The Associate
The newsletter for graduates and students of Bath Centre for Psychotherapy and Counselling
This is the fourth issue of The Associate and I would like to give a big thank you to Martin Phillips and Carolyn Bird for producing this wonderful issue. There were fewer contributions from readers for this issue. I wonder if this represents a fall off in enthusiasm after the initial re-launch of the BCPCA newsletter in this form or if it might reflect our decision to distribute The Associate electronically? Please keep your contributions coming in. A short piece might be of great interest to other readers. Over the last year I have enjoyed working as Managing Editor. I have spoken to many people I would not have met otherwise and have been struck by the enthusiasm and commitment our community has to our chosen profession. I have however, decided to step down from the editorial team due to my commitments elsewhere. Martin and Carolyn will continue to produce The Associate but would welcome support from the BCPCA community. If you would like to get involved please contact them. You do not need any previous editorial or publishing experience, just a willingness to get involved. There is a great deal of enthusiasm for The Associate and readers seem to receive genuine pleasure in receiving it. Please remember that you can chose to receive a printed version if, like me, you value the opportunity to read it in the bath or leave it laying on the coffee table.
This is the result of a partnership agreement between BCPC and the University. This may be of particular interest to you if you wish to obtain a higher level academic qualification alongside your vocational counselling training. It offers more opportunities for personal growth and development and the chance to research an area of professional interest. By gaining the Diploma you have already achieved half the number of credits needed for the M.A. The remaining credits can be achieved by studying the area of research design and by carrying out a small scale Master’s research project. The subject you choose is down to you as long as it is relevant to your professional concerns and career interests and related to counselling and psychotherapy practice. Methods of study are flexible and involve distance learning with tutorials, telephone and on-line supervision arranged with a University tutor. A range of professional research seminars are also provided by the University at its campus. The M.A is normally completed within 2 or 3 years( part-time). Costs at present stand at £ 2210 and details of career development loans can be found at: www.direct.gov.uk/adultlearning Further information can be found by contacting either Peter Lowis (BCPC Course Director for Counselling) or Greta Knowles (affiliate tutor for Bath Spa University). Greta’s email is gretark@btinternet.com and phone number- 07967-331654.
On Retreat In my third year of training with BCPC and therefore my third year of therapy, one thing had continued to frustrate me: my limited capacity for being absolutely ‘in the moment’ and therefore to simply be with what is.
I try not to berate myself for this. After all the modern world sometimes appears specifically designed to steer us away from ourselves, seducing us away from the ‘now’ with a vast array of tempting distractions – TV, internet, dvds, alcohol, mobile phones, food, idle gossip... I identified strongly with the Jungian writer James Hollis who wrote that an inability to simply ‘be’ placed one in danger of dying without actually having been ‘here’ at all (my interpretation of his words). More on that later. I felt I needed some kind of guidance so began investigating retreats. I knew Buddhism interested me but, as a first experience, I didn’t want anything I might describe as ‘hardcore’. I was looking for a gentle, yet challenging introduction to mindfulness and meditation. In the end I opted for a six day retreat at The Barn Retreat Centre near Totnes in Devon (http://www.sharphamtrust.org/barn/) which is run in conjunction with Sharpham Trust - an education charity which promotes well-being and sustainable living. As its website stated, The Barn is a meditation retreat centre ‘based on the Buddhist tradition’ suitable both to those who have an established long term meditation practice as well as those – like myself – who were novices. Retreatants arrive on Sunday afternoons and leave before lunchtime the following Saturday. Places are limited to 10 per week along with two volunteer facilitators. Once everyone has arrived, the retreat begins with a welcome meeting in the dining area which makes the most of the stunning location with windows facing the valley of the River Dart far below the remote hillside where The Barn is situated. After brief introductions, the daily schedule is explained and everyone is assigned both morning jobs to be completed before breakfast and main work activities which take up the rest of the time from breakfast until lunch. The Barn is not a silent retreat, other than between 9.00 pm and 9.00 am each day and all day Wednesday.
Retreatants also have the option of fasting on Wednesday. Once our commitment to abide by the five key precepts of Buddhism was confirmed (abstaining from the harming any living being, taking what is not offered, sexual and sensual
misconduct, false speech and taking substances which disturb the balance of the mind) it was time for the first ‘sit’ or meditation. Meditations take place three times a day at 6.50, 12.20 and 5.20 and are 40 minutes in length. The facilitators are extremely helpful in babysitting any novices (there were two of us) in finding comfortable postures and stances and giving advice where there are any problems. The range of stances varied from sitting on chairs, through the use of meditation stools to a facilitator (who had lived as a Buddhist monk for some time) in full lotus position. In addition there is further help in that the first mediation is guided including basics such as how to concentrate on the breath. My first experience of mediation – excruciating. I found myself in pain most of the time with constant itches, tickles, aches and throbs which we were encouraged to investigate rather than react to.
Some people opted for gardening, others for tending the chickens whereas I returned each day to the wood pile, but this time splitting huge logs with a sledge hammer and wedge and wheeling the chunks up a hill to the wood store in a wheelbarrow. It was July and very warm. Initially, it was exhausting, sweaty work – I began in jeans and sweatshirt and ended in shorts and boots. Then the words of the facilitators drifted back to me; to do everything in a mindful way. The experience changed. I began focusing on the tip of the wedge, bringing the sledge hammer up in a graceful ark and bringing it down so that it met the wedge sweetly and accurately.
And here is, I think, where the full value of meditation began for me - the metaphorical linking of experience during meditation with one’s general experience in life; that the ability to notice itches, aches, pains and discomforts during meditation are in parallel with our ability to be with ‘what is’ during one’s life; to investigate these discomforts and irritants and to notice them without necessarily taking instant, pre-emptive action to immediately ‘fix’ them, or to allow one’s mind to wander away from them through distraction.
Between each stroke I looked at the forest around me and marvelled at how much life and activity there was unseen around me; as though I could hear the whole forest breathing. After a few strokes I could hear the log beginning to give up and begin to split minutely. I dropped my ear closer so that I could hear it changing after each stroke. On the way up the hill with my wheelbarrow I
Speaking of distractions – at The Barn there simply aren’t any. No TV, radio, internet, phones, newspapers, nicotine, alcohol, traffic, dairy, wheat, meat.... The only thing available to occupy you is....you. Each day at The Barn follows a pre-set schedule. The tinkling of a bell wakes everyone (who is still asleep…) at 6.20. Everyone prepares in silence for the first sit which begins at 6.50. At 7.30 we began morning tasks (wood chopping for me). Breakfast is eaten – still in silence – at 8.00 and is either porridge or yogurt with a range of fruit and nut additions to chose from. Silence ends at 9.00 with a check-in around the breakfast table before heading off to our respective work activities until the second sit at 12.20.
picked blackberries. I began to look forward to log splitting and missed it when I left. After the second sit, lunch is eaten. This is the main meal of the day and, in teams of two, we took it in turns to do the cooking.
