Election Chicken

 In mid-April of 2023, I wrote on my blog about my granddaughters and their newly acquired chickens.  You can read the entire piece “Spring Chicken” here:  https://bit.ly/3AtQ90B.  I was apprehensive and perhaps overprotective about my granddaughter, Josephine, and her younger sisters. Would avian mortality break young human hearts? I wrote: “I began to catalog problems. Where on the family property sloping down to the Beaverkill River could they locate a henhouse?  Would a moveable henhouse be a good idea?  What would Archie’s (the family dog) role in all this be? Guard dog or predator?  There is no lack of natural predators in the neighborhood: coyotes, foxes, bobcats, weasels, mink, raccoons, opossums, skunks, rodents, and snakes. Not to mention aerial attacks from hawks, owls, and the bald eagles that patrol up and down the river”. 

 

My brother, Harrison, with his own flock of chickens, shared some useful wisdom, reminding me “…of potential lessons that could be learned in this venture.  Some good, some perhaps painful. Raising chickens, like the vegetable gardens we have in common comes with a mix of success, frustration, and failure. He suggested to me that the potential for learning was far more important than trying to protect Josephine from emotional upset. The value of experience over being sheltered”.

 

The chicken venture moved forward.  A creative housing solution was found. Ten chicks grew, matured, and in due course began laying eggs in abundance.  They thrived throughout the seasons and in their second summer could be found clucking behind the rhododendrons in front of the house, parading in the driveway, or roaming further afield while always returning for nighttime roll call. All was well until a midsummer nighttime count yielded eight instead of ten. There was no sign of a chicken massacre, neither corpses nor even feathers in the vicinity of the house, but clearly, two were gone.

 

A more recent mortality showed clear indications of a culprit.  One poor bird had its head bitten off, typical of the murderous ways of a mink or a fisher.  Not long after the killer returned to feed on the corpse.  Video evidence showed the perpetrator hanging upside down from a fence while gnawing on the body of his victim.  The likely guess, given the river nearby and habitat preference, is that a mink was the culprit. If you like, you can view the video here:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1TXkofku5fY-qMTV-RbD1kSjMBHfdsjct/view

 

  

 

It was time to get the remaining flock (while it remained a flock) to safety.  Josephine has a classmate, Mia, whose family lives nearby and has a fenced-in chicken run that could easily accommodate immigrant newcomers.  Mia’s father arrived one evening, gathered the birds, and transported them to safety.

 

This past weekend Josephine had a sleepover at Mia’s house.  As it happened, I was helping to care for my granddaughter flock over the weekend.  I drove Josephine – 10, and her sisters (Willa – 6, and Julia – 5) to the drop-off at Mia’s. The girls got a chance to visit their chickens.  The pickup the next day provided another opportunity to visit.  Mia’s father assured me that the newcomers had settled in nicely and after a day off had begun laying eggs again.  Indeed, they had a dozen eggs for us to take home, along with two kinds of winter squash from their garden.  Their easy generosity toward birds and humans alike is much appreciated. The girls are welcome to visit their chickens again.

 

Sunday evening provided a grim reminder that more than chickens are vulnerable to predators.  Mia Rodriguez and her family are Mexicans. They own their home.  They pay taxes. They are good neighbors.  They are not the only good neighbors to be found in the Catskills to be sure. But Sunday’s Trump rally reminded me of disparaging remarks I’ve heard about Mexicans in the years we’ve had a home in the Catskills. A prejudice Trump plays to. Worse, of course, is the fact that there are those who would happily remove a family such as this simply due to their ethnicity

 

Sunday reminded me that there are good people who are vulnerable to the racist whims of Donald Trump. I have kept my political inclinations largely to myself and those I know to be of a similar persuasion. That is a luxury I can no longer award myself in this election.  My silence and a vote are not enough.  I can no longer fear who will disagree with my opinion and my stance. I can’t pretend to be a chicken naively hoping to live safely when I’m all too aware of the danger that might attack my freedom and that of my neighbors.   

 

    

 

From Beethoven to Looney Tunes

On a beautiful fall Catskill Saturday morning, I waited patiently outdoors with a small group at a car dealership where people who had recently purchased vehicles at the dealership were able to get car keys duplicated. For free. On a Saturday morning.  Once a month. People were relaxed and cordial even as time dragged on. I engaged in a most pleasant discussion with a gentleman who is a classical pianist. He could trace a direct line of piano teachers from his mentor to Beethoven.   

