What is Therapy?

Many of us have cringe-worthy thoughts when someone mentions therapy. THE COUCH still looms deep in people's psyche. We get images of disconnected professionals peering over their glasses at tear-soaked clients. Freud has been gone for awhile, but the concept of the therapist who holds themselves apart from their clients, "analyzing" them, remains. I think that's what scares people about therapy.

When we can't feel someone, it gets creepy.

Think about all the horror movies where the evil-doer wears a blank mask. We put all of our own fears on that thing, and that's why it scares the hell out of us.

That's what makes people uncomfortable with the idea of telling their secrets. They don't know how it will land. When the therapist remains "a detached professional", the client is left uncertain about the relationship.

For me, the essence of good therapy is about listening, feeling into what I'm hearing, and then giving feedback around that experience.

Therapy is about telling our sacred stories, our secrets, the things that we often hide even from ourselves. That's scary, and it doesn't happen all at once. Our clients test us. They toss out a little firecracker to see how we handle it before they start lobbing grenades.

Our clients need to know a couple of things before they really start to trust us. They need to know we can handle it, that it's safe for us. They also need to know that we aren't going to shame them, that it's safe for them. Once we travel together past those two gates, we can start in with the real work.

If the therapist is not congruent, that is, if what they are saying does not match up with what the client is feeling from them, then that relationship is flawed. If a client comes into the office looking disheveled and out of sorts and states "God, I just couldn't get myself together today", the therapist could say "Oh Mary, you look great, come have a seat". Mary is going to know that therapist is lying to her. even though it's done to try to be polite, Mary now might be wondering what else that therapist has been saying that is not true. It becomes similar to most other relationships.

On the other hand, if her comment about her appearance is met with "yes, you do look like you are having quite a day, come tell me about it", the therapist has just modeled something very important. They were genuine. They didn't try to make it all nice. being polite is not what we do in therapy. That's not to say we are not kind or gentle, but often polite is not honest, and it damages the connection that is so crucial to the therapeutic relationship. 

So, what is therapy?

The reality is, it looks different for everyone, but it often begins by talking about things that can make the rest of the people in your life uncomfortable. The effective therapist will lean in and ask for more when most others would start desperately grasping for a new subject.

The other part of good therapy is accurate feedback. It's a container that's safe enough to hold a real conversation. If Mary comes in looking like hell, we're not going to tell her she looks fine, we are going to say, "you look like hell, get on in here and tell me why".

Why is this part important?

Commenting on Mary's appearance is fairly easy, but it's an important first step. It lays the groundwork for harder stuff. If the therapist finds themselves cringing when Mary talks at length about how great she is at this or that, her friends and family probably do too. It gives the therapist a window into how Mary might be perceived in her social circles. In time, the therapist should be able to give her some honest feedback about some of that.

Why is that important? (stay with me, this is the good stuff)

Chances are Mary hasn't had many people give her honest feedback about how she's coming across. If the therapeutic relationship is strong enough, if the container can hold it, and if the therapist has gauged all of that accurately, then she will be able to hear this feedback as coming from a place of genuine affection and caring.

It may or not make a difference in her behavior.

But, the other side of this coin is often the most important.

When the therapist can lean in, look Mary in the eye, and tell her what they really like about her, what they appreciate, what they carry around with them in the time between their sessions, she's going to be able to receive it in a very different way. Specifically because of the care and attention given to building this authentic relationship, one true compliment can change the way Mary sees herself, which may have a profound impact on her need to boast about her accomplishments.

Without the relationship, none of that happens. 

Silence is (not always) Golden

I had a client tell me the other day that she sat in silence with a therapist for four sessions before she finally called it quits. Silence is a tool that many therapists use to draw a client out. It’s a powerful method, and needs to be used carefully and with close attention and compassion. Giving someone space to arrange their thoughts is necessary and useful. Pushing that silence a little further will cause discomfort. The discomfort can sometimes be the catalyst the client needs to disclose things that might otherwise go unsaid.

But there’s a limit

We don’t generally do silence very well in our culture. We like to fill it in any way we can. In a therapy session, giving a little space allows the client to make the first move, or elaborate on a topic.

Leaving a client sitting in silence for too long becomes a power play, and that has no place in the therapeutic relationship.

It’s unnatural and scary for our clients. By remaining too quiet, we prevent the client from feeling into who we are as fellow humans. As I’ve written about before, if they can’t feel us, why would they want to share their sacred stuff with us?

I don’t hide behind silence in my sessions, because I don’t feel that it’s an ethical approach to therapy. I also belive that good therapy is a conversation, not an interrogation. If we’re paying attention, we can feel the moment that the silence turns from a gift being offered into a weapon being yielded. Being able to feel when that moment is approaching, and heading it off before it arrives, can make all the difference.

Guilt VS Shame

Brene Brown said it best, “guilt is I did something bad, shame is I am bad”.

I’ve had a recent influx of clients recently who are struggling with feelings of shame. It’s a huge emotion, it’s big and bad and can really do a lot of damage to our sense of self. Shame also tends to create it’s own gravity field, pulling in events and thoughts from across our life span to feed into this concept that we are horrible people. Right on the heels of this is the idea that we are unworthy of caring, maybe even unloveable.

All of the sudden, this one event starts feeling like the sum total of who we are. All the good stuff we’ve done; the kindness, the generosity, the selfless acts, all of it gets tossed out because it doesn’t fit with this new and supremely powerful idea that we are now a “bad person”.