I have to say, the food was wonderful (particularly my creation of boulangere potatoes, chick pea ratatouille and roasted red peppers of course!). Between lunch and the last sit of the day at 5.20 the time is free for walking in the stunning countryside, reading from the in-house library or simply being. After the final sit, there was usually a visit from an experienced meditation practitioner for a Q&A session followed by supper where each of us just grabbed whatever took our fancy from the larder and fridges. Then some chat before silence began again at 9.00. I noticed after a few days how I slipped into a state of being which was much more in harmony with the day and how comfortable it felt – waking at dawn, quietening down at dusk and then sleeping once it was dark. I elected to fast on Wednesday which was also the only fully silent day. It was interesting to note that although I missed the actual activity of eating, I didn’t feel particularly hungry.
In fact the lack of food seemed to energise me. I spent the morning splitting and carting logs as normal, then as everyone settled down to lunch I decided to take myself off for a walk. The area is quite hilly and yet after hours of slogging uphill in the sun and wandering through woods, I still felt full of energy. During supper I read then managed, via sign language, to engage another retreatant into a couple of games of silent chess in the library.
Buddhist meditation. Suffice to say it was a very moving experience. The sit was followed by a farewell sharing of experiences and offerings. The following morning it was time to leave. As an indication of how relaxed I was, I had driven 15 miles before I realised I had simply walked out with my car keys and driven off – no luggage, wallet, no phone. The world seemed to be moving at an incredible speed and I noticed I had to constantly reduce speed when I approached bends as though my ability to process life at high speed had been impaired. At one point I was stuck in a traffic jam on the M5 and whereas normally I would have felt frustrated, I felt content to just look at the people around me and wonder why they seemed to be so worked up, or let my eyes wander beyond them and notice the countryside in the distance. I stopped at a motorway services at one point, but was glad to leave as my senses felt assaulted by the noise, busyness and clamour all around me. I noticed that I was looking forward with some desperation to seeing loved ones and felt quite tearful when I did meet them. Rather than travel directly back to Bath I stopped off with a friend who lives in a small village and we went for a walk in some woods nearby. Everything looked different – the colours were deeper,
I went to bed at nine and read a little more, still feeling energised. My night was dominated by a particularly vivid and quite gory dream. Breakfast the following morning was enjoyable. I noticed how I tasted the food with greater awareness but also how I seemed to get full very quickly. It made me wonder how often I ate without really feeling hungry. Then my mind moved to those people in the world where to not eat for 24 hours was nothing unusual.
On the final day before departure, the sit was a guided metta meditation. Metta is sometimes translated as loving kindness and if you want to learn more there is plenty to read on the internet or in general books concerning
distant trees appeared close enough to touch. Tears were never far away.
I guess the challenge is how to hang on to that ‘being’ state once one has returned to the world at large. Basically - as all writing concerning mindfulness and meditation confirms – it’s all down to self discipline and incorporating the teachings into everyday life. I certainly began to see it as something requiring endurance and stamina. Of course it is also true to say, I feel, that to be ‘opened up’ to the degree I felt on leaving The Barn could be problematic . I’m not sure I want to be getting tearful while buying a pint of milk in Sainsburys because of noticing how white it is. I think the major insight I benefited from was to notice how I was always looking for the thing. Even though I was enjoying my stay, I found myself wondering how many more days it was until I could go home; when would it be over so that I could move on to the next ‘job’ to get done. While in meditation I found myself sometimes trying to assess how many minutes were left before, again, moving on. I realised that perhaps this is how I had viewed my life – unconsciously wondering when it would be over. A sobering realisation, but not so surprising when I understand my history which has been one of constant change and stressful impermanence. If anyone would like to know more, feel free to contact me. (martin.phillips28@btinternet.com)
Martin Phillips
The student committee of the Association has authorised the spending of around £700 on additional books for the BCPC library. The move was prompted by the frustration reported by many students when they were unable to obtain copies of essential reading books when required. Given the high price of many academic books, this was proving a strain for many in terms of expense. So the aim is to purchase additional copies of books that were considered absolutely essential reading for students studying both counselling and psychotherapy. The recommended list would have proved to be too large a number for the student budget to have supported. A list has been compiled based on that criteria as well as various consultations between tutors and the various year groups and the purchase will be made shortly. So hopefully you can look forward to a little less of a scrum around demanded titles in future! Martin Phillips
readers’ poetry… than either had thought till this day.
When I asked I was sure you’d say no, with a cool and uncomfortable shrug but you were really so willing to go, I felt like you gave me a hug. Up early you arrived on the dot – curiosity making you keen. we found a good picnic spot (a good-enough lay-bye, I mean). You climbed up the outdoor staircase, which I’d slipped on myself before now. Though ninety, you moved at a purposeful pace - I inwardly made you a bow. At first we none of us knew what to do, this being for all three a first, so you and I made a start with the loo – without which things might’ve got worse. Our therapist, I must say, was grand of her day); (not for nothing Smiling, she took us in hand, asked each what was vital to say?
An hour on, we’d learned quite a lot: all three, I sensed, brimming with awe – we’d hung in, not lost the plot – and left the door open for more. As you came down those fairy-tale stairs, I felt proud, Mum, warm and impressed. After brief therapeutic repairs, you’ve gone home again for your rest.
(Pascale Poiret-Brown)
June’s poetry collections are available directly from her directly : jp.hall@waitrose.com
Depression was your only companion. I see you lying there; looking vague and scared and me trying to make a connection. Depression is in the air, on the menu, on the walls, everywhere, waiting for you to fall.
Like pros, we set off at a lick, shared thoughts on the past straight away. We judged my father yet more of a prick
Thank you for this . I particularly enjoyed reading about Family Constellations, which I found fascinating. It also took me back to reading the original article from June Hall and reading extracts from her poetry also touched a chord, so thank you.
Well done to the editorial team, the paper content is engaging and varied and the look professional and modern. I enjoy reading it very much. Best wishes to the team.
