Looking for Light

In December my friend and I sat in the car in the dark and the cold looking out over a migratory bird sanctuary in Fairbanks Alaska waiting to see the Northern Lights. It was -28 outside and the car fogged up with us sitting there. We stared out over a frozen lake. We were so hopeful, but we in the end didn’t see them. We were there too early in the night. And maybe they wouldn’t have appeared anyway. We saw some beautiful stars and perhaps a planet. But no aurora.

Looking for light in the winter in Fairbanks makes sense—as the sun rises near 11 am and sets near 2:30. The long darkness make any light you see more special.

And anyway—isn’t looking for light—in any of its forms—something that is just programmed into our souls? Lights in the windows, lights on the trees, starlight, candlelight, the light in someone’s eyes.

Last week was the lunar eclipse—and I found myself searching for the light again. A lunar eclipse is both: light and dark—and the weather report said that it would be clear where I was so I set my alarm—hopeful again.

It was dark, and really cold at 2 am, and I threw on a coat and boots and headed outside. I couldn’t see anything. I walked toward the street, and up the block a bit. Nothing—in any direction. It occurred to me that it was cloudy. There weren’t even stars. There would be no lunar eclipse sighting.  

Disappointed, I went back to bed.

It’s ancient, and primal this love of and search for light. It means there might be fire and warmth. It means I can see and know the way.

It’s so hard to remember that Northern Lights are actually always there even if the conditions aren’t such that we can see them. And last week the lunar eclipse was there even if I couldn’t see it myself. When you can’t see or feel the light, it’s hard to remember that the light is still there.

On rainy travel days, I forget that the sun will shine when the plane suddenly breaks through the clouds. In the same way that I can forget on days when I have a lot of grief or darkness, that those feelings aren’t forever, I forget that the clouds will break—and sun will shine though again.

And sometimes when we can’t find light within ourselves that spark needs to come from others around us. Or from art, music, poetry. From something that makes you smile or laugh.

And I think we forget that regardless of whether we can see the light, we can be that light or spark for others. We can remind them that the light is still there.

On that dark night in Fairbanks with so much hope and no Northern Lights—we didn’t get the lights from the outside we were seeking. But we got the light of friendship and good company. We got the light of laughter at our relentless hope.

Sometimes you can find the light. And sometimes you can bring the light. And sometimes it is enough for you to be the light by simply be being good company in the dark.

© 2025 Gretchen Schmelzer, PhD

 

 

Middle Aged. New Born

Middle-aged. New Born

Look! I have ten fingers and ten toes!

Isn’t it exciting?

 

I am a woman born anew. 

 

For years I have thrashed

in the seas of cruelty and hatred

in a boat that finally

and mercifully

cracked.

 

And now I am shipwrecked on a new land.

It is quiet. There is peace. And I am here.

Middle-aged.

New Born.

 

Oh, how new parents crow over their newborns!

They beam over each hand and foot and

coo with each yummy roll of flesh.

All these riches! All of these things to love!

 

And maybe I appreciate the miracle even more

looking at my hands and feet,

to find myself still whole,

still capable of beauty and love.

Still able to reach, and kick and cry and laugh.

 

Today it is my turn to pick myself up

and hold this new born sense of wholeness

against my heart, breathing with her as she rests.

 

Now I can look at her beautiful face as she sleeps

knowing I have all I need: just love.

Love of the simple fact of having

ten fingers and ten toes.

Love of the simple fact of being whole.

© 2025 Gretchen Schmelzer, PhD

Life After Loss

I lost a teacher this week. A therapist. A mentor. A parent. A loving and kind presence.

I took a morning walk to the Pacific Ocean. I am here for work and arrived early to get settled in before the week begins. It was cold and I was dressed in layers of fleece with a windbreaker—and a wool hat. The wind blew strong, and I leaned forward as I walked. The sun shined through clouds casting rays. I could hear the ocean before I could see it. A gull flew behind me.

Wood Sorrel covered the hillside with little delicate cones of yellow among bright green leaves. Red Passion Flowers climbed the fences. The colorful blossoms a welcome respite from winter back in New England. I breathed in the cool air.

If the poet Mary Oliver had been a therapist, she would have been my therapist, Gail. Gail had a poet’s attention and reverence. Mary Oliver said, Attention is the beginning of devotion.  And Gail used her attention like a musical instrument. Her attention had different melodies—sometimes quiet, sometimes louder—and sometimes wide open.

You don’t automatically think of endings being beginnings. But they are. Death comes with a lot of firsts. As I made my way downhill, I was hit with the realization that this is the first work trip I am taking since she died last week. And that means that this is the first trip, since cell phones allowed us all to share pictures with each other, that I won’t share with her.

My work with Gail was long and slow. It was the only way I could absorb the learning. And the only way I could learn to weave, with her help, the fabric of attachment. It was a relationship not marked so much by big moments or insights (thought I certainly can recall them) but rather a constant weaving—of a shuttle of thread going back and forth. Warp and weft. Not everyone needs this kind of work. And not all therapists (or clients) have the patience, or attention, or devotion for this kind of work. But we did, and for that, we have both said at different times that we were lucky.

So much of this weaving was in the form of repetition: letters, emails, poems. And once the technology had been invented: texts.  We texted a lot. Often daily. Mostly light. Funny. Playful.

Gail was a photographer and a lover of nature and animals. I loved gardening and traveled for work and was always deep in the writing process—finding quotes or articles that were interesting. I sent her New Yorker Cartoons. She sent me photos of herons and foxes. I sent her pictures of Alaska and Cambodia. She sent pictures of France and Florida. She sent photos of squirrels. I sent her squirrel memes. I sought connection. She sent back words of reassurance and reminder: We both live under the same moon.

