Thursday, July 4, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Years ago, I met once a week, 9 a.m. sharp, with a therapist whom I will call Dr. Mason. We would settle in well-worn chairs, Dr. Mason, a slender, balding middle-ager in blazer and striped tie, and me, an anxious academic in Levi’s and tweeds. Sometimes I’d plunge into whatever was on my mind, but other times we would sit and look at each other in silence as I struggled for words. But Dr. Mason had a simple method of getting me to begin. He would lean slightly forward, all the while maintaining eye contact and then when he got my attention, he would nod.