September 30, 2013n First draft poem: Joanne

Joanne

Part I:

My shopping cart is filled to the brim

with desires and fancies:

sourdough slices, shaved parmesan

root beer and Kettle chips

raspberries and plums

goat cheese, granola

I grab Advil and Tums.

Bisquik and Nestles Quik

brown eggs and sea salt

Free ranging chickens  

peppercorns to be ground

I grab a sweet treat as I’m standing in line

If I walk away from these bags, nothing changes for me

I still will be fine

Part II:

Joanne’s shopping cart holds her worldly belongings

Full, overflowing, and yet nothing much in tow

Folded cardboard, a sweater

three rough but clean blankets

sheets of plastic and tarps for the wind and the rain

A gallon of water and a few magazines

Recyclables gathered until enough to reclaim

A box full of what

little

she really must carry

from hard bench to alley or on a good day, 

an alcove with shade and a breeze

but she still wears a cap and a jacket

though it’s eighty degrees

Part III:

Each Sunday she makes her home

in the same garden courtyard

at my office building

she lies in the sun, reading,

her sunglasses stay on so I can’t see her eyes

Her unlined face mocha, could be 40 or 65

humming a low tune I can’t recognize

I am ashamed to be surprised she is lucid, well-spoken

possessed of a quiet dignity and grace

that allows me small kindnesses -

a key to the bathroom

and pillows, which she returns to my suite

with a thank you note - and though she gets food stamps

I wonder when she next will eat

I give her some chocolate and my Sunday paper

and later I ask what she’s reading about

The new health care law, she says

she still can’t afford it

hopes she won’t get in trouble, that no one will tell

she’ll just do without doctors

and try to stay well

Epilogue:

Joanne has no home.

But Joanne has a name.

Joanne is my sister.

And Joanne is my shame.

September 10, 2013 A Politically Incorrect Poem

So I was in the butcher shop the other day and both amused and horrified myself with the thought:  I am tired of the same old meat.  Thus the inspiration for this poem/punk song.  With a nod to Jonathan Swift.  To all my vegan/ish friends:  please forgive me this silliness and I hope it does not offend you.  I admire your values greatly in this regard, and find myself woefully lacking, hence the self-mockery.

The Politically Incorrect Paean to Meat

My friends have all gone vegan,

gluten- free, no GMO’s

but I feed my addiction

with those hint of lime Tostitos

They all eat kale and quinoa,

whatever the fuck that is

but me I want some onion rings,  

and gimme gooey cheez whiz

         But the thing that I like best of all is meat, yeah I said it, meat

         The only trouble is there’s just not enough of it to eat

         Flesh from cows and pigs and chickens is all I ever see

         There’s a whole wide world of animals,

         Just waiting for a fricasee

Yeah, I love tritips, breasts and thighs

I like my burgers rare and thick

Can sink my teeth into a pork chop

Enjoy that corn dog on a stick

But I’m tired of the same old thing

I want something new to masticate

An emu, or a leopard

Put a panda on my plate

Let me deep fry up a dingo

Add a lemur to my stew

And on my shishkabob

I’d like a meerkat, maybe two

       Yeah the thing that I like best of all is meat, I said it , meat

August 26, 2013

It has been four months since I have posted.  I have not been writing much but getting back in the swing.  I did write some blues lyrics that now have been given music, but since I have a collaborator (thank you John Barron) I better check before I put it out there.  I have to say that was a very cool experience, and I am motivated to write more.

But here is the current draft of a poem I have been working on a couple of days.  For lack of a better title at the moment I am calling it Screen Saver since that was the impetus for what followed:

Screen Saver

I can’t quite sleep.

Still awake with some disquiet,  

a search for words begins

when my gaze lands upon the screen:

rectangles, splayed

and overlaid,

the pictures of my life;

fossil fragments

of the years

but in no order

of meaning or time,

random, without story line.

But mind and ego wish it so

to tell the tale of who we are

and so collect the snapshots.

As if, like scattered breadcrumbs,

they could lead us

home again

to that beyond reach,

all that came before,

and in that shuttered moment

relive again. 

Toss death and loss into a void

and Then, etched always in the Now, remains.

