St. Stephan with a rose
In and out of the garden he goes.
Country garland in the wind and the rain,
Where ever he goes the people all complain.
St. Stephan will remain,
All he's lost he shall regain
Seashore washed by the suds and the foam
Been here so long he's got to callin' it home.
-RH
I've got this customer who never ceases to intrigue me. You know how they say that the longer you are around your dog, the more you and the dog become one. Well, they say that about marital partners too, and I think that it goes for professions to some extent as well. Some of us battle against our livelihoods on a daily, Hatfield and McCoy type basis, while others seem to fit like the legendary hand and glove. (I say legendary because I've never had gloves that fit that way, but that's a different topic, later.) Born to be that, chicken and egg, drawn to a calling, I'm not sure how to write it down, but there are those of us who seem to be in exactly the correct position to capitalize on our strengths, swerve around our weaknesses, and fit into the secret lock like a hand made key. Johnny Cochran, Sister Theresa, Arnold Schwarzenegger (boy I've dreamed of how to get all those guys into one sentence) and many others seem to have this sea anemone fit into their space. I've never felt that way personally, and wonder whether those that do actually recognize it in themselves. I digress. This guy is a trained psychologist kinda guy, and currently makes his retired living advocating for children and other mentally challenged folks, hoping that our state will use some of its' vast funds for something rather than trying to do the the same old rich thing. He has lived a life of public service, whether working for the people directly or not. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for folks that try to help, in fact I struggle to be one myself, but the whole psychopsychcouncil thing has always seemed a bit of a scam to me, lifes' own original reality show where by "sharing" ourselves with others we somehow unburden all of the issues that we've spent years nurturing and growing. But this fellow is the real deal. He's a large, but not imposing presence, with the best FM disc jockey voice you've ever heard, deep and sonorous, commanding your attention but also welcoming and healing in nature. He reminds me physically of Tom Donahue, one of my personal touchstones, but his physical impression is only wrapping on the gift, the tupperware that contains the home made chicken soup. He is a joyous man, finding and enjoying the pleasurable aspects in every event, even those that the rest of us find dry of joy. He is able to savor all the dish, sucking the bones and mopping up the juice in the bottom, perhaps even storing some in his great beard for later. If you talk to him for awhile you end up discussing things with him that you might not have ever discussed, or even consciously felt the need to discuss. As his womb temperature ambiance surrounds you with familiar comfort, things that had previously vexed you deeply come floating to the surface, objects now without angst or danger, to be explored, turned in your mental hand to examine all sides, and put away on a shelf, displayed upon but not intruding into your mind field. While this neurological legerdomain may not absolutely resolve the issue at hand as it surely cannot, it does seem to put the pin back in the grenade, clearing away the muck and mire in which we seem to cloth our conundrums, making them appear larger, messier, and more toxic than they actually turn out to be upon his psycho-pressure wash.
I think that what differentiates him from the more stereotypical "and how did that make you feel?" type of nitrogen rich psychobabble bullshit is that in his case it isn't a technique, it's the real deal. He wants to know how it really made you feel, and you want to tell him. Like a good mechanic he takes the parts out in the proper order, lays them neatly on the work surface, cleans and lubricates them so that they are at their best, and then fits them back where and when they belong, tightening in the proper sequence and to the torque spec so that when done the ol' mill starts on the first kick, maybe not runnin' like new, but as well as it can be expected to run given the mileage, er, experience that it has. He doesn't weld or grind, nor fabricate new and better parts from polyunobtainium, just makes sure that things interact as they should, that timing sequences are in order, and that the mechanism feels cared about, a well understood but little discussed phenomenon among mechanics and fixers everywhere. A mental chiropractor perhaps, but after leading and following you up and down some pretty dark and gooey passages, things seem brighter and more possible. Damn fine fellow, and he doesn't do it for his own self aggrandizement, he does it to help you, 'cuz he wants to.
Not the best fisherman in the world, but he neither recognizes nor presents himself as such. He just likes to go fishing. Some of my favorite pictures, and some that many of you have seen published, are of him holding up fish, big ones sometimes, sometimes not, but always with a great open mouthed smile. Smile doesn't really explain it. If a smile is like a laugh, then his face lights up in a great celebratory belly laugh, demonstrating that at that moment he is having the greatest moment in memory, at least until the next one comes along. The demonstration of this ability and willingness to be of and in the moment is the example that I would love to emulate.
"It's a lesson to me,
The Ables and the Bakers and the C's
The ABC's we all must face,
And try to keep a little grace.
It's a lesson to me,
The deltas, and the east and the freeze,
The ABC's we all think of
And try to give a little love."
--RH
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