The carpet is stained, by what I don’t remember. The table, an antique wood hand-me-down from my great grandparents, is covered with epoxy, tying thread, and pieces of feathers. Hair and flash from flies long since tied, fished, and lost litter the table and the surrounding floor. It’s not much, certainly not what I think of when I picture a nostalgic fly-tying bench from so many ads, and even further removed from what I envision as a therapist’s office. But that is just what it is, at times.
I need therapy, and I’m inclined to believe we all do at one time or another. Life’s hard and seems to only be getting harder. Work, bills, health issues, the list gets longer with age. I learned early in my firefighting career that self-care is important. After all, there is only so much you can put into a vessel before it begins to overflow.
As a firefighter and a fly fisherman, I have learned that sometimes brute force is necessary, and sometimes finesse. Not everything needs a hammer to fix it. Thus enters the chair. A creaky piece of wood that once matched the table, the chair is a refuge. I sit here sometimes after work, or at times, just because, and I think about the river, the lake, the salt. I contemplate the previous shift while venting to the tying vise the burdens, irritations, and aggregate of emotions that exist in me. To the side of the vise sits an old mason jar full of half-finished frankenflies that represent nothing more than what I did with my hands while I worked through the previous day’s issues. Occasionally, just to save money, I will carve one of the unused hooks out of the clump of wasted materials to create something meaningful. “Maybe I’ll get it right this time,” I tell myself.
I’ve been happy, sad, drunk, and angry sitting at this table. Sometimes I’m angry at life and sometimes at the flies I’m attempting to create. As I sit in the chair, talking to the counselor of thread and wire, my mind inevitably turns to fishing. The thoughts of being outdoors begin to blur out life’s latest barrage, and one by one the stressors start to fall from me like a warm summer rain. I long for the peace of early mornings, when the sun is just peaking above the horizon, bathing a lily pad field in orange. Or the fog, just lifting off the babbling water of a river, bringing with it the glimpse of a hungry riser. I’m able to push the world aside, if just for a moment, and find myself knee-deep in the contemplation of fish I have not yet caught.
I’ve found solace more than once over the years sitting in the chair, daydreaming about life and wondering if the fish will eat my latest concoction. It’s always seemed to make me better, but like all things the moment doesn’t last. Just like a fishing trip to dream waters, the sense of knowing I’m a visitor is always in the back of my mind. My name is already on a ticket that will bring me back home to reality.
Life is still life, and it will beat me up again. It’s okay. The chair is still there, waiting. The vise will still listen. But before I know it, I’ve paid the bill, unclamped the fly from the vise, and I’m out the door. Off to far-flung places, or just to the local pond, to put into practice what the therapist has taught me.
By Matt Fuller | @southernflyangling
Matthew Fuller is a full-time professional firefighter in Texas. He is the owner of Southern Fly Angling, a guide service specializing in fly fishing the back country of the lower Angelina and Neches rivers. His passion for fly fishing and the therapeutic nature of the sport have combined to form the vehicle he uses to help other firefighters cope with the mental stresses of both the job and life. He is part of the fire department’s peer support team, which helps firefighters in need find the mental health resources they need.