Planned obsolescence

The boy and his friends created a spoof religion. There was trouble in the school yard—proselytizing, competing cosmologies, groups of converts squabbling over truth. A heretic classmate brought a thin metal rod to press his point, accompanied by a fellow traveler with a camera to film the potential violence. Nothing came of it but the frisson of excitement.

I recommended Lord of the Flies to the boy. He got the point. In the last weeks of group supervision, burned out on the whole affair of collaboration, stuck in the atomistic world view formed in my sparse childhood with its crumbling cliff’s edge of connection, I let my crank flag fly. We’re all doomed, I say. The die has been cast for us. Maybe for the planet, too. Nothing gold can stay. I see in shades of gray. At this moment, the cloud cover in my mind is heavy, waiting for a brisk front to wipe the slate clean again.

All I have to offer is humanity bound in imperfection, a tug on your sleeve, a whisper as you pass, a glance that you may or may not catch as I brush by. I’m in love with this language and how it flows from the source, that ache in my chest and the memory of minds gone like my mind and all the rest will eventually go. I work one human to another, the self in all its crenulations and battered glory meeting another self. We’re doomed. We’re problematic. Let’s create meaning and connection in the face of eventual nothingness while we still can..

I think about this a lot.

The boy coughs upstairs, hiding away after being away, recovering from an intensity of civics and civility. I had a life before him and will have something different after he leaves. This leaving happens in bits and pieces, in independent moves and symbolic pushes. What is now shall dissipate. What comes after will endure the same fate. Time creates us. If we’re lucky, it will allow us to become memories. Eventually even that status shall go.

It is a life’s work to accept this disappearing, to live in the moments we create. I do what I can.

Transmission

I was a bit down yesterday. There have been shifts in my practice, must be goings and almost goings and those who slip one foot out the door before sidestepping back in. I’ve been blindsided. I’ve had hunches confirmed. I plan difficult conversations that go in unexpected directions and I am simultaneously relieved and unsettled.

My work requires me to hold other peoples’ psyches. I carry the ambiguity and ambivalence, the unconscious urges and unexpressed thoughts, for all of us. There is guilt and indirectness. There are hidden messages and agendas. There are my own blind spots and tired places. Sometimes I just want to let sleeping thoughts and feelings lie, even when it is my job to keep them in mind.

I felt melancholy and used up. It was rainy and gray and I had work to do. I made a fire because fire soothes me. I worked through it. People will come and go and maybe there are things I could have done and maybe there are not. I pride myself on my faith in the process, on this weird optimism that makes my work feasible. Holding a space, grasping the threads of hope in the fabric of unprocessed experience, feels useful. But sometimes the threads slip through my fingers. They break. They sever. Maybe I was the one who did the cutting. Maybe I was the one who looked away while someone else wielded the shears.

I let the emptiness fill me. I took comfort in the fact that I shared this alien, alone feeling with others, the apprehension that there is nobody and we are nobody and nothing is worth anything. That’s a sort of thread, too, a melancholic line so slack that we don’t know we’re woven out of the same loose cloth.

I thought of the versions of me across time, the unbearable lonely eras that I bore and now give witness to.

I am not alone. I have you, for this moment. And in the moments when you are not here, I will remember you and the time we shared, one mind to another.

Of blank slates and sleeper sofas

I moved offices almost two months ago. My previous office, aka “the coffin” was an ok-enough rectangular room with dim lighting, two windows facing on a hallway, and a mysterious therapy couch that turned out to be a sleeper sofa complete with sheets and blanket (something I never would have suspected had one of my kid clients not removed the cushions one afternoon). My new office has skylights, a window with a glimpse of cloud and sun, and furniture (no sleeper sofa!) and artwork of my choice. Oh, and a door that I can lock and unlock with a key, which my previous office lacked.

The (open) coffin was located in a building downtown with downtown problems, including expensive, hard-to-find parking and a ubiquitous, generally mentally ill contingent of folks who were homeless and sometimes difficult. My new office is not completely inoculated from urban issues, though the parking situation is better. The building itself is homey, from the bathrooms with post-it notes (“Baby, it’s cold outside,” read one by the window lock, “use incense.”) to my suite’s comforting aura of herbal teas and reheated casseroles. Even the therapeutic naïveté that allows clinicians to leave a lighter by that bathroom incense charms me. There are apparently no fears of clients with pyromaniacal tendencies putting it to a less altruistic use, such as lighting the rice paper that lines the window or creating a conflagration of paper towels. Here we are all in pursuit of self-knowledge, our inner demons keeping a curious, respectful distance while we politely and thoroughly fumigate bathrooms after use.

