Dramatherapy: The Nature of Interruption 9780367487591, 9780367487577, 9781003042792

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
List of figures
List of contributors
Introduction
1. “We find ourselves in finding vision”: Imagination and participation in Sesame dramatherapy
2. Image of the mind’s eye
3. The shakkei of dramatherapy
4. Encounter and engagement with patriarchy
5. Myth interrupting
6. This coming guest
7. Dreamdance
8. Dramatherapy and Greek Traditional Shadow Puppetry
9. Intuition: Interrupter or interrupted?
10. Disrupted narratives
11. Experiences of interruption: Listening to the voices of dramatherapists in training
12. Ghosts
13. Sesame folklore
Index

Citation preview

DRAMATHERAPY

This book investigates the nature and phenomena of interruption in ways that have relevance for contemporary dramatherapy practice. It is a timely contribution amidst an ‘age of interruption’ and examines how dramatherapists might respond with agency and discernment in personal, professional and cultural contexts. The writing gathers fresh ideas on how to conceptualise and utilise interruptions artistically, socially and politically. Individual chapters destabilise traditional conceptions of verbal and behavioural models of psychotherapy and offer a new vision based in the arts and philosophy. There are examples of interruption in practice contexts, augmented by extracts from case studies and clinical vignettes. The book is not a sequential narrative – rather a bricolage of ideas, which create intersections between aesthetics, language and the imagination. New and international voices in dramatherapy emerge to generate a radical immanence; from Greek shadow puppetry to the Japanese horticultural practice of Shakkei; from the appearance of ‘ghosts’ in the consulting room to images in the third space of the therapeutic encounter, interruptions are reckoned with as relevant and generative. This book will be of interest to students, arts therapists, scholars and practitioners, who are concerned with the nature of interruption and how dramatherapy can offer a means of active engagement. Richard Hougham is a Dramatherapist and Principal Lecturer and Course Leader of the MA Drama and Movement Therapy programme at Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, University of London. He is Chair of the European Consortium of Arts Therapies Education (ECArTE). Bryn Jones is a Dramatherapist and Supervisor. He teaches drama on the MA Drama and Movement Therapy programme at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, University of London. His current clinical practice includes working with adults on an addiction therapy programme and for a bereavement service.

DRAMATHERAPY The Nature of Interruption

Edited by Richard Hougham and Bryn Jones

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Richard Hougham and Bryn Jones; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Richard Hougham and Bryn Jones to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-367-48759-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-48757-7 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-04279-2 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792 Typeset in Bembo by Taylor & Francis Books

This book is dedicated to the memory of Maota Foday

CONTENTS

List of figures List of contributors

ix x

Introduction

1

1 “We find ourselves in finding vision”: Imagination and participation in Sesame dramatherapy Will Pritchard

9

2 Image of the mind’s eye Alanah Garrard

23

3 The shakkei of dramatherapy Bryn Jones

35

4 Encounter and engagement with patriarchy Pallavi Chander

50

5 Myth interrupting Richard Hougham

63

6 This coming guest David Guy

75

7 Dreamdance Aleka Loutsis

86

8 Dramatherapy and Greek Traditional Shadow Puppetry Theodoros Kostidakis

99

viii Contents

9 Intuition: Interrupter or interrupted? Rachel Porter 10 Disrupted narratives Daniel Stolfi 11 Experiences of interruption: Listening to the voices of dramatherapists in training Emma Reicher

114 128

141

12 Ghosts Holly McCulloch

155

13 Sesame folklore Adam Atlasi, Kathleen Blades and Nicole Wardell

168

Index

183

FIGURES

1.1 4.1 4.2 8.1 8.2 8.3

Jastrow’s duck rabbit (Jastrow, 1899) Reena’s Sadangu Reena’s thoughts Perspectives Shadow perspectives Dual perspectives

12 61 61 106 107 108

CONTRIBUTORS

Adam Atlasi, MA is a Drama and Movement Therapist currently practising with adolescent refugees in south London. Adam also works as a CAMHS Crisis Mental Health Practitioner in the NHS. Adam volunteers as a co-administrator of the Central Dramatherapy Alumni Network (CDthAN), organising a diverse range of cross-modal CPD events for arts therapists, MADMT alumni and current students of the training at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. Kathleen Blades, MA is a Drama and Movement Therapist based in Norwich, UK. She trained at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, University of London, 2017–2019. She has a special interest in theatre anthropology, folklore and voice. She currently facilitates COVID-19 support groups for isolated people. In addition to her private practice, Kathleen works with a variety of client groups at Verbatim Therapy, Pensthorpe Natural Park, Norfolk, UK. Pallavi Chander, MA is a Sesame trained Drama and Movement Therapist and arts-based therapist based in Bangalore, India. She works with children and adults with learning disabilities, care-givers and young people challenged with mental health concerns. She currently practises under the initiative Turiya and runs projects in different community settings. Pallavi is researching strategies and pathways that seek to support and integrate indigenous approaches with mental health and wellbeing practice. Alanah Garrard is a UKCP-registered Existential Psychotherapist and Supervisor and has a private practice in west London. She trained in 2000 as a Drama and Movement Therapist, and later completed an MA in integrative therapy and an Advanced Diploma in Existential Therapy. She also teaches developmental psychology and performing research on the MA Drama and Movement Therapy

List of contributors xi

course at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama and clinically supervises students in their second year of training. David Guy, MA is a Jungian analyst and a member of the Independent Group of Analytical Psychologists (IGAP). He has a private practice in Colchester, Essex and teaches the Jungian strand on the MA in Drama and Movement Therapy at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. He is interested in the conversations between nature and psyche, especially as they arise in dreams, myth and fairytale. Richard Hougham, MA is a Dramatherapist and Principal Lecturer and Course Leader of the MA in Drama and Movement Therapy at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. He has a special interest in storytelling and the language of myth as part of the Sesame approach and teaching pedagogy. He is currently Chair of the European Consortium of Arts Therapies Education (ECArTE). Bryn Jones, MA is a Dramatherapist and Supervisor. He teaches drama on the MA in Drama and Movement Therapy at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. His current clinical practice includes working with individuals in private practice in south London, group work with adults on an addiction therapy programme and with families for a bereavement service. Bryn continues to develop his combined theatre arts/dramatherapy practice through longstanding associations with an arts-based social welfare initiative in Tokyo and an environmental arts project in Kyushu, Japan. Theodoros Kostidakis, MA is a Drama and Movement Therapist and a shadow puppeteer based in London. He also has a first degree and MA in architecture and experience as a drama facilitator. He currently works as a therapist with primary school students and unaccompanied children and adolescents seeking asylum in the UK. Aleka Loutsis, MA is a Dramatherapist and Dance Movement Psychotherapist registered with HCPC and UKCP. She teaches Laban Movement on the MA Drama and Movement Therapy Course at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. Aleka works in Adult Mental Health for the NHS and has a private practice in therapy and supervision. Aleka actively promotes an embodied approach to therapy, drawing on her clinical and research experience and her specialist training in the treatment of trauma. Holly McCulloch, MA graduated with an MA in Drama and Movement Therapy from the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama in 2019. She works with university students experiencing mental health issues and young people experiencing bereavement. She is also Joint Secretary of Dramatherapy Southwest and runs her own exploratory workshops around the themes of embodying courage, and loneliness vs. connection. Rachel Porter, MA works as a Drama and Movement Therapist in London with a special focus upon pre-linguistic communication. She teaches on the MA Drama and Movement Therapy training at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama as

xii List of contributors

well at the Agape Dance Movement Therapy programme in Belgium. She continues her performance and theatre-making practice with Feral Theatre, as well as running her own company, Tiger’s Bride. Rachel facilitates workshops introducing her own creative method called Attunement Process. Will Pritchard, MA is a Sesame Drama and Movement Therapist practising in Co. Tipperary, Republic of Ireland. He qualified from the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama in 2017. His interests include creative dialogue between philosophy, psychology, psychotherapy and the contemplative traditions. Emma Reicher, MA is a UKCP-registered Psychotherapist, Group Analyst and Maturation Coach with a special interest in large group dynamics. She is the Process Group Facilitator for the MA in Drama and Movement Therapy at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, works in private practice, and co-leads an NHS group therapy service supporting the mental health of doctors and healthcare professionals. Daniel Stolfi, PhD is a UK-based Dramatherapist and Medical Anthropologist. He has a specialist interest in the therapeutic uses of puppetry, and how our understanding and experience of suffering and healing are informed by and reproduce social and cultural value. He is active in education, training, and research in these fields. Nicole Wardell, MA is a Drama and Movement Therapist based in Copenhagen, Denmark. Her background is in theatre and education. She currently facilitates drama and wellbeing workshops for young children. She is also setting up a private practice and co-developing workshops for the Black, Indigenous and People of Colour community. Nicole graduated with an MA in Drama and Movement Therapy from the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, University of London, in 2019.

INTRODUCTION

You are quite right to remember the storm that interrupted our conversation. In a quite irrational way, we must be able to listen to the voice of nature, even if it means breaking the continuity of consciousness. (Jung, 1957: Letter 11, pp. 20–21)

This publication offers ideas and reflections on how, through dramatherapy practice, we might understand and respond to interruptions artistically, whilst examining and exploring the causes and roots of the interruptions themselves. When we set out to develop and curate a book on the nature of interruption, we were following not only an intellectual interest, but also an intuitive and artistic questioning. All of this was underscored by the unfolding and interruptive rhythms of our times; the climate emergency, the Black Lives Matter movement and the global pandemic of COVID19. It is against this backdrop that the publication has been developed. As we write, the struggle to assimilate and integrate the urgent reckonings and truths these interruptive times are uncovering continues. In the arts, the unplanned, or the interruptive can be the most arresting moment. The actor is captured by an impulse; an unexpected sound interrupts from outside, or a nonverbal moment of silence fosters a deepening connection. The playwright moves herself out of the way for the muse, as an interruption takes shape and influences the plot, or the creation of a character. As Jez Butterworth says when reflecting on writing the play Jerusalem, “I absolutely know for a fact that it doesn’t come from me” (Butterworth, 2011). He speaks to interruption and inspiration as unplanned and unplannable. This capacity to be “interrupted” – to diverge from planned outcomes – is a compelling subject for artists, psychologists and philosophers alike. Emmanuel Levinas places interruption at the centre of his work on ethics, challenging notions of a “common foundation” and the desire for “an event of synthesis” or “fusion of horizons” (Pinchevski, 2005: 69). For Levinas, interruption requires a capacity for alterity – a prerequisite for DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-1

2 Introduction

real dialogue and communication. This prompts a different epistemology, an ecology of communication in which individuals are not solitary knowers, but part of a complex pattern of interconnections, in which subtle and unfamiliar dialogues are continuously created. This is cultivated through a kind of participatory aesthetic and a willingness to be non-deterministic. For the psychologist, an interruption may be caused by a trauma, which breaks connection with soul and life. Sometimes it is something that happened long ago, which continues to manifest in dissociations in the personal sphere. Sometimes it is an interruption in history and culture, which continues to be played out in our socio-political worlds. As Mark Napack suggests, “Both worlds create their exiles and underworlds – socially and politically, among the outcasts and scapegoats; personally and psychologically, in the underworld of the unconscious” (Napack, 2019: 1). Here the interpersonal and the intrapersonal can meet – as the unconscious interrupts consciousness through dream, image or mood. The “voice of nature”, as Jung describes above, will interrupt consciousness, but the “storms” should be remembered and the irrational forces addressed. This process of symbolisation is central to the psychotherapeutic endeavor – allowing the as yet unformed to come into our field of vision. It was such a moment that prompted the beginnings of this book as a project. 6The staff team from the Master’s programme in Drama and Movement Therapy at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama met over several days in September 2018. It was our annual review process and we sat together listening to David Guy reading and presenting ideas from his work on the animal soul. In one moment, there was a pause, a silence. His material was tackling the relationship we have with the anima mundi, the limits of the corporeal world and the complexities of Jung’s work on the transcendent function. David’s chapter in this book speaks to the preparation he did before his presentation, as he located himself and the material in the working space and offered an intention to the nature of the work he was sharing. As we sat in the silence, brewing on one of his ideas, a rook perching on the branch of a tree outside cawed. This cawing interrupted our silences and carried itself into the foreground of our shared attention. As we later discovered in our conversations, it was a communication that we did not understand but nonetheless felt. As a group, there was a sense that David’s work had already taken us away from the mundane, away from the administrative. His ideas had created a sort of shared reverie, an atmosphere in which we contemplated these ideas of initiation and otherness. This moment of synchrony, in which the subject matter became manifest in the genius loci of the room in North London, prompted and propelled the theme of interruption for the book. The rook’s interrupting call felt like a prod and a pull towards the daunting task of looking at the nature of interruption in dramatherapy and questions of interruptions from nature. Behind and underneath this was the shared experience of a student on the programme who tragically died during the time of writing. The news of Maota’s death reverberated through the student group and the staff team in the final week of the autumn term 2019. Since that day, and throughout the time of writing this book, the struggle to reckon with her death has been ever present. Memories and moments of Maota on the programme continued to reveal themselves, and her cohort and the staff

Introduction 3

team felt the impact and effect of such a sudden loss in many different ways. We have dedicated this book to Maota, as someone who knew instinctively about the power of the arts in therapeutic practice and the importance of reaching beyond differences that might otherwise divide. Having been moved in these ways, the focus of the publication emerged. The subsequent writing and curating has been far from straightforward, though the theme has offered us a strong basis from which we have re-examined and destabilised tenets, assumptions and principles of dramatherapy. For the programme at Royal Central, the team continue to address the emergent nature of the Sesame approach as it develops and forms in new contexts. Perhaps the next phase for the Sesame approach is one in which interruption is actively engaged with – as both a force of potential loss and creative agency within which there is the opportunity for the marginal to be realised. The nature of interruption prompts questions of origin. The example of the rook appearing to the staff team questions a root of otherness from nature, the muse upon which inspiration flies. However, interruption has many guises and manifestations. In a more parochial understanding, it is a distraction and disturbance from external forces that are sudden and unexpected. In 2006, The New York Times published an essay by Thomas Friedman called “The Age of Interruption” (Friedman, 2006). This became a moniker for the “information overload” brought about by the formidable increase in digital information streamed through endless online platforms. As a result, he notes a growing inattention in encounters and communications, a constant alertness to buzzes, pings and feeds from outside the immediate sphere of interaction. The individual is bombarded with messages, hooked into by algorithms and fed an inescapable torrent of information. This “Age of Interruption” presents a powerful phrase that arguably captures something of the zeitgeist in the first two decades of the twenty-first century. It challenges the ways in which human communication is developing through interfaces rather than physical spaces and the implications are profound. Further, to what extent are we critical of what we consume? Do we notice an increasingly manic state and hypervigilance as we go about our lives? For the psychologist, to what extent does this “Age of Interruption” affect the development of the Self, prompting a strange sort of narcissism? As Stewart Lee provokes his audience in “Content Provider”: You all live in a reflecting hall of digital mirrors made of Facebooks and Twitters and Snapchats and Instagrams and Deliveroos and Selfies and WhassApps. You’re the kind of people who are run over by a bus whilst looking at a bus timetable app. (Lee, 2019: Content Provider) This picture is of a state in which the development of the Self is one externally montaged, delivered, airbrushed and liked (or cancelled). However, far from supporting the development of a robust and relational personality, these interruptions from mobile devices and endless social media can contribute to feelings of isolation. Friedman’s “Age of Interruption” is a term that captures the pervasive and far-reaching effects of a world constantly plugged into the mainframe. A central problem, therefore, in tackling the nature of interruption are questions of interpretation and discernment.

4 Introduction

Questions of origin and interpretation seemed to have traction for the authors. As editors, we soon realised that the theme had prompted some original and compelling thinking about participation, narrative, aesthetics and the nature of the imagination. It soon became apparent that interruption resists binaries and speaks more to ambiguity and paradox. Whilst many of the chapters speak to inner processes of interruption, there is also attention to the extensive interruptions imposed through different social and political systems. Furthermore, as we developed our ideas as a team at Royal Central and with the other contributors, we faced the extraordinary interruption of the COVID-19 pandemic. The themes were called into relief as the extent of the repercussions and implications of the pandemic became apparent. Nevertheless, the trajectory of the writing – which all speaks to the ways in which dramatherapy interprets and works with the interruptive – kept its momentum and produced some fascinating work. A key theme that emerges is one of language and narrative. Whilst psychological language seems to be stumbling on its very own roots in the social sciences, authors move beyond tired tropes of dramatherapy and orthodox terminology, stimulating new thinking in the profession and reaching out to broader interdisciplinary discourses. These chapters investigate how interruption can configure and influence writing and address some of the historical influences on psychological language. Daniel Stolfi’s chapter “Disrupted narratives” discusses the importance of disrupting interiorised narratives and formulations of identity. He draws our attention to the insufficiency of narrative – whether autoethnographic or otherwise, and the importance of examining the source of the languages and theories we adopt. Of particular interest is his thinking on the decolonisation of language as he moves to destabilise and challenge orthodoxies of singularity and pathology. Richard Hougham also addresses the question of language in dramatherapy through exploring the role of storytelling and mythtelling. He turns to Thoreau’s term “Grammatica Parda” as a means by which we can wrench the discourse of psychotherapy away from reductive and behavioural languages: “Myth is an interruption not only to deterministic knowledge, but also to the very structure of language and our telling of experience”. David Guy breaks from anticipated constructs that codify “the way” to write about dramatherapy practice. There is an immediacy and a bold confidence in the writing here, as Guy breaks with convention to develop a compelling story, which serves to carry the reader into some of Jung’s more complex ideas. His narrative allows the writing to elicit the material discussed in ways that speak directly to the imagination. It is not perfectly formed, nor is it deterministic. Moreover, it is not over-explained nor over-contextualised. There is a belief at play here, one that is touching on the aesthetic and imaginal, rather than explaining it away. Guy’s chapter digs into old narrative storytelling and image. Another recurring theme from the writing engages the problems and interruptions associated with hierarchies. Questions address hierarchical power structures, which use existing privileges to interrupt. Interruption here offers the chance to speak truth to power, actively challenging existing and assumed conventions and systems. The issues of interruption of independence as experienced within a global pandemic bring about

Introduction 5

complex questions of agency, choice and self-determination. How is it possible to preserve a spirit of open debate and tolerance of difference without slipping into an ideological conformity? How are we to devise and articulate credible responses to the divisive discourse that avoids binary thinking and moves dialogue forward? Interruptions are by definition dislocating and messy, and do not always end in agreement, but the dialogue and the capacity to be moved seem central. Interruptive and progressive dialogue is not an end place but can be formative. How do we make space for these communications to jar and push against each other? Emma Reicher traverses this ground in her chapter, facilitating discussion amongst a group of students who experienced significant interruptions during their time studying on the Master’s training in Drama and Movement Therapy at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. Systems of oppression are tackled, prompted by the Black Lives Matter movement, and personal accounts offer testimony to experiences of hierarchy and structural racism. Pallavi Chander’s chapter explores what she describes as “the murky issue of patriarchy” and its ramifications on the social, cultural and political fabric of individual and communal life. Her narrative is set against the backdrop of the ever-expanding and fast-developing Indian city of Bangalore. The speed of urban development is in and of itself disruptive, as the built environment becomes prioritised over any consultation with the community. Her writing pulls focus around the issue of patriarchy as she describes it as being part of an oppressive system and one that insinuates itself into the family home. Even though its origins are from “without”, it nevertheless can be felt and identified from “within” local and family structures. These points are further addressed through her dramatherapeutic practice with marginalised girls, living in a slum or basti, on the outskirts of the city. Rachel Porter argues for the importance and revival of the intuitive function within the context of dramatherapy practice. She tackles a scientific orthodoxy that maintains its hegemony and fails to engage in a dialogue with other forms of understanding and relationship. She pushes back against the erasure of intuitive practice, inspired by the work of the founder of the Sesame method, Billy Lindkvist. Porter’s writing is a clarion call for a new way of working, which brings in and advances the roles of the intuitive and the feeling function. It is a move beyond the logical governance of behavioural and rational approaches. Adam Atlasi, Kathleen Blades and Nicole Wardell are three recent graduates, who write of their experience during and after their training and in relation to interruptions of professional identity and belonging. How to translate the learning experience on the Master’s programme into new and formative professional contexts? Theirs is a three-way conversation, which illustrates some of these challenges and offers personal reflections on their individual and joint experience of the transitions from training to working. Their image of the training institution as a nest, and their flight from it and towards the formation of their own professional identity tells a tale of uncertainty and the meeting of unforeseen challenges. To look beyond and beneath interruption as inconsequential is to begin to consider it in terms of what it is communicating, where it originates and how it manifests or develops form. What is the source and impetus of the interruption and how and why is it making its presence felt? As Jung says, what is not made conscious in the psyche

6 Introduction

manifests itself in an outer occurrence. This forming is an aesthetic concern that considers how the arts can engage with interruption and become interested in tracing origins. Bryn Jones examines this through connecting two apparently distinct practices: the Japanese horticultural practice of Shakkei and dramatherapy. In this, there is engagement with the philosophy of working with what presents itself, actively engaging with elements towards some sort of composition. This is a principle of allowing the interruptive element to occur, restraining from urges that might seek to reject or smooth it out. He invites the interruption into the mix of the dramatherapeutic process in order for it to be incorporated in some way. There is an examination of the proxemics between self, place and other, which works towards notions of a dramatherapeutic scenography. This is further explored via clinical practice in a prison setting and brings questions of how the prisoner’s incarceration and limited movement relate to the image of a distant horizon. Theodoris Kostidakis draws together his professional experience as a puppeteer, architect and dramatherapist to map out an aesthetic of interruption based on the archetypal figure of Karaghiozis. This character is “an agent of unsettlement, disruption and instability” from Greek Traditional Shadow Puppetry. Kostidakis explores the relationship between the conventions of the art form and the unpredictability of the character. He describes the mediating power of the screen, which allows the otherwise inexpressible to be expressed and the unseeable to be seen. The form in some way allows for and invites interruption, playing with contradictions and paradox. His writing invites questions of craft and artistry and provides a particular example, which illustrates the aesthetic in dramatherapy, through which the interruptive can become apparent. The question of how we respond to our imaginations and how this affects our participation in the world comes through in several chapters. Alanah Garrard enquires into how we borrow ideas from others and then augment and assimilate them with our own. She acknowledges her own acts of borrowing and these are introduced as she builds her narrative. In this, she engages with questions of imagination and formation, particularly that of archetypal imagery as it appears in the mind’s eye. Her writing goes on to explore the challenges of these processes in the context of clinical practice and how they surface, interrupt and alter the nature of the therapeutic relationship. Will Pritchard’s chapter begins by forging links with the mythopoetic fantasy literature of Tolkien, Lewis and Coleridge. The focus of his enquiry centres around the influential work of Owen Barfield. In Barfield’s work, Pritchard sees links to dramatherapy and discusses imagination as a force of “willed interruption” that can support participation towards healing and the deepening of lived experience. His narrative draws on image and story, exploring and examining the role and function of our imaginations. The sweep of his writing visits imaginative perspectives on the spiritual and philosophical through to the prosaic and the minutiae of the everyday. Interruptions tend to leave a mark. The break in a path, the gnarl in tree, the frozen image of a Wi-Fi connection dip. In psychology, attention is paid to those marks left by significant interruptions experienced in one’s own lifetime and increasingly, the continuing ripples of those we may have inherited from our ancestors and cultural heritage. The presence of the ancestors is often a third aspect of the therapeutic

Introduction 7

encounter. Aleka Loutsis examines meditative experiences of movement as gateways towards the repair of missing experience and developmental rupture. Her studies in this regard reach further still as she begins to engage with notions of soul retrieval and the “imaginal realm” and the healing of intergenerational wounds. Richard Hougham examines how myth presents itself through the individual and culture, cautioning against identification that can lead to inflation and madness. Instead, he suggests the performative rendering of myth in dramatherapy as a means of expression, reflection and integration of images and memory. Such images and memories are not all personal and form part of a collective inheritance, a cultural unconscious. In developing this method, the question of language in storytelling and psychology is examined, situating the Sesame method as mythopoetic and imaginal. Holly McCulloch turns her attention to the presence of “ghosts” within the dramatherapy room. She identifies and tracks moments of recurrence, which come to represent the repetition of the past in the present. She frames this enquiry by outlining a concept of ghosts and then describing therapeutic approaches from various modalities that might be employed to work with a client’s “ghosts” in clinical practice. In particular, she explores how working with myth can form a container for personal and psychological aspects of intergenerational transmission. As these chapters have taken shape and through the reading and discussing of related ideas, themes and questions, the roles of interrupter and interrupted have re-presented themselves. Central to this is our living through a global pandemic. We are all interrupted. Nevertheless, the difference in the extremity or otherwise of interruptive experiences cannot be overstated and this serves to echo and reflect the divisiveness of our worlds. The justification for interruption assumes intrinsic hierarchical systems, as we can see in the narratives and counter-narratives concerning lockdowns during the pandemic. However, the arts bring perspective, community and life in these troubled times and the “collateral damage” of the lockdowns are interruptions, as Nick Cave says, to the “soul of the world” (Cave, 2020: #121). It seems of note that much of the writing arises in response to being interrupted and/or seeking to interrupt that which has otherwise grown passive, inert or obsolete. In all of this, there is a sense of determined and focused activism, the urge to stand against an oppressive, limiting or divisive hegemony. To act for change either in thought or deed. The collected narratives within these pages are involved in such movements and concerns. They are observant, reflective and curious. They are the voices of the unsettled, sometimes urgent, often impatient, frequently clear and on the side of the decisive. The combination and cultivation of such qualities seem apt for our times, in the social, the political and the artistic. These days of reckoning turn us to look again upon old, old injustices perpetrated in the past and maddeningly continuing now into our present. These are now coming into focus again not as the responsibility of others but of us all. They call us to take personal inventory, to correlate the privilege of our awareness with acts of attention to the suffering of our world. Richard Hougham and Bryn Jones London, November 2020

8 Introduction

References Butterworth, J. (2011). Guardian Interview with Sarfraz Manzoor: YouTube. Cave, N. (2020). The Red Hand Files, #121. Friedman, T.L. (2006). The Age of Interruption, NY Times. Jung, C. (2011). C.G. Jung Letters, Vol. 2: 1951–1961. Hove: Routledge. Lee, S. (2019). Content Provider; performance: YouTube. Napack, M. (2019). The Psyche Keeps Score: A Jungian View of Trauma. Jungian Society of Washington [podcast]. Pinchevski, A. (2005). By Way of Interruption: Levinas and the Ethics of Communication. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press.

