Being a Dramatherapist

Changing Roles

2011-04-19T12:19:00.000+01:00

This is my last post in this blog. Since 2007, I've been recording my reflections on my work in dramatherapy, as well as relating it to my everyday life as friend, lover,
mother,sister and daughter. Although continuing to practise in a very small way, the focus of my life has shifted, and it's time to leave this phase behind. I hope I will hold onto everything I have learned since beginning my second career in 1996 as a drama worker (running workshops, performing, directing), then dramatherapist. Teaching, my first career, which began in 1969 (what a long time ago!) and raising my own family, taught me a lot about managing, communicating and working with young people. I treasure many great moments from that life, especially when I encounter former pupils who have gone on to careers in theatre, having started drama with me at school, as well as the lasting friendships with fellow staff.

Training and practising as a dramatherapist, along with supervision (as supervisee and supervisor) has taught me a lot about adults from all walks of life, with problems ranging from personal difficulties to psychosis. I have met so many wonderful, sensitive, intelligent people, who cope with stuff far beyond my own experience, and survive. I have learned a lot about myself too, how to listen rather than talk, to pick up clues from what is unsaid, to offer creative ways of expressing things hard to put into words. The stick figure representing years of abuse, carefully made, then ritually burned. The acting out of a journey using fabric to represent rivers, swamps and forests. The elaborately feathered bird, too heavy and ornate to fly, unable to support its own weight, representing an impossible burden of ideas and projects. The Russian dolls, arranged and re-arranged to show the status of relationships, with a moment of breakthrough, when the client chooses the biggest doll to represent herself, having identified for weeks with the tiniest.

I also enjoyed writing articles, doing presentations and running workshops, delivering one at a major conference in Yorkshire from a wheelchair. I've attended many meetings, served on committees, participated in research projects, but I no longer want to live such a public life. I am finding tremendous pleasure in pursuing my own creative side, all used up in facilitating others, finding a renewed energy for expressing myself through and craft work. I am excited about opening my studio in June as an East Neuk artist and am working every day on projects to exhibit.

I want to say thank you to the many people who have contacted me over the years, looking for advice, information and reassurance, mostly by personal email, to which I always reply. I have chosen to remain anonymous, but as from today, I'd like to direct anyone who wants to contact me about dramatherapy (because I'm continuing to be available for therapy and supervision for another year) to my website:
elinorkirk.co.uk

I will be continuing to write a blog, but with a different slant:
washhousestudio.blogspot.com
Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Pushing Through

2011-03-24T19:23:00.000Z

It still feels like winter here, but soon the clocks go back, and hellebore and narcissi are pushing through the earth and debris of dead leaves in our neglected garden, so it must be spring. I don't like transitions very much. I'm happy to enjoy the fire and a good book and my knitting indoors if it's winter and to be out in the sunshine if it's summer, but this contradictory time leaves me unsure of where to be. I'm planning to do less work as a dramatherapist, as I move into a new phase, keeping my registration current but not committing myself to weekly sessions with clients. I'm relieved now that my pricey venture into advertising with Yell failed to generate much business. I've begun work on some new felting projects out in the washhouse, but it's still too cold most days to be there for long.

Another visit to my parents' house led to sorting out more of my mother's things. The golden slippers have been joined in the display cupboard by an evening bag, a Stratton powder compact and my mother's war-time identity bracelet. I have her sewing machine as well, which reminds me so much of all the clothes she made for herself and the family - party, wedding, ballet dresses, summer shorts, coats and jackets. I now have her collection of zips, buttons, sewing threads and elastic and have done a bit of sewing, so I keep that tradition going. Like her, I would rather sew than cook. If we wanted a party dress for an occasion, we took over domestic duties to let her get on with the project in hand. I have the luxury of spending a day doing whatever I want, without running a busy family household.

A few weeks back, we saw Derek Jacobi play King Lear in a starkly set, sombre production - - the old man dividing his kingdom, testing the loyalty of each of his three daughters.....I have two sisters. At least our efforts to support our father haven't led to bloodshed. I found the play more moving than productions I've seen in the past, maybe because of its resonances for me now. This week I saw Helen Mirren play Prospera in the new film of The Tempest. A wonderful role model for older women, she was a compelling master of the island, in striking costumes, her hair windswept, her face showing the lines of years of experience and expression.

This transition I'm going through is partly about ageing - I am now the older generation - in my family, and in the working world. I'm only too aware of my body's limitations, my struggle at times to find the energy to get going but also glad I have no real external pressures on me, just my own (my mother's?) inner voice telling me I should be 'doing something useful', not sitting about reading, knitting and watching daytime television!

Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Golden Slippers

2011-02-09T16:29:00.000Z

I had this idea that convalescing after knee replacement surgery would give me lots of time for creative activity - making things for the East Neuk Open Studios in June, writing, having friends in for coffee, etc. However the reality has been very different. This is probably the first day (having had my operation on 21st January) that I've been able to have some control over my brain, as well as my body. My new entirely artificial chrome and plastic knee joint is strong and supports me, but my stretched, out of condition
ligaments and muscles are taking a while to catch up. The strong pain-killers I came home with caused me to slur my speech, drop any stitches I had managed to knit, wipe out any information read in books or shown on television and waking poor Dramaman with hallucinatory declarations in the small hours of the morning!

However, my mother's funeral, four days before I went into hospital, went well and I didn't take any pain meds before reading the Rossetti poem, so made it through relatively successfully. Lots and lots of people came, former golfing partners, fellow voluntary workers from the hospital, singers from her three choirs, all remembering her as she was before Parkinson's Disease took away her mobility, her voice and, latterly, her understanding. I had a really therapeutic week staying in the family home with my father, laughing and crying together, looking through old photographs. I went through quite a lot of her personal things - I had the job of sorting out jewellery for valuation. I found some amazing things - the bedjacket she sewed for going into the nursing home to have me, several beautiful evening and cocktails gowns from the fifties and sixties- and a wonderful pair of gold evening sandals still with the price on the sole (circa 1972 I'd guess). And they are a perfect fit! Not ideal footwear for me right now but I can picture myself wearing them eventually....until then, they're on display in our dining room corner cabinet,

Nothing much about being a dramatherapist here, just my own reflections and processing of experience. Having a meeting soon with my consultancy supervisor about where my career goes next. Meantime, best wishes to all my readers out there. Everything passes.
Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Snow Daze

2011-01-06T18:38:00.000Z

snowy drive home from the west

It has been a strange few weeks since my last post - a blur of lists for Christmas, snow everywhere, parcels ordered online not arriving (or arriving twice!) My mother's long illness came to a peaceful end last week. Although I've been preparing myself for this for a long time, it is still very strange to say, My mother is dead. And I am the senior woman of the family. She was the last survivor of her own family, outliving her mother, brother, father and sister by many years.

Two years of physiotherapy and investigations have resulted in my imminent admission to hospital for a knee replacement. A witty friend sent me a card wishing me A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Knee.
I am not very good at allowing myself to be looked after - I managed to walk with crutches through five inches of snow just before Christmas. But I have agreed to being wheeled into the crematorium for the funeral, rather than risk tripping myself and oher people up. My youngest sister (taller and fitter than me) will assist me to the lectern to read Christina Rossetti's beautiful poem:

Taken on one of the last walks I had with mum

Sing no Sad Songs for Me

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me
Plant thou no roses at my head
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me,
With showers and dewdrops wet:
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget

I've worked with many people who have been bereaved and maybe assumed that when my time came, I'd know how to cope, but now it's here, I haven't a clue. My instinct is to spend time with my father, staying at the house in which they both lived for so long, and to begin to sort through some of my mother's things. She hid jewellery in strange places (pockets, under linen, in shoe boxes) to deter burglars. I found out from my cousin that my mother's sister hid her rings in jars of lentils and peas, which were almost thrown out when she died. She did get me to go and collect it all together some years ago and I took some photographs, but I'm not convinced I can find it all again.

I'm giving myself a break from work as a dramatherapist. I need time and space to get over the op and process the loss of my mother. My father and I have the book about his war service to complete, but this will be a slow, pleasant activity without a deadline. My creative enthusiasm is still there, but I am working at a slower pace, even parcelling up gloves still on knitting pins on Christmas Eve which I completed a week later!

Do post a comment or email me if there's anything here you'd like to respond to. I always appreciate messages and write a personal reply.

theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

First Impressions

2010-11-23T06:07:00.000Z

I read somewhere that we make up our minds about someone we meet within 90 seconds. It made me think about what happens when I meet a new client. I always offer a free initial consultation which allows each of us to decide whether we want to have a working relationship or not but my first contact is usually by phone. Someone rings and gets either me or my voicemail.

It occurred to me recently that I needed to listen to my 'outgoing message' to see what sort of first impression that gave.   I have a fancy phone that allows to me to group callers as A, B C or unknown, with different ringtones. So 'A' is immediate family,'B' friends, and 'C' work contacts.   I have a different recorded message for each, increasing in formality. My message for unknown callers must have been recorded at a time when I was receiving a lot of calls which began 'Is that Mrs X?' and followed up with 'This is a courtesy call from Y' - telling me I had won a major prize, or inviting me to take up an unmissable offer. To deter these callers my message went something like this:
'This is X . I am not available.'   (delivered in an abrupt frosty tone). It occurred to me that anyone looking for a therapist, having plucked up the courage to pick up the phone, stressed and maybe tearful, might well be permanently traumatised by this abrupt reply.
So, next move - record a reassuring, encouraging message. I decided on, 'You have reached X counselling and therapy. I'm afraid I'm not here just now, but please, leave your name and number and I will call you back.'

The first message left in response was from my daughter, calling from her work number (unknown caller), telling me she needed some therapy and could I phone her back.   The plumber left a rather bemused message - 'Is that you? I can come and unblock your sink the morn's morn.'
Three calls from prospective clients I was able to answer personally. I then listened to my message again. It sounded really cheesy and a bit fake. It also occured to me that the publicity material for the Wash House studio uses the same phone number. Maybe a hybrid message like this?
'Thank you for calling X . If you need counselling and therapy or would like to come and visit the Wash House to see my felting and jewellery, or alternatively, you are the plumber, doctor's receptionist or other useful person, or a friend or family member calling from someone else's phone, leave your details and I will call you back. If you want to sell me a timeshare or persuade me to switch my energy provider, don't phone me again!'
I settled finally on this:
'This is X. I'm sorry I can't speak to you just now, but leave your name and number and I will call you back ' (said in a warm, friendly but neutral manner - not as easy as it sounds - I kept doing it again, and every time it sounded more contrived)

It occurs to me that this struggle with answering machine messages goes back to when I moved house years ago and put a quick, simple message on the phone, before going out. When I got back, there was a message from a close friend in panic-stricken tones, saying:
'Call me back! You sound suicidal!'
I was going to write about first meetings, but the phone thing has taken over this posting. If you have any thoughts about voicemail, messages or first impressions, leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

The Wash House

2010-11-09T12:36:00.000Z

When Dramaman and I began work on the Wash House as a place to do my felting and other stuff, I was thinking of it as somewhere I might use once or twice a week. Now that it is almost finished, I'm feeling that I will want to be there a lot more than that. Cleaning up the dusty, damp, cluttered shed, getting rid of rubbish and dirt, unblocking and bleaching the old sinks, has been enjoyable and rewarding. I can see so much potential for it as an inspiring place to work. I've also had to face up to the reality of problems with my right knee, which has meant the decision this week to stop driving until I've had further surgery. I was feeling quite down about it, as I do like the freedom my car gives me, but am beginning to see it now in a positive light. It will save money on petrol. My younger daughter can use it. It gives me a good excuse to avoid going places unless I really want to.....

It also gives me the opportunity to spend more time doing constructive work at home. Last winter when my knee got bad, I fell into the trap of daytime television, sloth and over-eating. It was just too easy to go from bed to sofa and back to bed again. So I've done a re-think of how I spend my days. Coming downstairs in the morning and using the dining room means I get the kitchen tidied up, washing done etc. ready to start work, either in the house, writing the war memoir, or in the Wash House, making and felting. I can take a break to play the piano (hoping to solve the problem of getting to my lessons by using Skype!) or have a coffee or some lunch. If I have a client or a friend comes to visit, I'm there to answer the door. I've re-located the broadband router from the top floor, which means I can get online in the Wash House!

So lots of good stuff to look forward to this winter. Still haven't completed my Open Studios application, as I need a photo of me in my studio, but this week should get us to the point where we can dress the place up and take the picture. I've put up an actual washing line with things on it (fabric pieces and a Victorian nightshirt) to screen off the storage area. There's also a mirror from a Nearly New sale (for trying on jewellery and scarves) and my display boards which I used for drama performances and presentations, which will be useful for showing off finished pieces. Once the shelves are up, I'll use them to store merino roving, beads and so on.

There is something about having the right physical environment for working and living. Keeping things clean and tidy, feeling warm, having colour and texture around you, helps create and maintain a sense of self-worth and well-being, a theme which is coming up in my clinical work just now. I used to see clients at my old house in what the family called 'Mum's Therapy Shed'. Maybe the Wash House is my own therapy space!

Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Strategy for Living

2010-10-15T11:13:00.000+01:00

In contrast to my last post, I've been living an indoor existence for the past two weeks. A chesty cold has moved down into my lungs and my doctor has prescribed antibiotics and rest.
The downside has been total lack of energy and enthusiasm (with one exception - see photo), leaving an extensive To-Do list undone. Although having got my tax return away I got an almost immediate rebate!

I now have some serious deadlines to meet - I have an application to complete for next summer's East Neuk Open Studios, which requires a CV and photo of me in my studio. This means getting at least one wall of the wash house painted for me to pose in front of! I have a new client starting, which means tidying up the study and printing out some forms. I've been using the room downstairs lately which means the study is the place all things pending seem to end up. All my new business cards have been distributed so I need to do some more. I'm happy to have work of both kinds - therapy and art - but could really do with some more energy.

My one success has been completing the first of two baby blankets for daughter's best friend's twins, born two weeks ago. She's a vet, so there's an animal theme. I'm now on the second one, which features an elephant, a snake and a monkey so far. I've had fun working out the designs. The test is when I hold one up for Dramaman to guess what it is! Sometimes this means a major re-think, or just adding some embroidered detail. I still have to back the domestic animal one with fleece, but I have given it a trial machine wash having panicked that the black might run.

I also have Dramaman's alpaca birthday jumper to finish - I've been doing it in the car (as a passenger!) and at the cinema (yes, in the dark, and I do make mistakes) - but it will be top priority as soon as the blankets are done.

We're off to London for three days next week, exploring Greenwich, visiting the Gauguin exhibition at Tate Modern
http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/gauguin/default.shtm
and seeing the latest version of Faust at the Young Vic. Dramaman as usual has our itinerary and tickets all organised but I do hope to catch up with my sister, living in London just now, and find a yarn shop near our hotel.

No real insights in this post, except, perhaps, to reflect that going with whatever life throws at you, and waiting for the right outcome, rather than striving too hard to achieve it, is a useful strategy for living.

I do like to hear from my readers - and I always reply personally to emails, so
leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Being in the Moment with Brambles

2010-09-26T19:43:00.000+01:00

It has been a glorious autumn day. I'm staying in the countryside - near where my mother grew up - with a friend who lives on the top of a hill, with views of fields, trees and neat white houses with red tile and slate roofs in the distance.

