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Sometimes a picture can tell a story, or generate questions. Check out this Medium story to learn something about what I love in this world through pictures. Sometimes, you just need to be reminded of all that is beautiful in the world.

Troubled by the recent death of a 5 year old boy, and the arrest of his parents; article on Medium.

How working in juvenile corrections changed me.

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The taunts flew out the window. The girl turned, raising a middle finger to the school bus as it pulled away, giggles of laughter skidding on the roadway between her and “them��. I watched her shoulders slump and head drop as she trudged toward wherever she lived.

I didn’t know her, but she rode my bus — every day she could stomach coming to school. I don’t know what happened to her to cause the scars and twisted features. Maybe a fire? Perhaps a birth defect I was unfamiliar with? I was a kid myself, and was unfamiliar with the things that can cause people to look so different. Her asymmetrical face, sunken eye, lack of eyebrows, and scar tissue where freckles should have been, caused a visceral reaction in my stomach. I was afraid of what I saw and didn’t understand.

But even more pronounced was my reaction to those taunts, and watching the pain they caused her. In her helplessness, the furious anguish was palpable. I did not have to join in to feel culpable, just for being present, just for witnessing — a fellow captive on this yellow tin can filled with the worst of our humanity.

I wanted to speak up. I wanted to admonish them into compassion and understanding. I wanted to throw them all out the windows. I wanted to orchestrate a Freaky Friday event and force them to be each other for a day, or a week, or maybe forever.

I wanted to befriend her, so she had at least one person she could count on to have her back, to accept her, to look past the outer wrap to the gift inside. I wanted to be big enough, brave enough, self-confident enough. But I was afraid. I was small. I was young. And I didn’t want their spotlight of ridicule trained on me. I didn’t want any attention at all. And I knew, should I reach out to her, I’d be dragged under her spotlight. So I sat,quietly, full of shame, full of regret, and full of compassionate wishes with nowhere to go. I pictured her reaching home to weep, alone, on her bed.

I still think about her from time to time and wonder what happened to her. Where did she end up? Was she able to be happy? Was she forced to continue to live within all that undeserved torment? The family must have moved, for she stopped coming to school after only part of a school year. I wonder if they ever found a place that did not create a rerun of those events.

Igor is a fictional character appearing in horror stories who is deformed, hence the reprehensible taunt thrown at this hapless girl. Ironically, in Russian, the meaning of the name Igor is ‘warrior of peace��. Through no fault of her own, she was forced to do battle with the world as she sought to defend herself against these hurled insults and rejections. Peace was nowhere to be seen.

In today’s world, there is more recognition of the deep scars bullying does to others. As with all issues, there are differing opinions about it. Some see, and feel, the outcomes of that mistreatment, knowing that the fissures caused stay with us and affect our everyday lives. Research has shown that trauma can be embedded in us at an almost cellular level, and can influence our body’s reactions without our conscious control. Some disagree and scoff, calling others “snowflakes�� for being “too sensitive��; they live by the tenet that one must pull oneself up by one’s bootstraps and carry on, no matter what. Toughen up, or life will knock you down; stay down if you are too weak to stand.

Having grown up as one of those sensitive snowflakes, overflowing with compassion for the plight of others, I am particularly reactive to mistreatment when I see it. What I felt for this young girl stayed with me for years. It might have helped steer me to the work I eventually embraced. As a school psychologist, I worked with those just like her, although most of their scars were on the inside, invisible unless you looked closely. Perhaps I was trying to help her vicariously through all of them, to atone for my inability to reach out to her at the time. Despite years of working to put salve on some of those cuts, I still feel regret that I could not do more for that one human being.

The world has changed, and yet not changed. There is more awareness of “bullying�� and yet I still see the same kinds of insults thrown around on social media when people disagree. Instead of being openly displayed through bus windows, it snakes its way through the windows of Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. There are endless ways to put another human being down, to their face or through written media. The insults change, but the vitriol behind them does not. What used to be a “moment�� between several people now becomes a “trending�� thread involving dozens, hundreds, thousands. What used to be over in a day, now lives for days and weeks, because it is energized through the social flood of repetition.

This is the culture that helps to create mass shooters. This is the culture that robs people of privacy, time to grieve and get over something, and the certainty they are part of a positive community having their back. We have all heard the disparaging names that blacks, Hispanics, and Native Americans have been called over time. There’s a new one out there for white kids, especially white males — “school shooter��. Yes, this was overheard at a local school recently in an exchange of insults. Our culture appears to change the names over time, but not the intention. And the intention is to divide, to say, “You’re not one of us.�� When you’re not one of us, where does that leave you?

