Banks Hudson

Years and years and years ago, in a land far, far away, once upon a time, I had a mentor. We met weekly. I cared deeply for him. He challenged me and he encouraged me and he supported my work. For ten years he was a constant in my life. But he didn’t support a career change decision (understandably) and we kind of lost our connection. My values were shifting, my perspectives were going off the reservation. I was flirting with authenticity over expectations. And in that environment, being real, I mean really real, was tantamount to being naked in the marketplace.

I was without a mentor for another 10 years. Well, that’s not true. I was my own mentor. And my mentor sucked.

I had moved to a new town, and then to a new neighborhood. The kids were on the swim team at that time, and swim meets were social events for the parents. It was at one of these events that I got to know Banks Hudson, one of my neighbors. Everyone called him Butch. He was kind and friendly and warm. The kind of guy an introvert would talk to in the madness of a swim meet. Once Butch found out what I did he got excited and told me his Dad was also a therapist. At the time I was working in a practice that was kind of siloed, and I was feeling the void of a life guide. No one in my practice fit that description. So I did something very unLarry-like. I asked Butch for his dad’s name and number. Turns out, Banks Hudson’s dad is named Banks Hudson. Father and son are both builders. Butch builds buildings and Banks builds people.

So I called Banks up, raw, and introduced myself: “Mr. Hudson, my name is Larry and I’m an acquaintance of your son, Butch. I’m also a therapist here in Lexington, and I’d love to buy you breakfast sometime and talk about life.”

My mouth was dry, like I was asking someone out on a date. It got dryer the longer the pause continued on the other end of the phone. I think he could sense I was floundering, so he agreed and we set a place, date, and time. Saturday morning, 8am, Bob Evans. I picked the spot because I figured a man a little older than my Dad would like Bob Evans. I was wrong about that.

Our first meeting we got acquainted and learned about each others lives a little bit. We talked about our respective practices and client populations. We legoed that day. My Plan going in was to see if he might be a good fit as a mentor. Halfway through the breakfast, I knew I wanted to learn from this man, but I didn’t know if he wanted to take on this quilted project. So I asked him to think about meeting me again and to let me know in a few days. He stopped me, quickly, and said, “At my age I don’t need to think about things too long. How about Saturday in two weeks?” I quickly agreed and felt like something special was underway. As we were leaving he said, “By the way, mind if we meet at Panera? This place is always full of old people!”

For the next 7 years we met every two weeks to explore ourselves and our professions. From the beginning, his approach with me was for us to learn together, for us to explore together. He never (maybe a couple of times, for which I am eternally grateful) took a power stance with me. He didn’t lecture, he didn’t condescend. He would frequently say the symbiosis was mutually beneficial. I knew better. Or at least, I was clearly getting the better end of the deal.

We settled into a rhythm of vulnerability, honesty, profanity, and affection. We would sit at that table and I would crack my chest open and give him my rotting flesh, and he would take it, carefully, and excise the maladaptive belief systems and return it to me whole and clean.

It just grew and grew between us. And then his wife passed away. And for a brief time he was no longer my mentor, but a dear friend in pain. Banks and I have many things in common, but probably the thickest DNA strand that binds us is we can feel very, very deeply. Into the marrow. So in his loss, his world shifted, and our relationship shifted a bit. He was still my mentor, but he allowed me to speak into his life some. He accepted my gifts of concern and care. It was about that time that the graft became permanent. We were now family.

We shared his fears of possibly, potentially dating (I may or may not have encouraged him to make a dating profile on a dating app), we shared our families victories and losses. We said goodbye to a number of VIPs (Very Important Pets). We shared his discovery of an angel named DedDe, a woman who seems to be fashioned exactly for him (and he for her). An intact family is an illusion (in case you didn’t know), and ours is no different. Struggles and fights and disease and divorce and death and addiction. We did projects together. We wrote together. We cried together.

And then came 2020. I only kept one thing from him over the years. The one thing that brought me the most shame. In February of that year I opened the last door for him. He hugged me and we cried together and he told me everything was going to be OK. I didn’t want that hug to end. Not because of the comfort, but because I didn’t want to step back and see him look at me differently. But when I let go and looked down he said my name and I looked up. I’ll never forget this: nothing changed. There was no judgment. No disdain. No shame. Just the same love that has been there all along.

For the next year or so our relationship shifted again. I didn’t have anything to give, and so he carried me. As a graduate of the US Military Academy at West Point (and 20 years in the Army and time on the ground in Viet Nam and working at Walter Reed Army Medical Center) he was no stranger to the fight. And so he fought for me and built a wall of scaffolding around me as I began a large scale renovation (along with my Brothers and Jan, my therapist) and guided me back from the darkest night.

We’ve long since abandoned Panera. We now meet in his study every other Saturday morning. I arrive at 8:00am on the dot. 7:59 or 8:01 and there is mild disappointment on his face. Zoe sits and purrs next to me on the couch and looks at me sideways; she smells Butters (my fur buddy) on me and she looks at me like I’ve been cheating. Hummingbirds play outside the bay window. He has a cup of coffee waiting on me when I arrive. And now we Dig In. We Work. On so many things. Relationships. Clients. Death and Dying. Existential shit. Mundane shit. We shift seamlessly from a computer issue to a discussion about the suspicion that God has left us all to our own devices to evidenced based treatment for trauma.

So here we are, over ten years later. I left earlier this morning. I arrived with one bar left on my battery. Dealing with questions and topics I won’t begin to share here. And when I left his study I was fully charged.

There are times when I am afraid about him leaving this earth. I’m old enough to have the evidence that none of us will get out of here alive. But that fear quickly fades. Because I know, as some of you know who have had a similar relationship, that even though our bodies will one day cease, some things do last forever.

The greatest of these is love.