Good Souls In My Corner
Last Friday, as the professional development webinar I was attending drew to a close, I just sat in my chair, simply staring at my computer instead of shutting it down. After a minute I shook myself back to reality. Puzzled by my own lassitude, however, I imagined then how one of my former colleagues would have interpreted my reaction: “Wow,” she might well have said, misunderstanding my feelings totally. “It was that boring?” After all, the precedent for ennui had been established for all of us long ago.
Over the years, my compatriots and I had sat through plenty of continuing education conferences that we all had rated as duds, and together we’d kvetched plenty about arrogant instructors and glacially-paced presentations that were light on substance and heavy on the snore. The truth, however, was that my emotional response—to this seminar that, as a retired clinical psychologist, I had no obligation to attend—had not been prompted by tedium, at all. That wasn’t what was bothering me: as odd as it may sound, I was not fighting boredom. I was actually balancing on the edge of tears.
What a treat, I’d murmured as the man who had been at the helm of today’s webinar—an esteemed attorney who was an expert on the potentially dry and sleep-inducing subject of risk management issues in clinical practice—wrapped up his impressive six-hour lecture. My motivation for auditing the course had been to learn more about the ethical challenges today’s clinicians face in light of the changing delivery of therapy services: in particular, the new use of telehealth and text therapy models, which had sprung up as the pandemic progressed.
Happily, I’d learned a lot. I’d been impressed, as well, when before signing off, he had offered a warm smile and an openhearted expression of thanks to his audience for their commitment to provide quality services for those in need. This gesture had earned him, in my mind at least, bonus credit: he’d checked the box for generosity of spirit. Nice touch, I’d noted with a nod to my computer screen.
Nevertheless, as I created a file for the seminar notes I had taken, I sensed that my “two-thumbs-up” for the presenter and the program wasn’t enough to explain why I’d become misty-eyed. Ah, you’re just having a sentimental moment, an internal voice snickered. The older you get, the more it happens. You’ve probably just hit on something from your past. And with that, a door to old memories opened and the images of half a dozen of the mentors who had guided me through my career paraded into my mind. Well, how quick was that! I laughed, as I pulled a tissue from the box on my desk.
It wasn’t until later that evening, however, while scraping the remains of supper into the trash, that I was able to focus my thoughts on these folks who had helped shape the kind of person—and clinician—I had become. Now, I recalled that in my memoir, In Pursuit of Radio Mom: Searching for the Mother I Never Had (release date 10/26/23), I had described these most ardent supporters—who were mostly women—as those with feminist zeal. They were women who offered me opportunities. Women eager to take a chance on someone in whom they recognized their own initial start as young therapists.
And I also remembered how, for my part, I had absorbed it all as if I were walking along a magical hallway, with fairy godmothers popping out of every door to wave their wands in my direction. These mentors were smart, savvy, and credentialed women, those who had made their way to positions of power, moving up the ranks in educational institutions and community organizations. They had nurtured my talents as a mother might nurture a daughter—the way my own mother never could nurture me.
As the dishwasher hummed in the background, an important realization lingered in my mind: how lucky I’d been to have had so many good souls in my corner. In them, I found the people I’d always imagined when I was a lonely and confused little girl with a mother who, due to her mental illness, was largely unavailable to me. I had been a five-year old who’d fantasized that a different mother, one miniature in stature but not in importance, actually lived inside my family’s Zenith radio console. I had been a kid who was certain that all she had to do was to win “Radio Mom’s” attention—because once this tiny figure recognized me and my potential to be her daughter, she would adopt me as one of her own.
I smiled then, grateful that in both a personal and professional sense, I had been “adopted;” I did have fairy godmothers. Now I really understood that because of them, I’d had opportunities to grow emotionally; I’d had chances to achieve my professional dreams; I’d had models for paying forward the support and guidance provided to me. With these truths in mind, I padded around the kitchen, first to close a window and then to switch off a light, all the while offering up my thanks to these real world Radio Moms in the ensuing silence.
Early yesterday, I sat in front of my laptop with my eyes fixed on the screen—much as I had after last Friday’s webinar. No surprise that tears were once again in the offing, but right then the emotion I was feeling—wistfulness, this time—was also strong. As I prepared for a day of writing, my gaze shifted to a small framed photo of my Mom that I had kept on my desk for a half dozen years. How different would it have been, I wondered, if she’d had a God Mama or two? Someone who had afforded her some attention and an overall sensitivity to her desires and her needs?
Pensive thoughts like these, of course, were not new to me: in the light of my abiding appreciation for all the special women I’d had throughout my career, there has been sadness, as well. My mother always comes to my mind: like me when I was a child and young woman, she had had no one to guide her. And like me, she’d had dreams, too. However, on this particular morning, I carefully reminded myself again that, as individuals, it isn’t always necessary to make a choice between the disparate emotions we feel: gratitude and grief can, and often do, share the same space, one which lies quite naturally inside us.
Natural, too, is a propensity to look back over our shoulders and allow our insights to travel and take root in the past. I admit that I am enamored of going to such a place inside of me. However, I do not do so in order to dwell on all that has been lost or what never came to pass, but rather as a way of recognizing and being grateful for the guidance of my many mentors and fairy godmothers. In this way, I acknowledge and celebrate everything they have helped me to discover—without the aid of my childhood fantasy. I don’t need an imaginary radio console anymore.
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Best,
