It’s the time of year here when trees look picked over, gardens seem bereft and bedraggled, and skies are frequently gray. So as I was walking along recently, I found this color arresting. It promptly landed on my list of things to be thankful for, a list that has been especially abundant this year and includes family, friends, mentors old and new, and, still, the excellent consultation I had last September at Mass General, which gave me hope and ongoing reason to reinvest in my life. If you’ve ever wanted to hug a neurosurgeon while crying dazed and ecstatic tears, you might be vibing to my frequency. I’m thankful for the friend who drove me there and the receptionist who was kind and even the elevators, the hallways, the glass doors, the parking garage. I hate parking garages! But that one helped deliver me from hell back to life on earth. I’m grateful for a screenshot of my parents on Zoom, hugging while wearing the scarves that I made them, my father’s a decade old or so, lingonberry-red, my mother’s new and pinky-purple like a type of orchid. I’m thankful they’ve been untouched by COVID. I’m thankful for your reading this, which is why it’s short—time is valuable! I’m thankful for Nick Hornby, whose novels got me through the worst of election season. I’m thankful for income and inspiration—also for coffee on the daily, and my new favorite source: Grounds for Change. Take a moment and click that link to find out how truly wonderful they are. I have zero financial interest in the company; my only interest is in wanting to see them and every high-quality, deeply principled business continue their good work in the world—work that benefits the people (who, in this case, produce the beans) as well as the ecosystems they live and labor in. Sustainability for all—it doesn’t get better than that.
I saw this little shoe on a walk this past month, presumably set on a step near where it was lost, to catch the eye of a parent who might have circled back to look, or who perhaps passes naturally in the course of regular strolls through the neighborhood. Given the year I’ve had, and the challenges I still face, gratitude hasn’t come readily to me, but I’m grateful for this shoe as a simple object with symbolic potential. It reminds me of the people who love and believe in me, who have sustained me through 2019—including my father, who has proudly worn a scarf I knit, on every cold day for the last decade, telling admirers that his daughter made it for him, as if it were a treasure among treasures. A decade, and still to this day. That detail—in the arc of life, a scarf is a detail—is meaningful in ways I can’t explain here. Families can be complicated, and mine has been since I can remember—painfully so, for me, with ramifications in every direction. I’ve always envied those I know whose families are close and warm. But the scarf stands out as in a painting, jaunty red, each stitch knit with care. Bright as a kite or a flag, and warming his neck so he can sing. He’s never lost hold of its meaning to him. I’m grateful for that.
The conscious practice of gratitude sometimes needs a little help. Throughout the dark and rainy weeks of mid- and late Fall, it was the promise of an en-route espresso that motivated me out of bed when nothing else did. If I could make time to stop for that, I would have five minutes, maybe ten, that I knew I could savor. You see, I’ve come to dread my job. I hate typing this here, with such finality, in a space I’d consecrated for inspiration. I care as much as ever about my clients, and feel their faces and voices and stories intertwined with my own. But before, between, and after client visits, I’m in agony to leave and be done. A bureaucratic setting is not for me; I need to work for myself. And, importantly, I need to write. I dream the plots of stories—characters and predicaments that I want to see on the page. I hate typing this, too, in a way, because it gives me such a concrete challenge, one that others might hold me accountable to. What if I don’t have what it takes? To which I answer myself—and you, if you hold similar doubts—joy, heart-throbbing joy, is always worth the risk. I hope to keep reflecting on my tenure in community mental health; there is so much to say. I rely on 2019, however, to be a year of change.
Out of respect for client privacy, names here are always changed or omitted, and details may be altered in fact while relevant in spirit. Text and image copyrights held by me. 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. I’m deeply grateful for my readers, and as always, I’d love to reach more. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too, by linking to it in whatever way works for you. I typically post once a month, so no barrage! Thank you for your visit—and all good things in 2019!