By Kim Liversidge
The knower affects the known. Quantum physics - understanding the world as system helps us to accept this perhaps. In my view the beauty and challenge of Intersubjective Systems Theory and Constellations is that they also subscribe to this systemic view, the knower affects the known. I come from the unusual position of having experienced both these metatheories during my training as a therapist and therefore am highly influenced by both. I feel strongly that each enhances the other, and in my view both are particularly helpful for building self-esteem and getting ever nearer to one’s ‘original self’ as described by Thomas Moore (2000). Both offer the possibility for dialogue between self and other, leading to insight about one’s creative needs. It would be impossible to give an overview of both theories here. However, I am interested in starting a conversation about their synergies and also to wonder about some of the differences between them. To begin with, I will attempt to show a Constellation I was part of some years ago. The facilitator was an experienced psychotherapist, skilled in working phenonenologically and with trauma. A group of strangers, about fifteen people, sit in a large circle. The facilitator asks who would like to go next. A man, mid forties raises his hand, I shall call him Sam. He sits next to the facilitator and speaks about his growing fears of losing his young son. He speaks of always having had a fear of his son turning away from him, and a sense of frustration that he feels he is now making that very thing happen. Sam doesn’t want to lose his son. But he can feel the relationship beginning to break down; can feel a horrible coldness in himself towards his son that he does not understand. The facilitator asks him a bit about his upbringing. “It was pretty ordinary, though I often felt cut off from Mum and Dad. They always seemed kind of distant. I know they loved me very much, but they were never demonstrative sorts.” The facilitator asks: “Where were your Mum and Dad from?” Sam replies: “Not from the UK. They were both German Jews; they came over here to escape the war.” The facilitator thinks about this… ‘Your parents must have been very young when they left Germany?” “Yes,” he says, “Mum came over on one of the last Kinder ships.” (A bit of history)
“How old was your mum when she was put on the ship?” asks the facilitator. “She was five years old.” Sam replies. They speak a little more and then the facilitator asks: “Shall we begin? Please choose somebody to represent yourself, and someone to represent your wife and son.” We all watch as these representatives move very slowly in the space until they feel in the ‘right’ place. The wife and son stand quite near each other, but are not looking at each other or at the representative for Sam. He is turned completely away, reports feeling very cold and finds it anxiety-provoking when his son tries to move where Sam can see him. The son reports fleeting feelings of sadness and numbness. After a while the facilitator asks Sam to choose someone for his mother. The mother can’t bear to have her son see her and tries to move as far away as possible. Sam
tries to move towards her, but also feels terrible guilt at turning away from his own son, yet only wants to turn towards his mother. The facilitator asks him to choose someone to represent his mother’s mother, his maternal Grandmother. He chooses me. It’s hard to explain, but I find that once I enter a Constellation, I stop hearing or being able to concentrate in the same way. So, with the aid of the facilitator working phenonenologically, I am tuning into my body as it leads me. I feel myself utterly unable to look at or be anywhere near ‘my daughter’. I notice panic arise in me if she moves so that we could see each other. She reports feeling deeply angry one minute, desperate the next; she wants me to look at her, to see her. Why don’t I look? She weeps and then reports deep feelings of despair and gradually she loses energy and begins to report feeling cut off. I can feel in me the absolute refusal to look or listen. I do not want to see her. That’s all I know. The whole process of slow, slow steps towards me, with me turning away as I follow my body, seems to go on forever. My body is rigid and aching with the need to not look. Eventually, at some point my ‘daughter’ comes into my line of sight. We see each other. The strangest sensation comes over me. My body slowly seems to fold itself in half; I feel grief-wracked, acute pain. The facilitator asks Sam what happened with his mum and her mother. “They never saw each other again… my grandmother wasn’t able to escape in time, so she last saw mum when she was five, lined up to get on the ship.”
An example of a basic order is that ‘each of us was given life by a mother and a father’. However, Orange speaks of ‘the harmful effects of rules’ (ibid) pointing out the dangerous but understandable need we have to seek certainty as opposed to exploring meanings and being with the ‘not knowing’. On the other hand it is a given that in individual therapy and supervision certain rules are applied, on the understanding that ‘holding the frame’ in itself forms part of the therapeutic process. There’s a history to this understanding and not so long back this wasn’t understood so clearly, boundaries were less well considered and retraumatisation was not uncommon. Today, from the outset, we strive to hold certain boundaries because we understand this is in the service of the client and the relationship, just as we understand the importance of boundaries in any healthy relationship. I hope there will come a time where the teachings of Hellinger and the methodology of Constellations (when practiced intersubjectively) will become integrated. I believe that experiencing the struggle to widen our understanding of how to include it will be similar to that It’s difficult to put into words just how powerfully this experience of our struggle to let go of Stolorow’s ‘myth of the isolated mind’. connected me at that time in a new, embodied and immediate way with a strong ‘Organizing Principle’ (Stolorow 1992). The other representatives, including Sam, also expressed a strong sense of I am currently running a small experiential Constellations group having reached new insights and understanding in relation to self and I am in group and peer supervision for this work. You are and others. Donna Orange (1995) says “To risk testing our welcome to email me your thoughts/responses to this piece organizing principles in dialogue with a text or a person makes kimdliversidge@sky.com possible new meaning…empathy is implicit conversation between perspectives.” Orange is referring to psychotherapy but these words, in my view, are equally applicable to a Constellation. She also says ibid To place oneself in a Constellation is to take a risk, to experience consciously what it feels like to ‘not know’ but rather to simply report and follow one’s instinctual responses. I feel the experience and learning that occurs in a constellation experience supports the therapist striving to work intersubjectively. At the conclusion of his teaching on IST in ‘Contexts of Being’ Stolorow puts it thus:
With an Intersubjectively inclined facilitator, a Constellation presents the opportunity to do exactly this. However, one particular way in which these two theories appear to clash is that in setting up a Constellation, according to Hellinger’s approach, the facilitator holds in her mind certain ‘rules’. Constellations work arose out of Burt Hellingers original theory ‘Orders of love’ (Broughton 2010). However, I want to be clear that this is a very simplistic interpretation of Bert Hellinger’s intentions in those early days. Psychotherapist Barbara Morgan puts it thus:
(Inspired by a visualisation during psychotherapy training)
There was a man of humble background who found himself alone in the darkest of dark forests, constantly beset by wild beasts that lurked around the edge of his small meagre encampment. With him was his daughter who he protected from the beasts with a small rusty dagger. Each time the encampment became threatened he took his daughter’s hand and, hacking through the dense, thorny undergrowth, he moved through the forest to find another safer spot, always thinking ‘there must be better than this’. Then one day he noticed light emanating from a part of the forest far distant and was drawn to it. But he feared leaving behind the scant safety of the encampment to trek towards the unknown glow. As time passed the light became stronger and seemed to call to him. Eventually he picked up the dagger and making his daughter as safe as possible in his absence, he set off, hacking towards the light. Soon he approached a clearing where the dark canopy gave way to sunlight in an achingly blue sky, making the forest floor alive and abundant. Fearing a trick, he began circling the clearing, but staying hidden in the dark embrace of the forest, ever looking over his shoulder back towards the little encampment far distant in the tangled depths behind him. As each day passed, he ventured further into the warm light but returned quickly to the snarled forest embrace, ever fearful that exposure to it would do him great harm and that he would be unable to find his way back should he need to. He would be forever lost. The forest teemed with red eyed demons, yet it was familiar and he had learned over many years how to best them. After days of watching and wondering, he noticed a deer, tawny backed and graceful, moving unaware through the clearing. He wondered why it was not afraid. He took one step into the clearing, then another and another, the rusty dagger held before him. The sun warmed his face and fed him, oozing like honey through his body and making his eyes heavy. As he came closer to the deer, it lifted its head to look at him and the man trembled. Wary of a spell, he called out, “Why are you not afraid of my dagger?” The deer stepped forward. The man stepped back. “I have slain many beasts with it. You see that I live - even though the demons came in hordes with claws unsheathed to rip my heart from my chest. Yet still I live.” The deer, as though floating over the hock high grass, came closer still. “Stay back”, he shouted and glanced back towards the knotted darkness, but stood, the dagger outstretched. Now the deer was pressed against the decrepit blade and the man let his arm drop and the dagger was lost among the stems. He looked at the deer and fell into its eyes. When he awoke, the deer was still close by and the sun was low over the horizon and he knew what he must do. He walked to the edge of forest and peered into the shadows before setting off toward the encampment. A great howling began. The dagger was lost. Soon a beast blocked his path, hackles raised, red eyes like pools of blood, shreds of carrion hanging from its claws. The man approached. The beast reared up and screeched, “Why are you not afraid?” Martin Phillips
(like the Dr’s or a café) or perhaps somewhere they can easily take a copy away with them (like Neil’s Yard).
