Summer is the doldrums in community mental health. Outside, heat sits heavy on the day, while inside, the corridors fall silent, as client after client DNAs (Does Not Arrive). Even families who lack means can find better things to do than sit in the stuffy offices of our cinderblock strip-mall building when the sun is out—skipping visits without, often, so much as a how-do-you-do.

Ostensibly, golden rays of sun provide community mental health workers with a golden opportunity to catch up on paperwork. In reality, missed visits mean spending precious time making (and documenting) outreach calls and sending (and documenting) outreach letters, while facing the likely assignment of other clients in order to meet the agency’s billable expectations.

Community mental health agencies are generally positioned as the providers of last resort; at least where I currently live, we are mandated to provide services for any client who presents and meets the state’s criteria of need. That mandate means that we are fronted money by the state and/or insurers (mostly Medicaid) in order to maintain the infrastructure to provide services; but we have to earn that money after the fact by meeting productivity standards, or the agency is required to pay back the difference. (Oversight by the agency’s funders is provided, in part, through random chart audits.)

Let’s say an agency has an expectation of 20 hours of billable (i.e., in-person client) time per therapist per week, plus staff meetings and paperwork. With a 20-hour billable expectation (or 50 percent of the work week, which is on the low end of the spectrum), if a therapist has (for example) 26 clients on her or his caseload, and all 26 arrive for their appointments in a given week, congratulations from supportive team leaders are forthcoming for the success.

If, on the other hand, only 17 of 26 clients make appearances, that’s three short of the minimum required; and if that happens to a therapist more than once or twice in a given timeframe, team leaders are charged with addressing the issue, and more clients are assigned—typically two or three at a time—until billables are consistently met. Since there has never yet been an end to the aforementioned need, there are always clients awaiting assignment to therapists (even if, once assigned, they don’t end up following through). Each new client requires outreach, scheduling—always harder when one’s weekly planner is already at least hypothetically full—and documentation of same.

Add to that the reality that, due to the nature of the agency, each case comes with a truly Sisyphean set of documents: the service plan, the crisis plan, releases of information, attestations of privacy measures and rights and responsibilities; quarterly evaluations, service plan revisions, and eligibility updates; annual reviews (which are like quarterlies x π); and, for every visit, a progress note.

All except the progress notes have to be done for every open case, regardless of a client’s presence or absence. The more clients, the more paperwork. There is even a special set of documentation requirements involved in closing a case, along with extensive dialogue with team leaders prior to taking that step. There is also, in many cases, collateral work to be done, in terms of reaching out to other players: secondary caregivers, DCYF, school personnel, JPPOs—to say nothing of intra-agency collaborations with the staff psychiatrist, case managers, and functional support specialists. Each and every phone call or contact, with or without a resulting conversation, is meant to be formally documented, as evidence of the efforts made on a client’s behalf.

Extra points to any reader who has already thought about the beating heart of the work, not yet mentioned here: whatever else is going on, however great the pressure and stress behind the scenes, when a client does walk through the door, it’s a therapist’s job to be present—to engage or reengage the client in the therapeutic relationship; to meet and respond to the crisis of the hour while holding fast to a greater vision that involves the needs expressed at intake and the goals outlined in the service plan.

We are meant to use evidence-based practices and stay current in the field, without sufficient time (or funds) allotted for that; yet we’re also meant to trust that we already possess the skills needed to work with most clients, whether said client is a disruptive five-year-old, a self-harming twelve-year-old, or a seventeen-year-old with a criminal record. In a given day, we might see all three in succession, with barely time for a bathroom break. We are meant to be familiar with their histories and family systems and have regular contact with any outside providers, as well as reevaluate diagnoses and service plans on a regular basis. We deal in poor attachment, grief, abandonment, trauma—but also in behavioral issues that might in some cases be purely biological, a matter of environmental conditions such as diet or chemical exposures, requiring basic changes to the physical conditions of the client that, due to a limited understanding / appreciation of such factors, simply aren’t made, while therapists are expected to work magic.

The meager pay is a topic for another day. Absentee clients have a way of highlighting the worst aspects of the work, and, through lack of momentum, can drain a therapist’s resources for engagement. Suffice it to say, summer is the time when my thoughts most wander to other possibilities. It is when the work I truly love—supporting and bearing witness to positive change—is at its ebb tide. And, of course, I’m stuck in a stuffy office in a cinderblock strip-mall…

To Be Continued.


This month marks my third year of keeping this blog! Out of respect for client privacy, names here are always changed or omitted. Text and image copyrights held by me. If you enjoyed this piece, I hope you’ll consider sharing it. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. Thank you for reading!


Almost before I’d even begun this project—which is still very much taking shape, finding form and direction, its raison d’être—I knew I would need to address my own ambivalence toward the language of mindfulness. That the word itself doesn’t appear in the name of this site is no accident, and not only because I thought it too limited for the eclectic approach I hope to take. I have an aversion to trends as such, and to what an acquaintance recently referred to as “spiritual materialism.” If I do yoga now and then, it’s not because I find it “karmalicious.”

It’s all too easy to sound highfaluting, insubstantial, or glib when writing about things like the mind–body connection—when what interests me is substance and an honest and grounded experience of living. I care about integrity, which, like its relative “integer,” means “undivided, whole.” A state in which feeling, thought, word, and deed resonate. I care about these things—but am I an exemplar?

That was a rhetorical question! Just when I think I’m making progress, life has a way of humbling me. This evening’s lesson came in the form of a five-year-old boy who had no interest in my therapeutic gambits on his behalf. (A quick look at the word “gambit” perhaps holds the answer; he may have felt he would be giving me some advantage.) I asked, for example, “If you could be an animal, what kind of animal would you be?” He made no bones about it: “I don’t want to be an animal!” But what do I mean by “progress,” anyway? That’s a fertile subject in itself. If “humble” is related to “humus,” there is rich matter there in the decomposition—the makings of new growth and the thrilling possibility of eventual flowers, honeybees, and fruition.





Welcome to PRESENT-MOMENT LEARNING, a forum for ideas and strategies to enhance the learning experience of child and educator both, beginning with a special emphasis on mindfulness.

“Evidence-based practice” is a mantra in many disciplines these days, but for a variety of reasons, practice often lags behind the evidence. I’m interested in how the results of carefully designed research programs translate into actual, onsite, day-to-day implementation.

This project is the blossoming of my love for a particular K–5 school community in rural Maine, where I was privileged to spend the 2013–14 academic year, interning with the school social worker there.

Required by my MSW program to design a legacy project, I thought about the issue of “attention” in the classroom, and how often it seems to surface as a problem. Mindfulness, with an ever-growing body of research behind it, seemed a good solution to propose, making use of an online forum for discussion.

With any luck, the conversation will expand and draw in a range of experiences from many backgrounds and locales. Visitors here can contribute to a fund of “practice-based evidence.”

A special note on the language we use: Let us together remember that the children in our care are sensitive, not just to how they are treated, but also to how they’re discussed, and those memories are carried into adulthood. I hope this site will feel like a safe and welcoming place for anyone who visits, and I invite persons who find it otherwise to make their feelings known.

Thank you for reading, and let us hear from you.