 

Our mood modulated when the group’s attention was turned to Helene and the devastation it has wrought in rural Appalachia. Speaking to any who would listen and with no apparent prompting, the lone female in the group voiced her conviction that emergency aid was not getting delivered to isolated communities.  More particularly, no government helicopters were flying in necessary aid. FEMA was a failure. Worse, private helicopters were being prevented from any form of assistance. The pianist and I asked each other where she might get this information. Silly me, I thought Republican governors were thanking the president for a swift and extensive response. 

 

No surprise, it was the fault of the Biden administration we were told, the chief offender being KA…Mala (She used the Trump bastardization of Ms. Harris’s name.). Knowing well that argument was futile, I nonetheless interjected that the proper pronunciation was Kama…la.  She looked at me, smiled, and continued. 

 

What came next was a call and response between the speaker and a veteran willing to chime in.  He wasn’t pleased at the prospect of losing his guns. She reminded him that the Constitution is “just a piece of paper. WE are the Constitution”. Even so, he didn’t think much of Trump. Trump was no friend of veterans. Surprisingly, she announced she didn’t like Trump either.  She simply would not vote in this election.  The aggrieved veteran opined that “they” are looking for one authoritarian to rule the world. That’s where we are headed. The speaker jumped all over this unification theory. Netanyahu and Don Jr. are in league for this world takeover.  Further, they are aliens, planted here for just such a takeover. Yes, I heard that right…ALIENS!   

 

The forum ended, abruptly and blessedly, when it was Cassandra’s turn to get her key duplicated. I don’t think the key man fixed loose screws. The group returned to quiet and small pleasantries. Unfortunately, the key duplicator did not have the proper piece for my key copy.  I have to come back again in a month when he reappears. I’ll be back unless I’m abducted or erased by aliens now that I’m privy to their plan.

 

I drove home to re-check what I thought were facts from the New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2024/10/06/us/hurricane-helene-north-carolina-misinformation.html?unlocked_article_code=1.QU4.s2_o.UVgATBCYgJwY&smid=url-share

 

Is that photo of helicopters in the article photoshopped?  Maybe people in western North Carolina have had helicopter sightings.  Who knows?

 

 

 

 

 

Teaching Johnny Appleseed

A young neighbor and I were discussing our late summer turn into fall where we live in the Catskills. Early color on the trees, an early change to fall coats on the deer, and an abundance of apples, among other things. “The old timers are saying this is the best apple crop they’ve seen in ages,” he told me. The Times Union Hudson Valley Bureau reports “…farmers are predicting the best apple harvest in decades.”  One estimate predicts a harvest of 31 million bushels.  In our rural neighborhood, my wife and I have been able to take advantage of local windfall apples and those still hanging to ripen on roadside trees.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how many events in our history have a corollary story involving psychoactive substances. From Prohibition to Prince; from the Whiskey Rebellion to Woodstock, just to cite a few. An abundant history discussed little and taught even less. The abundance of apples reminded me of Johnny Appleseed. 

 

For starters, Johnny was a real person, not a folklore creation like Pecos Bill or Paul Bunyon, though much about him has been romanticized and exaggerated to legendary status. His real name was John Chapman.  Chapman worked as a nurseryman in the late 1700s on what was then the Western frontier from Pennsylvania into Ohio and Indiana. A 2014 article by Natasha Geiling in Smithsonian Magazine tells us:

“John Chapman was born, on September 26, 1774, in Leominster, Massachusetts. Much of his early years have been lost to history, but in the early 1800s, Chapman reappears, this time on the western edge of Pennsylvania, near the country's rapidly expanding Western frontier. At the turn of the 19th century, speculators and private companies were buying up huge swathes of land in the Northwest Territory, waiting for settlers to arrive. Starting in 1792, the Ohio Company of Associates made a deal with potential settlers: anyone willing to form a permanent homestead on the wilderness beyond Ohio's first permanent settlement would be granted 100 acres of land. To prove their homesteads to be permanent, settlers were required to plant 50 apple trees and 20 peach trees in three years, since an average apple tree took roughly ten years to bear fruit. 