1 “WE FIND OURSELVES IN FINDING VISION” Imagination and participation in Sesame dramatherapy Will Pritchard

This chapter considers the contemporary relevance of the ideas of Owen Barfield (1898–1997) to the praxis of Sesame dramatherapy. An oft-forgotten member of the Oxford Inklings, Barfield had a profound influence on the work of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R Tolkien, and thereby on mythopoetic fantasy literature in the English-speaking world. But the scope of Barfield’s thought was far wider than literature, extending into philosophy, aesthetics, philology, psychology, spirituality, myth, politics, science and the evolution of consciousness. Our focus will be Barfield’s conceptions of imagination and participation as they relate to dramatherapy. I will begin with a discussion of participation, Barfield’s term for the changing relationship between subject and object. I will contextualise this within Barfield’s conception of the evolution of consciousness through history. For a more detailed consideration I will draw upon concepts from fellow-travellers in Romantic epistemology: first, I consider different ways meaning can manifest in different modes of participation, drawing on Henri Bortoft’s hermeneutics, and consider this in the context of Sesame sessions. Following this I will discuss the different forms of imagination delineated by Coleridge, and consider their application to the use of myth in Sesame. Imagination will be considered as a form of willed interruption, with implications for healing and deepening our lived experience. Barfield was an inheritor of Coleridge’s conception of Organic Imagination. His philosophy could be considered a twentieth century development of a Romantic ideal: the creative imagination as healer. As Harold Bloom described, The secret of Romanticism, from Blake and Wordsworth down to the age of Yeats and Stevens, increasingly looks like a therapy in which consciousness heals itself by a complex act of invention. (337) DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-2

10 Will Pritchard

This sentiment echoes throughout Barfield’s work. Barfield contextualised our present alienation from nature and ourselves within a historical evolution of consciousness. Barfield saw in the history of words many relics of fundamental transformations in meaning, indicating corresponding changes in the way human experience was structured. For Barfield, the history of words and ideas demonstrates how once humanity participated wholly and unconsciously in nature, and has since evolved an experiential separateness, giving rise to individualised consciousness and greater freedom. Barfield’s seed metaphor summarises the history of human consciousness in his conception: We may very well compare the self of man to a seed. Formerly what is now the seed was a member of the old plant, and as such was wholly informed with a life not wholly its own. But now the pod or capsule has split open, and the dry seed has been ejected. It has attained to a separate existence. Henceforth one of two things may happen to it: either it may abide alone, isolated from the rest of the earth, growing dryer and dryer, until it withers up altogether; or, by uniting with the earth it may blossom into a fresh life of its own … uniting itself with the Spirit of the Earth, with the Word, it may blossom into the imaginative soul, and live. It differs from the seed only in this, that the choice lies with itself. (2012: 79–80) Barfield appropriated the word participation to mean an extra-sensory relationship between the observer and the observed, subject and object, shaping our experience of both. The “participation mystique” of ancient cultures described above, which Barfield called primal participation, was the ancient human experience of nature as living and meaningful, and of oneself as part of this life. According to Barfield this meant less or even no separation between subject and object, and therefore less of a sense of individuality, self or freedom. Jung similarly spoke of a primitive consciousness in which nature and objects “speak” (1997: 453). The history of language, art and ideas demonstrated for Barfield that gradually, primal participation gave way to our modern mode of consciousness. Various (otherwise irreconcilable) worldviews existing throughout human history could therefore be seen as somewhat contingent on the kind of consciousness that prevailed at different stages. For example, animism and supra-individual mythic wisdom were expressions of the “participation mystique” of ancient cultures. Equally, the positivism and existentialism contemporary to Barfield’s work could be seen as symptomatic of a more modern mode of consciousness. As consciousness changes, so he argued, the phenomena or “collective representations” also change (2011: 34–5). Our modern consciousness is one in which we experience subject and object as separate, with a sense that objects exist relatively independent of us. Symptomatic of this rift are theories of art where meaning depends exclusively on the spectator, or the scientific search for objective knowledge through limiting the participation of the subject as much as possible. Although these extremes have been challenged from multiple directions since Barfield’s time, a gap between subjective meaning and objective knowledge remains culturally pervasive, with many benefits and challenges. Below I will show how

‘We find ourselves in finding vision’ 11

we continue to participate in the phenomena (or in Barfield’s less dualistic formulation, “participate the phenomena”), but that modern participation goes unnoticed. Barfield believed that noticing and experiencing our participation would open up new possibilities for how we relate to the world and ourselves (2011: 23). Comparable to individuation, a future form of participation would not be a regression, but a new relationship forged by creative imagination. The new kind of participation sought by Barfield was one that retained a wakeful modern consciousness, whilst regaining the meaningful and numinous experience of reality that characterised primal participation (2011: 146–7). This evolution of consciousness, with imagination as salvation, is in a sense Barfield’s true myth which contextualises present-day experience. Appropriately this myth is founded on the fruits of modern consciousness, in that it is the product of Barfield’s study of the history of language and ideas, and of their changing meanings. Jung provides the Sesame approach with its orientation and praxis, and the parallels with Barfield’s perspective are unsurprising. Sharing an admiration for Goethe, and with roots in Romanticism and German Idealism, Jung and Barfield sought to heal the contemporary crisis of meaning through an imaginative engagement with life. Where they might differ most is philosophically: although Jung adopted Kant’s epistemology (albeit inconsistently), seeing archetypal dynamics as expressions of unknowable noumena, Barfield held that in principle it was possible for human beings to participate as knowers at the deepest level of reality. In contemplating the defining influence of Jung’s Romantic psychology on Sesame praxis, we can consider what implications a contemporaneous Romantic philosophy might have for our work. This interdisciplinary bridging in the name of therapy is in the spirit of James Hillman who, in a conversation with David Lavery, described Barfield as “one of the most neglected, important thinkers of the 20th Century” (Lavery 2009). Barfield’s most pertinent concepts for Sesame dramatherapy are his most experientially grounded, concerning aesthetic experience, perception, imagination and meaning. From its inception, Sesame dramatherapy has privileged embodied experience over discursive knowledge and interpretation. It is often characterised as an “oblique” approach, fostering a “symbolic attitude” in both therapist and client (Hougham and Jones 2017: 30). This is intended to develop a relationship between consciousness and the unconscious. This presents a challenge for scholarship concerning the Sesame approach, in that healing is sought less through the interpretive use of psychology most known to popular culture, and more through facilitating experiential shifts in consciousness through the imagination. Some changes are outwardly ritualised: for example, a session might include a “bridge-in” where symbolically a new realm is entered. Here a mythic story may be told and then enacted, followed by a “bridgeout” signifying a return toward everyday experience. Other inner shifts might be more subtle and individual, such as the momentary significance of an interaction between people in movement, and the multi-modal attunement that might take place between them. In either case the actual nature of the transition and its implications for healing can be ineffable. Perhaps part of the value of the Sesame approach is its efficacy in forging links between these different levels of meaning, allowing wordless, symbolic

12 Will Pritchard

and affective experience a crucial place among other states of being in the same session. As an aid to reflection on these states and their value for therapy, Barfield provides a language of participation, which can guide our thinking concerning different qualities of experience. I hope to show that this conception of participation provides a helpful language for, and perspective on, therapeutic practice. How might we think about imagination? What role does it or can it have in dramatherapy? We can begin with small observations from everyday experience. Take a moment to look around you, taking in your surroundings as you read this. Notice an object within arm’s reach. How did you do it? In all likelihood “noticing” was barely necessary; it is common for us to experience ourselves as subjects in a world of already-given objects. However, diverse schools of thought recognise that for these “objects” (and more broadly all appearances) to be present to us, our participation is necessary. Our sensory and cognitive participation is required; without cognition the object you attended to would not be experienced as an object, let alone as that object. Years of cognitive development have enabled you to distinguish it from what would otherwise be “one great blooming, buzzing confusion”, as William James described the experience of a baby. Nevertheless, our cognitive participation in the phenomena generally remains unnoticed. For this reason we experience a world of phenomena that seem to exist without our participation, and we experience ourselves as separate subjects. Only when the cognitive process is disrupted do we tend to notice our participation in phenomena (see Figure 1.1). We depend on interruption to experience it. With the duck-rabbit popularised by experimental psychologist Joseph Jastrow, we can note what we saw first, and can even explore

FIGURE 1.1

Jastrow’s duck rabbit (Jastrow, 1899)

‘We find ourselves in finding vision’ 13

moving between the two perceptions in our seeing. In current parlance we might say: we can in fact “unsee” the rabbit, and the duck can be created in our new seeing (and viceversa). In this case “duck head” or “rabbit head” is what Bortoft called the “organising idea”, by which percepts take on form within our seeing. Similarly we notice this activity in ourselves when we misperceive something at a glance. Barfield called this activity “figuration”, which he defined as the unity of various faculties with perception in forming our experience of the world: When I “hear a thrush singing,” I am hearing not with my ears alone, but with all sorts of other things like mental habits, memory, imagination, feeling and (to the extent at least that the action of attention involves it) will. Of a man who merely heard in the first sense, it could meaningfully be said that “having ears (i.e. not being deaf) he heard not”. (2011: 20–21) Imagination is often a more noticeable component of our experience of hearing than other senses, as the sound may be accompanied by a (usually half-noticed) mental image. But as we have seen, it is equally a part of our seeing, albeit less noticed. Following Kant, Coleridge termed this fundamental constructive activity, the active part of perception, “primary imagination”, “the living Power and prime Agent of all human Perception” (2014: 101). The distinction Coleridge made between primary and secondary imagination, and between these and fancy, will be instructive below. This is the sense in which, although we experience ourselves as standing over against a world of pre-formed objects, this could not occur without our imaginative participation. Part of what prevents us from noticing our participation in the phenomena is that it is necessarily habitual and automatic. If it were not, we would frequently be distracted, confused or overwhelmed by perceptions. Equally we could be powerfully absorbed in perception, which might be very pleasurable. Practitioners working with people with severe autism and other learning disabilities may recognise these experiences. The perceptual world is experienced as complete and “finished” due to the unconscious activity of primary imagination. If you pick up the object that you noticed earlier, and really open your attention to its sensory qualities, you are introducing an interruption to this automatic process and allowing new perceptions to emerge. As subjects in these experiences we become more receptive. But generally, our experience of the perceptual world is not like this unless deliberately cultivated. For this reason we remain unconscious of our participation in a world that seems “finished” and comparatively closed to us. Coleridge spoke of how “in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand” (2008: 314). Imagination both promises and depends on moving out of automatised, habitual perception. This is the main sense in which we will speak of interruption. Life might introduce such an interruption without our willing it, but for the most part we will focus on imagination as a willed disruption of the perceptual process, and of our everyday experience, that opens new possibilities.

14 Will Pritchard

Barfield saw the habitual, unconscious participation of modern humanity as the precondition for the positivist world-conception, and of any conception of our consciousness as only an arbitrary addition to the world, enclosed within our skulls. Both positivism and existentialism were contemporary. In this sense the evolution of consciousness is also expressed in the history of ideas. After the “participation mystique” experienced by primal humanity, Barfield described how individualised egohood, distinct from the increasingly objectified world, emerged in different cultures. Even as late as medieval scholastic philosophy, Barfield notes how nature is still conceived of in terms of a relationship between natura naturata (literally “nature natured”) and natura naturans (“nature naturing”). This speaks to a perception still experienced among medieval Europeans of a living, ensouled nature-activity (hence the verb “naturing”) working behind sensible nature. “Nature natured” referred to nature perceived through the senses, understood as the finished product of the living-becoming nature behind it. This finished nature was more akin to the objectified nature we experience today (2014: 28). At the same time the Realist scholastics were in conflict with the Nominalists, who conceived of ideas not as living meanings behind nature, but had begun to understand ideas as names given to a reality already existing independent of human thought. In this sense medieval philosophy provides a snapshot of changing human consciousness, with an older sense of participation beginning to give way to a more modern experience of nature as separate from us and objectified, with the possibility of forming conceptual theories about it emerging. Barfield describes the experience of nature that has gradually emerged since the Renaissance as one of isolation, loneliness, materialism, loss of faith in the spiritual world, above all, uncertainty. The soul has to make up its mind and to act in a positive way on its own unsupported initiative. And it finds great difficulty in doing so. For it is too much in the dark to be able to see any clear reason why it should, and it no longer feels the old (instinctive) promptings of the spirit within. (Barfield 2012: 109) Barfield saw this sense of independent ego-consciousness as a necessary precondition for the formation of a new kind of participation; the faculty of imagination would allow for a rediscovery of meaning which nevertheless preserves our hardwon sense of independence and individual creativity. This movement from primal participation to isolation to final participation (through imagination) is Barfield’s indication of both the collective and individual course of human evolution. We can see how Sesame dramatherapy attempts to address this alienation, and how this is paralleled in the work of Jung. Both point to the supra-personal meaning speaking in myth; both use imagination to access meaning that seems to arise beyond the control of the isolated ego, but is nevertheless willed by it. Jung describes nature and instinct as expressing numinous ideas in his speculation about the yucca moth:

‘We find ourselves in finding vision’ 15

If we could look into the psyche of the yucca moth, for instance, we would find in it a pattern of ideas, of a numinous or fascinating character, which … compels the moth to carry out its fertilising activity on the yucca plant. (38) And here Jung is speculating about a primal participation of the moth in a matrix of ideas, beyond human ideation, expressed in its activity. He also indicates that the moth is compelled by the numinous idea, presumably because it lacks the separation from nature that would make it free to choose its course of action. Barfield described modern consciousness, by contrast, as being like the severed head of Medusa; cut off from the body, we reify phenomena with our gaze (2013: 28). Jung asserts the need for a strong ego in the search for meaning, but a leitmotif of his work, whether through myth, fairytale or the collective unconscious, is a re-grounding of meaning beyond the immediate scope of the ego. Not a subconscious meaning “subordinated” to consciousness, but a numinous unconscious that meets us whether we are aware of it or not. Both in his psychology and the practice of active imagination, Jung was gesturing to the possibility of encountering meaning in a way that is unorthodox compared to much of our experience of the world. The medieval scholastic disputes mentioned above exemplify a different consciousness comparatively recent in history, particularly when compared to the antiquity of myths and fairytales used in Sesame. Barfield treated these, as well as the history of language, as preserving old meanings and ways of meaning. When we bring them into the therapeutic space with reverence, we can allow these artefacts to speak in a new way, as we re-speak them ourselves. As we are able to facilitate a more imaginative engagement with the content, a dynamism emerges through our clients’ encounter with the strangeness and otherness in the space. With this in mind, we can meet the need for containing group and individual themes in a story, without minimising its otherness. The ways of relating and participating that it brings into the space can offer new ways of being, and work in tension with the habitual. Jung also warned of how myths and archetypes could possess groups and whole nations, which could be considered a regressive, unfree and unconscious form of participation. Perhaps part of the role of the therapist, holding groups and individuals in their awareness, is to allow for different states to be explored safely, and to stimulate critical detachment if necessary. Sesame dramatherapy thus provides numerous ways of exploring meaning, and these offer flexibility to our experience of Self. In other words the polarised experience of selfworld or subject-object becomes a fluid terrain where different forms of participation open up. As part of my training at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, I recall first hearing the Chinese creation myth of Pan Gu. In the myth, out of Chaos an enormous egg emerges, and within the egg, gestating for 18 millennia, is the giant Pan Gu. The giant hatches from the egg, pushing apart the shell; the lighter parts move up to form Sky, and the heavy parts fall down beneath him to form Earth. Pan Gu is concerned that the Sky and Earth may not stay apart, so he holds up the Sky whilst standing on the Earth with his feet. Pan Gu continues to grow for many more millennia, pushing the two further and further apart until they no longer seem likely to reunite. Pan Gu

16 Will Pritchard

then dies, his being becoming the whole world: his breath becomes the wind and clouds; his voice becomes thunder; one eye becomes the sun, the other the moon; his blood forms rivers and seas whilst his limbs become mountain ranges. Hair becomes stars in the sky, sweat nourishes hair and skin that become trees and plants in the Earth of his flesh, and his bones and teeth become precious minerals hidden within. Finally, the tiny insects and parasites living on his body become human beings, inhabiting the new world formed out of Pan Gu. In a free-form enactment of the story, where we could take up and embody whatever element we wished, something in me was powerfully drawn to Pan Gu’s act of pushing apart heaven and Earth as he grows. What seemed to attract me, and what had not been stated explicitly in the story, was that the act seemed to me a pure will-impulse carried out with unwavering focus. This was how it seemed to be in my imagination, in a way that was attractive to me before I embodied it. The best description of this I can offer, with the benefit of hindsight, is that consciousness and willing were inseparable in Pan Gu’s action as I imagined it, perhaps even undistinguished from each other. I can surmise that Pan Gu is enacting a primal first act of creation/separation, and that it is his first chosen action upon being born. Perhaps the text in this sense suggested a kind of pure, primal willing united with consciousness, comparable to the strength of will needed for an infant to learn to walk, but of a cosmic enormity. When this was embodied within seconds of its re-imagining, there was a sense of satisfaction and of what was imagined becoming more manifest. I felt more united with the act, but equally aware of a sense in which I was not “that”, and of something separating me from what I was embodying. I don’t know if this was a product of how I framed the experience conceptually, that there had to be a “me” and an imagined content that would then unite in action, or if that was just the intensity that I was able to experience it with at the time. Nevertheless it offered a distinctly Sesame experience of imagining facilitated by a storyteller, followed by an embodiment. The participative and imaginative aspects of this experience can be explored in multiple ways. Bortoft describes a number of more or less common hermeneutics in which meaning occurs, with different patterns of participation and subjective experience characteristic of each. To express it dualistically, Bortoft is describing how the subject encounters meaning, even though the experience may not be dualistic. One form is assimilation. Assimilation is when we encounter something new, but “come to see it in terms of what is already familiar to us”, diminishing what was different about it (Bortoft 2012: 106). “Appropriation”, alternatively, makes use in its own way of what it finds in the text … In appropriation the subject makes the meaning her own, without reducing it to what she already understands (which would be assimilation), but she does so only in a way which expands rather than transforms her understanding. (ibid.) Both of these occurrences of meaning are subject-centred, in that the subject retains control of the meaning. The meaning that is encountered is somewhat subordinated

‘We find ourselves in finding vision’ 17

to what is already known or believed. We might even ask what or who the subject is here. It is worth noting that we often seek a touchstone for our identity in our accumulated ideas, experiences and ways of thinking and living. In other words, habitual ways of living and of meaning-making are major aspects of our (relatively) consistent sense of self. These are brought into encounter with our experience. Hence if a different mode of participation is sought, it is an interruption of this habitual identity. These habitual ways of knowing have the character of the state of consciousness described by Barfield of growing alienation, where all meaning is subordinated to the subject. Nevertheless, these modes of experiencing meaning are necessary, and make up much of the substance of successful therapy. Beyond this there is “understanding which participates meaning”, where the relationship of the subject to meaning is reversed. Here we are subject to meaning, rather than it being subordinated to us. Interestingly, from the perspective of a historical evolution of consciousness, Bortoft asserts that this was the original meaning of “subject” before Kant inverted it (104). Prior to this reversal of meaning, which itself may be symptomatic of the evolution of consciousness, it denoted being subject to meaning and experience. When we are thus subject to meaning, the meaning constitutes us as subjects, in a unitary event of understanding (ibid.: 106). By “unitary event” we mean experienced and understood without being incorporated into a subject-object framework. Bortoft describes this hermeneutic reversal as something that generally occurs as an interruption of our already-understanding, at the moments when we do not understand or meet the unexpected (ibid.: 106). As we have seen above, our normal state concerning perception is one of automatic understanding, to the point where we become unaware of our participation in what we perceive. In the gap, the moment where we are surprised, lies the possibility that we find ourselves being addressed by the text and experience the reversal in the direction of meaning over which we have no control … the subject is transformed by the encounter with meaning instead of using it for her own purposes. (ibid.: 106) Here meaning meets us. Crucially, said meaning is not an object of understanding, and neither are we. Neither are we submitting to it. Rather it is a unitary event of understanding, in which we open beyond our habitual ways of being and are transformed. Returning to my experience of enacting Pan Gu, we can see how the Sesame approach offers a number of ways to free up our relationship to meaning, through both imagination and play. Having heard the story my task was to choose and embody a moment that resonated with me spontaneously. The instruction to do so quickly without talking about it opens me up to an experience, before an understanding might limit the terms of that encounter. Like many other forms of psychotherapy, the Sesame approach has alighted on play as a mode of being and participation which allows the subject to follow their impulses without controlling the encounter. In play we can experience in both an active and receptive state of participation. It is striking that in my experience of enacting a moment from Pan Gu, I retained a sense of myself

18 Will Pritchard

as a subject encountering a “something”, perhaps reflecting a need I had to conceptualise the moment within the frame of my normal experience. Equally there was something satisfying in my embodiment of it, down to the sensations in my muscles, and something of the encounter was tacitly experienced in a way beyond any conceptual frame. Equally this is recalled from memory, and some of my description may reflect how I have subsequently appropriated (in the hermeneutic sense) the meaning of the experience according to an existing narrative. Beyond this, the playfulness of the Sesame approach seemed to open up something surprising. The way that this particular moment was chosen might be compared to how we remember or discuss our dreams: a particular remembered moment seems to inspire curiosity in us. Perhaps we discuss this image with our friend or analyst. Something in me addressed this moment in the myth and wanted to explore it, but that something can only be said to be “in me” because I felt it. Can I really define whether I wished to address the myth, or if the myth wished to address me? In this sense our habitual tendency to conceive of meaning as our own creation can lead us to subordinate it to the subject post-facto. Our normal perceptual experience of a separation of subject and object, engendered by our forgetting of our participation, perpetuates itself in this way: we interpret our experiences of meaning in terms of the subject-object separation. When we feel drawn to a dream image we might be more readily able to experience it as both me and not-me depending on our conceptual baggage. Jung’s personal and collective unconscious at least sets up a continuum of interpenetrating meanings, from personal to archetypal. Even here we must be careful not to conceive of finished and objectified meaning, but the schema helps to open up a field of experience that we might otherwise close. Barfield strikes a Jungian note when he says of myth that it can be seen as not merely analogous to dream, but as a parallel manifestation … the historical equivalent of what in the dream is present and personal. One could put it perhaps that the myth betrays the “phylogenic” emergence, as the dream betrays the “ontogenetic” emergence of ordinary from extraordinary consciousness. (2013: 37) Barfield is here signalling that, just as dreams are the product of the emergence of individual waking consciousness from a superindividual consciousness, myths are the product of our collective emergence from primal participation in nature. For Barfield their images therefore “disclose the ties uniting man with the primary processes of world-creation and formation” (2013: 39). In this interpretation, as with Jung, myth and dream are reminiscent of a different relationship between self and world, and of a different participatory mode. The Sesame structure outwardly ritualises the passage between these different modes, and such a structure reflects a similar view of myth. An immediate relationship with the content is sought through dynamic play. Many different forms of imagination come into play in the Sesame approach, and in therapy more widely. We have already discussed the significance of primary imagination as an ever-present part of perception. Coleridge distinguished between

‘We find ourselves in finding vision’ 19

this, secondary imagination and fancy. Barfield described the difference between primary and secondary imagination succinctly: “As the secondary imagination makes meaning, so the primary imagination makes things” (2010: 22). Secondary imagination is presented as the meaning-making faculty, where distinctions we might normally make between finding and creating meaning become hard to sustain. By contrast to its primary counterpart, secondary imagination depends on conscious willing: The secondary I consider as an echo of the former [primary imagination], coexisting with the conscious will, yet still as identical with the primary in the kind of its agency, and differing only in degree, and in the mode of its operation. (2008: 307) The significance of this conscious willing is that it depends on our sense of individuality, which Barfield asserts has emerged historically through our separation from nature. Hence this form of imagination depends to some degree on the “not-knowing” that comes from our present mode of participation. The way that Coleridge distinguishes it from “fancy” opens up his meaning further. Fancy, by contrast to the creative activity of secondary imagination: has no other counters to play with, but fixities and definites … [it] must receive all its materials already made from the law of association. (ibid.) Fancy makes use of remembered impressions and images, binding them together associatively. It is comparatively a passive activity of association, and in Barfield’s words its products are “fixed and dead” (Barfield 2012: 88). For Coleridge it is not so much a faculty producing meaning as a “mode of Memory emancipated from the order of time and space” (ibid). Secondary imagination, by contrast, tends to break down fixities: It dissolves, diffuses, dissipates, in order to re-create; or where this process is rendered impossible, yet still at all events it struggles to idealize and to unify. It is essentially vital, even as all objects (as objects) are essentially fixed and dead. (2008: 307) I’m reminded of Bortoft’s distinction between assimilation, appropriation and the hermeneutic reversal in our experience of meaning. Once again there is a dichotomy between encountering meaning by way of past experience and habitual ways of being, and a more creative opening that allows for a transformative participation by new meaning. Compared to the more common definition of imagination as any picturing or thinking outside of our present experience, these distinctions have therapeutic significance (although in practical terms they are often not absolute). For example, many