Left to my own devices for the day, I decided to walk down to the village, something I've never done before - I'm not sure why....busy road, bad weather, maybe? But the sun was shining and as I set off down the hill, I felt I was on virgin territory, exploring new ground. I was aware of everything around me, birdsong, water somewhere, an animal bellowing mournfully. I looked at the hedgerows, laden with what I remember as hips or, perhaps, haws, edible (I think) red fruits on wild rose bushes.

Hearing the bellowing again, I looked over a hedge to see in the distance what appeared to be a black bull in a field of sheep, raising its head to complain loudly about something. It spotted me looking at it and approached. As it got closer, I saw it was a cow, and I wondered if it was in pain, about to give birth, perhaps, although it did not look pregnant. We looked at each other for a long moment, until, diverted by another noise, I crossed the road, following the sound of rushing water, leaning over a stone bridge to watch a wide burn in spate, foaming over the rocks beneath, the spray reflecting the sunlight. I sat on the wall with the sun on my face, just being there, sitting on the wall, listening.

I continued on into the village, passing impressively maintained gardens and handsome stone villas with names instead of numbers, boys in red strips playing football and families eating at tables outside the pub. I found a coffee shop and sat at the window with an Americano and a chocolate muffin.

On the way back, I saw the cow again, and trudged back up the hill, on the other side of the road this time, and spotted branches laden with glistening ripe berries - brambles! I began picking, taking off my woolly hat to put them in, eating a few, the sweet tartness instantly returning me to childhood bramble-picking expeditions with my grandpa, crawling through the scratchy bushes to find the best, the biggest fruits. My fingers were purple, my hat heavy with berries.

Lost in the moment, I found myself in the side road leading to my friend's house. Hefting my soggy hatful, I looked up to see a group of young black and white calves sporting blue and yellow ear tags jostling one another against the fence. I looked back and could still see the cow, calling sadly, head in our direction. Was she their mother? Did they hear her? Did they miss her? The smell of wet wool reminded me of my mother's 'jelly-bag', a sort of conical woolly sock, for straining the juice of the brambles to make jelly. Maybe later, I'll cook them with some sugar.

Today I found that I still have that ability to be in the moment which we have as children, and tend to lose as adults. Sometimes in a dramatherapy session, engagement in activity, like the bramble-picking for me, or involvement in a story, like the one I was inventing about the cow, can absorb and divert, making it easier to handle the pace of contemporary life and the constant pressure to think ahead.

Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Build it up with wood and clay....

2010-09-13T09:55:00.000+01:00

This is my photo of 'London Bridge' (it is actuallyTower Bridge, but this is the one most people associate with the name), taken from a riverboat on Thursday. My mood was buoyant, the sun was shining. I'd had a wonderful three days holiday with a good friend whom I don't see all that often, due to geography and our busy lives. We stayed in a newish hotel, part of a Spanish chain, comfortable and beautifully designed, but surprisingly poor at communicating with guests. Or maybe just British guests, as most staff and visitors were Spanish. Breakfast was a lavish buffet, with everything from Spanish omelettes to chocolate gateau. We found a lively pub to eat in on our first evening, lots of young, hip Londoners having fun. Our waitress assessed us quickly (two old dears?) and ushered us to a 'nice quiet table' in the corner, next to the fire exit!

We explored the South Bank on foot on Tuesday, dodging heavy rain in the Tate Modern, enjoying a fast-paced and funny Merry Wives at the Globe, eating our packed lunch of breakfast leftovers at Gabriel's Wharf, with its makeshift buildings and hand-crafted clothes shops. The Oxo Tower was a major disappointment - closed shops and NO TOILETS! On Wednesday we headed across the river and got on an old Routemaster bus (with a cheery West Indian conductor) through the city (at walking pace due to the traffic) to the Natural History Museum. We'd both read Remarkable Creatures, Tracy Chevalier's novel based on the life of Mary Anning, who discovered the first dinosaurs in Britain at Lyme Regis, and wanted to see the crocs and icthys on display. We got the tube to Covent Garden and found the Dominion Theatre where we saw the Queen Musical We Will Rock You. This was brilliant - funny and loud with all the great Queen numbers. We ended up hoarse from cheering and singing, hands sore from clapping. Back out in the night, baffled by barriers and roadworks (everywhere - in preparation for the Olympics) we headed in the wrong direction, having done really well up till then, thanks to my friend's London 'Apps' on her iPod. But we found the right stop and got our bus back to the hotel. On Thursday we just had time for the river cruise before we got our delayed train home.

Since then, I've been dealing with some difficult stuff. The friend I wrote about in my last post has lost her husband. He died last night. A respite stay for my father went badly wrong, with him enduring unnecessary indignities and indifference from staff. Someone close to me who seemed to be well and ready to return to an independent life has had to be re-admitted to an acute psychiatric ward. Hence the nursery rhyme, running through my head
London Bridge is falling down. falling down, falling down....
Build it up with wood and clay, wood and clay, wood and clay....
Wood and clay will wash away.........
As a metaphor, it is perhaps not very helpful, except that the rhyme's next verse is more positive:
Build it up with stone so strong, stone so strong, stone so strong.....
Stone will last for ages long...
Like Sisyphus, who had to keep rolling his stone back up the hill, we just have to keep starting over, looking for the solid stones to rebuild the fabric of our lives. I suppose for me, these are family, friendship, work and the practical things I occupy myself with. This week: digging potatoes, finishing a small knitting project, starting a bigger one, practising Maple Leaf Rag for my lesson on Wednesday.
Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

September Song

2010-09-01T19:47:00.000+01:00

I think I'm moving on from the blues. I've been playing cheerful stuff on the piano; waltzes and Scott Joplin, finding that I'm getting better at playing chords to go with a tune. Feeling more relaxed about the work and advertising issues that were bothering me. I've started working again with one client and getting back into therapist mode.   I've been putting out new business cards, just letting people know that I am still working, not retired, not knitting my life away, so I'll see what happens next.

I've also sold a few of my craft pieces, which people seem to like, and I've started putting my projects on Ravelry This is a good way of recording what I've done with details of yarn, colourways etc. I'm not very conscientious about keeping notes of this.   I suspect it's just another fun thing to do with my laptop instead of getting on with my tax return.

I had an unexpected email from a former supervisee,who moved away two years ago, to share her good news - a happy pregnancy and an early invitation to her wedding next summer. She and her partner will, I think, be good parents. I hope everything goes well for them.

Then, today, I visited a friend who keeps a daily vigil by her husband's bedside. Her life has become the four walls of his hospital room. She goes home to eat and try to sleep, then gets up each morning to make the half-hour journey to the hospital, day after day after day. He was not expected to live this long. He did not expect to live this long. Waiting to die, waiting for someone you love to die, wanting not to lose them, but knowing you will anyway, not being able to make plans, to get on with your own living....how do you find the strength to go on? It confirms my belief that life events are often random, that all we can do is live each day as best we can, helping those we care about celebrate the good and endure the bad.

When I got home, I went out into the garden, blowsily overgrown in places, but with ripe tomatoes in the greenhouse, and one perfect red rose triumphing over the rust and black spot that has overtaken all the roses this summer.   I could see it as a symbol, a metaphor..... but I'll settle for it just being something which lifted my heart today.

Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

End of Summer Blues

2010-08-20T09:45:00.002+01:00

With Dramaman back at work and the days shortening, I should be getting into a proper work routine, but there have been too many distractions this week. Tomatoes to pick, friends and family to catch up with. I have done practical things though - cutting the grass, cleaning the house, booking my car in for its MOT. I've also managed to lose some of the weight I'd put on in France and go for a swim on my own (I usually need to have committed myself to going with a friend).   I bought some magazine files and sorted out all my knitting magazines. All good ways of avoiding doing my accounts.

I've finally got my advertising with Yell sorted out. They generate the copy from some kind of phrase bank and then post it online. I have to then log on and change it to something sensible and appropriate, For example, the print ad showed a couple looking thoroughly pissed off with one another, even though I had made it clear that I don't do couples counselling.   The online ad said that I ran 'clinics' and claimed that 'qualified therapists' (plural) would 'direct' people towards 'positive life-changes'. I kept ringing up and emailing, trying to explain what it is I do, but they didn't seem to get it. I've ended up with rather dull ads which probably won't generate business, but which I feel represent what I offer - person-centred counselling and psychological therapy for adults suffering from stress, anxiety or depression. My HPC logo is there, and at some point there will be a link to my new website which will have more detail on it. The whole thing may be a total waste of money and effort, although when I complained about the initial misleading ad going online without me having a chance to correct it, they did give me a 10% refund.

My other venture, having my felted stuff for sale at a local design studio, has bombed. Problems with staff meant that the studio wasn't open much at all, and very few items sold. I'm in the process of trying to get my things back. I'm still waiting for the promised contract to come through from the publisher who has shown an interest in the book I am writing with my father. It will be my main commitment this winter, with summer 2011 as a deadline. As well as copies of his wartime logbooks, I have a lot of material to sort through before beginning the actual narrative. I am really pleased that we have got this far - and that my dad is actively engaged in reading other contemporary accounts and adding to the writing he has already done. At 91, with his own physical and mental health problems to cope with, along with my mother's condition (later stage Parkinson's), it's good that he can work on this record of his experience and put it to rest. I suspect that at 91 (if I live that long), I'll still be trying to do some kind of meaningful activity!

Maybe this is how I can be a dramatherapist without clients for now, providing a place where my father can bring his memories and feelings from that time and have them 'played back' by me. My aim is to draft a chapter, then read it to him. Very much as I would reflect back to a client what they have told me, as a way of processing feelings and thoughts. I can also develop my own creative skills through continuing to experiment with felting and making things. My daughter who visited yesterday suggested I exhibit my work independently in future. There are 'open studios' events here twice yearly. I'm going to look into what that would cost and get our wash-house painted and tidied up as a suitable venue.

So, I'm kind of redefining, reflecting, lucky to be secure enough financially to let things take their course.   Feedback is always welcome. Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Transitional Time in the British Library

2010-08-10T14:50:00.000+01:00

On the final leg of our journey home from France. Two weeks without phone, mail and internet communication. Utterly soothing, but I'm now desperately curious about what's happening back home. We had four hours to while away in London, mainly to save money on train fares. It was hot and busy. But only a block away from Kings Cross is the British Library, a haven of peace and quiet activity within its brick walls.

We didn't do any actual proper reading, but looked in awe at the stacks of books behind glass and browsed the shop, as well as finding a quiet corner to sit in and read our first UK Guardian. (Our good friends who have had a home in France for many years, manage to get an occasional copy of the international edition, a day late, and pass it onto us for the sudoku and the cryptic crossword.) The cafe provided excellent smoked mackerel salad and toffee apple cheesecake.

My holiday knitting project was almost completed in France- it turned out to be a rather tight garment without sleeves. The upholstered effect made me think that it might work better as a cushion cover, so that is now its destiny. It will go on my favourite chair in the study and support me in my determination to get down to serious work. Having savoured every day of the holiday, I'm ready to tackle some new challenges now. Dramaman has to get ready to go back to work too, so we will get into a routine together. Something happens when we arrive in Toulouse, get into our hired car and set off on our two hour journey into the Lomagne. Fields of sunflowers, tree lined roads, sky which goes on for ever, the smell of sunshine....it sends me into a kind of trance, which lasts until we drive back to the station for our journey home. Wakened at 7 every morning by the church bells, I have no problem getting up and padding on bare feet through to the kitchen to open the shutters and put the coffee on. Outside, people pass our gate carrying their baguettes and pulling shopping trolleys behind them.

Depending on the day, we decide which market to go to, and set off with our shopping bags to browse the familiar stalls, feel and sniff the melons for ripeness, select a new cheese to try and enjoy our coffee and croissants at the cafe, an ideal vantage point for people watching. I do lots of sketching, without bothering about its quality - it's my record of the holiday, more evocative for me than photographs (although I take them too!) I read all of The Belgariad by David Eddings, a fantasy saga downloaded onto my ebook by my technological daughter, and inhabit an imagined world of sorcery, honour and intrigue which permeates my dreams. I doze a lot, sometimes sleeping the afternoon away, waking to find that the finches flying high above our enclosed courtyard have turned into bats. I swim at the pool, where our friends gossip with the locals, then, later in the holiday, at the lake, where I float alone in the deep pool, face to the sky, arms outstretched, while groups of children play on the flume and in the shallows. I can still recapture that feeling of just being, totally in the moment.

Really, that's what the holiday was all about, sensing, being aware, not thinking back or ahead. That time in the British Library today, between two worlds, the memories of the holiday still strong, with the books as a reminder of the intellectual and practical challenges to come, has acted as a bridge, a crossing over point, back to the world of responsibilities.
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Rain, Roses and Random Knitting

2010-07-22T22:13:00.000+01:00

Mid July, and it's been raining again, bringing memories of camping holidays with wet cagoules and listening for drips to confirm the tent is leaking. The roses are heavy with water, heads drooping and petals falling. Our single sunflower holds up its head in spite of the lack of sun. Trusses of green tomatoes are forming in the greenhouse and the bare patches seeded two weeks ago in the grass are beginning to show some green. Dramaman and I are off to France, where it is less likely to rain all day, although we usually have some storms.
I finished all my craft stuff - felted scarves, necklaces and sewing rolls - and delivered it to the design studio where it might or might not sell to summer visitors to the East Neuk.   I found it incredibly satisfying to package, label and price actual things I have created, rather than being paid for the intangibly creative work I do as a therapist. I've also had fun pottering in the house and the garden - dusting and organising stuff, dead-heading geraniums, cutting our own salad leaves.
It's also been a sociable time, visiting close friends, skyping with my dramatherapy buddy down south, spending time with my adult children, all three of whom will soon be living within a half hour drive from our house. Moving on with their lives in different ways has meant lots of phone calls and meetings. It's really good!    I've also had some lovely feedback from friends whose babies I've knitted for lately - my handknits are appreciated. Knitting for babies is great - lots of scope to design something fun and quick to do.   Older daughter's best friend is having twins (a boy and a girl), so I've been commissioned to make blankets, which have not to follow any stereotyped colour or theme. Lots of possibilities there!
Right now, I'm on the train planning my holiday knitting project. This involves looking through the bag of assorted yarns I threw together last night, knitting up some sample swatches and adapting a jumper pattern. Half the fun is not knowing quite how it will turn out. I've learned through experience that being too cavalier about just knitting in a random creative way leads to unwearability and odd proportions. The last garment I made up as I went along ended up with one armhole three inches bigger than the other one.   I've had to discipline myself to do the maths early on to avoid endless ripping out and reknitting.
Actually that's the metaphor in this post. Living life spontaneously, pursuing the impulse of the moment, finding pleasure in unexpected encounters, needs a framework of sorts; in the case of our current holiday that means doing some planning - hotel bookings, train tickets and travel insurance.   I suppose a package holiday would be like knitting from a pattern, without much room for individual variations.   Walking a tightrope of risk with a safety netof common sense, maybe, is how I'd like to be.
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New Directions

2010-06-28T16:49:00.032+01:00

This seems to be a time of change. My adult children have all reached new stages in their lives, moving on, achieving new things. I'm also at a crossroads of a kind. After focusing on my craft stuff for a while, I've decided that I want to get back to clinical work after the summer. Statutory funding for two of the initiatives I've been involved in for some years has gone. I need to advertise for new clients and have been negotiating a package with Yell.com. I have had to think about how to categorise my work and to come up with 'bullet points' for my ad. The generic title of Arts Therapist may seem more accessible than dramatherapist to the general public. I can use the Health Professions Council logo and mention my wide experience. But will it work? I just don't know, but I'm willing to take a chance. I need to set up a website again - my working life has changed a lot since I first set up my 'theatreandtherapy' site in 1996, when the theatre side of my life was so important.

