Final entry...

.... I had soaked enough of the house in and was ready to tackle the rest of my to-do list. She asked if she could pray for me. As always I said yes. I remember when we first began meeting, I would pray with her. Only to realize it was because that is what I did with the women I met with. As progress was made, I asked her if she could be the one to pray for me. All I uttered was, "Amen." with my heart pleading the interpretation, "Let it be so." She prayed each week that my soul would begin acting as though it was broken and needed to be fixed. Each week, my heart broke and softened little by little.

I shook myself out of my dream-like retreat with an ache so real that it replaced any notion that my desire for a retreat was imaginary. I breathed in and sighed that even though that place did not exist for me except in the stitches of my imagination; perhaps one day, I can make that dream real for others.

Even if you only joined me in the retreat for this blog series, I hope to make this real for all of you one day.

The House...

...It is a two-story white house with a wrap-around porch. It has black shutters and reminds me of an old farm house. It has what seemed to be two dozen windows just inviting the sun's rays to come in to rejuvenate me. In the winter we meet inside. We always meet in her living room when it is too cold to sit on the porch. There are two big, brown leather chairs in front of the fire place. The walls were a soft green that looked as though the grass and the river had come together and splashed onto the walls. For some reason, even though it was inside, I still felt as open and free as I would if we were sitting outside. Perhaps that is why I never minded when it got cold. In the warmer months, we set up shop on the porch. The back porch is adorned with 3 different wind chimes, all playing their different songs as I sang mine each week. There are 4 white rocking chairs that showed the wear and tear of the generations of women that had sat in them before me. I always inspected the arms of the chairs wondering if the hands before me had clenched as hard as I found myself doing each week.

The house is on a bluff overlooking the river. With thousands of yards of grass leading my eyes to the river, I always felt safe in my rocking chair but with the slight eagerness to one day, have the spirit and wholeness to run as fast as I could through that grass down to the river. But for the time being, I sat on the porch with my counselor who forced me to take my time and not rush to the other side of my identity. The version of myself that I desired was waiting for me in the river but I needed to properly say goodbye to the broken version of myself first. Each week she guided me through those goodbyes. I felt I was picking petals off a flower, "I love you, I love you not. I love you, I love you not." There were parts of myself I was not sad to see go. The harder weeks were when I had to let go of the "petals" that I thought were keeping me safe. Those petals always seemed to fall a bit slower to the ground.

She knew I needed to sit on that porch and work through the mess and blurred maze I had created for myself before running down to the river. My heart had never thirsted for water so deeply...

......She had seen me for months now. She knew I didn't want to embrace the lack of control I had in my life, and I most certainly did not want to look it in the face. I wish she would have answered the question for me. But this counselor knew that I had to say it out loud. The counselors in the past either filled in the blanks for me or just nodded their head as I begged for boldness. This counselor knew I needed to answer the question, so without regard for time, without frustration from weeks of asking me the same question, without discomfort in silence, she asked me to think about it longer. She waited. I waited for her to cut me slack. She waited longer. “No.” I humbly and embarrassingly answered. I was expecting a list of homework assignments or a flood of questions about "why I felt that way and how do I feel..." She stopped rocking and affirmed me but without judgment, told me that I needed to write that question she had asked on something that I could look at the rest of the week. She told me that I needed to understand who I was dying to before I started dying all over the place without reason. She said it with the perfect balance of authority and mercy that it empowered me. We had gone over an hour, but she never scheduled someone after me. We walked around her property a little while debriefing everything we had talked about. We finally reached a point when I needed to go. When we reached my car, I felt embarrassed that I could not pay her. As she does every week, she reminds me that she meets with me as a service that is “on the house”. The only thing she is strict on is that I come each Wednesday. If I have to cancel, I don’t get to see her that week. I began to see this as wisely intentional because she knew that if it wasn’t set in stone, that I would replace it with #20 on my to-do list. I gave her one last hug and took a look at the house before I left. I tried to etch it into my memory so the feeling of freedom would last me until the next Wednesday.

