All Poems, Career, Change, Pandemic, Prose/memoir, Retirement, Stories

Professional Meetings

 

I provided psychotherapy for over thirty years.
Attending dozens of seminars annually.
To maintain certifications, a license,
Workshops in California, Florida, Maryland,
Ohio, New Jersey, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New York, Vermont, New Mexico, Georgia, the District of Columbia.
Supervisors of mine journeyed round the world:
Australia, Israel, Argentina, France.
Crisscrossing, scurrying in all directions.
But the pandemic in 2020 slammed
the breaks on business travel.
On-line webinars mushroomed.
Everyone learned to navigate the internet.
Like we learned our trades.
I didn’t anticipate  a preference for on-line courses.
Since I was a reluctant virtual conference attendee.
But, not traveling saved time.
No packing bags.
No worries about taking the right clothing.
No rescheduling clients.
No coverage needed.
No additional expenses of hotels, restaurants.
No hassles booking flights, getting to airports.
No dealing with delays, cancellations.
I was a convert.
On-line was simply more efficient.
Dress from waist up.
Listen while on a stationary bike.
Carry the speaker from room to room on an iPad.
But, then I retired from practice.
Though retaining my license.
That meant continuing to take courses on-line.
Not a problem since every organization sponsored them.
Synchronous.
Asynchronous.
One hour.
Two hours.
Six hours.
Twelve hours.
Delivered by the most renowned in each field.
From all around the world!
Last night, while listening in Pennsylvania,
Mark Grant, spoke to us from Australia
on EMDR and chronic pain.
He was already a day ahead of me!
Imagine, a webinar in multiple time zones.
Almost as mind boggling as the presentation itself.
Sophisticated.
Elegant.
Delightful to hear his accent.
I took detailed notes.
Hung on every word.
Listened to every questioner and every answer.
Typed an evaluation for the sponsoring organization.
A second one to get officially endorsed credits.
By 10:30pm, my head was heavy.
In my bleary state, I said to myself:
This is wonderful information.
These skills are amazing.
But whom will I use them with?
I no longer have clients.

Instead of dismay,
I was struck by appreciation.
I had time to reflect on the complexity,
intensity, profundity of my life’s work.
While in it, I simply did it.
Applied what was necessary.
Rarely crediting myself for years of education, classes, seminars.
For teaching new therapists.
Of course, it’s true.
The patient does the work to heal.
The therapist just guides.
But without a flashlight, a map,
the patient slips and slides.
So, bravo to clinicians
who take courses to ease pain.
To lighten loads of sufferers.
So they can cope again.
And though I have no clients
to apply skills, protocols,
I will gladly share my knowledge
with anyone who calls.

Lynn Benjamin
November 20, 2021

Adult Children, Aging, All Poems, Animals/Insects, Career, Change, Children, Disappointment, Family, Grandchildren, Memories, Pleasure, Time, Wisdom

My Calling

 

How strange!
My thoughts ease into images of old age.
Watching energetic antics
of hummingbirds in a nearby garden.
Unlike a migrating bird, my flight is not in miles, but time.
So many seasons come and gone.
Memories from long ago, foggy now,
details smudged, hard to see.
Bones creak.
Plumbing clogs.
Muscles cramp.
Skin sags.
Disappointment when a Times article on laundry tips yields nothing new.
And yet, many satisfactions keep my mind intact.
Friendships, careers, marriage, children.
Children of children light up novel pathways.
Complaints, none.
Joys, many.
Opportunities, waiting.
Mostly to be fully present for tricks of hummingbirds.
Songs of doves.
Maturation of trees.
Mating calls of cicadas.
Admiration of children, now grown.
Their choices, different from my own.
Celebrations of grandkids who conquer fears.
Move their bodies on tennis courts, dance floors,
kitchen tiles.
I’ve had dawns, dusks.
Laughter, tears.
Love, regard.
Exploration.
Knowledge.
Relationships.
For that, every pore in my body grateful.
My vocal cords want to shock the silence.
Sing out gratitude.
But my senses settle me.
Sufficient to hear acorns fall.
Smell roses.
Touch pine cones.
Taste blackberries.
In fact, it is my calling now.
No longer distracted,
I live in a magical world.
I welcome transformation.

Lynn Benjamin
August 16, 2021

Aging, All Poems, Art/Arts, Babies, Career, Change, Creation, Love, Regret, Time, Wisdom

I Have Always Wished

 

I have always wished I could be an artist,
paint noble canvasses like Van Gogh, Renoir.
Political satires like Goya.
Tromp l’oeils like Velazquez.
But that dream was never to be fulfilled
as neither talent nor studio had I.
So, my desire transformed to rain
leaking into corners, crevices, potholes, rivulets.
It became words strung together,
verbal slivers, sketches on napkins, scraps.
Then breads, manual sculptures
of yeast and dough.
Long thin baguettes, slashed on top,
or braided round challahs.
Structures with aroma, a shelf life!
Next, babies four, each a miracle.
Delivered without instructions,
but with dazzling palettes of creative possibilities.
Over time, several callings.
Expressive all.
Molded, shaped by me
to traverse the worlds of others
in ways different than in a portrait framed.
Finally, the pièce de resistance:
the love nest for two,
built together amid clematis,
lilies, magnolias, peas, eggplants in pots.
A place to appreciate the masters,
reminisce, cook with herbs, vegetables, fruits.
Still lifes Cézanne would have longed to arrange.
A place to be grateful for eyes,
ears, nose, hands, feet.
For pastry brushes to egg wash loaves.
It is just enough and not too much.

Lynn Benjamin
June 11, 2021

 

All Poems, Babies, Career, Children, Wisdom

Many Years Ago

 

Many years ago,
I fancied myself a teacher.
Instructing parents how to observe.
But having just spent time with
a one and  three-year old,
I realize that, in truth,
babies are our finest teachers.
Nothing escapes their purview.
Listening, looking, imitating.
Pointing, insisting on knowing what they see,
hear, taste, touch.
Repeating, learning.
Later, needing to ask the how, why.
Just like they need milk, sustenance.
The motivation is intense, immense.
They are discoverers, students of the world around them.
True teachers of observation.
So, parents if skills of observation mean a lot to you, mirror your child’s style.
You’ll soon be observing, too.

Lynn Benjamin
October 12, 2021

 

All Poems, Career, Stories

Doors

 

Doors are invitations to enter a house,
a museum, a bank, a mall.

They are distinctively wooden or glass or half and half,
metallic, gilt or stained.

Some smile widely and usher us in.
Some yawn indifferently as we barrel past.
And some are downright belligerent,
bellowing: Go away!
As we push, then pull, then wrench our backs.

When I encounter one that mutters: Get lost!
You’re not good enough, 
I refuse to hang my head.
Instead, I march to the back door.
It’s usually less arrogant,
more open to visitors.

Lynn Benjamin
November 18, 2003

This poem is an extended metaphor. I was reflecting on how I entered the field of family therapy. It was not my first career. I did not take a program in marriage and family therapy. At the time, there were not many of them. I did not take my masters in counseling. Rather, I studied Group Development and Life Span Processes. I had also informally studied parenting. I was not required to take an internship for my masters program, but I worked for a year on several inpatient units of Northwestern Psychiatric Hospital for my own edification. I took many workshops and attended many conferences. I alway felt that I entered the field through the back door.