20 Will Pritchard

clients will work with a myth or fairytale in such a way that an aspect of their experience or past seems present for them in the story, and this also may inform how we choose stories. This may be an example of fancy: an image or theme of the story becomes “filled in” with a given of the client’s experience or past. The quality of fancy would be particularly identifiable if the theme from the clients past is “seen” instantaneously, with the relative passivity of association. This can be very significant therapeutically, because the externalisation of their experience, even if it remains rather static, can help them relate to it in a new way. The affect surrounding it can be allowed to shift and move by the new awareness given to it. Coleridgean fancy can reveal the psychic “landscape”, bringing into form the issue at hand, and can also open new imaginative possibilities. Perhaps once the image is found the client adds something new or is prompted to carry forward what was discovered. Or from the static image a gestalt is felt, and a new dynamism enters in. In this sense there are many intermediary states between the fixities of fancy and the dissolving and re-forming activity of imagination. Secondary imagination could also emerge when we don’t approach an existing “issue”, but instead both client and therapist use the art form as a way into the unknown, with enactment and play (for example) offering ways into new terrain. Another experience drawn from my training illustrates the relationship between these forms of imagination and participation. An exercise was offered in which a jungle landscape was described, and we were led to gradually inhabit this landscape by freely embodying any aspect of it, from inanimate nature to plant and animal life, and beyond to more qualitative aspects of the land. This built into a free flow of interactive and embodied play between the whole group, with qualities and beings of nature surfacing and transforming. I recall exploring cycles of plant-like growth, transformation, decay and death as well as animalistic movements (graceful or erratic), and periods of stillness and rest amid a whirl of impressions and qualities. The complexity of the action, and the sheer wealth of impulses from the whole group, brought out my playfulness. Although eclectic and bewildering at times, there was a powerful sense of participation in a life beyond ourselves. It is interesting to note that this heightened imaginative activity seems to bring improvisatory and creative qualities with it. Exercises like this might even be enhanced by work with perception, such as when dramatherapists bring natural objects into the space. A moment of mindful engagement with the objects, pressing beyond our automatised perception into their sensory qualities, offers one way for nature to really interrupt our habitual seeing and open us to a new perception. And if a really vivid imagining of nature’s inner qualities is allowed into our play and enactment, whether through nature or the mythic images that express it, this could open up new and healing ways of being. Imagination of this kind is always experienced intimately, seeming to dissolve the subject-object distinction, allowing nature to be experienced within. Perhaps this unfamiliar intimacy, and the possibility of a new participation, can be therapeutic in itself. In speaking of imagination in Barfieldian terms we describe an approach to life, with a broad individual, historical and even cosmic significance. Part of the gesture of imagination is a simultaneous embracing and transcending of the given and of the sensuous. For example, hearing a line of poetry or bearing witness to a body in movement, we

‘We find ourselves in finding vision’ 21

embrace fully the sensuous appearance that bears meaning. It is sensuous, direct, immediate and affective. The very same imaginative participation is often described as a flight of imagination, and this is the sense of transcendence that comes with it. Imagination is thus our faculty for experiencing something’s wholeness, where neither appearances nor hidden realities are denied but experienced in their unity. Stephen K. Levine has arrived at many parallel concepts for expressive arts therapy. From a number of sides he describes poiesis as an artful, poetic approach to reality and a way of being that allows forms and meanings to emerge, and follows them wherever they lead (19). Levine also draws on the Taoist practice of wu-wei, a form of creative non-action, where the practitioner acts spontaneously and without struggle or effort in accord with the moment (20). The sense of imposing an idea on the materials in order to create art is avoided, allowing for a more fluid sense of the art becoming through the activity of poiesis. This would seem to offer a different form of participation, in which the doer softens their sense of themselves as a separate ego acting upon an inert object, and is instead able to identify with the moment itself in a less dualistic way. This is in accord with our descriptions of imaginative activity, insofar as imagination always interrupts the automatised, habitual and dualistic experience of the world. The static creations of unnoticed primary imagination are disrupted and opened up by secondary imagination. In this sense imagination is always active, interrupting and transforming our passive experience, but not by dominating it and imposing our meanings upon it. Instead wu-wei captures that elusive quality of imaginative activity whereby we are active, yet with a quality of surrender that allows for true creativity. I am reminded of the mode Bortoft describes whereby meaning can participate us, not through our becoming passive but through heightened imagination. Levine terms this world of poetic possibility as “Not-Even-Anything Land” (quoting Po Chü I), and I believe that this encapsulates an attitude that we can explore as Sesame practitioners and clients. Particularly when entering the main event of a Sesame structure, this radical openness can be our ritualised way out of habitual understanding; an interruption to daily life that we return from transformed. Perhaps Barfield would remind us here that he was not advocating a return to primal participation, a loss of self and a return to mythic consciousness. For modern human beings, instead he believed imagination offered that separate self the possibility of awakening to its true nature in free, creative activity. In questioning what we are really looking for in the word “healing”, perhaps we can consider what Barfield’s true myth (the historical evolution of consciousness) offers us. Here he strikes a chord with much of the radical psychology of the twentieth century, where it is less the psychic contents than our relationship to them that matters. In some ways wholeness, creativity and inner freedom become synonyms, or aspects of a state of being that Barfield sees as the fulfilment of our evolutionary potential. This creative, free individuality has moral significance: we are offered the responsibility of choosing our relationship to the world and to others like never before. The way that nature and meaning are able to manifest even depends on our own activity. Barfield likens our true individuality to the place of words within the whole matrix of meanings – part of a greater whole, and undergoing its own transformation:

22 Will Pritchard

Words are only themselves by being more than themselves. Perhaps the same thing is true of human beings. (2013: 193) As therapists and clients working by means of imagination, this might help us consider how we participate in something of the deepest significance both for, and beyond, ourselves.

Acknowledgements Thank you to Ellie Bailey for supporting me through the writing process. Thank you to Stephen Pritchard for his creative responses. Thank you to Richard Hougham for his feedback throughout.

References Barfield, O. (2010). Poetic Diction. Oxford: Barfield Press. Barfield, O. (2012). Romanticism Comes of Age. Oxford: Barfield Press. Barfield, O. (2013). The Rediscovery of Meaning and Other Essays. Oxford: Barfield Press. Barfield, O. (2011). Saving the Appearances. Oxford: Barfield Press. Barfield, O. (2014). What Coleridge Thought. Oxford: Barfield Press. Bloom, H. (1971). The Ringers in the Tower: Studies in Romantic Tradition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bortoft, H. (2012). Taking Appearance Seriously. Edinburgh: Floris Books. Bortoft, H. (2013). The Wholeness of Nature. Edinburgh: Floris Books. Coleridge, S. and Jackson, H. (2008). Major Works. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hougham, R. and Jones, B. (2017). Dramatherapy. London: Palgrave. Jastrow, J. (1899). The Mind’s Eye. Popular Science Monthly, 54, pp. 299–312. [image] Available at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Duck-Rabbit_illusion.jpg [accessed 10 February 2020]. Jung, C., Hull, R. and Shamdasani, S. (2012). The Undiscovered Self: With Symbols and the Interpretation of Dreams. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jung, C., Douglas, C. and Foote, M. (1997). Visions. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lavery, D. (2009). Barfieldians: Hillman. [online] davidlavery.net. Available at: https://web. archive.org/web/20110719185407/http://davidlavery.net/barfield/friends_of_barfield/Hillma n.html [accessed 21 April 2020] Levine, S. (2015). The Tao of Poiesis: Expressive Arts Therapy and Taoist Philosophy. Creative Arts in Education and Therapy, 1 (1), pp. 15–25.

2 IMAGE OF THE MIND’S EYE Alanah Garrard

In his book, The River of Consciousness (2017), Oliver Sacks reflects on how, to some degree, we all borrow from others; ideas, language, theories. His concern is not that we imitate or are influenced by others but what we do with that material. How our experience, our feelings, and our understanding assimilates these and how we choose to express it in a new and revised way. This chapter does indeed borrow ideas; the concept of archetypal theory, imagery, and the transcendent function from Jung, affect theory and intersubjectivity from Allan Schore, the practice of phenomenology originating with Husserl with an embodied approach from Merleau-Ponty. I borrow these ideas in order to assist an exploration and understanding of a phenomena experienced within my own therapeutic practice. The fundamental enquiry is an exploration of archetypal imagery seen as a vision in the mind’s eye by the therapist as a result of the unconscious communication and relationship with the client. I will consider this physiologically through affect, psychologically with Jung’s archetypal and transcendent function theory and phenomenologically in practice. I will also consider what this information can offer and how it can disrupt the consciousness and shared space of the therapeutic dyad. I will reflect on what it may offer therapeutically or whether it is an interruption purely by the invasiveness of its arrival, taking the therapist away from the moment of relatedness with the client. This is an enquiry into a phenomenon that brings together a number of different and perhaps slightly opposing theoretical positions. How can this approach of working through imagery experienced by the therapist in an embodied way inform the practice of dramatherapy? Historically within phenomenology, the concept of phenomena is concerned with consciousness. So how do the two paradigms, phenomenology and archetypal psychology inform each other within my reflexive practice? Freud’s early understanding that much of what it means to be human remains hidden led him to the existence of the unconscious (Van Deurzen 2019) whereas his phenomenological peer Binswanger DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-3

24 Alanah Garrard

understood this hiddenness in a different way, that it presented a mode and structure of Being-in-the-world (ibid.). For a phenomenologist the unconscious amounts to being out of consciousness, an unawareness. This may appear to be a question of semantics but is in fact more a position of how we perceive what we do not know. I understand therapy to be a process of uncovering, to explore with another that which lies hidden in order to inform how a person relates in, and to, their world, and so Jung’s concept of the transcendent function is one that allows the concealed to emerge into awareness through the union of conscious and unconscious content. It is this conscious experience that a phenomenologist will explore. For the purpose of this chapter, this bringing into awareness/consciousness comes through the form of an image. ‘One of the greatest obstacles to psychological understanding is the inquisitive desire to know whether the psychological factor adduced is “true” or “correct”. If the description of it is not erroneous or false, then the factor is valid in itself and proves its validity by its very existence’ (Jung 1970, CW8, para 192). The bringing together of phenomenology and analytical psychology, these differing viewpoints, is my attempt towards the possibility of understanding an experience that I have found difficult to define. I am not offering a definitive explanation or a dictate of meaning. Within my therapeutic practice, I am influenced by both my training as a dramatherapist and as an existential psychotherapist. The first underpinned in Jungian psychology, the other informed through existential philosophy. These two paradigms, although not necessarily easy allies, have influenced my experience of working with clients, leading me to explore how they can fit together in order to inform the work. Jung was attentive to the immediacy of lived experience and understood metaphor and image as being psychologically insightful (Brooke 2015). Over 100 years after Jung introduced his theory of archetypes, I feel a need to understand where these manifestations originate. When working therapeutically with another, how can I make sense of and use the imagery that comes to mind, especially in light of the developments of affect regulation on experience, therapeutic relatedness and intersubjectivity? Sacks (2017) names the ‘something beyond’ element of one’s understanding, which happens within the quality of subjective perception. There is a moment of transformation from cerebral calculation to subjective experiencing. Our own consciousness, always active in our waking hours, is also selective and uniquely our own, informing our choices. Is it possible that through the affect of working closely with another, we are able to touch upon our shared archetypal structures held in our collective unconscious? And can this result in an eruption through imagery into our conscious mind that may be felt as a destabilising intrusion into my work as a therapist taking me away from the present moment with the client? The word phenomenology comes from the Greek words phainomena and logos; that which shows itself and discourse or study respectively. It is the practice of studying phenomena through bracketing our assumptions and biases and to remain truthful to that which shows itself in experience. This enables an exploration of not just the client’s material but my encounter with them. Working phenomenologically is a commitment to the uncovering of experience through enquiry, to delve into the depths of understanding one’s conscious experience, and yet I am also faced with trying to

Image of the mind’s eye 25

understand further why my consciousness is interrupted by powerful imagery that essentially does not feel created by me. Jung’s archetypal theory speaks of a collective human experience that lies beyond our conscious knowing. I consider a re-working of Jung’s transcendent function from an intrapsychic one to an interpsychic activity initiated through intersubjective contact between therapist and client. For me, considering the Sesame method within dramatherapeutic practice as a phenomenological exercise allows the practice to emerge as both a psychological and philosophical therapeutic method. The German philosopher Heidegger in his magnum opus Being and Time (1927/ 1962) writes on Dasein, of being human, producing a philosophical foundation of what it means to be human. He called these ontological characteristics existentials. At the basis of my practice I work with these existentials and the following underpin how I view this phenomena of an image created through intersubjective meeting: Beingin-the-world (In-der-Welt-Sein), Being-in-a-mood (Befindlichkeit), Being-in-space (Raumlichkeit), Being embodied (Leiblichkeit), and Being-with-others (Mitsein). These feel quite remote from the more analytical psychological approach to the unconscious, and the concepts of transference and countertransference when working with clients. Heidegger’s existentials are all in the realm of conscious relating, but what remains relevant as a field of enquiry for both is the space and phenomena created between the therapist-client dyad that requires reflection and understanding. Heidegger’s Dasein considers what it means to be in relationship with another from all aspects of consciousness and Jung’s archetypal theory offers a viewpoint of what may be out of our awareness in a form that connects human experience on a more collective level. It is both these approaches combined that offer me insight into the subject at hand. The transcendent function is a collaboration of conscious and unconscious data brought closer together through a clarification of affect. (Jung 1960, CW 8) However, Jung did not mean the transcendent element had a quality of abstraction beyond reality, but that this function acts as a transition from one attitude to another. He wrote about this in the context of a subjective encounter with the archetype. Miller (2004) describes how Jung identified the transcendent function as an experience of the archetypes, of a dynamic image from the psyche, ‘it mediates not only between consciousness and the unconscious but also between “I” and “other”, “me” and “notme”, known and unknown’ (p. 80). This is when it is considered an intrapsychic activity. But what if it occurs between two as interpsychic? Could the I and other, me and not-me, known and unknown be co-created through, as Heidegger describes it, Mitsein (Being-with-others)? Jung felt that the transcendent function has the ability to transform. The collaboration of the unconscious and conscious working together allows for psychological change, ‘the symbol and the ego engages the transcendent function, the ad seratim union of the opposites, to produce a wholly new thing’ (Miller 2004, p. 49). Jung (1960) described it as the unconscious striving for the light and the conscious striving for substance. Stevens (2006) describes archetypes as combining the universal with the individual, the general with the unique. They are not intellectual concepts but entities charged with meaning and feeling, their power and numinosity manifested through the image. The symbol is an expression of something not

26 Alanah Garrard

fully comprehended by consciousness, it is an elaboration of mood where the affect is brought closer to the conscious experience (Jung 1960). But can this function happen not simply as a subjective experience but through an intersubjective connection within the therapeutic field via a shared unconscious meeting? The result, the unconscious data of the client being felt and realised by the therapist. It is my experience that it can and in ways which can feel both informative and overwhelming. Chodorow (2006) explores how affect can be transformed via the imagination into symbolic imagery. She believes that these symbolic images allow the affect to be more bearable by moving from a state of being flooded by affect to a more distanced perspective. So, as the unconscious affects are intensified through intersubjective contact, is it possible that the therapist as well as the client symbolises in order to manage the force of the unconscious? The therapeutic relationship ‘enables the analyst and analysand to become both objective observers and participants in the affect which is present and enlivened … and to explore a host of associative material which may have been stimulated’ (Schwartz-Salant 1998, p. 66). Could the images seen by the therapist be a manifestation of feeling overwhelmed and needing to manage the unconscious flow, and to what extent is it a symbolic representation of the client’s material? As with a lot of unconscious processing within the therapeutic endeavour, it is hard at times to decipher what is the client’s and what may belong to the therapist. These symbolic expressions themselves can feel powerful and have an immediate impact. Once the affect of the unconscious material has been transformed in its symbolic form, the conscious mind has no alternative but to interact with it (Miller 2004). The symbol acts as a conduit. It creates some form of dialogue between the unconscious and conscious states. Brooke (2015) writes that even the act of bringing the phenomenon into being is transformative, not only of the thing itself but also for the perceiving consciousness, and for Jung the appearance of an archetypal image can either be healing or destructive: ‘their origin can only be explained by assuming them to be deposits of the constantly repeated experiences of humanity … it always brings with it a certain influence or power’ (CW7, para 109). For the action of simply Being-in-the-world aligns us with the experience of others past, present and future. This connection to mankind, this being beyond individual brings with it a shared sense of what it means to be human. I’d like to offer an example of this. I had been working with a client, N, for a number of months. A young man in his late twenties who had suffered a sudden bereavement of his closest friend at the age of 19. He came to see me after having again lost a friend suddenly a few months prior to our work starting. He was struggling with feeling low, engaging in anything social and work. He was continuing to live his life as if the loss was not there and was frustrated by how his body and mind were not allowing him to keep going, in his eyes, effectively. ‘It is a peculiarity of psychic functioning that when the unconscious counteraction is suppressed it loses its regulating influence. It then begins to have an accelerating and intensifying effect on the conscious process’ (Jung 1970, CW8, para 160). It seemed like N’s recent loss had prompted the repressed feelings regarding the death of his friend a number of years ago to come to the surface. His coping strategies that he had grown to rely on became less

Image of the mind’s eye 27

robust with his consciousness unable to manage the flooding from his unconscious. He struggled to express any emotion within the therapeutic space and had compartmentalised all real feelings in order to suppress his sadness. In his life, anger seemed the only emotion he connected to, and although I had wondered with him a few times if he was angry with those who had died, he believed that there was no point in feeling angry with them and left no space for this. As N was speaking about his mother, with whom he had a good relationship, I saw in front of me a stack of split eggshells. They were piled on top of each other, broken halves that looked dry and brittle but together they formed an enormous mountain in front of me. The image was clear, separating and filling the space between us both in my mind’s eye but also symbolically, there was something clearly coming between us in this moment, something that I experienced as an interruption to our usual process that compelled me to disclose the image. I made no interpretation; I simply offered the image to him as an experience I had just encountered. His response was to stop, and after a few moments he said, ‘I am climbing a mountain and there is no foothold. Everything is fragile and broken, I feel broken.’ This was quite a turning point for us as he was highly defended regarding his feelings and the impact of his loss up to this point. It also allowed me to share my experience of the image, which was that I felt I was essentially walking on eggshells around him, as it felt that if I stepped too far in towards him I would split the relationship and he would not come back. Jung writes: If I want to understand an individual human being, I must lay aside all scientific knowledge of the average man and discard all theories in order to adopt a completely new and unprejudiced attitude. I can only approach the task of understanding with a free and open mind. (CW10, para 250) Adams writes about the imagination as ‘a product of being able to suspend one’s assumptions about what is, and to project oneself into other ways of being’ (Adams 2019, p. 124). This suspension is referred to phenomenologically as epoche and in the case as described above it felt that an embodied ‘being with’ N, and an approach in which I held my own state of unknowing allowed our intersubjective contact that pushed this image into my mind unexpectedly. Seeing something in person, as Jung emphasizes, causes it to come into reality for that person. By ‘seeing’ is meant an act of non-ordinary sight. It may occur ‘through’ the eyes in distinction to ‘with’ the eyes, or it may occur as a result of unconscious perceptions mediated by bodily or emotional awareness. (Schwartz-Salant 1998, p. 80) It is also important to reflect on the more difficult experiences of this kind as they may not always result in positive outcomes, but more of a sense of misattunement, an interruption in the work that causes an uninvited shift of focus and attention. I have queried whether these archetypal images experienced by the therapist may be overwhelming

28 Alanah Garrard

and a way of detaching from the client in these intense intersubjective moments. Daniel Hill (2015) writes on affect regulation theory and focuses both on the client and the therapist. He considers that through the therapist’s stance of curiosity and unknowing, one must be able to tolerate ambiguity and for this, as well as being able to traverse our own thoughts and clients’ material, we must be regulated. By this he means the ability to tolerate a range of feeling and to allow for both expressing and delaying responses with the client in mind. He writes on the negative affect that needs to be contained, such as fear, anger and disgust. There will be, of course, moments of misattunement or dysregulation and it is the therapist’s responsibility to be robust enough to repair any rupture. I would like to offer another example. In this instance working with E, my experience with image was very different to the example given above. E was a middle-aged man with whom I worked with for 18 months. He came to me with a presenting issue of depression. His sister, whom he lived with, was suffering from a long-term illness and he had become her full-time carer, life felt at times, gruelling. About a year into the work his sister became extremely ill and was hospitalised with little hope of recovery. Life became easier physically but much harder emotionally. During this period, some of our sessions felt extremely challenging. I experienced strong countertransference, particularly physically, with feelings of heaviness, dizziness and a sense that I was about to pass out. One session on a dark November evening was particularly still. I was trying to remain as present to E as I could and an image of a large black crow sitting on the back of E’s chair came into view. It felt threatening, dark and meaningful. My association rightly or wrongly at the time was death and I thought that this was possibly too painful for E to consciously bring into the room verbally. It also seemed very clear to me at the time that this was not an experience I was going to disclose to E in the moment but something that I needed to reflect on after the session as his need was so great in believing that his sister would recover. ‘[I]f the tensions increase as a result of too great one-sidedness, the counter-tendency breaks through into consciousness, usually just at the moment when it is most important to maintain the conscious direction’ (Jung 1970, CW8, para 138). It felt perhaps that I may have been holding E’s counter position, something that he was unable to bear. But could the crow also have been a manifestation of my own overwhelmed sense? The impact of seeing it had been so forceful, with its black eyes staring at me from the back of the chair. Was it a representation of death held in E’s unconscious too painful to bring, or perhaps a symbol of my own fear of failing E in this moment? My attention had been fully gripped by the image and by my thought process around it and, as Hill states, I had become dysregulated. I lost attention both on the client and my surroundings. I felt transfixed and for a few moments, lost. The image faded shortly thereafter and my focus returned to E. However, he remained very quiet and a few minutes later said he was going to leave. This was ten minutes before the end of the session and was unusual for him but knowing how exhausted he was I accepted his decision. The following week I received a text message from E a few hours before we were due to see each other explaining that he was not going to come to the session. He informed me that he had felt uncomfortable towards the end of the session the week

Image of the mind’s eye 29

before and left feeling abandoned by me. Part of me was surprised by this but on reflection the feelings I had experienced in the previous session had been very powerful. I felt that I had managed them relatively well, but this was clearly not the case. I had not become aware of the rupture until this point. When describing the procedure of the transcendent function, Jung felt that it was a clarification of affect in which the unconscious contents are brought to the surface creating a new situation (Jung 1970, para 167). E left the session with both of us feeling overwhelmed. Sadly, in that moment, I had been unable to contain his deepest fear of his sister dying as well as my own feelings of failing him. Jung states that in these reactive moments, one does not have theoretical views and concepts at our disposal in order to make things clear (ibid., para 188). It has taken many moments of reflexivity and to some degree writing this chapter to help me understand what happened during that session. If I were to interpret my own role within the visualisation of the crow, I would say death entered the space and it had frightened me. Not the idea of death, this had been with us throughout the therapeutic endeavour, but naming it in that moment. I was afraid I would push E away by asking him to look at the crow with me, but in fact by ignoring it I did the very thing I was afraid of. I underestimated his resilience and for that I am sorry. We did eventually meet a few weeks later after some communication and we were able to work on the repair and continued working together for another few months. However, it felt that something fundamental had shifted between us and that feeling of abandonment, although unintentional, was very real to E. I believe that although the relationship continued, it never fully recovered. ‘Instinctive action appears to be a more or less abrupt psychic occurrence, a sort of interruption of the continuity of consciousness’ (Jung 1960, para 265). The image of the crow was most certainly an interruption, not just in the session but in the work as a whole. Perhaps this incident led me to pursue a path towards needing to understand the phenomena further as it was not only the image and specific session but its impact on the work with E thereafter that felt destabilised. It is my understanding that the arrival of an archetypal image can be impactful, affecting and feels important. This has been my experience whilst working therapeutically. As someone who works visually, images, colours and shapes often come into my mind when I am with clients. But some feel more important, informative, significant and disruptive than others. Through theoretical enquiry it is clear that at times when I connect with my clients on a deeper level an image will come into my mind that feels more than can be comprehended as countertransference. Samuels (2006) considers the relational energy within the transference/countertransference situation as allowing the participants to access something more than in a normal relationship. But the phenomenon I have experienced in moments goes beyond this. It moves into the intersubjective realms of the I-Thou relationship and can stay with me like a vivid dream. When reflecting on the client and the work, as well as when I am with them, the image can become attached to their being, almost like a distinguishing part. I am no longer able to unsee it or separate it from what I know about them. When working in the therapeutic process, there is also a third interactive relational process taking place between the two subjects. Schwartz-Salant (1998) refers

30 Alanah Garrard

to this as a third area, the field, describing it as an imaginal act, creating an imaginal vessel: experiencing it opens one to the sense of mystery that can be transformative, much as a vision or ‘Big’ dream can be fateful … this process has an archetypal dimension, and that the experience of its numinosum has a great deal to do with healing. (p. 66) The German playwright, poet and philosopher Friedrich Schiller who had a great influence on Jung, theorised and described a third instinct. Between the instinct that held thought, form, passivity and the second of sensation, matter and activity, the third was play instinct which Jung termed fantasy activity (Miller 2004). We now know through a developed understanding of the brain that fantasy is linked to creativity and the right side of the brain. Jung wrote of a third element, in which the opposites merge, this being a fantasy activity in which there is both creativity and receptivity (Samuels 2006). Jung suggested that through fantasy the unconscious could be symbolised in images and motifs in order for it to be accessed by consciousness, produce the transcendent function and create psychological change. Although Jung is not writing about the process of being with another in this context, his use of the word ‘merge’ is interesting, which can often be the felt experience of these intersubjective connections within the therapeutic meeting. At times there is an indefinable separation. Samuels (1985) explains that to Jung these images seemed to reflect universal modes of experience, ‘a part of the psyche held in common’ (p. 24) that Jung referred to as the collective unconscious. If this is the case it seems entirely plausible that in this between-ness sometimes experienced by therapist and client, the shared collective unconscious could become manifest. Miller (2004) describes the transcendent function as operating in a space of psychological disparate states, a between-ness of unconscious and conscious. It acts as a transition for the psyche to resolve a conflict, or at least tolerate it. Again, I suggest that this between-ness can also be experienced within the intersubjective state with the therapist transitioning the unconscious material of the client into their consciousness through imagery, and if appropriate offering it to the client as the image itself. Schwartz-Salant express this succinctly where distinctions between subject/object and inner/outer disappear (ibid.). As we share this space with a client, we are no longer fully subjective and observational but become immersed and moved by it. This type of meeting of relatedness, Buber classified as an I-Thou meeting, ‘On the far side of the subjective, on this side of the objective, on the narrow ridge, where I and Thou meet, there is the realm of the “between”’ (Buber 1991, p. 228). The IThou moments are characterised by a quality of meeting and a profound sense of union. No longer me and you, but we (Spiegler 2013). In his book on Buber, Maurice Friedman (1985) coined the phrase ‘healing through meeting’ which is reminiscent of Daniel Stern’s (2004) later phrase ‘moments of meeting’, which he uses to describe the moment of change within therapy where both therapist and client

