A psychotherapist thinks out loud about Being Human, and stuff…

Archive for February, 2013

The Goose and the Blue Cooler: A Love Story

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.”
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

I do not pretend to be an expert on the subject of love. Only a fool would do that and, while I have acted the fool in some circumstances and hope to again, I am not that foolish.

I have, however, learned a few things about love, both from my own experience of loving and my observations of other’s behavior. Let me tell you a story about love- this, of course, in honor of St. Valentine’s Day, just past.

Many years ago, when the world was young and my hair was long, DJ and I owned a funky, old, split window VW bus, festooned with Grateful Dead stickers. Our faith in that vehicle’s transportational abilities bordered on the delusional. With its tiny, four banger engine and it’s unpredictable electronics, it should never have been driven further than the nearest Dead show- if the show was here in Oakland. We convinced ourselves, however, that since it had wheels (one on each corner) and often started when we turned the key, we could drive it anywhere. As I said: delusional.

During this period of our lives, we were deeply involved in the support and maintenance of a spiritual retreat in the hills just North of Ukiah, California, which could only be reached by driving (after a long, slow freeway trip) on narrow, poorly maintained back country roads. These were not the country roads about which John Denver sang. These roads reflected the endless struggle between Man and Nature, and Nature was winning. We’re talking suspension breaking, tire busting, root jumping, car killing roads- and that was when they were dry. Given all that, and our state of mind at the time (you may feel free to speculate what that state might have been, given the era) it is not altogether surprising that our frail, overheated vehicle had a terminal seizure of some kind and gave up the ghost, halfway up a lovely, green hillside.

But that’s not what the story is about.

Something about the pooling oil under the car told us that this was not a bailing wire and duct tape fix; the car was going to have to be towed, somehow, to the nearest mechanic. How we hoodwinked a grumbling tow truck driver into coming into the hills and hauling our bus out is a story in itself. Suffice to say that we were towed to a local shade tree mechanic who, miraculously, had a spare VW engine in the back of his garage- and, finally, we’re reaching the story I’m telling, here.

In the mechanic’s front yard, was a large, grey goose. Also in the yard was a battered, blue, plastic cooler. When we commented on the goose (discarded coolers were too common in that neck of the woods to warrant comment), the mechanic said, “Ya want to see something funny?” We did. “Go on over and pick up that cooler”, said the mechanic, grinning evilly. Shrugging, I took a few steps toward the cooler- and the goose suddenly launched herself at me, neck outstretched, hissing wildly. This was a big goose, and she meant business, so I jumped back ten feet, while the mechanic had a good laugh. When he recovered, he told us the story I’m telling you.

It seems that, a few years previously, this goose had lived in that yard with her long-time mate. Geese, as you may know, bond for life, but a cruel fate (I admit I do not remember the details) took her mate from her. Upon her mate’s death, the goose seemed to have transferred her loyalty and affections to the old, blue cooler, perhaps because it was always in the yard they shared. She would not allow anyone to come near the cooler without rushing to defend it, perhaps for fear that the cooler, too, would be taken from her. Who can tell? Certainly, the mechanic told us, she never strayed more than a few yards from its side. No one, as long as she lived, was going to harm that cooler or take it from her.

So, what are we to make of this story- we, the creatures who assign meaning?

Like a Rorschach test, what you take from the story will depend on what you bring to it. If disappointment has made you cynical, you may find the goose’s behavior laughable. If love or loss has wounded you, the story may be painful. If, like me, you are a hopeless Romantic, you will find a moving nobility in the Goose’s fidelity. Perhaps the ways of the heart, avian or human, are too mysterious to be neatly classified at all. The possibilities are as numerous as the story’s readers. How do you receive it? Does it matter what or who you love, so long as you love? For that matter, is this love at all, or merely some kind of instinctive attachment, gone awry? Judge, and observe what your judgement says about you. May the insight serve you well.

As always, I welcome your comments , questions and shared experiences. Until we meet again (and may it be soon), Happy Trails to you!


Psychotherapy is about change.

You’re experiencing your life as an endless, painful slog through a joyless, grey landscape, filled with treachery and betrayal- or, maybe you’re just having trouble relaxing and your doctor has suggested you find some way to reduce your stress.

In any case, you come to a psychotherapist because we’re the people who are supposed to be able to facilitate change. That’s what we do for a living. If we’ve been doing it for awhile, we can get pretty good at creating opportunities for change. We do this by using (among other things) a host of “interventions” that hopefully will cause an “Aha!” moment that takes you out of your ordinary way of thinking and kicks you over onto a fresh neural track.

Interventions are not new. Zen Buddhist koans have been used for thousands of years to bump the mind out of its rut by bringing it face to face with seemingly insoluble contradictions that can only be resolved if you can find a way to release yourself from your unexamined, limiting belief.