I'm also looking at where opportunities might lie for supervision work - the new mental health practice guidelines recommend clinical supervision for mental health workers. I need to read up on it and think about how I might take this forward.

Finding a publisher interested in the wartime memoir I'm writing with my father is an exciting new development, but also challenging. He and I have been accumulating and sorting out material for quite some time. A year to write it seems a reasonable time scale, but I know from previous experience how long it takes to get a manuscript to publication stage. Right now, there's summer and the garden to enjoy.

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Growing Up, Growing Old

2010-06-17T09:59:00.001+01:00

photo of Kevin Guthrie as Peter Pan from National Theatre of Scotland
Last weekend I went to see the new adaptation by David Greig of J.M. Barrie's classic play.    My first experience of live theatre was being taken by my mother to (I think) the Kings Theatre in Glasgow in 1952, where I was so entranced by the story that I was convinced that with a bit of practice I could fly. I spent months jumping off the back of the biggest armchair, feeling that I'd almost got it, fantasising about opening our big sash window three storeys up and launching myself into the air.   My mother, always pragmatic, got on with whatever she was doing and suggested I fly through to kitchen once I'd got the hang of it.    As well as the flying, I caught the theatre bug, an itch I had to go on scratching, through school, university and my professional life.

I spent hours acting out stories with my (older) best friend and younger sister, me as Peter, my friend as Wendy, my sister as John, Michael, the Lost Boys and other minor figures. I also played Hook and Tiger Lily at times.    I remember when the Disney film version came out, which I was never taken to see, but read a comic version (comics being banned in my own home) in a neighbour's house, but it didn't have the magical appeal of the stage show.

In my first experience as a psychotherapy client, I was asked what story I remembered best from childhood, and asked to rewrite it for my adult self.   That re-telling, from the perspective of a mother, led me to think much more about Wendy; as a child I always identified with Peter. My father always said he wished I had been a boy, and I worked hard at playing a male role, always in shorts, my hair cropped short, flattered when shop assistants called me 'Sonny'. I built dens, fought with boys, picked the scabs off my knees to make scars (which I still have); I resisted wearing dresses, deliberately scuffed my white kid sandals and bought real knives and toy guns with my pocket money.

I went to see this new production with some trepidation, having avoided the play for years, not wanting to blur my vivid childhood memory. The cables holding the actors in the air were all too visible, and the flying much less realistic than I remembered, but Peter had a bad boy sexiness which I always imagined he would have.    The lighting and set were beautiful, and the darting flame which represented Tinkerbell defied logical explanation.    The Wolf Twins struck a wrong chord - I think Tiger Lily could have been acceptable as a Native American princess, but otherwise I was happy with the show. I cried at the last scene, in which Peter comes back, years after the Neverland adventure, and discovers that Wendy has become a woman. The last time I saw this, I was a child who could not imagine growing up, and didn't want to. When I was 9 we moved house (a huge wrench for me) and I left my unruly male gang and the railway embankment, the quarry, the overgrown allotments that made up our Neverland, behind.    I became a mother substitute to my three younger siblings, taking on responsibilities and moving into adulthood.

The growing old part of this post was to be about my elderly parents, but that is another story.   I suppose I am growing old, but free now of the responsibilities of motherhood, I have the opportunity to rediscover some of the joys of childhood in my own creative work and dramatic 'play' with my clients. I don't think I'll ever be able to fly, though: I don't have a big enough chair to jump off.

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First Day of Summer

2010-05-27T10:39:00.005+01:00

photo from guardian.co.uk
In 2002 I was lucky enough to meet and work with Augusto Boal, Brazilian theatre practitioner and political activist. On Saturday I was at a conference held by the British Association of Dramatherapists to celebrate his life (he died last May) at RADA in London .

Dramaman and I arrived early, walking through sunny London streets, map in hand. Anna Seymour and Madeline Andersen-Warren were there already, setting up the room for the group of twenty five participants - some dramatherapists, some (like Dramaman) theatre practioners in other fields.

Madeline and Anna took us through some of the games which form the 'Arsenal of the Oppressed', (Games for Actors and Non-Actors), beginning with Machines, with titles offered by the group - nothing very political (I thought of a 'coalition' machine, but others were quicker to make suggestions). The First Day of Summer machine was a pleasant, if rather obvious, animated sculpt in which we all engaged.    West Side Story allowed some large group energy to be expressed, rather more self-consiously than Dramaman and I have found when doing this exercise with teenagers.     The pairs exercise Colombian Hypnosis was described as a representation of oppression; Dramaman and I have often used it without giving the relationship this meaning, exploring the subtle shifts between leader and follower in a less defined way.

From here, we moved into sculpted images of oppression, with emphasis on working non-verbally (hard for a group of adults!). Mandy Carr then talked about her experience of working with Forum Theatre in India, and how "images work across language and culture barriers" (Adrian Jackson). I would have liked to hear much more about how the group in Calcutta worked in practical terms in the villages they visited, and what kind of changes were brought about by their intervention.

We then moved into what was, for me, the most rewarding part of the day. Pete Holloway took us through the Cop in the Head technique, which was part of Boal's move from the political to the personal, using one person's experience of oppression at work to illustrate the external representation of our internal self-talk, the 'cops' being our own critical judgements.    He began this session cleverly by getting us to 'vote' for one of three methods of working - in small groups, in one large group or with a combination of the two.   The difficulties we had in reaching a consensus was an illustration of how 'democracy' works in action.

After lunch - spent very pleasantly in a French bakery with Alexandra (from Greece and Grimsby), we returned to the situation of the morning, moving (just) into the Rainbow of Desire phase of Boal's work. It was a pity we didn't have more time for this, as we seemed to have reached a deeper level of engagement by this point.

Jean-Francois Jacques then took us onto Legislative Theatre. This was the least successful part of the day, a difficult slot to fill as people began to flag and the end was looming. Boal used this form towards the end of his career, with notable success in Brazilian politics, his use of theatre making a difference in mainstream policies, but ultimately its potential failed to be realised in the wider world. In a similar way, its relevance to our current political scene in the UK was not shown in the brief exercise set up, with a sense of bemused puzzlement among those of us observing.   The energy of earlier sessions had dissipated and it was hard to access it for the final evaluative group sculpts which ended the day. Nonetheless, there was a sense of shared experience and acknowledgement of Boal's legacy which we would all take back to our day to day practice.

Dramaman and I crossed the river to the National Theatre, ending our day convulsed with laughter at the delightful London Assurance, Boucicalt's Victorian romp. Next day I marvelled at the intricacy and emotional resonances of many of the quilts on display at the V&A. A culturally rich and varied weekend!

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The Story of the Rabbit and the Bee

2010-05-14T07:57:00.004+01:00

Once upon a time there was a rabbit. It lived on the patio near a big old house. It was never very sure how it got there, but it had a confused memory involving a fox, some teeth and moments of terror. It saw other rabbits, but although recognisable as similar, their furriness, ability to move and runaway set them apart. It was hard and grey, its ears chewed. Days and nights passed and the Rabbit sat still, its eyes wide and watchful.

One day it felt a shadow fall across it, blocking out the sun. A large being in a tan coat, wearing a smart striped cap was looking closely at it. After studying it for some minutes, the Being sat down on a nearby bench and spoke,
Hello, Rabbit, it said, How are you today?
Taken aback, the Rabbit did not respond. It had no voice, but the Being spoke for it.
I'm very well, thank you
The Being sighed deeply and spoke again, I'm rather lonely. My wife is ill and can't speak to me any more. Some young women come and look after her every day, but they are kept very busy, so I have no-one to talk to......
Just then, there was a loud humming sound, and the Rabbit noticed a large bee hovering above him. The Bee landed on the Rabbit's back and began to crawl around.
Don't you sting my friend, said the Being, watching closely as the Bee continued its exploration of the Rabbit's body. The Rabbit was unconcerned and continued to look at the Being with its large glossy eyes. The Bee flew off, leaving the Rabbit and the Being alone.
That was exciting, said the Being. I'm off to have a cup of coffee now. Goodbye, Rabbit. I'll see you tomorrow.

The Being of the story is my father, who at nearly 91, finds ways of coping with the limitations and frustrations of his life. He told me this story after asking me to come and meet his 'friend'. I find it both wonderful and sad. Always a down-to-earth, no nonsense person, he seldom read fiction and preferred documentaries to drama on TV, he is now accessing his imaginative powers, and using them for comfort and diversion. I was audience and witness to his drama, put unexpectedly into the role of dramatherapist when I was there as the visiting daughter.

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On the road again

2010-04-22T10:16:00.011+01:00

I'm feeling ridiculously excited about driving my car again, after more than six months of depending on lifts and public transport, limited by my dodgy knee. However, three weeks after the op, I'm fully mobile again. Having your life constrained by injury, physical or mental health is both frustrating and challenging. I'm very much aware of this at the moment because, as I pick up the threads of my working and social life, someone close to me has had their connection with the world cut off by psychosis, a bad episode after a long spell of being well.

Looking back at my own time of enforced inactivity, I have concentrated on things I can do at home: knitting, playing the piano, experimenting with felting, but I've missed the heightened interaction of working with people. I feel I'm ready to take on some new clients, and am thinking about how to develop my practice. Up till now, I've been fortunate in having enough going on without having to advertise or seek out work, but I'm thinking about ways to do this.

I've worked with many different client groups over the years, but I'm particularly interested now in offering one-to-one therapy to adults who want to make sense of their lives, especially if they have had challenges to deal with - losses, ill-health, chronic pain, caring responsibilities, stress at work. The stuff of mid-life for many of us. I also offer supervision for arts therapists and trainees. It's good to feel back on track again.

Right now I'm going out to start my car and drive it round the block. Then the journey begins!
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Marking Time

2010-03-04T09:05:00.005Z

Living through a strange time of doing nothing much professionally, 'resting' as I might put it as an actor. I'm having an operation in four weeks time, after which I will be recuperating and getting back to driving and my 'normal' life. Meantime, I am dependent on others to take me places and generally help with stuff I can't do. Last week I said goodbye to the lovely German art therapy trainee who has been coming to me for supervision since last September. It was quite an emotional ending for both of us. She has been through major changes in her professional and personal life, and I have been privileged to help her negotiate these to some extent.

We talked about the nature of supervision and differences between expectation and reality. She had foreseen our meetings as her coming towards me as a kind of fixed point, taking away advice, coming back again for support. Her actual experience was of me falling into step beside her, walking with her on her journey. I was pleased about this, as I struggle constantly with not being the expert, the one with knowledge and power, although I have to had to admit to a little frisson of pleasure at her association of me with Baba Yaga, the archetypal crone!

One major change in my life during this 'downtime' has been a resurgence of my own creative energies. Partly inspired by my supervisee's artwork which she brought to show me, partly by new materials discovered through getting more involved with knitting and crafts, I've been felting and embroidering. The picture is an interpretation of a photograph of my mother and her older sister on the beach at Largs in 1923, needle and wet-felted with embroidery, crochet, applique and shells. I'm experimenting with making felted beads - disastrous soggy lumps so far, but I'll keep trying. I've also spent time with friends, meeting up yesterday with someone from my distant past whom I had not seen for eight years. We picked up our conversation where it left off, and found we still have much in common, and now plan to meet regularly.

When I do get back to working 'properly' again, I am determined to maintain these other strands of my life. They help me stay grounded and receptive to working creatively with clients and supervisees. I am also dealing with difficult personal issues just now; my creative work is helping me to process my feelings. So, marking time, but just until I'm ready to move on.

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Fit to Practise

2010-02-04T16:43:00.007Z

I'm just back from attending the 2nd National Supervisors Day in London. Travelling by train gave me a perfect opportunity to enjoy the winter landscape. Each time I go to a dramatherapy event I reflect on where I am in the dramatherapy world - at the centre, on the fringes, in or out.....This time I was the only person from Scotland, and the only person who arrived at the venue by taxi. This emerged in one of those warm-up exercises where you find other people who have something in common with you. I felt rather embarrassed about the taxi, normally being a public transport user, but walking is a problem at the moment. I also felt isolated in my need to sit down after several games where we were standing and moving around the room. However, once I got over that, and people knew that I had a knee problem, I was able to feel part of the group.

Towards the end of the morning, I was very tired and wondered if I should have come at all. Questions about fitness to practise came up in discussion, and I began wondering if I am fit to practise right now. In fact, I am only seeing one client at the moment, postponing new work until after a knee operation.

The afternoon session allowed me to participate in a range of creative activities which engaged and inspired me, giving me a feeling of belonging to a supportive community of therapists and the freedom to manage my own practice to take account of my needs, as well as those of my clients. I had to role-play being a new dramatherapist seeing a supervisor for the first time, reminding me how intimidating that can be! One group used spontaneous projection to evaluate their experience of the day, each person choosing a picture card, showing it to the rest of us and talking about how it related to their feelings.

I was able to use this technique in my own work this week For my client, four cards with archetypal images were used as a way of exploring feelings about a future event. Looking at the cards later on my own, I found there was meaning here for me as well - acceptance of things as they are now, belief in the value of the work I do, a willingness to wait and recognise new opportunities when they come.

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Smiling Through

2010-01-11T10:51:00.010Z

This is an image I created unconsciously on New Year's Day as I sat at the dinner table with my partner and my daughter, talking about the upsetting topic of my very elderly mother's admission to hospital the previous day. While preparing myself for the worst outcome, I was making this smiling face from table scatter stars. I'm not even going to attempt to interpret this. Maybe some of you might be able to offer an opinion? I know from the emails I receive that people who read my blog are insightful and aware. So - tell me what you think!

In fact, my mother is now making a recovery of sorts, but in late stage Parkinsons, palliative care is really the only option. However, I did have an amazingly enjoyable week staying with my 90 year old father, who is still sharp and good company, in spite of Alzheimers making everyday life a challenge. We discussed the news and the weather. He got me (once again) to explain how I solve cryptic crossword clues and we watched 'Dancing on Ice' together. I had to try to help him deal with the frustration of a blocked washbasin (frozen waste pipe) which couldn't be fixed right away. Casting around the room for some objects to use. I found a golfball and a small gift box. I suggested that the hard unyielding ball could symbolise his frustration, with the box as a solid container with a lid where the upsetting feelings could be shut away meantime. It seemed to help.

The wonderful carers who look after my parents cooked our meals and helped me out of chairs. (I'm having a knee operation next month) so I benefited from being looked after too. The weather meant we only left the house for visits to the hospital, so we had our own cocoon of warmth (until the central heating boiler broke down on Friday evening!)