What’s the road back from this? How do we find a crack in gloom?

If we’re lucky, we have a kind human or two who refuses to buy into this shame-driven concept of self. Someone who can hold our hand and look us in the eye and tell us that we ARE good, we ARE worthy, and they will carry that truth for us until we can pick it back up again. Those are your true friends, the keepers. The ones who save us from our dark delusions.

What if there is no one like that? Then hopefully you have a good therapist who can help you to poke holes in this theory that you’re fundamentally flawed. Sometimes the harsh light of introspection can lead to a softening of the shameful beast.

Working our way out of shame doesn’t mean that we discount or minimize our actions that may have caused hurt and harm. It’s about letting that shroud of shame fall away so we can accurately assess the damage, both to ourselves and others. We can hold in one hand the deed that caused harm, while we hold in the other the truth that we are not just this one thing, we are all of it, and generally most of what makes us up is good and kind and generous.

We stumble, we fall and sometimes we need to lie in the dirt for a little while. But at some point we need to have enough compassion for ourselves to stop heaping hurt upon hurt. We need to allow the love others have for us to seep in and soothe our cuts and bruises. We need to accept on faith that in this moment they see us more clearly than we are able to see ourselves.

A Little About Me and How I Work

I want to tell you about how and why I do what I do, but it's one of those things that hides from words. I know that whatever I put down here won't measure up. It's my hope that you will be able to bring it to life in a way that my words cannot. Maybe if we work together we can get close to it. Most people find me gentle, and caring and open, probably about what you would, and perhaps should, expect from a therapist. I can also be sarcastic, and even irreverent at times. I'm not everyone's cup of tea, but who is? I do bring all of me into the room when I work, and most people seem to like that. The feedback I get around that is that this is what makes my style of therapy work. This post might give you a little more of a sense of how I can show up for you.

I don't have a "professional persona" that I put on when a client walks into the room. To be clear, I am professional. I have a very high level of personal and professional integrity that protects both me and my clients. I also tend towards colorful language, and I may kick my shoes off and curl up in my chair while we are working. I don't own a tie.

I cannot expect you to be real with me if I am pretending to be someone I am not. So, you get all of me. 

Keeping in mind that every session is different, and every client is coming from a slightly different place, most folks come in because there are things they want to look at that they don't feel comfortable sharing with others in their life. Other times they just need some guidance or some different tools to work with what's showing up. I work with lots of both, but this post focuses more on the former...

It's an honor for me to hear people's stories, to learn about where they've been, how they got to this place, what's working for them, and what's not. What wakes them up at night, and what keeps them up. (not always the same thing). The stories don't tumble out in our first session, it takes time, they need to trust the space that we create together. It's always on your time frame, and it usually doesn't take long.

I get to sit and hear about what's really going on. We don't do small talk, we don't chat about the weather. I say "I get to", not because it's easy, but because it's an honor. Because it humbles me every time. The courage my clients show when they risk enough to speak their truth is a gift. The gift is mostly to themselves, because of the freedom they find hidden in it, but it's also a gift to me, because these are their jewels, their treasure, that they are sharing with me.

Good therapy isn't just about listening to secrets, although I do believe there is a great value in just that simple, yet impossibly brave act of giving voice to the unspeakable. Good therapy is about being able to speak directly to whomever is showing up to tell that story. When we tell those hard secrets, we speak from that moment in time. There's an opportunity in those moments to directly address that person at the moment of the event. Maybe it was last week, maybe it was 40 years ago, it's all equally valuable.

Sometimes they just need to hear that I believe them, that it wasn't their fault. Sometimes they need to see that I can hear about something they did that was hurtful or harmful to another person, or to themselves, and that I'm still here with them. I'm not disgusted, I'm not angry, I'm not scared. I'm just here and holding that and I still see all of them, the good, the bad, and everything in between.

It's not the sharing that we fear, it's the reaction.

It's the fear of rejection, fear that we will see them the way they too often see themselves, fear that the worst of what they think of themselves is true.

Sometimes, in the space between the roaring in their ears when they share something scary, and the silence of the space between us that can hold it, something shifts for them. Just a little wedge of light that whispers to them that

Maybe you are not just this thing that happened.

It does not need to define you.

It is a part of a whole.

It's OK to let it be there, you are not alone with it. 

This is a slice of what might unfold in my office, other days it's a recap of the week and an exploration of what worked (AKA, that was a good move) and what didn't (AKA that was a bad move). I tend to move back and forth from diving deep and holding space for the hard stuff, to "how was your week?". Then we get to see if we can connect the dots.

I've written other posts about therapy and group work, please check them out if you're interested and get in touch if you would like to schedule a session.

The Maze

I was out at an event last weekend and the person in front of me was struggling. They were hunched up, tense, staring straight ahead. Their friend was checking on them off and on, and then two folks who I assume were their parents showed up and sat next to them. They were being supported to the extent that they could be in a large room full of other people.

At one point, they stretched their arms out and I saw a tattoo of a semicolon. Many of you probably know about this symbol. Grammatically, a semicolon is used when you could have ended a sentence, but you chose not to. When it's tattooed, it generally refers to suicide. A life not ended, or the wish that it hadn't been. Sometimes it's about themselves, sometimes it's about a loved one. Those tattoos are fairly common, but they always have an impact on me. This one was different though.

That semicolon on their arm was inside a maze. 

