sparks

Beyond psychotherapy, counselling, supervision and training in the narrow sense..... sparks which may bring light, heat, new perspectives and transformation.

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A quote I have been holding in mind whilst reshaping my professional life over the last few years.

'Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.'

 

Rumi

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In the CPD group I recently facilitated, we explored working therapeutically with nature and the outdoors, exploring what it means to move away from differentiating inner and outer, what it means to approach nature as 'Thou' and not something different and less valuable/important than human animals....

 

'The inner...what is it?'

‘The inner… what is it?

  if not the intensified sky,

  hurled through with birds and deep

  with the winds of homecoming.’

 

Rilke

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Because this supports me, in case it supports you

Busy with Many Jobs

Busy with very urgent jobs

I forgot

one also has

to die

irresponsible

I kept neglecting this duty

or performed it

perfunctorily

as from tomorrow

things will be different

I'll start dying meticulously

wisely optimistically

without wasting time

Tadeusz Rozewicz, translated by Adam Czerniawski

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Some words I read in the workshop 'Playing: possibility, transformation and the unexpected' which I facilitated in Edinburgh Gestalt Institute  in August 2017.

'They caught all the wild children...'

'They caught all the wild children,

and put them in zoos,

They made them do sums

and wear sensible shoes.

They put them to bed

at the wrong time of day,

And made them sit still

when they wanted to play.

They scrubbed them with soap

and they made them eat peas.

They made them behave and

say pardon and please.

They took all their wisdom

and wildness away.

That's why there are none

in the forests today.'

From 'Wild Child', J. Willis and L. Freytag

Aunt Leaf

Needing one, I invented her - 

The great-great-aunt dark as hickory

Called Shining-Leaf or Drifting-Cloud

Or The-Beauty-of-the-NIght.

Dear aunt I'd call into the leaves,

and she'd rise up, like an old log in a pool.

and whisper in a language only the two of us knew

the word that meant follow,

and we'd travel

cheerful as birds

out of the dusty town and into the trees

where she would change us both into something

quicker - 

two foxed with black feet,

two snakes green as ribbons,

two shimmering fish - and all day we'd travel.

At day's end she'd leave me back at my own door

with the rest of my family,

who were kind, but solid as wood

and rarely wandered. While she,

old twist of feathers and birch bark,

would walk in circles wide as rain and then

float back

scattering the rags of twilight

on fluttering moth wings;

or she'd slouch from the barn like an gray opossum;

or she's hang in the milky moonlight

burning like a medallion,

this bone dream, this friend I had to have,

this old woman made out of leaves.

Mary Oliver

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A poem sent to me, which I love

Hurricane

It didn't behave

like anything you had

ever imagined. The wind

tore at the trees, the rain

fell for days slant and hard.

The back of the hand

to everything. I watched

the trees bow and their leaves fall

and crawl back into the earth.

As though, that was that.

This was one hurricane

I lived through, the other one

was of a different sort, and

lasted longer. Then

I felt my own leaves giving up and

falling. The back of the hand to

everything. But listen now to what happened

to the actual trees;

toward the end of that summer they

pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.

It was the wrong season, yes,

but they couldn't stop. They

looked like telephone poles and didn't

care. And after the leaves came

blossoms. For some things

there are no wrong seasons. 

Which is what I dream of for me.

Mary Oliver