Post Mother's Day Post

Mother's Day is not a holiday I opted into.  One day, all of sudden, I was a member of this club - the mom club - and whether I liked it or not, this holiday became mine.  I absolutely adore my daughter, but most of the time I still feel odd calling myself "mom."

I had in mind that Mother's Day had to be celebrated like an episode of some show on Nick at Nite: mom is handed bacon, eggs, toast and a full glass of orange juice in bed and in a suburban sprawler where she has her own room just for laundry.  And she does laundry a lot.  And I didn't want bacon and don't particularly crave orange juice in the morning and definitely don't enjoy laundry.

Over and over again throughout pregnancy and new motherhood I have come up against these stereotypical scenes that live somewhere in me: ways that mothers should act, speak, dress, and be with themselves and their children.  And rarely has that image fit me and my life; so sometimes I wonder if I need to change, or if I'm doing it wrong, or if I need an alternative title other than "mother."

And then, as many times as I ask those questions, I learn that I can be both myself and be a mom.   Because it's really about loving my little girl authentically.  Mother's Day yesterday was yet another brilliant example that this is possible and is good.

For breakfast, I was poured a green smoothie and a glass of champagne.

And the Non-Scotsman took me to Essenza where he bought me this gorgeous lilac perfume I've been eyeing by Ineke.

Followed by a crab dinner at Westward with friends. As I drove home from dinner, smelling like late spring, I realized that Mother's Day felt tailor-made to me and I had enjoyed every second of it.

Not only that, I had shared it all day (via phone and texts mostly) with friends around the country who were also honoring their new roles as mom - this connecting was perhaps one of the best perks of the holiday.

And most importantly, all of this celebrating happened with my little girl on my hip, making me laugh and wanting to be close.  All this womanhood had occurred simultaneous to my motherhood.  

No burned breakfast in a laundry-filled bed here.

Post Office Repair

I dread errands to the post office.   Abnormally long lines of disgruntled people without the time to wait.  I assume that once I take my place as #26 in the queue I will realize my iPhone does not contain the correct address, my box doesn’t quite fit that bulky sweater, or mailing my gift is more costly that the gift inside.  I’m often that woman relegated to the end of the check out counter to finish re-taping, re-addressing, or re-packaging my parcel.  I feel tense just writing this.

So, imagine my surprise as I walked in to my nearly-empty local post office this afternoon.  A petite, aproned woman whose nametag read “Sonja” welcomed me with a huge smile and immediately asked if I needed help.  30 seconds later she had saved me $10 and made my baby girl laugh.  Which left her 30 more seconds to tell me about how she puts bars of wrapped soap at the end of her bed to rub her toes on at night…? (I still don’t quite get it but she said it is soothing.  Hey, whatever works).

But what startled me most was the moment she broke the Cardinal Rule of Post Office Personnel (CRPOP): she reached behind her tall counter and produced a roll of clear packing tape, placing it in my dumbfounded hands so I could “shore up” my parcel.

2 feet of free packing tape!  I still can’t believe it.

As I walked to my car, grinning like a kid who was just handed their first Popsicle from the musical ice cream truck, I realized I had enjoyed my visit to the post office!  A completely novel experience.

It reminded me of what I am trying to do with my therapy clients every day – provide a new, reparative relational experience.  And sometimes it just takes one moment to lead to a lifelong shift.  

There’s a concept in psychology called “Rupture & Repair.”  It basically means that relationships all have conflict and problems, but the important thing is how we reconstruct the damage together.  A good repair can leave the individuals and the dyad more intimate and more resilient.  When someone experiences Rupture without Repair, the damage can spread – the wound remains open.  

Ideally, of course, the repair would occur with the person who was involved in the initial rupture, but sometimes the Repair happens with someone else. 

It’s like the post office for me; rupture has occurred over and over again.  Every visit reinforced old learning, learning ingrained in my neural networks - an automatic link between the post office and fear and anger.  But this one, quick visit was a Reparative experience.  Same stimuli (post office), but different relational experience (joy, connection).  And just like that, my brain rewired.  

Even recalling that experience now I feel a smile emerge behind my lips.  Thank God for neuroplasticity.

Wonder

I walked with Sienna Jane, bundled in her stroller, over to the Arboretum last week to see the leaves.  I didn't know I was going to be walking through the gate and into a magic kingdom of blood-red billows and carpets of thick green.

Yeats wrote that “the world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” 

I didn't remember how delightful it is to let them sharpen. 

It doesn't take much.

To look long.  To see the hidden mushrooms.

To take a deep inhale in and realize that the air is full of the sweetness of overripe blackberries and wood chips.

A slightly slower gait.  A deep breath.

It seems silly perhaps, but as I tuned in I got truly giddy - overcome by how beautiful the world around was. I was in awe of ... everything.  The colors and air and water...the sheer beauty and how it changes so gracefully!  I had to share it with Sienna.

So I got her out of her stroller, found the biggest patch of fallen red and gold leaves I could, and laid her in their crunchy bed.  I laughed at how badly I wanted to share this delight with her - a 12 week old! 