This has been rather a personal blog, but a recent correspondent said she found reading my posts therapeutic, so maybe this one can be therapeutic for me! I had to cancel my clients last week, as I had to travel 90 miles to visit my mother and be with my father, so need to focus again on my professional role tomorrow. I'm off to London for the National Supervisors Day on January 30th, so will be much more in dramatherapist mode next month.
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The Power of Ritual

2009-11-16T12:43:00.003Z

Here in Scotland, Hallowe'en has long been celebrated with guising, treacle scones and dookin' for apples. Influenced by the US, England seems to have adopted the festival with pumpkins and trick or treating. I have vivid memories of ringing neighbours' doorbells in our tenement in Paisley as a six year old, dressed up as a milk bottle, holding my little sister's hand, with her resplendent in pink and blue crepe paper bonnet as Little Bo-Peep, complete with crook and lamb. Always on the alert for opportunities to perform, I told jokes, recited poems and sang songs. That was the year, having had great critical acclaim close to home, I decided to extend our tour and, with turnip lantern and Little Bo-Peep, set off in the dark, long past our bedtime, to 'guise' over a two street area, returning home hours later laden with sweets and small coins. My parents were furious. Next day I had to endure the humiliation of returning to all the houses I had visited and giving back the money. We were allowed to keep the sweets.

However, Hallowe'en continued to work its magic for me and my own children when they were young, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf, Chewbacca from Star Wars and many other creatures and characters over the years. Now I see racks of ready-made costumes in the supermarkets and remember the hours spent fabricating crocodile heads and fairy wings.

This year, I spent Hallowe'en in London, visiting the Aztec exhibition at the British Museum, where, the following day, a free fiesta was held for the Mexican Day of the Dead. The altar in the picture had been created with input from children over the previous week, featuring the traditional sugar skulls, paper cut-outs and skeletons in vivid colours.

We heard two lectures from experts on Mexican rituals and related art, and on death observance in different cultures. It really made me think about how inhibited and closed off we tend to be around death. One speaker talked of how children in Mexican schools regard death as an everyday part of life, with the observance of the Day of the Dead being as exciting as Christmas is for children here. Dressing up, face-painting, lavish feasts, flowers and candles all contribute to an event over several days in which many feel the spirits of dead loved ones return to visit the living.

Yesterday I celebrated my birthday with my family, with a clootie dumpling, made by my daughter and myself. This was the traditional alternative to a birthday cake for winter birthdays during my childhood. I remember my mother's dumpling having silver threepenny bits in it, which all had to be returned to my mother for using again. I wanted to put five pence pieces in mine, but my archaeologist daughter vetoed this, firstly because they are made of potentially toxic material, secondly, because teeth could get broken. She is so sensible. We had candles and 'Happy Birthday' was sung. We all enjoyed this revival of the birthday ritual, and are planning our first 'family' Christmas for many years, with all of us together.

I've noticed the power of ritual in work I've done recently with clients. The lighting and blowing out of candles is an obvious way to celebrate, remember or affirm a significant event. Objects chosen to embody problems can be used in a devised ritual which helps put the issue into a context where the client is empowered. The therapeutic effect can carry a significance which lasts beyond the session. Small rituals, the greeting when the client arrives, the de-roling of objects at the close of a session, provide structure, stability and a sense that what takes place in the session is significant.

Other cultures can give us valuable insights into how ritual can be used to celebrate and to come to terms with life events. Sometimes it is good to re-discover and make use of rituals from our own history, and to devise new ones. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on this or any other related topics.
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Catching the Wave

2009-09-30T08:25:00.003+01:00

This fabric cushion with sand, sea, starfish and crab, was painted by a wee girl, not quite four, last week, when I was looking after her. ( I did the quilting and edging later.) I was painting too - embellishing an old denim jacket with batik off-cuts, sari ribbon, buttons and beads. It reminded me of times with my own pre-school children, and of the joy of being with a child as she makes new discoveries and acquires new skills.

Babysitting my friend's grandchildren from time to time has added a new dimension to my life. Now I'm working only one day a week, I seem to have tapped into reserves of creative energy of which I was largely unaware. After years of working at life-drawing, believing that I had the capacity to be an 'artist', and that I might some day go to art school, I feel a great sense of relief in leaving that behind and focussing on making things. There is no standard to reach, save my own pleasure in what I've made, or other people's appreciation of a present which represents my time and commitment to them.

Swimming in a wild sea up at Clachtoll some weeks ago, clad in a borrowed wet-suit, was a new experience. I've always loved swimming, but haven't ventured into the sea in Scotland for more than twenty years. I was knocked off my feet, dragged under, somersaulting back to the surface, choking and spluttering. But the sheer joy of getting myself on top of the waves, letting the surf bring me into shore was incredible. I'm borrowing a body board for my next swim at Ullapool in two weeks time. A new, exciting challenge.

Interestingly, there seem to be parallels in my work as a dramatherapist. I've begun re-visiting things like Playback Theatre and visualisation, physical exercises - freeing up the space in a one-to-one session in a way I've not been doing over the past year. Partly this is because opportunites present themselves through the client's needs, but I think it also relates to a freer approach in my life as a whole.

I've just made a major decision about something in my personal life which has been dragging me down for three years. Something which seemed fixed, unshakeable, a responsibilty for all time. Suddenly, it's as if the trap has been sprung, releasing me. It is totally out of character for me to admit defeat, or to let go of an unresolved problem, but the realisation that I can walk away is incredibly empowering.

Empowerment and mastery. These themes keep coming up - whether it's making a cushion, body-surfing, working out a knitting pattern, learning shorthand (as one my clients is doing at sixty) or making a significant life change. To make choices, to work at one thing and let another go - that power we have to create the life we need - is in each of us, if we can allow it.

If any of this touches you, leave a comment or email me personally at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com

The Music Man

2009-09-01T13:25:00.009+01:00

This picture reminds me of a special moment in France this summer. The 'music man' turns up each week at a local market and sets up his space, surrounded by puppets and sound-making things. He plays his fiddle and children and adults gather round. He is not selling anything or asking for money. Apparently he is a retired teacher who just enjoys making music and having others join in. He is hightly intuitive, listening carefully, and picking up tunes and rhythms from his 'audience', creating something new each time.

This is my first day back at work after a long summer break. I really needed time this year to let my mind and body find a kind of equilibrium that had been lost through months of stressful life events. It was only when I was physically distanced from day to day routine that I realised how out of joint I had become. In literal terms as well as metaphorically. My right knee has been behaving oddly, letting me down unexpectedly. Paying it some attention and getting suitable treatment is beginning to work. I think I'd been ignoring it as well as disregarding some of my emotional pain, hoping that it would just go away. But supported with a knee brace and the nurturing company of friends and family, I feel much more secure in getting back into my working role.

Is 'Being a Dramatherapist' a role just for work, or is it more than that? I've had a conversation recently with a good friend and fellow dramatherapist about this. Like me, he doesn't practise full-time, but we agreed that it is a way of being, an attitude to life, a view of other people, that goes beyond a job. I don't believe I stopped being a dramatherapist for those weeks I was on holiday. I followed some of my own creative impulses, making cards and jewellery, experimenting with knitting different materials, learning new songs, working on music theory. I spent time with elderly parents, giving them, I hope, some of the heightened attention needed in a therapy session, but as their daughter, not a therapist.

I wondered if I would feel like working again. The summer was so good. But there is something in me that needs this special contact with others that you have in a formal therapeutic realtionship. Its clear boundaries of time and commitment enable a process which is different from social encounters, where we share bits of our lives with people we like and love. So, being a dramatherapist is part of who I am, with the privilege of using my skills to enable others to find meaning in their own lives, like the music man, in his simple offer of creative engagement.

If you'd like to respond to what I've said, as a fellow therapist, someone with family resonsibilities, another knitting enthusiast, or whoever........do leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com

The Offside Rule

2009-05-29T07:44:00.015+01:00

Last Saturday I went to a football match. Not something within my usual experience. I went to support my Dad (no, he wasn't playing, just a loyal supporter of St Mirren for eighty years) who has lost confidence about going places through a period of ill-health. As someone who quickly loses interest when my partner watches football on television, reacting only when he jumps off the sofa and shouts, this was a leap into the unknown. Possibly committing myself to three hours of boredom, maybe even falling asleep. In fact, the hard seat and driving rain meant there was no chance of relaxing sufficiently to fall asleep. But, to my surprise, the moment the teams ran onto the pitch was the start of a drama, a piece of live theatre, which enthralled me. I found myself clapping, shouting, chanting, singing along with the home crowd, caught up in the fate of these eleven men and their opponents.

I began to recognise the rituals - the throw in, the corner and the free kick, with the graceful gesture of the referee's arm indicating which team had the advantage. Our team lost, but it didn't seem to matter too much, as they'd played well and avoided relegation. I stood by the barrier and applauded until the last player left the field, unwilling to go home, like watching all the credits at the end of a film. Later, over dinner in a local hotel, I asked about the offside rule, which was then explained, with the help of diagrams, by my father and partner. I'd assumed offside referred to lines on the pitch, but it turns out to be the player who is in the wrong place in relation to other players when he receives the ball. How can he tell in that moment? He has to be aware of where members of the opposing team are. Complex. Like life. How often do we find ourselves in that position, ready to act, but not sure if it's the right time, the right place, for ourselves and others?

I'm feeling very much onside with my professional life right now. Preparing material for the presentation I'm doing this weekend on individual dramatherapy, I have realised just how many people I have seen over the years, with a wide range of problems. It's been hard to select material - I want to tell all the stories, show lots of the things I use. But I can't take a huge bag of stuff on the train. So I'm settling for photographs. I was really touched when a long-standing client who has always had huge issues with trust, volunteered to have pictures of some of the objects she made with me included in my presentation. She is no way a 'success story', as her problems are all still there, but I have learned so much from her, primarily that people have answers within themselves, resources which we can help them access. But also that the concept of 'getting better' is not always relevant or useful. Sometimes it's about living with the grief, the anger, the pain and finding relief in creative expression and experience, whether that's making a papier mache mouse or watching a drama in the theatre or on a football pitch.

My father is struggling to cope with the disabilities and frustrations of old age, unable to engage in many of the activities which gave his life meaning - his work, golf, social gatherings, driving - but he has a tremendous capacity for finding solutions for himself. I've written before about his interest in mindfulness and he continues to strive to live in the moment. He talks about his football meditation and describes how he can lose himself in the game, live or on television.

We all end up offside at times, and like the player on the pitch, we can't always see it. But we go on playing, because while the ball's in play, we want to keep it there. And there is still the chance of winning (or, at least, losing well) until the final whistle blows.

Disclaimer: there weren't any topless players on Saturday!

If you want to comment, use the link below, or email me at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com

The Spring Dragon

2009-04-21T10:51:00.007+01:00

Back at work after a busy spring break. Total immersion in home and family stuff for two weeks. Easter Sunday was a highlight - a family Eater egg hunt, presided over by the Spring Dragon (originally a sea monster from a street theatre project many years back!) - involving cryptic clues for six adults following individual trails around our three storey house and garden to find their chocolate eggs.

I've been appreciating the routine of Monday morning, the familiarity of my study back to its designated use. We had a major leak from the header tank in the loft, resulting in water pouring through ceilings on two floors. The study got the worst of it, with all the computer stuff sitting in a deepening puddle, carpet soaking. However, three weeks on, it's drying out, with just the stains on the ceilings to show what happened. And the computer, printer etc. still function. Re-evaluating my working life as I get this year's accounts in order to do my tax return.

The Trust has no money to fund my work with psychiatric nurses in the new financial year. Ironic, having gone through an audit of last year's training programme which recommended running it again. The supervision group has been a success, and participants wanted it to continue, but it can't go on without funding. This makes me feel that maybe that part of my career is at an end. I've had to fight hard over the years to get dramatherapy funded within the NHS on a contract basis. I think I'm beyond fighting now.

I've definitely slowed down and enjoy the more leisured pace of my life now. I have my small practice where I see clients and supervisees two days a week, and I feel it's enough. My family responsibilities are heavier - looking after the welfare of relatives who need me to manage their support takes up a lot of my time. And my adult children are at a stage now where they actively seek my company - I'm delighted that my older daughter is coming back to Scotland after 8 years.

I've rediscovered the joys of gardening. I never got on top of the weeding last year and it was a source of guilt that I didn't make proper use of the greenhouse. But the sunshine of the past few weeks has enticed me out there, and I've really enjoyed planting climbing roses, hauling out masses of couch grass and assisting in potato planting.

So maybe, it's not so important for me to BE a Dramatherapist, more to be my own person, contributing to dramatherapy in my own way. I'm looking forward to doing a presentation in London on 30th May at an Introduction to Dramatherapy day run by BADTh, where I'm talking about working with individuals.

As always, I enjoy hearing from you, so do post a comment or email me at

Girl on the Piano

2009-02-24T08:29:00.006Z

There are birds singing outside my window. Daffodil and crocus bulbs are pushing green leaves up through the ground and there's some warmth in the sun. After the bleakness of the last few months, it seems that spring is just starting to assert itself. I find the apathy and gloom of last month beginning to lift. I have some new clients, new challenges in work and my own creative life. I got word at the weekend about the apartment in France, damaged in the cyclone in January, to say that repairs are well under way and we are welcome to stay as originally planned.

A reader of my blog commented that I go on holiday a lot. I suppose I do - I love to travel and see new places - but I do work hard in between times! Two days in Berlin with my younger daughter last week was great fun, staying in a 'hostel boat' on the river Spree, traveling around by train, bus and U-Bahn. One day was very wet and we spent 3 hours in Ka De We (a cross between Harrods and John Lewis only better) looking at Barbies in designer clothes, spookily realistic baby dolls, adult fany dress costumes and amazing cakes. We bought some cakes to eat back in our cabin with a bottle of wine from Lidls (even cheaper than at home).

I've had an interesting experience with my piano tuition. My teacher made a DVD of a lesson with me for training purposes in which she took me through an exercise on rhythm. I just couldn't get it. The harder I tried, the worse it got. She patiently tried different ways to help me, clapping the rhythm, counting it aloud, tapping it out, until, finally, I got it! She described this later as a Gestalt moment, in which everything suddenly came together and made sense. This unconscious leap in thinking is what can happen in dramatherapy too. For me to experience this myself, in a creative activity, was important in two ways: first, for the unblocking of some of the psychological barriers to playing the piano, which go back to earlier experiences, second, for the insight it gave me into what my clients may experience. Since then, I've felt freed up, I'm playing Mozart and Satie on the piano as well as Abba, improvising and getting more enjoyment from music every day, even feeling I can play when other people are around without the 'third bar panic' which used to overcome me whenever anyone was listening.

Sitting on top of my piano is a Hummel figure of a little girl looking at a picture book. One of her legs is rather badly glued on, and part of her hair ribbon is missing, but she is one of my most treasured possessions. An early memory is of being allowed to play (under supervision) with the doll, who sat on top of my mother's piano. She was intact then, and I was always reverently gentle with her when she was lifted down. I always wanted to be able to turn the pages of the picture book. Recently, my mother decided her piano should be stored away. She has Parkinsons disease and can't play or sing any more - a huge loss for her. She said I should have the Hummel girl. She now sits on my piano, representing my three year old self, my audience, patient, accepting my mistakes as well as taking pleasure in my successes.