I made it down to the ocean and looked up to the high cliffs overhead. I looked out to the waves rolling and crashing on top of each other. I took pictures knowing that I was capturing images I was not able to send. Seeing landscapes I would never share.

Anyone who has had or worked with kids knows this dynamic keenly: watch me. Watch me dive. Watch me jump. Watch me knock down the tower. If you don’t watch, then it didn’t happen. It’s not a game, it’s existence. We like to think that we outgrow this. But this dynamic just transforms: we are as the psychologist Jean Baker Miller says selves-in-relation. Much of our existence is woven into the lives of others. Our memories, our stories, our strengths. When we lose someone, we lose, for a time, these pieces of ourselves. The losses create holes which we work to patch and repair. Our fabric is changed. We are changed by loss.

I walked home from the beach along the same path looking out for the sorrel and the passion flowers. Bird song caught my attention. I could hear but not see a red wing blackbird. And a robin hopped along the high fence next to me flying away and appearing a foot or two ahead of me in a game of tag. He had me in his attention. For a brief moment, I was the object of a robin’s devotion.

During the pandemic, instead of meeting in an office, when I was in town, Gail and I would walk to a nearby lake, or she would bring folding chairs, and we would sit under trees there. Her attention on our conversation, and also on the birdsong. Or the heron in the cove. Listening. But also never missing a chance to see beauty. To catch the divine in nature. One time in the middle of a difficult conversation, she said, “follow me.” We walked down a dirt road to a nest of swans. Cygnets swam around. The conversation disappeared. We simply watched.

I couldn’t send the pictures this morning. But I could hear the blackbird. And watch the robins and the junkos. I could see the Passion flower. And learn the name of the wood sorrel. She could no longer see the world I was looking at. But I realized that the world I was now looking at had changed because of her.  

© 2025 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

The Life-Changing Power of a Kind Word

“Imagine what our real neighbors would be like if each of us offered, as a matter of course, just one kind word to another person. There have been so many stories about the lack of courtesy, the impatience of today’s world, road rage and even restaurant rage. Sometimes, all it takes is one kind word to nourish another person. Think of the ripple effect that can be created when we nourish someone. One kind empathetic word has a wonderful way of turning into many.”
— Fred Rogers

I think it’s easy to feel powerless in the face of such big problems in the world. It’s easy to feel like you don’t have what the world needs—or you don’t have the solutions that these big situations require. But we forget how much power we do have. We forget that we have the power to help other people feel and experience their gifts, their light—what makes them them and why it’s wonderful they are who they are. We forget we have this power, and we forget how much of a difference that power can make. How long lasting it is. How much it provides ballast in hard times and energy for difficult transitions. How it helps people persist when they feel like quitting or helps them show up one more time when self-doubt has taken over.

I’ve had a file in my filing cabinet since the early 90’s labeled the “smile file.” Inside are farewell cards from programs and hospital units I have worked on, notes from kids and students, student evaluations and letters of recommendation. I have some of my old papers where the professor wrote a note at the bottom. It’s the flotsam and jetsam from the very beginning of my work life in residential treatment through graduate school to my current work in consulting. There are birthday cards and post-it notes. Any note that someone gave me that made me smile and made me feel hopeful about the work I was doing or my future.

Some of the notes or letters were ones that were required by the organization or an aspect of my training—year-end reviews or letters of recommendation for the internships or my post-doc. But most of what is in the file is just pure generosity. They are notes no one had to write—they were just kind words—the most simple and beautiful gifts.

One of my professors in my master’s program, Rick, wrote encouraging notes on my papers. And through the years that I was working to get into a doctoral program, while I endured disappointment after disappointment, I read and re-read those notes to give me the hope to persist in my goal. Four sentences scrawled on the bottom of a 2-page paper was literally a dream-saving life raft of sustenance during those years. Four sentences. Such simple, huge power they had in my life.

More kind words. One of my supervisors early in my training, Sharon, wrote an unsolicited letter of recommendation that was really just a letter for me as I already had my placement for the following year. The unit had gone through a crazy transition a week after I had arrived: the hospital and psychologists on the unit wouldn’t sign the new contract, so they all left and the unit I was on reverted to a different hospital system. Week 2 of my second clinical placement as a student and I was suddenly the senior psychologist on the unit, and I would be for the next 6 months. Sharon captured the work I did that year, and the way I managed through that situation- but what had me read and re-read that letter over the years, especially on my worst days—was her hope and conviction in my strengths and what they meant for my future. At every big moment where I had to do something I didn’t think I could do, or when I felt like I had totally failed—I read and re-read that letter—and borrowed her certainty about my bright future.

A card from my therapist when I was in an awful stuck place and thought it would be best for both of us if I quit, and her kind reminder that I would feel better in the long run if I hung in there, and that it was her plan to stick with me through that stuck place.  And a card from my mother-in-law on a really bad day, and a card from a dear friend who sat at my desk and reflected her joy at seeing my workspace and all the things I might do in it. Cards from nieces and nephews. Get-well cards and pictures from great-nieces and nephews.

It's hard even to say how powerful some of these words were. Because they aren’t just words: they are an energy source. They are something that helps you feel connected—to the people who wrote them—yes, but also to a future version of you. To a you that you can’t yet see. To a you that needs you to persist. To a you that is trying to break through the soil and needs a bit more time to grow. A little more water. A little more light.

I think we sometimes think of kind words as just being nice. And what I am trying to say is that a couple kind words can be the reason you know you exist. The reason you know you matter. You have this power. We all have this power. To share a note.  A card. A couple of kind words. A few sentences. To bolster hope. Help people see in themselves the spark that we see in them. Your throwaway line. Your 15-minute card. Your thoughtful letter. Your text letting them know you are rooting for them on their big day. Your kind words can literally be the fuel of someone’s future.

© 2023/2025 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD