The benign court

Years ago, I joked with my wife (actually, I was silly but serious) that in my golden years I would open a practice called Old Baby Counseling Center. The name had a double meaning: I’d serve the specialty population of baby boomers like myself, who were now old; and I would, as depth therapist, help the now-more-ripened Inner Child in each of us. Years later and into the gold, I still think the name Old Baby is valid for its pedestrian poetry, but that it is too inappropriately and ineffectively humorous to be of service.

In its absence, though, a lot of old babies will be left wandering the earth without a place to rest their childlike eyes. Without a place to let the pose of adultness slip vertical on the couch, to talk about the past without strength. To have a comrade retrofitted back through the years who can seem to see everything with you.

It bothers me that most of us go through our life without a review of it. I could be wrong, but I believe we have such an anchor’s weight of unresolution, have missed needs during the perfect potential of childhood, that make our success too poignant or wistful for silence. We may not have a husband or wife we can talk to that way. Elderly parents won’t do: We are the elder now. We need to be fully human by stating our truth, even or especially if it is questions.

As you can see, I think a lot of therapy. Except the word. It should be called having that friend.