I think she got it, though, as she smiled back up at my face and coo'ed at the branches above.

The Simple Things (Like Breakfast Nooks)

The week Sienna Jane was born my mother&father-in-law came into town to celebrate with us - and proceeded to build the benches for my kitchen nook!  The Non-Scotsman added a table, my mother in law sewed some cushions, and I hung a few gorgeous photos taken by my dear friend, Bess Friday.

I'm just so happy about the whole thing!

Aunt Les & Cousin Rachael

I just had the best family reunion!

I know, it's rare to say something like - but I married a man from a pretty incredible crew, and we just gathered in California for a wedding. I met (for the 2nd time) my Aunt Les and my cousin Rachael - two crazy-cool women who both mentioned wanting to come visit Seattle.

This post is my attempt to lure them up the my gorgeous, green city.  Come play!
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I just went to a new restaurant about a mile from my house called Westward & Little Gull.  For me, it's an instant classic.  Why has there not been a waterfront Seattle restaurant with a dock and a raw bar, a firepit and a killer cocktail list, a gorgeous brand and a grocery store before?  It's a song you hear and wonder how it ever wasn't written.  Like "Fur Elise" or Etta James's "At Last" - was there ever a time when those songs weren't known?

Sitting on the north shores of Lake Union - you can arrive by land or sea.

and once parked, you have your pick of ambiance.  Dig into a pile of oysters at picnic tables by the dock and watch boats go by...

...sit at the raw bar, or channel your salty-dog by bellying up to the boozy bar just inside.  Or just get a table like normal folk.

 

Or order from the little grocery and cozy up outside with a blanket at the fire pit.  Or take your wine and cheese back onto your boat and head back to where you came from.




I've been back twice just for these wood fired gigante beans.  Yes, beans.  They're that delicious.



Les & Rachel, any place with beans this good deserves a trip.  I'll put fresh towels out now...

Therapist vs. Counselor

“You mean a physical therapist?”

This is the question I often get when I tell people I’m a therapist.  “An acupuncturist?  A masseuse?”  No.  I am a therapist of the mind: a psychotherapist. 

I’m not surprised that many people don’t picture me when they picture a therapist.  Who or what do you imagine?  I’ll tell you what I still, today, picture, (and what Google Images confirms if you do a search for "psychotherapist"):

An older white man with a groomed beard and a forest green sweater vest.

Freud with his self-congratulatory cigar.

A chaise lounge;  a small lap dog.  A dark study with leather-bound books.  Solemnity.  No laughter.

 

There are countless stereotypes around the therapist character, and typically the media represents the professional as a person sitting a safe analytical distance from a patient.  These actors are often white, in their late 60’s, and use only their overly active intellectual left-brain to interpret their clients every move.

 

The term therapist has gone through the ringer over the years and changed many hands:  psychotherapist is scary to many because it includes the word “psycho;” mental health therapist is equally intimidating because no one wants to go to someone for “mental” issues.  Counselor is a far more friendly term, as it seems more like a mentor or advise-giver, but to many practitioners (myself included) it does not do justice to the education we have undergone --- counselors don’t need a degree to get to work.   

So, on one hand, I plead the case for the title “psychotherapist.”  A psychotherapist is an archeologist, digging for the underlying roots of countless problems – looking for the golden chests of unconscious mental processes, beliefs, and patterns that lead people to get stuck in their problems. As a psychotherapist I seek to be someone who is curious where others are critical.  Instead of shaming the patient who has panic attacks, for example, I want to know where her brain has fused together particular feelings with uncontrollable anxiety. 

But on the other hand, in deciding what to name my practice, my marketing mind got all opinionated.  I want my practice to be approachable to young people, people like me.  Sure, fellow professionals may not hold the term in as much regard, but they're not who I started my business to serve.  I want my name, like me, to be accessible.  

So, I compromised with the business name:  

Rachel Lund Counseling:  individual and family therapy.

There, both my personalities are satisfied.

First Impressions

I am about to give birth - twice.

The first and most important birth is to my first baby, a daughter.  In about 2 weeks, give or take (hopefully take), the Non-Scotsman and I will welcome her into our arms and home and begin a relationship that I can not yet even imagine.

For her, every moment will be a first impression.  Maybe that's why we sit in her nursery and re-arrange toys and artwork, or why I spent about 2 hours picking out the perfect plant.  It's why we painted and scrubbed and chose a fresh peach and gold color palate:



Perhaps that explains why I spent a fortune on a candle just to make sure the room smelled of nectarine blossom and honey.  Or why we debated over and over about the texture/fabric of her first outfit, or why I panicked when I found out Jamie Young's Lotus lamp was out of stock - only to be swept into thankful relief when a talented friend surprised us by making it for us:



We want her first moments to be absolutely, completely lovely.

And yet, the reality is we can not control much more than the aesthetics of the setting and our own hearts towards her.  She will experience the reality of the trauma of the birthing process.  She will not always be comfortable and every single first moment will be a shocking experience of newness and change.  

Her first impressions will be just that: HERS.  So, as much as I brand and design and re-arrange and plan for her first impressions of the world, at the real first moment of meeting I have to simply step back and observe how and what she takes in.  I create a space for her, yes, but in the end I must truly create space - space for her to be her and to experience life as she will.

