“Tell us a bit about yourself” is the way most classes in my MA Psych program began. We would sit in a circle to talk.
To this very day, 31 years later, I can still be stymied by this ask. My thoughts would bounce around as I repeated my mental mantra “Don’t call on me first, don’t call on me first”
Ultimately I laughed at myself and spoke from my heart.
That’s who I am, after all.
What do people really want to Know? I love the work I’ve done as a therapist with couples and single adults. I’m honored that they share their stories with me, and I can help them sort out their challenges. I’ve had a private practice in counseling for 30+ years. It’s never felt like work to me, it’s just who I am.
I’m a writer, psychotherapist, gardener, knitter, spinner, reader, singer, mother, friend, and meditator, and along the way, I play a bit of piano and ukulele.
Should I attempt to be clever here? Oh no, not that. I’m a terrible joke teller, who snort-laughs way too hard towards the end of the telling so much I can’t even get the punch line out.
Why am I here? To write. To connect with other writers, readers, and artists of all sorts. To share my thoughts. And publish my book.
Should I take the deep dive here or stay in the ankle-deep waters? Short version here, deep dives into essays. I promise they’ll be real.
I’ve kept a journal of favorite quotes my entire life. One of my favorites is from Walt Whitman
Do I contradict myself?Very well then I contradict myself,(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
My look will change, tho I’ve gotten some permanent tattoos. I’ll always love chocolate, great bourbon, marionberry pies, and abhor Lima beans. My size changes (I once was a “giant” at 5’3”) but older age has me shrinking a bit. My hair is at times short, other times long, colored and not. My heart remains steadfast.
Substack is asking something else of me than any other public site. It’s a place where readers are writers and writers are readers. Something with interest and a bit of a story feels just about right.
Much of life is magnificent, sometimes painful, always challenging. From my growing up days listening in on party line telephones as I waited my turn to make a call, to small computer telephones that can connect us to anyone in the world. I feel like one of the oldsters we would laugh at when we were young, telling their old tales. I can almost hear my dad as he retells his story of playing hockey in the street with a stick and a rock (weird old man we’d say, roll our eyes, then all laugh with him as his eyes twinkled).
I’ll leave the how I-got-from-here-to-there tales for future essays. Some will be funny, some defiant, others sad or courageous. Stories to be told of how I became.
I’m deeply enjoying this venue for writers and poets with other artists showing their work along the way. Interactions with you are something I look forward to.