I’d like to think I am now brave enough, self-confident enough, and “big�� enough to step in when I see someone being mistreated. Only today, I have the added worry of what they are packing, if I step in. I have not been tested. I wonder if I will pass the test when it comes? I wonder if I will die trying?

The title, cover, and content of my book, Crooked Grow the Trees, are driven by metaphor. I see constant parallels between life in nature and the lives of people.

I recently visited Alaska where I was introduced to the "drunken tree". When there are enough of them together, they comprise the "drunken forest". What is a drunken tree, you ask?

Apparently, the existing permafrost keeps the tree roots from burrowing downward. The result is that the trees don't grow very tall, and the roots spread out sideways rather than traveling deeper into the soil. Because the roots are spreading out horizontally, they tend to become intertwined with the roots of neighboring trees. When a strong wind or heavy snowstorm grabs a tree, attempting to wrestle it to the ground, this system of intertwined roots keeps it from falling. The outcome is trees which lean or curve downward, but remain rooted to the ground. Some that I saw actually had the crown of the tree almost touching the ground, but the base of the tree was still held fast by the root system.

This natural phenomenon fascinated my metaphoric brain. What social permafrost occurs that keeps us from establishing deeper roots? Some that come to mind are trauma, abuse, neglect, mental illness, substance abuse, poverty. There are so many ways we can fail to feel firmly connected to the ground of our lives.

As our roots spill out sideways, looking for another tendril to grasp, what might we find? Friends to replace dysfunctional families? Counselors who help us shed shame and twisted self-images? Jobs that give us a sense of purpose? Social groups which can feel like a place to belong?

In my years of listening to others speak of their pain, it seemed that what felt so isolating and unique to them was actually something shared throughout the world. They felt the shallowness of their roots, having run into permafrost, and feared toppling over, or judged themselves for their struggle. It is my hope that my story helps them see and feel the interconnected roots they share with so many others.

As I said in my dedication, we are more alike than different.

Reading this book will be an eye opening experience for those who still believe in the judicial system in this country. Ray's experience of being falsely convicted and sentenced to death, imprisoned for nearly 30 years for crimes he did not commit despite compelling evidence to the contrary is a story many of us do not want to believe is true. And yet it is...for him as well as many others. This story is an indictment of our false belief that trial procedures, juries, and judges are able to accurately determine guilt and innocence 100 percent of the time.

But beyond that, this story is also a testament to resilience, to choosing faith and forgiveness over anger and hatred. It is a story of how our bodies can be imprisoned, but our minds are still free to roam, and to choose. It looks deeply into the character of men, who sometimes commit atrocious acts, and what led to those acts. It questions whether redemption can be reached, and if so, how does that intersect with accountability and "justice"? And it makes one shudder in response to the thought that innocent people have been put to death by society when it takes an eye for an eye, but does so from the wrong face.

Having worked with incarcerated youth, this book rang true and hit deep. I have sat across from young people accused of heinous crimes, but found in them something to like and nurture. And as I heard their stories, I understood what drove them onto the path they followed. It is easy to look at the deed and judge them unworthy.

In 'Braving the Wilderness', Brene Brown says. "People are hard to hate close up. Move in." Ray "moved in" on death row, befriending fellow inmates, including the white man who was affiliated with the KKK. From a distance, we can compartmentalize, blame, and turn people into "others", unlike us, making it easy to hate them. But when they become your neighbors, and you get to know them inside out, the connections, the commonalities are harder to ignore. This is the soil upon which connections can be formed, family can be created, and love and acceptance can grow and people can change. This is what I saw working within youth corrections.

Ray will never get back the 30 years taken by the state of Alabama. His life course was irretrievably changed through no fault of his own. Fortunately for him, he had a friend and a lawyer who believed in his innocence and never stopped working on his behalf. It is through their love and steadfast support that he is now free instead of dead. How many of those who were put to death while Ray waited for justice were also innocent of what they were convicted of?

This was a hard read, but full of truth. Bless Lester and Bryan Stevenson for their loyalty and selflessness.

And, another school shooting. And more uproar about what to do. Ban guns? Ban types of guns? Do more to address mental illness? Provide more rigorous background checks?

Blame parents? Blame kids? Blame schools? Blame politicians? Blame media? Blame the violence in games and movies?

