Greetings! This is Nancy, reporting here from the heartland (Bloomington, Indiana) on behalf of the CCTP faculty. I’m writing to you shortly after our first snowfall. A couple of Sundays ago, I watched kids jump and play in piles of raked leaves and on Monday I watched the same kids in hats and mittens build a snowman. I muse over the ease and quickness with which these children embrace the change in front of them while I and other adults gripe about the suddenness of winter’s early arrival.
Lately, I’ve been noticing a little tug inviting me out of my therapist and coaching chair. Most clients in my practice first seek help at times of sudden change—unexpected illness, dissolution of a relationship, death of a loved one, a new boss or a work place reorganization. But lately, I’ve been met with a different sort of dis-ease: Many of my regular clients are showing up with the weight of an existential sorrow about the state of the world and in particular, the future world.
When clients come in after a divorce, I easily turn to the optimism in me, an optimism that I developed both as a student and teacher of the Cape Cod Model. I believe in my bones that our knowledge of the future is inherently incomplete, and I’m aware that in the darkest moments possibilities exist. I can sit with my clients through the sorrow of a loss or change that doesn’t fit with the life script they imagined for themselves, pacing their readiness to turn toward the light of possibility.
Last week, a client caught up in the global divisiveness that’s reared its head in our small college community sobbed as she described how old friends have become new enemies. She shuddered in anger, fear, and sorrow at the future she imagines. She’s desperate to make them see what she sees.
Certainly I share my client’s heightened concern for the future as I imagine many of you do. I, too, feel a pressing concern about the world my grandchildren will inherit--which means for me, I need to be on the alert these days for my own personal beliefs and biases—my own countertransference. What keeps me in check in those moments is perhaps the most fundamental and elementary tenet of gestalt theory and practice: That all we have and know is here-and-now and the only place where change is possible.
Eventually, my client was able to engage with me in the present, to return to the relationship in the room, to experience the calm, as well as the joy and sorrow of the moment. She caught a glimpse of how in fighting with others about the future she was missing them in the moment. She wanted to be understood and seen, but her attention was on the dire future, not on the person—me in the office and others outside the office—in front of her. What she was missing in her focus on the future was connection in the present.
In our last two newletters, Carol wrote about how bearing the unbearable is done best in community, and Sharona wrote about responding to conflict by
creating the conditions for empathy. Both ways of being are ways of being with the person in front of you. Both value and depend upon attending to the present, upon the belief that the possibility for growth, learning, and development happens in the here-and-now. And that connection in the moment is how we begin.
In the end, there is no difference between how I stay in my seat—how I attend to my countertransference—with a new client who comes in after a divorce or a longstanding client who comes in paralyzed by her fear of the future. The difference is in me—in the extent to which I’m activated or aroused by what shows up in my office. While consultation with colleagues is an ongoing way I address countertransference outside of my office, my grounding in the here-and-now is how I address it in my office as it’s happening.
That’s when I have to remind myself that the change we create in the present, by connecting with the person in front of us, is our best shot at having a better future.