It's a powerful image, and as someone who sits with people multiple times a week who are, quite literally, grappling with whether they should end their lives or not, it struck me hard. From my current perspective, I thought about how hard it can be to reach people when they're in that place. To wander through that maze, searching for a way through. From their perspective, I see that maze as protection. It keeps them safe from those that would seek to harm them. The more elaborate and involved the maze, the safer they may feel. The heartbreaker is that the harder they are to reach, the longer it takes for them to receive help.

I can't say what that tattoo meant for this person. I watched as the people who cared about them tried to comfort them, and from my perspective, it looked like they were barely scratching the surface, bumping around on the outside of that maze, always hitting a dead end and needing to backtrack. It looked they all knew the dance steps, the helpers knowing they weren't getting all the way in, the one needing help knowing they were not allowing them access. But still, in the moment, it seemed like enough.

So, for all of you trying to reach someone who is struggling, don't stop trying. even when it feels like they don't want your help, even when you know you won't get as far in as you want to, make the effort. It's often the effort that makes the difference.

For those of you in need of help, know that we won't stop walking the twisted and narrow paths of your maze. We see the occasional flower blooming in the ivy on the wall, and we know that it hints at the beautiful garden at the center.

You are worth our efforts; you always have been. 

"...But it's Fine."

I can't count the number of times a client has sat across from me, bravely recounting details of a difficult experience, and ending with some version of "it's fine" or "but that was along time ago" or "you know, so many others have had worse experiences".

Here's the deal, you can always find someone with a "worse" story. That doesn't diminish your experience.

When we go through hard stuff, it's hard for us, period. If you fall off a 20 foot cliff, that's gonna leave a mark, if you even survive it. If the next day you read a story about someone who fell of a 30 foot cliff, does that mean you're not hurt anymore? Does it mean your bones are not broken, your wounds are suddenly healed? Of course not, so why would psychological trauma be any different?

So why do we hold to this idea?

I believe this comes back to the root of our Puritanical culture that tells us not to complain. The idea that no one really wants to hear about your struggles, and when bad things happen you should just suck it up and carry on quietly. If you're unable to do that then you're either weak or needy, and probably both.

One of the results of this thinking is that it keeps us from gaining ownership of our experience. How events affected us, and how that shows up now is crucial information for us to pay attention to. If we dismiss this information, it makes it very difficult to "deal with it". Which in my mind means we have fully incorporated the experience, that it no longer causes us unexpected intense emotions, and it does not prevent us from doing the things we want or need to do.

How can we get there if we keep denying to ourselves that the event was a big deal for us? Our stuff is our stuff, if it keeps popping up, causing us discomfort (sadness, anger, anxiety, fear) then it's a big deal (to us!) and needs attention. Acknowledging that, and validating your experience, without comparison to events that happened to other people, can go a long way towards starting to heal from it.

Emotions are Contagious

My friend and mentor Colin Smith wrote a blog the other day that inspired me. You can find it here.

The line that caught me was “emotions are contagious”. It immediately brought to mind several things. The first thing that popped into my head was the birth of my first daughter.

My mother-in-law, Tina, was a midwife, and a well respected one in the town where my daughter was born. Tina had since moved west, but her reputation in the town was still strong. Our midwife was good at her job, but she was intimidated by attending at the birth of Tina’s first grandchild. So, of course, she was the one on call when Anna went into labor.

Shoulder dystocia is when the infant’s shoulder gets hung up on the mother’s pubis after the head is out. Generally this requires the midwife or doctor to move the mom, and/or manipulate the baby, so that the shoulder is able to get by.

I know all this now. At the time all this was happening however, I was just a freaked out almost-dad who was very much aware that the energy in the room had shifted dramatically.

Our midwife was in a panic.

She was speaking sternly to the nurses to get the Doc on call in the room STAT, she was talking about other things that I have either forgotten or didn’t understand at the time. Probably both. Her final solution was to have me and another person each grab a knee and wrench it backwards while she pushed hard on Anna’s belly to expel the baby. Not perhaps the best choice, but it got the job done. As soon as Maya arrived, the panic in the room pitched, and everyone was talking at once, the midwife was calling for doctors and equipment and whatever else she felt the situation warranted.

Here’s where my hero arrives…

Suzy was the OB on call, she was a mountain of a woman. She was tall, and she was wide and she had hands like dinner plates. While the midwives and the nurses were running around and yelling orders at each other, Suzy had scooped up my daughter, and sandwiched her between those two massive hands. She locked my eye and said

“Her heartbeat is fine

Her breathing is fine

Your baby is fine”. 

My system settled immediately. Suzy had not gotten caught up in the drama that was swirling the room. She didn’t need a stethoscope. She didn’t need a heart monitor. Her hands were giving her all the information she needed. She was a rock in a turbulent sea.

In retrospect, I don’t think it was the information alone that shifted the panic, it was this woman’s presence that refused to be caught up in the tide. It allowed the other medical professionals in the room to get their wits about them once again. Suzy brought with her into the room an aura of peace that infected the rest of us in an almost magical way.

It’s easy to get caught up in a moment, it’s also possible not to.

Working with clients with anxiety issues, I have come to appreciate the power of staying calm when someone else in the room is not. We have the ability to anchor our fellow humans, sometimes in profound ways. Maybe it’s a pack instinct from long ago.

If other beings that we trust around us are not agitated, then I’m probably safe. 