Yet all things arise

then fall away.

The succor and curse

of memory hold sway

in the here and now, and what’s to come.

I stand upon a swinging bridge

and peering in between the slats

into that space, the future,

where there is both abyss and wish

and always pause,

hopeful of what might be next

and afraid of falling through.

A short story

The sun is just about to splash into the turquoise.  

It is that moment where the last glowing sliver disappears, leaving a sky streaked with coral and golden hues.  I hear the waves hit, and the see the sparkling foam fanning out upon the sand, the gulls skittering upon the surface.  I want to paint this picture so vividly in my mind’s eye that I can not forget it.  I want to hold the moment, to keep this small perfect picture indelible, and retrievable.  Because in this time around the wheel, it seems that much of my sojourn has already been forgotten, never to return...and there is no one to ask.

My husband has many holders of his history.  We are surfside, sitting at a dinner with friends of his childhood, their parents, his own parents.  I am surrounded by their love and laughter, I am embraced and lifted up by it, and yet I am an outsider to all these stories.  Like watching a favorite movie, it is familiar and heartwarming, but it is not my story, and a slice of me sits in abject sorrow and loneliness, for I have no one who can tell me about myself as a girl.

How pathetic and narcissistic to allow this barbed coil of wretchedness any place in my awareness.   Yet there it is.   It is a truth, and I feel less whole because of it.  

No brother or sister, parents dead, never really close with extended family,  a childhood of Air Force relocations, acquaintances remembered, but no lasting friends from those years.   Yes, I have rediscovered on Facebook some friend from high school days.  But the parts of my life that can be shared and remembered in any meaningful way start in college.  If I can’t recall some detail, Teidi or Kelly or Lisa or David will.  I can salvage those parts of my self through their collective net of consciousness, and I cherish those enduring bonds.  

But what I can’t remember from when I was 5 or 9,  12 or 16, when we lived in Oklahoma or Germany or North Carolina, these pieces of me have fallen into a space that, like an anchor laid down at the bottom of the sea, remains unreachable, unfathomable.  Alone, I can not hoist that ballast, or beckon back memories obscured by the tides of time.

Feeling at once forlorn and foolish, I rise from the table before the tears are seen and find my way to the restroom.   I gaze into green eyes, noting with some chagrin the creases of my crows feet, moist as I struggle with this pain. 

Stop it. 

No, don’t stop it. 

Breathe into it.

Feel it for what it is and let the knowing move through you. 

How interesting, this grasping at the past, this idea that what came before is so vital.  The experience and remembrance of a Me through time feels so necessary  to knowing who I am now, to being my authentic self.

But is it really that important after all? 

As a psychotherapist, day after day I hear the life stories of others.  I bear witness to the pain and struggle.  I accept, validate, and ultimately try to help my clients move beyond their self-limiting beliefs and habits, to transform the sadness, fear and anger that keeps them mired in the past, or paralyzed by fear of the future.  

In essence, healing happens in the moment of release from the often-told life story and the endless editorializing and criticizing.  Freedom lies in the ability to be fully alive to the present moment, accepting it as it is without expectation or judgment.  Well-being exists in embracing the process of mindful awareness of here-and-now.  We grow in connectedness to others and feel the evolutionary impulse when we move beyond the constraints of ego -  me, my history, my story - and instead notice what is shared and essential in the experience of humanity.

I walk back to the table and feel connected once again.  We all were children once.  As were our parents, and theirs before them, and further, and beyond to the differentiation of species, and all the way back to the creatures crawling from water to land, farther back to only water, the changed yet same water now holding the hiding sun until it begins its arc again across the brightening sky.

All I really need to know is known.  If I have breath when the sun rises, I will have all I need.

Here.

This.

Now.

A Facebook Tale

I begin today feeling as big as the universe and as essential as those string theory threads.   I feel that for you too.  Let me tell you the story.

I am part of a  small group on Facebook participating in National Poetry Month by posting poems.  They are mostly original works (and some crackingly good ones!), and occasionally someone will post a work by some other published author.  Marcia, a woman I have never met except through Facebook, posted this by a poet of the 1800's:

Who Has Seen The Wind? 

  by Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?    