“Ever the savvy businessman, Chapman realized that if he could do the difficult work of planting these orchards, he could turn them around for profit to incoming frontiersmen. Wandering from Pennsylvania to Illinois, Chapman would advance just ahead of settlers, cultivating orchards that he would sell them when they arrived, and then head to more undeveloped land. Like the caricature that has survived to modern day, Chapman really did tote a bag full of apple seeds. As a member of the Swedenborgian Church, whose belief system explicitly forbade grafting (which they believed caused plants to suffer), Chapman planted all of his orchards from seed, meaning his apples were, for the most part, unfit for eating.”

The apples Chapman planted were used for making hard cider, a popular and even necessary beverage at the time. 

 "Up until Prohibition, an apple grown in America was far less likely to be eaten than to wind up in a barrel of cider," writes Michael Pollan in The Botany of Desire. "In rural areas, cider took the place of not only wine and beer but of coffee and tea, juice, and even water."

With some basis in fact, Americans believed alcohol to be healthful, and safer than water.  The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation Journal tells us that “In 1790, United States government figures showed that annual per-capita alcohol consumption for everybody over fifteen amounted to thirty-four gallons of beer and cider, five gallons of distilled spirits, and one gallon of wine.” For their very interesting and full report on Colonial era alcohol consumption and habits, go here:  https://bit.ly/4eo0N7B

Back in 1948 Walt Disney

(of course) seized on Chapman’s story to make a film about Johnny Appleseed. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RhXXo0pEnA

What we could learn from Chapman’s story, if we wanted to was some information about early American attitudes toward alcohol, how they helped form our current attitudes, and how government policy toward alcohol has evolved over time?  As I suggested earlier, substances – not just alcohol – are very much entwined with the history of our nation. Unfortunately, we do little in our educational institutions to inform young people about this history.  Young people now in high school and college will soon be voting (perhaps as soon as the upcoming presidential election).  Some of the issues they will help decide have to do with drug policy. Later in life, they will help formulate policy.  I suggest we need a Johnny Appleseed to help seed an orchard off facts. Facts that might lead to informed debate and rational, well-thought-out decisions about future drug policy. Here in New York State, we can celebrate a bonanza year of 31 bushels of apples. What we can’t celebrate are the 6,000 or more drug overdose deaths that failed policy helps to perpetuate.

 

 

 

  

Titanic William - International Overdose Awareness Day

 As a young boy my son, William, had a fascination with ships, most especially the Titanic. I have no recollection of how or why this passion began. I do know it manifested itself in numerous detailed drawings of ships; more particularly renderings of the Titanic.  One piece of William’s Titanic art is framed and hangs in our apartment’s hallway. Not a drawing, it is rather an evocative collage of the great ship at the moment an iceberg slices through its hull.

 

As a young adult, William hit an iceberg of his own when a lack of caution led him to experiment with heroin.  As water flooded the Titanic compartment by compartment, so too over time did heroin inevitably flood William’s brain with irresistible cravings.  Gradually, the experiment became a chronic disease, manifesting itself in a downward spiral despite all attempts to bring it under control.  Like survivors in lifeboats, we were at William’s side when he finally succumbed after being hospitalized for six weeks following an accidental overdose. 

 

This December will mark twelve years since our loss.  Recently, a National Geographic photo of the Titanic at rest on the ocean floor made me think of William. Tiny microbes eat away at the Titanic in the depths. Eventually, the ship will disintegrate. There is a shipwreck named William embedded deep in my memory. Objects left behind (clothes of his I still wear, pieces of art, books, sports equipment, and more) help aid my recall. Time, however, makes memory imperfect.  As the years go by, details of William’s life deteriorate, despite my best attempts to dive down and retrieve them.  Events merge, chronology alters, and names elude. Time can alter, erode, and erase details. It cannot erase love.    

  

August 31^st, is International Overdose Awareness Day. The theme for the day this year is “Together We Can.” It emphasizes the power of community and collective action in combating overdose. Take a moment to think of people you knew, now lost to overdose.  Think of people you know at risk of overdose. Think about what we might do, can do, not just to keep them afloat – but to speed them toward the light of recovery. We need to be lighthouses of hope, not just today but every day.   