As we collectively point fingers in all directions, like fleshy pick-up-sticks, in an attempt to feel better...feel like we are doing SOMETHING when we feel so helpless and shocked and scared for the future of our kids, I cringe at the tone of the conversations.

I recoil from the vitriol that sputters and sparks from Twitter and Facebook as each person voices with absolute certainty what "should" be done to stop this ugly social tsunami. While accepting their freedom of speech, I shake my head at the lack of courtesy, lack of tact, lack of recognition that it is this very anger and self-righteousness that has frayed the fabric of our connection to one another. It is this unbridled and bitter expression of opinion, without regard for differences, ignoring the possibility for meeting in the middle, that has choked our ability to compromise for the greater good.

The issue is complicated and will likely require multiple responses to solve it, but it begins with civility, and the ability to speak respectfully and coherently, in order to address the dichotomy of thought and beliefs. If we, as adults, can't do better than this, how can we be so shocked when our young people do the same? Some speak with their mouths, others with their fingers on keyboards or smart phones, and some with weapons. The anger exists on a continuum, but it is all the same anger.

When the initial devastation eases gradually into a familiar numb ache, I look for ways to bring the opposite into the world. And I try to keep in mind that young people are watching me, us, every day. What do we want them to see?

During the past couple of weeks, I've had the opportunity to hear from several people who have read my book, which has been a fascinating adventure. Some focus on the plot and plot twists, some focus on the prose and descriptions, some focus on one or more characters, and others focus on the emotions aroused which remind them of their own life experiences or the messages embedded in the story. Listening, I'm reminded of the saying "We see things not as they are, but as we are."

Hearing what they think about a character's presentation or motivation, or what interpretations they make of events and outcomes, shows me how much of themselves they brought to the story; how much their own histories, experiences and personalities affected how the story was absorbed. It reminds me of both the power of words, and the unpredictable interpretation of words by the listener or reader. It reminds me that we can experience the same event, yet come away with different impressions and memories of those events (which, ironically, is one of the themes in the story).

As the author, I may have had an intention, a "picture" if you will, that I was trying to create. But it's the varied interpretations by readers that add a richness to the experience, adding subtle hues to my words, adding layers to my foundation. One reader described it as "life changing" because of the personal connections she had to the story themes and events. When she saw things as she was, she found a reason to persevere. There is no greater reward than that. My readers fill me up to overflowing.

Since leaping off the "author cliff", I've discovered, once again, how differently I move through this world. While those more experienced worked on marketing before they even published, I had to convince myself I could even complete a book before I thought about how to publish it, much less market it.

Now that it's published, I've been sticking my toe into the waters of social media, which I have tended to avoid in the past for a a variety of reasons, the largest of which is an introversion bordering on pathological! Hence, I'm discovering the joys (?) of Twitter. As a die-hard Star Trek fan, I remember an episode about a planet that had become so overcrowded due to the elimination of disease that the inhabitants were deliberately introducing a deadly strain to a volunteer, so that it could spread naturally through the community and death would again keep their numbers in check. There is a visual through a window of people milling about with no room for any space bubbles between them. When I open Twitter, I feel psychologically like I'm in the episode, milling about with countless streams of consciousness! One wonders if a thought-killing virus might need to be introduced!

That said, I'm gaining followers, and choosing to follow, and am trying to "fit in" with the rest of the Twitter world on some level, as a means to an end. Along the way, I've discovered that there may be some kindred spirits out there, based on what they share, which has provided some sweet moments amid the chatter. Like sneaking off to the corner with a new friend in the middle of a loud party. Perhaps, in time, I will discover that there are others out there more like me than I thought, sharing their one-liners with those who can find them among the scraps of paper on the littered floor.

Another shooting in the news today. Every time it pierces my heart, and every time I want to have a moment inside the head of the shooter. It was this very thing that began the rumblings in my head, years ago when Kip Kinkel became the first school shooter in my neck of the woods. I couldn't get my mind around what would cause someone, especially a kid, to do something like that. It gnawed at me, and led me to seek work within the correctional system. While I can't say that I "understand it", I at least got to a point where I could see the slippery slope that can get created that lead some to slide into despair and rage so intense they slip into the abyss. My heart hurt as much for them as for those they injured or killed. The stories, the traumas, the person twisted by life experiences not of their choosing...they filled my days, and challenged my assumptions. And they fertilized a mental novel that was born last September. And through that work, I became completely aware of the phrase..."There but for the grace of God, go I". I am grateful for the sturdy roots I had growing up, despite some challenging windstorms.