Neither I nor you:            

But when the leaves hang trembling,     

The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?   

Neither you nor I:    

But when the trees bow down their heads,  

The wind is passing by.  

I felt inspired by this piece, and wrote the following as a sort of homage and extension:

I Have Seen the Wind.

  by Katherine Hamilton

I have seen the wind

It is just behind my eyes

Creating space for landscapes,

A place for lover’s sighs

You have seen the wind.

It is just behind my eyes

Creating gusts of discontent

And room for love’s demise

And then Marcia posts the following:  

               

"Katherine, it's interesting how a little something I read in a daily devotional email caused me                                  to think of that one line, "Who has seen the wind?"  Then I felt like posting the poem here, and you  composed a poem which sums up the twelve-year relationship with my ex-beau which I ended last September."

We are all the wind, and the wind connects us all.

Poem of the Day

So April is National Poetry Month, and I have been participating in a Facebook page of submitting a poem a day.  Today I submitted one that I just wrote, so thought I would share it here.  It is about spiders but doesn't have a title yet.  Maybe the first line?

The spider is my totem.

I used to kill her, you know,

before I was ready to let in her meaning.

She comes to me often now,

startling me

from lassitude and complacency.

Delicate, (dangerous?)

Maya, Arachne.

Gentle grandmother,

weaver of illusion and infinity.

The thread of generations

is spun from her belly--

a web of sorrows and wishes

wrought in the night.

Reminding me, yes, that all is connected

the past and time passed

is the pattern we live.

As she is the keeper of soul’s hidden language

of dream, and of poem

So she moves me to write.

Retooling a Poem

Sometimes the universe conspires in our favor if we allow it, note it and take advantage of it.  

There was supposed to be a small group of us from my writer's group meeting in my office today for a read and critique session.  When one of the four of us, a woman whose poetry I admire and whose incisive feedback I very much appreciate cancelled due to her child being sick, I had a sense of dread.  I had not yet met the other two who said they were coming, both young men, one of them only 19 and whose profile stated he was the member of 177 other MeetUp groups.  Right.  I bet he has 800 Facebook friends too.   

I was thinking maybe I could pretend I wasn't there, like when the Mormons or Jehovah Witnesses knock on my door.  

As I sat there, waiting, I was also feeling badly that I had not been giving any time to reading and writing lately. How can I say I am a writer if I do not, in fact, write?

As it turns out, The Year of the Snake started out quite well with neither of the gentlemen showing up, allowing me the quiet of my consulting room to work on my word-craft.  And I did.  

This new lunar year I aim to molt my tired meters and shed my over-reliance on rhyme, and get down to the essence.  I will read more and write more.  I will blog more often as practice.  

So this is the one I worked on.  Currently untitled, I originally called it "What My Hot Flashes Teach Me" and then "Morning Mirror",  neither of which I like.   And it isn't done yet, nor abandoned.

The previous version was posted here in December, as a Poem for Turning 55.

Domain without dominion,                                                

this body as I age.                                                           

I startle at my reflection,                                                

in recognition of                                                           

a “me-ness” that abides within that cage                       

no longer new.                                                           

A breath-stopping moment of

shock and silence; aware

that memories now stretch longer than

the days which lie ahead. 

Exhaling, holding my own gaze, I stare:

no longer young.    

My passions long neglected

require now a choice.

Ancient desire sparks nascent fire,

and inchoate, arise,

seek form, and clamor to be given voice,

no longer mute.

Sight will dim and sinew thin.

This hutch will rust and bend,

of little use or consequence.

I need but this breath to

sing the poem of pulse beyond body’s end:

no longer caged.

I Like It, Love It, Yes I Do

I, a married woman, spent last weekend in Phoenix, in the company of three men.  We had been planning this little get-away for about a month, and it finally came together.  The excitement had been building, and after a long dusty drive through the desert, we arrived, ready to get down to business.

Previous liaisons had occurred hurriedly in a crowded room in L.A. for which we paid by the hour, but now we were in the comfort of someone's home, with nothing but space and time stretching out before us.