Part III

.... She has not said a whole sentence yet, I thought to myself. She was silent. She was in tune with where I was in my life and the journey I was going on through my heart. I collapsed into my chair. We start rocking, sipping tea, and I begin to tell her how I tired I am. For the next 45 minutes or so, I have painted a picture of what my week looked like, explained everyone I met with, explained the things I had sacrificed, and how exhausted I was at not understanding a balance between giving myself to my community and knowing who I was without that self-appointed role.

Here is why I come back to this porch and this woman week after week. She looked at me and said quite compassionately but matter-of-factly, “Do you think you are noble for doing all of those things? Do you think you are noble for dying to yourself? Who are you dying to Martha?” I of course fired back that I’m dying to my calling and to Jesus. This woman knows when I have taught myself a truth that is in fact, not true. “Are you?” she asked. Again, the silence.

This is continued from my previous post about my own personal Sandals Resort that happens inside of my head:

On a Wednesday, when the week seems as though it should be over, I got into my car and drove over to my counselor’s house. This was no ordinary house. This was an old house she had bought years ago to be a safe place for burnt-out women to come and be refreshed. Her parents had passed and left her an inheritance for her to make her dream come true: having a private practice out in the country to serve the over-serving women. I admired the fact the house was in an indirect way, a gift to her. I suppose I just saw in her face the appreciation and respect because she did not feel as though she “owned” it. I drove down the long, gravel driveway lined with trees. It was just long enough for me to enjoy the butterflies in my stomach about sitting in that rocking chair on the porch and marinating on the hard questions she will ask me for the day. I finally reach the house, I get out and she is waiting for me on the porch. She has a giant smile across her face and a mug of hot Russian Tea waiting for me. She is around 55 years old. She has been married 20 years with 2 children that were getting close to my age. She loved dogs and there were two constantly at the house. They had become part of our counseling sessions. I enjoyed that she shared just enough about herself and her life experiences so that I could trust her and identify with her. But she never shared too much so that I would not feel as though the sessions were about her.

I tried to pace myself so I didn’t seem over-eager, but my face told it all. She had learned to understand when I needed her to listen and when I needed her to speak hard truth into my life. She knows today is a day she needs to do both. As a counselor, I tried to nail down her theory of choice, perhaps in order to have some sort of control in my sessions with her. But, I could never nail one down. She used an eclectic approach, combining different aspects from Rogerian to Behavioral, depending on what I needed that day. She greets me with a hug and we walk around the wrap-around porch to the back. The back porch overlooks the river. She calmly and confidently sits down her in rocking chair waiting for me to start talking. I wasn't sure I wanted the silence to end.

Retreat

Several years ago I wrote an essay about my ideal retreat. I needed to escape to a safe, therapeutic place. I described my dream counseling experience. I felt it tugging at my heart to share it with you... in pieces MUAAHHA.

So here is the first installment. I hope you can sit back with a cup of tea and retreat with me.

“Can it really only be Wednesday?” I asked myself. It was the longest week I had experienced in a long time. School was crashing down on me, the women I met with were all at hard crossroads, my job was pressuring me to fulfill a role I did not want to fill, and I had not sat down with my husband to have a real conversation in a week. I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday. I had gotten home from work, exhausted, and sat down on the couch to write. The minute I hit the couch, tears started pouring from my eyes. I felt as though I was in over my head. I felt ignored. I feared I was doomed for a life without self-exploration and care. The only thing I could think about was escaping to a place where someone would actually pour into me instead. The counselor wanted counseling. No, the counselor needed counseling. My mind began to dream about this place I could escape to. I looked in my wallet at my insurance card. “Does not cover mental health services” was written in red ink across the back. I was left alone to my dreaming once again. I took off my boots, pulled my legs up near my chest, pulled a blanket around my shoulders and began dreaming about my retreat.

Some days...

Some days you have to bet on yourself. All chips in, no fear.

I hope you know you have the winning hand. And if you don't? Fake it.

Indulge yourself!

Take today (hopefully it's a day off) to be goofy and indulgent! It feels good to act like a kid, eat candy without worrying about fitting into your bathing suit, laugh at America's Funniest Home Videos, and feel as though you can accomplish anything as long as you're given the right-a-way. Please see below for my plans... those poor party favors never saw it comin!