Sometimes we need to hook our nervous systems onto a buddy to regulate. Sometimes we need to be the anchor in the room. It’s a beautiful and powerful thing, and I find myself grateful for it when I notice it, regardless of which end I’m on.

Self on the Shelf

Sometimes we can't take it in when the people in our lives tell us good things about ourselves. There can be lots of reasons for this. Maybe we've never heard that we're good at this or that particular thing. Maybe we're moving too fast to stop and let it settle in. Maybe we don't think very highly of the person praising us, so their opinions don't carry much weight. Perhaps we don't feel they have the full picture, we think if they knew the whole story, they wouldn't be so complimentary. (See this post for more on that and why I think group work is so amazing) Much of the time, we can't take it in because it bumps up against a core belief that we're not OK in some way.

We're not smart, we're not beautiful, we're not strong, we're not worthy, we're not lovable...we're just not...enough.

So no matter how many times we hear that we really are OK, often we just can't let it in.

I invite you try something. The next time someone gives you positive feedback, and you find yourself ready to toss it away, put it on a shelf. You don't have to take it in right then and there, you don't have to accept it as truth. Maybe you never will. That's OK.

But you don't have to completely disregard it either.

Put in on the shelf, and allow the possibility to exist that it might be true. Maybe you're not all things to all people all the time. (nobody is). But maybe for that person, in that moment, you were just what was needed.

Put it on the shelf, then, when you feel ready, take it down and play with it. What would it be like if this thing were true? If this thing were true, what would that mean for other parts of your life? What would it take for you to accept this?

You may find that the second or third time you take a good look at this, you will be able to take it in. Or maybe, it goes back on the shelf. Your choice.

One more thing, think about a second shelf. One where you put the negative things people say, or even the things we say to ourselves. Sometimes the negative things are far too easy to accept as true. What if we put some of that on a different shelf?

Instead of immediately accepting that we are not good enough, not kind enough, not generous enough, not...enough.

Put it on the shelf. 

Accept the possibility that this thing that hurts, this thing that defeats you, may not actually be true. Again, you don't have to believe it, not all the way. Allow the shelf to just hold the possibility, that maybe, perhaps, this doesn't fit you as well as you have always thought.

Think of these shelves as simply an invitation to another possibility. Just a thought that perhaps you are strong enough, beautiful enough, kind enough, maybe, just maybe...

you are actually enough. 

Group Love

A new session of Dream Group started a couple of weeks ago. On the first day, I asked 6 people who had never met to look around at each other. I asked them to notice what was coming up for them. What kinds of judgements were they making? What were they afraid the others were thinking about them? Then I told them that they would all fall in love with each other. Furthermore, that I guaranteed that this would happen. There were some amused and uncertain looks.

By the end of the second session, they knew I was right. 

As they opened, and told their secrets, shared their sacred stories, put their fears on the table and let their masks fall away, the container was set and we were already falling.

Most of us work very hard to build an outer shell that is designed to repel judgement. "Hi, how are you?" "I'm fine, and you?" "I'm great, thanks for asking!".

Bullshit.

In group we ask "how are you?", and we get real. "I'm scared that my love doesn't love me, and I don't know who I am without them. I was overwhelmed last night, and I cut myself, like I've done so many times before. It's been a rough week."

We let ourselves sink down to the bottom of the lake, where it's dark and and sometimes scary. We sit down there and listen to what needs to be shared. It's safe, because we're all there together. It's scary, because we're all there together.

There are two important parts of group work, the first is being able to share the unspeakable. The second is being able to hear feedback on that.

"I feel like I'm unlovable"

Out in the "real world" this comment would be met with "oh, don't say that! You're awesome! I love you!".

But deep inside, there's this voice; "if they really knew you, they could not love you. They love the image that you project, but you know that's not real".

So the idea that we are unlovable persists, because we have created an environment for ourselves that doesn't feel genuine.

Jung said, "the psyche does not suffer deception well". We know when we are being lied to, and it's uncomfortable, and it happens all day long.

So part of group work is calling bullshit when we see it. When someone shares some hard stuff, and they end with "but it's fine, I'm ok". We ask, "what is it that makes you want to box that back up right now?. How does it feel in your body to have shared that and know that we saw through your mask?. What are you afraid we're thinking about you now? Now that we know your secret?". Let's just leave that wound open, let's not cover it back up just yet. We don't need to fix it, that's your work to do, but we can just sit here with that. And it's ok for you to let that happen. This is safe, even though it doesn't feel like it. 

Group is not for everyone. You need to be ready. You need to be willing to shed your skin and stand exposed, and let the group blow kisses that can sometimes sting. 

Once we feel like the group really knows us, knows all the parts that we run around all day trying to hide, then, and only then, can we start to believe it when they say;

You are lovable

You are enough

I see you

I see all of you

Until you can hear your own strong voIce telling you you're ok, I want you to use mine, and believe it.

Bittersweet 16

  When my first daughter was less than a month old, I wrote her a letter.

I remember feeling so connected to her, it was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and I knew it wouldn't last. I knew it would change and shift as she grew. When she was a week or so old, I remember lying down on the couch with her as we listened to Joni Mitchell's Blue album, still one of my favorite albums of all time. It's one of those memories that has stayed clear and crisp throughout the years. It was a moment in time when everything seemed to be in the proper place.

It's a bitter / sweet thing, to love a human so much, and know that to do right by them you will need to step back, to let them fall, let them hurt. Sometimes they need you close, sometimes they need your absence, it's a delicate dance.