Despite having done this since my teen-age years, I still get the anticipatory jitters, and I brought along some fine tequila.  Several shots later, and small talk over, we started what we came there to do.  There was no turning back, no guilt, no shame.

It didn't matter to us if the neighbors heard us; the louder the better.  We gave each other performance feedback, and sometimes had to do it a couple of times to get it right.  Soon we were sweaty and smiling, and had to take a break, because none of us are as young as we used to be.  In fact, one of us had to stop and take a nap, while the rest went outside, unplugged from our devices, and carried on some more.

Sex and drugs?  No.  Rock and roll?  Oh hell yes.

I know,  it's only rock and roll but god I love it.

I just joined this standing group a few months ago, and I can't tell you how much fun it is.  I have been singing in the car and at home forever, but not in a band since graduate school.  The synergy of playing together is an absolute joy.

I do feel the tiniest bit conflicted about pursuing this.  It is at its core absolutely selfish and hedonistic.  With my writing pursuit, I can tell myself that while it is a personal passion, it is also because I hope that ultimately others are touched in some beneficial way by reading it.  With the band, it is just because we can, because it is fun, because it feels good.  No one else usually hears it, and it does take time away from other important people and pursuits, so I do appreciate the forbearance of my family more than I can say.

But singing makes my spirit sing, and that can't ever be a bad thing.  I believe we are better people, and act more loving and tolerant as a result, when we allow ourselves the full measure of what gives us joy, and exercise our talents.  Mine is a quite minor and limited talent (and my son would probably argue,  no talent at all, having had to suffer through countless nights of Rock Band).   Nevertheless, I guess  it's kind of like that hackneyed sentiment: sing like no one is listening, and dance as if no one is watching.  How good or bad I am is not the point.  It is me, being me.

If I want to play rock star, why the hell not?

A Poem for Turning 55

Well, I have not been on my little blog site since September, so thought it was time to post something I have been working on over the past week.  Still a work in progress.  I originally was going to title it What My Hot Flashes Teach Me,  then changed it to Morning Mirror, now it is just untitled for the moment.

Domain without dominion,                                                

this body as I age.                                                           

I startle at my reflection,                                                

in recognition of                                                           

a “me-ness” that abides within that cage                       

no longer new.                                                           

What a breath-stopping moment

as I become aware

that memories now stretch  longer than

the road which lies ahead. 

Exhaling, holding my own gaze, I stare:

no longer young.    

Yet passions long neglected

need nothing but a choice.

Ancient desire and nascent fire,

inchoate, they arise,

seek form, and now demand to have a voice,

no longer mute.

Sight will dim and sinew thin

as bars of cage must rust.

But in this moment, in this breath

is all.  Enough.  Today

I write the poem of pulse, before the dust.

No longer lost.

A Tribute to My Dad

My dad would have been 86 today.  He died four years ago.  I came across the eulogy I wrote a couple of days ago, and thought I would post it here in his honor.

Eulogy for My Dad

Paul E. Hamilton  9/18/26 – 9/4/08

Services  9/9/08

Thank you all for being here to remember and honor my father.

I want to start by acknowledging some family members who weren’t specifically mentioned in the obituary.  Family is not just blood ties – it is relationships forged by marriage and friendship as well.  With that in mind, I want to acknowledge Archie Parris, my dad’s brother-in-law through his deceased sister, Betty Lou, and my aunt and uncle Betty and Buddy Pace, my mom’s sister and her husband.  I especially want to thank you, Aunt Betty and Uncle Buddy, for being there for my dad before and after my mom died, for all your help and love.

My father was a great man.  His was not the noisy kind of greatness marked by power, popularity or prestige, but the quiet kind of greatness composed of conscientiousness, kindness and compassion.  It was who he was, and how he lived his life.

My earliest memories of my dad are of him in military uniform, khakis or dress blues, standing tall, solid and strong.  He was, and is, my hero.  He always took the time to listen, he was always there when I needed him.  He taught me so many things – how to drive a car, how to put a worm on a hook, how to make oatmeal and southern green beans, how to sing “You Are My Sunshine,” how to hold my tongue and have patience, and how to believe in myself and my abilities.