FRACTURED BARBIE

A cold, overcast, damp Catskill afternoon. May is in hiding.  The phone rang.  My daughter Elizabeth called to ask if I could possibly watch two of my granddaughters, Willa – 6, and Julia – 5 for a couple of hours.  On a scale of unenthusiastic to whiny, they were in the whiny zone, resisting a car trip to sit through their older sister Josephine’s –10, Friday gymnastics class. Sensing that I could spare Elizabeth a tense standoff sure to include tears and full-throated juvenile opposition, I hopped in my car and made the twenty-minute drive for my rescue mission.

 

Elizabeth and Josephine, were already in their car ready to depart; the little girls on the front porch; all welcomed my arrival. I have no idea whether the dogs, Prince and Archie, had any opinion one way or the other about my arrival, but they too, were on the porch.  

 

The driveway puddled and muddy, all but Prince headed back into the house. I found a short National Geographic documentary on my computer about Emperor Penguin chicks making their first leap into frigid Antarctic water off the fifty-foot edge of an iceberg.  The girls were impressed, but as the penguins swam off the girls edged away to find something on TV.  Archie stretched out waiting to get her belly scratched. 

 

Time passed easily enough, the girls watching TV, Archie dozing, and Prince…where was Prince?!  I opened the front door and called Prince. Nothing. I offered treats.  Still nothing.  The girls reassured me that Prince liked to hang out near the chickens, that he wouldn’t bother them, and that he’d reappear. Sure enough, a few moments later a muddy-pawed Prince was at the door. Much to my relief, as I like to know all my charges, child or canine, are safe and secure.

I want nothing amiss on my watch and probably expend too much worry in that regard.

 

“I’m hungry.  I want some pasta.” Willa.

“So do I.” Julia.

 

We easily agreed I could warm up some pasta that was in the refrigerator.  “With butter and salt.”  TV was too compelling to add on “Please”.  I let manners slide.  The pasta served, I set about meeting the next request, orange juice.  The house phone rang.  Willa dashed to answer. Willa allowed me to speak to Elizabeth.  A courtesy call; she would be home soon.  

 

The pasta remained largely uneaten. I’m not a fan of waste.  Willa complained she didn’t like it.  Julia, “I ate some.”

 

Elizabeth’s arrival prompted a dash to the kitchen by Willa with her bowl of pasta.  Not up to date on current rules and regulations I had unwittingly allowed the girls to eat in front of the TV. TV they shouldn’t have been watching in the afternoon.  Hence Willa’s dash to cover up her tracks.  

 

After Elizabeth reviewed the ground rules with the girls, I narrated the tale of Prince’s extended sojourn outdoors.  Due to the rain Elizabeth hadn’t been able to give the dogs their usual exercise outdoors.  I volunteered and took them on a short excursion along the trail behind the house that runs high above the Beaverkill River. Prince, bouncy and Tigger-like, raced back and forth. Archie, less enthusiastic, apparently unhappy in a light rain, and more in tummy rub mode lagged behind, seemingly determined to make this expedition as short as possible. We returned home soon enough.

 

Upon her return, Elizabeth showed me a Mother’s Day salute Julia brought home from school. A fill-in-the-blanks tribute. Julia has provided the necessary information with each answer neatly printed in a teacher’s hand in the space provided.  It turns out Elizabeth likes “to clean the house” with a particular favorite activity being ironing.  Where, Elizabeth wants to know, did this notion come from? She doubts her children have ever seen her hold an iron in her hand, much less employ it. Does she clean the house? Yes…but she is not a Cinderella singing happy songs while mice, birds, and especially little girls help make swift work of the chores.  There is indeed the occasional mouse, but never one who sings or cleans. There are birds, the ten chickens who required attention outside the house, and a change of footgear upon reentering the house.  And three little girls who do more to advance an incoming tide of daily mess than clear jetsam should the opportunity arise. 

 

I question the Mother’s Day document.  It appears to me to be from some pre-printed holiday activity book for teachers, somewhere between Mayday and Memorial Day.  Thoughtful busy work for teachers and students which will arrive home in most, if not all, backpacks to cheerfully celebrate Moms and add to the clutter those Moms struggle to eliminate.  I imagine the teacher, patiently (one hopes) sitting with each of her young pupils while they fill in the blanks.  Five-year-old’s enduring a hit-or-miss-inquisition about nice things to say about Mom.  The teacher, editor, and prompter needing to expedite the process for a classroom full of charges.  “What does your Mommy like to do?”  Contemplative silence.  “How about ironing? Does she like to iron?”  More thought.  More blanks to fill. Ironing sounds good. Ironing gets neatly printed in the blank and on to the next question. “What does your mother like to do to relax?”

