I was on my weekly hike with the
New Jersey Mycological Association
when I went off the trail and spied
a grove where heaven meets the earth—filled
with lush chanterelles waiting to be harvested.
A young woman in our group asked if she might
fill her basket as well. As we hiked back, she heard
I was a psychologist and wanted to know if I could
come home with her and make love.
Her previous therapist had passed away
and had been phenomenologically oriented,
trained by disciples of Merleau-Ponty.
She heard I was existentially mentored
by Rollo May and thought I might be able
to help overcome her sexual impasse.