Email me at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com or leave a comment if you'd like to discuss anything in this blog

Stormy Weather

2009-01-10T18:49:00.011Z

Here in the East Neuk, we've had a stormy start to the year - high winds and flurries of snow, but not the traffic-stopping winter weather suffered by other parts of the UK. I've not felt like venturing out but have been feeding the birds - starlings, robins, sparrows and blackbirds - in our courtyard, enjoying watching them vying for places at the bird table and hangers. I did rehydrate some worms which I hoped the robins would enjoy. I half-expected the worms to wriggle, released from their freeze-dried state, but they looked just the same, only wet.

I'm trying to shake off the urge to hibernate, get myself out and about after a period of relative sloth. Working from home makes it all too easy to shut myself away from the world. However, I have just made a trip to London for a consultation day on therapy for student dramatherapists.

I signed up for this because it is something I've been involved with. All trainees have to complete 72 hours of personal therapy, group and individual, alongside their training. This can be difficult to manage, especially for students living in Scotland, and other areas where there are not many practising dramatherapists. It was good to have the chance to discuss some of the issues with fellow practitioners, although the situation in London is so different. It's hard to believe that it's almost a year since I last spent a day with my peers, when we met as supervisors.

I made this a bit of a holiday as well. My daughter in Swindon took some time off on the Friday - we went shopping - and I got to sit in on the dress rehearsal of the pantomime she's involved with on the Sunday. Quite fun to be there and have no responsibilities, watching her unflappable efficiency as she dealt with temperamental actors, excited children and last minute repairs. I ended up making a ghost costume out of an ancient velvet curtain as well as sewing on lots of buttons.

I was shocked today to receive an email from France, with photos of the destruction wreaked by a cyclone two days ago of the place we stayed in last summer - the pottery, the flat upstairs where we stayed and the beautiful garden and swimming pool all ruined. How quickly people's lives can be changed. We're lucky so far not to be hit by natural disasters, redundancy or serious ill-health, but it's all so fragile......

The two lovely ladies who own the atelier have lost so much - and yet are already offering to help us find somewhere else to stay this summer.
That seems so unimportant at the moment. Appreciating the things we take for granted - a roof over our heads, food on the table, a walk in the sunshine - will be my priority this week.

Contact me by email at

In the Bleak Midwinter

2008-12-04T12:40:00.010Z

After two days away in Edinburgh and Glasgow, I arrived back at the car park where I'd left my Mini to find its windows covered in amazing fern-like frost. This instantly transported me back to the winters of my childhood, jumping out of my warm bed onto the cold linoleum, running to the icy bathroom, its window frosted, then into the kitchen, where the fire in the range was burning, my school uniform warming on the clothes horse, my mother scraping the burnt toast. Then the spoonful of Virol (a sticky, malty paste that was meant to protect against colds and flu) at the door, then down the tenement stairs into the brilliance of the outside world, the cold air biting at exposed skin. Watch out, watch out, Jack Frost is about! He's after your fingers and toes!

Slides - areas of black ice, polished by many child-sized feet - appeared at regular intervals along the pavement, inviting me to launch myself expertly along, arms out to balance, until I hit the deadness of uniced pavement again. The school playground, of course, was criss-crossed with much longer, more elaborate slides, where dozens of small uniformed bodies slid and slipped, tumbled and got up again, over and over until the bell rang and we ran to line up in silence at the doors marked Infant Girls and Infant Boys. Bottles of milk were put on the large painted pipes to thaw, but often by playtime still contained frozen lumps, cream and water separating to provide an out of the ordinary drink.

We sang In the Bleak Midwinter and I felt every line. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. This carol still sends pleasurable shivers down my spine, and it was in my head the minute I saw my little car, with I'M COLD written in the frost on the rear window, on Saturday afternoon. It's only three weeks till Christmas and I'm feeling a pleasurable anticipation which seems greater than for a long time.

The worries that have been such a major part of this year have abated somewhat. My close family are currently reasonably well and content. The upheaval of work being done in the house is over. My working life has settled back into a manageable routine, with a satisfactory ending of one long-standing therapuetic relationship and the beginning of a new one this week. I'm even feeling ready to participate in the professional networking I've deliberately opted out of for a while and look forward to meeting colleagues again in London in the New Year.

I have nice things to look forward to. A trip to Berlin to meet up with one of my daughters in February, a theatre and galleries visit to London with a friend in March and a long summer break back in France. The bleak midwinter we're having right now seems to provide the necessary contrast of season and activity. A time for nurturing oneself, family, friends and neighbours. Keeping warm - I treated myself to some really cosy boots - early nights, sitting by the fire, lighting candles, making soup, seems the right thing to be doing.

I made an Advent Calendar at the weekend, and am filling its pockets with little knitted things, which are hung along the top. This is giving me an inordinate amount of pleasure. Making things, handling fabrics and yarns, paper, pens and scissors, can be therapeutic in itself. A client has been making a very simple collage of affirmative statements of her own, written out and made into speech bubbles around a picture of herself. Her eyesight is poor, so we've shared the cutting and pasting. She commented on how soothing it was to do this task together.

Thanks to all of you who read my blog and for your comments and emails.
theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com
I wish you peace, joy and contentment whatever your own midwinter brings.

Umbrellas in Paris

2008-11-07T18:35:00.009Z

Usually there is something which drives me to update my blog, and I start with an idea, often with a title before I begin, but I've been struggling this month. I've decided that I'm in a transition, which often manifests itself as a kind of stuckness.......the desert without an oasis in sight, the flat expanse of ocean, far from land. Yesterday, I found myself lost on a dual carriageway, in driving rain and fog, without a clear idea of where I was. However, I decided to leave the dual carraiageway and head back, re-tracing my route until I found myself back at the roundabout where I'd taken the wrong exit.

I think that's how life has been lately, finding myself a bit lost, but coming around again to a place I recognise and making a more considered choice about which road to take. I decided some months ago to cut back on my working hours to spend more time on my own creative work, but have found the days and weeks passing without anything much to show for them. Now new work opportunities have made me focus again on what my priorities are - to have a balance in my life which makes me feel content ( for me this is better than happiness, which tends to happen in fleeting perfect moments - the photograph, a shop window in one of the passages in Montmartre, taken two weeks ago on a wet day in Paris, represents one of those.)

I've taken some decisions which allow me space to give my therapy clients my full attention, before and after a session, as well as during it. Time to reflect on process is too easily lost when under pressure. I feel more confident as a supervisor, enjoying the experience of group and individual work. I also worry less about work in between times, finding my increasing enjoyment of music, knitting and sewing gives me tremendous satisfaction, fulfilling some of my own creative needs, both alone and with others. I think having my own parallel creative life makes me more receptive to the often small and subtle ways in which clients wish to express their thoughts and feelings through creative activities.

I wonder what part personal creative activities play in the lives of other arts therapists. I found when I was training that the work we did on the course opened up a side of me that I had lost. As a drama teacher, all my own creative energy seemed to go into my job, and it was a joy to re-discover my interest in drawing, painting, music and acting, as part of my own journey as a therapist. But once established in my dramatherapy practice, time for personal creative activity was squeezed out by work, somehow more worthy and deserving of my attention.

So - what part should creativity play in the life of a dramatherapist?

your comment, question, suggestion....

Vide Grenier (Empty your Attic)

2008-09-17T16:23:00.005+01:00

I discovered the joys of the Vide Grenier on a French holiday some years ago, marvelling at the boxes of rusty keys, broken dolls, stuffed animals and wheel-less pushchairs arrayed at the kerbside of the small towns of the South West on summer Sundays. This year, we came home to begin work on turning a boxroom on our top floor into a shower room for visitors. Not only did the boxroom have to be emptied, but the floor of the attic above had to cleared to provide access to pipes and wiring.

My first thought was to have our own Vide Grenier in our small front garden, but it seemed a little presumptuous to display our junk to our neighbours' eyes and expect them to pay us money for it. As we assembled a motley collection of bedspreads, plastic flowers, seventies clothes and mirrors (I used to collect them, but have run out of wall space), each item seemed to stir up memories and associations. My partner decided it was time to part with his dog bed, bowls and leads. I let the cat loo go (enclosed, hygenic, with free unopened bag of cat litter), along with my studded leather coat from 1968 and the blue bead curtains dating from my somewhat OTT post-divorce home decorating phase. Inspiration struck, and I Googled 'car boot sales'. I found there was to be one the following Sunday about 3 miles from us. Fired with enthusiasm, I printed out pages of hints and tips from the internet.

Don't put on price stickers, State your price with conviction, Take a picnic, wipes and plastic bags. Don't expect to sell exercise equipment or wigs.

Preparing for the boot sale became my main preoccupation. Yes, I was returning to work the following week, and should perhaps have been looking out materials and planning ahead, but somehow the need to shift the emotionally laden pile of formerly significant things was more pressing. Sometimes letting something go is an acknowledgement that never again will one

go ski-ing, do karate, own a dog or a horse ( yes, the tack box was going too), wear a wine suede mini-skirt...........

I lay awake at night, mentally arranging and re-arranging our stall. I took things out of the pile, looked at them for a while with a lump in my throat, then put them back.

The day dawned. I leapt out of bed and pulled open the curtains - it was raining hard, as forecasted. However, nothing daunted, I managed to repark the car close to the house and began loading up. My other half was struggling to wake up - he'd driven to Glasgow and back the day before and we'd got home late - but he did get involved with the packing and sandwich- making.

We arrived to find the site unusually quiet. Not many cars at all. We got a good pitch and began to set up our table and clothes rail. People descended on us, picking things up as we set them out, making it difficult to set out our wares. The wind had got up, and snatched scarves, bags and dresses from our hands. We took it in turns to pursue our escaped goods and bring them back. Next time, I said, we bring clothes pegs. A pottery lamp fell off the table the table and smashed on the ground. Meantime, my partner's mood lifted - he'd made his first sale!

The rain came and went. We huddled against the car, hoods up, eating our bacon rolls and drinking lukewarm coffee. Amazingly, people continued to buy things - the bead curtains, the dog bed, cat loo and the Sega Megadrive (collector's item?). After two hours, people were packing up, but still the potential buyers came - my daughter's size 7 boots went to the woman at the next car as we were putting our stuff away. Once we were home and had decanted our remaining 'stock' to the shed to be handy for next time (yes, we were hooked!), we counted our takings - a profit of over £20 - not bad for a couple of hours on the wettest, windiest Sunday of the summer.

Reflecting on the meaning of this experience, it feels not unlike therapy. You go into some obscure places, discover things which were important and meaningful. Dragged out into the light, they are examined for what they are, often appearing less significant than our memories had suggested. Some can be discarded, not worth keeping or passing on to others. Some are still precious, irrelevant to our life as it is now, but of value to others. Like the dog bed, with its newly laundered padded lining and cushion, which went to a lady who was taking it home for a rescued pet in need of comfort and care. Or the curtains of blue moons and stars, seized with great enthusiasm by two young men with limited English - I'd love to see what they did with them. We let go of stuff from the past, having processed it in some way, laying it out and offering it up to the world.

I've started work again with a kind of lightness, a sense of having dealt with some of my own baggage from the past and the weighty problems of the past six months. The empty attic is a metaphor for the bit of me that is ready to be receptive to others, a potential space to which they can bring their concerns.

Beached

2008-06-24T10:14:00.005+01:00

After the squalls and tempests of the past few months, I find myself close to a shore, a perfect tropical island with white sand, blue sky and waves gently lapping on the beach. I picture myself stretched out under a large umbrella, with nothing whatsoever to worry about. (I'm actually going on holiday to rural France, miles from the sea, but there is a pool, and the feeling is the same!)

I'm not quite there yet; my to-do list is barely started, but it consists of pleasant tasks.
Download e books to my ILIAD book reader
Work out patterns for holiday knitting projects
Decide which guitar music to take
Paint my toenails

I have some domestic chores to deal with, but they are soothing and manageable, not subject to sudden shocks and night-time phone calls. I will make farewell visits to family members, two of whom are now recovering from major illnesses. I have a couple of lunch dates with friends and a party next week, in which, when I was invited a few weeks back, I had no interest in going to, but now anticipate with some pleasure, even planning what to wear!

Work is behind me now. I've just done the room booking and information disseminating for the supervision group which begins in September, and put my private clients' next appointment dates in the diary, again for September. Apart from losing a cheque, my accounts are almost up -to-date (the tax return will wait) and I should convert my desk to a sewing space in the next few days. I can't quite believe I've managed to come through the past few months of constant tension and anxiety to this place of calm acceptance.

There are still hard things to deal with, but surviving the storm makes me appreciate the momentary joys. Roses spilling out of a jug in my kitchen, with their delicate scent reminding me of childfood summers, falling asleep in my hammock in the sunshine, being able to play a Norah Jones song on the piano, my daughter sending me a story she'd just written about her childhood, the leisure to enjoy toast and coffee when I finish this. So this is goodbye for the summer. Thanks to all of you who read my blog - it's nice when you let me know that I've touched on something to which you relate personally.
Leave a comment or email me at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com
I'll be back in September. Au revoir!

Waving, but not Drowning

2008-05-28T09:56:00.011+01:00

When I visited my GP the other day with a chest infection needing antibiotics, she commented on how unusual it was for me to get ill. She knows a bit about the stress I'm under from family issues and said that my need to go on coping makes me vulnerable to physical ill-health. She described me as a little boat, tossed on the waves, with no way of knowing where the next squall will come from, but staying afloat.

I liked this metaphor and have been developing it in my own mind over the past two days. I have a life-jacket, some supplies, a torch and flares. I have a compass, and can batten down the hatches when I need to sleep. My doctor is one of the lighthouses whose beams keep me on course. A close friend who lives nearby is my anchor, keeping me still and steady for a time - I spent Monday at her house, being fed, listened to and comforted. She had her own bad news to tell, so we rocked at anchor together. When my partner got home from work, he was the support boat, able to tether himself alongside for a time, provide new supplies and much needed human company through the night. Yesterday I saw clients as usual - they didn't seem to notice the sea around them, or my orange life-jacket, but sat in their usual seats, and, for that therapeutic hour with each of them, I was back in my study at home.

Today, I have cancelled a meeting and can stay in my study, knowing I have to get back on the boat tomorrow, but can forget about having to steer a course (sometimes with a rudder which is not responsive to my efforts) and perform routine tasks to prepare me for the next part of the voyage. I have carried on knitting (like the seaman's knots, it is a useful manual task) and am wearing the asymmetric top completed last night. Made from a dyed, unravelled old cotton sweater, with some ribbon yarn as edgings, it feels comfortingly familiar but new. I have quite a bit of writing to do - a piece for the Prompt about the Supervisors' Day in London, for which I can use some of what I wrote in a previous post, a case history to complete the nurses training course materials, some invoices (tedious but necessary) and a proposal for my next piece of NHS work.

Since I began thinking about this image, the words 'though tempest-tossed' have kept repeating in my mind. I'm not religious but felt there must be a biblical source. I've just found it, in Isaiah (King James version)

O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.

The precious stones sound good, but I really like the image of the 'fair colours'. I'm reminded of the pleasure I take in the cotton, cashmere, linen and silk yarns I choose and use in my knitting, maybe it provides the grounding, the stones I need to feel beneath my feet when I step ashore - colours, like madder, brazilwood, lipstick tree, rosso, Turkish plum, gooseberry, sunflower, tangerine, delphinium.......

