What a difference sixty minutes can make. My mind didn’t seem to be working when I sat down in the chair I often occupy while I wait for another fifty minutes with my psychotherapist. My mind didn’t know where it was. I think I wanted to write: I didn’t know where my mind was. These sentences are being written in a place of commotion, if one can describe a coffee shop in such a way. This laptop is a witness to what I write. Maybe the coffee alongside me is doing strange things to these sentences in my mind. Anything is possible in therapy. But this week’s session ended around fifteen minutes ago. I have a table to myself, with a view of First Avenue outside. Seattle feels like a small city, which it is, in the early afternoon, at least today, a Monday, the day I walk or ride the bus here for a therapeutic hour of what’s called psychoanalytic psychotherapy. The session felt as if it lasted for much less than fifty minutes. I walked in, sat down, then stood up again, and left her office. That’s how the previous sentence says I experienced the hour. My mind seems lost again. Maybe I need more caffeine. Sarah is a psychotherapist and a psychoanalyst. As part of her extensive training, she’s been a client or patient for more years than I could imagine being in therapy. Her experience showed itself today. I was seated in the waiting area, waiting for her to open the door to her office, when she did, and I attempted to utter a sentence, without success, for what felt like minutes. Instead of remaining near the door, which she usually did, Sarah walked toward me, as if she were hard of hearing and had to come closer to hear me. Her face and body were calm. I became calm, then I finished the sentence, and another, without mental interruption, which is how I experience stuttering. It was probably the calmness that helped me to feel that the hour passed quickly. It’s not easy for me to sit across from someone for fifty minutes. Maybe it’s time for another coffee.