For you un-religious folks, you might want to slide on over to another entry, as this one, on Christmas night, appropriately enough, has some religious content to it.
 
Here it is, Christmas night. I sit writing an entry in my blog while the rest of the family watches my favorite movie of all time, Smoke Signals. I'm only partially involved, as I have seen it numerous times. I really want to never tire of it if possible. Great Indian flick or not, my thoughts are on Christmas, and what it's really about. Hard not to be grateful.
 
Picture this scenario: you're a sixteen or seventeen year old girl, snuggly asleep in your bed, and you wake up and there's a huge angel with big ol' wings standing next to your bed. Yow! It'd scare the dog out of you. So he says: "God has sent me to tell you that you are chosen to be the Mother of Jesus, the Savior of the world. But you have to agree to have this child." So, despite her great fear, she agrees, and zzzzt! she's just conceived God. Nine months later she gives birth to baby Jesus. Does she know what the Father knows? Out of love for us, he gave us his son, that in thirty-three years he would be beaten almost to death, then agonizingly nailed to a cross. For us. To save mankind. Unbelievable. What a deal. What a gift. The birth of Christ. Merry Christmas world.

Having grown up in the S.F Bay Area in the sixties, I was probably somewhat influenced by the young cultural environment. Some things perhaps not so healthy, but some permanently etched into my existence. I still keep a copy of the Bay Area's Country Joe and the Fish song, "Who Am I" on my work desktop for easy access to remind folks (especially teens)  of the important and permanent search for one's self (I just play the quick refrain, not the whole song). Who are we? Who do we want to be? This particular experience shook me to the core, as I was losing me.

            Early in my career I was a bartender (arguably my first counseling job) at my family’s bowling alley.  One of the afternoon cocktail waitresses, Cynthia, came in with an unusually bad attitude.  In between slamming her purse and other articles down, she told me her seventeen year-old son had accidentally shot himself in the leg while in the custody of the State juvenile system.  She was furious that this wilderness program had been so irresponsible in letting kids handle loaded guns.  I was equally amazed and disgusted.  What kind of juvenile detention system could be so stupid?
            Cynthia had a wealthy boyfriend with whom she flew on trips every weekend in his private plane.  Coming from a rather poor background, it was an incredible treat for her to fly each weekend.  Her son was incarcerated in the northern part of the state, making it a four or five hour drive for her to see him.  We took a break in our cussing the foolish state juvenile system to plan a change of schedule for her.  When I asked her if she needed to leave today (Monday), she told me that Bill was going to fly her up there on Thursday.  That miserable rescheduling chore cancelled, we continued our tirade about the juvenile authorities until I left for my commute back home at 6 pm.  An hour later, as I got out of the car, anxious to share this incredible story of negligence with my wife, a wave of nauseated disbelief washed over me.  For the past eight hours I joined my co-workers in blasting the juvenile system, and never, not once, did it occur to me:  What kind of a mother would have her son shot through the thigh and wait four days so she could have a convenient flight rather than immediately drive to see her injured son?  I was so horrified at what had happened to me, I put my hand on the hood of my car for support.  I was dizzy with horror:  I was becoming my environment.  Eight hours a day, five days a week I worked with people who were transforming me—or rather, I was allowing them to transform me into one of them.  By not thinking independently, by not weighing my values, morals and even merely my individual tastes, I was absorbing my environment.
            In the years that have followed, I have noted many environmental influences.  You can go to a conference and be surrounded by people who like to “play” when they are away from home.  You can work a job that everyone does the bare minimum of what is expected.  Your co-workers may make moral compromises to enhance their reputation or income. Rather than providing leadership and inspiration for one's  family, you could surrender to an “every man for himself” environment and have no family unity, activities, or even time together.  The only defense against becoming an Incredible Absorbing Person is to know what’s important to you.  Who are you? What do you stand for? Know what’s right and live your life accordingly.

Back in the day when my clientele was made up of a lot of various addictions, I got the reputation for not scaring people away too quickly. I viewed this as some kind of accidental "technique" of side-stepping people's defensiveness. I later figured out I was not pushing the normal buttons that get people all worked up and defensive. I have since semi-cleverly named this accidental process, "uncommon responses". However, upon further reflection, I figured out that I did this (again, rather innocently) with my own kids as well. When your child (of all ages) has grievously errored, a normal response might be to go thermal nuclear on them. Then, subconsciously, they know the subsequent punishment was because their parent was so angry. Lost in their minds is the fact that they were the ones that caused this to happen in the first place. To learn from one's mistakes means you have to acknowledge it was your mistake in the first place. Staying calm and rational is certainly an uncommon response to goonball behavior, our kids or my clients. When my teenage client told me he angrily stomped his laptop to death, I responded: "Wow! I bet it looked like a bomb went off! Could you wire the hard drive to another monitor so you don't  lose all your school work you had done?" It was then that he acknowledged he had mightily screwed up and asked if there was some way he could get angry without doing things he'd beat himself up for many weeks later. Proper accountability: it's not just for the enlightened anymore.....

Having so many years of counseling experience (39 years?!), I suppose that qualifies me as a kinda expert (if such expertise truly exists). I love comments from other counselors when they say: "I don't know how your can work with teenagers!" I secretly think: I don't know how you don't".

Plenty of parents would like to drop off their kids at the counselor's office, not unlike the dry cleaners, and come back to pick up their clean and lightly starched kid. Amazingly, some times that works. However, logically, it seems like parents should realize in order to get their kids to change, they need to make some adjustments as well. Unless I'm in a crisis situation, I normally insist on seeing the parent(s) first. Then, if I get my way, I'll see the parent once every four or five visits from their child. I also need current info. I encourage parents to call or email me information about how their kid is doing (good and bad). I do not let parents ream out their kid in my office, as it messes up my credibility as a neutral "friend". I will certainly take a stand on issues, but privately with the kid.

None of this addresses the "how to counsel kids" technique, but who wants to read a blog that's too dang long? Coming up, hopefully sooner than not, I will address a couple of ideas, including my I-ought-to-copywrite-it idea of uncommon responses. Stay tuned....

You know, the pilgrims were probably brave and slightly crazy pioneers, but the more you learn about the history and subsequent demise of the Indians, the less cool the tall hats and tossing a fish into the corn stalks were. Not wanting to flush this holiday away due to my slightly aging cynicism, I instead decided to mutate Thanksgiving into a day of, well, thanksgiving. Simple rules of this day: no bitchin', no whining, no negativity. Rather, I remind myself, possibly 600 times throughout the day of the things I am grateful for. It's interesting that this takes a fair amount of effort, meaning I must be spending a lot of time the other 364 days complaining. Man! What's wrong wit' DAT picture?! So here's only one little sunbeam: WaHoo! I am finally blogging! Even if I am the only one to read this stuff, I have grown to enjoy writing (grateful #2), and this is an enjoyable forum. Happy Thanksgiving all, especially my family. What numerous things are you contemplating about on this day of thanks?