This brings me to my second birthing process: opening up my private practice as a psychotherapist.

(No, this is not my real office .... yet)

Again, every client who walks through my door, or clicks on my website (coming soon), will be experiencing a thoughtfully planned first impression.  Each little detail has been fussed over:  colors and fonts, forms and fees, windows and textures.  I want to set a tone of comfort, compassion, and professionalism, and I am doing everything in my power to convey those values - including trying to emulate the SOFIA brand:

Yet, just like with Baby Girl, I can do my best to set a tone through my brand - but the way they experience it is entirely their own.  And really, I am setting an atmosphere where they will be free to become uncomfortable and where change can happen.  

I am creating a space that invites them to take up their own space.  

  

Back to Spaciousness

For me, "spaciousness" looks like a steamy afternoon when you're lazing in your backyard with your friends - bottles of cool wine sweating like triathletes who only trained for 4 weeks - and someone says, "It's hot. Why don't we go buy a raft."  It's a statement, not a question.  No one argues, cause everyone is too hot to think.  And so you all manage to get up off your sticky lawn chairs, slide on flip-flops, and roll to the nearest store to buy a $20 raft and any other floating objects.  

Your skin is sticking to the person sitting next to you in the car, the windows are rolled down, and you soon find yourself at the lake.  Somehow the wine has found it's way there too.  Someone gathers enough energy to blow up the raft, and you all flop into the best $20 you ever spent.  No question, this is a spacious life.  A life that has room to move, to change, to get up and spontaneously play.

Spaciousness is what I started this whole blog about -  and certainly something that seems attainable on a hot, lazy day.  It's partially about space in my schedule, but more importantly, and certainly more sustainable, is space I find inside my mind and heart.   Life has been busy lately --- (about to have a baby, just graduated with a Masters, became a licensed mental health counselor, moved houses, and started my first garden.  I'm starting my private practice and trying to decorate a nursery: not sure which is harder)  --- and yet, I feel like I have room.  It's summer inside.

Spaciousness listens to myself.

Spaciousness listens to others.

Spaciousness is open, receptive and curious - not closed off or shut down.

Spaciousness feels connected to the people I love.

What is it that gives you real space in your life?  How do you find it?  In a culture of "go! gO! GO!" and where bigger and better and crazier schedules is a sign of "fulfillment," how do you, unknown friend, find the space to breathe?  To listen and feel?  To connect?  To play?  How do you do this when life is busy?  I'd love to know...

Not Just Your Grandma's Conversation Anymore

I think talking about the weather gets a bad rap.

The elderly get it.  They know.  It's not that they're out of touch or have nothing better to talk about.  They understand deep in their bones that weather is unbelievably important.

It changes how I feel when I wake up.
It affects little things: like how I dress, what I drink in the early hours, and how I plan my transportation.

Weather, and more importantly seasons, mark time.
It's like I know what to do as I listen to the weather.  Go play outside! Cuddle inside.
Go further. Stay closer.

Seasons give me, and the elderly, a sense of rhythm.

A rhythm that I like to hum to sometimes.  Like when I went on a walk and took those pictures up there (the ones in this post).

Really? Leaves can be that damn attractive?

Close to Cozy

(photo taken from my front stoop.  You can barely make out the base of the space needle on the left - the cloud cover ... well...covers the city)
We walked last night.  Down our hill, along the railroad tracks, towards water.  Always towards water.

We walked until summer ended and autumn came.

We said goodbye to long bright nights as we moved in a comfortable September darkness.  

We are close to cozy.

Close to having our backs to the fire.

Close to warmer chocolate and juicier wines.

Shortcake Smiled On Me

Today at the Queen Anne farmer's market, somewhere between a peony and the fresh ravioli, goodness came my way.  
My girlfriend turned and whispered with some awe:





 "someone has smiled on us."  










The Met Market table was giving away strawberry shortcakes to the first 200 people to attack their stand!  We got in line like the other kids to experience the hand of divine provenance.  


This got me thinking: there's been a lot of smiling going on lately.  So many moments of surprise and "extra."  


Lots of "extra" these days.


I heard a psychiatrist speak recently about what makes some people lucky and others feel left in the dust - poor unlucky bastards.  There are infinite factors, but it did seem that once people see themselves as lucky and benefactors of a divine "smile," they attracted more luck.  People who thought they were lucky acted lucky, expected luckiness.  This charming attitude probably just made people want to be kind and generous with them, but whatever the reasons, they became even more fortunate.


I don't put much stock in luck: I believe in generosity and receiving, and I believe in looking up and being thankful for the gifts life offers.  I believe a lot of life happens outside my control, and some is within it.


I believe in seeing the sign for "free strawberry shortcakes" and getting in line, and enjoying the gift and saying thank you and maybe sharing a bite or two.  That little "extra" bite you shared just might be someone else's "divine smile." 


This sounds cheesy, and is I guess, but I'm feeling rather thankful and thought I'd share the joy.  Smile on.

(photos compliment  of this site)