He showed me the best model possible of what a man, a husband, a father should be, and for that I am eternally grateful.  I chose a husband with many of the same wonderful qualities, and try to instill in his grandson the same.

Those of you who knew Paul from childhood and adolescence know parts of him that I know only from stories told.  I know he loved his family, hunting, his hound dogs.  I have heard a few tales about youthful escapades, and stills in the hills, and working hard at the mills.

His years in the military defined and described so much of who Dad was.  He was so smart and organized, so thorough and conscientious, and these qualities allowed him to succeed and win numerous accolades and promotions.  He loved his assignment working with the color guard attached to Air Force One under Eisenhower, and using his cryptography skills during the Cold War.  Dad was extremely punctual too (a quality I sadly lack, although he would be pleased I was uncharacteristically on time today).  He was so punctual in fact that I remember he and I arrived about 45 minutes early for a party out of town, but happily our host didn’t mind.

Dad was a hard worker, with the kind of work ethic that defines most men of his generation.  When he retired from the Air Force during the recession of the 70’s, I know now that it was a hard time for him, but he never complained.  In fact, he took the opportunity to return to school and pursue one of his talents and passions, horticulture, obtaining an associate’s degree.  Dad was amazing with plants; we had a vegetable garden in our back yard that bore fruit for us and the whole neighborhood. 

In the meantime, he and Mom formed their very successful partnership as antique dealers.  Mom did the schmoozing and wheeling and dealing; Dad characteristically was the quieter behind-the-scenes partner, refinishing furniture, organizing and planning.  They had so much fun together in the business, and I’m happy they had that time together before my Mom got sick.

Dad was also exceptionally devout in his faith, through the years donating his time and money to the Church and related charitable causes.  He was equally devoted as a son, son-in-law, brother, husband and father.

I have never known anyone more committed to the well-being of those he loved, giving of his time and effort, caretaking all those he cared about, lending a hand to anyone who needed help, or an ear to anyone with a worry.  His quiet devotion to my mom through her lengthy illness and disability was amazing, and a constant challenge to me to aspire to my better self.

Of course, Dad would be embarrassed by these words of praise because he was also incredibly modest, understated, and private.  This is, I think, an extension of his deeply embedded sense of right and wrong; not that he was judgmental, but that he just lived by  the Golden Rule, treating others as they would wish to be treated.  Therefore, doing the right thing would not be seen as remarkable or even to be remarked upon.  It was simply expected.

Now, despite all by Dad’s noble qualities, despite the fact that he is, in my eyes, a great man, he was of course a regular guy who loved to laugh, kick back, fish, play poker, and enjoy a brew in younger years.  He had his faults, his foibles, his fears, and goodness knows he had his share of life’s burdens.  But he seldom complained, he never blamed, he accepted what life gave him with equanimity, strength and courage.  He looked for the silver lining in all life’s circumstances, and expected and found the best in those whose lives he touched.

My dad’s legacy will be with me always.  There are very many things he taught me, but he always told me, “Daughter, you are book-smart, but when it comes to common sense, you have to learn things the hard way. “

As in most things, he was right.  I do learn things the hard way.  Here are the things I am learning the hard way, today:

There is never enough time.

It hurts, immeasurably, to say goodbye.

It is impossible for words to do justice to, to sum up, or to take the measure of a man’s life.

So let me end with these words from my heart.  Dad, thank you for being the great man you were.  Thank you for the legacy of your love and kindness that lives on in all of us here.  And thank you for loving me. 

I say goodbye, but always, you are my sunshine, and always, you are with me in my heart.  

The day after Labor Day

Wow, I did not post a single thing here in August, but did submit my poem "Why I Meditate" to the on-line magazine Elephant Journal, and it was published August 15.  I was so very pleased to be selected and get a little bit of exposure.

But back to blogging for the moment.

Labor Day got me to thinking about my work.

I have been licensed as a clinical psychologist since 1990, and spent thousands and thousands of hours in training in the ten years before that.   I was employed as a psychologist for about 10 years before opening up my private practice over 13 years ago.   I have seen thousands of patients during the period before my private practice but I have no statistics, except for my practice.  Here is what I found.

