Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: "When do we do anything alone?"

During our most recent training weekend at Fire Academy, we arrived before 7 a.m. and spent a long time standing in the cold as the cars were prepared for our extrication lesson. I was sick and I kept having to take off my gloves to blow my nose, exposing them to the well-below-freezing air. I was standing with a group of my classmates, fellow firefighters, and I was actually growing concerned about the intensity of the pain in my fingers and toes. I shifted and stamped and scrunched my fingers and toes trying to get them warm.

One of the firefighters noticed, and the next thing I knew, he was taking off his gloves and telling me to put my hands inside them. They were warm with moist heat and toasty! (Like the inside of a Ton Ton?!) And then another firefighter told me to give him my gloves and he put his warm fingers inside of them, so that when I gave back the first firefighter's gloves, my newly warmed fingers could go inside warm gloves. My hands stayed warm for the rest of the day. Neither of these men are in my company.

On the day when I got most beat up, the second day of our most grueling weekend, when my knees were bruised to the bone and the rest of me was smashed to bits and I was reeling from the trauma of having gotten trapped in a confined space (wedged between wall studs and tangled up so badly my helmet and mask slipped off while people screamed at me to go faster--twice!), and it wasn't even lunch time yet, I stumbled out of the building looking for all the world like what I was--a woman in shock and about to pass out--a firefighter spotted me and immediately asked if it would be okay if he helped me. He himself has two bum knees, but with respectful kindness he slipped an arm around me and helped steady my gait. We made it to the staging area and as I focused on keeping all the black spots in my vision from swarming together and dragging me down, he went for help. While he was gone and I swayed stubbornly on my hands and knees, refusing to pass out, but unable to do more than that, another firefighter noticed me and brought me water. And two minutes later, after I had been checked out and was back on my feet again, another firefighter offered to change my bottle for me. Again, none of those men were in my company, which means that they had no necessary obligation to notice or to care how I was--and yet they did; they noticed, they cared, they took swift and effective action on my behalf.

On Thursday night, Orland Fire responded in mutual aid to a fatal motor vehicle accident. So far two firefighters from my class have checked in on me, because we have been taught that is important to ask someone if they are okay after a night like that.

I had to do the confined spaces maze two times in one day on our second weekend at Academy. When it was time for the second trip through, I was so exhausted and overwhelmed and borderline hysterical with fear just at the thought of going blindfolded back into that terrible, relentlessly small space that I (embarrassingly) started crying--and not just a little. I was crumpled faced and sobbing. I could't stop; my defenses were broken and I was leaking fear. I didn't want to go back in. But my lead instructor told me, firmly, that if I didn't get back in there (NOW) then I wouldn't graduate. And I want to graduate...so I gathered what was left of my inner resolve, I climbed back into that dark maze and my lead instructor came behind me, barking at my heels.

The second time through was harder. I was more tired. More scared. My vision and breathing were more obstructed. I was carrying a heavy axe and had to sound the floor constantly as I crawled and felt my way through the tunnels and turns. They threw more unexpected and terrifying obstacles at me--snagged my bottle and held me down--and I completely lost my shit twice. Once I even begged to be let out.

But they didn't let me out. Eventually I stopped screaming and I overcame all the obstacles and I got myself out. But it was not pretty. And I assumed that I had failed. I was devastated.

That night I barely slept. I had night terrors about the maze all night, and shame and grief about my failure. At the end of the next day, I asked my lead instructor when I would have to try the maze again. Tears sprang to my eyes and my chest constricted in panic just to think of it. But I swallowed that fear, determined to graduate.

"You don't have to do it again," he said.

"But...I didn't do it...?" I said. I was very confused.

"You did do it," he said.

"But...but I cried? And I panicked," I said.

"You overcame some big fears yesterday," he said. "You're too hard on yourself."

"But...you mean I passed? I don't have to do it again?"

"That's right," he said. "You demonstrated adequate proficiency."

I was still very confused. "But...I didn't do it alone...?"

He looked me in my eyes and he asked, "When do we ever do anything alone?"

My eyes teared up again and I swallowed a little sob. "Never," I said. "We never do anything alone."

Beyond any of the hundreds of important skills we are learning--like how to tie a life safety knot or bail out of a burning building on a charged hose line or throw a ladder--it is these other moments that will stay with me forever. As much as I love knowing how to rescue someone down a ladder or how to tie a clove hitch or how to put water on a fire, of all the things I am learning about myself and being a firefighter, these lessons about what it really means to be a firefighter are the most profound.

