My Beloved Mentor

Maybe writing the words, Jim died, will make indelible what my head understands but my heart refuses to accept.

Jim died.

A gentle healer has departed.

What I’ve known to be fact since Jim’s wife, Deanie, called me with the news on July 10th now, on the screen and in my face, becomes the inescapable truth – beloved spouse, father, grandfather, colleague, my analyst, mentor and much-loved friend has died.

“Never underestimate the role chance plays in life,” he wrote in one of his many letters to me. “Freud didn’t and neither have I. From my first day in college until recently chance was always in my favor—since then it has kicked me in the ass, belly and mind, but though I’m bent, I’ll not be broken.” Jim wrote this a couple of years ago when the decrements of age began limiting him.

Chance brought me to Dr. James Odell Laughrun’s office for a 5:30 a.m. consultation on a rainy December morning in 1973. I’d randomly picked his name from among three after the therapist I’d worked with for a year took a permanent position in another state. Bill’s patient acceptance of me introduced me to the ‘gentle art of psychotherapy’ and prepared me for the risky and arduous engagement with my inner world that began on Dr. Laughrun’s couch that chilly morning.

Rainer Maria Rilke, the Austrian poet and writer, wrote: The only journey is the one within. Who has not sat before his own heart’s curtain? It lifts; and the scenery is falling apart. Live your questions now, and perhaps even without knowing it you will live along some distant day into your own answers.

Jim lived fully into the mysteries behind that curtain and did so with wisdom and humor. In the years that I spent on his analyst’s couch wrestling with my questions, his wise and kind presence gave me insight, comfort and trust that even in my brokenness I was “whole.”

During an early morning session, at a troublesome time in my life, when I was drinking too much, involved in a destructive relationship, frustrated and furious that the childhood love and adoration I’d yearned for as a youngster hadn’t been forthcoming, I seized a bust of Freud from the nearby end table, cocked my arm and aimed at the wall.

He sat, unruffled, in his leather chair, listened and watched attentively, but said nothing. When he did speak it was without judgment. He assured me, in a firm and gentle voice, that he would help me acknowledge and contain my rage, and that I was safe with him.

On another occasion, when my pain was unbearable, I plastered myself against the floor-to-ceiling window in his 8^th floor office, banged my fists against the windowpane, and threatened to jump.

He didn’t move, but in a voice that conveyed both concern and faith in me he said, “I’ll miss you, but I will not attend your funeral. Please step down, and though I seem unflappable, I really would miss you.”

I cry easily when I hear music, view paintings and sculptures, watch movies and read stories that stir my soul and connect me to the community of humankind. In the week since Jim’s death, I’ve not shed a tear. Though I’ll miss him, a man I grew to love, and who loved me, he’ll never leave me, and perhaps that is why I’ve not cried. Or, perhaps, my heart has not caught up with my head.

A year before I saw my first therapy patient as a psychological assistant, I’d begun analysis with Jim, and over the course of forty-six years in my practice his presence, known and unknown, remembered and forgotten has always been present—as my analyst, colleague, and, during the later years, my cherished friend.

The leather chair in which I’ve sat during thousands of privileged hours listening and caring when people share their struggles is designed after his. The small throw-rug tucked under the chair’s front legs to prevent wear on the Persian carpet underneath is like the one on which his feet rested.

While on my trips to California, I often visited Jim and Deanie. Perhaps knowing that his days were limited, during a visit last summer, Jim asked if I wanted to take any items from his office. I chose two sculptures, which he’d owned for many years. Now, across the room in my home office, on the top shelf of the bookcase facing me as I write, are the two sculptures that he gave me. The one of Laocoon and His Sons being attacked by sea serpents, referred to as “the icon of agony,” reminds me that life’s entanglements can seem insurmountable.  The Pieta, Michelangelo’s depiction of Mary holding her son Jesus on her lap, gives me hope that beauty and serenity can exist amidst unbearable sadness.

Jim waded into the “sea” where my demons threatened to take me under and held me in his wise and safe “arms” until their relentless grip loosened. He encouraged and helped me become a person who faces life, for better or worse, to do so with courage, to take responsibility for my life, and to do what I can for others. He taught me to be fearless and to know there will be times when I feel afraid, but to face and endure the fear until I discover its meaning and how to handle it.

Several years ago, he wrote and underlined words that he frequently spoke to me: “The place where you are called is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s hunger meet. Trust it.”

In that same letter, he thanked me for a piece I’d written about him (The Gentle Healer ll): “I was much touched by your piece. So much so that I have to start with humor, which you, understanding human nature also, will enjoy. I leaned back after reading a second time, relaxed and waited to see what came to mind. To my surprise a remark from Mark Twain occurred to me: ‘When people compliment me, I’m always embarrassed because I feel they’ve never said enough about me!’ And then I thought, Roger has said more than enough about me, and it is appreciated and much valued.’”

I will forever be grateful that Chance threw our lives together. I miss you, Jim, my gentle healer and beloved friend.

March 6, 1934 – July 9, 2019

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