Being human is terrifying. Being aware carries the burden of striving to be correct. To err invites injury to ourselves, to those with whom we share the planet, and to the planet itself. We also fear others who err; and even more so, those who would do us harm. It is a scary world we live in, internally and externally. And yet, living in this the world is such an amazing experience, majestic and breathtakingly beautiful. Our world is of such beauty that we transcend our fears most of the time. How we do so is both delightful and comforting.
We laugh. What a gift. Laughter dismisses fear to such an extant that some of us lose muscle control and “fall down laughing”, making ourselves totally vulnerable to all the scary stuff we know surrounds us.
We cry. What a gift. Tears reduce us to a molten mass falling into one another’s arms with no fear of retaliation or control by the other. We are most vulnerable when we laugh and when we cry. Yet, these moments are often our most memorable, and most satisfying. These are moments of grace.
We can chose to live in grace,even when we are not experience the comforting joy of another’s comedic safety net for our fears, nor the calming security of another’s embrace. We can choose to live in grace when everything around us shouts “danger.” Living in grace allows us to transcend fear. I refuse to be afraid. I choose to live in grace.
When I was a prison social worker I worked in a women’s maximum security facility housing inmates whom society so feared that our courts locked these women away. Visiting those locked into the most restrictive cell block, maximum security, was discouraged. This short-term lock up was to isolate a particularly intractable inmate who had behaved too violently to remain within the general population. They were not permitted to leave the cell for any reason. They were left alone for days or weeks. As a social worker, I believed such an event was a “teachable moment”,when I could perhaps break through the bravado and masks of an inmate who normally would not welcome my company or conversation.
These women in max were starving for human contact. Thus began my frequent visits to max. The first day, the single guard on duty did not know what to do with me, having never received visitors before. But, he unlocked the corridor door and accompanied me to the first cell in which a woman from my caseload was locked up. After about five minutes of standing by the door he asked how long I would be. “Thirty minutes” was too long for him to stand around so I suggested he let me into the cell and he could then go back to his seat. His eyebrows shot to his head as he suggested to me it was not safe. I asked the woman, “He thinks you will hurt me if he lets me inside alone with you.Will you harm me?” After a short pause to consider, she said,”no.” The guard then locked me into the maximum security cell and I told him I would call him when I was ready to leave. After I left that cell, women from other case loads called out my name as I passed by asking to speak with me. I visited every woman in max that day and every few days after. The guard and I followed the same protocol each time: lock me inside, then come when I call to let me out.
The moments I spent locked into maximum security with the most violent offenders in the prison were moments of grace. We shared laughter and tears. We explored the pain and fear that led to the violence. I tried to “always leave them laughing,” and living in grace.
The write-ups for violence on my caseload diminished and extinguished. I was called in for a discussion with the Associate Director and charged with being too permissive. How else to explain why the women for whom I was responsible were no longer getting into trouble? Another bone of contention was my crisis intervention strategy. I had instructed my caseload to yell out “Call Annarino!” whenever they were about to become violent with a guard or other inmate, instead of letting the violent feelings flare into harmful words or actions. Before long the guards knew to call me and everyone waited somewhat peacefully and guardedly, until I arrived. At which time, I explained everyone involved would get a chance to tell their truth without interruption. I dismissed the usual onlookers hoping for a good fight, promising to stop by their work or class site later to fill them in on what happened after they left. This substantially reduced the risk of group pressure and blustering bravado which often led to mass violence. Once only the critical participants were left, the preaching the truth was followed my mediated conversation.
It did not occur to me that armed guards would find it embarrassing for a 22 year old woman weighing 102 pounds could protect them from harm with mere words. Just before I lost my job, I was told my job was not to empower inmates but to treat them as the “dog chained up in the back yard: when they howl, shut them up.” Instead I had given them a voice. It did not seem to matter that their voice was calm, peaceful and truth-seeking rather than violent curses accompanied by physical attacks. They had learned to live in grace, which seemed to scare people even more. This is the power of non-violence. When we let go of fear, we find truth and the truth is what sets us free.
annarino writes 
Walking in Grace, Louise Annarino,9-27-2014
WALKING IN GRACE, Louise Annarino,9-27-2014
Being human is terrifying. Being aware carries the burden of striving to be correct. To err invites injury to ourselves, to those with whom we share the planet, and to the planet itself. We also fear others who err; and even more so, those who would do us harm. It is a scary world we live in, internally and externally. And yet, living in this the world is such an amazing experience, majestic and breathtakingly beautiful. Our world is of such beauty that we transcend our fears most of the time. How we do so is both delightful and comforting.
We laugh. What a gift. Laughter dismisses fear to such an extant that some of us lose muscle control and “fall down laughing”, making ourselves totally vulnerable to all the scary stuff we know surrounds us.
We cry. What a gift. Tears reduce us to a molten mass falling into one another’s arms with no fear of retaliation or control by the other. We are most vulnerable when we laugh and when we cry. Yet, these moments are often our most memorable, and most satisfying. These are moments of grace.
We can chose to live in grace,even when we are not experience the comforting joy of another’s comedic safety net for our fears, nor the calming security of another’s embrace. We can choose to live in grace when everything around us shouts “danger.” Living in grace allows us to transcend fear. I refuse to be afraid. I choose to live in grace.
When I was a prison social worker I worked in a women’s maximum security facility housing inmates whom society so feared that our courts locked these women away. Visiting those locked into the most restrictive cell block, maximum security, was discouraged. This short-term lock up was to isolate a particularly intractable inmate who had behaved too violently to remain within the general population. They were not permitted to leave the cell for any reason. They were left alone for days or weeks. As a social worker, I believed such an event was a “teachable moment”,when I could perhaps break through the bravado and masks of an inmate who normally would not welcome my company or conversation.
These women in max were starving for human contact. Thus began my frequent visits to max. The first day, the single guard on duty did not know what to do with me, having never received visitors before. But, he unlocked the corridor door and accompanied me to the first cell in which a woman from my caseload was locked up. After about five minutes of standing by the door he asked how long I would be. “Thirty minutes” was too long for him to stand around so I suggested he let me into the cell and he could then go back to his seat. His eyebrows shot to his head as he suggested to me it was not safe. I asked the woman, “He thinks you will hurt me if he lets me inside alone with you.Will you harm me?” After a short pause to consider, she said,”no.” The guard then locked me into the maximum security cell and I told him I would call him when I was ready to leave. After I left that cell, women from other case loads called out my name as I passed by asking to speak with me. I visited every woman in max that day and every few days after. The guard and I followed the same protocol each time: lock me inside, then come when I call to let me out.
The moments I spent locked into maximum security with the most violent offenders in the prison were moments of grace. We shared laughter and tears. We explored the pain and fear that led to the violence. I tried to “always leave them laughing,” and living in grace.
The write-ups for violence on my caseload diminished and extinguished. I was called in for a discussion with the Associate Director and charged with being too permissive. How else to explain why the women for whom I was responsible were no longer getting into trouble? Another bone of contention was my crisis intervention strategy. I had instructed my caseload to yell out “Call Annarino!” whenever they were about to become violent with a guard or other inmate, instead of letting the violent feelings flare into harmful words or actions. Before long the guards knew to call me and everyone waited somewhat peacefully and guardedly, until I arrived. At which time, I explained everyone involved would get a chance to tell their truth without interruption. I dismissed the usual onlookers hoping for a good fight, promising to stop by their work or class site later to fill them in on what happened after they left. This substantially reduced the risk of group pressure and blustering bravado which often led to mass violence. Once only the critical participants were left, the preaching the truth was followed my mediated conversation.
It did not occur to me that armed guards would find it embarrassing for a 22 year old woman weighing 102 pounds could protect them from harm with mere words. Just before I lost my job, I was told my job was not to empower inmates but to treat them as the “dog chained up in the back yard: when they howl, shut them up.” Instead I had given them a voice. It did not seem to matter that their voice was calm, peaceful and truth-seeking rather than violent curses accompanied by physical attacks. They had learned to live in grace, which seemed to scare people even more. This is the power of non-violence. When we let go of fear, we find truth and the truth is what sets us free.
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