Back Door

I used to think I was laid back. Those of you who know me, don't laugh, I really thought I was. I wasn't so much trying to fool you, but me. Years ago, though, a therapist told me I was "tense and intense." Damn, I thought, I wanted to be someone else, someone whose bones, even, were calm. I thought I was an open book, that I could hit things head on, and that I could be approached directly and just open right up. Perhaps in the same way George Bush must believe he was a beneficial president, I believed I was easygoing. Who knows where we get these crazy ideas or why I so needed it to be true.

Then a therapist, a different one this time, told me, "Everything has to come through a side door, maybe even a back door, with you. You're too skittish and defensive, afraid for the front door."

I felt I'd been annointed with clear spring water, petals spilling over me. A truth spoken with kindness sailed to my bones and from there, my work could begin.