As a volunteer firefighter in a very small, rural town, I will most likely never use most of what I am learning. I will probably never rescue an unconscious firefighter from a burning basement or be the one to deploy the roof ladder. And I expect after my end test I will promptly forget the names of all the different sprinkler heads.

On its face, of course, firefighting is about putting out fires. But at its heart, firefighting is about so much more than that. Our biggest promise is not that we will put out a fire, it is that Everyone Goes Home. And the only way we can accomplish that is to understand that we are, in each and every moment, from fatal car crashes to training exercises to explosive conflagrations...never doing anything alone.

Tales from Rural Maine: We are bigger than we think we are

March 30, 2016

Last year, around this time, I stood in this open-air room overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Costa Rica and I wept. I had become overheated, drained and worn out and was unable to attend my surf lesson earlier in the day. In my mind, I believed that if I couldn't make my body do every single thing I wanted to do in Costa Rica--especially take this surf lesson--then it would mean my condition had gotten the better of me and I would be a failure.

My teacher Jillian Pransky talked with me gently about how untrue this was. She said to me, "You are bigger than you think you are."

And then, we practiced.

I came home from Costa Rica and I wrote in my journal, "What if I am bigger than I think I am?"

And then, I practiced.

I practiced every day. I practiced loving and accepting myself; I practiced noticing that I am bigger on the inside; I practiced noticing that I am full of vast, untapped potential; I practiced trusting that I am full of great big beauty; I practiced knowing that I am so much more--so very much more--than my mind's most limited stories can imagine. I practiced being kind.

This year, while my beautiful friends and my teacher returned to Blue Spirit to practice together, I stayed home...to continue the work I began in January of becoming a bona fide interior firefighter. That dream (interior firefighter) seemed far away and very nearly impossible last year. It was a tiny speck on the horizon of a distant shore. I saw myself as too weak, too frightened, too tired, too old, too heavy, too small, too inadequate, too feminine, too sick to even really allow myself to fully dream of such a thing.

But then I went to Costa Rica. And I began to wonder..."What if I am *bigger* than I think I am?"

You can talk yourself into your dreams, or you can talk yourself out of them.

This weekend, I will enter my fourth month of Fire Academy training. It was hell for me from the get-go. But it's getting better. I'm getting better. I have more confidence, more self-respect, more fire! And for the first time since I began, I am not afraid. (Which is lucky, because I will be facing the biggest fire I will probably ever see in my life on Sunday.)

And it all began when I sat right there, on the far side of this open air room in Costa Rica and I listened when my teacher said, "You are bigger than you think you are."

I am bigger than I think I am. I am more capable and courageous and kind and full of light than I ever thought I could be. I am bigger than I think I am.

And so are you.

#changedbytravel

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Why

April 18, 2016

I've had some demons to face at Fire Academy, not the least of which were my own low opinion of my self and my overwhelming fear of confined spaces.

We returned to our Class A burn site on Saturday for what was one of the most physically grueling experiences of my entire life. I spent a lot of the day wondering why (why-in-God's-name, why?!) was I doing this. I didn't think I could possibly climb or carry one more ladder, swing one more axe, do one more evolution. I just couldn't. And it wasn't even lunch time yet.

But in each moment when I felt like I couldn't, this girl showed up--this girl who is me!--and she waited until I'd finished thinking, "I can't..." and then she stepped into the quiet, tired space inside me and she said, "Yes. Yes, you can. I *know* you can."

And so I did.

I swung a sledgehammer at a concrete wall in full gear wearing a pack in 65 degree direct sun; I used a chainsaw; I climbed and hammered and swung and carried and crawled and I *worked*. And when it came time for my exhausted body to smash through walls with urgency and climb through spaces that were too small for me, I took off my pack (the right way, left side so you can keep breathing) and I passed it through, and I took off my helmet and I passed it through, and I smooshed my firefighter body through each and every hole. They held us down. They set off alarms. They hollered and threw debris and bodies on top of us.

And I got through. My whole company got through.

When my panic swept up like a tsunami, I took a deep breath and dove under it. I got through and I did not cry.

I got through!

And at the end of that day, stinking, bedraggled, bruised, and exhausted, you could not have wiped the shit-eating grin (as my Chief calls it) off my face.

