Of Millinery and Moons

I wear different hats. I like it that way. Millinery aficionados would appreciate the collection: therapist, writer, editor, singer, friend, daughter, sister, and, my favorite of all, Kitty Mama. I will tell you about Kitty Mama, but not today. Today I’m looking back on a week of depths and contrasts, shifting tides and tears.

Monday through Wednesday, I wore my therapist hat. I imagine it’s a large, floppy, all-season chapeau, subdued but inviting, with just enough coverage to protect me from toxic overexposure. Most of my clients are in recovery from drug and alcohol addiction. They talk about their struggles with alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, benzodiazepines, hallucinogens, Oxycontin, heroin (and the rest of the wild, wacky world of opiates)—and that’s just the substances. The plot thickens.

This week, for instance, clients—men, women, young and old—discussed PTSD, suicide attempts, cutting (themselves), eating disorders, school failure, domestic violence, parental abuse, parental neglect, relapse (of course), acute anxiety, OCD, mortgage foreclosure, arrest, and incarceration. And don’t forget the greatest scourge ever to befall suburban adolescents: boredom (which doesn’t have an official diagnostic code, but, if it were reimbursable, I’d be wealthy by now).

When I’m wearing my therapist hat, I am focused and empathic. I listen hard, with curiosity and compassion. I understand how tough it is to change—behaviors, thoughts, lifelong strategies that keep us stagnant and afraid. And I get how tough it is to feel invisible—doesn’t anyone see the real me? Or to worry about screwing up—what will they think? The challenge and beauty of being a therapist is just being there. Witnessing. But also acknowledging the big picture: the universal search for meaning, purpose, love, and "happiness," whatever that is. Even my group of testosterone-laden scofflaw teenage boys talks about loneliness and longing and the pain of inertia.

Yup, changing habits is hard. Healing from trauma is painful—the only way out is through. Control is overrated. There’s no right answer. One step at a time. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Keep it in the moment. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Breathe. Laugh. Schedule play. Keep up the good work. See you next week. Being a therapist is exhausting and filling, draining and enlivening.

On Thursday, I donned a new hat. Well, not quite new, but one that’s been stuffed way back in the closet for about five years: proofreader. Clearly, the role cries out for one of those newspaperman visors from a ’40s film, don’t you think? That’ll do. I worried upon taking a big freelance gig proofing a cookbook for America’s Test Kitchen that I’d forget how to mark pages, that my mind would wander, or, worse, that I simply wouldn’t care. A proofreader has to care. Not in a therapeutic, empathic, existentially meaningful way. I’m talking hyphens and commas, line spacing and indents. The goal: perfection.

Here is a world of black or white, right or wrong. And a cookbook? The ultimate in picayunity. The difference between ¼ teaspoon and ½ teaspoon can make or break a recipe and put the company’s reputation in danger, not to mention my career. They care about the water temperature for cooking beans or whether the oven rack position is lower-middle or simply middle. Everything matters. Everything has a formula and a rule. My job is not to edit, not to analyze, just correct errors and point out egregious inconsistencies. I printed out the publisher’s 30-page style sheet, an alphabetical guide to spelling and usage standards. Like "medium-sized" vs. "medium-size" or "celery rib" vs. "celery stalk."

After so many years, how would I adjust to this i-dotting, t-crossing, microscopically focused universe? A few pages in, while tracking a paragraph on Hearty Tuscan Bean Stew, I noticed I was smiling—one of those inside-transforming-into-outside smiles that even Buddhist monks strive for. Bliss and satisfaction. I was wondering, Why is "sauté" accented but "puree" is not? I need to know. I want to know. Check the guidelines. Yes! That’s what they want. What about a compound modifying adjective, which should take an en dash (double the width of a hyphen), such as "paper towel–lined plate"? Yes! It’s there! I love these people! They worried for me. Not only do I not need to feel, but I don’t even need to ponder too much. My proofreader hat now hugging tightly to my dusty proofreader brain, I’m looking forward to a few weeks of finding clear answers, chasing perfection—the ultimate in anti-feeling. What a relief.

My friend hat has been getting a lot of use lately, too. It’s a big red hat, for sure, with a sturdy cap and soft, feminine edges. Strong yet soft enough to wear with my friend Susan, who lost almost everything when her apartment was struck by lightning two weeks ago. Susan lost her home, her sanctuary, and her bearings in the world. She’s suffering and I feel helpless. I can’t turn back the clock, nor restore her beautiful apartment, filled with color and jazz and memories. But I can listen and lend a shoulder and buy her groceries and remind her that life can be random and cruel, and that healing is possible but it will take time.

Susan and I and two other Zamir Chorale singers visited our friend Jody on Thursday evening. Jody’s dying of ovarian cancer. That’s the reality. While we were there, Jody became very ill and her husband, Mark, called 911. How do you talk to a dying friend? We stroked her hair and her back and rubbed her shoulders and told her to hang in there. One of the EMTs who arrived within minutes asked for her arm to take her blood pressure. "You’re gorgeous," Jody said, looking up at him, weakly lifting her hand. He was. We all laughed. What else could we do? We waved goodbye as the ambulance pulled away and Mark followed in his car. As of today, she’s stable. She’s hanging in there. She’s a survivor. But it might not be for long.

On the drive back, we stopped for dinner—life goes on—sang songs in the car, and watched, quietly and in awe, as an enormous, full orange moon rose above the violet horizon against the deep-green hills of the western suburbs.

I don’t know what hat to wear today. It’s sultry-hot and there’s no air to breathe. After I work on the cookbook a little, maybe I’ll take a break. Maybe I’ll head to the beach, wearing my huge, hilarious sombrero, with its itchy rope chinstrap, to protect me from the harsh sun of summer.