Psychotherapeutic interventions come in many shapes, sizes and flavors, and a big part of the endless fascination I have with being a Shrink is the constant discovery of new ones — or new ways to riff off the old ones. This is what I think of as the Art of psychotherapy. Sometimes I feel like a jazz musician as I work, opening myself to some new variation on a well-known theme, hoping to evoke a matching harmony in the person across from me.

I’ve mentioned, elsewhere, that a good part of my training came from my own experiences in therapy. Amazingly, it is still not a requirement that the holders of some professional licenses undertake their own therapy. I offer you this inflexible advice: if, as you are interviewing a potential therapist, she tells you that she has not undertaken  her own therapy (and don’t be bashful about asking; you’re the customer examining a potential purchase, and probably not a cheap one), thank her politely and keep looking. She’s only half trained and probably doesn’t know it. But, I digress.

I think it might be fun to share, in this and following columns, a few of my own more memorable “Aha’s” — a few times when my therapist (or life) managed to bring me face to face with some limiting part of my belief system that was keeping me from growing as a person. What I hope to do is get you to respond with some of your own moments of enlightenment —  like the time another lover walked out on you and you realized you were, in fact, acting like a jerk, or a mountain top acid epiphany. It could be the moment you realized, looking into the mirror, that you are mortal and finite, or the night you realized that some fun habit has turned into a destructive addition. It might be interesting to share these moments when, as Leonard Cohen says, the light got in through a crack, and you saw something more clearly than ever before.

Here’s one of mine: Forty years ago, when I was young and callow, I took a good friend’s advice (and, yes, there is a story there; some other time), and sought out a therapist — my first, in fact. I liked him, felt safe in his presence, so the therapy was going nicely, which is why I was able to take the chance with him that I did.

You see, in the parking lot of his building, where I had to pass it every week after parking my ratty, coughing VW bug, was a beautiful, white Porsche roadster. My therapist’s white, Porsche, drop-top, roadster!

Every week, I was writing him what was at the time a pretty hefty check, and every week, as I handed him his check, something deep in me got angrier and angrier: “I am writing this man a big check every week and he dares to spend it on a car that I can never, in a thousand years, own! He flaunts it! He should, at very least, have the decency to hide it where his clients can’t see it! Better yet, in deference to the rest of us, he should drive a car like mine, something dented and faded and barely running!” So it went.

Finally, during a session, I think he saw something in my face or body language that caused him to ask me if there was something on my mind and out it came: all the pent-up resentment and anger and outrage at his “insensitivity”, given the fact that such a vehicle was forever beyond my means. How could he?

One of the more useful interventions in your therapist’s tool kit is the good ol’ “Reality Check”, and that’s the one he pulled out. He asked me how much I made in a month, as an AC Transit bus driver. I gave him the figure: a solid, middle class income, especially for a single guy. He asked, how much did I spend on rent and other, unavoidable overhead? I calculated that quickly; there really wasn’t much to it. He sat back and looked at me: “Why don’t you drive a Porsche?”

Insert, at this point, a long silence, during which my mind frantically tried to come up with some answer, other than “Because I don’t choose to”, and failed. The unavoidable realization was that it was only my belief that I could not — should not –– have such a car that kept me from owning it. More importantly, perhaps, I was holding him responsible for the limits I was putting on myself, and, resenting his failure to place the same limits on himself. Whew! Thank you!

You may be wondering if I went right out and bought myself a Porsche. I did not. When I stopped blaming other people for depriving me of things, I was able to see clearly for the first time that it was my own values that caused me to make the choices I made. In this case, in the early 70’s, I had to admit that, as a practicing Hippie, I liked driving an old VW bug. That was the car hippies drove. It identified me. I would have been, well, embarrassed, to be seen driving a new Porsche. I could buy new furniture for my apartment, too, to replace the cast-off chairs and the splintery spool table, but that wasn’t me, and I realized that I did not really want to change that about myself. What I needed to do was to stop blaming others for my “deprivation” and it was a relief to be able to make that change.

Interventions, however arrived at, bring change by increasing our consciousness about ourselves. Plato tells us that Socrates used to say, “The unexamined life is not worth living”. I’m not sure I’d go that far; there are all sorts of things to live for. I do think, though, that we limit ourselves by failing to examine our beliefs, with or without the help of a therapist.

So, that’s one of my stories. What about you? What were your turning points, when life smacked you up ‘side the head, or gave you a gentle, unforgettable kiss, and you saw? Give it some thought, next time your mind’s in idle mode, and if your change was facilitated by someone, somewhere, take a minute to thank and send them a blessing. The world is a better place for your being a happier person.

If you feel inclined to share your story, this might be a good place to do it. Certainly, I’d love to read it, and perhaps some of the light you saw can illuminate some part of our darkness. Who knows?

Happy Trails to you all, until we meet again.