The silver maple trees in our yards are unduly profligate. Profligate, definition two: recklessly prodigal or prolific.
We finally spent a day cleaning the gutters filled with millions of helicopter seeds and maple seedlings, packed in so tightly that I finished with hands and arms scraped raw. Ouch. Why so many? Why such excess? Why such waste? I had already pulled thousands from our gardens-all these seeds and seedlings with no future!
Wild daisies are another. Thinking them cute and quaint, I introduced them into my yard years ago. I’ve given up battling their ubiquitous presence. Shameful in profusion-they’re everywhere.
And then there’s grant writing. Foundations want to see the outcomes to assure their money is being used effectively. Outcomes usually come in numbers: We know this program has been effective if ____ many people have successfully ______________. Profligate waste is frowned upon.
To my best calculation, we have worked with 67 women at Liberty Manor in the last year. What difference have we made? How many are now clean and sober, moving in a positive direction in their lives? What impact on the outcomes did our program have?
I can’t answer those questions. We haven’t done the outcome studies. But is the value of our program measured on this concept of success? Since all of these women have a history of trauma, since few of them have any love for themselves or any hope for the future, do numbers really tell the story of effectiveness? What if someone has felt love for the first time in her life? Or for the first time can see her own beauty? What about the first glimpse of hope, however fleeting that might be?
I did an informal survey a few months back in which 11 women participated anonymously. There was a total of 87 stints of addiction treatment and 66 incarcerations. One woman was in her 21st treatment, another had been incarcerated 20 times. Those numbers say a lot.
The inner competencies that we teach such as self-calming, hope, purpose, trust, confidence, either never developed for these women or were stamped out through years of abuse and addiction. Many seeds are scattered, some sprout-a lot never make it. Some may lie dormant and we will never know the outcome.
I’d like to share Tami’s story with you. I can’t predict the next chapter or the “final” outcome of her story, but she has proudly given me permission to share it with you.
She wrote her name in the tiniest letters imaginable. TAMI. I had barely recognized her when I saw a woman bearing resemblance to the Tami who had not returned from a doctor’s appointment one day. I had watched her disintegrating, bemoaning the loss of her very best friend, Crack. I wished I had talked to her, but that may not have made a difference.
For awhile she had looked so vibrant and was so appreciative of our work. She even wanted to volunteer with fundraising-our garage sale that was coming up.
I had searched up and down Lyell Avenue for her. I heard she was in jail but I couldn’t find her name amongst the incarcerated. The common wisdom was that by 30 you either stopped or you died. I’ve known a few women who walked the streets to support their addiction that were older. I hoped that she would be one of the ones that made it.
“Tami?” I queried. “Yes,” she said, smiling. I held her for a long moment, my eyes filled with tears. “You’re safe. You’re alive!” “Yes,” she said. “I’m glad,” I said. “Me, too,” she replied.
In the session I talked about the grant proposal we were writing for working women with addiction in conjunction with drug court, teaching the inner competencies necessary for sustained sobriety, clean time, education and/or employment. She immediately raised her hand, wanting in.
Later she said, “I want to be a part of that program!” I had to say we wouldn’t have the money until January and wouldn’t even know if we were getting it until September.
The next week we talked more. She shared her anger at a staff member who felt disrespectful to her. “If I’m going to be treated that way, I may as well be on the street using.” I assured her that she deserved respect and not the “street treatment,” but also reminded her that it was her addiction talking. “You’re right,” she said, and then we talked about her anger towards herself and all the disastrous choices she had made-when, in her opinion, she had no excuse, especially in comparison to others.
Then she suddenly interrupted me. “Just before I got arrested, I was going through all my things and the stuff from Liberty Manor. Guess what was the only thing I saved-I bet you’ll know what it was.” I couldn’t guess. “The journal you gave us to write our feelings in and the sayings we got to glue in them. I threw everything else away. Someone took my colored pencils, though, and I was really mad about that.”
Nine months later and she had held on to her journal-maybe holding on to a kernel of hope.
I hope we get the grant. And I remember that God is a profligate lover.