Image of the mind’s eye 31

become aware of a shift, albeit sometimes implicit, in which something new becomes apparent. Schore (2019) believes that neuroscience has legitimised subjectivity in psychology and explains that psychotherapy is now seen through science and clinically as relational; being with a client emotionally and intersubjectively is more important than rational explanations. He explains it in terms of subjectivities colliding to create an intersubjective collaboration and describes the ‘relational unconscious’ (p. 36) of the therapist and client. By this he means the unconscious communications of the client’s and therapist’s internal world, including their internal working models of attachment. Non-verbal interactions are essential for communicating unconscious affective relational information about the client’s inner world. He goes on to say that during these deep moments of contact where the client’s relational unconscious and the therapist’s relational unconscious resonate, there is an amplification of arousal and affects generated in which unconscious affects are intensified and sustained. He writes, ‘implicit intersubjective communications within the therapeutic alliance are expressed in psychobiologically dysregulated and regulated unconscious, bodily based emotional selfstates, not just cognitive mental states’ (p. 31). Working phenomenologically with what enters the therapeutic space both verbally and bodily allows for a creative form of description. I am moved by the action of being-with the client, which allows for the analysis of experience rather than interpretation. Working through the lived experience in the moment enables a sense of felt understanding for the client. Within the Sesame method, this can be expressed through movement, characterisation and creative expression. As discussed in my vignettes earlier, these are often not easy experiences. A strong methodology of practice and understanding of oneself psychologically is needed in order to contain both the material and the affect of the encounters. Husserl’s phenomenology requires a suspension of preconceptions and explanations, in order to describe and explore our conscious experience. This is an interesting concept when the experience feels like an intrusion from the unconscious that arrives almost uninvited. How do we manage to separate the conscious experience from whence it came? Perhaps at first and in line with phenomenological thinking we try to describe what the experience/symbol is itself before we try to explain why it is there. Certainly, if it feels appropriate, we are able to offer it to the client to explore what they think it may represent and how the image feels to them. Laing writes, ‘it is of considerable practical importance that one should be able to see that the concept and/ or experience that a man may have of his being may be very different from one’s own concept or experience of his being’ (Laing 1990, p. 26). Even though these seemingly powerful images feel important to me, the truth may well be that they feel meaningless to the client. Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology as developed from Husserl was connected to the unity between body, space and time. This already feels more linked with Jungian thinking and an anti-Cartesian approach. For Merleau-Ponty (2002), embodiment is the process of uniting the imaginary separation between body and mind. He argued that people perceive and conceptualise everything bodily. He stipulated that our very consciousness is embodied, abolishing the idea of a separation between mind and body. ‘It is the body as experienced by an embodied person, not the body as a mere

32 Alanah Garrard

object of observation that enters into the existentialist point of view’ (Macquarrie 1973, p. 157) and therefore into the therapeutic space. When working with a client I am not an observer, I am a participant. However, my experience and perception are still my own and even as I work with the archetypal images that come to mind, I am aware that however I phrase or share them with the client, my subjective experience of these will have bearing on the client. What I choose to reflect on will have some form of impact solely due to my choice of focus. Ernesto Spinelli frames this well when referring to metaphor, ‘If every metaphor provides a mirror, it also provides a hammer with which to demolish all other potential mirrors that, placed at different angles, would provoke competing or contradictory transformative metaphors’ (2001, p. 41). Through allowing the client to reflect on and describe their experience of the image that is offered to them through a medium of their own choosing, it is their understanding and experience that is explored rather than a set of responses to a therapist's interpretation. Due to the image being an expression of unconscious content made conscious, this too can offer a new context for the client that previously may not have been verbalised or understood. There are, of course, a number of paths that the therapist can take as with all interventions, when experiencing an image. I hope from the clinical examples above I have given two quite varying responses. The first example felt like a natural extension of our relationship. As stated, my sharing of the image allowed some self-reflection by the client as well as an opportunity to bring our relationship to the fore. Often, however, as in my second example, a degree of reflexivity is required as the shared field can be complex and affecting. Jung writes that as we attempt to evaluate, interpret or intellectually analyse we risk losing the symbolic character of the product (Jung 1960, para 168). The enquiry presented above seeks to to go beyond the existence of an experience and to endeavour to reach a deeper understanding through examination and reflection. It is an attempt to integrate what I have learned through methodology and philosophy alongside being with clients themselves. To understand not the image itself, as such, but more to explore the route of its manifestation in the therapist's mind's eye when working with a client. How might this interrupt, disrupt or enhance the work? In my view it is through the created affect of working on an intersubjective level with clients that allows for Jung’s transcendent function to take place through an interpsychic relationship and for the unconscious material to push through into consciousness, specifically in the examples I have mentioned above, into my consciousness. Schwartz-Salant (1998) questions the nature of the field created between the therapist and client, and the unconscious relationship within this dyad. This field can hold a quality, a third space, as mentioned earlier. Within it, at times, the conscious experience can be verbalised, allowing for enquiry, dialogue and discovery. At other times the affects within the field are overwhelming, difficult to attend to and disruptive. Jung believed that the unconscious compensations are spontaneous events, which can allow for a transition from one psychic condition to another by the confrontation of opposites. During the examples above, these compensatory spontaneous events were experienced by me through image and worked with to understand the client’s process further.

Image of the mind’s eye 33

Whether the result be positive or not, working phenomenologically with the images of the mind’s eye can in some way fundamentally shift the work, whether that be through the client’s own understanding or through the therapeutic relationship, allowing for some form of transformation. I believe that Jung’s transcendent function, previously considered an intrapsychic experience, through the practice of phenomenology and intersubjective meeting can move to a more interpsychic experience that enables change. This concept has allowed me to bring together ideas from both analytical psychology and phenomenology, enabling an embodied therapeutic practice and ‘being with’ the client that encourages the creative expression of the unconscious. It permits a sense of fantasy and reverie to be accessed whilst also allowing for a description and uncovering of its symbolisation within consciousness in order to reach a deeper understanding.

References Adams, M. (2019) An Existential Approach to Human Development. London: Palgrave. Brooke, R. (2015) Jung and Phenomenology. East Sussex: Routledge. Buber, M. (1991) I and Thou. In Friedman, M. (Ed.) The Worlds of Existentialism. Buffalo: Prometheus Books. Chodorow, J. (2006) Active Imagination. In Papadopoulos, R. (Ed.) The Handbook of Jungian Psychology. East Sussex: Routledge. Deurzen Van, E. et al. (2019) Introduction. In Deurzen, E. (Ed.) The Wiley World Handbook of Existential Therapy. USA: Wiley Blackwell. Friedman, M. (1985) The Healing Dialogue in Psychotherapy. New York: Jason Aronson. Heidegger, M. (1962) Being and Time. Trans. Macquarrie, J. and Robinson, E. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Hill, D. (2015) Affect Regulation Theory. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Jung, C.G. (1960) Instinct and the Unconscious in CW8 pars 265–282. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Jung, C.G. (1960) On the Nature of the Psyche in CW8 pars 343–442. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Jung, C.G. (1960) The Transcendent Function in CW8 pars 131–193. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Jung, C.G. (1970) The Transcendent Function in CW8 pars 131–193. USA: Princeton University Press. Laing, R.D. (1990) The Divided Self. London: Penguin Books. Macquarrie, J. (1973) Existentialism. London: Penguin Books. Merleau-Ponty, M. (2002) Phenomenology of Perception. New York: Routledge Classics. Miller, J.C. (2004) The Transcendent Function. USA: State University of New York Press. Sacks, O. (2017) The River of Consciousness. London: Picador. Samuels, A. (1985) Archetype & Complex in Jung & Post Jungians. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Samuels, A. (2006) Transference/countertransference. In Papadopoulos, R. (Ed.) The Handbook of Jungian Psychology. East Sussex: Routledge. Schore, A. (2019) Right Brain Psychotherapy. USA: W.W. Norton & Company. Schwartz-Salant, N. (1998) The Mystery of Human Relationship. London & New York: Routledge. Stern, D. (2004) The Present Moment. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

34 Alanah Garrard

Stevens, A. (2006) The Archetypes. In Papadopoulos, R. (Ed.) The Handbook of Jungian Psychology. East Sussex: Routledge. Spiegler, M.D. (2013) Contemporary Psychotherapies for a Diverse World. First Revised Edition. New York: Routledge. Storr, A. (1998) The Essential Jung. London: Fontana Press.

3 THE SHAKKEI OF DRAMATHERAPY Bryn Jones

In this chapter I present a rudimentary introduction to a Japanese horticultural practice known as shakkei. I do so as a white British dramatherapist and in ways which seek to respectfully honour both the integrity of the discipline itself and the significant influence this approach has had upon my own thinking and practice. Through my writing, I seek to further examine and understand this influence, building an integrative continuity in the shakkei spirit of ‘borrowing’. I have endeavoured to reflect this appropriately and in ways concordant with equitable intercultural exchange. I originally learnt about shakkei through description, example and finally through direct participation whilst working in Kyushu, Japan during the summer of 1996. This experience left me with a curiously deep and visceral impression which has subsequently recurred in my mind and informed my ongoing theatre arts/therapeutic practice. In this chapter, I’m specifically looking to reflect on the approach in relation to some of the core practices and processes of dramatherapy. Most notably, as ways of working with emergent and peripheral phenomena which might otherwise be considered interruptive. To further contextualise this enquiry I supplement my own thoughts with examples drawn from my clinical practice. Most notably this examines a piece of work in a category B male prison in the UK, working with a group of five male offenders. In working from and in between these two points of enquiry, I seek to investigate notions of ‘another place’. I ask how such ‘other places’ might exert a pull on the place of the present. And I look to examine how their magnetising influence can alter and shape our present experience in profound and surprising ways. In this, there is the interrupting frequency which can cause a thoughts trajectory or a way of being, to be forestalled, knocked off course and reorientated to a new, dawning reality. As I have been writing, I’ve attempted to work within the discipline of these shakkei-like ideas. To keep an eye on the horizon, alive and open to any unexpected glimpses of the faraway. As they have fallen into view, I’ve wondered about their happenstance and what they might say and offer to the here and now of the emerging DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-4

36 Bryn Jones

narrative. I’ve welcomed their appearance as nudges, interruptions and echoes. This process felt akin to walking between two fixed points and en route pausing, turning around, looking upwards, downwards, sideways and onwards. The resultant text is an accumulation of noticing which gathers a bricolage of concepts around a central theme. I’m looking to invite the reader’s consideration of such resonances and reverberations from the margins, calls from the periphery, which in turn trigger yearnings towards the ‘beyond’. The writing seeks to identify the spatial and aesthetic elements that define the therapeutic space and in this I argue that such influences, be they manifest or not, are ever alive and at work, silently changing, limiting or growing all therapeutic endeavours. To further enrich the central narrative, the writing also forges links with the work of artists, writers and philosophers who in various ways draw from or speak to associated aesthetics concerned with culture, spirituality, horticulture and landscape. Further therapeutic commentary will be provided by comparing, contrasting and critiquing elements of my own research with several well-known dramatherapeutic conventions as described by well-established voices from the dramatherapy oeuvre. In thinking about therapeutic practice, it strikes me that it invariably plays out against some other place; a historical site of previous events; a trauma, a wound, a loss and/or towards some future sites of hoped for growth or healing. It’s as if we are ever borrowing from these distanced places. We glance over our shoulder and look back on where we’ve been in an attempt to clarify where we are now. Or we raise our gaze to some future vista, to glimpse a desired otherness, a change from our now. And in such yearnings we seek to stir the fuel that might carry us there. In these glimpses of the other, we yoke ourselves again and again to the everemergent experience of our present. In all of this, the practice of shakkei forms a powerful metaphorical reflection of the therapeutic endeavour.

How the there and then is with us in the here and now I’m minded to begin with an example. And as I’ve just announced above, the idea that such influences are ‘ever alive and at work’ … I should test this where I am right now. I’m sitting in a cabin attempting to write. I unhunch my shoulders and sit back in my chair. I raise my fidgety fingers from the keyboard and guide my hands to fan out in opposite directions, until they come to rest on the clear work surface. I raise my gaze from the slightly too bright computer screen. I begin to soften the intensity of my screen stare and as I follow the sensation of an exhalation, I allow my attention to similarly expand. I notice my head naturally turns to the left, as if my body is already assisting my inner quest. I’m now looking through the window at a winter garden in the late afternoon. Dusky light. Gentle breeze. Hint of spring. As I sit, I begin to notice the gentle recurrent drone of aeroplanes passing overhead. And in my sudden noticing and wondering about them, a memory. My niece came to stay and she too noticed this rhythm from the sky. She flipped out a phone, popped open an app and told me, ‘That one’s from Lagos, Nigeria.’ I loved that. Suddenly my imaginings were

The shakkei of dramatherapy 37

up there and doing what we inquisitive human creatures are endlessly doing. Sense making, connection foraging, populating with meaning that which might otherwise remain meaningless. I reimagined that anonymous steel tube in the sky, now alive with people and places and hopes and hearts and in so doing I forge some kind of link between my here and their there. In her photographic installation piece Garden State (2018), the British artist Corinne Silva considers how gardening, like mapping, is a way of dividing and allocating, cultivating and colonising. Through systematically photographing such micro-landscapes, Silva reflects on how gardening has been used to progressively expand territory. She maps the process by which each individual garden interconnects with others and how together they contribute to the reshaping and renaming of otherwise contested lands. The viewer is left to imagine what lies beneath and in between.

Shakkei The Japanese horticultural practice of shakkei can be roughly translated as ‘borrowed landscape’. Common usage of the term is first found in the seventeenth-century Edo period when the approach gained particular popularity. However, the actual techniques that define the discipline have long been employed in Japanese garden design. Some cite its emergence as early as the Heian period (794–1185 AD). Perhaps its earliest and most well-known existent example is seen in Kyoto’s Tenryu-ji Temple Garden of the Kamakura era (1185–1333), which draws the distant Mount Arashiyama into its composition (Ito 1973). Shakkei appears to be a development of the original term for the technique of ikedori which means ‘to capture alive’. This would seem to point to the practice being beyond the merely aesthetic but towards a visceral engagement with the primordial inheritance of land and its natural history. The deeper and archaic base of these aesthetic practices appears related to and underscored by more time honoured appreciations of the natural world. These form the guiding principles for the indigenous animist practices found within Shinto. Since ancient times, the people of Japan have expressed the divine energy or lifeforce of the natural world as kami. Kami derived from nature, such as the kami of rain, the kami of wind, the kami of mountains, the kami of sea, and the kami of thunder have deep relationship with our lives and a profound influence over our activities. (Honcho 2016) The process of shakkei combines four stages. Firstly, creating a sense of continuity between the immediate space and that of a distant landscape. Secondly, an attention and discernment as to the nature and topography of that other place, the ‘borrowed’ landscape, and to how it might be perceived and experienced from the present location. Third is the concept of mikiri. According to horticulturist Ayse Pogue, this is ‘how the gardener limits the borrowed elements … trimming and screening views to

38 Bryn Jones

conceal or limit features that are not necessary’ (Ito 1973). The fourth and final element is attention to the actual linking between the two places and the formation of a continuity. This involves the selection and placing of intermediary objects, which guide the gaze and/or senses towards the formation of a single integrated vista. I am taken by this attitude of inclusivity and allowance, which is alive in the craft of this practice. I’m also struck by the very real, tangible and defining attitude of working with things as they are. Acknowledging the existence of ‘other’ elements and welcoming them in to be a part of that which is being created in the close proximity of the here and now. Nevertheless, the shakkei artist gardener retains their own agency and creative integrity within this relationship. There is no slavish adherence or reverence to these other existent aspects. The relationship is a robust and interactive one. In allowing in the other, there is the licence to push back. It is in the tension and grapple of this encounter that something transcendent is realised. We … create a kind of beauty of the shadows we have made in out-of-the way places. There is an old song that says ‘the brushwood we gather – stack it together, it makes a hut; pull it apart, a field once more’. Such is our way of thinking – we find beauty not in the thing itself but in the pattern of shadows, the light and the darkness, that one thing against another creates. (Tanizaki 2001, 46) The shakkei artist gardener opens to and allows in the expansive vistas in which they practice, then trimming and limiting the unfolding perspective so as to facilitate an expansion of consciousness within the viewer. I’m forming a parallel to examine the capacity of the dramatherapist to open to the invariable interruptive factors, which might otherwise be thought to impinge upon the work; change, external noise, absence, resistance, relational irritations, distraction, bright sunshine, flickering lights, poor conditions, too small or too large working spaces. All these inconveniences, these annoyingly not quite rightnesses that permeate our practice, our worlds and our lives. I’m suggesting that in welcoming and embracing such interruptions we might enrich our capacity as practitioners. That we might achieve this as we broaden and deepen the scope of our work. And then together with our client, struggle and grapple to encounter one another afresh and reach towards a more tangible sense of wholeness. To be authentically ‘working with things as they are’ or ‘staying with the difficulty’ means to give up any notions that such situations should be anything other than how they are. Be this in relation to a place, a circumstance, another person or a group of individuals. It means, in the first instance, to be actively accepting of their way of being and to wholeheartedly meet and engage them as such. Not passively, not with a sense of grim world-weariness but with a spirit of openness and acceptance. The kind of acceptance I’m talking about here is neither idealistic fantasy nor cynical resignation. It is an energetic clarity that enables the improvisational; to be light on one’s feet, to be porous, open to change, present. To imagine such encounters as a stage upon which the new and unexpected can suddenly appear; something substantial suddenly arises

The shakkei of dramatherapy 39

and, with equal suddenness, disappears. Like Tanizaki’s brushwood hut described above or the stilling shock of distant mountains suddenly revealed by the subtle scenography of the shakkei artist. Keith Johnstone discusses something similar in his classic text, Impro. In reflecting on the nature of improvisation he speaks of how ‘good improvisors’ can ‘seem telepathic … as if everything looks prearranged’ but that this is due to their open ability to ‘accept all offers made – which is something no “normal” person would do’. Such is the scope of their acceptance that they go on to also, ‘accept offers which weren’t really intended’. Johnstone says: ‘Once you learn to accept offers, then accidents can no longer interrupt the action’ (Johnstone 1987). This is because through the transformative power of acceptance, interruptions become the action. They are both the fuel and the motion and the ‘good’ improvisor journeys on the original and ever-emergent resources they provide. In further considering practice examples of this discipline, the notion of remaining open to and connected with that which might otherwise be thought of as impinging upon behavioural and relational tropes, a particular technique comes to mind. It is a dramatic play-based method that I have been experimenting with through both practice and research over recent years. The process most typically involves two participants working together to make shared contact with, suspend, balance and mobilise a small twig. I notice that it is Johnstone’s comments on the apparently ‘telepathic’ capacity of improvisors that is most clearly connecting it to my thinking here. The ‘twig’ method begins with two participants sat opposite one another. The twig sits on the floor between them. The first phase of the work supports the participants in taking the twig as the focus of their attention. At this stage, this is all there is. Two people sit opposite one another, approx. 1 metre apart. Between them on the floor is a twig, at which they both gaze. There are encouragements to notice the details of the twig, its shape, colour, texture and to imagine where it might have come from, how old it is, etc. In this there is a gradual individual sense of absorption, along with a dawning sense of absorbing with or at least in the presence of an other. The work grows relational on several plains; between the self and the twig, the self and the other person, the two together and the twig, etc. The second phase brings an invitation for both participants to reach forwards and to each touch one opposite end of the twig with the tip of a forefinger. Then to gently press in order that a tension is created and the twig might be raised between them. They now are connected by the twig. They feel something of the other and something of themselves via this mediated connection. Time is given for this sensation to land within both participants, for the sensorial, the collaborative, the relational to take hold. The third phase involves the mobilisation of the twig (and one another) into and around the space. In this we witness the moment-to-moment actualisation of reciprocal encounter in ways that are manifestly evidenced by the suspension and mobilisation of the twig in space. This is further articulated by moments of disconnect, when the balance is lost and the twig slips from its holding tension to fall to the floor. The participants held in a moment of witnessing. Alone and together in their solitary and shared experience of the conjoined venture taking an unexpected turn. A mistake, a fault, an accident, a joy? Their immediate and

40 Bryn Jones

subsequent responses and reactions flicker and glow around what has occurred. In all of this there are often the attendant qualities of care and tenderness, chance and risk, resistance, yield, boredom and absorption. As these opposing forces follow their ebb and flow, we are in touch with the intersubjective matrix that delineates the self both from and in relation to the other. In the context of this particular technique, this is both accentuated and countered by the central involvement of another dynamic element, a twig. In cultivating these authentic ways of being in relation to others and other things through experiential practice, we begin to engage two other core dramatherapeutic relational processes: reciprocity and co-presence.

Reciprocity And so with this we are taken to the role and function of reciprocity within the practice of the dramatherapist. This reflects the capacity of the therapist to be open to receive the communications and expressions of the client and the therapeutic field in ways which deepen, expand and enrich the therapeutic encounter. It further involves the affect tolerance of the therapist and their ability to work with and process transferential elements. In training contexts or in relation to recently qualified therapists, this may throw light on hitherto unseen tendencies and complexes, which block such reciprocal capacity. Defences against depth, gravity and discomfort might be activated. These may gain further traction as a corresponding awareness of the inherent levels of responsibility carried by a therapist become more evident. Defences and resistances against the threat of such pressures may manifest as the therapist’s attempts to inject humour into their work, to deflect or divert darker currents by instilling a light-hearted atmosphere or by presenting an exaggeratedly bright persona so as to counter, discourage and control the shadowy impulses of the client or the interruptions of the field. I blink in uncertainty at this dreamlike luminescence, feeling as if some misty film were blunting my vision. The light from the pale white paper, powerless to dispel the heavy darkness of the alcove, is instead repelled by the darkness, creating a world of confusion where dark and light are indistinguishable. (Tanizaki 2001, 35) In all of this there is a resultant deflection, rather than a reception of need. There are also issues of collusion here, whereby a therapist may too easily give way to the disinclinations or hesitancy presented by a client. In all of these ways, the potential for depth enquiry and healing remains unserved. To guard against such deficits appearing in one’s own practice, a thorough and ongoing self-inventory conducted regularly with awareness and transparency is required. The nature and material of this can be further explored and supplemented via clinical supervision and personal therapy. Any areas in need of attention can be

The shakkei of dramatherapy 41

clearly identified and, without overly harsh self-criticism or judgement, can be gradually attended to in ways that prevent and/or resolve any attendant issues arising. In analogous ways the shakkei gardener uses their own body and gaze to shape and refine the emergent view. Shifting perspective, they perform a kind of dialogic dance between their perception of the outer field as experienced by their inner sense. This then leads them to perform a series of carefully calibrated interventions; revisions, trimming and screening as they go. In these ways the practitioner can lean into their own less familiar capacities and thus grow a clearer and more immediate relationship with themselves and their practice. This is achieved not in isolation but with and through the other(s) they encounter along the way. This approach encapsulates a strong element of learning through doing and one that is within and of itself relational. Relational in the way it inwardly opens up dialogue between aspects of oneself and outwardly with one’s clients, patients, colleagues and supervisors: to seek our satisfactions in whatever surroundings we happen to find ourselves, to content ourselves with things as they are; and so darkness causes us no discontent, we resign it as inevitable. If light is scarce then light is scarce; we will immerse ourselves in its darkness. (Tanizaki 2001, 48) In some cases certain practitioners may benefit from familiarising themselves with less active roles than those which seek to please or be liked. Instead leaning against type to inhabit roles with less outwardly concerned presentations, such as those associated with aspects of the kami of water; reflective and still. Such roles accentuate a more gathered and contained presence with more emphasis on the practice of witnessing, as described by David Read Johnson in ‘The dramatherapist “in-role”’, whereby the therapist becomes as if ‘a receptacle of the client’s images’ (Johnson 1992, 114). By way of contrast and for practitioners who are naturally inclined towards more solemn or sombre role personas, the opposite is true. Here the practitioners’ practice will benefit from their taking a more proactive and engaged approach, energising and supporting the work in direct and immediate ways and thereby drawing upon the aspects symbolised by the kami of fire; active and luminous. These roles, more akin to ‘leader’ within Johnson’s schema, support direct participation, mutuality and involvement. They achieve this whilst also remaining at a considered distance and providing a holding presence to the central and essential action, which remains firmly within the province of the client. Reciprocity involves the connection we have as humans with the animated world; other beings and nature. It describes such contact as being truly live, in an essential dynamic involving exchange with other; giving and taking, affecting and being affected. We are connected to the world, not estranged from it. We live and work and strive within it, not apart from or against it. Insights such as these provide us with the necessary foundations for the formulation of several key and relational concepts that serve the practice of dramatherapy, including transferential processes, projective

42 Bryn Jones

identification and embodied knowing. There are deep and extensive roots here, which can be usefully tapped to further enrich the context and texture of our practice. These notions are not entirely dissimilar to those I have mentioned earlier in relation to the influence and interruptions of nature and how they can play out in the relational realm. To briefly illustrate some of these, I’m going to reach a little further to say something on the philosophies of Spinoza, vedic thought and zen buddhism.

Co-presence I’m minded here to be diverted, to meander following a winding path. This will take in the perspectives I’ve mentioned above and towards talking about co-presence. In so doing, I’m again evoking the spirit of shakkei; to orientate and augment the here by borrowing from the there. In refuting the mind-body dualism of Descartes, the rationalist philosopher Baruch Spinoza evolved his theory investigating the human being as being part of nature. In his most celebrated work, Ethics, he declares: The laws and rules of nature, according to which all things happen, and change from one form to another, are always and everywhere the same. So the way of understanding the nature of anything, of whatever kind, must also be the same, viz. through the universal laws of nature. (Spinoza 2018, III, p. 7) Neuroscientist Antonio Damasio picked up on this premise of Spinoza’s and that body and mind are ‘parallel attributes of the same substance’ to guide and inspire him in a key research enquiry; what feelings are, how they work, and what they mean. Damasio believed that Spinoza had a conceptualisation of human feelings and emotions that was predictive of current neurobiological theories regarding human experiences of feelings and emotions. In this Damasio established profound and compelling links between body states and the development of feelings (Damasio 2013). These interactions are seen to exist not just within a discreet and individual being but between one being and an other. Emotions and related reactions are aligned with the body, feelings with the mind. The investigation of how thoughts trigger emotions and of how bodily emotions become the kinds of thoughts we call feelings provides a privileged view into mind and body, the overtly disparate manifestations of a single and seamlessly interwoven human organism. (Damasio 2003, p. 7) This work broke new ground related to intuitive knowledge, with exhortations to develop insight and become more consciously aware of ourselves as ways towards richer connectivity with other, satisfaction and fulfilment; well-being and wholeness.

