Chapter 3: Coincidences

“Good morning Leia” Nate says when I enter the kitchen. It’s after ten, so morning is on the generous side of descriptions, but it’s Sunday and I have the day off. Nate hands me a cup of coffee. I smile at him. He smiles back, a warm, friendly smile with a slight smirk that says ‘I know you Leia. You’re no use in the mornings without having coffee first.’ He is, of course, absolutely right about that. I sit down at the kitchen table, taking in the comfort of being at home and not having to do anything, or be anywhere, for the next few hours. 

A few hours later I find myself in the car with Nate, on the way to the forest. Nate and I both love to hike in the nearby redwood forest which is by far my favorite place on this planet. There’s something about those trees, it somehow makes you feel like they’re not just trees. They’re your friends, watching over you. Creating a space for you to breathe. I come here when I need to think. Today I’m thinking about what’s happening with grandma. About my mom. “Penny for your thoughts” Nate says, interrupting my brooding. I smile at him, wistfully. “I’m thinking about what it must be like to get old” I say. Nate nods at me. “Yeah”, he says warmly. “That makes  sense.” Nate never says much, but somehow he makes his words count. I’m crying again, just a little, silent tears rolling down my cheeks one by one. I feel a bit like the tears aren’t mine, like my body is crying while I’m watching, unaffected and detached. It’s a weird experience. But not unpleasant.

When we get out of the car the forest greets us with a silent hug. The afternoon sun is streaming through the trees, creating a sense of absolute splendor. We walk through the tall trees in silence. They’re just standing there, towering, hugging us with their presence and majesty. Smaller trees are forming arches for us to walk through as we follow the winding trail. The forest is empty at this time of day on a weekday in October. An older couple is walking ahead of us, out of ear shot. A red-haired woman walking alone in the distance. “Do you think I should have pushed my mom more, on the surgery thing?” I ask Nate. Nate thinks for a while. Nate often thinks for a while before answering questions. It makes his answers feel rich, and nuanced. Like you’re connecting with Nate, the deep human, rather than Nate the persona. It’s one of the things I really really like about him. “I don’t know Leia”, Nate says. “I think your mom is used to pushing you around. It might not be easy to find a new groove with her. Parents are hard that way.” I nod. Parents are, in fact, hard that way.

We turn a corner, following the trail to a small bench overlooking the Bay. You can see a good portion of Oakland from this high up, and the ocean in the distance. We usually stop at the bench, to take a deep breath and a few sips of water. We often sit there, on the bench, just talking for a while, taking in the view. Today, on the bench, we instead find Mara, already sitting there. She, too, is looking at the view. When she hears us approaching she turns around. She gives us a wave, and a smile. Part of me feels like I should be startled, seeing her here again, after seeing her at the hospital yesterday. Or at least, I don’t know, surprised. But somehow I’m not, as if part of me had already known I’d find her here. “Hi”, says Mara. “Hi”, Nate and I echo.

Mara and I have known each other for a few months. She runs a small, beautiful yoga studio in the center of Oakland. I don’t always like yoga classes. Yoga people can be kind of snobby. I don’t personally believe that one’s ability to take on various pretzel shapes makes one a superior person. But Mara, thankfully, isn’t like that, which is why I love her. Her classes have a spiritual quality to them. Her students leave the room visibly more embodied, at ease with themselves. We’ve been having regular coffee dates for a while now. But why is she here today? “I didn’t know you came to this forest” I say. “Not normally”, she agrees. 

“How is your grandma?” Mara asks. I hesitate. “Not too good”, I say. “Looks like she’s getting surgery.” Gently Mara puts her hand on my arm. “It’s going to be okay”, she says. “It’s going to be okay Leia.” Her voice is gentle and comforting. I take a deep breath, breathing in the forest air. Breathing in the view of the distant city, the trees, the golden light. Slowly my body relaxes, my neck muscles unclench. The water in my eyes feels like little liquid crystals, somehow precious and unexpected. As the light hits the crystals everything becomes more beautiful. “What are you doing here?” I ask Mara. She shrugs. “I just had a sense” she says. “Like I should come here. Do you get hunches sometimes? I had a hunch that I should be here today. That it was the place to be.” I smile. Whatever it is, I’m glad we’re both here. 

Nate, too, smiles. “I’m Nate”, he says, offering his hand to Mara. She shakes it, giving him a firm handshake, her hands warm in the autumn air. “I’m Mara”, she says. “A pleasure to meet you.” As we sit down on the wooden bench I can’t help but admire how beautiful they both look, the afternoon light reflected in their hair. Mara’s hair looks like little dancing flames, while Nate’s seems almost golden, like a crown. I smile. Beautiful people in a beautiful forest. Part of me is astounded that Mara is here, that we’ve run into her again. It feels a little like Mara is all of a sudden a real part of my life, non-peripheral. Being here, in this forest that is so central to my life, together with Nate, is somehow giving her a more prominent role. Like her mere presence here has special meaning.