“Lie down and watch the news.” Half right.  How about just lying down?  The busy work fills part of the school day.  The fictions arrive home. Moms everywhere get to feel known and loved. Or at least remembered and appreciated – even if the appreciation is for tasks never imagined much less realized.

 

Elizabeth asks me if I’d like to stay for a glass of wine.  I have a hunch “a glass of wine” would not fit the blank of the festive questionnaire. It does sit well with Granddad, however.  It provides not only a moment to relax but also the opportunity for some adult conversation.  First, the girls are gathered to inform them of a longstanding family tradition.  As they have already eaten (some), it is going to be an EMFH night. Every Man For Himself when it comes to dinner.  There is some clarification about “Man”.  We really mean Everyone for themself.  Willa is already eating a banana.  That’s an example of a good choice.  Elizabeth runs off a quick list of good choices.  Julia understands that snacks don’t count.  For a moment the flock disperses. 

 

Elizabeth has a multitude of talents beyond being a mother. Her talent as a mother extends far beyond a school worksheet.  She and I discuss a play she has read and how she’d like to perform in it.  There’s a role that would be right for her. She’s a very talented actress. At least when being a Mom doesn’t come first.  Or when running for town council or the local school board. Or co-producing a television documentary that has just won a Peabody award. Or when working with her talented chef husband to manage a family food business that originated at the beginning of Covid, has brought a small rural town extraordinary food and community in the best sense of the word.

 

We explore ways Elizabeth might get the play she’s interested on stage in a professional setting.  Who do we know who might act in it?  Direct it?  Fund it?  Have an available space?  It is an open, imaginative discussion, rewarding in its own right.  Suddenly, EMERGENCY!! Julia announces that Barbie has been in a car accident. One presumes it is the Barbie in her hand, although it could be any one of the multitude of clone Barbie sisters scattered throughout the house, sometimes in swarms.  What to do?  Can Julia get the first aid kit? Elizabeth, now offstage from her professional imagination, is onstage as a Barbie first responder.  The first aid kit is for US, real people, she reminds.  It needs to be saved for when we need it. Perhaps Julia can find some fabric to create a cast for Barbie’s arm. Julia is clever and remarkably competent.  Off she goes.

 

Elizabeth and I resume our musings about her career ideas.  But not for long. Julia reappears. Barbie’s arm is in a cast. Now it seeems Barbie has also broken her leg.  I suggest that a splint or a brace might be in order.  Sister Josephine enters.  She’s been using her mother’s phone for a while to search for a dress for the Blue and Orange dinner at camp this summer. It’s never too early to start planning.  She’ll be attending the full summer, so it’s possible she might need something in blue and something in orange.  Which one does her mother like better?  Granddad?  There is, of course, the possibility she’ll only need one color – but which one? Or can she swap with a friend for a night?  Elizabeth tells Josephine to put the dresses in an online cart for a later discussion, decision, and resolution.  In the meantime, it appears Barbie will need crutches. Josephine agrees to crutch construction.    

 

Elizabeth instructs the girls to get several bins of art supplies always kept on hand.  Elizabeth opens a “store” to sell medical supplies.  Two tongue depressors at five dollars each. How much is five plus five? “TEN!” pipes up Willa from the other room.  Josephine confirms that five-plus-five is the same as two times five. Josephine keeps track of the running tab.  Two items at three dollars apiece. Six. Six plus ten. Two items at a dollar each. Six plus ten plus two. Finally, two items at fifty cents each. A dollar. Nineteen dollars later crutch construction can begin. Elizabeth has graciously accepted the nineteen-dollar bill Julia has offered her.   

 

Elizabeth and I discuss school report cards while the crutch workshop gets busy. The reports don’t quite seem to synch up with the imagination, cleverness, and intelligence we’ve seen around us.  I contend that the reports, much like the Mother’s Day tribute are full of boxes to be checked.  No narrative. All the boxes/responses about work and study habits are “Excellent”. The holy grail of grade-level mastery seems harder to attain.  I maintain teachers are unwilling to say someone is doing well until standardized tests say so.  Hence, they assess progress on the conservative side just to be safe. There are, of course, no grades for Barbie crutch building, or constructing the narrative that led to Barbie’s misfortune.  

