Dear God,

Well, it's done. I have handed over the keys and pulled the plug on the phone system. I have officially closed my practice. It is the end of an era for me; I think you would agree that 20 years of clinical work certainly counts as an era in this lifetime.

I feel like Lucy in the "Peanuts" cartoon: My shingle now reads "The doctor is out."

And out, I am. There are no phone messages, appointments or involvement in the lives of those I knew so well. It feels kind of strange. I feel a bit naked. There is no title to define me, no office to hold me and no phone lines to tether me. I think I may be having an identity crisis, but like Scarlett O'Hara, I will deal with that tomorrow, or next week, or maybe even the next millennium. Being sans title is rather freeing, a bit like skinny-dipping: There is nothing between you and the water.

So, here I am in this cool, cool water. It's refreshing. I can splash about at will. The water feels fabulous next to all of my bareness. I feel a bit frisky, ready to try something new, but before I set my sights on new horizons, I decide to float and let the water hold and support me. I can just be, in this very moment. In the now, as they say.

Ahhhh ... I take another deep breath and allow myself to surrender even more. I simply give in. There is nothing to control, nothing to be managed, and, in doing so, I travel the highways and byways of my heart.

And in the stillness, a blur surfaces like a photograph still floating in the developing solution and then the images appear. I have before me, dear God, a parade of moments and feelings that fill my heart to bursting. I am filled with gratitude.

Who knew? After all my weeks of sadness and feeling totally shattered, there is grace. I could complete the last week without falling into a million bits. I have refound my laugh button. My heart is beginning to feel lighter.

And today, I am floating on a sea of gratitude, which makes me think of Mary Oliver's poem of the same name. Do you remember that poem, God?

Mary Oliver wrote this poem called "Gratitude." In the poem she answers eight questions. I think, to borrow a phrase, I am going to take a page from her book and see where these eight questions lead me.

Here goes; allow me to wax poetic:

What did I notice?

I noticed that people were so much more than they ever saw themselves. They were stronger, braver, faithful, more exhausted, more depleted and, certainly, more tender than they ever realized. They kept plodding forward, day in and day out, with enormous resilience. And yes, sometimes they had to retreat and regroup to refind their bearings, but they were so enduringly faithful to life. I often said to my clients, "If only you could see you, like I see you." They showed me their souls; I saw their magnificence.

What did I hear?

I heard stories, stories of every color and stripe, stories that could fill the library anew. And mostly, what I heard was the human spirit trying to find its way out of the dark — or, at the very least, trying to make sense of the madness.

In energy medicine, ears are about trusting. And I did learn to trust the nuances of speech, the slight hesitations or the "I don't knows." And, needless to say, the silences and omissions spoke volumes as well.

In listening to the stories, I heard the truth of their experiences.

What did I admire?

I admired the guts, the bravery and all manners and forms of courage. There were people who spoke their truth plainly and directly. There were those who stood up to bullies; those who endured the tortures of the dammed; those who live with unrelenting pain and those who survive amid craziness and mayhem.

It's a rough world out there. I met many of the standard-bearers: people who did not run but chose to face it, whatever "it" was, head on.

Poet Audre Lorde wrote, "When I dare to be powerful — to use my strength in the service of my vision — it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." And so it was with my clients.

What astonished me?

The depths of people's hearts to feel, to give, to bless, to understand and to release was most astonishing. Of course, this all boils down to the power of love - nothing better, nothing stronger.

What would you like to see again?

Without a doubt, I would vote to see their smiling faces again.

What was most tender?

Being a fair witness to their pain — emotional, physical and mental — was, without a doubt, the tenderest aspect of the work. It stretched me in ways I could never imagine. It showed me in Technicolor and polyphonic stereo the light and dark of life.

What was most wonderful?

The laughter was the most wonderful, and, boy howdy, did we laugh, and cry, and rant and rail, but the sheer hilarity that would emerge out of their stories and our conversations. More than one person in the waiting room asked, "What was going on in there?" We did howl with delight at the absurdity, the silliness and the ironic elements of life and our very humanness.

Wendell Berry said, "Be joyous, even though you have considered all the facts." And so we were.

What did you think was happening?

I often felt that something magical was happening, something beyond the confines of client and therapist. I would call it grace. There was an energy between us that created a force field that allowed Mystery to enter. It was never just the two of us in that consultation room.

Years ago, a woman came to my office to deal with some serious family abuse issues. For weeks on end, I had asked her every question I could possibly think of, and then, clunk, like a car that stalls, we hit a stopping point. The woman was at a dead end, and I didn't know what else to ask or where to proceed. I was panicked. I began to pray.

Well, actually, dear God, you were there, you know it was more like pleading, "Please help me. What do I do next?" I kept beseeching you with my litany of pleas, and there was no answer forthcoming. I was growing more and more desperate. And then the oddest thing happened. My right arm began to hurt for no good reason. Is thismy answer?

After much internal equivocating and feeling like I had nothing to lose, I asked this woman this very strange, out-of-the-blue question, "Is there anything about your right arm you might want to tell me?" And that question opened up Pandora's Box and a long run of good, solid therapy.

Thank you, God. Thank you for allowing me the privilege to work with people and share a part of their healing journeys. Thank you for allowing me to be healed in the same process. Thank you for allowing me to bear witness to the outpourings of heart and soul, nightmares and dreams. Thank you for the preciousness and sacredness of sitting one-to-one in deep, intimate, soulful conversation. It has been an extraordinary gift.

I am so grateful, so very grateful.

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Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Adele Ryan McDowell.