And this is why I do Fire Academy. :-)

In a feat of mighty, mighty fortitude the cadets (and some instructors) of Hancock County Fire Academy spent alllllll day taking turns smashing a concrete wall (10" thick? reinforced with rebar). And you know what? We did it! By the end of the day, that hole was big enough for Marcus Tweedie and a whole company of fire fighters to climb through. This is me during my turn.

I posted this (above) on Facebook, and here's what my Chief said, in response: "I've been having a little difficulty putting this into words, but here goes. Many times speaking with women in particular about volunteering for the fire department, most have some of the same doubts that Naomi did. Few take the first step to see what it's about and what they might have to offer. We don't use force, shame or push them into becoming more than they are capable of. We may offer some encouragement to do more than they think they are capable of. We try to find a job they are comfortable with and give them the support to do it well. All of our jobs are important, some may seem a little more glamorous than others. Sometimes a member will get an interest to do just a little more or want to learn new skills outside of their comfort zone for too many reasons to list. You just never know how much more you want to be involved until you are part of a volunteer department. You watch and learn, and find that "I think I would like to do that". Here is a firefighter who started her journey as a somewhat shy, timid and tentative new member who had many reservations but wanted to drive a fire truck. She found herself in situations beyond her comfort zone and didn't back away. Now she's on the tail end of a mentally and physically exhausting training academy to face the very thing she said she was frightened of, fire. Three years ago I wouldn't have imagined this is where she'd be. Quite the opposite actually. Now we look forward to having yet another qualified interior firefighter in our ranks. Take a chance, see what you can be capable of finding inside yourself by volunteering with your local fire department. Your story might not be as glamorous but your community will benefit none the less."

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Why

April 18, 2016

I've had some demons to face at Fire Academy, not the least of which were my own low opinion of my self and my overwhelming fear of confined spaces.

We returned to our Class A burn site on Saturday for what was one of the most physically grueling experiences of my entire life. I spent a lot of the day wondering why (why-in-God's-name, why?!) was I doing this. I didn't think I could possibly climb or carry one more ladder, swing one more axe, do one more evolution. I just couldn't. And it wasn't even lunch time yet.

But in each moment when I felt like I couldn't, this girl showed up--this girl who is me!--and she waited until I'd finished thinking, "I can't..." and then she stepped into the quiet, tired space inside me and she said, "Yes. Yes, you can. I *know* you can."

And so I did.

I swung a sledgehammer at a concrete wall in full gear wearing a pack in 65 degree direct sun; I used a chainsaw; I climbed and hammered and swung and carried and crawled and I *worked*. And when it came time for my exhausted body to smash through walls with urgency and climb through spaces that were too small for me, I took off my pack (the right way, left side so you can keep breathing) and I passed it through, and I took off my helmet and I passed it through, and I smooshed my firefighter body through each and every hole. They held us down. They set off alarms. They hollered and threw debris and bodies on top of us.

And I got through. My whole company got through.

When my panic swept up like a tsunami, I took a deep breath and dove under it. I got through and I did not cry.

I got through!

And at the end of that day, stinking, bedraggled, bruised, and exhausted, you could not have wiped the shit-eating grin (as my Chief calls it) off my face.

And this is why I do Fire Academy. :-)

I posted this (above) on Facebook, and here's what my Chief said, in response: "I've been having a little difficulty putting this into words, but here goes. Many times speaking with women in particular about volunteering for the fire department, most have some of the same doubts that Naomi did. Few take the first step to see what it's about and what they might have to offer. We don't use force, shame or push them into becoming more than they are capable of. We may offer some encouragement to do more than they think they are capable of. We try to find a job they are comfortable with and give them the support to do it well. All of our jobs are important, some may seem a little more glamorous than others. Sometimes a member will get an interest to do just a little more or want to learn new skills outside of their comfort zone for too many reasons to list. You just never know how much more you want to be involved until you are part of a volunteer department. You watch and learn, and find that "I think I would like to do that". Here is a firefighter who started her journey as a somewhat shy, timid and tentative new member who had many reservations but wanted to drive a fire truck. She found herself in situations beyond her comfort zone and didn't back away. Now she's on the tail end of a mentally and physically exhausting training academy to face the very thing she said she was frightened of, fire. Three years ago I wouldn't have imagined this is where she'd be. Quite the opposite actually. Now we look forward to having yet another qualified interior firefighter in our ranks. Take a chance, see what you can be capable of finding inside yourself by volunteering with your local fire department. Your story might not be as glamorous but your community will benefit none the less."