I'm realising that this post is more personal than some, although it does reflect some of the tensions around being a dramatherapist, and not just having a life as well, but being at times profoundly affected by that life. The metaphor I've used may be an obvious one, but I've found it helpful, as often happens when we find a way to help our clients through things which need to be addressed indirectly when the reality is just too painful. It means a lot to me when someone who has read my blog finds it resonates with their own feelings. I enjoy receiving emails, to which I do respond personally. So do post a comment or send me your thoughts at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com

Swimming Through Jelly

2008-04-18T08:43:00.007+01:00

I'm faced with a major challenge right now. How do I practise as a dramatherapist while dealing with major problems in my personal life?
For two weeks I've been trying to cope with three separate and equally serious crises within my immediate family. I feel like I'm swimming through some kind of jelly, not shut inside the perspex globe of depression, but slowed down, forgetful, finding myself driving to the wrong destination, losing keys, documents. I'm waking early, falling asleep on buses and trains, unable to read anything but undemanding crime and romantic fiction. My partner, friends and grown-up daughters have been my constant supports and tell me how well I'm coping, but this weekend I've retreated to bed and the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with mindless US dramas on television and my knitting. When I was on holiday I knitted a rabbit for a friend's toddler, and am now on a second version for another friend's new grandson. Therapeutic!

As far as work is concerned, I've had to prioritise, see the clients who most need their sessions and leave the accounts, the report I've promised to write for The Prompt and preparation for the next stage of the training I'm running until my logical brain recovers from shock and on-going anxiety. In the therapy sessions I am doing, I find I can focus and completely forget everything else, in the moment for that hour, and write up my notes, but need time to recuperate before the next one.

I thought about not writing a post this month, but I know some of you do read it regularly, and may have had experiences like mine with with they can identify. As always, feedback would be appreciated, publicly through the comments link, or personally by email to me at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com

Small Fish, Big Pond

2008-03-26T09:37:00.007Z

In London on 17th March for the the BADTh First National Supervisors meeting I was a bit overawed by the presence of so many experienced, well-known 'names' in Dramatherapy. A warm-up exercise in which we were invited to identify our areas of work showed an astonishing breadth of expertise - in forensic, educational and health settings as well as international and global interests.

My own limited practice - with a small number of clients, and specialising in mental health problems - seemed very dull by comparison. However, I was pleased to be sought out by Lily, a dramatherapist who had enjoyed a workshop I'd facilitated at Bretton Hall a few years back, involving a dragon. I was also delighted to meet up with two practitioners who have been role models for me - Ted Wharam, a down-to-earth pioneer of dramatherapy in the 70's, an impressive guest lecturer on my training course, and the ever-youthful Alida Gersie, whose books on storytelling and story making are key texts for anyone who uses stories in their work. My copy of her Earthtales is dog-eared from constant use. It was quite wonderful not only to be able to chat to them, but to participate with them in a small group where we used objects and pictures to create individual sculpts reflecting our experience and concerns as supervisors. It was a levelling experience, revealing how uncertain we can all feel about the work we do, no matter how experienced we are.

One very useful piece of learning from Alida was the concept of a three way contract between supervisor, supervisee and supervisee's line manager. I've suggested this to one of my own supervisees and she is keen to pursue it. It had never occurred to me to to offer this, but it makes sense, particularly when dramatherapy is not fully understood by organisations. This was, in fact, a very strong theme throughout the day. We are still a minority profession, but that can also be our strength, as is proved by Ted's experience as a lone dramatherapist in the North who is now in demand for his expertise in his work with the police. He has something unique to offer.

Not much about 'having a life as well' in this post.....work has been very much to the fore, but I have been knitting, finally completing the silk jacket (my first attempt at designing a garment) I've been working on for a while, unravelling, re-knitting, adapting. I gratefully acknowledge help and inspiration from Di Gilpin, knitwear designer from St Andrews. Her online Knit Club is at http://www.digilpindesigns.com
This is my jacket:
Either side of the meeting in London, I stayed in Swindon and
managed to have a bit of time with my archaeologist daughter who took me up a windswept hill to see the white horse of Uffington. This was a really awesome (in its truest sense) experience. Just us, some sheep and an ancient chalk image of a beautiful creature which seems to be flying across the landscape. We found a Norman church in nearby Ashbury with strange double and triple headstones in the overgrown churchyard - couples and families of children? In the context of landscape and history, we seemed mere specks. And yet, later, sitting by a log fire in the Rose and Crown, enjoying a meal together, catching up on our separate lives as grown women, we did seem significant in terms of our family and its continuing story.

You can post your comments, questions, suggestions below or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Time out - or the art of doing nothing

2008-02-25T13:05:00.012Z

The state of doing nothing is on my mind just now. Having been driven for most of my life by an imperative to act, to do, to succeed, I find myself questioning this need more and more. Last Saturday I attended a half-day meeting, funded by the British Association of Dramatherapists, in Edinburgh, where the main speaker was Phil Jones, author of Drama as Therapy, Theatre as Living, a new edition of which incorporates the experiences of therapists influenced by his writing. This is a book I have often referred to since it was first published in 1996 . I was fortunate enough to meet Phil at a Sesame training day in London where he signed my copy for me. Listening to him reflecting on his own career path, now moving on from dramatherapy into wider areas of research, I am struck by parallels in my own working life. He described his motivation to write Drama as Therapy as coming from irritation that no-one was writing about dramatherapy in a way which connected with his own practice. My own writing - articles, mainly - generally comes from a need to articulate and process my professional experience. A driving force in my work has been to use dramatherapy with psychiatric patients to see if it can give expression to what Phil describes as 'the unspeakable' in ways which other approaches cannot.

In a small way, and in a limited setting, I have achieved this and had some recognition within the NHS. After doing clinical work for some years, my decision to concentrate now on training nursing staff to develop their skills in using creative approaches in their work seems a natural direction for me to take, although I still work with clients with a range of mental health problems in my private practice. I was pleased to see so many people on Saturday, dramatherapists and potential dramatherapists who will practise in Scotland in the future. The way is open for the development of person-centred services in mental health. The principle of choice is now a key element which will necessitate the provision of a range of treatments, including the arts therapies.

As always, at these events, people were hungry to exchange their feelings about and experiences of dramatherapy and there was consensus that to meet one another is a good thing. There was a call at the end of the day for people to take this forward, and several initiatives were agreed. I found myself with a sense of deja vue at this point. I was on the steering group which became the Scottish Arts Therapies Forum, I represented arts therapists on the advisory group which is now part of the Health Professions Council and was a founder member of the local networking group in Fife. Reflecting on my own position now, I decided that to have a less active role, to reflect in this blog on some of my own process as a therapist, to explore good practice through my sessions with supervisees, is probably enough. There are younger people, who have that irritant of their needs not being articulated, to take things forward in their own way.

One special aspect of the day for me was meeting up again with my travelling companion and fellow student during my training in Manchester, a wonderful young woman who has made a great success of her career as a creative arts worker and dramatherapist. Like me, she has also been happy in her personal life over the past seven years and is now expecting a baby. We always pick up where we left off, even if we haven't been in touch for a while. At the end of our training, we did a performance together telling the story of our shared and separate journeys through the course. This embodied so much of what we had learned together, and from one another, bridging the generation gap which seems largely irrelevant.

One morning last week I waited for a bus which didn't come. I had left the house before 7.30 on a cold, windy morning and spent over an hour huddled in a minimal, graffiti-scratched bus shelter with two other women, stoic in our shared adversity. In that 70 minutes, I felt freed from time, feeling the cold, but watching the bare trees shiver in the wind, hearing the birds restless for spring, knowing there was nothing to do but wait. It occurred to me that this experience was probably closer to true meditation than my rather forced efforts to lie down and listen to my Guided Mindfulness or Eternal Om recordings.

Returning to finish this after a three hour gap, I have to admit to a real dislocation with time today. A friend rang me earlier and arranged to give me a lift to our local co-op. I was surprised when the doorbell rang a few minutes later. That was quick, I said. Not really, she said, What time do you think it is?
Twelve? I guessed. It was actually nearly two o'clock. Where was I for those two missing hours? Writing, reflecting...........?

Time now to end. Till the next time.

your comment, question, suggestion....

The importance of numbers

2008-01-16T09:35:00.000Z

2008. A leap year. You can divide it by four. A year with an extra day. A year since I began this blog. A year with no major events. As yet, that is.......I remember as a child liking certain numbers more than others. Seven was always a favourite, although a bit of a cliche - seven dwarves, pillars of wisdom, samurai, year itch, brides for brothers.....Eight is much weightier, more solid and comforting, a well-upholstered cuddle of a letter. Its preface of 200 seems well-established now, after the shaky, tentative uncertainty of 2001. What do we call it? Two thousand and eight is my preference, but twenty-oh-eight seems to be widely used. Established now in my seventh decade, I feel I can adopt the title of crone, the wise old woman of the old feminine, but still masquerade now and then as someone younger, with my dyed hair, jeans and fashionable 'shoe' boots (different from ankle boots how, exactly?)

For me as a dramatherapist, the crone archetype is useful. Detached from the heady soup of hormonal impulses, child-bearing years far behind, worldly ambitions largely achieved, I can be a sounding board for people struggling to make sense of their lives. As the person who accepts and does not judge, who keeps secrets and believes in the innate capacity of every human being to find their own answers, I can provide a useful service. I had a conversation recently with a long standing client in which we talked about how we deal with problems which seem too much for both of us. I admitted to feeling helpless at times, of not knowing how to respond. My client said You're there. You listen. Maybe that's enough, good enough, like the mother I strived to be, reading too much psychology in the 70s.

This week the latest editions of The Prompt and Dramatherapy (BADTh newsletter and journal) arrived through my letterbox. I always scan them quickly to see if anyone I know is featured. Three former fellow trainees from Manchester have run an interesting training day, several dramatherapy groups for students are starting up and there's a new blog started by a BADTh member: http://creativefrequency.blogspot.com
Maybe I should be doing more, but meantime I go on with this blog, although I wonder if my random reflections are just an ego-trip. If I wasn't writing this I might be reading HEAT magazine which would not contribute directly to my professional development. But does this? It makes me think, look at my practice and invite others to comment, so, yes - it does. So I'll stop agonising about making a weightier contribution to my profession and just enjoy what I'm doing!

The final proofs of the drama book for school pupils have been sent to the editor. Word is that the book should be out within weeks. It feels now it's done. Stuff that we agonised over (this edition was co-authored by my partner) seems quite good now. Did you write that? No? I must have. It's quite impressive! The next project is lurking at the back of my consciousness daily now, however. It's going to be an in-house publication produced for NHS mental health nurses. I have lots of ideas, but nothing on paper as yet. There's a meeting next week about the training programme which the booklet will support, so I need to start thinking about it now.

Since the Christmas holidays I've been very caught up with my own non-work stuff. Especially music. My piano playing seems to be getting worse, although my teacher is encouraging. I'm back slogging away at Grade One exam pieces, while having a bash (yes!) at Bach, Strauss waltzes and traditional Scottish jigs and reels. I do enjoy it, but I have no real aptitude for music. My whistle-playing next door neighbour (and gardening buddy) has encouraged me to come along to traditional music workshops on a Sunday afternoon. I play guitar with lots of small boys and a very patient instructor. It's fun, especially when we team up with the whistles and play some tunes! My partner got his accordion out the other night (what fun we have!) and we played some waltzes together (me on piano). He is really musical and can play by ear, without any apparent effort. I am not discouraged, though. I can pick out a tune on my mouth organ - even trying that Dylan thing of strumming guitar with a neck brace for the harmonica. I suspect I look a bit silly, but haven't gone public yet! I've also been knitting. I was seduced by some wonderful hand painted silk yarn in beautiful twisted hanks. Very expensive. I've got half a jumper done but will have to blow my entire year's clothes budget to buy the yarn for the second half. Or it could just be a vest.

Talking of vests, I've been playing around with some clothing metaphors : the vest of power which deflects the slings and arrows of criticism and blame, the heart protector, a sort of red flannel wrap which cushions the wearer against the unhappiness of others, security socks, which prevent cold feet and provide grounding in rocky environments.......this picture from the Baltic Centre in Newcastle shows what could be the ultimate boundary setting body suit .

your comment, question, suggestion....

Eating the frog

2007-12-17T13:38:00.000Z

Christmas is just under a week away and I'm feeling calmer about it than I have done for years. Is this because I'm older, wiser or just better organised? The tree is up and decorated, the cards are written, presents bought and wrapped. Except for the internet orders which seemed such a good idea a week ago! I've got creative projects of my own on the go, as opposed to the ones I'm working on with clients. I was reading about a way of thinking about tasks. Choose three things to do in any one day. Time limit them and do the least attractive first (eat the frog). I've been trying it out and over the past three days have managed to do several things I've been putting off for ages - defrost the freezer, make soup and put non-slip backing on the rugs which creep across the hall every time I turn my back!

I've done my last full day on the acute psychiatric ward, and walked away without any regrets. In the New Year I begin a new training programme in creative approaches for nursing staff which is a new challenge but seems the logical next step. It means passing on some of the techniques and skills I've found effective in working with patients who find it hard to engage with cognitive approaches. Initially I'll be working with staff who already know me through previous experiential training and co-working. I've spent so many years facilitating groups - and really enjoying it, but finding it increasingly hard to maintain the energy needed to do it well. I'm accepting that I'm happier leading a less pressured working life.

Yesterday I did my last sessions with my private clients till January, so I'm pretty much on holiday.....unless the final proofs of the educational drama book arrive, in which case, there will be some checking to do to a tight deadline. A client who ended work with me a while back has been back in touch and had a session with me, which may prove to be an ending or a new beginning. That's one of the things I like about this work - every encounter is different and has infinite possibilities.

I've become addicted to watching recorded Nip/Tuck re-runs on Sky. Horribly realistic liposuction and facial surgery, along with all varieties of sex and dysfunctional relationships. Why do I like it? Joely Richardson and Vanessa Redgrave are in it - plus guest appearances by Joan Rivers and (I think) Rita Tushingham, among others. It's a bit like a dark fairytale for our times. Beauty, temptation, blood, good and evil - love and death, transformation and destruction. It features strong archetypes - maiden, witch, crone, goddess, emperor, knight, healer, magician....It's a guilty pleasure to which I can treat myself once the frog is eaten. (Today's frog has to be bringing accounts up to date which means coping with my fear of spreadsheets excelophobia?).

I'm almost enjoying having had to cancel my plans for the next two days, having succumbed to one of the current viruses going around. In between bouts of coughing I've been finishing off the clothes peg and plasticine nativity scene I started at the weekend - Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus and a shepherd. I could maybe add an angel later......I've got the ironing board out and feel quite motivated to catch up with this week's laundry, but that's probably only because the spreadsheets are still waiting. Yes, there is nothing for it - I have to eat the frog!

Please feel free to comment here or email me direct on theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Looking at the moon

2007-11-14T10:23:00.000Z

Tomorrow I will be sixty years old. Forty years ago I had just left home to embark on an independent life in Edinburgh. Thirty years ago I'd just had my third baby. Twenty years ago I was building a drama department in a large secondary school. Ten years ago I was recently divorced, training to be a dramatherapist, doing drama workshops in schools and volunteering at a mental health drop-in centre.

