LOST AND FOUND

 

 

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.

IN PRAISE OF SUNLIGHT AND ESPRESSO

 

 

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.

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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!

INVISIBLE INK

 

We were walking together alongside the building when he veered away from me to climb the perimeter of an unused loading dock. He had done that before, on another walk, and appeared cheerfully confident of my discomfort as he placed one foot before the other on the concrete edge, tightrope-style. Dismissing my worries about his safety, he compared me to his granny, who was his guardian and whom he described as “your standard, everyday grandmother.”

Well, I didn’t correct him on that point; for a kid with his background, being able to take a caregiver for granted is a hard-won luxury. However, I can tell you, she was anything but ordinary. For one thing, she was actually his great-grandmother; her early life unfolded against a backdrop of WWII, yet she was still working full-time and ferrying kids to after-school activities when I started seeing them.

Before she obtained custody, she drove to Jason’s house each day—never knowing what she would find—to take him to school. Without her, he wouldn’t have gotten there, neglected among adults whose lives were given over to pills and needles. Now she was raising him. On a rainy afternoon, as she and I were chatting, I glanced down and noticed matching holes, big as silver dollars, worn into the top of each shoe; she laughed as she admitted she was too busy to try on new ones.

It’s thanks in no small part to her, I’m thinking, that Jason was able to hold his own in the world. His bravado on the loading dock notwithstanding, he had at least one quotidian fear that could send him into a panic. Perhaps that’s why it was tempting for him to show off a bit of fearlessness with me—it was probably empowering for him to scare me in that little way.

Someone had given him a pen that wrote in invisible ink. He brought it to show me once, and was writing secret hieroglyphs on the waiting room walls when I walked out to greet him. They would only be visible in purple light, he said. I think about that, and I think about his history, which he wasn’t inclined or equipped to discuss. Hopefully that exploration would happen one day. So much of our lives are written in invisible ink; it takes the right kind of light, shone in the right places, to reveal what is hidden in plain sight. At its best, counseling can shine a soft violet beam—which is, in fact, a careful reflection of a client’s own light.

Late November is meant, in my part of the world, to be a season of gratitude. This year I feel grateful on Jason’s behalf for the care I saw him receive—for the memory of his great-grandmother’s hand ruffling his red hair as she said, when I asked how his week had been, “He’s a good boy.” And I’m grateful for the invisible heart he drew on my hand. Despite innumerable washings since, it’s still there.

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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. 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. “The Numbers Game” (July 2017), now long delayed, will be continued in a future post, when I have more stamina for the topic. Thank you for reading!