"See them all coming back to you"

Harriet therapy

Harriet sometimes does therapy with the cats. Not, like, petting therapy or a spa day. She goes into a quiet room with them and asks them questions, then takes notes on a small pink clipboard.

I’m not sure what she asks them because the sessions are private, or where she got her ideas about therapy. But they seem well-adjusted and unburdened so when, after a long Day of Action for Higher Education, she asked me if I would like some therapy I said sure.

“Knock on the door when you’re ready,” she said. She sat at the desk in my bedroom and used my phone to find meditation music, which she played very quietly.

I knocked, and she said, “Come in. You can sit on the bed.”

“Can I l lie down?”

“Oh yes.”

I stretched out, my feet facing the window, and Harriet approached.

“What do you need help with?” she asked softly.

I hesitated, and she leaned close. “Say, ‘I have anxiety,’” she whispered.

I repeated the words.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “Picture a sunset. They’re all around. Think about their colors.”

“Think about somewhere you like to be,” she said.

I followed her directions. Then, she asked, “Imagine your family leaving, going away, how would you feel about that?”

“Sad,” I said, concerned now about where this session was going. “I wouldn’t like it.”

“Now picture them all coming back,” she said. “See them all coming back to you.”

Then she asked if I’d like a massage and she gently rubbed my legs, and my stomach, and my forehead.

Other things that have made me feel good this week:

Working in solidarity with other faculty members and graduate students across the state and country to stand up for higher education, science research, and our international colleagues and scholars.

Clapping Hands Farm, where when it’s someone’s birthday, the circle leader asks, “In how many languages can we sing ‘Happy Birthday’?” Then each person who knows a different language and song leads the group in singing.

Babysitting a one-year-old with Beatrice. Watching the baby dance with her bottle after randomly discovering that she really likes Steely Dan.

The garden’s first, still-green strawberries.

My wish for everyone this Easter is that they might tap into the wisdom and sweetness and empathy of a first grader, a baby, an eleven-year-old, a garden-grown strawberry.

Lots of love from us.