 

All discussion of Elizabeth’s career and creative empowerment has come to a halt.  Barbie’s crutches are too long. They dig into Barbie’s armpits.  Elizabeth helps adjust them for Barbie.  

 

There are no grades for Mom, even in ironing.  There are lessons to teach, examples to set, and patience to model.  Someday, perhaps, these girls will mend another generation of Barbies and shower their caretakers with the same love and dedication that is molding them into caring, kind, loving young women no chart, form, or filled-in-blank can ever describe.  They will say from their hearts Happy Mother’s Day. I will bet on lovingly crafted cards and gifts to show they mean it.

 

Barbie’s fracture will undoubtedly heal swiftly. In time Elizabeth can mend the breaks in her career.  She already knows well how to play and share love.  

 

 

 

Open Letter to Former Surgeon General Dr. Jerome Adams

 Dr. Adams:

 

In a post on Twitter today, 4/25/24. you write about how and why you’ve “…completely stopped watching cable news as I’m absolutely disgusted by the nonstop – and nonsense – political ads…” Fair enough. We agree about the proliferation of both the number and content of political ads.  Where I disagree with you, however, is how you begin your post.  You say, “I’m a news junkie…”  Are you really a news “junkie”?  Do you require ever-increasing amounts of news to sustain an equilibrium?  Does your news consumption lead to negative consequences in your life?  Do you continue to engage in news consumption and opinion writing despite ever more negative consequences, possibly flirting with death?  It's your casual and easy use of the word “junkie” that I call to question.  I write, not to scold, but to encourage you to think about how easily this pejorative for someone with substance use disorder slips into our daily discourse.  It festers and amplifies the shame and stigma we readily heap upon those suffering from substance use. You may be a news fiend, an enthusiast, or some other more appropriate term. You are decidedly not a junkie. 

 

Since the loss of my 24-year-old son to an accidental heroin overdose in December of 2012, I have spent a great deal of my time on addiction advocacy. If you Google Bill Williams – New York Times you’ll find two Op-Ed pieces that will help you understand what propels my advocacy.  Hence this message to you. You and I actually participated and presented at a Health and Human Services event in Washington event in Washington in December of 2017. I got to see for myself what a caring and compassionate man you are. 

You may go here to discover talks my wife, Margot Head, and I gave at a U.S. Senate Addiction Forum back in 2014 - http://bit.ly/1zgE7O3  Seventeen minutes total, should you have the time.  I also host a monthly radio program on addiction issues on my local Catskills NPR station.  Consider it opinion sharing in another medium. You can find it here: https://wjffradio.org/thekingfisherproject/

I trust I am clear that I write not to chide or rebuke.  Indeed, I have much respect both for your willingness to express your points of view and the content of those expressions. Even the best of us, and I include myself here, write or inadvertently say things that perpetuate the stigma surrounding addiction.  I write in the hope that I can enlist you as a continued agent of change.  For that, much thanks.

Bill Williams

http://billwilliamsblog.blogspot.com/

The Where There's A Will Fund - http://bit.ly/Y0UXv3

http://twitter.com/BillEduTheater

 

 

 

 

 

Eve's Big Vision

 Over eleven years ago, my son William went to a New York City hospital and asked to be admitted for inpatient detox.  He was using heroin, benzodiazepines, cannabis, and alcohol. Within a few short hours, he was turned away, his insurers' deeming detox “not medically necessary”.  Four days later he accidentally overdosed on heroin. Six weeks of hospitalization followed before it became clear William was consigned to a permanent vegetative state. We removed him from life support and made an anatomical donation of his body to Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons.

 

My reaction to losing William was to write both about the trauma our family experienced and the failures of our treatment system. It was my way of coping with catastrophe and doing my best to ensure William’s death was not in vain.  I was fortunate enough to have two essays published in the New York Times. Writing had its desired effect. I was contacted by several treatment programs in New York and asked if I might contribute some writing toward their work. My wife, Margot, and I were offered the opportunity to testify about the lack of parity for substance use disorder and mental health treatment before several congressional committees. This advocacy was and is exciting and rewarding. The best part, however, is not the exposure to large numbers of people. It is meeting and discovering common cause with committed, exceptional, inspiring, individuals who share the experience of losing a child to addiction. Such a person is my now friend Eve Goldberg.

