He left the country before I completed my program. His wife, a painter of shadows, craved a more ethereal setting for inspiration. They did not want to raise their children in the California sunlight and school system. I was grateful he told me before the university announced his resignation, and I was not entirely surprised by the decision. He did not belong there, though his research efforts and dedication to students earned him international respect and admiration.
When we met for our final lunch at a little café off campus, he reminded me of our first connection, when he told me I had a gift. At that time, I was an undergraduate student, with aspirations of becoming a teacher, like my father and grandfather had been. He was the lecturer for two of my classes. For the first, a large introductory course, his assistants did most of the teaching, and we did not exchange a word. However, I found the subject matter interesting, and selected one of his experimental courses as an elective.
There were only nine students in the class and we held most sessions at pubs in the evening or on weekends. We discussed experimental practices in group therapy, based upon his research as well as our practical experience during the course. I had a hard time finding my voice in the sessions, preferring to listen and ask only a few leading questions. With this simple communication, I was able to engage the students as they opened up throughout the semester. After each meeting, I felt as if a fire had been lit inside me, licking its way to the surface, only to find nothing to feed it until the next class.
When I received my mid-term paper back from the professor, he had written a note that I should arrange to meet with him at my convenience. We met at his office and he told me I had a gift, and that I was pursuing the wrong career. He felt I would be an excellent educator, but that I had a calling as a therapist, that people opened up to me because I was able to respond to the things they were not saying aloud. He offered me a research assistantship and forever changed the course of my life.
Looking back now, I realize life doesn’t actually have a course. Anything I had done at that time would have changed the course of my life. He reached me at a time when I was hurting, and possibly searching for something to mask the pain. He made the transition easy for me, and I adapted well to my new path. He quickly discovered my weaknesses, though he was not immediately adept at negotiating them.
When he left, I became fully absorbed in my clinical studies, completing my work early and joining a small practice in California. He returned for a visit after a year away and contacted me to meet. At the café that day, he handed me a large envelope, keeping his hand closed over the seal. He explained the cottage was in my name, and I could safely live there in peace, though likely would not be able to pursue my career. He spoke quickly, as if he was afraid of my response. Before I had a chance to reply, he told me his wife and children would be gone for three weeks each summer, returning to the States to visit family. He thought I might consider spending summers at the cottage.
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