There have been mixed results from placing an advert in the Spark – some successful and some not, and also mixed results from websites. We do know of a couple of therapists who’ve had some direct contact via the bcpc referral website. We’d love to know how others are getting on – any luck?
If you live in Bath or Bristol in particular then the bcpc referral service can be a god-send. I for one, would have been totally stuck without the referral service, and I appreciate the efforts being made to promote the service through GP’s as well as the on-line version. But I think we’re all too aware that this service doesn’t provide enough clients to go round, especially with the growing number of students coming up through the bcpc ranks, which makes it all the more important to be creative about finding new ways to find clients…
The Editorial team have enjoyed chewing the cud on this one over the months and we frequently begin our meetings by asking each other the million dollar question: ‘how do you get clients?’ And between us (anecdotally) we’ve heard a thing or two, which we’re more than happy to pass on. We’d love to hear from you about what you think works or doesn’t work, as we’re all keen to build up our practices and our experience.
Firstly, we think that it’s very difficult to attract clients. It’s not like finding a hairdresser or a Dentist, where you can simply ask around. Most people don’t seem to want other people to know that they’re having therapy, and even if they don’t mind this, chances are, they don’t want the same therapist as their best friend. And in any case that could bring up boundary issues, which would make the recommendation futile anyway.
So given that word-of-mouth is less likely to be a success than for other services and products, we turn our attention to advertising. Here we have a very mixed picture. We’ve heard of several therapists who’ve had great success from displaying leaflets in the local library, shop or post office. It would seem that nothing too fancy is required for this to work – just something done on your home computer at very little cost, can do the job. Others have had no results from their leaflets and it’s hard to say why some work and some don’t. It would seem to make sense to place your leaflet somewhere where people are having to sit and wait
In some areas, perhaps recommendations via GP’s is an option? I’ve had no luck with this in Bath, being told that Dr’s are shy of recommending individual practitioners, in case the therapy ‘goes wrong’ and the client then goes back to the Dr to complain. I’ve wondered about recommendations via other professionals, such as solicitors (e.g. dealing with divorce or bereavement) but haven’t tried it yet. I’m aware that there are networking meetings too for health professionals, which I imagine are Country wide. Anyone had any experience of these they can pass on?
I often hear that the best way to attract a client is to be ‘ready’; to have the space for someone both practically and emotionally and to be in a place where you have the capacity to help another on their journey. I feel that there is a lot in this AND that you need to be out there too in some form of advertising.
What do you think? What has worked for you? Any ideas you want to share? What kind of help do you need? How can we help one another in this most difficult and important of tasks?
Seeing private clients for the first time.
So now came the day of my first paid-for client appointment. I looked at the room again. I experimented with the distance between the two chairs. I rehearsed the journey from my front door to the therapy room. I put on the lamps and discovered the bulbs were too weak – more romantic than therapeutic. New bulbs went on the last -minute list along with clock, tissues and water jug. I felt sure Morrisons would have everything I needed and headed for the car. Then came back in to get the list. I left again. I came back again because the piece of paper I had picked up was not actually the list – it was a receipt from a previous foray to Morrisons. I drove out of my street and turned in the wrong direction. I did a u-turn and entered Morrisons car park a few minutes later. Tissues – check. Man-size or cute flowery ones? Morrisons own or more expensive branded? It was a female client...but then so what? I bought a pack that seemed to have the least identity. Now for water jug, clock and light bulbs? None. I headed to the self-checkout and queued behind ten other people. Checked my watch. Loads of time!
“Where is your anxiety?” asked my supervisor. I guess she had a point. But I didn’t feel nervous – or I didn’t think so. I had spent over a year in placement so this was just another client. What was there to be anxious about?
My turn – scanned the one item. Reached into my pocket. No wallet. I headed for Homebase through light traffic that felt heavy. In Homebase I found the clock, I found the bulbs, I headed to the checkout and queued (again). My turn came (again). I had no wallet (again). I CHECKED MY WATCH. I Third year of training and second year of psychotherapy trotted to the car, I drove home through lighter traffic that training and it was time to open my doors to a possible felt heavier. At home I grabbed my wallet and thought, why private client. The website was done, I was present on the referral site and I had dabbled with google ads. I was going to go to Homebase when there is a hardware store and co-op in work from home – the spare room was decorated, obligatory Larkhall? I drove there. In the hardware store I found the clock, I found the water carafe, I went to pay. pot plant in situ and a new rug laid neatly to cover the worst of the paint splats. It was just a matter of time I thought. But weeks went by and although my website was getting a healthy They asked for payment. I had no wallet. I apologised and got back in the car. Then I realised that I did have my wallet. number of hits and I had replied to one or two referral I went back in the shop. opportunities, the first client stubbornly refused to turn up. During group supervision on the afternoon of a training day, I bemoaned the fact that I had no clients despite my best efforts. I began to be sceptical that there were not enough clients for the number of therapists in existence in Bath along with those trainees like myself that were being churned out by the organisation. A tutor suggested that all the anxiety around my searching for a client might actually be getting in the way of allowing space for one to appear.
“Actually, I do have my wallet,” I said. “Would you like to make up your mind?” asked the assistant. Nervous? Me?
“What nonsense” I thought, while nodding and smiling indulgently. “I’m not anxious.” After a little more time I ran out of ‘activities’ I could perform in order to find clients and turned my attentions to other things. I stopped worrying about the lack of clients; forgot about the whole thing. Two clients turned up.
Martin Phillips
Congratulations to Kate Hardenburg for completing the Bath Half Marathon in aid of the Royal United Hospital
Jane Purkiss stepped down as Course Director for Foundation in January. The team acknowledged all her hard work and commitment over the years with flowers and chocolate cake at their last team meeting together. Jane presided over a period during which the number of Foundation courses increased from one to three. There are now Foundation courses on Thursday, Friday and Saturday and approximately fifty students each year participate in the training. Around two thirds of those move into the Psychotherapy and Counselling courses subsequently. All the Foundation courses have been running at Apthorp House this year. Jane was a proactive leader and a highly efficient coordinator. Perhaps her most appreciated quality was the trust that she showed towards the team, and her willingness to value each individual’s contribution. Whenever there was a difficulty, she was always there, and always had something to offer that would help resolve it. People keep saying about Jane that she is a ‘hard act to follow’. While this is undoubtedly true, members of the team are pleased that Jan Mojsa has been appointed to take over the role of Course Director for Foundation. Jan joined BCPC in September as Senior Tutor on Module 4 of the Psychotherapy Course. The team is looking forward to continuing to develop Foundation with the benefit of Jan’s contribution.
February 2012
As a diabetic, Kate’s preparations had to be even more arduous than other runners. Despite waiting for hours, camera poised I failed to get a picture of her in full flight! But here are some I did!
Here are the details from the organisers Jan Walker and Kate Bowman.