 

 Close to a decade back, Eve and I were seated next to one another at a formal event as a “You two should meet,” introduction. When we really met, however, was when we agreed to share our experiences at the BigVision office https://www.bigvision.nyc. As I recall, BigVision was in its infancy then, maybe toddlerhood. Eve was its founder and “mother”.   The midtown office was on the small side, certainly not large enough for on-site group activities. The size of the office did not prohibit our discussion from being expansive. I told Eve our story.  Eve told me about her son, Isaac.  We discovered how much these young men had in common. Eve explained Isaac’s frustration and isolation with no safe and engaging activities available to him while trying to stay sober. And yes, I learned about Eve’s dream of where she wanted BigVision to go.

 

Since that meeting, I’ve played basketball (poorly) and showed off my dance moves (a little less poorly) at BigVision fundraisers. I’ve been ice skating with BigVision participants and even taught a quick study young fellow how to ice skate on a chilly night at Bryant Park.  I’ve led some improvisational physical theater workshops. I’ve seen the organization and the space(s) it inhabits grow. More space, more staff, more participants, more activities. 

 

Within the last year or so Eve has brought another vision to fruition. She leads a monthly group meeting for parents who have lost a child to addiction.  It is an opportunity for people to share and to listen, whether our grief is longstanding or freshly tormenting.  It is a comforting reminder we are not alone and an opportunity to share strategies for coping.   

 

BigVision continues to grow. It has acquired a ground-floor space on midtown Manhattan’s East Side which includes room outdoors. Prior to BigVision’s bold acquisition the space belonged to a psychoanalytic institute and was largely comprised of many small-sized offices for therapists. It was, ironically, dark and closed in; not the sort of place a person might choose to go to brighten up their life. I wouldn’t want to have worked there.  BigVision is renovating the space, opening it up, letting in the light both literally and figuratively.  There will be room for large group meetings and activities, room for meditation, office space, and a pleasant outdoor garden spot where one can even shoot some hoops (something Isaac in particular would love). In short, a vibrant space to be filled with activity. A midtown clubhouse for young people in recovery. Something unique in New York City and a potential model for other cities and towns.  

 

Before we formally began our most recent Grief Group meeting, I asked Eve how the renovation was proceeding. Construction is on or ahead of schedule.  The only issue is figuring out what changes may be desirable to open up the space even more than initially anticipated. 

 

When our group discussion commenced, Eve uncharacteristically began by sharing something about herself.  Eve is our leader and usually prompts discussion, taking care to draw out those who are still having the most difficulty grappling with their grief. The meetings are far from, allow me, All About Eve.  This time, however, Eve explained how she has recently begun to explore somatic therapy, a body-centric approach that focuses on relieving the stress and tension we store in our bodies after traumatic events. She was particular about where and how she may well have retained pain and stress in her body ever since, or perhaps due to, the loss of Isaac.  

 

Much of our group’s ensuing hour was given over to shared thoughts on the physical experience of grief, the positive benefits of activity in helping to relieve grief, and some recognition of the importance of physicality in addition to more traditional talk therapy. I contributed little, other than the fact that my acting training, while not therapy, may well have been therapeutic in discovering stress and emotional life stored in my body. 

 

As our time concluded, a thought resonated with me. Eve’s initial response to me about progress on the new space was about opening the space even more, letting in more light, to facilitate as many different activities as possible.  The space will have changed from a dark and somewhat dismal mind-centric space to a holistic, inviting recovery community.

 

Not unlike the larger project, Eve is engaging in the prospect of perhaps opening up some more personal space, pulling back some curtains, and letting in some light. Grief can be tricky.  It likes to hide and hang out in us, reluctant to move on. Eve is looking for its hiding places. 

 

It does not seem to me to be a coincidence that a renovation and an investigation, both involving Eve, are occurring simultaneously. Each is a manifestation of her imagination, courage, and willingness to bring light to darkness, whether personal or public. 

 

I have no idea where all those psychoanalysts have moved on to. I hope for their sake the lighting is better.  Perhaps brighter enough to provide them with some big vision!