The shakkei of dramatherapy 43

It is of note that Spinoza’s thoughts and writing find strong resonance with branches of eastern philosophy, most notably the Vedanta tradition of India and its key premise of non-dualism. This seeks to view all beings and all things as being one with an unchanging and metaphysically collective Atman (soul). Practically these ideas find their clearest expression in neti-neti (not this-not that) meditational practice. This process provides a way of integrating an apparently polarised, contrasting or contradictory duality or multiplicity of perspectives into an integrated unity. We find further echoes of this, albeit expressed in an intriguingly different voice, in the practically based zen Buddhist notions of interrelatedness; what benefits or harms the one, in some way, either directly or indirectly, harms or benefits the other. There is a well-known zen story concerned with oneness. A zen master had a visitor. The master asked, ‘Have you ever been here before?’ and the visitor answered, ‘I have been here once.’ The host replied, ‘Oh, go and have some tea then!’ On a later occasion, the master asked another visitor the same question. The visitor said that they had never been there before. The master’s reply remained the same, ‘Oh, go and have some tea then!’ This way of receiving and speaking to visitors continued unchanged until a student, having observed the master’s repetitive replies, asked out of curiosity, ‘Why are you replying in the same way regardless of your visitors answers?’ The host called his student by name and added, ‘Go and have some tea then!’ Zen just remains the same. Ordinary, straightforward and constant. It invites and accepts the unique individual perception of others to manifest and interpret their truths in ways that make sense to their own. In this way the encounter between self and other(s) is improvisational and entirely productive, in ways which transgress and interrupt order, limitation and convention. These philosophies and practices coincide with the practice of shakkei, in as much as they are all purposefully and creatively engaged with the relationship between things; body and mind, me and not me, self and other, here and there. They seek to discover ways to honour both as being discrete but also as an essential, integral and affectual part of one another. They investigate the realm of co-presence. Co-presence carries notions of a type of contact that is to some degree mutual or shared and that crucially has connective meaning for both/all parties. It is a synchronous and interpersonal event between individuals and/or with things, which can be phenomenologically understood as imbued with a quality of being present but is not limited to physical proxemics. Theoretically, co-presence can be established via other forms of meditated and virtual communication; phones, screens and so forth. All of which stands as a live interruptive challenge to the continuing work of the therapist. This has been graphically illustrated throughout the time of this book’s development, which has taken place around the ever-unfolding consequences of the COVID-19 pandemic, lockdown measures and social distancing. To the Sesame practitioner, whose approach strives to meet and journey with another in ways that are not limited by the literal, conventional or formulaic presentations of the self, reciprocity and co-presence stand as key areas of practice competency. They enable access to those relational fields where the approach might find especially fertile ground and so grow in strength and meaning. Through coming in to a reciprocal and co-present

44 Bryn Jones

relationship with an other, the Sesame methods of play, allegory and movement are enabled to connect and catalyse those creative and self-healing properties which reside within the psyche. In discussing the defining characteristics of such practice, Sesame practitioner Rachel Porter describes Sesame founder Marian Lindkvist as ‘not an academic; her genius was the intuitive embodiment of the work, demonstrated through the practice, application and development of Movement with Touch and Sound (MTS), which seems radical even today’ (Porter 2017, p. 185). Porter explains how it is often only via such improvised, reciprocal and co-present encounters with an other that we might ‘give voice to some of the most furtive aspects of human experience and consequently the most radical art forms’ (Porter 2017, p. 187). There is resonance and challenge here in equal measure. How might the practising therapist orientate themselves as they grapple to meet the present and the past of their client’s experience and yet in appropriate ways, hang on to and make sense and space for that of their own? This echoes the dichotomy faced by the shakkei gardener; to integratively work with the here and the there simultaneously and towards some new, otherwise impossible place. As practitioners, how do we honour and integrate the disparate realities of self and other in the present and evolving encounters of our work? We often talk of ‘working with’, but how are we seeking to do that whilst avoiding collusion and yet retaining some sense of our own purpose. We nod at the need to be authentic but may find ourselves withering under the clinical imperatives of meeting the needs of the patient, institutional protocols, expectations of peers, managers and our own unresolved urges to control. Shakkei then is illustrative of how such apparently opposing forces might be held in common view and enable a richer, fuller quality of seeing and being seen. One that is appreciative of difference, allows for the inevitabilities of impermanence and imperfection and thus embraces interruption as being part of the way of things.

Expansive attention These possibilities are enabled by a paradoxical quality that is at play within the heart of shakkei practice. This involves the purposeful capacity to widen, broaden and deepen the scope of one’s attention. To take in and attend to the peripheral field, the contextual, and yet in so doing, to enrich and intensify the appearance of that which is before us in-the-moment. The psychoanalyst and literary critic Adam Phillips argues that there is a part of us which resists such expansive awareness. Instead, he suggests, there are attempts to continually narrow the scope of individual attention, as a kind of defence against some fearful threat. There’s a part of us that wants to attack our own development and the way we do this is by actively narrowing our mind. And that is what a phobia or an addiction is; it’s the over organising of attention, because it solves a lot of problems in a certain sense. (Beckerman 2019)

The shakkei of dramatherapy 45

This process of both narrowing and expanding one’s attention is alive in traditional meditational practices. The oscillating rhythm that moves between forms of analytical and placement meditation supports both a graduated insight and the evolution of a certain flexibility or suppleness of mind; a mental capacity that is at once immediate and fluid. In meditational traditions, practices such as these are considered as being ‘the path’. That is, that which leads to revelation, realisation and insight. in Sanskritic tradition, meditation has two aspects, dharana and bhavana. Dharana means to concentrate and bhavana to ponder, think upon, investigate, analyse … These two together form the totality of meditation. (Rinpoche 2011, p. 37) ‘So the reason we might want to narrow our attention is for fear of the unknown consequences of its promiscuity: we really don’t know where it will take us. And that’s exciting and exhilarating, but it’s also troubling’ (Beckerman 2019). So shakkei practice involves a narrowing of attention, in that it brings the individual into close and intimate contact with the subtlety and nuance of form, yet via a sustained and live connection with the expansive frame within which one is located.

Shakkei in dramatherapy practice The piece of work I reflect on here was completed in a category B prison several years ago. I co-facilitated a weekly dramatherapy group for five male offenders. I’m returning to it now as a way of illustrating how approaches and sensibilities commonly cultivated within shakkei practice might illuminate and extend the scope of dramatherapy practice. These include both tangible and ephemeral aspects of shakkei. The venue for the weekly session was the prison’s healthcare centre. This was situated on the uppermost floor of the building. The other rooms on this floor were all administrative, so this was the only upper part of the building that a prisoner might access. A detailed and lengthy security assessment process had to be completed before a referred individual gained the necessary clearance to attend the sessions. All of this delineated a clear divide between the here of the wings and cells and the there of the therapy space. There was no clear line connecting the two. No gaze could gain sight of one from the other. In between were countless doors, walls, gates, corridors, staircases, landings and more doors. To pass through these thresholds and gain access to that elevated space involved the completion of a very particular set of processes and requirements. Shakkei holds notions of upward borrowing (clouds and stars) and downward borrowing (rocks and ponds). And there is of course the role of the imaginal in the experience of shakkei and yet it seems always to require a visible base. Here there was no such opportunity for such a view to form. Nevertheless, I am describing it because I believe the obstructions to a long uninterrupted gaze, the impossibility of establishing such a clear view, served only to make the moment of shakkei I will later describe all the more full and intense.

46 Bryn Jones

Eventually our proposed group gained clearance and the sessions began. I and my dramatherapist colleague prepared the room in advance of the session. We were notified when the group participants had arrived. They would sit waiting in a holding cell connected to the medical wing. We, accompanied by a member of the nursing staff, would collect them and walk with them the 20 or so paces to the therapy room. The room’s entrance door was located dead centre. We stepped through the door and into a room of approx. 20 feet squared. The ceiling was low. Along one wall was a locked metal door. At the opposite end of the room was an external wall. Along much of its length ran a window. Thick metal frames divided long thin slivers of very thick glass. And through them the most shocking, delicious, appalling and galling thing; a horizon. This may have been the only vantage point in the entire building from which a prisoner might glimpse such a thing. The windows in the cell blocks all appeared to be internally facing, arranged around central courtyards and in any case none of those buildings were higher than the perimeter wall. This space held a sense of the transcendent. It afforded views above and beyond that perimeter. Each week the group members would walk straight to those windows and leaning their bodies against the cold steel of the frame, gaze beyond the here to see and to dream a there. This weekly horizon event ritual came to shape and direct the nature and content of the process. It became an important and integral aspect of the weekly sessions. A sense of landing in another place and from there dreaming yet another place. In this there was a quietude, a relief, a breath, an exhalation that was at once both private and collective. In discussing his Event Horizon installation, the sculptor Antony Gormley commented: the stillness of an observer is exciting to me: reflexivity becoming shared … In this process of looking and finding, or looking and seeking, one perhaps re-assesses one’s own position in the world and becomes aware of one’s status of embedment. (Gormley 2010) Here too there was excitement within those still figures gazing through the window. And fragments of this also became shared. The noticing and commenting on a copse of trees on the skyline. A row of houses. Roads snaking across the landscape. Occasionally the signs and movement of people going about their daily lives. All of this affecting, altering, augmenting the self in the here and the now. The group’s interest began to coalesce around themes of place and identity; admission, acceptance and belonging. The misty places glimpsed from the window took more definite form as they were thought and talked about. They became the locations of the emergent dramatic narrative and were soon populated by a cast of characters. Week by week the story would unfold. A sequence of connecting scenes would be enacted. Characters would appear and disappear. Some to return, some to never be seen again. The common theme was of journeying. All were coming from somewhere, with something, or on their way to somewhere to find, discover or become something. Something in all of this also reflected back our own situation as therapists, looking in and being from the outside. A simple fact of location. The difficulty to

The shakkei of dramatherapy 47

see and know the inside from the outside. Without seeing directly, we felt our aims would be assumptive at best, patronising at worst. We brought this unknowing into our planning. Our initial aims being: to arrive, to meet, to see and be seen and to begin to discover what this highly defined space within which we met might offer. Key in this was again that forging of connection between a here and a there. To hold and honour these in affectual and relational ways, in order that an oppositional tension might emerge from the in between and transform both.

Conclusion I have composed a personally sourced reflection, which has aimed to explore a series of imaginative links between the practices of shakkei and dramatherapy. In particular I have attempted to draw out those aspects of shakkei practice that strike me as benefitting the work and associated considerations of the dramatherapist. Throughout this process, I have strived to uphold and incorporate the shakkei ethic of respectfully and conscientiously working with and borrowing from ‘other’ elements towards achieving an overall integration. I am aware that the shakkei artist gardener works in liminal fields between two geographical sites: the here and the there. I am also increasingly appreciative that the work itself transcends such limitations of duality and does in fact serve to disrupt and explode such assumptions. The here, at least nominally, is the garden in which the gardener most immediately labours within. It is the ground beneath their feet. The climate, colours, shapes, sounds, aromas and textures of their ambient space. The there is that distant place, as seen from this here; a tree, a valley, a pale view of a distant hill, a maborosi (shimmering light) on a sea scape horizon. That other place as it may appear through the gaze of the viewer in this place. This gazed space of the in between delineates the continuity of the here, magically and irresistibly connecting it with the there. The expanse that envelops the two is the fertile void, sensorially parturient of feelings, sensations, memories, associations and dreams. It is enlivened. It speaks to the now. It is apart from this garden, yet through the skill of the gardener and the presence of the viewer, it becomes, at least for a moment, a part of the garden. To my mind, at least, much of this is analogous with the work of the therapist. As I have attempted to describe above, they too work primarily within liminal fields. In the spaces between self and other that in various ways reflect relationships one has with oneself and with others as they surface and are seen through the therapeutic relationship itself. And that around these oscillating meetings and exchanges, be it between two people or two fixed points, between collections of individuals or the flora and fauna of a place, a lateral expansion of consciousness and experience might occur. Since ancient days, the peoples of Japan have lived with and in between the various forces of the natural world. Their lives are underscored with the unbidden and uncertain interruptive phenomena of fire, earthquake, volcano, typhoon and tsunami becoming aspects of the everyday. This potent centrality of nature in life has fostered the pervasive growth and integration of non-anthropomorphic structures which shape and enrich all aspects of daily living and culture; food, music, theatre, poetry, design and gardening.

48 Bryn Jones

In 1994 I visited Japan for the first time and at some point during that visit I was taken to see a Noh play. I was keen. Very keen. I sat in the sumptuous theatre seat expectantly. Intrigued by the entirely open aspect of the ‘butai’ stage whilst animatedly chatting with my friend about Barba and Beckett and Brecht and Brook and how Noh informs their thinking and influences their art. I copiously read the translated programme notes as the lights dimmed. The performance began its unfolding. Gradually. After an hour or so, my initially transfixed attention began to waver. I tried to be resolute, sitting straight in my seat to fortify my attention and sustain my curiosity. I then noticed in the surrounding gloom of the unventilated auditorium, many bodies slumped in seats, heads nodding and the occasional shocked ruffle of a sleep awakening snore. I began to succumb to the real Noh. By now my friend also appeared soundly asleep. Little by little I felt my collapse, my consciousness fading, reappearing in only occasional flashes of vision and spikes of sound. And so the story and its performance was imprinted upon my mind in such ways. At one point, after, I imagine, a particularly sustained slumber, I suddenly awoke with a disorientating start to see the unearthly movement of the actors, hearing the low sonorous chanting of the chorus and thinking most immediately that I’d stepped in to a place of ghosts, a dream, a nightmare … but hearing no voice cry ‘Sleep no more!’ I again reclined back into my sleepy sleeve of care. I later spoke to my friend about this somnolent state of mine and my feeling bad about it. She quickly told me that it was the ideal way to watch Noh and that attempting to stay awake was ridiculous. I loved and long remembered how the play defeated that within me. The tales told in the theatre of Noh frequently describe events involving humans with nature. The tale of Takasago centres around the confession of an elderly couple; that they are in fact two pine trees. The elder characters themselves being representative of mujo (transience), the process of ageing, fading and passing being considered a sublime work of nature. The same is captured in the Japanese sensibility known as Mono No Aware, which reflects the beauty of impermanence. Impossible to directly translate but indicating something like a sensitivity to ephemera, conjoined with a gentle sadness. This quality is a ubiquitous element within Japanese art and culture from the revered aesthetics of wabi sabi to the pop irreverence of manga and anime. Noh frequently features ghosts telling stories of their past lives. Their tales are not neatly resolved and do not end happily. Instead they describe a kind of acceptance as they succumb to become part of the natural world and subject to its cycles of renewal and decline, birth and death.

Acknowledgements In light of the Japanese references and influences that underpin my writing, it feels important to further acknowledge my debt of appreciation to Japanese friends, colleagues and places who have supported, challenged, inspired and encouraged my work over the last 25 years. Too numerous to mention all but special thanks to Fusako Kurahara, formerly of Japan ASSITJ, the late manga artist, writer and anti-nuclear activist Keiji Nakazawa, the late theatre artist, director and producer Tomoko Ito, theatre

The shakkei of dramatherapy 49

director and dramatist Tatsuo Suzuki of Theatre Zenshinza, the contemporary Ukiyo-e artist and director at Kijo Ehon No Sato, Miyazaki, Kyushu, Ikutomo Kurogi, Naoya Ebihara of AYA, Tomofumi Akie, Shinji Betchaku, Hiroaki & Rie Umemura. A small hill in Abiko, atop of which is a neglected Shinto shrine. An isthmus on the coast of Shimoda. A bridge over the Kamo River. A great teriyaki joint in Koenji.

References Beckerman, Hannah (2019) Interview with Adam Phillips. The Observer, 07.07.2019. Damasio, Antonio (2003) Looking for Spinoza, Joy, Sorrow and the Feeling Brain. London, Vintage. Gormley, Antony (2010) Event Horizon statement for Madison Square Park NYC, www. madisonsquarepark.org/mad-sq-art/antony-gormley-event-horizon. Accessed 07.08.2020. Honcho, Jinja (2016) Soul of Japan. Tokyo, Jinja Honcho. Ito, Teiji (1973) Space and Illusion in the Japanese Garden. New York, Wetherhill/Tankosha. Johnson, David Read (1992) The dramatherapist ‘in-role’. In Jennings, S. (Ed.) Dramatherapy. London, Routledge. Johnstone, Keith (1987) Impro. London, Routledge. Porter, Rachel (2017) Multimodality. In Hougham, R. and Jones, B. (Eds.) Dramatherapy: Reflections and Praxis. London. Palgrave. Rinpoche, Samdhong (2011) Buddhist Meditation for South Asia. New Delhi, Wisdom Tree. Silva, Corinne (2018) Garden State. Cardiff, Ffotogallery. Spinoza, Baruch (2018) Ethics. London, GlobalGrey. Tanizaki, Junchiro (2001) In Praise of Shadows. London, Vintage.

4 ENCOUNTER AND ENGAGEMENT WITH PATRIARCHY Pallavi Chander

This chapter is a reflective meditation on the subtle yet loud presence of the myriad ‘faces of patriarchy’ as an emergent theme. In therapeutic situations these are experienced as an interruption and an indicator of deep-rooted collective wound/edness observed among communities living in India. As the nation continues its treacherous uphill struggle to counter this age old problem, which is woven into its social, cultural and political fabric, the implications are far-reaching as generation after generation has been encumbered for centuries under its shadow. I attempt to peer into the murky issue of patriarchy and acknowledge the intersectional ramifications on individuals and communities. Often thoughts or actions against these toxic and oppressive norms appear as gentle and silent responses to its overpowering presence. I will use examples from group therapeutic situations to examine these delicate shifts and silent transitions as observed within communities living in the urban milieu of an ever-expanding and fast-developing Indian city. I will briefly touch upon repercussions as experienced by myself as a woman living within this urban context and as an ally in the fight against patriarchy. I will also reflect on how this informs my practice as I navigate my responses as a female therapist.

Introduction Cultures across different civilisations, barring a few non-western matriarchal and matrilineal societies such as Mosuo in China, Umoja in Kenya and the Khasis in Meghalaya, India, have periodically built societies that are largely oppressive to women. Universally, patriarchy is understood as men dominating women, children and weaker men who fall lower on the hierarchal ladder, i.e. older men, men from lower castes, etc. Patriarchy is the means by which men exercise their power and privilege over women in society. The word ‘patriarchy’ literally means the rule of the father or ‘patriarch’ (Tandon & Tripathy, 2016, p. 12). In Hindi, it is understood as DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-5

Encounter and engagement with patriarchy 51

purushpradan or ‘privileges of men’ (Menon, 2015). In Radical Feminist Therapy, Burstow (1992, p. viii), elaborates that, apart from violation and domination over women as subordinate beings, civilisation is largely based on male hegemony where everything is viewed, understood and named from the rigid perspective of the male gaze. She attests that sexism is psychologically destructive as it starts in our homes with our families and later finds a place in relationships through the seductive disguises of nurture and romantic love. In Indian society, this is taken a step further and legitimised by the patriarchal rule imbued structurally as familial norms. This typically sees a woman as being dependent on the men in her life for her survival as she is forced to seek their permission for all her needs. Although women have been fighting these regressive norms in their efforts to overcome patriarchal barriers for independence, it often comes at a grave cost; giving rise to the questioning of her character, her upbringing and her status in the family and wider society. According to writer and Professor Nivedita Menon, patriarchies are different modes, which privilege men and male power over the female gender. This privileging happens through cultural forms, which are rooted through very real structural means such as marriage as an institution and, property ownership. It embodies the power of men over women. In her book, Seeing Like A Feminist, she argues that ‘[both] men and women are produced and inserted into patriarchies that differ according to space and time’ (Menon, 2012, p. viii). In that sense, she insists that patriarchies have to be looked at in the plural as they are experienced in different ways depending on the context. In India, any child, woman or man will find themselves in unique intersectional positions based on gender, religion, caste and class, where the patriarchy will affect their stance in one way or the other. This can celebrate or discriminate, it could intercept and intrude their position, pushing them onto a tougher, more difficult axis point. Thus the harmful and oppressive effects of the patriarchy are not limited to women alone, for both women and men are harmed by its insidious claws, which scratch at every turn of one’s life, irrespective of whether we are conscious of it or not. Consequently, the effects of patriarchy are not just ‘gendered modes of power’ (Menon, 2012, p. x) between the sexes, it invariably intersects politically, socially and economically with gender, class, caste, religion and all institutions where powers are at play, leading to various forms of hegemonic and systemic oppression. Invariably this expands the oppressive ‘mine fields’ that patriarchal institutions lay and reaches well beyond purely familial boundaries. Generation after generation of men and women are born into this oppressive base where patriarchy has its tight hold on religion, caste and class. India is a country with the greatest number of goddesses and which are regarded as living and symbolic deities, worshipped across the land. Unfortunately, we seem to have missed the trees for the wood. Historically, the roots of such generational tradition and gendered culture go so far back that we have probably lost sight of their geniuses. Subsequently, this has affected how history is portrayed and culturally understood and how it impacts us today. It is a result of privileging men’s pursuits; history was written by men and there is little mention of women’s contribution to historical pursuits. There are, in fact, stories and folklore that celebrate women who bravely fought against oppression in

52 Pallavi Chander

their times. There is mention of Gargi in the Vedic texts, who debates over caste narratives with sages in the seventh century BCE. In the twelfth century, the Bhakti movement celebrated the poet and Saint Akka Mahadevi who walked naked to question binaries of gender and caste in devotion to Lord Shiva. During the colonial period, Rani Lakshmibai, the Maharani of Jhansi, is said to have become a symbol of resistance against the British Raj. Across the Indian subcontinent one can find similar stories of women who have fought against the oppressive powers of patriarchy. Today, women gathered at Shaheen Bagh in Delhi and Bilal Bagh in Bangalore, largely from religious minority groups, have been staging sit-in protests against discriminatory laws introduced by the present extreme right-wing government, which contradict and undermine the secular fabric of the nation. For the less privileged and marginalised communities, the uphill struggles are multiple and many have fought silent battles. While some get helplessly nailed to their situations and succumb to their delusions of safety, others are called to fight, lead movements and burn pyres of resistance, which in turn passes on the mantle of change to the future generations. When a generation takes that leap of faith through rebellious acts and silent protests, the shackles loosen, making the journey through the dense foliage of patriarchy a little less hard. For every woman who crosses this threshold, mothers and grandmothers, great aunts, cousins and girlfriends, all are no stranger to the struggle. As with the women in the sit-in protests, all are the keepers of that fire. Whispering secrets and sharing potions through stories, myth and folktales; women seem to play an important role in dropping these seeds of change for the younger generations to collect and carry forth with strength, courage, love, grace and resilience. In recent times we are witnessing this seed sprout and take roots across the globe. In Hong Kong, the United States, Chile and India, young people, especially the student community, are on the frontlines, questioning oppressive governments and leading movements; demanding democracy, gun-control, action on climate change, and opposing anti-secular and discriminatory laws. What is peculiar about the current political climate in India is that mythical figures of gods often take a leading role in political campaigns. As the idealised poster-figure, these mythical gods from Indian epics are employed to symbolise and uphold patriarchal norms in the name of religion and culture. Some men, including those of younger generations, strongly feel the need to lean towards the far right and be religious Templars to uphold this oppressive and hegemonic culture. It seems as though the young in the country are paradoxically fighting both for and against patriarchy. With both forcing their agendas onto the other, there is mounting anger present in our collective consciousness and all efforts against these forces seem like an endless fight as well as an act of necessity. The philosopher Judith Butler states that gender is ‘performative’, and it is produced, reproduced and constantly scripted by a regulatory frame that congeals over time (Butler, 1990). If gender is performative, we are constantly scripted and gendered right from our early years and thereby ‘trained’ into becoming male and female in our own homes, schools, neighbourhoods and workspaces; directed in what to consume, wear, act, how to think, behave and be. Then there seems to be a lot of effort taken to

Encounter and engagement with patriarchy 53

maintain this order to keep these structures of power in society. Going against this brings chaos and fear. Attempts to build an equal path, which might go against our binary understanding of power, challenges male domination and control. Menon (2015) postulates that transgressing gender norms can be dangerous for both men and women. She argues that when newborn children are assigned a gender ‘male’ or ‘female’, in comparison they both seem to learn to grow up in completely different planets. Young boys grow up to learn that they get rewarded by following the rules of the patriarchal society whereas learning to be a woman is to learn that overstepping these rules could get you punished but, if you follow them, you can survive. While young boys learn that to become ‘male’ is largely about assuming their privilege, they also learn to hide and deny parts of themselves, their aspirations and desires. Menon further states that this denial of aspects of their unique personality is an affront to Self and can be a violent and dislocating process. In my experience, the presence of patriarchy and its repercussions are evident in every aspect of my personal and professional life. One has to only pause and observe to become immediately conscious of its presence in the nooks and crannies of life. It is hard to escape or even dodge it. Being an educated, English-speaking, middle-class single woman allows me a certain position in society to question these norms from the margins. I acknowledge the fact that my class and ability to speak confidently to a man place me with certain privileges. However, I still need to actively claim my position and assert my natural rights. Irrespective of whether I am singing to the choir or screaming at the other side, my voice will at least be heard, even if it is to eventually be silenced. There are many whose screams will forever remain silent and unheard. Chiming with the swaying golden reeds that sing the murdered woman’s story in ‘The Woman with Hair of Gold’ from Pinkola’s Women Who Run With Wolves, their stories can never be erased. Their stories will find their way through the struggles, creep from the crevices and grow over the rigid walls to be seen and finally heard in forms of rebellion. This will all appear if not in dreams and actual words, then as fires that will burn within us. Pinkola Estes points out that when women hold secrets, their truths will come out somatically, ‘in the form of sudden melancholies, intermittent and mysterious rages, all sorts of physical tics, torques and pains, dangling conversations that end suddenly and without explanation and sudden odd reactions to movies [and] films’ (Pinkola Estes, 1992, p. 378) In therapeutic situations, the faces of patriarchy often manifest as those sudden deep melancholies and mysterious rages. I repeatedly experienced it as a wave of rigid and heavy energy, walled in by overpowering and restrictive rules. Clients holding on to what appeared like heavy fossilised rocks, excavated from the past, as if they were their own beliefs and truths. In my meetings with these manifestations of patriarchy, it was never in the form of a direct and specific emotion. It is different with each client, often unexpectedly revealed, confused and weary but always tinged with a sense of exhaustion. Daunting and looming in the centre like a heavy breathing giant, as if ever present, waiting for attention. As the therapist in the room, negotiating with these giants of patriarchy required sifting through the possible ways of encountering it whilst containing and preventing my own natural responses and tendencies from getting in

54 Pallavi Chander

the way. It required of me diligent practice of self-will in order that I might place myself as a mere observer and empathetically sit beside it and gently engage with it. Drawing on specific examples from moments experienced during therapeutic situations with two different groups, I now wish to examine ways of encountering and engaging with the many faces of patriarchy through dramatherapeutic practice.