On the outside of that envelope, I wrote that it should be opened by her on her 16th birthday. When I wrote that, I was probably thinking of myself at 16. Ready to be done with my parents, ready to have more freedom, ready for "real life" to start. I assumed that as Maya and I both aged, it would be harder to connect, that I might not be able to communicate all of the feelings I was having in this moment, with this new baby.

I wanted to make sure she had those words at a time when she might most need to hear them. 

I wanted her to know how loved, how deeply cherished, she was, and that she still is.

This weekend that envelope will get opened, and we both get to see what I wrote. She doesn't know it's coming. I don't remember exactly what's in there. I do know that the relationship I have with her is not what I feared it would be when I wrote that letter. We're closer than a lot of parents and teens that age. Still, there is an awkwardness when I tell her how much I love her, how proud I am of her. I see it in her face, an appreciation and gratitude for that, along with an embarrassment and a desire for this talk to be over.

It's OK for it to be both.

It's been the greatest joy of my life, to parent two amazing humans. I still find an occasion to parent here and there, but for the most part, they are who they are, and my part in shaping that is rapidly fading. I'm proud of both of my girls, more so than any other single thing I have ever had a hand in.

Most parents probably think their kids will grow up to change the world. Those of you who know Maya know that she's a person who could actually pull it off.

I don't know how her life will unfold over the next 16 years, I can't imagine the challenges and gifts those years will bring. I know that I will see a lot less of her in the coming years, and there will be others that will be lucky enough to gain her presence in their lives. I know she will continue to challenge the status quo. She will continue to bring joy and comfort to those around her, and she will keep raising the bar for what an educated, thoughtful and driven woman can accomplish.

Getting Curious

It is often said that curiosity killed the cat, but what fate awaits those with a lack of curiosity? As a therapist, my own curiosity is a powerful tool. When discussing cases with my supervisor, she often will tell me, "get curious". When I'm sitting with a client, it's essential that I pay attention not only to what they are saying, but how they are saying it, and what else is going on. If they tear up, if their facial expression changes, if their body language shifts, I will often ask "what just happened there?". It's an opportunity for us both to get curious. What did we touch on? What's going on with your body? Something shifted.

Outside the office, My curiosity tends to have more of an inward focus. If, as Plato said, the unexamined life is not worth living, I'm safe, at least for a while. It's become a large part of who I am, curious about myself, questioning my reactions to other people and environments.

I tend to surround myself with others who value this kind of curiosity. For me, it's one of the ways we care for one another.

How are you? What's important? What's hard? Who are you in this place, in this moment?

My wife's parents are good at this. They ask good questions, and listen to the answers. Perhaps it's due to their Quaker background. They know how to sit in a moment. I've always been grateful to them for that.

A dear friend from high school came for a visit last night. I hadn't seen him in 26 years. Within minutes we settled, we listened. We got curious about each other.

Where have you been? What have you experienced? How does that inform who you are now?

Curiosity is a gift, it's what keeps us moving forward, as species, as a community, as two old friends on the couch.

Showing up

How do we show up?

I've written before about being enough, you can find it here.

(Go check it out, I'll wait)

On a related note, I had been doubting some of the ways I've been showing up. At work, at home, for my friends, even for myself. I've been feeling more tense than I like, I've caught myself being short, sarcastic, even dismissive. This is not how I like to show up. I like to be present, grounded, open-hearted. I want the people in my life to know that I'm here for them, and that I see them for who they are. On a good day, I accomplish this. I can meet at least some of their needs, and I get some of mine met as well. Lately though, I just haven't felt all there.

Yesterday I got some feedback from a client that let me know that however I thought I had been showing up (or not), it was enough for her in those moments. She felt supported, and safe and able to do her work because I was there with her.

I needed that.

The day before, I came upon a young woman who was in the throes of a panic attack. I invited her into my office and I was able to help her get back under control. We did some orienting, we tried some breathing exercises, but I think what actually did it was that I was really there with her. We were connected, and she felt that.

In short, I showed up.

Two messages in two days that I am, in fact showing up. It doesn't mean that I can stop worrying about how I'm arriving for the people in my life. However, it's good to know that maybe I'm not as checked out as I have thought.

Inevitably, how we enter that space that gets held between two people is going to shift. It changes based on how we feel, how they feel, and what's happening in the moment. The greatest gift this work has given me is an awareness of that. Having the curiosity, the courage and the desire to address the questions of "how are we doing with each other? What do we need to attend to?" is a gift to both of us in that moment.

I'm grateful to ask it, and to hear the answer, and to go from there, every time.

It's always worth it.

All the Difference

There are times when I am touched by what I read. It doesn't happen often enough, perhaps I don't read enough of what touches me. As a graduate student, the opportunity to read what comes to hand and catches my eye is rare. Over the past few days I have been blessed again and again by a book. When Women Were Birds is exquisite. For a man who cherishes the relationships that women have with one another, it is a gift. I have often romanticized women's connections with one another. I freely admit it. Although, in my process of putting those relationships on pedestals, I have come to understand what I idealize, what I find sacred and essential. I know that women can be mean and petty and shallow and manipulative in their dealings with one another, just as men can be. I also know that men can be tender and supportive, and love one another in a deep and profound way. I have been blessed to have some women in my life who have let me in. Who have allowed me to be in relationship with them in ways that most men are not allowed. We have done a great disservice to intimacy in our culture by sexualizing it. Sex can be intimate, without a doubt, and hopefully is often. But there are many paths to intimacy, and I believe the gate that guards the door is not sex, but vulnerability. This is why I feel there is a gender gap when it comes to true relationship. Most men often don't do intimacy well, especially with other men, but too often even with their female partners.

