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Prologue
“God bless the wounded healer.”
A visiting pastor, at Friday Free Fall writing,
who asked me if I was a pastor too.
As we were leaving, two churchgoers
told me I have the demeanour of a pastor.
Introduction
A European writer, Alice Miller, noted that in WWII each of the European fascist and communist leaders had an abusive, messed up childhood.
(Her obituary).
No doubt the communist officials in China who, before announcing a pandemic, ordered their agents in Canada to secretly buy up Canada’s PPE, are all messed up too. (Global TV) The proof of ill health is their feeling impelled to kick and claw their way to the top of a stressful corrupt system. No doubt they fiercely resent the people of Taiwan for having such peaceful freedom and sanity.
A bumper sticker: Self improvement for world Peace
…
Improvement
Here’s a joke I heard back in the 20th century:
Q: How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Only one, but the bulb has to want to change.
I once overheard two senior college students being amused at the many freshman straight from high school would take a psychology course to get some answers. My girlfriend, holding a university degree, thought you could learn the most psychology by taking English literature. Sounds good.
My only humble advice for improvement seekers would be: If you have the choice between reading a self help book written by an expert having two Ph.D.’s, or seeing a local garden-variety counsellor—do the latter! Real people know stuff that ain’t in the books. Or else, at the very least, they can tailor their gentle suggestions to you to speed you along the road. …Something else: A friend doing 12-step self help meetings said, “One hour of counselling is as good as seven meetings.”
What I can do today, thinking of those questing freshmen with anxious brows, is say this: When you finally fight through the underbrush to be walking at last along the blessed road to self-knowledge, then look ahead and to the side, but don’t look behind to drag along siblings and parents… because if God has a plan for them, His plan most assuredly won’t involve you: “A prophet hath no honour with his own relatives,” or something like that, as it says in the Bible.
Is my advice against “other improvement” of relatives too cruel and unusual? Maybe not: In the library recently I tracked down a reality book, recommended in Oprah’s magazine, called What My Mother and I Don’t Talk About subtitled Fifteen Writers Break the Silence, edited by Michele Filgate.
As best I recall, one of the writers wanted to help her mum and dad. She bought her mum a couple of self-help books. “Too good to just throw away” thought the mum, as the volumes gathered dust, unopened. Her father, when the daughter suggested seeing a psychotherapist, said very confidently, “But aren’t they all a bunch of crooks, who just want you to never get better, so they can keep you paying them for visits?” The phonebook stayed unopened.
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.”
On a more hopeful note, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” More zen: “When the student is helped, the guru will disappear.” Meaning, perhaps, the now-normal student uncovers the “guru’s” feet of clay. And then sees the “former” guru in a clear, equal light. Or perhaps after becoming functional in life, the student may move along to other endeavours. Goodby teacher, goodby.
Back when I was young, wondering if the word “bartenders” might be less scary than “counsellors,” I concluded: “If on Monday bartenders got psychiatric training, and if on Tuesday this was in the news, then on Wednesday my parents would be saying, “Bartenders are all stupid.”” When I was relating this thought-experiment to my girlfriend she said, “Stop! You’re telling my story!”
My girl, however slow-w-w her growth towards becoming “recovered” and normal, would say so sadly, “At least I haven’t quit.”
Those conversations, when we were so young and determined, were so long ago. We were right to never give up…. Hurray!
Sean Crawford
On the Great Plains
July
2020
Epilogue
I have to smile, thinking of me “having the demeanour of a pastor,” and then thinking of M.A.S.H. and Father Mulcahy. Any time I might be tempted to get a manly skull and crossbones tattoo, or go buy a leather jacket in the colour black, I just think Mulcahy…
I grinned and told my librarian, “Real men read Oprah Magazine… during commercials for Coronation Street.”