Encountering the giant Under the banner ‘Building Rituals for Self-Care’, I ran a six-month-long group for parents and care-givers of children with learning disabilities (referred to here as ‘children with special needs’) at a day centre in the city. This was attended by mothers whose children were on the autistic spectrum and visited the centre for allied therapies; speech, occupational therapy, etc. Dramatherapy was offered as a way to build selfcare practices. As an opening ritual we began all our sessions with an embodied checkin using sound, movement and gesture. Initially, our check-ins were to acknowledge what was present and alive for them and it seemed as if the clients often struggled to name this clearly. The space felt heavy with things unsaid. Gradually, the group became more comfortable and able to articulate what they felt safe to bring into the session. Clients spoke of feeling frustrated and exhausted by what was expected from them by their husbands and in-laws. What they called ‘home’ was not necessarily a safe environment and thinking about ‘self-care’ felt like a task beyond their means. Participants shared their struggles of playing the roles of a mother, daughter, sister, wife, daughter-in-law, and yearned for the safety that is theoretically promised by these roles. It almost felt as if the disenchantment of these unfulfilled promises of normalcy and safety was finally being shared, acknowledged and witnessed. Often these were the moments when anger swept into the room, like fire, which was always burning within. As the therapist in the room, this was the tipping point in the session where there was a need for me to help create a safe and contained environment, to allow the poetics of the art form to guide the emergent process. In subsequent sessions the group explored emotions of sadness, frustration, irritation, helplessness, exhaustion and anger, and strength and resilience using the tools of drama, movement and visual arts. In one of the sessions, I narrated the story of ‘The Healing Flower’ adapted from ‘The Healing Herb’ in The Golden Stories of Sesame (2013). We stepped into the ‘aesthetic distance’ of the garden, sat under a beautiful tree, heard the story and embodied it with a group enactment. When participants were invited to walk in the garden before leaving, they spontaneously played in the garden, dipping their feet into the pond, plucking flowers to make garlands for their hair, eating fruits from the trees, playing hide and seek and dancing with each other. The gardener from the story had created a garden of playfulness, which gave a sense of freedom and safety. It allowed them to release their exhaustion and frustration as they danced their way out of the tiny gate. During the post-session sharing, many mentioned how healing the garden was for them. We decided to make a drawing of a flower that kept growing back its petals. The journey seemed rich and refreshing. However, I felt a deep pain around my diaphragm, as if I was hit by a

Encounter and engagement with patriarchy 55

heavy rock. We closed the session and almost all of them mentioned feeling light, happy and energetic. After the session, I got onto my bike and, as my own closing/separating ritual, went to the closest coffee shop to help ground myself before heading back home. On the way there, I could sense the heaviness grow and move up my chest. I directed myself to take deep breaths, naming it as transference, which had to be processed. I moved past two traffic stops and as I moved ahead, I met with an accident. Two men on a scooter coming from the opposite direction, clearly breaking traffic rules, crashed into me. In the impact, my bag was flung open and crayons scattered across the crowded road. Within seconds I was surrounded by a circle of men. One of the men from the scooter confronted me, exclaiming that women need to control themselves and stay at home instead of trying to ride a bike. His comments and behaviour became increasingly crass as he began to spew nasty sexist remarks at me. Instinctively, I defended myself and asked him very calmly yet sternly to pay up for the damages to my vehicle or walk with me to the police station. I stated that as a woman, I can do whatever I wish to and had no need for a man to tell me what I could or could not do! There was a moment where I felt like a small figure speaking against a huge giant who growled at her and threatened to maul her to death. The man got back on to his scooter and left, stating that I would never be able to succeed, and all the other men around just dispersed within seconds. I noticed my crayons on the road had melted because of the heat. They looked like scattered dreams being run over by vehicles over and over again. I came home, got first aid and broke down. I felt completely helpless and angry. The heaviness had now engulfed me and it took me a while to step out of that feeling. I carried the heaviness until I felt safe to rest it beside me and talk to it. It erupted with volcanic anger and took the shape of every toxic masculine image that I held within me. I felt exhausted and tired, frustrated and sad, irritated and helpless. l was angry with myself for feeling this and, as I closed my eyes, I was immediately returned to and held by the image of the playfulness and freedom of the garden. I instantly felt a sense of lightness. I recognised that I held these opposites within me and felt that they were present in the garden too. It was at that moment that I became fully aware of the presence of patriarchy in the session. The giant, looming heavy in the room, was the toxic expectations that all of us collectively carried, bound and entangled by heavy locks tying us to an endless fate of struggle. As women from two different generations, we carried these expectations in our bodies and in our deep melancholies. These sessions seemed to have deeply connected us in our wounded/ness. Until then, this was only addressed as problems faced by the clients because they were mothers of special children and reflected the issues they dealt with on a day-to-day basis. However, the expectations of a patriarchal society never cease, the systemic modes of oppression are forever turning. The fact remained that as mothers, the problems they faced because of the intersectionality of their existence at this moment could not be magically wished away. The life of a woman as she knows it is what she was trained to do and working with the obstacles only promises a perceived sense of normalcy, which is not necessarily safe for her. The session acknowledged this collective awareness, which was subtle

56 Pallavi Chander

yet loud and jarring. Does this mean she remains helpless? She was merely a mother, a housewife, a daughter and a daughter-in-law mounted with heaps of expectations. The women from the group did not want to feel defeated. Their playfulness held rich possibilities. In the next few sessions, my focus was to craft an approach that helped the group build pockets of time for self-care and a sense of safety within themselves and with each other. We developed a support system within the group for mothers to buddy each other and reach out on a regular basis to hold one another going forwards. For some clients, this opened up space to explore new skills together and for others it was about having friends to lean on. For the closure, the group requested a movement session to celebrate our time together. The group came prepared with materials, all dressed up, and our movement session flowed into an ocean of possibilities as we explored relevant themes through the metaphors of water and movement. As a closing, the clients were invited to pick what they needed to feel safe, protected and light. Surprised as I was, the group decided to have a post-session potluck party. All the mothers decided to cook something special to mark the end of the dramatherapy group. Although I initially shied away, stating therapeutic boundaries, the women instinctively included me and fed me. It felt special and seemed to honour the coming together of these beautiful mothers. For the next hour we laughed together and ate homemade delicacies. Many acknowledged the kitchen as their safe haven. My therapist’s perspective could not help but make the connection that although they were probably ‘trained’ to be the cooks for their families, I realised that it was not just cultural but perhaps often instinctive for women to express themselves through food. It is symbolic of love, nurturance and abundance, as well as alchemical in some sense. I left the centre with an image of the giant who ate till he dropped … dropped down into a sweet cosy slumber.

Between the trigger and the ammunition This next example is drawn from my practice experience with a group of adolescent girls who visited a community library in their locality. Most of their parents predominantly were informal waste pickers at refuse collection and segregation centres run by a local NGO. The children are on their own for most of the day. This leaves them directly exposed to problems within the community such as gang violence, alcohol and drug abuse and this often results in school drop-outs and in some cases early child marriages. The locality, also considered a slum or a basti, is inhabited by the marginalised section of the urban population, with second-generation migrant workers who probably moved to the city for work from small towns and villages from the southern states. In the past couple of years, the community is known to have experienced an increase in alcohol and drug abuse, and gang violence, which has put them on the police radar. Children from the community visited the library as it was set up to offer them a safe and alternative space that was nurturing and where they could read, learn and play. After developing ideas with the library space for over six months, and with the help of

Encounter and engagement with patriarchy 57

donations, I initiated a creative arts therapy programme to attend to the psycho-social needs of the children. The programme intended to provide a safe, non-confrontational and non-judgemental therapeutic environment for adolescent children. The therapeutic aims involved the use of art forms such as drama, movement and visual arts, with an overarching aim to support individuals in building and adapting healthy coping mechanisms. The groups were formed according to gender as cross-gender free association and interaction is frowned upon within their community. Moreover, during assessment, both girls and boys shared that they felt shy, nervous and sometimes even scared and intimidated to open up in the direct presence of the opposite gender. Hence, two separate groups were created for the boys and girls respectively. The groups would gather once a week for a two-hour session at the library. Through the use of improvisation, spontaneous play, projective play and role-play, the groups engaged therapeutically and artistically with personal material via various art forms. Emergent themes included: understanding gendered norms, responding to violence and fear. They also identified different emotions that were linked to ceremonies and rites of passage and aspects of friendship and support. These were observed to have played at the edge of their conceptual understanding and again seemed to challenge certain notions of gendered behaviours. After the nine-month intervention, the groups chose certain artworks and stories, which they later put together and which held their transformational expressions in the form of performative pieces. Both the groups shared their work in the form of plays and books with each other in a community event. This offered an opportunity for both the groups, the library community and their family and friends to witness and be curious about their therapeutic journey. The children are exposed to multiple forms of violence, such as domestic abuse, where most of them have witnessed either their mothers being attacked by their fathers or relatives fighting over familial issues. They have also seen gang fights and murders in the locality, which have included police involvement and the interrogation of their immediate family members. Some children have been witness to either their own parents’ or neighbours’ suicide. Nearly all of them mention being told off by elders if they question or tell others about these incidents. In her talk on ‘Gender issues in South Asia’, Menon (2015) comments that often men who perpetuate violence are produced in cultures of violence, where they are exposed to a violent upbringing. Women also grow up in such hostile and violent environments; however, the difference is that they seem to direct their violence inward, they direct that violence on themselves. She further states that patriarchy enables men to have the option of directing that violence outside, mostly on women, children and subordinate men. Initially, when clients first disclosed information on violent encounters or incidents in sessions, they were faced with judgements from their peers. There were moments when participants hesitated to share, fearful of the impending curse from ghosts and gods, something of the unknown, frightfully drilled into them by the elders in the community. Almost as if they would need to pay a hefty price for revealing such secrets to outsiders. These promises, secrets, curses and fearsome consequences of spirit possession, bad fate or even death seem like opaque shields to protect and uphold oppressive structures rooted within patriarchal norms. The sensitive wounds behind

58 Pallavi Chander

these protective shields are patriarchal egos that fear a loss of power and control over subordinates; principally those who are women and children. During these sessions, while there was much banter and playfulness, there was also a deep sense of resistance and resilience, which manifested as confrontations, arguments or fights amongst themselves. The rigidity of issues faced by the children such as gendered norms, violence and ceremonial rituals are intricately suffocated by patriarchal practices. In retrospect, I believe both groups explored themes that not only acknowledged but also questioned and strongly resisted aspects of patriarchy, implicitly and explicitly, and this was reflected in both their explorations and responses. In that sense, if patriarchy was to be considered the stern and heavy-handed ammunition, then the repercussions are the triggers experienced in the form of gendered norms and violence. However, these generational scars and wounds seemed to mysteriously appear in their questions, emotional bursts, confrontations and playfulness. Could it be that these thread a path of resistance and rebellion towards healing in the collective and individual consciousness? I now further examine this notion, drawing on specific moments from my work with the group of adolescent girls.

The Green Hut and ceremonial rituals In most parts of India, when a girl gets her first menstrual cycle, she is subjected to a series of ceremonies and rituals, usually in accordance with the religion and caste she inherits. However, what is peculiar is that the girl menstruating and the menstrual blood are considered impure and, apart from the initial ceremonies which mark the coming of age and rites of passage, every time she gets her monthly cycle, she is expected to follow a strict code of rules connected to religious sanctity. These restrictions extend from sleeping and eating in a separate room away from the rest of the family to not being allowed to enter the kitchen or temple during her menstruating cycles. These so-called taboos of menstruation are followed to varying degrees across the country. The Indian judicial system recently intervened with a claim running several years and related to women not being allowed to enter a temple shrine in Kerala during their menstruation years. This meant they could only enter the temple either before the age of ten or subsequent to menopause, most typically post-50 years of age. The Supreme Court of India struck down this restriction on women, claiming that such religious practices are discriminatory and deny women basic rights and personal dignity. They further argued that as the tradition was based on women’s menstrual impurity, the judges held that devotion cannot be used to uphold such restrictive practices and that patriarchal norms must change. Such menstrual taboos are internalised by women themselves and continue to be widely adhered to, even among the urban educated elite. This verdict highlights a dire need for social transformation from deep-seated social biases. Conversations over this case hung as a heavy backdrop in the sessions with the adolescent girls, as many of them started their menstrual cycle during the course of the programme. The girls were curious yet shy and nervous to talk about matters pertaining to menstruation, as even talking about it was considered taboo or

Encounter and engagement with patriarchy 59

inappropriate. However, in the light of the verdict, which was widely discussed in the media, it became public knowledge. In one of the sessions I had a bad case of cramps and I made mention of the fact in the course of the session. Seemingly in response, one of the participants mentioned that her cycle is also quite painful. Slowly and almost spontaneously, the group began to share suggestions and remedies they received from their mothers and grandmothers. Soon girls who had not yet started their cycles began to ask questions about the rituals that followed the first menstrual cycle. The group began to discuss their experience of the ceremonies, rituals and restrictions followed in their households, which included not talking to boys or men, not playing outdoors, not speaking or laughing loudly, wearing clothes that cover them completely, especially the chest and breasts, not letting their hair loose but always keeping it oiled and plaited, eating from a separate plate and so on. One of the initial rituals involved being forced to eat certain foods and sitting in a hut built outside their homes for nine to 11 days. A girl is told that from that moment on she is a ‘grown up’! The restrictions they mentioned are particular to their experience and I suspect that more severe practices are followed in other parts of the country. Moreover, it is undeniable that these restrictions instil gender norms that are starkly tainted with patriarchy. However, for a 11-year-old girl, these concepts might seem pretty abstract and confusing. In reality they were already experiencing being treated differently compared to their brothers and they were angry as these restrictions contributed to their sense of being lesser than the boys. Their questions and anger came from places of innocence and rebellion. The group was encouraged to recreate the ritual and ceremonies in the session using material and spontaneous narration, which they collectively added to as they went along. It almost seemed as though they were directly informing me, the therapist, of the traditions they followed in their community with the knowledge they had gathered from their collective experiences. What stood out was that as they spoke of the final ceremony, there was a sense of excitement and celebration, starkly different from their experience of other rituals. The questions that emerged from this session, in many ways, became the basis of our onward work. The young participants felt the need to go back and ask the elders in their families about the reasons behind the rituals and certain practices. As they built a repertoire of answers, they re-created the enactment into still scenes through visual collages using painted paper and textures inspired by the work of Eric Carle. The act of painting those sheets, making textures, cutting them into shapes and forms that fit the scenes, offered the clients an opportunity to externalise or express an experience that was forcefully pushed into their psyche, as if it were a secret or blasphemous act never to be uttered aloud. The girls shared that most of them delayed telling their mothers of their menstruation for at least a week and in some cases over a month, in the fear of being forced to ‘grow up’. It is important to mention again the significant impact this hut has in this menstrual ritual and the final ceremony. The hut is usually built with neem, coconut and tamarind leaves, traditionally meant to ward away infections. However, in the case of this community, who live in cramped concrete housing

60 Pallavi Chander

complexes, the huts are built on the corridors and landings, in full view of the entire community. Its purpose was probably an announcement to inform the community that the girl in the house is now of marriageable age. However, for the girl who sits inside the hut, she is subjected to a rush of emotions, thoughts and bodily sensations that are not necessarily congruent to the intent behind the ritual. It felt important for the clients to state that it was confusing for them. They were happy and sad, it was scary yet rewarding to sleep alone in the hut and they were delighted to receive good nutritious food, sweets, new clothes and attention from their friends and family because of this ceremony. It seemed vital for some of them to express that all they really cared about was the food, new clothes and make-up sets, for they would never have received these gifts if it was not for the ceremony. On the contrary, as I witnessed this, I was wary and had this sinking feeling throughout. I could see the impact patriarchy had on these ritualistic practices and ceremonies. I was witness to the girls’ innocence being lost to gender socialisation, which triggered memories from my own experience of this phase of my life. Being from an educated English-speaking, middle-class elite meant my background gave me certain privileges to question and go against these norms. As a woman, my views on these taboos were to claim and own that space and be more affirmative and informed about one’s actions. And in my right mind, the right thing to do would have been to radically inform the clients of how they are being gendered into divisive patriarchal norms and how this would limit and undermine their futures. Throwing this rebellious tone onto the children would have hampered our process. I was caught between my need to protect them from what I saw as the claws of patriarchy and the therapeutic imperatives to stay present and attentive to their journey and to provide a safe space for them to develop healthy coping mechanisms. Do I need to inform them now in this critical moment of their lives or do I wait? Do I wait for things to unfurl and take their course? I had to make a choice and I chose to step back, to wait. I did drop seeds through questions which highlighted certain stereotypes, in the hope that they might grow curious and find their agency to meet the questions between choosing to follow or reject these norms. This was their journey and a call for playful enquiry seemed the natural route to take. The group felt keen to share these scenes with their peers, especially with the boys. They felt that the boys need to be informed of this phenomenon in order to understand the women in their lives better. This was a huge step against those patriarchal norms, which prohibited even the presence of a menstruating girl. The participants worked on the scenes with the narrative of a girl, Reena, who held the collective experiences of the first menstrual cycle of the group as she guides us through a book called ‘Aye Reena’ or ‘Hey, Reena’. In conclusion, I have reflected on personally and professionally experienced instances of encounter and engagement with the many faces of patriarchy. I have identified examples of how these experiences of systemic oppression can trigger resistances, gendered socialisation and subsequent behaviours. These moments and experiences can also give us an opportunity to sit with our own giants, with those aspects of patriarchy that we might have internalised, those experiences of gendered

Encounter and engagement with patriarchy 61

FIGURE 4.1

Reena’s Sadangu

FIGURE 4.2

Reena’s thoughts

62 Pallavi Chander

training from childhood and adolescence that have been etched deep into our unconscious. These can appear as ‘giants’ who at times can seem heavy, resistant, fearful, violent and angry. They can also be invitations to make space for the wounded self to listen with compassion and empathy, to feed those parts of ourselves and, in turn, the collective, with love and nurturance. To find ways to dance with it in joy and lightness and rest with it in ease and calmness. While patriarchy’s default systems are oppressive and hegemonic, and the nuances of therapeutic integrations as observed by the women in the therapeutic groups could seem gentle and silent, they are also rebellious, strong and resilient in all their melancholies, mysterious rages and complexities. Sailing through the spirit of our times, the call is to give each other the strength to stand together and move forth. To join with our ancestors who planted those seeds in their struggles and rebellious acts. To connect to our own humanity and, as a collective, to march alongside young people united in the struggle to re-shape the world we have all inherited.

References Burstow, B. (1992) Radical Feminist Therapy: Working in the Context of Violence. Newsbury Park, London, New Delhi: Sage Publications. Butler, J. (1990) Gender Trouble: Feminism and The Subversion of Identity. New York, London: Routledge. Menon, N. (2012) Seeing Like A Feminist. India: Penguin Random House. Menon, N. (2015) Nivedita Menon on Gender and Sexuality in South Asia [Online] Available at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFQaLy9jBRo&list=PLgqXxX-B0U leLnkj6KkDXe6jNw8qzyFYN&index=2&t=2s [accessed 18th January 2020]. Pearson, J., Smail, M. & Watts, P. (2013) Dramatherapy with Myth and Fairytale: The Golden Stories of Sesame. London: Jessica Kingsley. Pinkola Estes, C. (1992) Women Who Run With the Wolves. London: Rider Publications. Sajnani, N. (2012) Response/ability: Imagining a critical race feminist paradigm for the creative arts therapies. Arts in Psychotherapy (39), pp. 186–191. Tandon, A. P. & Tripathy, G. D. (2016) Interrogating. In Biswas, B. and Kaul, R. (eds.) Gender, Women and Empowerment in Contemporary India. New Delhi: Worldview Publications.

5 MYTH INTERRUPTING Richard Hougham

Introduction The psyche yearns for stories that are more than explained rationalisations of life. It seeks the divine, the magical, the cruel and the crooked. This chapter is an enquiry into myth. It is a wondering about how myth shows itself, reveals itself and makes its presence felt. Yes, myth speaks through epic narratives, blockbuster films and distortions of propaganda, but it also performs at the periphery and through the apparently inconsequential. Mythologems appear to us every day; in the corners and edges of things, through the tremble of a dream that changes our mood all morning, or a sorrow suddenly induced by the pattern of rain on the pond. I follow a questioning about how myth interrupts our dreams, falters a conversation or creates a meaningful synchrony. If we would just ‘tune our ear’ as Seamus Heaney says and turn our attention to these murmurings, we can develop a sensibility to the mythopoetic, to the depth of awareness and to Lorca’s ‘Deep Song’ (Lorca, 1998:1). We have memories not restricted to calendar marks or diary entries. The psyche holds on to fragments of experience, represses others and contains memories older than the few years we have physically lived. Martin Shaw outlines three types of memory: ‘skin memory’, ‘flesh memory’ and ‘bone memory’ as a starting point to reflect on these layers of remembrance (Shaw, 2016). Moments of myth and inklings of memory interrupting can have their source in dream, ritual, histories spoken and unspoken. They move into our sphere of consciousness, often without bidding. Such markings offer a charting through the chapter, moving to questions of language and a mythopoetic underscoring of dramatherapy practice. Henry Thoreau offers an axis for the discussion, with his term ‘grammatica parda’; speaking of the ‘dusky knowledge’ of the earth and the importance of a language of image. How psychology and the psychotherapies (arts or otherwise) engage with language is a profound question and goes to the heart of how we relay and communicate experience. In dramatherapy, the craft of DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-6

64 Richard Hougham

telling and listening to the traditional tales works towards learning some of this ‘dusky knowledge’. The delight and contortions of a book of Anansi stories, the expanse of Innuit dreaming or the crackle and cackle of the Baba Yaga are all set before us as challenges to present ourselves to this world of the other. Throughout the chapter, I draw through threads of the contemporary myth/novel Lanny by Max Porter (Porter, 2019). Porter’s writing tackles the underbelly and mythic backdrop of Britain that lends relevance in a time of crisis and national division. Porter offers up a picture of England, with a surface of noise, busyness and gossip, whilst offering us a mythic counterbalance in the many guises of the shape shifting chthonic trickster – Old Papa Toothwort.

Myth interrupted The title of this chapter, ‘Myth interrupting’, is a response to Jean Luc Nancy’s essay ‘Myth interrupted’ in his book The Inoperative Community (2008). After an enigmatic scene-setting at the beginning of his chapter, in which Nancy paints a classic picture of a storytelling moment – the fire, people gathered in a circle and the storyteller recounting a tale of the tribes’ origin, we are poised to hear the story: He stopped at a particular place, to the side of but in view of the others, on a hillock or by a tree that had been struck by lightning, and he started the narrative that brought together the others. (Nancy, 2008: 43) Whilst Nancy goes on to say that myth is the ‘sacred language of a foundation and an oath’, he also states it is a (necessary) part of an ‘inoperative’ community. He says that the story ‘often seems confused; it is not coherent; it speaks of strange powers and numerous metamorphoses; it is cruel, savage, and pitiless, but at times also provokes laughter. It names things unknown, never been seen’ (Nancy, 2008: 44). After setting up this imaginal picture, Nancy goes on to discuss myth as narratives of falsehoods and (potentially) dangerous tropes. Not content with Bataille’s ‘absence of myth’ (Bataille, 2006), he instead opts for ‘myth interrupted’, noting the implicit dangers of cultural ideology and an uncritical propagation of tradition. To all intents and purposes, he calls this storytelling moment a self-referential narrative of its own becoming. He does this through paradoxically celebrating community forged not through work, but through the very act of people coming together, even if they (apparently) have no purpose. He cites ‘the myth of myth’, and brings into play the familiar and parochial interpretation of myth as an ‘untruth’ (ibid.: 55). In this analysis, Nancy refers to the ‘Aryan myth’ and how a nation can be propelled and compelled into thought and action by a mythic scenography, which is based on the staging and setting to work (mise en oeuvre) of a Volk and a Reich. Nancy cautions against identification with myth and questions how a culture carries and performs its history. Indeed, this is arguably one of the most important philosophical and political questions of our time. With the incipient rise of populism and nationalism, myth conflates with cultural identity, providing a narrative, which projects threat and

Myth interrupting 65

inferiority on to ‘the other’. Therefore, not only is a critical stance vital, but a psychoanalytic one too. As Nancy reminds us, we need only think back to the last century to remember that, in the grip of Wotan and the Third Reich, the Nazi regime engineered myth and fairytale to meet its own pernicious ends. In this catastrophe, evidence of the distortion of narratives is indisputable; the staging of performances in which the hero of Little Red Riding Hood appeared as an SS officer or the cultural commissions of Himmler who used folklore to provide an ideological base for his SS-Ahnenerbe (SS Ancestral Inheritance) (Dow, 2017). Regimes may spin myth through specific ideologies, selective tropes and political fundamentalism, destroying individual freedoms and leading to the obliteration of the free expression of religion and culture. Such brutality and blindness has led to deep suspicion of myth because of its capacity to possess both the individual and the collective. And no wonder. It has caused what von Franz identifies as the ‘mass psychosis’, when Germany ‘went to the Devil’ in the Second World War, along with regimes and dictatorships pulling in symbols and feeding on projections. However, the out and out dismissal of myth in this way does not understand it fully, and is disingenuous insofar as it is through denial and repression that archetypal forces are more likely to wreak havoc and possess the psyche. Von Franz, who dedicated so much of her work to the study of the psychological importance of fairytale, completed an important study on the appearance of shadow and evil in fairytale (von Franz, 1995). She speaks directly to the Holocaust and the moral responsibility we have not only as individuals but also as a culture to reflect on and integrate the personal and collective shadow. Myths are not implicitly totalitarian tropes or propaganda, but manifestations of both an ever present and inherited human nature contained within the characters, cycles and motifs of the stories. These expressions are archetypal configurations of impulse and initiation and have influence on both individual lives and cultural values. This presents us with an ethical need to study myth as a means of reflecting on our own disposition, belief and worldview (Weltanshauung). As von Franz points out, the forces of the collective shadow find their way through the personal shadow and ‘if you leave the back door open, there the devil can come in’ (von Franz, 2011). In the same vein, we can read Jung’s analysis and reflection on the ‘catastrophe’ of the second war, as he turns our attention to the grip of Wotan as it spread like a storm through Europe: From time immemorial, nature was always filled with spirit. Now, for the first time, we are living in a lifeless nature bereft of gods. No one will deny the important role, which the powers of the human psyche, personified as gods, played in the past. The mere act of enlightenment might have destroyed the spirits of nature, but not the psychic factors that correspond to them, such as suggestibility, lack of criticism, fearfulness, propensity to superstition and prejudice – in short all those qualities which make possession possible. (Jung, 1981: 211) Jung brings into question the gulf or perhaps better – vacuum that an absence of myth or an interruption of myth can induce, leading to a hubris and elevation of the rationalised mind. Whilst myth may be interrupted, dislodged or ignored, it

66 Richard Hougham

does not mean these fallibilities of the human psyche cease to exist. The gods continue to jump out and startle us as autonomous complexes, especially if we over identify with the conscious mind as the entirety of the personality. The gods, unnoticed, go underground. We can read in classical Greek mythology what happens if the libation to the God or Goddess is overlooked. There is always a price to pay for human hubris. The question of introducing and telling myth in dramatherapy therefore requires an enquiry into how personal dreams and situations play into the cultural and collective zeitgeist and vice versa. The performative has historically been a means in which these psychic factors find expression and form – through theatre, dance and ritual. In this way, the study and performative rendering of myth, exploring how it interrupts and influences dispositions, beliefs and behaviours becomes a central methodology in dramatherapy.

