on with these self-destructive choices without considering the consequences.
So here come the consequences, and it breaks my heart to think that the chances are greater that he'll repond negatively and end up in a facility that won't care about whether or not he succeeds.
I'm just not sure what else it takes to save this group. It's not as simple as riding out the storm. It's about finding the right way to fight at the right time to wake these kids up to see the consequences without bringing down the iron fist. It's about tough love. Unconditional love, but it's about realistic love. Love that still experiences consequences and pain and struggle and victory.
Have I loved them too much? No.
Have I loved them the right way? Not yet.
This program should not have to exist. This type of experience should never be lived. I should not be here.
But I am, and we're living it, and it does exist. And there are kids that benefit from this program. I watched one graduate this week and cried as I told him how proud I was that he took hold of this opportunity, and I know there are others like him who need this place, who get it, and who want this opportunity. I just hope I can figure out who they are before it's too late.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
through the storm.
13 weeks down. 91 to go.
Hello, Civilization. I've missed you.
This week, I should have been climbing rock walls, zipping down zip lines, watching my campers complete low ropes challenges, watching them learn to trust one another, to trust themselves, watching them succeed individually and collectively.
Instead, I spent the week isolated in campsite in a state of chaos.
There are four stages to group development: forming, storming, norming, and performing. From what I've been told, a "performing" group is rare. It occurs when the group runs itself, where the campers are all so high-functioning that little supervisory intervention is needed. When I came into the woods back in January, my group was "norming." The group had been together for months without a new addition, and 4 campers were about to graduate. They knew each other and were functioning well. If you've been reading along, you'll know that I now have 7 new campers and 5 campers who have been around for more than 4 months. 2 of these campers are graduating this week. Over the past 3 weeks, my group has been recreating it's identity. Each camper has been trying to find his role in group, and it hasn't been what I would call smooth. Over the last week, my group has been transitioning from a "forming" group to a "storming" group.
True to the word, it feels like I'm caught in a hurricane. Violent campers, out-of-bounds campers, extreme defiance, dangerous behavior, and overall chaos and craziness. This week, we've had to simulate our trip in campsite, cooking all of our meals over the fire, staying in campsite away from community and camp life.
A storming group + isolation + previous bad behaviors + frustration over not going on the trip = Insanity.
One night out of 6 nights, the group went down to bed before 11 pm when they usually are down by 9 pm at the latest. Three campers were restrained by staff to prevent dangerous behavior, one of which is now sitting in detention for 5 days to cool down. I am beat up and bruised because of campers putting their hands on me in aggressive ways. My things were stolen and buried. Kids were caught with tobacco. Beds were damaged, sheets soaked in water and decorated with toothpaste curse words. Kids refused to wake up, refused to go to sleep. I was called every sexually inappropriate name you can imagine and even those you can't imagine. My life was threatened at least once a day. A decapitated skink tail was rubbed down my arm. Kids were threatened by other kids. Kids were kicked by other kids and intimidated with violence. We sat in huddles for hours waiting on campers to come and pay attention. We never ate breakfast before 11 am (normally eaten at 8:30 am) and usually had all three meals within a 5 hour window.
Oh. My. God.
I don't even really know what to do now that I've survived this week. Part of me wants to run away and say, "forget this!" Part of me realizes that this may be the worst it could get besides campers getting seriously hurt.
One of my campers who is graduating this week is the reason why this camp exists. He has transformed himself and his life in his 9 months and 22 days at camp. I know that when he leaves camp, he has the tools he needs to do something different with his life. He's not going to be the President, or a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, but he is going to be one less man in jail and one more person impacting another life because of his experience.
Knowing that he had the opportunity to change and took it gives me hope for this group of new campers. Right now, they are just at the beginning of a long road, and I need to be there at the end of their journey. I need to see them to the end, and I need to know that I was a part of the entire journey of a child's transformation. Through the storms. Through the fire. And through the celebration of their transition back home.
Hello, Civilization. I've missed you.
This week, I should have been climbing rock walls, zipping down zip lines, watching my campers complete low ropes challenges, watching them learn to trust one another, to trust themselves, watching them succeed individually and collectively.
Instead, I spent the week isolated in campsite in a state of chaos.
There are four stages to group development: forming, storming, norming, and performing. From what I've been told, a "performing" group is rare. It occurs when the group runs itself, where the campers are all so high-functioning that little supervisory intervention is needed. When I came into the woods back in January, my group was "norming." The group had been together for months without a new addition, and 4 campers were about to graduate. They knew each other and were functioning well. If you've been reading along, you'll know that I now have 7 new campers and 5 campers who have been around for more than 4 months. 2 of these campers are graduating this week. Over the past 3 weeks, my group has been recreating it's identity. Each camper has been trying to find his role in group, and it hasn't been what I would call smooth. Over the last week, my group has been transitioning from a "forming" group to a "storming" group.
True to the word, it feels like I'm caught in a hurricane. Violent campers, out-of-bounds campers, extreme defiance, dangerous behavior, and overall chaos and craziness. This week, we've had to simulate our trip in campsite, cooking all of our meals over the fire, staying in campsite away from community and camp life.
A storming group + isolation + previous bad behaviors + frustration over not going on the trip = Insanity.
One night out of 6 nights, the group went down to bed before 11 pm when they usually are down by 9 pm at the latest. Three campers were restrained by staff to prevent dangerous behavior, one of which is now sitting in detention for 5 days to cool down. I am beat up and bruised because of campers putting their hands on me in aggressive ways. My things were stolen and buried. Kids were caught with tobacco. Beds were damaged, sheets soaked in water and decorated with toothpaste curse words. Kids refused to wake up, refused to go to sleep. I was called every sexually inappropriate name you can imagine and even those you can't imagine. My life was threatened at least once a day. A decapitated skink tail was rubbed down my arm. Kids were threatened by other kids. Kids were kicked by other kids and intimidated with violence. We sat in huddles for hours waiting on campers to come and pay attention. We never ate breakfast before 11 am (normally eaten at 8:30 am) and usually had all three meals within a 5 hour window.
Oh. My. God.
I don't even really know what to do now that I've survived this week. Part of me wants to run away and say, "forget this!" Part of me realizes that this may be the worst it could get besides campers getting seriously hurt.
One of my campers who is graduating this week is the reason why this camp exists. He has transformed himself and his life in his 9 months and 22 days at camp. I know that when he leaves camp, he has the tools he needs to do something different with his life. He's not going to be the President, or a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, but he is going to be one less man in jail and one more person impacting another life because of his experience.
Knowing that he had the opportunity to change and took it gives me hope for this group of new campers. Right now, they are just at the beginning of a long road, and I need to be there at the end of their journey. I need to see them to the end, and I need to know that I was a part of the entire journey of a child's transformation. Through the storms. Through the fire. And through the celebration of their transition back home.
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