Slather 'Em with Honey

The wine: A tall glass of cold, non-fat milk.
The song: Tupelo Honey, by Van Morrison.

A mountain of a man, really. Much too large for me to handle alone, never-the-less I do. Last week, during the first visit, he wore me out with well-worn tales of what he could not do and why. I left sad for him, wondering why so many people diminish themselves, telling themselves just-so stories of limitation and failure. A resolute refusal to dream, a mind closed to new possibility, wears me out, leaves me mute. For every suggestion, a reason why not. I know that people limit themselves in every way because of fear, and part of my job is to lead people through their fear. A good therapist keeps patients dancing on the edge of failure, without ever letting them fall, until, like Peter Pan, they fly. As I drove to my first appointment with him, my stomach tightened in anticipation. How could I convince this man to dance with me, to take a chance on something new, to give feeling better a chance?

As a child, I used to hear the phrase, "You'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." Congenital smart-mouth that I was, I would calmly look up from my book and say, "And why...exactly...would I want to catch...flies?" I got sent to my room a lot as a child. As I became an adult, I never really got the hang of "sweet talking" anyone into doing something they didn't want to do. It seemed like a cheat, a compromise, dishonest. Plus I never had to. I simply presented a logical argument and expected the other person to do the same. Either you agree, or you don't, no harm no foul. Don't want to participate? That's fine. There's a hundred behind you. Or, I'll do it on my own. That's fine too. A former boss of mine, whom I shall always think of lovingly as The Gentleman from Tennessee, used to drawl (as only he could), "Ms. Fuqua-Whitley, you do not suffer fools gladly." To which I replied, "Dr. X, I do not suffer fools at all." To this day I miss that man. Ah, we were a good team.

But you can't do therapy with a patient who will not participate, so in the fine wine vintage of my middle-age, I am learning to sweet-talk. Today, I surprised even myself. By the end of the session, I had this giant of a man, and his lovely, grateful wife, eating out of my hand. I anticipated needs. I led him to the dance floor. I remembered likes, dislikes. Dare I say? I wooed. He purred. He did his exercises. He implemented my safety suggestions, because they came out of his own mouth. It was a tango of therapeutic perfection. I had what I believe is colloquially called, "a little South in my mouth."

Oh, yes ma'am I did. Sweet as Tupelo Honey.