Collective memory In wrestling with these questions of engagement with and understanding of myth, the question presents itself again; what are these forces at play that might pre-dispose us to possession, denial or rationalistic understanding? Where are the gods? The idea of a collective memory links to an ancestral memory, which bridges generations. It is an inheritance of story and patterns of behaviour, which are deeper than personal memory and forged over long, long stretches of time. Myths are repositories of these memories, distilled into form and narrative, dream and art. Since the first discoveries in psychoanalysis of forces in the unconscious that are inherited and predisposed, the nature and scope of memory has been disputed. What we remember and how it presents itself to us in dreams, traumatic symptoms, intuitions or cognitive recall remains a thorny subject. In the context of the study of myth, the storyteller Martin Shaw talks of three types of memory – skin memory, flesh memory and bone memory (Shaw, 2016). He brings an imaginal approach and one centred in the body as psyche. For skin memory, he gives the example of the curriculum vitae and the listing of professional and habitual markings of moments and achievements. It is the face we turn to the world, the markers of different personal and professional roles and their articulation. In Jung’s terms, the persona. Flesh memories are locations of feeling toned memory, experiences, which have shaped us; the loves and the losses we have felt and the marks of a life lived. Flesh memories are the scars on our skin, the traces of the falls and wounding from grief, disappointment and illness. They are, too, the memories of tenderness from a touch, the delight of landing on the sand and the idiosyncrasies of scars. In Jung’s terms, flesh memories are the movement between the ego and the personal unconscious, the forging of the personality in the family, the workplace and relationships. The deepest and oldest memory Shaw calls bone memory, a memory that carries within it experience held within the DNA structures of our inorganic inheritance, and manifests in the dreams we cannot pin down to personal experience. These are the ancestors and the long line of humanity, which reaches far into the past. In Jung’s terms, this is the collective unconscious. Older than the past centuries, it

Myth interrupting 67

speaks of the connection we have with the land and to that which cannot be known. For the poet and playwright Gabriel Garcia Lorca, this connection to older memory happens through the appearance of duende, a cultural force that is ‘not form, but the marrow of form’. It is not to do with history and dates, or even morality, but the substance of memory in its expressions through deep song (cante jondo). As Lorca says, duende is ‘imbued with the mysterious colour of primordial ages’ (Lorca, 1998: 3). The creative (and potentially destructive) force of duende and bone memory can appear in a dream, the ballads of the road, the crack of a storyteller’s words, or a moment of panic at twilight in the woods. It is in the dreams of the old gods, as they manifest in our everyday lives. These memories are also contained in the myths. In the words of Martin Shaw: The storytellers, the myth tellers trade in a deeper dimension again, it’s what we call chthonic, it’s what bone memory is. Bone memory is when, contained in the inner rhythms of ancient story, there are motifs and images that speak directly to your soul and you suddenly realise this happened to me this morning. (Shaw, 2016) The memory of the bone carries traces of histories and stories, before they became colonised. It can take us into a relationship with the land and the dreaming of the earth. We hear about telling the bare bones of the story, as a way to allow the listener to ‘flesh it out’. Whilst many myths are distorted or rearranged according to religious, political or societal belief systems, there remains this bone memory, which we can listen to in dreams, in the arts, in the moments of reflection when time becomes non-linear. One of the ways I have found to touch these memories and to induct and learn the myths has been through walking, to create a space in myself for the images to breathe. I have found that reaching across to the non-human worlds seems to support my reverie into these mythological tales. It is a sensation of not being distracted by the digital, but allowing the psyche room to expand, to notice and receive and make some space. It is like a process of emptying the mind in order to allow these murmurings through. I often notice that when walking in the forest of Sussex in the south of the UK, I am more likely to remember my dreams. There is something about the deep copper colour of the ferns in October, the smell of the dank bark and the hover of the morning mist, which recreates a different sensibility. It is a more melancholic mood, reflective and solitary. Somehow, these walking paths take me into more of an awareness of time, both in its expansiveness and in its limitations and the ‘blink of an eye’ that I am walking on this earth. The English poet William Wordsworth felt those moments of bone memory when he was walking, which is when he wrote most of his poetry. Wordsworth talked of ‘Spots of time’, moments in which an older memory touched the human psyche. In the ‘The Prelude’, he writes: The Days gone by Return upon me almost from the dawn Of life: I would approach them, but they close.

68 Richard Hougham

I see by glimpses now; when age comes on, May scarcely see at all; and I would give, While yet we may, as far as words can give, Substance and life to what I feel, enshrining, Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past For future restoration. (Wordsworth, 2020: 12.277–86) Wordsworth brings the past to the present and in his mention of ‘days gone by’ we have the sense that he is not talking only of his own personal days gone by, but longer stretches of time passing. How the days ‘return upon me’ are interruptions to causality and a linear conception of time. This is not a nostalgia for some long forgotten past, but a thing that happens in the everyday, in the mundane. This realigns our listening to story and hints of bone memory to everyday moments of relationship. It is the cultivation of a symbolic attitude and poetic sensibility to the murmurings and synchronicities of the everyday and the cyclical nature of time. Myth is not only something we choose to study; it is always within us; the figures, the moments and the situations waiting and jostling to become manifest. We could say it is to invite the interruptions from the periphery of awareness, reading the moments in the everyday as marks and expressions of an older story. Moreover, it is not only in the wild landscapes that the murmurings are felt, but also in the wildness of the cityscape, the glance of a stranger’s eye. The chimney brick dislodged and the smell of coffee. As Joseph Campbell says, ‘The latest incarnation of Oedipus, the continued romance of beauty and the beast stand this afternoon on the corner of forty second street and fifth avenue waiting for the traffic lights to change’ (Campbell, 1993: 4). These murmurings interrupt a zeitgeist that has lost sight of the old gods, whether in the crevice of the natural landscape or the rattle and hum of an urban park. Amidst the endless gossiping and superficial existence of an English village, here is the boy Lanny, connected to the other world, to the trees, to the dream, to the smells and shapes of the woods. His is an awareness altogether older and wilder than the flurries of judgement and disdain that come through the voices of the villagers. And most alarmingly and brilliantly, bone memory smashes through the veneer in the antics and disruption of Old Papa Toothwort. The archaic and the contemporary jostle for room in this troublesome character as he interrupts village life: Dead Papa Toothwort, local historian, seventy-fourth generation cultural humus sifter, is giving a bright orange Fanta bottle top a tour of the village. He tells the fascinated plastic cap of times past. He resuscitates tales and teases stories from the molecular memory of the village. (Porter, 2019: 52) In Porter’s tale, Toothwort transfigures himself effortlessly from a brown puddle into a normal bloke, with ‘flat cap, rain mac and sensible boots’ only to ‘whistle his dream

Myth interrupting 69

into being’ (Porter, 2019: 100). The boy Lanny, described throughout as this unreal child with a special memory connection to the roots of the tree says to his Dad at one point when found sleepwalking and lying outside in the cold next to the base of a tree, ‘There’s a girl living under this tree. She’s lived here for hundreds of years’ (Porter, 2019: 41). In Lanny, we have the sense of an older memory, a bone memory, one that makes him a natural ally of Toothwort. There is a strong sense of the transience and flimsiness of modernity in Porter’s writing, and an expose of how quickly civilisation falls into blame and projection when devoid of older memories and tradition. The village as ego, endlessly trying to figure out right and wrong, blame and release. It is stuck in its own gossip of anxiety and neurosis, swift to judge and quick to fall. Cut off and dislodged from the sounds of the woods and the tremble and history of the land, it is unprepared to meet the antics of Papa Toothwort. It becomes a melee of posturing, projection and judgement of the other. Of the sinister other. In considering bone memory and the telling of myths, we move away from archiving a linear history and out of the confines of timing and calendar marks. The language of this memory, how it makes itself felt, heard and seen brings attention to murmurings of a different order.

Grammatica parda Storytelling – mythtelling – speaks to these three memories of skin, flesh and bone. Nancy’s storyteller tells a ‘story which speaks of strange powers and numerous metamorphoses’, but we can reframe this as a means and opportunity to speak to the older part of the psyche – to the unconscious, to the dreaming. The language of the psyche relishes these languages, just as it prefers gesture to functional action. However, we can be shy to bring them into psychology. They are too dreamlike, too poetic, too dark. ‘What do the images mean?’ Rationality deals its immediate blow as it seeks interpretation and struggles for objectivity. I remember a dream I once related to my analyst, reading it as I had written it down. I found myself relating it with a hint of apology, as I felt it was too poetic in style. Here is the dream as I wrote it verbatim: A man is playing a long piece of wood (the shape of a broom handle), like a bass guitar. His complexion is pitted, there are rashes on his face and he looks a bit pickled. But his fingers move fast and rhythmically. The wood then becomes a thick length of rope, which he plays with great skill. People begin to gather at the corner of the street, watching him play his ‘skiffle’ bass. Then, in one moment, from the frayed cord, a small head slowly forms, one also made of threads of cord, a face of a small creature like Yallory Brown. His hair was spiked across his head in a kind of brazen chaotic sundial. He forms himself from this instrument as a wild muse, awakened from a restless sleep. When I read this dream to my analyst, he admonished me for immediately apologising for its poetic tone. Why was I not able to tell the dream through my style of writing?

70 Richard Hougham

What was it in me that felt I needed to frame it differently? Why can it be so difficult to honour these tones and languages? Part of this can be a justified caution towards sentimentality and gloss in language, which strips it bare of meaning. However, to write and reflect on the images as they are, as they move us in their feeling tone is important. Yes, they give us an opportunity to interpret and see them as inner figures and symbolic aspects of the Self, but they also create the story and the atmosphere of the theatre of the psyche. These languages are very different from the reductive languages that psychology has adopted in its advancement towards the clinical and the behavioural. Thoreau’s reference to the term ‘grammatica parda’ (‘tawny grammar’) is helpful here, as it refers to those moments when we feel gripped by a poetic image, by a ‘spot of time’, by a memory from a dream. To give this phrase some context, here is the initial reference from Thoreau’s essay in Walden: Here is this vast, savage, howling mother of ours, Nature, lying all around, with such beauty, and such affection for her children, as the leopard; and yet we are so early weaned from her breast to society, to that culture which is exclusively an interaction of man to man – a sort of breeding in and in, which produces at most a merely English nobility, a civilisation destined to have a speedy limit. (Thoreau, 1975: 680) The expansion Thoreau offers in this passage speaks to the animistic nature of memory and places human interactions as only a small part of the ‘howling mother’. As is typical in his writing, he exposes a brittleness and superficiality of civilisation, with a swipe at ‘society’ that is limited to ‘man to man’. To counter this (skin memory), myths are an interruption to contemporary assumptions of truth and identity within civilisation’s ‘limit’. Listening to and telling myth as the dreaming of a culture, or the dreaming of the land, challenges an increasingly fragmented era. Thoreau goes on to say: There are other letters for the child to learn than those which Cadmus invented. The Spaniards have a good term to express this wild and dusky knowledge, Grammatica Parda, tawny grammar, a kind of mother-wit derived from that same leopard to which I have referred. (Thoreau, 1975: 681) Grammatica parda, with its recapitulation of the wild image back into language and place, song and story is an opportunity to interrupt the dominance of an explicate identity. In other words, the predominance of ‘personal experience’ or ‘man to man’. It can be called into being by storytelling as a footing and a mapping for personal trials and challenges, set against the backdrop of weather patterns, talking animals and tremendous endeavours. This is where the language of psychoanalysis meets the language of myth. Arguably, it is where the language of psychoanalysis is the language of myth, There are terrible and cruel happenings; the dismemberment of Medusa’s head speaks to the times when severance brings about a much needed ending, or the longing and grief of Orpheus which, though deeply painful, can create such beautiful music as to cause

Myth interrupting 71

Hades to shed a silver tear. These moments in myth and story offer resonance to the psyche that no amount of behavioural or rational thought can provide. And wildness can be deadly as well as transforming. Duskiness seductive. However, the dimensions, both of brutality and love, vengeance and honour in myth gives us a fabric to reflect on the shadow in ourselves. As Thoreau says, it takes us further than the limits of ‘man to man’ and into the woods. Shakespeare offers us this in King Lear, when nature becomes the brutal mirror to his world. His experience of disintegration and torment on the heath offers us a terrible insight into his madness through a language of natural elements: Blow, winds and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You Cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires (Shakespeare, 1997: Act 3, Scene 2) Part of Shakespeare’s genius was to develop stories and languages, which connected the human with nature, landscapes, ghosts, spirits and lost islands. In his entire opus, he never once writes the word depression. Nor anxiety. Nor trauma. These concepts are derived from psychology that has arisen through the clinical and social sciences and a paradigm of symptomatology and causation. In contrast, Shakespeare’s extraordinary capacity to create character and give insight into the human condition was informed by the language and motivations of poetry. Charles Nicholl (1980) suggests ‘perhaps the presence of alchemical meanings in King Lear might finally be seen as Shakespeare’s reaching for a language to express mysterious ideas about the self, the unconscious, madness and wholeness’ (200/1). In these ways, we see how mythic and poetic language interrupts an overly personal psychological stance. The artist Louis Simpson suggests that grammatica parda has the capacity to bring about a different shaping and experiencing of the self through interrupting and disrupting normal syntax and the conventional structuring of language. Simpson, speaking specifically about grammatica parda, suggests it is ‘outside memory, outside history, outside time’. It is a ‘blizzard of scatterings’ (Simpson, 2007: 23). It is not only the words and the sounds of tawny grammar, but also the structure and antistructure of the sentence, phrase, sound or sentence. We see this employed in the way Max Porter offers us snippets of murmurings from the inhabitants of Lanny’s village. Throughout the story, we feel the presence of Old Papa Toothwort, as he drinks in the rumble and gossip of the village, apparently delighting in the cataclysm of activity of the inhabitants. Not only this, his disruption carries across to the page in the typeface and font used for the printed word. Porter breaks with convention in the presentation of the text, swirling italicised text about the page, lifting a paragraph to the right to hang alone and smudging the lettering as if written in charcoal. This staccato rhapsody, which incorporates banal comments, poignant clichés and ridiculous remarks are brilliant capsules of interruption as well as the very stuff which Old Papa Toothwort needs, enjoys, and thrills himself with: ‘Every now and then he does it, puts on a show, intervenes, changes the nature of the place’ (Porter, 2019: 90/91).

72 Richard Hougham

Somewhere we know there are more voices than the ones that are endlessly gossiping. There is a need for mythical interruption, for the psyche is not satisfied with civilisation and explanation. The Leopard, the ‘howling mother of ours’, Dead Papa Toothwort, all the chthonic gods will, whether beckoned or not, intervene and put on a show. In grammatica parda, through tawny grammar, through mythtelling, we take the risk of summoning them, of addressing them, of seeking our intimate connection with them. We then meet the howling in ourselves, seek out the Leopard’s love and the rattle of bone memories held within the old stories.

Dramatherapy and myth, interrupted On the one hand, dramatherapy examines myth critically in terms of how it influences and plays out in individual, political, and social structures. At the same time, it offers a means to improvise with the narrative and examine what themes are at play. However, specific to dramatherapy, action methods are employed to enact mythic narratives that both elicit and interrupt personal stories. The opportunity to engage with the images in myth (including roles, characters, atmospheres, feeling responses, images of place and absences), through different acting methods both interprets and interrupts the myth. In the Sesame approach, there is a willingness to honour its fluidity of meaning, not to fix it into one interpretation but to give it breath and body. What is psychologically important is how the myth takes us off balance, how it perturbs the status quo. The storyline and the images offer the threads for this, with a different weaving each time. The psychological work involved in this method of Sesame dramatherapy practice involves attention to (and integration of) the shadow and what rests underneath the cognisant mind. The layers of myth means there is the opportunity for an integration of the personal and cultural layers of the psyche. The language of myth speaks to both a personal memory and a bone memory. The housing of shadow elements within the mythologems and the adoption of action methods maintains a dramatic distance for many clients, offering a means for them to locate and express experience without the pressure to disclose personal material. In a sense, this turns psychotherapy orthodoxy on its head. The personal revealed through the archetypal in an approach that is oblique. I have been working towards this as the crux of my conception of the nature of interruption in relation to myth. Not only does myth interrupt personal narrative, whether on the corner of 42nd street or in the forest, it also stimulates the generative unconscious. In myth, we find a more holistic psyche represented, the fool as well as the king, the medicine of the crone, the folly of flying too close to the sun. In an enactment, when the client improvises with a particular character or moment within the story, the immediacy of the image can be encountered in a personal way, which is at the same time personal and collective. In the words of Grotowski, it is ‘confronted’ (Grotowski, 1975). This moment of encounter is unpredictable and impossible to foresee, it is unique to the particular constellation of the actor/client and his or her environment. But it can present an opportunity for the shadow of the actor to be enlivened and expressed, held and contained within the larger and more expansive narrative of the myth and the

Myth interrupting 73

relationships in the group. The myth offers the psyche associative images in a language similar to the natural occurring symbols produced by the unconscious and the dramatic form gives opportunity for this to be embodied and expressed. In contrast to Nancy, myth is not being interrupted, but is dynamically interrupting. It becomes an active verb, not a noun. In my experience of the telling of myth and story to students and clients, I have tried to cultivate some of these ideas outlined above. In the past few years, I have spent time walking with the myth of Orpheus, dwelling in the moment of ‘Farewell’ and the longing I feel in the world. When reading Lanny, as I moved about my everyday business I became in one moment Lanny’s father, travelling to London, buffeting fear and working late, but captivated by the vigour of Old Papa Toothwort. In another, I witnessed my nine-year-old son sing to the morning, shake off sentimental questions and delight in the discovery of a rusty tractor axle on a dog walk. These were the murmurings of these months of writing; these were the moments of timelessness and spots of time. In my learning of the myths and stories, I have dwelt in the atmospheres and I can do this only with an invitation to the bone memory in myself. I have learnt the stories on the walks. Through the strange movement of a bronze fern leaf on a still day, to the smell of dank bark fallen from a dead oak, these are the places I learn story and remember. I walk to steady myself, but I also walk to listen – to the mist and birdsong, and to the part of myself that awakens in nature. I relished spots of time which released (and interrupted) the treadmill of my days and the troublesome nights. It couched me in the meadow, whilst Old Papa Toothwort threw me into the thistles. I struggle to learn story, but I persevere.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Pedro Kujawski for inspiration, Paul Hougham for conversations, Sarah Scoble for her vision and Vicki for lighting it all up. And to the stories themselves.

References Bataille, G. (2006) The Absence of Myth, Writings on Surrealism. Verso: Canada. Campbell, J. (1993) The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Fontana: London. Dow, J.R. (2017) Heinrich Himmler’s Cultural Commissions. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Grotowski, J. (1975) Towards a Poor Theatre. Methuen: London. Jung, C. (1981) CW10 Civilisation in Transition. Routledge: London. Jung, C. (2011) C.G. Jung Letters, Vol. 2 1951–1961. Routledge: Hove. Lorca, G.G. (1998) In Search of Duende. New Directions Books: New York. Nancy, J.L. (2008) The Inoperative Community. University of Minnesota Press: Minnesota. Nicholl, C. (1980) The Chemical Theatre. Routledge and Kegan Paul: London. Porter, M. (2019) Lanny. Faber: London. Simpson, A. (2007) The Marram Grass: Poetry and Otherness. Gaspereau: Kentville, NS. Shakespeare, W. (1997) King Lear. The Arden Shakespeare: London. Shaw, M. (2016) Trailing the Gods back Home. Film, YouTube.

74 Richard Hougham

Thoreau, H.D. (1975) The Selected Works of Thoreau. Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston. Von Franz, M.L. (1980) Projection and Re-Collection in Jungian Psychology: Reflections of the Soul. Open Court Publishing: Illinois. Von Franz, M.L. (1995) The Shadow and Evil in Fairytales. Boulder: Shambhala Publications. Von Franz, M.L. (2011) https://youtu.be/OvL00iQ0ao4. Wordsworth, W. (2020) The Prelude: Ragged Hand. The British Library.

6 THIS COMING GUEST David Guy

The task is to give birth to the old in a new time. (Jung, 2009a)

In the tree over the way a crow is calling, waking at dusk the dreaming animal of her imagination. Listen. Caw. Caw. Caw. Caw. Caw. Five calls, fathoming out. She turned to him and said, “It’s gone. The centre has not held.” The egret flew westwards toward the setting sun and the estuary. Dusk moved in. A barn owl, ghost bird, began quartering over the nearby fields to the east, calling up the ancestral, unredeemed dead. We become uncentred, porous… It began long ago. You can read about it in books… The land seems to ripple, the uneasy shivers of a new dispensation, moving like a breeze through it. Some feel increasing affinities with stone, lichen, bark, and the wide arc of light above them. The boy and the girl look on over the marsh. Small fires burn in the dusk-glow and people drift down from the estates and the houses. They stand watching them silently, eyes blank, expectant, empty river beds. Above, the crow sees the many fires, on beaches, along road-sides, along motorways, under road-bridges. Moving along through the night sky, he goes, watching. Around each fire, there are humans, letting the dusky situation move inside. Or maybe it was already inside. And perhaps it begins to speak inside in that strange way inside speaks to outside, and outside to inside. The way a dream can enter you, silently like a snake, or lambent like a wolf’s eyes. Where are you? Amidst the fires, the smoke, the winds, the rising of the tides. Where are you? A still centre somewhere dreaming. “We … have to suppose an unrecognisable centre from which the dreams emanate … the dream radiates from a centre and is only later subjected to the influence of DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-7

76 David Guy

our time” (Jung, 2008: 10). It comes then outside of time, and from the outside of anything, maybe as an irruption maybe as an interruption, or perhaps a kiss or a caress. It comes from the unknown, from where life has its source, to here, this sensible, time bound world, where it has its manifestation. Change happens in the shape shift between both. The Islamic scholar Henri Corbin speaks of the organ of imagination that enables this: “What is involved is the organ that makes possible a transmutation of inner spiritual states into outer states, into vision events symbolising with these inner states…” (1972: 12) It is metamorphosis, metaphor-ing, the act of metaphor itself and which changes both the sensible and spiritual worlds, especially if we are able to catch it for no more than just a moment. This imagination “makes it possible for all the universes to symbolise with each other” (ibid: 10) For Jung the image is how we touch and keep in touch with the world. And this crossing of a boundary between worlds involves a shift of psychological state – in moving from sleep to dream, on hearing once upon a time, on walking on moors and a storm comes, in the passing of an owl, perhaps fasting in woods on your own. We are always shifting between such states, which are in themselves kinds of trance state. Such an organ of imaginal perception was so important for Jung that he held it to be “the real Ground of the psyche, the only immediate reality” (1973: 60). “[I]t is not possible to pass from one to the other without a break”, Corbin also writes (1972:11). And so it is via such interrupting images then that we are woken up. Some images put to sleep or merely enchant. It is why I removed our TV. More salient news was coming each night in our dreams. Working with them and their images, nourishing them with our attention, can wake us up, and through their agency and their frequency, they establish residence and create that residence, some inner temple perhaps… …He comes back to the same house in the same city… …the cat is here again… …I am a wolf running with wolves… …the girl from France is singing… And each time it is subtly or markedly different. Yet something remains, some invisible permanency, some wildly gathered “honey of the visible” to be stored in “the great golden hive of the Invisible” (Rilke, 1925, cited Jackson, 2021). (Unless of course a wound goes down so far the soul has splintered and the dreams repeat themselves over and over, become nightmares, as in shell-shock or PTSD. And yet, even then…) These are perhaps the subtle arts of imaginal manifestation. We may not realise it but we are changed. Each human, each singularly breathed into, each receiving images organised by what Jung called the spirit of the depths (Jung, 2009b: 229). Jung is clear that we only really know something when we receive it in this way. He writes for instance: [I]t is a well known fact that we cannot understand a thing until we have experienced it inwardly, for it is in the inward experience that the connection

This coming guest 77

between the psyche and the outward image … is first revealed as a relationship or correspondence. (Jung, 1968: para.15) This will happen differently for each person but it won’t be merely intellectual, an allegory or sign for something; an “interpretation”. The image lands, perhaps takes root, sparks other images. It has a symbolic function. As Jung writes to Plachte (1973: 59), “a symbol is the sensuously perceptible expression of an inner experience … It must be expressed one way or another … It wants to step over, as it were, into visible life, to take concrete shape”. I dream of cut down trees and feel a tremendous sadness. I find myself looking at trees, thinking about what they do and are and of my memories of trees, and of trees in fairytales and myths. Some days later I am driving to work and see the line of horse-chestnuts along St Andrew’s Avenue, cut down and truncated. I feel the same sadness, but this time “see” them, having met this situation inwardly in my dream. I look and relate to trees differently now, their heft woven into me. Crow has been waiting for this moment for a long, long time. There is no interruption, not really he thinks. Just deeper and deeper shape-shiftings. And when these humans open to the macrocosmos, the greater world, as the alchemists used to say, they become fertilised, seeded by the world. Always this inward transmission, this invisible conversation, happening now, happening on the outside of everything. And yet it is so easy for them to lose contact with it and its infinity. They get caught up in institutions, in their rationality, their very many dissociations and compartmentalisations, in words, in the written word, necessary as it may be. He thinks pastwards, to aeons ago, wondering when boundaries became walls and domestication began, when the humans began to lose the shelter of a cosmos and they muted down their glorious, dangerous imaginations. The crow lands near the boy and the girl, looks at them, the fire glinting in its black eyes, a flickering orange luminescence. Others of his kind move off, heading to woods over the roundabout, over the supermarket, the mall of shops. Later, in the arms of her lover, she falls asleep with the orange fire-light of the crow’s eyes in her mind’s eye. Entering the dreaming place she is now a crow… She really is a crow. Perhaps what we call history begins here in such far-fathomed interruptions and metamorphoses. The psyche is a place of crossings and we the site of such crossings. “In the deepest sense we all dream not out of ourselves but out of what lies between us and the other” Jung says (my bold, 1973: 172), pointing to a deeper transferential reality beyond simplistic notions of subject and object. Sometimes, for instance, when working with another analytically, an image that seems to emerge in one’s own psyche is then seen in another’s, or a singular image in one person’s dream appears in that of another’s on the same day. Elsewhere Jung speaks of this crossroads space as “a place or medium of realisation” (1937: par. 400). In this place things are made real and active in the world. It is “neither mind nor matter, but the intermediate realm of subtle reality which can be adequately only expressed by the symbol. The symbol is neither abstract nor concrete, neither rational nor irrational, neither real nor unreal. It is always both” (ibid.).