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: I believe you can

May 13, 2016

<<Best. Training. EVER!!!! Sadly, no photos this time, but: first time in structure fire turnout gear, first time running pump truck (yay, physics--thank you Mr. Bradford!), first time riding in tanker truck, first time at pump house, and the crowning glory...first time at the end of a hose!! Screw bungie jumping. You want a thrill? Latch onto the end of a fire hose and lean into a friend. My arms feel like jelly, but I am happy as a clam--a clam that fights fires!>>

Facebook just reminded me that three years ago today, I donned my turnout gear for the first time, went for a ride in our tanker, felt what it's like to send water out of a hose...and apparently, I liked it. (A lot!) :- I suspect this was one of the first appearances of the "shit-eating grin" my chief has come to know me for.

I keep thinking that becoming an interior firefighter came out of left field, but apparently I've been loving it since the very first second.

I keep thinking that that girl--the three-years-ago-living-in-trauma girl--who joined the Orland Fire Department would never believe that I am actually standing here today, a bona fide interior fire fighter with Orland, about to complete Fire Academy and potentially about to become a state certified Fire Fighter I and II.

But...I also know that you don't get what you hope for, you get what you *believe.*

So, at some level, there *must* have been a part of me, even when I was broken and afraid (of everything!), that *believed* this was possible. Isn't that amazing? That underneath all of that life-or-death fear of the daily basics, underneath all of my physical illness, injury, and weakness; underneath all of the trauma; there was a part of me who believed she could rise up and accomplish something that at that moment seemed (to everyone, I'm sure) impossible. (I bet that's the same part of me that got into and through Smith College, when going to college was among the most deeply unlikely things for a girl born into my circumstances to do.)

I was also lucky enough to have a few friendly fire fighters around me, who believed it even better than me. Lt. Dave Sukeforth, chief among them. He was the first to suggest that I should go to the Academy this winter, and the fiercest advocate for getting me in. I have never understood why Dave (or anyone else) thought I could do the Academy...but if Dave hadn't insisted, I'm not sure I ever would have tried. When my own belief was thin on the ground, the belief of others filled in the gaps. If you have a dream my friends, finding and trusting as many pairs of believing eyes as you can manifest is essential. **It's the belief that makes wishes powerful.**

Marcus joined the OFD and sixty days later, he was at the Academy. It took me 2 1/2 years to get to that same starting point, but we did it together. And I think if he hadn't joined the department when he did, I might never have gone. Knowing he would be there made it possible to begin. The timing of his decision to join was a tremendous gift to me. (And when I felt like I might have to quit the Academy because I just couldn't take the abuse any more, he told me that if I had to quit, he would sign up and do the whole thing over again with me, because he knew I could get through.)

But, I didn't quit. I did the opposite of quitting. When faced with a choice between quitting and standing up for myself, I made the radical (for me) choice to stand up for myself and ask for change. Fear + courage = progress.

And now...it's almost over. Tomorrow, the roller coaster reaches its peak and we start zooming down toward the end of fire academy. Two classroom days of haz mat. Followed by two days of OFD obligations (and studying). Then two more days to study as much as possible. Then Friday, another live interior burn, Saturday forestry work (lots of digging in the sun), and Sunday, our grand finale...our Open Day, when we'll run through the practical end test (where we try to remember every single thing we've learned to do)...and then my classmates and teachers will roast some meat for eating...and the next day, Monday, I'll teach at Acadia and then sit for my State FF I & II exam...

...three years and ten days after I (very enthusiastically) first donned my turnout gear. :-)

If you have a dream, listen not to the constant radio chatter of voices broadcasting reasons you can't; especially don't listen to the ones inside your own head. Listen instead to that one faithful voice inside you that says, "Yes. I believe you can."

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Never alone

May 24, 2016

Last night, my Hancock County Fire Academy classmates and I sat for the state written exam. If we pass it, we'll be half-way to our Fire Fighter I and II certifications. The second half is a skills test in June. (This does not affect our status as graduates of the Academy; we are all graduating, regardless of the results of the state exams.)

The test is hard. And long. 200 questions in three hours. It can cover anything from our 1100-page textbook, like for instance how much steel expands at certain temperatures or which NFPA standard covers fire fighter training regulations or what you would find in an MC-305 tanker truck or what you should do with the doors on a car while you are displacing the dashboard so you can free an entrapped passenger. (I didn't know the answers to any of those, by the way except that the standard covering training regulations is NFPA 1001. I'm sure that will be incredibly useful in my career as a firefighter :-)).

There were 19 of us sitting for the exam and as each one finished, he or she left the room. When the first people handed in their tests and left, I still wasn't even half-way through the first exam. By the end, there was just me and one other fire fighter slogging through the last part of our Fire Fighter II and watching the clock.

It was nearly 9pm when I finished. I'd had a long day and a long week and a long six months. And it was a little bit of a lonely feeling to know that I was going to walk out of that exam that we'd been working toward for six months, and there would be no one waiting for me, to say "How did it go!" or "We did it! Let's get a drink!"

I hung around in the exam room, darkening the circles in my bubble answer sheet for a while, so that my classmate wouldn't be all alone in there as he worked on finishing. But eventually, after going over and over all those bubbles, I started to get very anxious. Like I wanted to take the whole test out and start over, but there were only fifteen minutes left! So I decided to call it...and leave. My classmate and I gave each other a big smile and a thumbs up and I decided I'd go down to the fire bay and wait in the quiet darkness for him to finish, so at least he wouldn't be alone when he came out.

I walked down over the stairs and I had this little pang of sadness, to be second to last and all alone...and then, I caught a glimpse of my lead instructor standing between the trucks, in front of the open fire bay doors. Of course, he would still be there, I realized. He wouldn't leave us alone. But I wished that everyone else was there, too. So we could celebrate and share and mark the moment. But I also understood why people wouldn't want to hang around after they'd finished. Some of them had finished almost two hours before me.

When I rounded the corner, I saw that I was wrong to imagine I was alone. Almost every single member of my 19-person class was standing there, smiling, waiting for me and Jeff to finish our exams. My face lit up when I caught sight of them. I was not alone. I was never alone. I only imagined that I was. If there is one true thing that Fire Academy has taught us, it is this: we never do anything alone.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Graduation Gifts

June 3, 2016

I just ironed my dress uniform and made sure all of my insignia were present and accounted for and in the right place. And then I enjoyed these two little friends who arrived in the mail today to tell me “congratulations!” and how proud their senders are of me. 

And then it hit me! This is actually happening! I did it! I’m graduating from the Hancock County Fire Academy. I am an interior fire fighter!! I totally *did* it!! Holy fucking cow!

Tomorrow is the second biggest day of my life…and it took everything I thought I had and a whole lot more I didn’t know was there to get to the end (which, it turns out, is really just the beginning!)…and…I did it! I really and truly actually did it! Holy crap.

I don’t have a partner or a family to come with me to graduation, but I am a fire fighter, so I know I will not be alone. Apart from my fellow cadets and our instructors, people who love me are showing up.

Peter hurt his back badly this week, but when I asked if he would still be able to come, he said, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” At least three of the officers from my department are coming; and my dad and my stepmom; and Karen and Crystal are giving up their Brandi Carlisle tickets to come! The Wombachers will be there and my grandparents may even show up. And Titch is coming all the way from Portland! She’s coming even though she won’t be able to arrive in time to catch the whole ceremony. That is love, my friends; that is *love*.

Fire Academy was long and hard and there were a lot of lonely moments for me. But every time I drooped from fatigue or had to push through pain or fear (or both!), I pictured all the people out there, all the friends and family from across the whole span of my life who were rooting for me and believing in me. I would close my eyes and picture you all, standing up and cheering, and smiling at me at my graduation. And I would smile, too. And then I would open my eyes. And I would keep going. I can’t believe that that magical moment on the horizon, which kept me going through it all…graduation…is finally here!

I had a great deal of support from the members of my department. One of our captains logged a *lot* of hours coaching me to do everything from swinging a sledgehammer to crawling through confined spaces to climbing up on a roof and using a chain saw. And my Chief not only taught me how to don my gear, but had my back in every way throughout my journey. And whenever I wavered, everyone at the OFD always said, “You can do this!” And they meant it.

But even with all of that, I’m honestly not sure how I would’ve gotten through this experience without the support of all the believing eyes I knew were out there, thanks to Facebook. You, my friend, you who clicked Like or made a supportive comment or sent me a message or a letter in the actual bonafide came-from-the-post-office-mail because of something you saw me post on Facebook, you! *You* helped me get here. Last week 1,000 Smithies gave me a virtual standing ovation!

Today, these sweet gifts came from friends, a fire fighter gnome and a dozen fire fighter rubber duckies; a beautiful card magically arrived at my front door with a meaningful message from a fellow fire fighter; and even my mother, who hasn’t spoken to me in years (and told me she considers me dead), sent the most beautiful card.

The card from my fellow fire fighter said this: “May you have the courage to serve, the compassion to comfort, and the strength to perform your duties whenever you are called.”

And my mom’s card said, “You’re a woman who makes things happen. You’re a woman who gives her best to everyone and everything. You’re an inspiration to so many, and you deserve every happiness because of the wonderful woman you are.” She even signed it, "Lots of love."

It will be no surprise to my Fire Academy classmates that I cried a little when I read both. (Well, maybe it will be a surprise to them that I only cried “a little.”)

Thank you—Thank YOU—for everything you did to make this graduation day possible. I promise to serve with as much compassion, courage, and strength as I can possibly muster.

And just in case you want to see a whole bunch of fire fighters in their very finest: HCFA graduation is at Ellsworth High School, 6pm, 6/4/16 with a party to follow at Finn's. There will be bag pipes! And I’ll be so very glad, if you can come.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Black helmet

Pete: "What's that sound?"
Me: "...It's my black helmet. I was hugging it and carrying it around."

(Helmets are generally pretty quiet, but my accountability tags were rattling...:-))

Fire Fighting Tales from Maine: That Grin

June 8, 2016

Marcus and I finally got our black helmets Monday night...:-) On the way home from training, I was behind the wheel of that fire truck pictured and I asked my lieutenant (Ryan) if I looked any different now that I have a black helmet? (I wasn't wearing the helmet at the time, of course!) And he said, "Yeah. You now have a grin on your face that you can't wipe off!"

One of the best parts of receiving that helmet by going to HCFA is that I will always know I *earned* it. One burpee, one confined space, one ladder, one bruise, one friendship at a time!

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Fire truck you, BMI believers!

I just want to pause here and send out a big "fuck you" (or "fire truck you!" in cleaner parlance) to anyone who is attached to the idea that having a high BMI (body mass index) means that you are in a "physically unhealthy condition."

Even though I lost a little fat and gained a lot of muscle and my scale at home says I lost 12 pounds training to earn my black helmet (and my doctor's scale says I lost four pounds), the body you see here is a body that is still considered clinically obese. It is also a body with a blood pressure that is generally around 92/62; it has healthy blood sugars; and a heart so healthy its cardiologist says it will live a long and healthy life. This body with all its curves and contours, is a body that can carry a 200-pound man down a ladder. It can run and jump and climb and do yoga. It can endure!

If you are thinking (or being told) that because you have a round body or a high BMI, regardless of your gender, picture this body and know that if it can swing a sledgehammer at a concrete wall with success, so can you!

Know that *joyfulness* is more powerful and less measurable than any number you can see on a scale. Know that finding joy and moving your body in ways that give you satisfaction and pleasure are your inalienable rights. And that you are *desirable* and powerful and sexy and alive, just as you are!

Instead of focusing on labels (like "obese") and instead of focusing on numbers, let that shit go, and focus on *joy*. Joy will boost your immune system. Joy will inspire and strengthen you. Joy will make your heart healthier. Find your thing--do your thing! Move your body and *enjoy* living in it! Right now. Not five or ten or twenty pounds from now. Right the-fire-truck now!

<Individuals with a BMI of 30-34.99 are in a physically unhealthy condition, which puts them at risk for serious ilnesses such as heart disease, diabetes, high blood pressure, gall bladder disease, and some cancers. This holds especially true if you have a larger than recommended Waist Size. These people would benefit greatly by modifying their lifestyle. Ideally, see your doctor and consider reducing your weight by 5-10 percent. Such a weight reduction will result in considerable health improvements.>>

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: This Matters

This Matters

Among the mantras that most of the adults in my family drove into my emotional body as I was maturing was this humdinger: "You're too competitive."