Now I have an established dramatherapy practice, a wonderful partner and three grounded, loving, adult children. Is it too much of a cliche to say that I feel younger inside now than I did at forty or fifty? I'm more confident, happier with my appearance - 'muffin top', cellulite and wrinkles - than I was at thirty with my size 12 figure. I love my life - my family, my friends, my work. I've discovered tremendous pleasure in music (partly thanks to my inspirational and patient piano teacher) and am enjoying singing, playing piano, guitar, harmonica and djembe. I've been asked to perform at an open folk night quite soon and am practising hard. So here I am back singing the Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen songs I learned in my teens! The quality of my performance isn't great, but it doesn't seem to matter too much. I've been having fun playing The Wind that Shakes the Barley with my next door neighbour with whom I also share walks and plants. Sometimes I can hear her playing her whistle in her kitchen while I play the piano in our dining room.

Today I've been delivering training for people who are going to work with minimally responsive brain injured patients, continuing the creative interaction activities I've been developing over several years. It was good to meet a new group of enthusiastic volunteers, knowing I'll be meeting them again once they've met the patients. It was great to be sharing the responsibility of the session with the volunteer co-ordinator who is very down to earth and realistic in her approach, but open to new ideas. It's taken us six months to get this project going, but it's been worth taking the time to get it right. In my other hospital work (acute psychiatric) I'm moving on from clinical work to staff training in the New Year.

So I'm reaching some endings in my professional life. Perhaps even defining myself as 'semi-retired'? Reaching possible end points with clients is also on my mind. Endings are seldom neat and tidy. One ending which I had anticipated happening some months ago is turning out differently from my expectations. I suppose we want to think that people will move on in a smooth progression. In this case, a crisis has arisen and our weekly sessions suddenly suspended. I don't know what is happening in this person's life and have to wait until contact is made again (if at all) This 'not knowing' often happens in this kind of work, in the acute wards where I've been working. People come and go, move or are discharged to other services. It's just part of the job.

Late this afternoon I walked down to the post office. It was almost dark and a perfect crescent moon hung suspended in the sky.
I stopped and just looked at the moon, the sea, the lighthouse. I remembered my father, last week, stopping me at the gate of my parents' house as we walked back together from collecting the newspapers. 'This is what I do', he said, 'I stop and look.' We stood in companionable silence, the morning sun on our faces, looking at the light shining through the turning leaves, at the sky, cloudy but with patches of bright blue and at the hills in the distance. Maybe this is the key to life after sixty. Taking time to stop and look.

Lost and Found

2007-10-10T09:27:00.000+01:00

Autumn is, I think, my favourite time of year. It's got that melancholy edge that adds a neat counterpoint to the sunshine and gold/bronze colours of the changing foliage. I still love scuffing my feet through a satisfyingly deep trough of leaves and thrill to find a virgin shiny conker, half hatched from its prickly green host. When I was young, I felt cocooned by the routine of term-time, the new school shoes, the ritual covering of text books with stiff left-over wallpaper. I liked the first lighting of the coal fire and the anticipation of dark nights ahead, with the nervous excitement of Hallowe'en and Guy Fawkes to come.

This year, we've had an extended 'Indian Summer' - glorious sunshine and blue skies, but with sudden unpredictable downpours. Now there's a hint of frost in the morning, and a chill in the evening air. It's making me reflect on change and loss. I have several clients just now who are struggling with change - the fear of the unknown, the reluctance to let things go which are causing them pain. 'Better the devil you know......' I've also had to look at the nature of evil - do I accept that there is this thing called 'evil' which drives some of us to destroy others? I don't think I do. Life is often randomly cruel and unfair. I believe children are born with equal potential. Circumstances dictate how their lives are shaped and can lead to them doing terrible things. I heard a radio discussion on prisons yesterday in which the premise that those who commit crimes are 'mad, bad or sad'. Madness and sadness I see all the time in my work in mental health - but badness? Could I judge someone as truly 'bad' (i.e. evil)?

How this relates to the story I'm going to tell may become clear. Here it is:

It was 4am and my younger daughter (YD) was in her house in Edinburgh, having just got home from a party. A friend was outside having a cigarette and called to her,
Come and look at this!
She went out to the street and saw a creature, quite small, running along the road, low to the ground. They walked along after it and saw it disappear into some bushes. YD called to it, making 'come to me' noises. It came over and she picked it up- a ferret, she thought. Luckily, it didn't bite. YD and friend took it back to the house. It smelt a bit funny, so she put it into the cat basket in the kitchen. YD's cat looked it at and clearly didn't like what she saw, keeping well away. The ferret, meantime, was trying to get out, gnawing at the bars. Next morning, YD and her boyfriend woke up and YD immediately remembered there was a ferret in the house, as they could smell it! It was a musky, unpleasant odour, but YD thought it was a symptom of it being afraid. She knew they couldn't keep it, so phoned the SSPCA, but no-one had reported a missing ferret and suggest that she should just keep it. She explained that the cat couldn't cope and arranged to take it to the SSPCA in South Queensferry. The woman there didn't want to touch the ferret, so YD had to transfer it to the SSPCA container.

YD and boyfriend left the ferret behind with some feelings of guilt and went off to spend the afternoon at the beach. They went swimming and had a really good time.

On the Monday, YD was with her clients (she works in social care) at their art group and
did a picture which summed up her experiences of the weekend. I was struck by its energy!

I told this story to a dramatherapist who has ferrets and is very knowledgeable about them. She explained that the smell was a bit like that exuded by skunks when afraid. She says they make wonderful pets and get on well with cats once they get used to each other. She takes hers for walks on leads. She feels they are misunderstood and often badly treated by people who keep them for 'ferreting'.

I hadn't thought much about ferrets before this. Maybe they're a bit like the people society regards as not worth caring about, people who commit crimes, people with disabilities or mental health problems which make them hard to like and accept.

I really struggle sometimes with being non-judgemental. It's the basis for building a therapeutic relationship, but I can't pretend that I don't have my own prejudices. I just have to notice them and put them aside. But I don't think I could have picked up that ferret.

Crows and more

2007-09-12T09:21:00.000+01:00

It's Saturday, and the end of a busy week, during which Being a Dramatherapist has meant adopting a range of roles: keeper of confidences, setter of boundaries, writer of reports, facilitator, mentor and delegate. I'm relaxing this afternoon by processing some of my thoughts and experiences. As well as writing about my work, I have two stories I'd like to share, one about crows, the other about a ferret. The crow story is mine; the ferret story belongs to my younger daughter.

Le Corbeau, French for the crow, the Corbie in Scots. I've always been fascinated by corvids, a term learned from my ornithologist partner. He's always liked them too - crows, jackdaws, ravens, magpies. Some years ago we were asked to perform in an impromptu cabaret at an international theatre gathering in Findhorn and came up with a version of The Three Craws. It was fairly well received, as, although the dialect was considered impenetrable by non-English speakers, our use of movement and gesture seemed to communicate the gist of the story. For anyone who doesn't know it, the song tells of three craws who sat upon a wa'. The first craw couldnae flee at a', the second was greetin' for his maw, the third fell an' broke his jaw. As a coda, the fourth craw wisnae there at a'. The action takes place on a cold and frosty morning. I've used this in group dramatherapy sessions, with the help of our three crow puppets. I have wondered about the meaning for some delusional patients of the fourth craw..........but speculation over the reasons for its non-existence can be enlightening.

The crow in the picture is Vid, the first and original, bought in Bristol. The other two were acquired later - one is female and has a red ribbon in her hair and doesn't have a regular name. The third is Squinty Beak, named for an obvious reason. I feel a bit guilty about his name, but it has stuck. In my last post I mentioned Haruki Murakami's recent short story collection. The one we like best is called The Sharpie Crows and describes the quality control system for Sharpie cakes, carried out by one hundred giant crows, and has a satisfyingly gruesome ending.

We read it in France and were intrigued, walking back to our car at sunset in the town of St Clar on our second last evening there, to see several larger than life crows, perched on walls and pedestals in a garden. We couldn't decide what they were made of. They had a matt black or greenish verdigris finish and exceedingly sharp metallic beaks. The Sharpie Crows! We walked on and noticed an Atelier Ceramique, closed but with a window through which we could see lots of interesting pottery pieces - including more crows, all different. I could tell that my partner really, really liked these crows.

We checked the opening times and went back next day to have a proper look. The crows were not mass-produced, but substantial one-off pieces, hand made by Heidrun and Anita, the two German potters who, it transpired, own both the house with the crows in the garden and the shop. The crows had proved extremely popular and most of the ones on display were already sold. However, there were two, lurking at the back of a shelf, which turned out to be available. My partner chose the one he liked best. It would be his birthday present. We went to the cash point to take out enough euros to pay for it. Then we began to think about getting it home. It was pretty heavy, breakable and an awkward shape. Friends we were to spend the last three days of our holiday with had already offered to take home some wine for us in their car. Could we negotiate with them - crow instead of wine? Sharpie (it had to be his name) was packed in a crate with newspapers. All we had to do now was break the news to our friends. They were remarkably sanguine about it. Two weekends ago we drove to Glasgow to treat them to lunch and collect Sharpie. They presented us with half a dozen bottles of wine as a present! Sharpie, as you can see, is now installed in our courtyard.

I used two of the crow puppets in my sessions at the acute psychiatric ward this week. -With the group, I read the ballad The Twa Corbies as a stimulus for discussion and enactment. As always, people came up with original explanations of the unsolved murder which the ballad describes, And naebody kens that he lies there, but his hawk and his hound and his lady fair. Two group members staged a dramatic reconstruction of the murder scene, with a sword-thrust so realistic that one of the 'audience' leapt out of his seat to check that the 'victim' was all right! Everyone joined in to create the sound of the wind as I read the last 2 lines:
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.
It was one of those moments when a real piece of theatre has been created, and everyone has ownership of it. Later, in a one-to-one session, a patient who is currently unable to organise her thoughts in ordinary conversation or to maintain appropriate boundaries with others, enacted a scene in which her crow and mine met, squawked, negotiated space, made friends and collected 'treasure' - stones and shells from a box on the table.

Yesterday I was at a conference on Arts Therapies Research with presentations on music and art therapy. I was particularly struck by Wendy Magee's keynote address and account of her work with MS patients. I found lots of resonances with my own experience of using music and sounds with a range of clients, including those with severe brain injuries. I was also glad to pick up some ideas and structures for evaluating and auditing arts therapies work, as this is something I have to address in the NHS work planned for next year. It was good, as always, to network. I met a few old friends and had the chance to share ideas and experiences with an art therapist working in a similar field. I hope we can keep in touch.

I have a feeling that this blog is already too long. The ferret story will have to wait till next time, when I can do it justice!

From la vie tranquille to life as it is

2007-08-27T14:00:00.001+01:00

I'm back! (As Dionysus says, as he swings down on a rope in David Greig's version of The Bacchae, premiered at this year's Edinburgh Festival) I've missed writing this blog and, as one person (my dad) has told me they've missed reading it, I'm going to keep on with it. So much has happened over the summer that I'm finding it hard to order my thoughts and write coherently. The first few days of July were taken up with frantic preparations for going on holiday, meeting the deadline for the submission of the final sections of the book I've been working on, packing till 3 am, then up again at 6am to set off to the airport!L

A month in the Midi-Pyrenees was just the right kind of 'downtime' for both of us. No phone, no television, radio or computer. Just the basic requirements for la vie tranquille - new laid eggs and fresh courgettes from our hosts, lots to read (we were charged £40 for excess weight - all books - on our flight to Toulouse), fresh bread and croissants, juicy peaches and tomatoes, affordable local wine and lots of sunshine. We had the usual storms and a few cloudy days, but worries about global warming seemed remote, until we saw the newspaper headlines (a day late) and photographs of the floods in England. I wrote letters - a neglected pleasure - and was thrilled to receive a long reply from my oldest friend. I worked conscientiously through the Improve your French course I'd begun in May, doing fairly well in the written and listening assessments, except for some confusion over the subjunctive! My ability to speak the language and hold conversations improved. I was able to join in the general laughter when some garlic tumbled out of my basket at the Eco Marche checkout and was picked up by a lady in the queue who held it up, saying, Quelqu'un a perdu la tete!

My partner had a brand new camera and made good use of it throughout our stay. However, there has not been time since we got back to download any of the 700 images (700!!! Serious culling needed) and look at them. I know that memories will come back when I have them to look at. Maybe I'll write some more about France then. The crow story is important - has anyone read Murakami's short story collection Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman?

What's really on my mind right now? I think visiting the Book Festival last week and also going to five different genres of show (opera, dance, theatre, art, music) in the main Edinburgh Festival programme has triggered my usual response of wanting to do more creative work. I even bought a book called Is There a Book in You? with exercises and questionnaires. I meet quite a few of the criteria for successful writing - I'm creative, I write stuff anyway, I know a bit about the publishing industry, but I'm not convinced I have (or want) the space in my life to work on, say, a novel. I'm probably too lazy. And too afraid of rejection.

Dramatherapy has taken over again as my main work commitment - it was good to catch up with my clients last week and to finalise arrangements for going back to regular sessions in the psychiatric hospital, as well as arranging to visit a brain injury unit to help me plan training for volunteers on the ward where I was working until March. I've signed up for a one day conference on Arts Therapies research in September - I need to learn more about this side of things. I'm hoping my work in acute psychiatry can be audited this time. It's good to go and meet people who are in the same line of work.

I've also been finding music more and more important to me, even though I'm not much good at it. I now own three harmonicas and can play some tunes. (Although my partner has confessed that he doesn't much like the sound I make!) We went to see the Tiger Lillies, with the amazing Martyn Jaques, at the Usher Hall on Saturday night. They make music and songs into something quite unique. We bought 2 CDs. Today I've been listening to Births Marriages and Deaths, with songs like Heroin and Cocaine, Repulsion and Obscene. Good to sing along to in the car, but maybe not with the windows down. I start piano lessons again tonight and have spent a good bit of time transcribing a piece of Bach from memory, having left the bag it was in on a train on Friday. There's a djambe drumming class I might find out more about - it's on alternate Saturdays, so would be possible. And I have a djambe......

Now I have to do boring stuff like phoning tradesmen and bringing accounts up to date. Post your comments/questions/arguments. Let me know who's out there!

The Imminent Death of Plants

2007-06-08T14:04:00.000+01:00

I've just been carrying out one of my favourite rituals. This involves my Next Door Neighbour and myself taking a tour of each of our gardens in turn - admiring, questioning, sympathising as required. We are both keen gardeners, she more knowledgeable than I am, having learned plant lore as a child and been inspired by her father's enthusiasm for all things growing. I, on the other hand, was educated in horticulture by my strict Scots grandma, who sent me out to root out weeds and put jam jars over strawberries in her neat between the wars council house plot.

Having graduated four years ago from a tiny courtyard, which over the years I filled with containers and climbers, to now having a small front garden, a courtyard to the back of the house, but with a second secret garden three times the size of the courtyard beyond it, I have learned quite fast about turning a hayfield into a lawn, digging a pond, erecting a greenhouse and growing vegetables.

