Mentor

You believe in me. 

This concept thrills and scares me simultaneously.  From you I learn the art of corporate finesse taking my native people skills to new heights.  I learn when to listen, really listen, and when to speak. 

You present options and give me new ways of looking at things.  All the while you’re my cheerleader telling me that I have what it takes already and to just show it—at the right time to the right people. 

You tell me to think like upper management; we dissect decisions and strategies. 

I respond to you on so many levels it frightens me, but the strongest pull is intellectual. 

I’m like a sponge wanting to sop up what you know, to understand how you think, to learn from your experiences. 

The teacher-student thing plays well considering you’re more educated; you tell me that I’m more well-read, but that’s arguable.

You would probably kick my arse in Scrabble. 

I could also learn from you the fine art of play, of release, of letting go.  Sometimes I’m tightly wound, and you’ve uncoiled me only to wind me back up, tighter, when the results aren’t what I want them to be.  The energy of these uncoiled moments is palpable, though, much like the sweat covering over-heated bodies.

I’ve always been drawn to older, wiser individuals.  My crushes in high school were never on actors or athletes but on men who stimulated me intellectually.  Dan Rather worked for me back then. 

In college it was Bill Clinton, a few professors that I won’t name, and the Controller of the hospital where I worked. 

The trend continued in graduate school; it was still Bill Clinton, but now there were different professors to admire. 

I’ve had corporate mentors, none of whom who have taken the interest in me that you have for whatever reason.  I’m blessed to have someone with such knowledge think I’m a worthy protégé.