It's getting colder in the Northeast. I love it—mostly I do—except that I am colder than cold, colder than most folks. I feel it in my bones. My husband and I are Florida bound for vacation soon, and then, we think, to live. Not just yet. The kids need a bit more raising first.
So with the cold coming and the time being ripe, we take the kids (the same ones who still need a bit more raising, and two that are raised mostly) and we head to a peach tree orchard.
If you've never been, I cannot recommend it highly enough.
First, there was the utter joy of traipsing along a raggedy dirt road with nothing but corn fields and blue sky for the eyes to bump into. And the dragging—schlepping—our big container boxes at our sides, thumping and banging our thighs as we make our way to the orchard’s entrance.
And then, and I'm telling you—maybe it’s because I sit in my office for hour upon hour using all my ears (at least three, right?) to understand all the sorrows and stories, the doubts and the dreams, the longings and the fury and the unwillingness to be willing to be willing, and listening for all those “pesky little problems that lurk in the unconscious” (thank you Hedda Bolgar, may she rest in peace)—that upon entering that peach tree orchard, I felt like I had walked into paradise.
All of a sudden all my angst about drives and character and the complicated puzzle of the human heart and psyche dissolved under the shelter of hundreds of bumpy old peach trees.
Row upon row of overgrown knotty trunks with row upon row of green-turning-yellow leaves. No more sky, well, some peaking though here and there, and a hushed world of absolute peace. We stumbled endlessly under a canopy of fat fruit, inhaling some intoxicating mixture of smushed peaches underfoot and clear fresh farm air.
I was absolutely high from it.
And from the breather. From being reminded that there is a world outside, and a world inside that is not fraught with emotional suffering, warring spouses, mind bending grief, anger, abuse, rebellion, confusion. A world where all the simplicity has not been squeezed dry. A place where the only social media was the whispering of the trees and the glee of pulling fruit, each one prettier than the next. Even the bruised and battered ones were holding their own, smiling to me, it seemed, and saying, “Hey, we’re okay up here, even though we’re a bit dented and mushy, we’re holding our own.” This too gave me joy.
It reminded me that sometimes I get so immersed in the work of hearing and healing and sorting through the pain and the issues and the obstacles, that it’s just not as urgent as it sometimes feels. That sometimes it just is what it is. And it’s okay. It’s okay just to be there. We can’t—we don’t always have to—figure it all out.
And when it was time to walk out of the orchard with our full baskets we were full of something else that none of us could quite put into words.
Perhaps this:
That even though we can’t live in the orchard, the orchard can live in us, and that when we take the time to take time out, and go back to basics, there really is place where everything really is just peachy.
File under: A Day in the Life of a Therapist
So with the cold coming and the time being ripe, we take the kids (the same ones who still need a bit more raising, and two that are raised mostly) and we head to a peach tree orchard.
If you've never been, I cannot recommend it highly enough.
First, there was the utter joy of traipsing along a raggedy dirt road with nothing but corn fields and blue sky for the eyes to bump into. And the dragging—schlepping—our big container boxes at our sides, thumping and banging our thighs as we make our way to the orchard’s entrance.
And then, and I'm telling you—maybe it’s because I sit in my office for hour upon hour using all my ears (at least three, right?) to understand all the sorrows and stories, the doubts and the dreams, the longings and the fury and the unwillingness to be willing to be willing, and listening for all those “pesky little problems that lurk in the unconscious” (thank you Hedda Bolgar, may she rest in peace)—that upon entering that peach tree orchard, I felt like I had walked into paradise.
All of a sudden all my angst about drives and character and the complicated puzzle of the human heart and psyche dissolved under the shelter of hundreds of bumpy old peach trees.
Row upon row of overgrown knotty trunks with row upon row of green-turning-yellow leaves. No more sky, well, some peaking though here and there, and a hushed world of absolute peace. We stumbled endlessly under a canopy of fat fruit, inhaling some intoxicating mixture of smushed peaches underfoot and clear fresh farm air.
I was absolutely high from it.
And from the breather. From being reminded that there is a world outside, and a world inside that is not fraught with emotional suffering, warring spouses, mind bending grief, anger, abuse, rebellion, confusion. A world where all the simplicity has not been squeezed dry. A place where the only social media was the whispering of the trees and the glee of pulling fruit, each one prettier than the next. Even the bruised and battered ones were holding their own, smiling to me, it seemed, and saying, “Hey, we’re okay up here, even though we’re a bit dented and mushy, we’re holding our own.” This too gave me joy.
It reminded me that sometimes I get so immersed in the work of hearing and healing and sorting through the pain and the issues and the obstacles, that it’s just not as urgent as it sometimes feels. That sometimes it just is what it is. And it’s okay. It’s okay just to be there. We can’t—we don’t always have to—figure it all out.
And when it was time to walk out of the orchard with our full baskets we were full of something else that none of us could quite put into words.
Perhaps this:
That even though we can’t live in the orchard, the orchard can live in us, and that when we take the time to take time out, and go back to basics, there really is place where everything really is just peachy.
File under: A Day in the Life of a Therapist