Nests

The counseling work that I am currently doing is nothing if not rich and real. I haven't decided how much or how little I will write about it, but here is the result of Monday night's Big Yellow writing class. The stringless guitar, the duffle bag, and the bonsai tree were prompts, so if you wonder why they are included in this piece, that's the answer.

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I’m prowling the projects again. I didn’t think much about it until someone offhandedly reminded me that the world has changed, that random violence is more prevalent now, and more so in the high crime areas where I’ll be working sometimes. And even so, I didn’t give a thought to the reality that I can no longer outrun some twit who may want the $ 12 in my wallet or the stereo in my car. I didn’t think about any of this until someone and then some else brought it to my attention and then I thought about it a lot. But only for a time.
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It took me less than three weeks to get use to the vacant lots with so many dandelions you can hardly see the grass and the sad boarded up Victorians with the “owned by bank” signs nailed to the front porch.
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It took me even less time to adjust to the projects, those rows of brick buildings or clapboard townhouses with the broken screens and wide parking lots.
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“Why doesn’t anyone have flowers outside?” I asked my 10 o’clock client.

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“Because they get stolen” she sighed.
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Project life has its benefits. It’s an expansive enclosed and instant community where little kids can ride their bikes and scooters and not much happens where real worrying is required, except there are a few projects, like anywhere I suppose, that are not safe for anyone to be out riding a bike or doing anything except coming and going.
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If you live in the projects, chances are your rent is low, which is good because odds are you don’t work, and you really can’t work if you want to keep your apartment and food and medical benefits for your kids.
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Plus you really can’t nest that well in the projects, because in some cases the rooms are laid out kind of weird and awkwardly, and often they lack furniture.

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“How come you don’t have furniture in the living room?”, I asked another client.

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“We had to leave everything behind when we moved.” she said.
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Another thing about the projects, and I suppose this is true of inner city poverty as well, is that dreams and plans don’t hold up so well. Something about passing down despair or hopelessness from generation to generation. Which I suspect is the opposite of modeling perserverance and hope. I don’t know about that yet, but I can see that a 4 year kid hears every word when her mother tells me she’s still hearing voices at night.
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The thing is, I’ve yet to see a stringless guitar or duffle bag or bonsai tree. So far. But I’ve just started. And I think there are homemade nests buried in there somewhere. I just don’t have the means to recognize them . Yet.
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And when I do, we'll start building.