Whether we live in a city or countryside, Nature is the ever present context of our lives. We can approach the natural world on many different levels, ranging from fear, to indifference or to wonder and love. When we are open to an encounter with Nature, it can draw us into our deepest selves as well as lift us beyond ourselves. It may connect us to present emotion, memories or take us towards an understanding of life and our place in it. An experiential workshop exploring our relationship with Nature, the meaning it may have for us and the potential place for it in therapy. We will be outdoors for parts of the day in the beautiful grounds of the Ammerdown Estate near Radstock. There will also be time to reflect together on the theme indoors. Julie Walker who is a BCPC Psychotherapy Graduate will facilitate the day; her exploration of this theme emerges from her own lifelong rootedness in Nature. Julie works with some of her clients outside, and has led various group events and retreats. The day will be mainly outside in fields and woodland. Please come suitably attired and appropriate to weather conditions on the day and bring a mat or bin bag to lie on. David Frost will be providing a delicious lunch; please let us know if you have any special requirements. Time: Cost:
(includes lunch) Graduate event subsidised by BCPCA)
To book a place please print and complete the booking form below enclosing your cheque payable to: ‘BCPCA’ and send to: Kate Bowman 28 Flatwoods Road Claverton Down Bath BA2 7AQ Tel: 01225 832162 Email: kate@flatwoods.co.uk
Name: Address:
Telephone: E-mail (for e-receipt) Please book me a place on
Graduate Day held on 1st July 2012. I enclose a cheque for £25.
Signed: _____________________________________________ (Please let us know if you have any special requirements)
(Dotted lines denote omitted passages and sections). In the dissertation I consider a number of different perspectives and only a hint of this can be given in extracts. The rest of the dissertation consists of biographical interviews, narratives of client sessions, responses to a practitioner questionnaire, discussion of research methodology and conclusions. Anyone interested is welcome to e-mail me or find the copy of the full text in the library.
As I approached my sixties, an enigma confronted me; personal and professional relationships had filled my life, yet some of my most gratifying encounters had actually been with another species, horses. It also that few of my clients had this gratification in contact with other-than-human beings. Something awakened in me when I was in contact with horses, which slumbered when I was practicing therapy. Was I, I wondered, unusual, or was a dimension being excluded from the therapy room? In either case, what did this signify?
Following publication of Kelvin Hll’s article in our the last issue, it seemed clear that the content touched a nerve among many readers as well as those in my own psychotherapy group. I have therefore asked Kelvin for permission to re-print an extract from his MA dissertation which appears below. Aside from the content itself which has proven of particular interest, I also do this in the hope that other dissertation authors might also step forward and allow us to reprint sections of their work. Dissertations produced by BCPC students and graduates are of a generally high quality and publication in will hopefully be both educational while at the same time helping students appreciate the standard of work they might aspire to later in their training. Any comments or questions to me please: Martin.phillips28@btinternet.com
I then found a growing body of literature asserting that the history of human culture has entailed the loss of profound connection with nature, and that this has contributed to many of our current ills. This literature also confirmed that certain people experienced moments of encounter with other living beings which were key to their values, sense of self and meaning. I began to suspect that psychotherapy can validate or invalidate these, thus colluding with individual or cultural prejudice. As I proceeded, a picture emerged of a latent human faculty for forms of dialogue with other life which can lead to moments of profound fulfilment, and the suppression of this faculty as a cause of distress. The relevance of these ideas to the practice of psychotherapy is my concern in the following pages…………………………….
1) Legends of the Fall: Conversation with Nature and its Loss
The notion of a rift between humans and nature runs through the work of a host of writers and researchers of the late 20th, early 21st centuries and I shall refer to several of them below. They argue that the split first occurred much earlier; say at the dawning of agricultural practice or early in the classical Greek period, but that it intensified with the advent of Cartesian scientific method. They affirm, moreover, that the earlier mentality is still carried by tribal people in, say, the Amazon rain forest, and that it can be witnessed there by trusted visitors from our culture (Griffiths 2006: 28 et al.). They also argue that this split is felt as pain, grief or longing, often ill-defined, by numbers of people in contemporary post-industrial cultures. For some the source of these feelings is conscious, while for others it is unconscious but manifest in distress or destructive behaviour such as addiction or compulsive spending. For some there is an autobiographical “moment” of Fall, as well as an historical one, and also, later in life, a struggle to recover.
They consider the need to reconnect to be widespread even when unrecognised, and that the importance of contact with nature for human health, emotional and physical, is basic. Furthermore, according to such accounts, many contemporary humans have deep experiences of connection at some time in their lives, and others maintain the capacity for it. But individuals either marginalise that experience in their lives, or they feel marginalised by a society that devalues such awareness. Both David Abram (1996) and Derrick Jensen (2000) perceive humans to be engaged in a continuous exchange with other life, which is based on a kind of , no less articulate for being non-verbal. This perception is absolutely central to their view of psychology and the human condition. They exemplify it in somewhat different, but complementary ways. For Abram it is an incessant aspect of our being in the world, even of our breathing itself. He describes it thus: “…a sort of silent conversation ….that unfolds far below my verbal awareness…this wordless dance….this improvised duet between my animal body and the fluid, breathing landscape that it inhabits…” (Abram 2000: 52-53) For Jensen it is experienced more in deliberate transactions and encounters, in which other life responds to human intentions and attitudes. A key example is his own negotiation of a pact with the wild coyotes that had ravaged his chickens (Jensen 2000: 19). Both share other assertions about the significance of this language; that it entails a mutuality, giving the natural world at least equal status with humans; that it was once more fully embraced and accepted than it is now; that in modern humans it is repressed, unconscious, denied or kept private. A number of more recent writers have endorsed these views, some of them focussing on the appearance of this sphere of experience in the therapy room. Christian de Quincey (2005) and Jerome Bernstein (2005) are among them. Jensen is adamant that this type of enabled him to survive extreme abuse in childhood, since it offered a range of relationships far more functional than those in the home. He also argues that our denial of this area of experience in tantamount to abuse of both nature and humans, and that our species will not survive if we continue to deny it (Jensen 2000: 16). Abram argues that our view of psyche, soul and emotions – and even verbal language itself - arose out of our reciprocal immersion in nature and that this was rediscovered when phenomenologists like Merleau-Ponty tried to describe the essence of human experience, about experience (Abram 1996: rather than what humans 56). Kahn (1999: 9-23), an academic research psychologist using quantitative data rather than the autobiographical material I have largely quoted so far - produced many results confirming that the presence of nature in human life is crucial for mental and physical health. While writers like Jensen and Abram explore the subjective depths behind this thesis, it is actually supported by a considerable objective consensus.
