We are pleased to announce the beginnings of a new support group, which will be facilitated by Birch Counseling provider Brian Rose, MA, LADC. This group is welcoming men who are facing questions about substance use as well as other pertinent life problems. The group will be held on Monday evenings, 5:00 - 6:30pm at our Hopkins location (904 Mainstreet, #200). If you are interested in becoming a member, please contact our front office at (866) 522-2472, ext. 0. They will be happy to schedule a pre-admission meeting with Brian, who will make sure you are a good fit for the group. This men’s group will be limited to a maximum of 8 active members.

Below is Brian Rose’s description of the group:

The pandemic has been tough. It has broken our connection with many sources of support and the routines that anchored us. This group’s purpose is to connect with other men for support to help answer questions about issues that have arisen in our lives, such as questions about substance use, interpersonal relationships, as well as anxiety and depression. While such issues may have predated the pandemic , the isolation of the lock-downs has made these concerns more visible and pressing for many.

Some of the topics discussed in this group will cover substance use, improving communication in our relationships, repairing connections with friends and family, coping with symptoms of anxiety and depression, and the facing lonliness that has increased with isolation. This will be a process group with a strong focus on learning to connect and trust others.

The group will meet Mondays, from 5:00pm to 6:30pm, in person.

Birches
Poem by Robert frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust —
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows —
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having my lashed opened.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.