Today, we began by congratulating ourselves on the splendid job we are both doing, admiring new plants recently acquired (she a dwarf plum tree, me some blue salvias), successful sowings of flower and vegetable seeds, but were suddenly confronted by the awful sight of NDN's hitherto flourishing rosemary bush, in full flower and healthily green only a few weeks ago, now withered, brown and apparently dead. We looked for signs of attack by slugs or insects and looked up NDN's exhaustive garden reference book but no apparent cause presented itself. Under 'pests' the book said 'generally problem-free'.

I sympathised and expressed concern and we went on to the ritual inspection of my garden. I also have a flourishing rosemary bush, on the other side of our shared fence, planted alongside an aggressively vigorous bronze fennel. The fennel's usually majestic plumes were drooping and limp, while the rosemary appeared to be turning brown at the edges! We both looked up at the sky, perhaps to discern some malevolent toxic cloud, but there was nothing to see. I feel quite shaken by this turn of events. Is some dreadful creature living under our boundary line, eating away at the roots of our plants? Has one of the many cats who invade our territory urinated profusely on our shrubs?

I am now going away for the weekend and have to leave my poor plants to their fate. What has this to do with dramatherapy? Well, it's a metaphor, isn't it? Sometimes our clients respond to our nurture and care, sometimes things don't work out, which may have nothing to do with our input. And like the plants, I may never know what exactly went wrong, or whether I could have done anything about it. I'm off to Manchester to take part in a workshop group with a wonderful woman who was one of my lecturers when I was training. And it's in the place where we used to meet. So quite a nostalgia trip. I'm also meeting up with a dramatherapist who was my supervisor until she moved away two years ago. Changed roles and relationships in both encounters. So I will leave the plants to survive or die and move on with my own development as a gardener and a therapist (not altogether dissimilar?) Time to pack and look forward to the journey - to Edinburgh tonight to see The Wonderful World of Dissocia at the Traverse Theatre. A play about mental illness. So that's relevant too! Any advice on plant blight or life in general welcomed! Post a comment or email theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Ending and beginning!

2007-05-24T17:53:00.000+01:00

A quick up-date about today's 'ending'. My presentation proved to be a kind of catalyst in getting some new provision made for patients. There was some plain speaking and a commitment made to multi-disciplinary working which might just be the start of something worthwhile. My future involvement will be in delivering training and providing supervision, which fits nicely with my long term career plans. More flexibility, doing more hours one or two days a month, leaving more free time for my own creative work. For now, I'm free to do my writing as and when I feel like it and to spend time playing the piano and gardening!

Barcelona was great but seems a long time ago already. It's a city rich in sensuous experience - the flower and vegetable markets, birds in cages, trees, spires, buildings like rocks and stalagmites, green space, mountains, the sea.......tapas, hot chocolate, pastries and music. We 'did' Picasso, Miro and Gaudi (as well as Zara and Mango!). I did play my mouth organ quietly in Montjuic Park, sitting on a bench while my culturally aware friend went round the Museum of Catalan Art. I could happily live there for a while. But five weeks in South West France will do meantime. I'm assembling things to take, even though it's six weeks away. Hoping to do some family catching-up this weekend - daughter just rang to confirm meeting up with her and boyfriend for dinner in Edinburgh tomorrow night.

Comments and emails welcome! theatreandtherapy@gmail.com

Endings - reflections on 'closure'

2007-05-24T10:08:00.000+01:00

Endings seem to be a theme this week. Today I'm off to present a report of my year's work with patients with severe brain injuries in a long stay ward. I'm always amazed that my prediction of the time it will take to write a report is invariably over-optimistic. I had allocated four hours, but taking into account phone calls, emails, changes to various drafts, collating, checking (and unfortunately, tippexing!) report and appendices, it has been more like twelve.....which means I have more than earned my fee. I'm a bit nervous, in a pre-performance kind of way. My audience will be small but significant. How my report is received will affect future developments, so I've spent time rehearsing. My costume of smart but bright shirt, dark linen trousers and stripy jacket is neatly pressed, and will, I hope, present a business-like but creative image. I'm wearing favourite silver earrings with green stones which were a present from one of my daughters. My props - puppet, stones, shells, play-doh - are packed, along with sound effects (thunder maker, shell rattle, rainstick, singing bowl) and music (MP3 player and speakers). The finished reports are in green folders and look quite good.

I've also had an ending as far as the first part of the book I'm re-writing goes. An email arrived indicating that it was fine. Now to get on with the 80% still to be done by the end of June. I may have had an ending with a client I've been seeing for years, who seems suddenly to have gained the confidence to move on. I know from past experience that we may not have the planned 'closure' which is the conventional ending to therapy and that this doesn't matter.

Time to pack the car and leave. Do leave a comment (click on 'comments') or email me at theatreandtherapy@gmail.com and let me know who's reading the blog. I will reply personally to emails.

Deadlines met, cases packed

2007-05-13T12:01:00.000+01:00

I leave for Barcelona tomorrow and feel relatively well-organised. I have met my writing deadlines, finished off one piece of clinical work and dealt with all my mail - email and other. I've worked out how to use a tiny removable disk drive to store all my essential documents on, although the actual technology of it continues to baffle me! It was hard saying goodbye to two clients I've been working with for a year, but endings are part of the process. They don't always work out as planned - in fact, that's the case most of the time - but I've become more accepting of that. In this instance, the follow-up work which was planned to continue provision for creative input, is not going to happen seamlessly and there will be a long gap before these clients receive any further help. I accept that this is due to circumstances outwith my control, but it's still difficult.

I'm still working on the mindfulness stuff - but have not had time (really bad excuse, I know) to actually do the 45 minute meditation practice each day (not at all if I'm going to be honest!) but I have tried to be mindful in the way I live my life. It does allow me to savour experiences more fully, so time doesn't flash by quite so fast. Travelling by public transport allows moments of quiet contemplation, just being, waiting at the bus stop or on the platform with the sun on my face (or sheltering from the torrential showers we've had lately).

I've rediscovered Johnny Cash this week. A dramatherapist friend gave us a CD and I've now got all his classic tracks on my MP3 player. I've found the words as well as the music really uplifting, like 'Get Rhythm':

When you get the blues, a jumpy rhythm makes you feel so fine,
It'll shake all your trouble from your worried mind, get rhythm!

It reminds me how important music has become in my life and in my work. I couldn't bring the piano or even my guitar on this trip, but I do have my blues harmonica in my pocket. I'm not quite sure how I will be able to play it without upsetting my travelling companion or other people in a big European city, but the intention is there. I can play a few things now, like Mary Had a Little Lamb and Michael Row the Boat Ashore, but I'm aiming to manage some Bob Dylan soon.

So - away from my desk for a week. I'll still check my email though if we pass an internet cafe. I'm still hoping for some positive editorial feedback on my finalised draft, now in its fifth version.

Taking the First Step of the Day

2007-05-06T09:59:00.001+01:00

My title is from today's Thich Nhat Hanh card. I bought this collection of 52 gathas (verses) with a book token given to me by my ex-husband for my birthday last year. I'd forgotten I still had it to spend, so when I saw the attractive pastel box with a crane in flight on the front, entitled Present Moment, Wonderful Moment, I thought I would buy it as a present for myself. I'm working through the cards one at a time, learning the verse and looking at the card over a week or so. My current one is Taking the First Step of the Day. I didn't quite note the significance of this for me at first, then realised that I have started taking for granted my ability to take any step, on any day.

I had ten years of severe spinal problems, which meant at best, that I needed a stick to help me walk - at worst, a wheelchair. Thanks to the Pain Management Unit at Bath RNHRD, since March 2006 I have been able to walk unaided. I'm also a fan of MBTs - shoes which simulate barefoot walking. I now have a smart black pair, walking boots, sandals and have just bought some quite normal-looking white trainers for summer. I really need a pair of red MBT heels for parties though! My blue disabled parking badge was sent back lst July and I now walk miles! I still have pain, I'm on lots of medication to keep it at a manageable level, but I make a choice every day to take that first step, no matter how I am feeling. It was the Bath programme which introduced me to the use of mindfulness meditation to deal with pain, although I had known about the principles and teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh through an excellent Shiatsu practitioner who helped me a great deal. I find it more and more meaningful as time goes on.

My father, a brilliant and courageous man, struggling with some loss of brain function at 87, has been very interested in the mindfulness approach and has been putting into practice the very accessible ideas in Jon Kabat-Zinn's books. He takes his 'mindfulness walk' each day, concentrating fully on experiencing every moment and finds it helps him cope with his role as my mother's carer, as well as his own problems.

I've been trying to practise some mindfulness meditation each day, but have not been too successful, although I have Kabat-Zinn's CDs to help me. I have managed to meet my work deadlines though and have had a really satisfying couple of weeks getting on with writing and working with my varied client group as supervisor and therapist. I'm also excited about the way BADTh is moving forward and am hoping to go to the national conference in York in September as well as meeting up with former colleagues in Manchester in June.

I enjoyed being at the consultation day in Edinburgh run by NHS QIS unit on the new Integrated Care Pathways for mental health. I met some really interesting people from different parts of Scotland. I was in the workshop discussing schizophrenia and was able to put some points across and find that other people were on a similar wavelength. It fitted in nicely with having put together a summary of work with people with schizophrenia - type symptoms in acute NHS wards for the NICE update. I took the train back to Fife and had a lovely French meal in a little place with authentic check plastic tablecloths and chef (non-plastic). Then I went to hear my wonderful piano teacher play at the Younger Hall, St Andrews. She was accompnying the St Andrews University Chorus. Some of the music made me cry, notably Faure's Cantique de Jean Racine.

I'm quite curious as to who might be reading my blog. I know of at least one dramatherapist who has, and I keep posting links to my friends and family, as well as work contacts. I'm trying to find a balance between being informative about dramatherapy and providing a bit of personal reflection which might amuse people who know me. So do post comments or email me with your reactions. It would help me with this concept of audience which I struggle with! I'm having a lovely weekend off - the blog counts as a leisure activity - we went to the Farmers Market in St Andrews yesterday and stocked up with organic stuff. My partner treated me to some some handmade amethyst earrings which will go with my fairtrade cotton dress. I'm hoping for sunshine to wear it in I'm on a five day city break in Barcelona with my oldest friend. I've had two people not recognise me this week - new haircut, darker hair colour (with a few highlights, but kind of coppery) and new rimless specs as an alternative to my bold purple and lime green frames. Good or bad? I like having a change. I've gone for that meantime instead of therapy. And I feel pretty damn good! More later this week when I should have met another two writing deadlines and said goodbye to two clients after a year of working with them.

The pure joy of the well-earned coffee break

2007-04-19T13:24:00.001+01:00

I've been working (more or less continuously) for four hours doing some serious writing (non-dramatherapy), scared into it by the realisation that I had set a deadline now only 6 days away for completing the first part of a book revision! However, I've done pretty much what I set out to do and am rewarding myself with coffee (decent ground fair trade, obviously), toast and marmalade. I'm also well on with the first of my two reports on my past year's dramatherapy work and have realised that if I can also get the second report done I will have something I can submit on the use of dramatherapy for patients with schizophrenia for the NICE consultation (deadline 2nd May to BADTh).

I'm cheered by the sun shining after a stormy downpour earlier and an awareness that two floors down at street level, there is a world I am nicely distanced from up here in the study. I had a good supervision session yesterday, which had had to be postponed from 3 weeks ago, which allowed me to reflect how often the pressing problem can just dissipate and resolve itself given time. But that another even more pressing problem is likely to have taken its place!

I had a nice non-working hour or so talking books with a friend yesterday afternoon and watching a blackbirds' nest outside her window. We seem to share memory blanks relating to names of actors (JAMES MacAvoy! I shouted triumphantly, an hour after her insistence that his name was Doug) and which books we have actually read or even lent to one another. It's an age thing, I think. However, I was then able to impress my son with my knowledge of music downloads, so that evens things out a bit. Still mulling over the therapy question. I now have a name of someone I might go to. Still not sure. There is something strange about my blog posting time setting. Contrary to what other entries indicate, I never write in the small hours of the morning. I have put in the correct time for this entry which is 13.24.

It's back to work but not as I know it!

2007-04-16T14:49:00.000+01:00

Having had a two week break from work (more or less), I'm returning to it today with a kind of 'spring cleaned' feeling. The website is gone. It's a relief, really. I found it hard to maintain as someone who isn't really 'selling' anything any more. When I first set it up I was working hard at generating work as a drama practitioner with many different 'services' to offer - schools workshops, performances, training programmes etc. as well as advertising myself as a clinical dramatherapist. And it did bring me work and lots of contacts from all over the world. But a lot of it is ancient history now - plays I wrote, projects long completed and not really a reflection of the way I work and live now.

At that time, I also felt a responsibility to disseminate information about dramatherapy. But there's a lot of stuff out there now.
The British Association of Dramatherapists has its own active website at http://www.badth.org.uk with a 'Find a Therapist' section and lots about training courses and different areas in which dramatherapists work.
The Scottish Arts Therapies Forum is well-established and can be emailed at scottishartstherapies@ntlworld.com.

The Health Professions Council www.hpc-uk.org has information on all three arts therapies and an on-line registration checker.

Having been involved with conferences, committees and newsletters in the past, I feel ready just to provide my own commentary on my experience as a dramatherapist and human being without having any particular agenda. I've been rather guiltily going through my vast backlog of unread posts on the BADTh research website and realising what interesting stuff people are doing, but the sheer volume and scope of it I find daunting.

The blog seems less serious somehow, with a freedom to be myself with a slight veneer of anonymity! I read in the Guardian at the weekend that most blogs have a life span of about 3 months. My original one where I said goodbye in January was right on schedule. But it didn't really have a purpose. Now I feel like I'm writing for people who are interested in dramatherapy but in other things too, so I can see this like having a chat with like-minded colleagues, friends and maybe potential clients. I've just had the rare pleasure of three days with an old friend who trained with me in dramatherapy. We didn't talk shop all the time - his toddler daughter made sure of that, as did his wife and my partner, but it was good to connect with someone who really understands about using dramatherapy in mental health settings and to compare our relative growth as practitioners from our first meeting at our interviews many years ago.

I have a challenging three months ahead, with some serious deadlines to meet, so maybe I can use the blog to make public commitments to work and therefore feel more obligated to fulfil them. Two NHS reports, due now and a major revision of a book to be done by the end of June, as well as an article I want to do about brief therapy, are all clamouring for my attention. And the sun is shining and the garden is out there...... But then is the Blog itself just a activity?

So here's an issue I'd like to raise. While still seeing clients and supervisees regularly, I'm also thinking about going back to having some psychotherapy for myself as well as my on-going consultancy supervision. Being a therapist doesn't protect you from life. I sometimes think it gives me the illusion that because I have some understanding of what's happening to me, that I am better able to cope with stressful events. But I'm not convinced. What do you think? Should therapists have on-going therapy (as we had to as trainees)? And how do we find someone one who might be on our current wavelength? Do post comments or email me at theatreandtherapy@googlemail.com

dramatherapy website catastrophe

2007-04-04T09:17:00.000+01:00

My well-established website www.theatreandtherapy.co.uk has vanished, possibly permanently, due to a hacker getting into the server and deleting files, so I'm going to use my blog in a newly evolving way to keep people who are interested in my work up-dated about what's going on! Right now I'm on holiday, but there will be lots of dramatherapy news coming soon. I'll be back.