Jensen’s statement: “as is true for most children, when I was young I heard the world speak…... Trees had bad days. Toads held lively discussions….” (Jensen 2000: 2) represents what Bernstein (2005: 150) considers “a normal developmental state” which he places “prior to the age of 6 or 7”. Likewise, Burrows (Roszak 1995:104) recalls her earliest memory: “Those moaning leaves, the shadows they cast on the inside of the carriage as the calm summer breeze moved through everything – these remain with me always.” She argues for a version of individual development focused less exclusively on contact, and continues, “… nature – ever since those encounters with the linden leaves – has been identical for me , has permitted me a free flow of creative energy that being indoors often doesn’t.” (ibid: 105). Julie Walker (2007:18) describes similar early experiences, adding “I’m told my first word was ‘flower’.” Likewise, Ronan Berger (2000: 20) writes that, even though he had: “two loving parents and … a sister … my strongest memories from early childhood relate to our two Alsatian dogs. This … is connected to the feeling that they were always there, taking care and being with me… I was a strange boy, spending much time … protecting ants from being stepped on and talking to the dogs … Nature was indeed a safe and containing place for me …” Shepard (in Roszak 1995: 36) points out that it is possible to see the parent as
“The foetus is suspended in water, tuned to the biological rhythms that are beyond to the day and seasonal cycles. The respiratory interface between the newborn and the air imprints a connection between consciousness and breath. Gravity sets the tone of all muscle… identity… proceeds in speech to employ plant and animal taxonomy.” There is some support for these pictures in Stern’s description (1995: 176) of the infant’s engagement with “a patch of yellow sunlight…. The infant will experience the intensity, warmth, shape, brightness, pleasure and other amodal aspects of the patch…” He also points out that “the… wholeness of original experience” is sometimes regained in adult life, with “certain contemplative states, certain emotional states and the perception of certain works of art.” For Burrows (Roszak 1996: 106), Stern’s work offers a basis for a less human-centred view of development, challenging the view that “… all exploration is sublimation, the infant’s search for the body of the mother.” Some people who do have such recollections, as they grow, undergo a personal fall similar to the historical one described by Abram et al. Indeed, Stern (1995: 176) describes the “advent of language” – arising through the caregiver’s comments to the child – as experience, and therefore “…a very mixed blessing”. In accounts like Jensen’s, of nature as a “primary caregiver”, this often accompanies lack of early bonding with the human caregivers. One colleague, whose main career has been in outdoor therapeutic education, attributes his attachment to nature partly to his
severance from his mother soon after birth. However, this is neither true in every case of early bonding with nature, nor do any of these individuals consider that the early experience with nature was just a substitute. It seems truer to say that it enabled them to something which remained valid in itself. In contrast to all of the above, though, Kellert (1996) carried out twenty years of quantitive research across several cultures on children under six years of age. According to Kahn’s summary they “revealed little recognition and appreciation of the autonomous feelings and independence of animals, and expressed the greatest fear of the natural world and indifference towards all but a few familiar creatures.”(Kahn 1999:18) This challenges the picture of children’s intimacy with nature presented by most of my sources, and this discrepancy would warrant further enquiry.
seen as something entering and leaving the human body, rather than something that us to plants, and re-connection the body is emphasised more than connection bodies - the moment of discharge more than the moment of mutuality. Eiden argues (Staunton 2006:37) that Reich’s thinking was “holistic”, in” his acknowledgement of the interdependence (my italics)”. Holism here seems to omit interdependence between the individual and the Earth. However, according to Heuer (2011: 37), Reich “drew parallels between the emotional/muscular armouring of people – which he understood as an inner ‘emotional desert’…..and the alarming spread of deserts as well as atmospheric pollution.” So the foundation for a wider picture is present in his work.
The inclusiveness implied by Carl Rogers’ principles, his validation of the client’s perceptions rather than the therapist’s theory, might seem irreproachable. However, his emphasis on development towards the status of “a separate, unique, self-governing individual” (Rogers 1965: 502) carries subtle inherent limitations. He interweaves this characteristic language with an evolutionary With Freud’s clash between instinctual drives and the governing ego, human fixation on non-human phenomena tends to be seen as picture which is explicitly anthropocentric. Maturation is “defined by a comparison of life low on the evolutionary scale with types of a symbolic message from the individual’s repressed id. So, in his organisms which have developed later, or are regarded as farther account of analyzing a boy with a phobia for horses, (Freud 1977: along in the process of evolution …” (ibid: 489). Thus the 167-304) he states that “horses had been shown to represent his father, who was going to punish him” (ibid: 283), and the therapist’s unconditional positive regard which characterises his attitude to response is to treat the human’s mind rather than to treat his perceptions is qualified by a hierarchical attitude to other relationship with horses. The treatment, therefore, takes place in life-forms. In which case the Others, presumably, wouldn’t have the consulting room rather than the paddock. Indeed, some of much to tell us. So, when he writes of the link between the Freud’s pronouncements suggest considerable wariness of the individual and others, the “others” are invariably human. other-than-human world, for example: Somewhat similarly to Rogers, the Gestalt therapists reacted in the “The principle task of civilisation, its actual raison d’etre, is to fifties against the perceived rigidity of psychoanalytic theory at the defend us against nature.” (ibid, 1961:15-16) time (Yontef 1993: 5) to champion an inclusive approach to the client’s awareness. They argued against the exclusion of a range of His biographer, Ernest Jones, comments that until the age of transactions between therapist and client – such as handshaking – seventy-two, “Freud had had little contact with animals” and the neutralizing of the therapy room (ibid: 15). However, the (Jones1961: 588). In some later and more private writings, Freud Others seem almost entirely absent from Gestalt writing, and took a rather different line, and describes his own experience of verbatim reports of sessions in books like Yontef’s (ibid).Yontef having an animal companion in soulful and appreciative terms (Sacks himself declares: “Therapists frequently have blind spots, areas 2008: 501-502) which they will not see” (ibid: 89) and sometimes those may also be the predominant blind spots of their time and culture. Yontef also But many of his successors continue or intensify his early focus. In comments on early Gestalt practice in which “Very little attention regarding the bond with the mother, or indeed the breast, as so was paid in this style to observational data that did not conform to primary, Klein (Segal 1979: 68) and Winnicott (Philips 1988: 113the therapist’s expectations…” (ibid13). 120) relegated connection to the Others to a category of substitutes and transitional objects. The transitional object, Thus, although Yontef actually states that “ (my italics) the more although it may well not be human, is primarily a replacement for likely it is that any difficulty is spotted in training the therapist or the human carer and represents a stage between dependence and adult autonomy. From this position such objects are more likely to helping the patient” (ibid: 90), the stress on autonomy, of the mother whereas, as Shepard has responsibility, “self-support” militated against recognizing any bond be seen as demonstrated (p.10), it is possible instead to regard the mother as with the Others, and Yontef’s book containing the above statement of the Earth. This is not to deny the likelihood of includes virtually no reference to any moment of interaction with substitution and transference but rather to maintain that more than them. In this he provides a marked contrast with Buber, even that may be occurring. It recognises the view that, while the though the latter is acknowledged as a forerunner. Buber states: mother is feeding the baby, she is herself being fed and respirated by countless plants and animals. “It by no means needs to be a man of whom I become aware….it can be an animal, a plant, a stone….the limits of the possibility of Reich and his successors, meanwhile, saw the body as an arena for dialogue are the limits if awareness.” (Buber 1947: 12) the contest between tension and release. “Orgastic potency” he Indeed, he attributes the origin on his understanding of the “Iwrote (1983:102) “is the capacity to surrender to the flow of biological energy, free from any inhibition.” Breath, therefore, is Thou” encounter to the bond he established with a horse
:“something that was not I, was certainly not akin to me, palpably the other…and yet it …confided itself to me, placed itself elementally in the relation of….Thou with me” (ibid:26) In their development of the “dialogic” perspective, Hycner and Jacobs implicitly –and perhaps unwittingly – lean towards inclusion such as Buber’s when they identify the human compulsion “to seek out otherness, to meet this otherness and to be confirmed by the other ……... ”. (Hycner & Jacobs 1995:201) This, however, remains only implicit (insofar as there is no reference to in the text). The Intersubjectivists, Stolorow & Atwood, are more explicit in their critique of “The Myth of the Isolated Mind” (Stolorow & Atwood 2002: 8), stating that one of the consequences of the “Myth” is “alienation from nature” which “diminishes the experience of …absolute dependence on the physical environment, kinship to other animals….and man’s physical vulnerability and ultimate mortality”. However, beyond this statement, this aspect remains unexplored in the volume from which it is quoted, and there is no clinical evidence to suggest its inclusion in practice.