It’s a building that engenders affection in me for my adopted hometown and my chosen profession, strange as the job feels at times. And the ability, the privilege, to decorate my office from floor to window has been wonderful. I have a room of my own as a grown-up, a neat and tidy space that houses my working life and provides a physical frame for my sessions.

But it’s also very “me.” While I don’t think any office decorating decision is neutral, some are more personal than others. My choices reflect my quirks, known and unknown. I am aware of the potential for clients to respond to my furnishings in a variety of ways and have done my best to choose inoffensive items that also do not appropriate from other cultures. Still, reactions are inevitable. What happens when a client has a strong response to my décor and art?

It happened (out loud) in a recent session and it was fascinating. And unnerving. I wish I could tell you about it. Instead, I’ll file it away in the “grist for the mill” category, recognizing that no interaction—and no therapist—can occupy absolutely neutral ground. We take a stance through how we look and how we talk, through the artwork on our walls (even when that artwork is not of our choosing), and the clothing we wear. The client forms an idea about us based on their own experiences, assumptions, associations, and memories. It’s what we do with this stuff of the mind, how we hold room to talk about and reflect on it, that creates the space for meaning and connection.

But I can give you one piece of advice. If you are a therapist in the market for an office couch and find yourself contemplating a sleeper sofa, go ahead and buy it if you’re getting a good deal. But don’t outfit it with sheets and blankets. Don’t use it for sleeping. A nap stretched out on an office couch is one thing. A sleep in between the sheets on a pull-out couch in your office is another. One is restorative. The other is a bit creepy. Yes, even the supposedly neutral act of sleeping is not without meaning, but make meaning of this one with your therapist on your own time.

(This post originally had a picture of my office, but with privacy in mind, I decided to remove it and put up a vibrant picture of rhododendrons in bloom instead.)

While some fire remains

I was in a strange bed last night in a house of unfamiliar sounds, rain pounding intermittently against the century-old façade. My 3:00 am wakeup was spent preoccupied with the thin threads of life, the contingencies of existence, the way we can cling to something that adds up as it slips away.

I once lived passionately, with drama, tears, and tender, aching pain. While there is something compelling about such intensity, it cannot be sustained. The dependency of infancy, the skill acquisition of childhood, and the tinder of adolescence feed adulthood’s warm flame. And here I am. The fire still burns. The light and heat are companionable. But flame eventually turns to ember, the wood to charcoal and ash.

The people who moved this cottage here almost 90 years ago are long dead. The mid-century day trippers who smoked on its porch live on in memory. The local gamblers of the polyester 70s, disco-slim with a wide roiling of bellbottoms, have slowed down for the final curves. My hair is turning grey; my grip relaxing. And the boy grows into himself while we watch, supportive, present, observing with wonder how a healthy plant grows towards the light.

What will he remember of us, of this time? Thirteen for me was tension and silence. It was never doing anything right. It was that feeling of sap rising, of enormous widening possibility. Thirteen smelled of nervous sweat and White Linen. It was crushes and code names, Ralph Lauren and Esprit, the go-go, name brand 80s, over and done with. The story repeats and yet is never the same way twice.

I’m still figuring out how to handle the narrowing of possibility, how much to feed the flames. I am philosophical about it, prepare myself in advance for the slowing. I wonder what will open up for the boy, am excited to see him unfold as I relax into what life will become.

Ant by ant

There are ants swarming the dry cat food. Periodically they breach the moats we’ve created to protect the bowls, a collective culture victorious over human ingenuity and ant bait. We have moats. We have traps. We have orange-scented, not so toxic ant spray. We have paper towels and cleaning solution to mop up the bodies. Nevertheless, the ants persist, slowed but not disheartened by our killing campaign.

 It is January and the ants come in. It is January and Facebook reminds me on an almost daily basis of early 2017, a time filled with illness and death. First it was Nora-dog, followed by my father, followed by my father-in-law. The memories pop up intermixed with sweeter memories from prior years (the boy fitting his impossibly small frame into a circle cut out in a wall at a local playground; the story about Nora’s fear of beeping appliances; the visit my father and stepmother made to see us when the boy was in fourth grade).

It is January and it is cold in a Northern Californian way here in Berkeley, not freezing, but with a chill that gets into your fingers and eats at your toes. The ants come in. Facebook reminds me of life on the precipice of death. My body, anticipating fifty, reminds me that I am getting older. I develop chilblains. I lose my patience easily. I wake to a bolt of anxiety at 3:00 a.m and stretch out my battered feet, one haggard digit at a time.

January. I am alive and surrounded by life, by dogs, cats, and those perpetually optimistic ants. My human family, a tight group, is here, augmented by the boy’s friends and their dads playing playing out a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. I don’t dwell in the past. I grieve the conversations I will never have. I wonder what lies ahead, but will take this moment in the sun, peaceful and warm, a dog curled at my side, a group at my table.