Nate asks Mara questions, about teaching yoga. I let their voices wash over me for a few minutes just as the afternoon progresses into golden hour, bathing everything with golden light. “That’s really interesting” Nate says. “Leia and I were just talking about that the other day.” I perk up, as Mara’s head turns in my direction. “What were we talking about?” I ask. “How difficult it is to help other people”, Nate explains. I nod empathically. Mara’s attention is on me now, watching me carefully. “Yeah”, I say. “How does anyone handle it? We have all these helping professions, like therapy, but doesn’t it feel like nobody really knows what they’re doing? Or is that just me?” Mara gives me a quizzical look that I don’t fully understand. Somehow it feels like she’s evaluating me. I hope she doesn’t think I’m weird. “Maybe that’s just what’s up for me at the moment”, I say, trying to smoothe things over. “What do you think about it?” 

Mara thinks for a moment. She closes her eyes for a moment, as if to look at something invisible. Her hand is resting on the bench’s arm rest, palm up, as if receiving the sunlight. The hand position looks awkward, creating a sense of empathetic discomfort in my body. “Do you get hunches sometimes?”she asks me. “About your clients? About what they need?” I shrug. “Yeah”, I say. “I guess so. Why?” Mara looks at me for a moment. Her look feels sharp, almost piercing. As if she’s trying to decide something about me. “That’s a good question”, she says. “Let me get back to you on that one, I kind of have to get going.” She gives us nervous little hugs and leaves in the direction we came from, leaving me feeling anxious and confused. 

“What was that?” I ask Nate. “Didn’t it seem like she left really suddenly?” Nate nods slowly. “Yeah”, he says. “A little bit.” He pauses. “Maybe she noticed that she had lost track of time?” I nod. That would make sense. Leave it to Nate to be reasonable, and non-anxious about these things. “What did you think of her?” I ask him, curious about his opinion. “I liked her” he says. “She seemed thoughtful. How did you too become friends?” As I tell him the story of how I met Mara he looks at me observingly. “It sort of seems like the two of you have a connection” he says. I nod, slowly. “It’s funny that she was here today, and also at the hospital yesterday.” Nate nods, smiling. “Yeah”, he says. “What a weird coincidence.” We keep walking along our trail, the golden light filtering through the leaves, creating a pattern of light and shadow on the forest floor. I’m glad to be here with Nate, the way we often are, walking in silence, together, and yet alone with our thoughts.

The next morning is a Monday, and I find myself back at work. My little office is part of a large practice that I share with two older female therapists.  I’ve inherited the furniture from the previous inhabitant, an old Gestalt therapist who is now retired. I’m her replacement. She’s left me two cozy arm chairs, a wooden side table and a magical hanging plant covered in twinkle lights. The plant is so long it extends from the ceiling to the floor and then back up to the window and around. It must have taken a long time to grow this plant. Maybe a decade, or two. The twinkle lights are a nice touch. I’ve gotten many compliments for the plant and the lights. It’s one of the first things new clients comment on, during that awkward first session, before the ice is broken and the topics get real.

The woman in front of me is a few years older than me. Mid- or late thirties. It’s always a little bit weird to be a therapist for someone who is older than me. Like I’m supposed to help someone who actually has more life experience than me. Like maybe the roles were supposed to be the other way around. The client, her name is Laney, recently went through a devastating break-up. This is the third session since. The third session of talking almost exclusively about the relationship and it’s sudden end. I’ve run out of useful things to contribute. I’m sort of not an expert on break-ups. 

“I just miss him so much sometimes”, she says. I nod. Yeah, that’s to be expected. I can relate. Break-ups suck. My last break-up sucked. Somehow you go from being deeply connected to another person, from thinking that they’re your person, to… not. I’m having some trouble fitting the problem of break-ups into the therapeutic frame we’re working with. Laney continues. “I’m having trouble concentrating at work. Work just doesn’t feel meaningful when there’s nobody to come home to. He used to be my person to come home to.” She’s crying now. Little quiet sobs. I wonder who, or what, has caused her to learn to cry so quietly. “Yeah.” I say, feeling sheepish.

My two main modalities are IFS, short for Internal Family Systems Therapy and an introspection method named Focusing. The client seems pretty in touch with what she’s feeling, so IFS it is. Within the method you get the client to unblend from any part that isn’t their core self. The core self is characterized by curiosity, compassion and a general sense that things are workable. “It sounds like there’s a part of you that really misses your partner and feels like things aren’t going to be okay without him”, I say. She looks at me blankly. Yep Leia, great summary. Now what? I used to love IFS. When my therapist did it with me during our training it was truly the best. Somehow you could go from being stuck in the swamp of your own emotions to experiencing yourself compassionately, curiously and with clarity. Like somehow you were actually a fresh, beautiful being of light that just sometimes forgot itself. Right now I don’t feel like a being of light, and neither does my client. She feels lonely and sad, and at a loss for what to do with her life. And I feel useless. 

