A Fishtory

 I enjoyed Chairman Joe's meticulously researched post describing his new Rapala fillet knife. That blade looks super sharp, and I’m tempted to get one, but I don't fish. I guess I’ll just continue to leave filetting for the experts at the store. On the other hand, that happy little open-mouthed fish inscribed on both the sheath and the handle hooked me into a reverie of my relationship with the species. Inspired by Joe, an expert at capturing history, I’m exercising the poetic liberty of detailing my fishtory today. 

Before I could even walk, I found myself peering into the mysterious green waters of my father's fish aquariums.  Like most babies, my first words were probably Mama and Dada. But, I swear, I can still hear my Dad voicing guppy - the funny-sounding word that described those shimmering slivers that never failed to make me giggle as they whisked their way among those watery ferns. My uncle kept fish, too, and for years, he lived in the apartment across the hall. One day, it took me a while to figure out why Uncle Bill was laughing while furiously tapping on the aquarium's glass for us kids to Look! Watching a live birth is thrilling, and he finally succeeded in drawing our attention to minute guppies, whom I now know are called livefries, wiggling their way out of their mama fish bodies and then swishing off to play with their newborn siblings.  

The allure of fish grew as I got a little older. Dad and my uncle would take my sisters and me fishing on the Northshore of Boston around Ipswich and Plum Island. In addition to the rolling blue of the Atlantic and the powdery white of the sands out there, the pinch of a life preserver around my waist matched the pinch of being exposed to the up-down fortunes of the sport. The unpredictable adventure of these fishing trips kept me on the edge of my seat. My blood would surge at the force of a pull on my line, and my heart would sink at being told that I'd hooked a Skate or some other inferior species and that would have to get thrown back in. Fishing initiated me into all sorts of complex life lessons. 

When I got older, I recall standing on the dock with my Dad while he taught me how to bait a hook with a slimy worm. I succeeded at swinging the rod backward but never caught on to how to correctly release the line. I did, however, get very good at untangling monofilament. Not surprisingly, all sorts of other childhood activities won me over. I swam, biked, sledded, skated, and read up a storm. Still, those early fish tales made an impression on me, and I think of them in my current work as a psychotherapist.

The fish in David Foster Wallace's graduation talk entitled This is Water always makes me smile. One fish greets another, asking, "How's the water today?" The friend fish replies, "What's water?" Sometimes, we can be oblivious to what's happening in our hearts, homes, workplaces, and relationships. We become numb to the moods, feelings, and circumstances we swim in for various reasons and need help working our way through. 

I winced when I first looked at the fillet blade on that Rapala knife, but that happy little fish won me over. In the old days, it was common to associate shame with relational and mental health issues. People feared that the therapeutic process would cut them up into little pieces, and they'd lose themselves. I was in my twenties when anxiety and depression got me interested in the process. By nature, I'm a meaning-maker who loves good conversation, so in a way, it was easy for me to dive on in. Initially, visibility seemed murky as I began to swim around. Gradually, I became clearer about difficult emotions, fears, and situations that held me back. Nothing can change the reality that life consistently delivers challenges; not all problems are fixable. More than anything, I discovered my resiliency and learned to swim in ever deeper waters. I like helping people do that in my practice now.

In a way, peering into our lives is like peering into an aquarium. You can see much more, and the fish are much better off after you’ve cleaned the tank.

      The Fishing Session 
                                       painting by Susan Dibble