Farmers Hours

Learning moments are the gifts we resist opening, but when we find the courage to open them, they’re the ones that keep on giving. And psychoanalysis with Dr. Sam Rankin provided many such moments. He spoke those words during the first session I lay on his couch, and they, along with many others, have stayed with me throughout my forty-six years of practice. Sam has been a part of my life for all those years as well – from psychoanalyst to mentor and beloved friend. 

He died last week.

The day and month I called him to set up our first appointment have been forgotten, but our first session is remembered, and not just for his words about learning. The time he offered, the only opening he had, was a 5:30 time slot on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. When I thanked him and said I looked forward to seeing him the following Monday evening he informed me that it was 5:30 a.m., not p.m. Nor was it his first appointment of the day. With other people and under other circumstances I might have balked at this early morning hour. However, with Dr. Rankin it didn’t dampen my enthusiasm, nor my commitment to begin working with him. I happened to love the early morning hours, an early sign that I’d found a “home.”

During our initial face-to-face introduction, he explained that he’d been raised by his grandparents on a horse farm in Arizona. Though horses no longer played a part in his life, he still kept farmer’s hours. When he and his wife came to visit me in Vermont she took a photograph of Sam standing behind my brush hog. “We had one of these on my grandparent’s farm,” he said with kid-like glee, “I loved using it to mow the underbrush that was too thick and heavy for the sit-on mower.”  

Soon after his death I heard from his wife, and planned a trip west to attend his memorial service. 

 The waiting area at Gate 23 was crowded. JetBlue flight #2223 bound for Los Angeles was sold out.  Families, couples, and individuals, each with a story, waited their turn to board. They were busy living their own life stories. The anonymity inside of an airport crowd served me well – I went unnoticed, alone with my grief and sorrow, my travel companions.

To boost my spirit, I wanted to upgrade to “Mint” class, JetBlue’s equivalent to first class. A thoughtful attendant at check-in informed me that if there was a no-show, I could change my ticket status at the gate. When she pulled up the seating chart on her monitor several passengers had yet to check in.  She glanced over her shoulder then leaned toward me to say that if the passenger ticketed for the last row, window seat five F didn’t check in within the next twenty minutes I could upgrade to that seat at a reduced cost.

 I thanked her and headed for the gate, where I was given notice the Mint-class seat was available. I paid the add-on cost and lined up to board, looking forward to having more space and time to think about what I might want to say at the memorial service.

In addition to Sam’s service, I’d scheduled appointment times to see Southern California clients. These were people with whom I’d maintained a professional relationship by Skype sessions, phone and Zoom calls, and yearly return trips to the Los Angeles Basin. I’d looked forward to these face-to-face sessions on past visits, and though I still did, I also hoped they’d fill the void created by my beloved friend’s death. This West Coast trip would also include a family wedding in the Bay Area and visits with friends. The less time to feel my sadness, the better for me, I thought. 

Now as I sat in my seat and ran my finger over the outline of the “bleed hole” in the airplane window fond memories of my mentor and friend occupied my attention.   

A light drizzle began to fall, leaving raindrops gliding down the windowpane. Baggage handlers donned raingear and with seamless precision continued loading the storage area of the aircraft. I thought of Sam. Let your mind wander, he’d say as I lay on his couch, whatever thoughts occur to you, give voice to them. His gentle encouragement gave me permission to speak without concern for order and sequence. I surprised myself with the freedom that brought. 

Sam’s discovery of Sigmund Freud’s writings precipitated his departure from the church where he ‘d worked as the youth pastor. He began an analysis, and with that a life-long commitment to psychoanalytic thought and practice. His theological roots remained present in his thinking, but in a peripheral way where once they’d been central to his life’s work. The Christian beliefs with which I’d been raised emphasized the sinful nature of people, and in doing so dismissed the complexity of human experience. 

I’d been seeing him for several years when he revealed that he’d been trying to integrate his Judeo-Christian heritage with his belief in psychoanalytic principles. 

“I’m thinking about writing a memoir,” he’d said, and calling it My Life With Jesus of Nazareth and Freud of Vienna. This intrigued me because I too wanted more than my Christian upbringing and what my theological studies offered. When I asked him for details, he said that he would begin the narrative by comparing Jesus’ statement: “Father forgive them for they know not what they do” with Freud’s likely response that those about whom Jesus spoke were driven by their unconscious.  

I followed with Freud’s profound joke about Fred who is standing on his porch when he sees his friend Oscar barreling down the street on his new horse. Fred yelled: “Oscar, where in the hell are you going?” Oscar responded: “Don’t ask me, ask the horse!”

Now, when I thought about him, pen in hand ready to capture stray thoughts that might fit into my eulogy, I thought about a phrase I’d come to like that reminded me of the memoir he wanted to write but never got around to writing: “Life lives us and then we begin, as our unconscious desires and motives become conscious, to gradually be responsible for and make use of the life that has been living us.”

If ever there was a perfect living example of this, it was Sam. He made use of his life in the best possible way. I wondered if I’d ever live up to such a high standard. I took a sip of Chardonnay the flight attendant had placed on my tray table and thought, Not likely. But I promise to keep trying.

With that, tears collected in my eyes, wishing I’d spent more time with Sam, wishing I’d had at least another trip or two to visit him, wishing that death wasn’t quite so final. Then I heard his voice in my head: “Don’t underestimate the part chance plays in life, Bob.”

“Sure, but there’s no chance I’ll see you again.” I imagined his spirit rising into the heavens.  

After my return to Vermont, I would turn 74. Questions about scaling back my practice or retiring had been occupying my thoughts for months, and now seemed more relevant than ever. What advice would Sam give me? “Be patient with all things, Bob,” he’d say, “and allow the unconscious to reveal itself to you.” 

There aren’t many things I know for certain, but that I’d never find another man like Sam was one of them. The depth of my missing him had only grown clearer with his absence. You were one of a kind, I thought, and life without you will never be the same. I pray that someday we will be reunited. Another one of his favorite sayings popped into my head. “When you pray, always remember to move your feet.” With that, I tapped my feet a little. The man next to me gave me an odd stare. 

To explain myself I wanted to say to him, “Faith without action is akin to a gift that you leave unopened.” Instead, I smiled and said, “It’s an old Kenyan proverb.”

He continued to give me a questioning look.

“A friend of mine died recently. He used to say, ‘When you pray, always remember to move your feet.’ And that’s what I was doing.”

The man returned my smile and then his gaze back to his book. I was finally able to put the finishing touches on my talk. I doubted I’d be able to speak without tears and without a lump in my throat, but I would convey with certainty that a great man had died, and we were all gathered to celebrate his life.

by