“Can you ask the part to unblend?” I ask, dutifully following the method. She nods uncertainly. “Yeah. I’m not sure. I sort of don’t know whether it wants to unblend.” “Do you have a sense of being able to talk to it?” “No, not really.” Hmmm. That’s going to be part of the problem. IFS requires a sort of dialogue between the core self and the parts. You can kind of tell when there’s a connection to the part, a sort of access that’s established. When the connection isn’t working you’re supposed to assume that there’s another part that’s getting in the way. “How do you feel towards the part?” I ask her, trying to establish context. “Mad”, she say. “I’m mad that I feel so terrible about losing him. Like… like it makes me weak that I want him back, when he clearly doesn’t want me anymore. He’s just decided to throw me away, like an old tissue.” She gestures at the pile of used up tissues next to her. I nod. Maybe now we’re getting somewhere. 

“Can you ask the mad part to unblend?” I ask. She nods slowly. “Maybe.” I give her some time. “I’m just so angry”, she says. “He didn’t even give me a chance. Like, he just left, without trying. Aren’t you supposed to try in relationships?” “How do you feel about the angry part?” I prompt. “I don’t know”, she says. “I’m just angry. It just feels like me.” I think for a moment and then decide to follow a hunch. “What would you feel if you weren’t angry?” I ask. She thinks. “I think I’d be hopeless. Like, as long as I’m angry, I don’t have to feel that.” I nod again. That makes sense. “Could you let yourself feel hopeless? What does the hopelessness feel like?” She breathes, and her body sags a little. “I mean, I’m turning forty in less than two years. It seems like everyone else has someone, someone who they belong with. Just not me. Everyone else is married, or getting married. Having babies. Soon it’s going to be just me, and the other leftovers who somehow can’t hack having a relationship.” 

I breathe too, trying not to sag. Her hopelessness feels contagious and I’m a little bit glad not to be in her shoes. At least I have a few more years, before the biological clock catches up with me. I breathe and glance at the actual clock. Less than five minutes left before the end of the session. “Is there anything you want to say to the hopeless part before we find a stopping point?” I ask. I hate this. I hate leaving her in this state. What’s the point in seeing a therapist, when all they do is make you feel more hopeless? She shrugs. “I want the hopeless part to know that I get it. That it’s not alone.” “That’s good”, I say, a little relieved. That’s maybe the best outcome we were going to get in less than five minutes. “Really let it know that you’re there and that you understand it.” She nods again, a few tears running down her cheeks. “Is now an okay stopping point?” I ask. She nods feebly. It’s not an okay stopping point, and we both know it. “I’ll see you next week.” I say. She plasters a fake little smile onto her face and nods. “Thanks, Leia”, she says, before getting out of her chair and out of my office.

I take a deep breath and step outside of my office too, and into the common room. A few couches and chairs are making a sitting area that doubles as a waiting room, but is also used for team meetings et cetera. Around the corner is a dining area with a kitchen, and a little bathroom. The house, a craftsmen style piece of architecture, with victorian elements, was clearly originally built to be a residential home. My colleagues, who founded this plac in the sixties, back when house prices in Berkeley were normal, rather than at the insanely high level they’re at currently, turned it into a therapy office. It’s beautiful, in a goofy, inconvenient way that’s been worked over and around for long enough to smoothe the edges and become it’s own thing. I step into the kitchen to grab myself a mug of coffee from the shared coffee pot. It’s on the lukewarm side, but it’ll do the trick. 

I sit down at the kitchen table, an oval wooden construction that’s old enough to have come around the other end as retro, with wooden chairs whose plain seats are softened by faded cushions tied to the back of the chair. It’s comfortable, and homey in here. The old furniture and dated kitchen create an air of shabby cozyness that’s low key and unassuming. It makes me feel like I can just tuck myself into a corner and be in a low energy mood, without moving out of sync with my environment. My grandma’s kitchen feels a little bit like this. Like a remnant from an easier time, when the pace was slower and the demands on human beings were not quite as high. I sigh. I miss the time when I was a kid, sitting in grandma’s kitchen, watching her make food, or tea, listening to my simple stories about what had happened to me at school that day. It makes me want to go back, back to being a kid, responsible only for my own pain and suffering and not anyone else’s.

I take a few minutes, letting myself soak in the intention to do nothing, to achieve nothing, to solve absolutely no problems. I let it wash over me and let it heal the worst of the hopelessness induced by the previous session, before I slowly start working on getting a grip on myself. To prepare myself for my next session. The hopelessness feels like a mountain, making me feel small. Insignificant. I still have a bit over half an hour to get myself back together, to find some sort of equilibrium. Some wise therapist energy. Or whatever resemblence of wise therapist energy I can usually manage. I really think that a bit of a wise therapist persona is necessary for the job, but today I’m not sure where to take it from.  I decide to also leave the office for a moment. Get some fresh air, clear the mood. I grab my coffee, before stepping outside the front door. The front door looks out on the street, but traffic isn’t usually busy. I like sitting on the front steps, catching the sun. It’s one of my little mood management tricks, for breaks between clients. I step outside the door, and startle, taking a step back inside. Because on the steps outside sits Mara, her red hair blazing in the sunshine.