Self Connection in a Five Home Subdivision

The rain drop falls between two four bedroom houses, past lemon and avocado trees, and onto the permeable pavers, which are saturated. It flows away from the street, past the three rear houses to the detention pond. There it will stay, stored onsite, until it either percolates into the ground or rises into the catch basin and enters the storm drain, going past the two front houses, under Oakwood Drive, and into the San Francisco Bay.

I know this because I mow the lawn around the detention pond. One bench slows me down, but the redwoods' lowest limbs are ten feet high, so I use no weed wacker. This feminine February rain has continued for four days. I live in the middle back house, and from a third story loft window I watch the rain on the redwoods.

My breathing is calm and deep, and my pulse is steady. My left cheek is touching my teeth; I feel downhearted because I'm longing for community. I am considering why I am not playing catch with a ball or a hemp flying disc. I have come up with the following factors: 1) The common open space around the detention pond is less than the farthest I can throw. 2) The rain. 3) I do not know whom I would invite.

When I hold the third stimulus, I notice tension in my shoulders and the bridge of my nose reaching for my eyes. I am feeling downcast and dejected. I'm choosing to sit with that for a second, as I notice a judgment that I should feel comfortable. Looking deeper, I guess that I just really want some fun.

I wonder if I'd enjoy calling a girl from school. No, I'm going to go see what my brother is doing.

Downstairs, I hear my dad on the ground floor call out "Who used the last ice cube and didn't fill up the tray?" Tommy responded, "I don't know, but you can yell at me if you want." My dad told Tommy, "You smart-assed kid, you didn't pay for the roof over this house, you didn't pay for the food or electricity, and thus far I've received no rent. Don't give me that look." I estimate that his voice would carry a quarter mile, easy. "You better get the hell out of here." Tommy did.

I walked back to my loft. No, I didn't pay for the carpet. My father's loft. Or I guess my parents', I should say. My mom designs accounting software; my dad is a banker. They have money to buy carpets. Tommy told me if Dad ever got in his face again, he would get on the ground in the fetal position, pee on the carpet, and repeat "I'm so scared" seven times before entering a sustained silence. I don't know why he didn't play that card now, but he has a better read on Dad than I do. He's known him for two more years than I have.

I'm noticing a pause in my breathing. I'm feeling a little nettled. Maybe stronger- somewhat more than a little nettled. Like five nettles puncturing a quarter inch, then taking a quarter turn. I almost tear up. Instead, I cry. I cry and I cry. I want to understand and to hold myself with tenderness, so for now I let myself cry.

Bob Yamtich, trained as an environmental engineer, has spent time teaching conflict resolution and middle school math, building homes with energy efficient features like tankless water heaters, and teaching Nonviolent Communication in the San Francisco Bay Area, including San Quentin State Prison. With hopes for learning and self-connection, Bob graduated from Bay Area Nonviolent Communication's 2007 North American Leadership Program. Holding needs for engagement, contribution, and effectiveness, he continues to lead and assist in communication workshops and retreats and to build homes, and is looking to help people explore math and science and create and sustain open-hearted connections by empathy, mediation, and restorative circles. Bob is grateful for the depth and quality of connection with his partner H, who inspires him and teaches him more about needs-connected living than any book or workshop.

Email: Bob Yamtich

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