sees the human being in an environment that is very much human. However, tucked away in her introduction, is the following: “I argue that human beings are open systems, permeated by other people as well as by plants and air and water. We are shaped by other people as well as by what we breathe and eat.” (ibid:10 ) The potency of the Others receives no further recognition from her. A recent dissention from the notion of intimacy with nature comes from Santostefano (2008: 514) who made studies of child clients who appeared to be attached to outdoor places and creatures. He concluded that actually the attachment was to caregivers that the child then those places, writing: “I disagree with the basic premise that nature automatically has the power to enhance and heal a person’s mental health.” He critically considers the autobiographical account of G.W.Burns (1998) who describes recovering from maternal scoldings in a treehouse listening to the “gentle motion” and the “the soft song” of the tree. Santostefano infers that Burns understates the significance of the treehouse having been built by his father, that the tree “dominated” the backyard and that “this embodied meaning of ascendance and power spiralled into the treehouse ….and helped Burns forget the scolding his mother gave him.” He says that children’s attachment to “what environments offer” only follows attachments with “persons who have joined the child interacting with various environments” (ibid: 515). In moments of mutuality with others, he would see the latter as actually standing in for other humans.
Representing Existential Psychotherapy, Irwin Yalom also distanced himself from the psychoanalytic tradition, emphasizing the “extreme pain” instilled by the essential facts of life – death, responsibility, isolation. Viewed in this light, the experience of connection described by many of my sources, would seem to be an attempt to deny “the truth – that we are born alone and must die alone …” (Yalom 1991:11). Indeed, he refers to “ fusion – the softening of one’s boundaries, the melting into another” as “a common and vigorous attempt to solve existential isolation …” In contrast, writers like Jensen (2000) and De Quincey (2005) would claim that, rather than seeking refuge from alone-ness in fantasies of Perhaps this whole survey illustrates the degree to which context is belonging, it is the experience of a responsive and inter-connected ultimately far more crucial than any one theory, and the world that is unsettling or alarming to the civilized mentality. significance of a client’s narrative – or of the events in the therapy room – are to be seen accordingly. In aspiring to encompass in his writing the full “Spectrum of Consciousness”, Wilber would seem to include the natural world as part of spiritual reality. When this is experienced, “…then all things and events…are seen to be mutually dependent and interpenetrating……As your eye scans the territory of nature, does it ever see a thing, a solitary thing, a separate thing? Has it There are now, however, a growing number of attempts to ever seen a ,a ,a ? Or does it see a kaleidoscopic flux integrate the insights of psychotherapy with the notion of mutuality of all sorts of interwoven patterns and textures…” (Wilber1979: with nature. Jung recognized the issue quite explicitly throughout 41). his career: However, conversation and encounter of the kind I and my sources described (p.8-9) depends on some degree of differentiation – some sense of the other as a responding agent – rather than “kaleidoscopic flux”. De Quincey (2005) claims to have detected a subtle bias in Wilber’s work. He sees the latter’s version of intersubjectivity as and . “…You will talk to me, and interpret what I say; and I will do the same with you…” (Wilber quoted in ibid: 291), whereas de Quincy claims, “True intersubjectivity …is subject to subject sharing of presence… unmediated communication…or ‘I-to-I’ communion.” (ibid: 241). The dispute between them is lengthy, but de Quincey is correct, Wilber’s version of intersubjectivity is limited and anthropocentric.
“Man …. is no longer involved in nature and has lost his emotional participation in natural events … neither do things speak to him nor can he speak to things like stones, springs, plants and animals…. the emotional energy it generated has sunk into the unconscious.” Jung (1961: 585) Indeed, he provides an early example of an intervention by nature into a session being welcomed by the therapist. One morning, a client arrived having dreamed of receiving a precious golden scarab. As she related this, there was a “gentle tapping on the window”. Jung opened it and caught a “scarabaeid beetle” which he then handed to the patient. This “broke the ice” and the therapy was able to move forward (Jung, 1971, quoted in Scott Peck, 1978: 257).
When Sue Gerhardt (2006) tried to digest the recent findings of neuroscience and bio-chemistry, she arrived at a massive vindication of Bowlby, Winnicott and Ainsworth. And like them she Latterly, advocates of different schools of therapy have taken up the theme, arguing for an approach more inclusive of the Others; for
instance Clive Perraton Mountford (2006) on behalf of Rogerian Therapy and Nick Totton (2007) on behalf of Body Psychotherapy. Few therapy writers, however, pursue the theme as resolutely as Jerome Bernstein (2005). He uses the term to describe individuals who experience an intimate, empathic, reciprocal contact with a being in nature, often against rational expectations. He affirms categorically that this kind of encounter is widespread and increasing. Like others quoted earlier, Bernstein reaches back into distant time, when the collective human experience (and here he quotes Abram) was one “of existing in a world made up of multiple intelligences… from the swallow swooping overhead to the fly on the blade of grass…” This is succeeded by the birth of the “western ego” and the “concept of an individual” itself, which did not actually exist previously (ibid: 325). From his clinical practice he has concluded that the earlier consciousness persists in, or gets rediscovered by, many contemporary individuals. But now it coexists with “the rational….thinking characteristic of the western ego….” And that this discovery is becoming increasingly prevalent in clinical settings.” (ibid: xv). He identifies the reluctance of some to disclose such experience, “lest it be labelled, profaned and spoiled” (ibid: xvi). But, they can also “wonder… whether what they… cherish… is not an extension of pathology.” And they can be “wounded by the therapy itself if the therapist… labels as pathological what for the patient is experienced as authentic and deeply meaningful.”(ibid: xvi). He elaborates these issues in his study of his client Hannah. For a long time he responded to Hannah’s narratives as if they were about compensatory or avoidant strategies, and indeed there were grounds for doing so, within a history of sexual abuse, depression and suicide attempts. She produced paintings of suffering animals. In response, he “employed the whole repertoire of… a good psychoanalytic-psychotherapeutic approach… this was helpful to some extent.” His next comment, though, exactly chimes with my own (p.5). “But always during our sessions I had the feeling that something was missing.” (ibid: 7).
