Pacing.

Let's say you are the therapist and I am the client. I sit down and say, "I'm getting ready for winter today." What would you say back to me? Would you nod, ask a question, make a comment about how you remember what it was like for me last winter? Would you bring up all the shoveling I had to do to keep the house from being buried? Would you laugh when I said, "I can manage living in a snow cave for 48 hours but not for 4 months," or would you remind me of how anxious I was during that 48 hours of cave dwelling while it snowed more than 5 feet outside?

Would you ask, "since 'everyone' asks you, 'why not get someone to help you with all the shoveling?' why not?" Or would you know that I kind of like the process of getting my thickest gloves, biggest jacket, my warmest shoes, gators and my snow pants on before I head out, two shovels in hand-the green one for the big, over the shoulder loads and the black one with the long handle to scoop up the snow that's next to the windows? Would you know I have to make steps in the berm to get up top, above the roof, so I can dig away from the house and then down to the windows? All for a little light? Will you assume the dogs go with me and that Razz loves to chase the snow I throw over my shoulder and Mavis, at least last year, gets buried completely? Do you think you'd know to ask about when the snow is over my head or about the time I got stuck, up to my arm pits, and was grateful I'd anticipated this possibility and had thought of a way to get out? Will you note your fear or will you project it onto me?

Will you notice how I shift my eyes to look up and to the right when I am trying to remember whether I told you that I make playlists on my iPod for when I am out shoveling? Will I feel like you'd understand me better if I told you what's on the play list entitled, "Missing Ruby so much and shoveling, shoveling..."? Do you think we could use this as a marker to gage where I am regarding the loss and the change and the grief I've experienced in this last year? Do you think it would matter?

I know you wouldn't bring out your DSM diagnostic manual to give me a label (because I wouldn't stand for such things), but would you think I might have an Adjustment Disorder? And when I started to wonder, out loud, if maybe I ought to be dealing with this change and my grief better or at least differently, would you assure me that I am still adjusting to having changed so much in my life and that it is still reasonable to miss my Big Dog?

Do you think you could help me calculate how many cords of wood I'll need? Or, do you think you'd note my anxiety in trying to figure out such things? Would you imagine me a squirrel or a bear when I told you how I'm noticing my neighbors piles of cut wood? Would you think to yourself or would you say out loud, "how big is a cord of wood and how long does it last?" Would you worry that this is too much self disclosure or would you feel familiar with me in asking such questions?

At some point might you ask about my morning routine and how I make sure I have kindling already cut so that I don't have to sweep away snow, get out my hatchet and make some on the spot? Might you think to ask me if I remember to put on my gloves when I am doing these chores, and when I tell you, "no, I usually try to out run the freezing of my fingers," would you think that pathological or would you file it under, "doesn't wear slippers until it hurts either"? Would you know I don't like my ears to get cold so I have a warm hat in my car and one that I keep on the mantel? Would you imagine that sometimes I like to walk in the snow barefoot because I want to feel the earth and the elements and like the look of my footprint in the fresh powder?

Did I remember to tell you I have a plan for if I cut myself while splitting wood or making kindling? Did you note that I also am very careful when I pour the boiling water from the pasta that's just cooked to perfection into the sink? Did I tell you that I used to take my glasses off for this procedure so that they didn't get steamed up, but then I realized that it hurt my eyeballs to be that close to boiling water, so I've adjusted? Would this sound mundane, a waste of therapeutic time, or would it fit right into how you've come to know me?

Do you think it would be easy for you to perceive how I am bracing myself for the cold and the wind and the living alone when it is storming so hard even the old time locals are impressed? Do you think it would be you or I who introduces the topic of fear and the tactics I use to manage the various forms of being scared? If I told you it's easier to manage the fear of a big storm, of feet and feet of snow covering my car and driveway and back windows than it is for me to deal with how scared I sometimes feel by the gangs of kids that hang out down the street from where I used to live in Santa Cruz, would you think that odd? Would you be envious?

At what point would you bring up the comfort I find in the smell of a roasting chicken in my oven when it's storming outside? Do you think that would be a good time for me to bring up how clean the dogs always are the winter because we do not see dirt for many months at a time or how much I love the feeling of my clean flannel sheets when I go to bed after a day of snowshoeing?

Will you notice the cracks in my armor or the breath I take when I'm speaking from my desire or my wonder? When my tenderness shows, how might you address it so that I feel you see me clearly? When I describe the bear in my backyard or how Mavis feels when she lies next to my leg will you know I am telling you something special? Will you comment on my expression when I try to articulate the difference in snow textures or how it feels to be in single digit temperatures? Do you think I will ever be able to express what the winter silence sounds like? Will you wish you knew as well?

Will you feel disarmed when I tell you "thank you" or will you feel the same?