It's too scary. It's too...vulnerable. 

One of the most powerful things about my work is the opportunity to model vulnerability, especially with male clients. It's hard to nail down what this means, exactly. I know what it's not. It's not weakness, it's not submissive, it's not disingenuous. It is perhaps simply the absence of a mask. The moment when you leave it all out there, and you're ok with the result, whatever that looks like. It's easier for me with some men than others, and sometimes we never get there, but that's the goal.

Intimacy is often one of the bravest things two humans can do together. 

There's something about the therapeutic environment that allows this, maybe even demands it. Most men struggle with this, especially with other men, because we have been taught that it's not safe, and often it's not. What this means however, is that we have generations of men who have never been fully seen. Hundreds of millions of individuals who have never gotten feedback on who they truly are, because it's too scary to really put it out there. The result is a nation of men who are uncertain about themselves. Men who, when they feel "less than", put on more masks, get more violent, more angry, more abusive in a desperate attempt to prove that they are ok. All the while, they slip further from their goal.

Terry Tempest Williams' book brought all this around for me. Her writing woke voices I haven't heard in a while. Whispered between her words, were the voices of the women in my own life who made an impact. some by their kindness, some with their humor, some with their judgment. Voices of women that have loved me, supported me, been disappointed in me, and at times likely hated me.

But they all saw me.

And as Thoreau once famously wrote, that has made all the difference. 

Peering into the Abyss

I had a client last night that was feeling disconnected from his peers because he doesn't pretend very well. He's real, he's deep, he's smart and he's kind. Socially, that can be a challenge on a college campus. This guy was sitting in front of me asking if he should learn how to "play the game" so he could have more friends. I wanted to grab him and yell "Don't you dare!".

I love this kid. I love his intensity and his passion and his dark and wandering thoughts. I love that he's out on the edge of the abyss of his own mind and he's leaning way out over the deep darkness, curious about what's bumping around in there. It's uncomfortable, and it's scary, and it makes him feel like he's doing something wrong and dangerous, but he knows that if he turns around and walks away from that it will haunt him for the rest of his life.

He knows how to live in a cage. He knows that it feels safe and the rules are given to you, and you get to have your life simplified. Here's the thing, he stepped outside that cage, and he has seen it from the outside.

It cannot be unseen.

So he's sort of stuck on this ledge. I know he's going to be ok. More than that, I know he's going to be one of those men that moves people in a really profound way. The people who are fortunate enough to be touched by his words, his actions and the way he dares to ask questions that have no answers will be grateful for that experience.

I know I am.

So, for now, we sit on that ledge together, sometimes throwing pebbles into the darkness to see if they hit something. Sometimes just sitting. What he needs more than anything is just to know he's OK.

I think, at the end of the day, that's all any of us really need.

For a Sweet Friend

I lost a friend this month. After years of struggling with the loss of her daughter in a car accident, she took her own life. Pam and I met in massage school, which is a very special and unique place. Everyone shows up with their insecurities about their own bodies. Add to that all the myriad feelings we have about other people's bodies. Then you get naked and practice working on each other, which is nerve-wracking to say the least. The bonds that get formed are tight, tender and nurturing. Our school was small, there were 10 of us at the beginning, I think 8 of us were left at the end. Pam and I connected immediately and we paired up with each other the majority of the time.

I came into that school with some heavy anxiety. I was molested when I was 12 by a man who used the term "massage" to legitimize the destruction of boy's lives. Being told where and how to touch someone has always been a massive trigger for me. My path to massage school was a long and winding road, but at the end of that road, I found myself in a small room with 9 strangers and a lot of apprehension.

Pam was my safe place.

We spent 20 hour weekends together for a year. We talked a lot and I came to understand just a fraction of the pain she carried. I didn't know Pam before she lost her daughter, so I can't say what she was like then. When I knew her she was a sweet, kind and generous woman who was also, unfortunately, broken in a profound way.

As I said, massage school is unique. I remember the smell of Pam's hair, a couple of moles she had, and the way her hands felt as they eased into the muscles of my always too-tight traps. I remember how dirty her feet always were from going barefoot. I know she cherished her husband, both of her daughters, her wide community of friends, and a couple of small elderly dogs.

Her hands shook.

Small tremors that may have been telling a story of what was going on under her own skin. When she used very light pressure, it was obvious, and endearing in a way. When she moved deeper into the muscle, the tremors were undetectable as she set about her work. She was good at it.

Pam was a searcher, a seeker of healing for herself and others. She helped countless people as a teacher, friend, and bodyworker. I'm deeply saddened by the choice she made, and hopeful that she found what she was looking for.

She left the world a little better than she found it, and it's a little less well off now that she's gone.

Safe travels, my sweet friend.

Enough

My dreams were busy last night, and a common thread ran through them all.

I was unprepared. 

I'm starting a shift at the Counseling Center of our local state college today. I spent 9 months up there last year (you can read about it here), so I know what I'm getting in to, and I'm looking forward to it. Throughout the day yesterday I was in contact with a couple of folks up there for various reasons, and the message I got was that I would be busy today. I wasn't entirely prepared for that. In my mind, I knew I had an appointment with one client from last year. She's awesome and I was looking forward to that. The rest of the time I figured I would catch up on some research I wanted to do for a dream group that I would be facilitating this year and generally hang around and be available if a student came in and needed to talk.