My mother, especially, shamed me for my desire to excel, to be the best, to discover excellence, to win! (She is, by the way, the second most ruthlessly competitive person I have ever known, with the exception of some professional/Division I collegiate/Olympic athlete friends.)

It's important to note that as much as I hungered to win, I was (generally) never a sore loser, a cheater, or a mean winner. And I was capable of feeling genuinely happy if I'd done my absolute level best, but still lost. And I truly (truly!) loved working as a team. That part's important, because misdirected and imbalanced, competitiveness, I suppose, can be an ugly and damaging character trait in anyone. But that wasn't the case with me.

The thing about being a child--perhaps especially, a girl child--is that you believe what your parents tell you, especially if they teach it to you over and over, in words and in practice, and if society seems to reinforce it. If your parents tell you that you're stupid or lazy or fat or too sensitive, you'll spend the whole rest of your life working to overcome and correct those negative self-beliefs--or just believing them and living from them!

I don't know why parents do this. I expect it's because parents are human beings, and human beings make mistakes, have flaws, and fight against their own demons, even if they are parents (especially if they are parents?).

The thing about Truth is that you can feel it in your body. Truth has a feeling and children know it. Truth always feels good, even if it's a painful truth. It feels clean. It lines up. And my body always knew--always!--that what I was being taught about myself being "too competitive" was wrong; it hurt in a really messy way. It created inner conflict. It felt like a lie. It went against the Truth of me. But without any outlet for that pain and conflict; without a way to dialog or frame the experience of receiving a painful message and feeling the feeling "This isn't true," I was left in a state of tumultuous self-loathing. A cycle of achievement and shame that just spun and spun and spun. I developed a fear of success--and an equal fear of failure. So much so that, in my early twenties, when the editor of Life magazine sent me a personal email, praising an essay I had written, I didn't write back, didn't tell anyone, and immediately lost it. Starting from adolescence, I spent more than twenty years in an almost constant battle against severe depression and anxiety as a direct result of this false mantra (and other damaging and traumatic things from childhood).

Dr. Christiane Northrup writes in the "Motherhood: Bonding with your Baby" chapter of "Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom" (which I highly recommend you buy and then *actually* read, not just use as a door stop), that "It makes sense...that girls would get moody around the age of twelve or so. They can see what's coming." She cites Naomi Woolf who makes a case in her book "Fire with Fire" that all girls are born with a strong will to power that eventually gets turned inward by what she calls, "the dragons of niceness."

"Thwarting their innate desire to excel and win can make girls very unhappy at this age," writes Northrop, "and can cause them to turn on each other, too. If girls are socialized to be passive and self-sacrificing, their powerful spirits don't like it."

One of the very best things I ever did was get myself into Smith College. As stressful as it was to constantly be trying to figure out how to pay for it, I relaxed into the experience of being free to be *excellent.* Not everyone who attends Smith is competitive, but they are, without a doubt, the smartest, most excellent, hard-working, clever, fierce, academically devoted women on the planet. And in many ways, I thrived among them. But at the same time, even in an environment full of female strivers, I still struggled with the fear of failure/fear of success and the damaging mantra, "You're too competitive."

My body was always rankled by this so-called "truth" from my family. My girl self endured so very much painful shaming! I lived in constant conflict with my desire to be excellent--and my ability to be so--as it pressed up against the sharp judgement of the adults in my life. I was the only freshman to make a varsity sport in high school. I was All Conference as a sophomore, all Eastern Maine as a Junior, All-State as a senior. I was recruited by colleges. And I never attended a single sports banquet, because I was too frightened, ashamed, and uncomfortable to go.

But now, in middle age, through yoga practice and long years of attention to personal growth, I can say that I am more at peace with my competitive side. I still try to hide it, hold it back, shame it, apologize for it, but I am more able to recognize it's value, too. Without the gift of my competitiveness, I never would have gotten into Smith--or gotten through. I wouldn't have graduated with latin honors or been published in the New York Times when I was only 21. And most recently, I wouldn't have uncovered the joys of fire service--or gotten through Fire Academy and passed my Fire Fighter I/I exams--without being competitive. I honestly think that without my inherent competitive drive, I wouldn't have survived. It's that essential.

Now, one of the things I do is work with people who have experienced trauma. I teach the children at Acadia Hospital and also a women's trauma group there. I teach people who have undergone cancer treatment and diagnosis or other serious physical traumas. Yoga is one of the ways we can teach children (and adults) how to trust what their bodies are telling them. It's one of the ways we can recognize Truth. It's one of the ways we can heal.

