She’s sitting on the precipice Of everything She never allowed Everything she could still be. Perfectly pulchritudinous In who she already is. She likens staying to being An ascetic And, in her resolve to leave She rolls her reluctant tears into a tissue Folding them away, Filling the cup’s inevitable emptiness. The keeper Of tears.
I don’t think you can plan a life. I became a psychologist by mistake. I had actually planned to be an artist of sorts. Maybe, in some ways, I still am an artist. I hope so. What I do requires the ability to spontaneously respond to each person’s struggles, authentically. That’s surely done best when seen as an art form? […]
When clients first call to make an appointment, it is impossible to summarise an answer to “What therapy do you do?” You can never actually tell what journey lies ahead of them or I. I can, however, remember the first call that Claudia made to enquire about therapy. I can’t recall her exact words but they sounded almost rehearsed, attempting […]
I can clearly remember her sitting there, perched like a ballerina on the edge of a saffron cushion. So poised, so elegant. Listening with great attention to what the meditation teacher (Rob Nairn) had to say. She was oblivious to me sitting there, tracing her every move and contour. She looked so elegant, exotic even. Perhaps Mauritian? Maybe Spanish? […]
My father gassed himself in his car one night. I only found out the following morning but I knew exactly how he did it. I knew because the first time he tried it I must have been only 10 years old. He had left the house in a tantrum that night and, by chance, I heard the motor […]
I don’t write because I am good at it. I find writing particularly difficult. I write because it helps me make sense of things and, in that case, I don’t write nearly enough. If there was one thing that is challenging to make sense of in psychotherapy, it is the complexities of intimate relationships. So I am making a commitment […]