By the end of the day yesterday it was clear that this was not how the day would unfold. I needed to interview students for that dream group, I had at least two intakes, and that regular client as well. I also needed to meet a guy at my house to get a bid on some flooring work, so there will be a lot of up and down the hill and running around.

Back to my dreams... I reflected on this feeling of being unprepared. Did I have what I needed? My mind raced through all the physical items that were required. It was a short race. It's a short list. A bottle of water, my reading glasses, a couple of pens and a notebook. Maybe a snack.

Back when I was a cabinetmaker it often took over an hour just to load the truck with the tools I might need to do an installation. (cabinetmakers in general do not like to leave the shop, it makes us nervous, and we don't know how to travel light)

With this work, it's all about internal tools. It can take a while to develop them, but once you have them, they're always on board. So the discomfort that was showing up in my dreams wasn't about forgetting a crucial item, it was about questioning my internal readiness.

My unconscious was working through my anxiety around this.

Not so much "am I ready", but "am I worthy"

I received a gift last Thursday when the staff and interns of the Counseling Center gathered for the Put In, the start of our journey together this year. We did a short meditation and as I sat and allowed my mind to weave it's way through whatever wildlands I had created for myself, a message came through.

"You are enough"

This is truly one of the most precious things one can say to another. More importantly, it's one of the most important things we can say to ourselves. On that particular day however, there was another part to this message

"You always have been"

Sometimes when we hear something important, we can't let it all the way in. Sometimes we need to go back a ways (sometimes a long ways back). Sometimes we need to get down on one knee and look that kid in the eye and make sure they understand. Often it takes more than one try, you know how kids can be.

Sometimes in life it's about trying as hard as you can, but other times it's about letting go and trusting that you are exactly what is needed, just as you are.

Before I lose you in a Healy-feely haze where the only sound you hear is a rousing rendition of Kumbaya, let me be clear. This is one of the bravest and most difficult things we do as humans. To show up in all our messy, unprepared, authentic ways.

I don't know how the day will turn out. I don't know who I will sit with, what they will need or how I will show up for them. I do know that I will show up though, and despite my dreams of not having what I need, I know that this is the only thing that is required.

It will be enough.

The Importance of Feedback

A friend recently commented on her circle of friends, remarking how grateful she was for them, and how much they had helped her grow. She mentioned that they sometimes have dinners where they give each other real and relevant feedback. This is, perhaps, the greatest gift one human can give another. I wrote about my internship at the Counseling Center in an earlier post, you can find it here

Many times this past year I have been both witness and participant to the power of giving truly good feedback. It's often a great tool in group therapy work when a member has shared something big that they are now uncertain about. It is very scary to open yourself up to a group, no matter how close you all are. Often there is still that voice in our heads that says "if they really knew me, they wouldn't support me".

When someone stands up to that voice and shares anyway, it's imperative that they get feedback around how that landed with the other members. Often the response we get is in direct opposition to what we feared it would be. In fact, most of the time the feedback is so far to the other side of what we expect that it can be hard to even take in.

We're taught not to think too highly of ourselves, to not be conceited, to hide the parts of us that make us feel different from the rest. When we let that go and really hear how we are coming across to others, it can be life-changing.

To do this in a therapeutic environment is important, and one could say that it's even the whole point.

To know the importance of this and to utilize this tool in a relevant and conscious manner with the people we love is not only brave, it's a true gift to our friends, our community and ourselves.

Loving us into Being

For about the past 9 months I've been an intern at the counseling center of our local state college, Fort Lewis. It's part of my graduate program in social work. It has been, in short, life changing. It's interesting to me that the length of my experience this year has been about the same as it takes to grow a human. I have grown. I have changed, I have been held and supported and loved in ways that have literally taken my breath away. The director of the training program retired this year. It was heart-wrenching for so many that have had the good fortune to learn from him. In short, to learn from Colin Smith is to be loved by him. Colin is a Jungian scholar. He looks like John Lennon, with long, wild hair and thick round glasses. He often speaks in metaphors, and he has no tolerance for small talk. We fell in love with each other immediately.

At our orientation retreat, we sat in a circle at one of the senior counselor's homes. 7 staff members, 7 first year practicum students, 2 second year interns. When the sage was burned and the circle was created, I felt at home. What followed though, felt new. Colin read from The Little Prince, he read from the Velveteen Rabbit. He talked about what it means to become real, to be human, to be heard, to be seen. I tend to pay attention to my body in times like these. I have a pretty good bullshit detector, but it works in reverse. It works by making me cry when something is real. As Colin spoke and my tears flowed, I knew it would be good year. I also knew that I would be heartbroken when it ended.

Recently we had our year-end retreat. "The take out". We live in a small western town with a big rafting community. That being the case, it's inevitable that river metaphors abound. The orientation was the "put in", everyone into the boat, here we go. We've been moving down the river, most of us ending up in the water more often than not. But the line gets thrown and we hold on, and sooner or later we get pulled to safety.

So here we were again, this time at the Take Out. We sat in a circle as each of us were honored and given feedback on how we had come across, how we had shifted, how we had grown since that orientation day. We were held, we were challenged and we were loved.