During the past 13 years, I have met with 701 different patients.  Actually more if I had kept count of collateral contacts.

I currently have 68 active clients.  Each week I usually schedule about 35 appointments, and end up having on average 30 direct service hours, with the balance taken up with phone calls, paperwork and a bit of down time for other things I enjoy doing.

Of these 68 folks, some I see weekly,  many twice a month, some once a month, others three or four times during the year.  I have no idea how this compares to other people's practices, but I feel fortunate that I am so busy.  I usually get at least three or four inquiry calls a week, and often direct people elsewhere.

This steady stream has kept me free to do my work, without having had to spend much time or thought on advertising or generating more referrals.  I do not want to get complacent about that, but I am thankful that as I got off the ground, I developed a few consistent sources of referrals, and then recommendations from previous clients and lots of self-referrals have allowed me to actually be selective in deciding with whom I wish to work.  Psychotherapy is often personally demanding, and it helps me prevent burn-out to stick with the kinds of people and problems that I enjoy the most and with which I work the best.

However,  a year or two ago I had the idea to build up my business in a different way, to market a personal development service for cash (not insurance) payment, and I put a fair amount of energy into developing that idea, even hiring a personal coach for awhile, but I stopped short of bringing it to full fruition.  It is still there in the wings waiting for me when I am ready.  I actually utilize a fair amount of those concepts with my current clients.

What happened instead: while going down the path of my own personal growth,  I re-discovered my love and passion for writing, and have directed my energy there instead.  And what a wonderful thing that has been for me.

I am re-energized.

I feel more creative.

I have taken risks.

I have come full circle back to something that was once so vital to me as an adolescent and young woman.  I realize I never entirely stopped writing, but until recently neither did I really embrace it and direct energy and purpose to it.

And that has made all the difference in the world.  I now see writing also as part of my work.  It is a true labor of love, for which remuneration is not important.    The chance to get some exposure, to have some sort of impact on the reader, to connect through my words, is the pay-off I seek.

In writing, as in psychotherapy, as in all relationships--words are powerful.

They can harm or heal, debase or empower, form enemies or alliances.

I intend for my words to provide pleasure for others, but more importantly to express an idea or an image that forms a connection, a reminder of shared humanity in both its many wonders and its frequent pain.  Sometimes the content is serious, sometimes humorous.

And when it is at its very best, I want what I write to create in the reader a moment of awareness of what is essential.

An awakening of spirit.

A calling forth of something that seeks to hear its name.

Thank you for allowing me that opportunity.

100 words or less fiction...

Our little local happenings and events paper, The Acorn, is running a writer's contest called In a Nutshell, for fiction 100 words or less.

For someone as wordy as me, 100 is really hard.  Here is what I came up with as an entry:

Abby awakens to darkness, a deafening roar and a jolt that throws her from the bed to the floor which rises, falls and shimmies beneath her.  As dry wall crumbles, girders groan and glass explodes, she thinks:  Shit, this is it, California tumbles into the sea.   Crawling blindly, she finds a pillow, pulls it over her neck and head, curls tight, and rolls with the seismic waves while the crunch of collapse thunders in her ears. 

Then, all is quiet.  Abby opens her eyes.  In her bed, Chris beside her, the apneic silence is punctuated by his monstrous snore.   

Sonnet

I share this for those of you who appreciate the form.  You may vaguely remember the defining features of three quatrains and one couplet of iambic pentameter, the ababcdcdefefgg rhyme scheme,  and the content.   I had to go to Sonnets for Dummies to remind me of what I learned in high school English many moons ago.  In any event, I did this as a writing exercise, and it is clearly tongue in cheek.

The name of the sonnet is, well, 'Sonnet' because it is about the experience of writing a sonnet.  But that is like naming your dog "Dog."

How about 'Meta Sonnet'?  'Sonnet to the Second Power'?   'Shall I Compare Thee to The Words of the Bard'?   I will consider any and all suggestions.


Sonnet

For practice, in iambic I will write;

although ‘tis foreign writing lines this long.

I do this, for I cannot sleep tonight.

These words perchance can soothe me, as a song.