If you are raising a girl--or have influence over one or more in your life--I implore you to watch what you say and how you live around them. As Dr. Northrup says, "Young women need to be cherished, honored, encouraged, and praised for their gifts."

And I echo that. Even if their gift is a competitive drive to win--honor it, cherish it, teach them to expand it with grace.

I was born into a world before Roe v. Wade, before Title IX; I was in middle school before women were allowed to run marathons! So many barriers to happiness, excellence, and joy have come down just in my little lifetime because somewhere some woman (or little girl) stuck to her guns and allowed herself to get in the ring, to compete, to fight for what she wanted.

As you make your choices this election season, I hope you will consider delivering to this nation its first woman president. Do it for me. Do it for your daughter. Do it for your great grandmother and your niece and your best friend. Do it for you!

And as you make your choices about how to treat the children in your life, I hope you will tell them to do everything in their power to be happy and fulfilled; I hope that you will take them to their sports banquets and give them a safe place to share when they receive praise or experience victories. How you live and love yourself--how you live and love the women and girls in your life? It really matters. It matters to them; it matters to me; it matters to every generation. You have the power to change our collective mantras about women. You can shift from shaming them for fierceness, competitiveness, size, or desire; you can change their mantra and yours to let them know they matter; their Truth matters; being exactly who they are, fully: this matters. It matters on the smallest and the grandest of scales. Don't ask them to be less than they are; encourage them to be all that they can be. And if that means fighting to win? Then so be it.

#ThisMatters

Wielding a sledgehammer like a champ at Fire Academy. Photo courtesy of Fire Chicks photography.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Brick shithouses

My friend, upon seeing me this weekend: "Wow! You're built like a brick shithouse!"

My immediate *thought*: "Well...I think I'm built more like an inflatable bouncy house or possibly a marshmallow yoga house, if that's a thing?...but brick shithouse works, too."

(And being a Mainer, which by definition means I have some experience in shithouses, I also instantly thought, "Whatever it's made of, I hope there are no spiders in my shithouse!)

But what I said out loud was, "Ha ha! Um...thank you! :-) You look like a tanned little hard body!" (Somewhat less poetical than "brick shithouse," but definitely true.)

:-)

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: A big day!

Okay...it's official! On July 28th, 2016 I went interior for the first time as a fire fighter. (Into confined spaces, no less!) And a woman accepted the nomination for President by a major party. I feel like I got hit by a dump truck and then steamed like a dumpling, which was subsequently dropped into swampwater, but gosh, my heart is full of gratitude on this day.

HCFA graduates were out in full force at this fire, btw. If you watch the footage there's a *very* cute shot of Caleb Reed while we put our packs on to go back in for the second (or third?) time. Fortunately I'm back-to the camera, so it's Caleb's sweet face you get to see. And there's a good shot of Taylor Zeigler-Miller, too. Welcome home, Caleb! And thank you HCFA for the excellent preparation for this day. (I heart the Orland Fire Department and I feel so lucky to be among you.)

View WABI new's coverage here.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: I can

It turns out that with a little determination and the right technique, I can carry an unconscious man in full turnout gear down a ladder. This is one of the skills that you hope you'll never have to use, but that when the day comes, you are really glad you can do it.

Photo courtesy of Fire Chicks Photography

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Weight

When I started at Fire Academy, I weighed the same as this guy...so, yeah. This was me. You would not believe the crap I can do or how long I can do it with 276 pounds on my frame! And you can now possibly understand why I got excited when I lost 17 pounds early on in my Academy journey! You can't shrink the size of your gear, but if you can take 17 pounds of excess weight off your body...you can carry more handtools more easily. ;-)

Photo courtesy of Professional Fire Fighters of Concord, NH.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: "And I'm a Fire Fighter"

I was swimming with a 5 year old boy the other day, the kind of little boy who will grow up to be a professional skateboarder or something because he is so fearless and coordinated and comfortable flipping and jumping and pushing limits. And after about an hour of tossing him around and having diving contests and races and flips and doing handstands he stopped and looked at me and said, "You're really strong. Do you work out?"

I laughed. But then i said, "Yeah...and I'm a firefighter." 

(He couldn't have cared less.)

Photo courtesy of Fire Chicks photography.