. It may be triggered by, or exacerbate, other deprivations or lacks, such as parental remoteness, but it is not “explained” wholly by these. He calls this the Great Grief (ibid: 73). It resonates, of course, with my autographical account (p.5, para1,2 ); and when I read his description out at a workshop, one of the participants – as she later told me – immediately identified with the words. Other therapists have gone through similar stages to Bernstein, albeit in less dramatic form. Walker (2007) recounts that she was initially hesitant in her response when clients mentioned other creatures, as if she were ‘straying’ (ibid: 20). Noticing that clients seemed ‘wary of disclosure’ in this context, she resolved to be more fully attentive. With one she decided to explicitly disclose her belief ‘that dogs were great to talk to’. It is her conviction that this ‘enlarged and enriched the therapeutic space between us.’ Some of the therapists in Roszak (1995) have resolved to make the inclusive stance explicit from the start of therapy. Conn and Cahalan ask clients about their relationship with nature in initial interviews (ibid: 166). When Cahalan focuses on the client’s breathing, he invites them to recognize their exchange with the plants; thus actively encouraging them “to seek out a connection with the natural world” (ibid: 128).
To this concept of therapist as facilitator of connection, Cahalan (ibid: 128) adds the concept of nature as co-therapist. He often reaches a stage where he suggests a walk or sit outside, and explores with the client the quality of their engagement with the Others. He seems to give little consideration to the possibility that this suggestion could be deeply unsettling for a client who experiences it as a collapse of the holding environment. However, it enters territory similar to that explored by Bill Plotkin (2003) on his vision quest programmes, in which the voice of nature seems to respond helpfully to human turmoil, and this response is the central experience, consciously invited.
Finally, when he suggested that her distress at the sight of cows to slaughter was a reflection of her own distressing history, she protested in frustration, ‘but it’s the !’ (ibid: 7). Later, at a similar moment she shouted “You just don’t get it!” and “slammed the floor again with her shoe.” (ibid: 7).After a dream of him as sexual violator, he resolved to “shut off” his training. (ibid: 7). Hannah “seemed to be groping for a vocabulary that was beyond her reach – a vocabulary that perhaps didn’t yet exist.” (ibid: 8). But Bernstein realised that he have a frame of reference for what he was hearing, from his sojourns among the Navajo and Hopi, and “their psychic identity with the animate and inanimate objects of nature” (ibid: 9). As he “was able to witness and authenticate her Borderland experiences… she felt more sane and whole, and became dramatically healthier and more functional.” (ibid: 11).
Even though she is working in the very different setting of child psychotherapy, Caroline Case (2005) describes moments akin to Plotkin’s. For instance, she refers to a child with severe behavioural difficulties, who suddenly noticed blackbirds through the window, eating berries from the tree. The child’s exclamation, “It’s not their fault!” heralded a flow of material around survival from mother’s hostility.
Another woman heard, in childhood, the “gasping and moaning” sounds of insects routinely suffocated during biology classes and was traumatized by grown-ups’ dismissal of her experiences to the extent of developing psychosomatic pneumonia (ibid: 9192).Bernstein concluded that some people have a keen sense of the collective split from nature and that
Anita Sacks, another analytical psychotherapist, took the radical step of allowing her dog to participate regularly in sessions and followed the effects of this within long-term therapies (Sacks, 2008). She also places this firmly within psychoanalytic tradition, even claiming Freud himself as an antecedent. In this she echoes Case (2005: 21) and Grandin (2005: 58). She cites his diary entries
She describes a number of cases where the image of animals enabled children to articulate their emotional state – in which the children felt themselves to be like the animals – and other cases in which an actual animal enabled this. She considers the importance of pets as a bridge “between culture and nature”, and therefore also between “conscious and unconscious” fulfilling a similar purpose to myths and rituals (ibid: 24).
and letters over his last years in which he described his connection with his dog as: “… an intimate affinity… an undisputed solidarity. Often, when stroking Juli, I have caught myself humming a melody … a bond of friendship unites us both.” (Coren 2003:141). She also quotes Boris Levinson (1964) and Trini Harris (2002) who likewise used their dogs in sessions in spite of criticism from colleagues. Through all her examples, several statements recur: that the animal is a catalyst, that the animal responds distinctively to individual clients and occurrences in the session, and that either accident or a more “relaxed” attitude by the therapist towards boundaries precipitated the animal’s inclusion. Sacks had forgotten “to put her (the dog) in the back room, when Jack showed up. Sam (the dog) was there in the waiting room happily receiving him. I saw and heard him say: ‘I’m glad someone’s happy to see me’. I was so struck by his response to her, as he most often showed no positive affect, appearing severely depressed and distressed. I decided to allow Sam to come into the session …….” (ibid: 509). Thereafter, she observed the dog’s differing responses to individuals and to events in the sessions: “On occasion, when he (client) was in great emotional pain and cried, Sam went over and put her paw on him. She recognised his emotional pain and responded to it.” But she would also withdraw contact when he indicated, and the responsiveness offered him “a connective object experience” (ibid: 210).In contrast, when another patient wept, the dog did not approach him but let him ‘be’. In another case, the therapist helped the client to become aware of how she sent mixed messages, telling the dog to go away while at the same time petting her. A comparable and particularly deliberate use of animal presence is presented by Equine Assisted Psychotherapy, which is becoming increasingly widespread in a number of different versions. Put very simply, the method is this: client and therapist approach a loose horse in a paddock and the animal’s responses to the client are treated as a therapist’s feedback and responses would be in the consulting room. The directness and lack of inhibition of the horse are seen as much more powerful, expressive and intuitive than a human’s often is, thus evoking a more felt and less premeditated response from the client. For instance, a client who is “disembodied” may find that the horse collapses to the ground as if abandoning its body, or instead grips them with his teeth as if to call them back into their body. Linda Kohanov (2001: 2003) argues that horses pick up and then act out disowned or repressed emotions in humans, and this enables the humans to recognise those emotions in themselves. When this is done, the horse returns to a state of relative equanimity. Miranda Carey, one of the graduates of her training, reports many instances of this process. The sheer presence of horse seems to have a distinctive and immediate impact on some humans. They gain some lost energy or openness to contact. Rupert Isaacson (2009) describes how his “emotionally and physically incontinent” autistic son showed rare delight and enthusiasm oh his very first (chance) encounter with a horse, how sensitively the horse responded, and how this eventually led to profound shifts in behaviour.
It would seem, then, that the conversation between human and Other can comprise a range of modes, including powerful transference but also a deeply felt mutual recognition. All these can have a profound significance for the individual in therapy. According to the theses of Abram, Jensen and Bernstein, this involves the restoration of our intimate conversational bond with the Earth. I wanted to find out whether this was more widespread in biography and in therapy, and how it occurred………………
Richard Sale
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Stage 2:
‘Working with Couples’ if you have some experience/training in couples work but would like some more support/resourcing of your practice.
Stage 3:
‘Advanced Practice’ if you have over 250 hrs of practice and would like an opportunity to consolidate/develop your practice in an experienced group.
Tutor: Venue: Phone: Website:
David Slattery West Wing, Nr Stroud 01453 832215 www.relational-psychotherapy.co.uk
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