A smart, artsy teen client once described her math homework as “more flowers than numbers.” Such moments in therapy visits abound, arresting in their unexpected turns of phrase, their poetry.
Poetry has been on my mind because my writing adviser from grad school just retired. (I have two degrees; writing came first.) She was a magnificent teacher in many respects, most notably for me this one: she never, ever imposed her aesthetic values on her students, but instead had the insight to see what each and every poem was trying to become, and how to help it along.
As someone with pronounced aesthetic preferences, her gift was like the higher math to my clumsy arithmetic. I’ve known for years that I could never be a teacher, in part for that reason. But I had the gratifying realization recently that I get to live by her example in my work as a therapist.
Progress notes are more numbers than flowers, and the bane of my existence, but therapy appointments are veritable gardens of perennials, annuals, and ectoplasmic chalk drawings that brighten my path and sweeten the air I breathe. I’m grateful to my clients for sharing them. I’m grateful to you for reading.
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