We talk a lot about "the container", the space we create that allows our clients to open, to explore their hard stuff, their dark parts, their pain. At that orientation Colin talked about the container, and how it needed to be strong enough to hold everything we pour into it. But that's not enough. In order for change to happen, that container needs to be heated up. The heat gets turned on and it gets hotter and hotter until the contents begin to change. It's alchemy, and it's uncomfortable. One of Colin's favorite sayings is "the shit turns to gold". It's our hard stuff, the stuff we're ashamed of, that we never speak of, the parts that are too painful, scary and sickening to look at that is our richest material. That container needs to hold all of that without breaking apart, and there's only one way to make it strong, and that's through love.

Carl Rogers, pioneer of person-centered psychotherapy talked a lot about "unconditional positive regard". The idea that we should see our clients without judgement, to think the best of them. I do believe Rogers was right on in his approach with that, but he was afraid to call it what it is.

Love.

We love our clients. When they open up and let us in, when they share their broken parts, we fall in love with them. How could we not? That's when we know we have the container we need.

There's another part to all this. When we fall in love with our clients, when we hold that unconditional space for them do their work, we heal ourselves too. It reminds us to be gentle with ourselves. Another saying in the counseling center is "we're all in the soup together". There's no "I'm OK, you're not", there's not a separation. We all hurt, we all have to deal with our stuff. The more of our own work we do, the more we can help others. Period.

I have never felt so scrutinized as I have these past 9 months. At the beginning it was uncomfortable. My body language, my dress, my humor (especially my humor) was all open to interpretation. I'm no stranger to being judged, but that wasn't what they were doing. It was more of an exploration, an invitation to see what was going on under all that. It was all for my benefit, and I felt that.

The goal of the training program is to make sure we do our work. Their work is to hold us accountable to ourselves.

The staff of the Counseling Center do this by modeling the highest level of personal accountability and integrity that I have ever witnessed.

They do this by making themselves available to us in countless ways, both professionally and personally.

They do this by loving us into Being.

Push Pull

Thirteen is hard. I remember it, and not fondly. My daughter will turn 14 in August, she graduates from 8th grade tonight. Over the past two years I've watched her move rapidly from a child to a young adult. It's a fierce transition, sometimes painful, sometimes sublime. Lydia and I had a profound first meeting, you can read about it here.

I often worry that she's cursed with being the kid that's "OK". She does well in school, she makes friends easily, she's pretty. It's easy to assume that she's just skipping along in her young life, without too many obstacles or challenges.

Sometimes I forget how intense these years are. She's negotiating the most complicated relationships that she has ever known. She's had to work harder on her schoolwork than ever before. Her body is taking off in a million different directions, with and without her permission, both inside and out.

In short, it's a crazy time.

I don't tell her enough how many times a day I think about her and smile.

I don't tell her how often I look at her and my breath just leaves my body because I am so proud of her, because she's so beautiful, because she's so smart, because she's so funny.

Sometimes she tells me she hates me. She doesn't yell it, she's not angry, she's just telling me about this powerful emotion welling up in her. I tell her she has permission to hate me as much as I love her.

She thinks I'm being sarcastic, but I'm truly not.

It's impossible to feel the special kind of loathing a teen can muster for their parents if we don't love them that much as well, but I know in that moment, she's not really feeling that side of it. It's complicated, like any intimate relationship.

These are tender years. She's trying to figure how to get away, I'm trying to figure out how to let go. We've just started this dance with each other, and I know it's going to get harder before it gets easier.

Sometimes I get so scared for her that I can't move, other times I'm so excited for her that I can't stand still.

I'm thinking it's going to be like this for a little while.

I'm OK with that.

The Edge

  In bodywork we often refer to "the edge". It's that place where you start to come up against resistance. We also refer to "the wall", which is the place where no further movement is possible. In massage the edge is where we do most of our work. I've been reflecting lately on what other places in our lives we find this place, and the short answer is...

Everywhere

In our workouts, in our relationships, in our work, in whatever we do for personal growth. It's the edges that we need to find to enact a change. Sometimes they're sharp and we come up on them abruptly, causing us to shrink back and wonder what just happened.  Others are more familiar and are worn smooth by repeated visits.

Sometimes it feels good to work with these places, challenging ourselves, pushing that boundary ever closer to the wall. (of course, the wall moves too, but that's another story)

At other times that edge is so sharp and so scary that we just can't work with it at that time. Sometimes just taking a seat a little ways off and acknowledging it's presence is enough for now. Sometimes the awareness is all it takes to begin the work.

No matter where you find yourself as you approach these places, be gentle. Knowing when to stretch just a little further and knowing when you've reached that place where enough is enough is important.

I tend to go through spurts in my life where I take on lots of edges at once (so many of them are connected), and then I take a break, I coast for awhile, and I let all that work settle in and integrate. Then I'm off again throwing myself at those places that scare me, challenge me, or confuse me.

Admittedly it may not be the best way to get things done, but It's what I do. From the outside I'm not sure how it looks. I guess it looks like a lot of different careers, a lot of moves geographically, lots of varied interests, a lack of financial stability.  I've found that this is impressive or disappointing in varied degrees depending on where someone is in their own life and what their relationship to me is.

I'm just starting grad school, I'm an intern at a college counseling center, everywhere I look I see edges, and more than a few walls. I like this place. It feels alive. I know some of those edges will cut me. I also have my eye on a few that have got me in the past, I still have the scars.

I'm ready for them this time.