Ah yes, the rhythm is a melody,

a cadence that caresses as it flows.

For in these lines there can be no spondee,

and my beloved trochees dare not show.

But music of the muse is often wild,

intense, unmetered; minor chords abound.

Then how to find true voice in form so mild,

and honor craft and meaning in the sound?

But hark!  The tune emerged here from my head,

so off I go to pentametric bed.

Good morning!

Nothing new, just an invitation to peruse these posts if you haven't done so, and I welcome any and all feedback.  

 I have not written anything new prose or poetry-wise, in about a month, although I am beginning to work on a sonnet as a writing exercise.  Mostly I have been working, and enjoying the summer when not working.

Warm wishes for a wonderful week!  (Alliteration nightmare...)

Knowing That All Things Must End

A poem written last year...

Knowing That All Things Must End      

Throat laid bare with upturned chin,

vulnerable, exposed, breath in--

Dare to open once again.

Every joining, holding fast,

this present joy, too soon the past--

Cleaving to what cannot last.

Linger, savor, tarry, stay?

inexorable, the end of day--

Solstice moment, parting way.

Return to one must come in time;

unclasped, glance back, let loose of  “mine” --

Silence, and the taste of brine.

For Sophie...

It has been a little over a year since we had to put my Sophie down; she has been on my mind a bit lately.  And since I have no new inspiration at the moment, I am sharing something I wrote after she died.  

She was a German Shepherd, mixed with not-sure-what, maybe collie or Australian cattle dog, with a shepherd head and a mottled coat of many colors.  She was a bit of a doof, sweet as can be, but didn't much like other dogs except Freckles, maybe due to her days of being a stray.  But she was all love to me, Curtis and Chris.

I had never had to put a dog down before, and although there was nothing more we could do and she was non-responsive by the time we got her to the vet, it was still gut-wrenchingly painful.  But I was glad to be with her at the end, and writing this helped.

For Sophie

Just a note to say farewell my furry friend, and thank you for appearing in my life, loving me, and teaching me.

You taught me that worthwhile things are often inconvenient.  You taught me to give you frequent treats.  You taught me the value of staying close to those you love.   You taught me that big dogs are love bugs. You tried to teach me to stop leaving my gym bag around where you could get into it.  Finally, you are helping me learn, yet again in my life, how to let go.

Moments to remember:  You, roaming around behind the Edwards Theater, skinny and alone.  You, at the pound, days away from being put down, looking at me with those big brown eyes.   You, scaring the crap out of Freckles when we first brought you home.  You, the moment I knew we would keep you and love you, silently coming up to me when I was sitting at the computer, and laying your head on my knee.

You, with a huge tri-tip in your mouth that you stole off the kitchen counter.  You, chewing up yet another toilet paper roll or Kleenex or paper towel.  You, chasing Haley with her pony tail and thinking it was a rope bone.    You, accidently getting locked outside and waiting quietly by the front door.  You,  squeezing out from under the garage door the moment it was 10 inches off the ground.  You, lunging at that little dog in the truck that belonged to that very strange man.   You, using me as your personal scratching post.    

You, getting skinny from diabetes.  You, patiently enduring the twice daily insulin shots.  You, eyesight mostly gone, making the best of it.

You, your body pressed against mine, giving and receiving love.

Farewell my dear.

On Being a Psychotherapist

Clients, as well as friends, often say to me, "I don't know how you do your job," and then follow it up with one of the following questions or comments.

"Don't you get tired of hearing people whining?"

The answer:  Occasionally, but not as often as you might imagine.  For the most part, at the point someone picks up the phone to engage my services, they are ready to do something different.  They are suffering, or struggling, or overwhelmed at the moment,  and their usual ways of coping are not enough, or may even be making things worse.  And while they may be temporarily stuck in a state of victimhood, or self-absorption, or worst of all, hopelessness, the pain is real, and the courage and trust it takes to enlist the help of a stranger to find a way out of the suffering is a very good sign.  No one truly wants to be miserable; it may simply have become a habit, a default mode of existence.

