Good Thing

I almost cancelled the appointment I had with my Very Wise Therapist earlier this evening.

When I went to her a few weeks ago, she, of course, asked me why I had come back. I allowed as how there were two issues, one acute and one chronic. We spent most of the hour talking about the acute problem, which she felled by distilling into an easy aphorism that makes me feel better when I say it.* The crazy anxiety that had been buffeting my sternum was quelled calm almost immediately.

Last week, feeling calm and normal, I thought, hmm, maybe I should cancel and save my money. What am I going to talk about? But I didn't cancel, mostly because I don't have her email address. The phone is not my favourite mode of communication.

So there I was, in her very comfortable therapy room, its walls painted the same colour as my living room, my one leg stretched out on her couch that is almost the same colour as my couch, the other leg crooked back to the side.** At the beginning of the session, she brought in the clock and a box of kleenex. The second item surprised me at first: figuring, I suppose, that she should have picked up on my telepathic brain waves of calm. Then I thought, well, she probably can't read minds, not really. Maybe my allergies will act up.

Since I ended the session with several wet and ragged balled up kleenexes in various pants pockets, and feeling pretty wet ragged and balled up myself, she maybe probably can read minds. I haven't cried like that since the time of the whale.

It was the same sad from the same deep well, one I dug as a child; just touched in a different manner. Pointed, yes, but not quite so cutting.

*Yeah, uh, no. I'm not telling. Girl's got to have some boundaries.
**Thank you, bikram yoga.