This week I saw in the newspaper that a man had died who was the father of my best friend in the early 1980s. About the first thing this friend ever said to me was, “You’re great!” About the last thing she said was, “I can’t take your moodiness,” and I never, ever heard from her again. Once in a while she comes back in a dream.
The photo of her father that accompanied the newspaper story was taken in 1978, four years before I met Clare. When I met her, he must have looked about like that. I could see her face in his. It made me sad all over again. The article mentioned her current city of residence, so I went to Craig’s List for that town and wrote her a note of condolence and said how sad I still am over losing her. I’m sure she won’t see it (or care if she does).
When I went through a terrible breakup, she invited me to sleep over so I wouldn’t have to be alone. Her roommate had, or had made, a cake of some sort. We went into the kitchen and Clare said, “This is my roommate’s cake. We probably shouldn’t touch it. Here—we’ll take two big hunks.” I still smile over her saying that instead of what I thought she was going to say: “Here—we’ll take two teensy slivers.”
One night she called me up at bedtime and asked, “Is there anything whatsoever I need to worry about? Is it all right if I go to sleep? Are you sure there’s nothing?” I assured her there was nothing she should be worrying about, that it was fine for her to go to sleep. Now the phrase has become a way that I tease myself about my own tendency to worry. It also reminds me of her.
This week I went to a demonstration on fireproof paint. It was outside the Moscone Center, where they were having an earthquake conference. Someone had built four little houses and even taken the trouble to paint them different colors before placing them in a row. I said to the woman standing next to me that they’d better get on with the demonstration before homeless people moved into those nice little houses. The two houses on the left were painted with regular latex paint, and the other two were painted with fancy fireproof paint. The two outer houses were set on fire, and the one with latex paint went up in flames pretty quickly, burned to the ground and also burned its neighbor to the ground.
The house on the other end with the fireproof paint did not go up in flames. The flames didn’t turn it black nor leap to the house next door. In fact, the outside of the house remained cool to the touch. Unfortunately, I was standing downwind of the latex-painted houses and my throat has not been the same since.
I saw my highly esteemed acupuncturist yesterday afternoon and he gave me the directions for making a concoction that should help with detox. Of the two main things I started seeing him for, one is almost completely better and the other is improving. To be on the safe side, I have generated a list of minor complaints that should justify my presence there for years to come.
Today Tom and I saw The Notorious Bettie Page, and both enjoyed it.
Deborah, my mental health professional, and you’ll have to remember her name from now on because I feel weird when I say “therapist” and “long-suffering mental health professional” is far too coy, let slip this week that she has a blog. I agreed not to look for it, because while I could probably find it in 30 seconds, I don’t think she could find mine in 30 seconds, and of course I won’t tell her where it is.
It was quite a pleasant and productive session, which is highly unusual. In fact, up until the minute I walked through the door, I was thinking of quitting entirely, as always, but then Tara Brach saved the day yet again. I think it says in her book, or some book, that tuning in to one’s physical sensations can offer the possibility of more options when communicating with someone else. Sure enough. I have this idea that I’m supposed to go into Deborah’s office and bare my soul and freely emote, which I can’t bring myself to do, and so I feel like I’m doing it wrong and like she’s expecting something from me, and I end up communicating almost as unproductively as you can possibly imagine. It has made a tremendous difference the time or two I’ve been consciously present in my body when talking to her.
I once had a saxophone teacher (Bill Fiege; I loved him) who said at one lesson that one had to try to play in such a way as to make one’s thoughts and feelings come through the horn. I said, “But I don’t want anyone to know what I’m feeling or thinking.” He said briskly, “No one does. So you have to find a way to play that makes it seem as if you’re revealing your thoughts and feelings.”
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