That being said, I too am human, and occasionally when a client is going down that road AGAIN, I think of Billy Crystal (Dr. Ben Sobel) in Analyze This:  He is listening to a client, complaining about her boyfriend Steve for the umpteenth time, and he begins to fantasize a response:

Dr. Sobel: Well, what I think you should do... is stop whining about this pathetic loser. 
[Sobel stands up] 
Dr. Sobel: You are a tragedy queen! "Oh, Steve doesn't like me!" "Steve doesn't respect me!" Oh, who gives a shit? GET A FUCKIN' LIFE! 


"Isn't it hard to just listen all day long?"

The answer:  Listening is important, and something that comes easily to me in this setting, but I damn well better be doing more that just listening.  It is a very active listening, one in which I am both emotionally engaged with my client and reflecting that engagement, while also a part of me is stepped back and observing, contemplating the meanings, implications and nuances, making connections with what else I know about my client.  Then, there is a response of some kind required, allowing the right words to come forth which might help them toward greater self-awareness, self-acceptance, insight and motivation to move beyond their current situation and habitual modes of responding.    Sometimes, just bearing witness in a compassionate and non-judgmental way to someone's experience is all that is necessary, at least until I feel more sure about what the helpful thing to do or say actually is.  But my style is fairly interactive and pro-active, not just reflective.

Best advice I ever got from a supervisor:  When you are not sure what to say, don't say anything.


"It must be draining/stressful/difficult to hear so much pain."

The answer:  Yes, sometimes it really is.  Rape, assault, emotional abuse, sexual abuse during childhood, addiction, death, grief, loneliness, self-loathing, betrayal, dreams deferred, utter and abject hopelessness, intense suicidal thoughts and feelings...yes, some days are harder that others.  I try to make sure that I meet my needs for socializing, exercising, rest, fun, meditation etc. so that I have energy reserves and balance.  The more experienced I have become, the easier it has gotten (usually) to keep boundaries in place and to know my job is not to be the savior.  And embracing the idea that pain is a part of life, but suffering need not be so, helps too.  Pain is not mine to take away, and it is in the suffering I can be helpful, but ultimately the degree to which someone profits from what I am able to do is not in my power either.

But I know I carry it sometimes.  When I get a deep tissue massage, I can tell that my back and shoulders are the physical repository for whatever I haven't let flow through me, professionally and personally.  I was surprised the first time I cried on the massage table; now when it happens, I understand why.


"How do you know what to do?"

The answer: Like all professions, mine has its techniques and its knowledge base to apply. God knows all that time spent in school and on practicum and internship better have taught me something.  And like all other sciences, it has empirical validation.  Like all healing practices, it has various interventions.  Like all relationships, it is based on shared humanity. And like all creative arts, the psychotherapeutic interaction is something alive and emerging in the present moment.  Each moment is unique, and when I am most genuine, responsive and attuned, experience and intuition guide me as to how to best respond.

However, it should go without saying that sometimes I don't know what the hell to do.  Occasionally in a session with someone I am distracted and off-kilter and I feel like I should refund their copayment.    Sometimes I totally put my foot in it and I will say or suggest something that is way off the mark from where my patient actually is.  Luckily, most people are forgiving of this and will simply correct me so that I can get back on track with them.

And sometimes I feel like I am not being helpful at all, because I am not seeing evidence of what I think  should constitute improvement, or change, or diminishing symptoms.  That is when a collegial consultation comes in handy.  Other times, I simply must remind myself that I never see the full picture from an hour in my office, and that some things take a lot of time.  And finally, sometimes things simply not getting worse is actual improvement.


The bottom line is, it is often hard for anyone to imagine doing someone else's job.  Mine is not especially heroic or unusual.  I can't fathom being an ER surgeon or  a soldier, but neither can I really imagine being an accountant or an architect.  If we are lucky, that is because we are doing exactly what we feel we are meant to be doing, and simply can't imagine it any other way.   So what seems impossible or boring or frightening to the outside observer does not feel that way to the person doing it.


I do feel lucky.  I love being a psychotherapist.  I feel honored and humbled to be trusted to walk with someone for a part of their path; at best, this allows me to be an agent of healing.   At worst,  I am simply present with someone, perhaps planting a seed that will blossom later.  


What is not to love?