Poverty of Language

In writing about his work in the ER recently, the Nurse said this of the people he cares for:

“…most of the people I see are sick but often they are diseased with frustration, hopelessness, despair, anger, sadness and loneliness. These diseases are epidemic. It is a poverty that we call all of this depression.”

Because our collective reality is created through the language we use, it is poverty indeed not to call experience by a meaningful name. Like the Nurse, I see many people who suffer from “depression” in my therapy office. It often takes weeks to get past that word, which renders it clinical (and therefore, they hope, understandable) and into the the words that can really speak to the experience.

In the therapy process, we call this “unpacking.” I like this idea. I imagine my clients bring suitcase into my office, one with some artificial label on it. Often, therapy becomes the simple process of naming what is inside.

 

Magic

I mentioned in a previous post that I have been reading the Harry Potter series. I’m on the last book now, dreading being finished, since the story has so captivated my attention, and yet, rushing to find out what happens next.

I have fallen completely in love with the idea of magic. In Rowling’s books, magic is both a matter of having the right tools (a wand, for instance) and using oneself in the proper way. In the third book, Harry learns that in order to create a Patronus, he must conjure a happy thought. It isn’t enough to hold the image in his mind; he has to feel it wholly, immerse himself in it. Likewise, the Cruciatus curse doesn’t work properly unless the person casting it can actually take pleasure in inflicting pain.

In other words, in order to perform magic, a person must know mind and self thoroughly, and to have access to many different parts of self means having a wider array of magic available, more power. I actually think of this now when doing psychotherapy with my clients. What type of magic can be brought to bear on this situation? What aspect of self can I help this person access so that he has the power he needs? I’ve noticed that when I’m working with someone deeply, and we are actually getting somewhere, the therapy hour seems to draw out, and I lose track of where we have been, so much so, sometimes, that I have trouble writing notes at the end because it seems like so very much has happened that I’m unable to summarize.

I’m using magic as a metaphor here, not a simile. It’s not like magic; it is magic. Time slows down. Impossible things happen.

Fascination With Fire

As we have been impatient for a good spring, the Photographer and I decided to go camping, if only briefly, in the 24 hour window between thunderstorms that have been sweeping across the area where we live. As so often happens when things are done at the right time, the pieces all fell into place. We worried there might be no dry wood to burn; his neighbor had just cut up some dead limbs and offered us some. We thought the good sites might all be claimed by the time we arrived on such a nice day. A choice site had been vacated early, a beautiful, quiet spot near the water.

While the day proved lovely, the evening was a little cold, and we spent most of our time tending the fire and huddling beside it. I listened to the lap of the water in the background, and a part of me longed just to sit in the dark and watch the distant lights reflected in the lake. But once I gave up on that and accepted what was, I found myself staring into the fire instead.

And then the Photographer, a former volunteer firefighter, began to tell me what he knew about fire. We watched a stick burst into flames in many places at once, and he explained that each material has a flash point, a temperature at which it ignites instantly, without even coming into contact with the fire. He showed me how the material itself doesn’t burn, it’s the gas around the material; the fire doesn’t actually touch the wood.

I thought out loud about how, if we look at anything closely enough, it becomes fascinating. And it’s a short step from fascination with fire to fascination with the world, to falling in love with the world, to knowing that the universe is amazing, and the force that creates it, moment to moment, a deeper and more profound thing than we can ever know.

I asked if I was talking nonsense. The Photographer just smiled and stoked the fire. “Maybe a little bit,” he said, “but I like it.” So we sat there for the rest of the evening, bridging sacred and mundane, being fascinated with fire.

Earthquakes

The Midwest, where I live, is not known for earthquakes. And yet we’ve had a series of them recently. Nothing major, no injuries or infrastructure collapsing, but some definite jolts. The first time it happened I was in bed, asleep, at 4:30 AM. I woke up thinking I had dreamed of visiting the Deacon in Berkeley, where I had experienced my first earthquake two years ago.

An aftershock that same morning found me in a therapy session with a client, who didn’t seem to notice that the chairs beneath us rattled a bit against the wall. A third I only heard about, as its epicenter was too far east to be noticeable from where I stood.

I keep thinking I see something different in the Midwestern faces around me. It isn’t fear, exactly, more a bit of trepidation, mixed with excitement, at being reminded that the earth is alive and moving underneath our feet.