Saturday, September 1, 2012


The leaves have begun
their transformation;
a tinge of gold/red/russet
beneath the green.

The sunlight changes,
angle and shadows,
lean a bit differently.

The air is cleaner somehow
crisping like the fall apples,
breezes smell like rain and hope
on the way.

Walks take a bit longer
awaiting the crunch of leaves
with every step,
filling the world with quiet percussion.


So much has happened lately. My heart is full to bursting.
I started a new job within my agency as a supervisor. I debated seriously before taking it. It meant giving up working as a therapist and becoming more of an administrator and adviser. But in the end, I decided it was time for a move.

Being a therapist is both a joy and a sorrow. There is so little one can to “change” others.
One has to help them recognize and encourage that change is good but amazingly difficult.

I had so many cases where change was not possible or acceptable. My heart was weary from the constant breaking…

There were a few “successes” where my clients were able to better their lives, change old habit and begin to believe their lives could be better. But of late, those were far and few between. My clinical director told me I had “compassion fatigue” and I have to agree, I did.

After two very rough years of personal loss and grief, I realized I could no longer let fresh grief into my heart. My soul was weary. My anxiety and depression at all time highs. My health was suffering and I had a deep enduring fatigue. It was time for me to change.

So I have stepped out of the role as therapist and into the role of supervisor and hopefully mentor. I still get to listen to people and their stories, but there is a bit more distance, a buffer surrounding my soul~ a chance to heal and become whole.

I can always to back to being a therapist. I can always go forward. Change is always possible. I just need to have the courage to step out on faith. 

Teddy Gal

I was five
when I first rode the bus
from Detroit
to the south;
A brown bag with a change of clothes,
a cold biscuit in my pocket,
sitting in the back
pierced by strangers’ stares.
I sat as my mama told me to:
Still, quiet, my head held high.

First day of school
straining to understand
the strange southern tongue,
scared of the laughing girls
and leering boys
I rode the bus way ‘cross town
to the black school
used books and broken desks waiting
for me, scared, 
but my head held high.

I rode the bus to Selma.
Where I marched til my feet were burning
like the fire in my heart
the blood in my veins
tor justice.
I rode that bus to Selma.
With my head held high.

I rode the bus cross town
to the job that paid me slave wages
a hundred years past slavery’s end.
Kowtowing to the white folks
watching the boys that raped me
dance with their pretty wives
who looked through me
in my maid's dress serving
fancy eats.
With my head held high.

I rode the bus to Eastern State
the loony bin, crazy house,
my heart was broken,
my spirit wounded
my body tired and my mind so very sad.

But still, with my head held high

Now I ride the bus to Frankfort
where I tell the truth,
where I have my say
and they dare not set me down
because all these years
I did not falter
I did not quit
I survived it all
With my head held high.