78 David Guy

She is flying. Asleep in her bed. Given to such crossings as it is, this psyche does not reside simplistically in the boundary of our body. It is a living skein or meshwork (Ingold, 2011) of imaginal, dreaming lines, each touching another yet each going their own way, inside to outside and vice versa. Such lines are life-lines of correspondence and transmission, always moving. There is a breathing between them and a shared listening that hears it, effecting change in both. In “Wisdom of the Mythtellers”, Kane speaks of an Aboriginal Elder called Uncle Bul who knew where animals were by dreaming of them. He writes, “[H]e joins his dream to theirs. He explained that when in a trance vision he sees them hanging on ‘a web of intersecting threads’ together with scenes of the physical world, dreams and prophetic insights…” (1994: 116). The anthropologist Brody (1981: 44/5) describes other examples of such intelligence whilst on a trip with hunters of the Beaver Indians of Northwest Canada. One of the men there for instance says that, “[S]ome old-timers (hunters) … had been great dreamers … [T]hey located their prey in dreams, found their trails, and made dream-kills”. Brody writes that then, when it was auspicious, they would go and find the trail, re-encounter the animal and pick up their kill. Dreams would reveal where the animals came from. Brody also notes that the Indians he spent time with had maps constituted by such dreams or “maps of dreams”. Jung recounts a dream of a similar nature in “The Symbolic Life” (2004: par. 1291) in which an old chief dreamt of the whereabouts of a cow and calf and then found them just where he had dreamt them. I remember a dream of my own as an adolescent. I dreamt that I was walking a border collie through fields near my home. Unusually there were cattle in the field and the dog was approaching each one and sniffing them. I knew that they were ill and the dog had smelt this. A week or so later the first news of the Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy crisis came through on the news. For me, the dream and these events were connected. And all of this happening, rhizomatically, mycorrhizally all of the time. Jung amplifies this reality when in Dream Analysis he writes: The dream is a living thing, by no means a dead thing that rustles like a dry paper. It is a living situation, it is like an animal with feelers, or with many umbilical cords. We don’t realise that whilst we are talking of it, it is producing. (2005: 44) Psyche is always interrupting previous formations of the world, creating new ones, like fungal mycelium. It is a birthing psyche, and one perhaps that moves and roams rather like an animal, and operates more like a verb than a noun. We can see how this spontaneous psyche, speaking in images, is having conversations right now, both with images and imaginal presences within us, but also outside us and within others, working underneath any subject/object divide. This does not mean there are no boundaries. The conversation itself is the boundary. It is not identifying with the images that come from within and without that forms the boundary. For instance, I’ll give another small example of such skeinings. I was standing opposite a canopy of trees looking out of the window of a meeting room in which the

This coming guest 79

drama therapy team was to meet for the day. I was to talk about animals, the imagination and Jung. I had come early to prepare myself and was drawn to the window because of the noise of the rooks in the trees and at the sight of magpies. I said a few words to them, words of praise, of attention and witness. I was also drawn because of the jackdaws that had sat and chattered on the roof of my childhood house, the clouds of rooks over Crow Wood at sunset, the waking image of a crow’s head once as young man, the alchemical caput corvi, the dreams of crows and ravens I have had. I could go on. All were present, entangled with each other, lines connecting lines. And because of their density they reach an intensity, that speaks in the space between. And perhaps, if such a crow or a corvid resonates deeply and archetypally for another person too, then presumably the image of such a creature in one psyche will resonate with a similar image in that of the other, and at the same time transcend both. Each individual will be connected in some way by that image or images. The psyche is not simply a bordered or boundaried individual psyche. Such imaginal lines may then shape and comport individuals at deep levels of resonance, creating a community with other humans as well as our fellow non-human beings. They are imaginal maps and arenas of manifestation. Perhaps this is the dramatic cartography that truly shapes us; the archetypal waters that surround us, the drinking of which changes you. But, returning to rooks. Later on in the day mentioned above, the sky darkened and the rooks became particularly noisy, interrupting us all to a deeper kind of attention, perhaps constellated by the earlier talk of animals, perhaps not. Whatever the situation, the rooks were disclosing information, and in various ways it claimed us and we attended to it. Each psyche, each imagination, pricked up its ears, and went to meet the situation. It is interesting of course that it was a corvid that caught my attention. Like psyche they are edge-creatures, and like the dream, they bring life because they speak from the margins, emissaries of the nascent dramas taking place in the darkness. As von Franz notes, speaking of another corvid, the raven, it is, “a messenger of the more unknown, the darker, less shining, and more invisible side of … god” (1995: 252). And of such intertwinings of lives Jung writes in a letter to Rhine (1973: 395) of how the collective unconscious behaves as it were one and not as if it were split up into many different individuals. It is non-personal … As it is not limited to the person … it manifests itself therefore not only in human beings … but also at the same time in animals and even in physical circumstances… For instance I walk with a woman patient in a wood. She tells me about the first dream in her life … She had a spectral fox coming down the stairs in her parental home. At this moment a real fox comes out of the trees not 40 metres away and walks quietly on the path ahead of us for several minutes. Jung then notes how, “[T]he animal behaves as if it were a partner in the human situation” (ibid.) Such a psyche speaks then of a very different kind of ego-complex, or centre of consciousness, to the one that generally dominates today. This consciousness is one

80 David Guy

characterised by “a widening out or intensification” which leads to increasing dissociation and a hardening of the porous wall between this and the unconscious. In this way psyche becomes a city-state, an Uruk, ruled by so many monster-slaying Gilgameshes, creating a wasteland; a drought. “Humbaba… Humbaba … Are you there? Do you love us any more … Are you coming back?” Silence. Humbaba is quiet … in some forest cathedral he is administering healing balms and potions to Enkidu, who is mute and mouth-sealed, his eyes open but glazed and unseeing … lost in a dreamless place… The ego’s role becomes that of domesticator, rather than mediator and witness to the unconscious. Its hermetic eye replaced by a contemporary, singular CCTV eye, ever-on. This leads to the control and repression of the many voices that make up our polyphonic psyche. Voices crossing, talking, interacting with other voices. Consequently these voices, when heard at all, are perceived adversarially, as negative interruptions, or bad news, thus preventing a deeper and creative relationship with them. We lose contact, and no longer personify and amplify their intelligences and so begin to converse increasingly with ourselves. We do not draw, dance or talk with them. We forget that the ego-complex sits within a greater entity, the psyche, and that the centre of gravity is with the unconscious and not the ego. The psyche is a great, dreaming animal in this way, having a life and objectivity all of its own. Here we do not dream but are dreamt… A green wolf moves silently through the land like the ripple of long grass in the breeze she leaves mossy paw prints on burning oil-fields, in abattoirs, and places worse than that she is the green wind that finds her whilst she sleeps she sniffs her, moist black nose twitching she is whispering through her, murmuring dreams as she sleeps… She is talking with that inner companion, or the Self as Jung called it, or perhaps the secret name you gave it at the time when there was no anchor, your heart was lost and your mouth was full of ashes. It is calibrating her, interrupting her, attuning her to itself/her-Self. It is sending her messages, and each one takes you nearer

This coming guest 81

to what you are. It is that “inner eye of self-recognition” as von Franz called it (1988: 165) that operates in dreams. She is being prepared, growing new senseorgans sensitive to that light visible in the darkness that she meets as she descends. Once started it won’t stop. If you try to do so, or fall asleep at the crucial moment, the old tales say something very bad will happen to you. She is speaking outside of time and space, outside of distinctions between this and that, otherwise to Aristotle’s law of non-contradiction. Things happen differently here. When we step into the unconscious we move into this otherworld, into the roots of the invisible. She moves in her sleep, mumbles something. She is still dreaming. A crow is in front of her on a patch of wasteland-earth … tyres, rosebay willow-herb, cans, condoms, buddleia, butterflies … He speaks his caw-song, half tar and half dark-seeded conviviality, strange medicine man to a grief blocked up with oil, concrete and dead whales. He looks so hard into her it sparks a strange light inside her darkness. Her throat, once dry as fire, as a desert wind, catches fire and falls as tears. The figure watches. She cries. She cries black rivers flecked in flame and clots of dark earth. Her tears fall to the earth, a pitter-patter tattoo to water the dead. “[T]urn to the dead, listen to the lament and accept them with love”, said Jung in his Red Book (2009b: 344) but “[B]e not their blind spokesman” (ibid.). The place of the dead is inhabited of course by the actual dead, including those more immediate ancestors of kith and kin and tribe, as well as those figures from further afield that speak to us across the centuries. It is also the place of everything exiled, lost and muted, both in ourselves and in our culture. It is the place of every thought, every feeling, every sensation that we have ever had. We have turned our faces away from the dead or even forgotten that they are there. But, of course the unconscious never forgets, although it can forgive, and it does like friends. Where then do the dead go now? When, as Berger says, we are all emigrants occupying “a site of loss” (2005: 55). The dead, like the living, need a home. Once, as Berger writes, [H]ome was the centre of the world because it was the place where a vertical line crossed with a horizontal one … Thus, at home, one was nearest to the gods in the sky and the dead in the underworld. This nearness promised access to both … But he says, “The vertical line exists no more” (ibid.: 56). Berger, following Eliade, is describing a cosmos, antidote to chaos, and its loss. Now, if we are lucky, we move inwards to discover this centre since one cannot build on rubble, or on Eliot’s “heap of broken images”. We have to descend to the crossroads underneath the point of our truncation via what Jung called the “symbolic experience and its symbolic expression” (1973: 61). Perhaps at this centre, is what Jung in a letter to Read called the “great dream” in which they discuss modern art (Jung, 1990: 591). He links this with the artist and the register of the prophetic, noting how “the great dream … has always spoken through the artist as a mouthpiece. All his love and passion (his ‘values’) flow towards the coming guest to proclaim his arrival” (ibid.). Perhaps it is the organ of imagination that best enables this, hence the value of the

82 David Guy

artist, or the artistic impulses in each of us. Then Jung continues, describing this great dream further: We only know what we know … But the dream would tell us more … What is the Great Dream? It consists of the many small dreams and the many acts of humility and submission to their hints. It is the future and the picture of the new world which we do not understand yet. We cannot know better than the unconscious and its intimations. (ibid.) So we bend our knee and kiss that dark and future earth coming in our dreams. And sometimes, at night, in the dark, he asks her to just hold him, as he shivers and tremors into some new form, the same but different. Perhaps this is the beginning of any kind of imaginal discipline and one that requires a kind of immersive metabolisation rather than mere ratiocination. This humility and submission is exemplified it seems to me in a dream that the Jungian analyst Max Zeller had in the mid-twentieth century and that he took to his last meeting with Jung before returning to America. In it he sees how A temple of vast dimensions was in the process of being built. As far as I could see ahead, behind, right and left there were incredible numbers of people building on gigantic pillars. I, too, was building on a pillar. The whole building process was in its very first beginnings, but the foundation was already there, the rest of the building was starting to go up, and I and many others were working on it. (1990: 2) Jung responded to the dream Zeller tells by saying: Ja, you know, that is the temple we all build on. We don’t know the people because, believe me, they build in India and China and Russia and all over the world. That is the new religion. You know how long it will take until it is built?… About six hundred years. Zeller asked him where he could know this from and he replied, “From dreams. From other people’s dreams and from my own…” (ibid: 3). A warm breeze passes … We bend our knee… The sound of her tears falling is like rain. A fox limps over the asphalt nearby and lies down by her side, its paw bloody and glass-cut. She begins to unpick it, slowly as if each piece was gold. Something arises in her eyes. She is seeing now with visionary eyes, sight within sight, utterly alone and all she somehow once was is beginning its shiver into dissolution. This crow, a luminous dark angel, looks her hard and questioning in the eye, and then his gaze softens and his eyes moisten. For a second he is jade-green, breathing out fillamental mossy tendrils. She blinks and he is coal dark again, yet newly, strangely, phosphorescent. He nods, turns and flies off, perhaps a harbinger of some new god.

This coming guest 83

So perhaps it is time to turn and speak to the ancestral dead as they come to us. “To give birth, inside an age, to the primordially ancient is creation” (Jung, 2009a). We listen and respond to what comes, however it comes, and however exiled. “Sometimes it was as if I were hearing it with my ears, sometimes feeling it with my mouth, as if my tongue were formulating words…” Jung writes for instance (1993: 202). It may appear via all of the modalities of human expression. And, in so doing, each psyche becomes an intersection point between the vertical line and the horizontal, between the gods and the dead; between inner and outer, subject and object, past and future. In all likelihood it won’t appear as you, or your ego-complex, or as your power-drive imagined it. This is what Jung called false imagination, or fantasy, which is ultimately ego-based and will not bring us to the whole, healing truth of a situation. Jung distinguished between this fantastical imagination and the vera imaginatio or true imagination. Imaginatio is the “ real and literal power to create images” or the “active evocation of (inner) images” (1936: par. 219) and seeks to portray the “inner facts” in “images true to their nature” (ibid). It teaches otherwise to mimesis, or perhaps to a truer mimesis; to what rather than who we are (von Franz, 1988: 165). Jung learnt this with Philemon, the figure that he met as he descended fearfully into the unconscious and who taught him the objectivity or/and reality of the psyche. “[P]hilemon and other figures of my fantasies brought home to me the crucial insight that there are things in the psyche which I do not produce, but which produce themselves and have their own life” (1993: 207). We see this inwardly dramatised in Jung’s Red Book. Such imagination is also at work in the visions that a nine-year-old Oglala Sioux called Black Elk experienced in the summer of 1870. Eating in the tepee of a man called Man Hip he hears a voice saying, “It is time, now they are calling you”. A few days later he is lying in his parents’ tepee when two men come from the clouds telling him that his Grandfathers are calling him. A little cloud then takes Black Elk to them and looking down he sees his mother and father below. As the vision continues he finds, and then kills a blue man, a man of drought, who lived in a mighty river and around which were flames and dust, withered plants and trees, and weak, panting animals and humans. After the vision he returns to his body. He told no-one about what he had seen and it was only at the age of 17, when he went to see an old medicine man called Black Road, that the fear left him and he became an important medicine man himself. Black Road had told him that “[Y]ou must do your duty and perform this vision for your people upon earth” (1993: 161), which he and his tribe then did. The inward vision dramatised and realised in life, Jung’s stepping of the symbol into “visible life”, became a healing medicine for his people. We see, writ large, how the image manifests in the sensible world. In this way both Jung and Black Elk attended to the images that came to them out of the unknown with an attitude of fidelity and of religio, or careful consideration and attention, realising and performing them in their lives. In Memories, Dreams, Reflections (1993) he describes his discipline of attendance to images. He notes for instance: I took great care to try to understand every single image, every item of my psychic inventory, and to classify them scientifically … and above all, to realise them in actual life. That is what we usually neglect to do. We allow the

84 David Guy

images to rise up, and may be wonder about them, but that is all. We do not take the trouble to understand them, let alone draw ethical conclusions from them. This stopping-short conjures up the negative effects of the unconscious. (2014: 9) Such a religio is perhaps the primary and immersive move of an imaginal practice, requiring “the whole man” as the alchemists would say. It is an occult, esoteric and incubatory discipline and the seed of it germinates when one is truly alone, tempering one accordingly. It requires non-identification with the images emerging both out of our contemporary collective consciousness and the older primordial mind of the collective unconscious. Individuation, so called, is the razor-blade between. A healthy culture is one in which such fruits nourish that culture. If the culture is degraded the return to the community is problematised. Instead we may have to make the culture we long to see, honouring the dead and then letting them go free in so doing. Perhaps this is where we are now – an initiatory time of seemingly continuous interruption – and one that involves us as the new, dreaming life-lines through it, out of the unknown. Importantly, this requires someone, or something, to witness and recognise the making visible of the inwardly received image. This makes it real, as happened when Black Elk told his vision to Black Road and as it was enacted by the tribe. The energy and power of his vision was freed, vitalising his people. There is a foundational dramatherapy here. Jung was absolutely clear that such realisation is a crucial act. It is an erotic move, a leap from the often defended boundary of the known to the mysteries of what is not known. A path by which we come to the deep inward drama, the dromenon, the thing done, at the imaginal roots of the world. Such realisation is a kind of enactment and performance and because of the symbolic depth at which it occurs pertains to ritual and ceremony, as, in different ways, we see in Jung’s Red Book or Black Elk’s vision, or in a different register, the remembering, writing down, drawing or dancing etc of one’s dreams for instance… Above, a crow circles, looking down. And out, far out, amongst the fires, she begins to walk back, the wind now at her hair and an unusual light in her dark eyes. The tide is coming in fast and the wind picks up, stronger and stronger till it roars in over the waters, like a coming fire. She walks on. There is a silence in her now. She is freighted with it. The egret returns, the owl has nested. She is going to meet the coming guest.

Acknowledgments To the crows outside my room as I wrote. Eve Jackson, for some astute editing. My family. Pedro Kujawski.

References Berger, J. (2005) And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc: London. Black Elk told by Neihardt, J.G. (1993) Black Elk Speaks. Being the Life Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala. Sioux. University of Nebraska Press: London.

This coming guest 85

Brody, H. (1981) Map of Dreams. Indians and the British Columbia Frontier. Faber and Faber: London. Corbin, H. (1972) Mundus Imaginalis or The Imaginary and the Imaginal. Spring Publications: Zurich. Eliot, T.S. (1974) “The Waste Land” in Collected Poems 1909–1962. Faber and Faber: London. Ingold, T. (2011) Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. Routledge: London. Jung, C.G. (2009a) The Red Book. Liber Novus. ed. Shamdasani, S. Norton: London. Jung, C.G. (2009b) The Red Book. Liber Novus. A Reader’s Edition. ed. Shamdasani, S. Norton: London. Jung, C.G (2008) Children’s Dreams. Notes from the Seminar Given in 1936–40. Princeton University Press: Woodstock, Oxfordshire. Jung, C.G. (2005) Dream Analysis. Notes of the Seminar Given in 1928–30. Routledge: Hove. Jung, C.G. (1993) Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Fontana Press: London. Jung, C.G. (1990) Letters. Vol 2:1951–1961. Routledge: London. Jung, C.G. (1973) Letters. Vol 1:1906–1950. Routledge and Kegan Paul: England. Jung, C.G. (1968) Introduction to the Religious and Psychological Problem of Alchemy. CW12: paras. 1–43. Jung, C.G. (1937) Religious Ideas in Alchemy. CW12: paras. 332–565. Jung, C.G. (1936) Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy. CW12: paras. 44–331. Jung, C.G. (1930) A Radio Talk in Munich. The Symbolic Life. Miscellaneous Writings. CW18: paras: 1286–1291. 2004. Routledge: Hove. Kane, S. (1994) Wisdom of the Mythtellers. Broadview Press: Ontario. Kingsley, P. (2019) Catafalque. Carl Jung and the End of Humanity Vol 1 & 2. Catafalque Press: London. Lockheart, R.A. (2014) Psyche Speaks. A Jungian Approach to Self and World. The Lockhart Press: Everett, Washington. Rilke, R.M. (1925) Letter to Witold Von Hulewicz at https://archive.org on 27/4/21 23.11hrs BMT, cited Jackson, Eve (2021, personal communication). Von Franz, M-L. (1995) Shadow and Evil in Fairy Tales. Shambhala: London. Von Franz, M-L. (1988) Projection and Re-collection in Jungian Psychology. Reflections of Soul. Open Court. La Salle: Illinois. Yeats, W.B. (1991) Selected Poetry. Penguin: London. Zeller, M. (1990) The Dream: The Vision of the Night. Sigo Press: Boston.

7 DREAMDANCE Aleka Loutsis

For the dreambody itself hovers between body sensation and mythical visualisation. Mindell (1982: 8)

I have been dancing for many hours, a process of emptying myself through a form of meditational movement. I have found a stillness within the heart of my moving body. When reaching this place of stillness, dancing becomes effortless, everything is aligned and the flow of energy circulates within and around my physical form. Following the flow, there is more space within my body and a heightened awareness of the space around my body. As I relinquish control of the next moment and allow myself to yield to the energy field, my physical form melts away. Weaving in and around others, there is a tangible connection of the force field alive between us. Then an imperceptible shift into imagery carries me to the top of a tall tree, perched with wings extended and crystal clear vision. Time is infinite. My wings carry me downwards, floating slowly and gracefully towards the ground, quietly alighting on the Earth. As I emerge from my waking and dancing dream, I find myself back in the workshop space.

Introduction In this chapter, I develop some of my earlier thoughts on developmental gesture as a gateway to the imagination and how the artistry of spontaneous movement can lead to transformative and healing experiences. I have previously discussed the five developmental gestures of yield, push, reach, grasp and pull in Body Movement and Trauma (Loutsis 2017). When in relationship with the primary other, they form our first and early experiences of trust, curiosity and adventure into the unknown. The first of these, ‘yielding’, provides the ground upon which trust is either cultivated or broken. Here, I am revisiting this gesture with the intention of expanding and deepening an understanding of what it means to yield to the unknown beyond the developmental frame and to forge links with the ancient practice of dance and trance states within ritual and DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-8

Dreamdance 87

ceremony. The central idea is that through the act of yielding into what I am calling Dreamdance, it is possible to receive cumulative interruptions from nature and the unconscious. These can function to develop and extend the scope of the developmental gestures to otherwise unattainable experience and insights. In this way, the developmental gesture of yielding takes on a wider meaning, enabling connection and healing within the landscapes of nature, archetypes and culture. Such considerations and ways of working have nurtured and influenced my clinical practice and guided my teaching style on the Sesame Drama and Movement Therapy Course at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. Since the inception of this course in the mid-1970s there has been a Laban Movement module. The content of this module has gradually evolved to integrate movement informed by developmental theory and depth psychology with an overarching experiential approach to the learning. In this context, my own thoughts and interest in Dreamdance are supporting further experimentation and learning around the notions of letting go and awareness of how the body moves in space, its relationship to space and embodied ways of listening that track and follow energetic flow. In these ways, it is a practice in the art of spontaneity through movement. It provides new approaches, which can give form and expression to the unconscious. My research into the relationship between developmental and archetypal themes and their relevance to healing continues through the lens of yielding. Let me offer a working definition of yielding formulated in relation to my developing ideas for Dreamdance. Yielding provides the ground from which anything is possible. If we can trust the ground to support us, then we have the freedom to travel, to journey and explore. In relying upon the ground and pathway towards Dreamdance, we can listen deeply and follow the ebb and flow of breath, the impulses and rhythms of our moving body in space. It is a gradual process of releasing tensions or holding patterns resulting from fear or other inhibiting emotions and experiences that are held or trapped in the body. Yielding requires us to surrender control without collapsing, to pay attention and maintain a receptive attitude of awareness towards what is possible in each moment. In essence, yielding creates the conditions for something ‘other’ to arise, appear or transform if we are willing to let go. Beyond the act of letting go, we come to realise that yielding is not passive – it now appears as an active, receptive and relational state Loutsis. It encompasses a reciprocity between giving and receiving in relation to other. These qualitative tones of yielding as experienced through movement can lead to an altered state of consciousness; a ‘lowering of the threshold’ where the ego surrenders control and there is a paradoxical activation of the cultural unconscious. It is at this juncture that the unexpected may occur; during a shift from ‘moving with’ to ‘being moved by’ there is an ‘interruption’ from culture and the archetypal layer of the psyche. It is as if this ‘other’ energetic entity or image needs to ‘make itself better known by entering the body of the mover’ (Chodorow, 1991: 126). This involves the ego giving way so that another form of intelligence can emerge and be embodied. The process also requires a degree of safety and trust in the holding environment. As this is not a form of

88 Aleka Loutsis

conscious ego-directed movement, there has to be a note of caution as this approach may not be suitable for those with a fragile ego. For the purpose of this chapter, I will be focusing on the first stage of yielding. This entails a yielding to the impulses and moments encountered, when an experience of physical form in time and space changes. It is this paradox of yielding and interruption to the imaginal and archetypal realm, that forms the basis of Dreamdance. This is a state of being which invites a direct connection with nature and spirit. Reaching this altered state through movement requires certain conditions. All have yielding at the heart of the experience. For example, yielding can be understood as a central aspect of shamanic practice, in which the Shaman listens to and communicates with the ancestors and relinquishes any normal, everyday persona or role. Engaging with these practices opens us to another form of knowledge and brings us closer to the dreamtime where nature is teacher. In the course of my writing, I will revisit and analyse three personal experiences, whereby Dreamdance has led me to experience nature in ways which have influenced and interrupted my everyday levels of conscious awareness. These intermittent moments of personal narrative will appear italicised within the text. Entering this landscape of other worlds through movement is where my inspiration and passion for this research has been nurtured. It has its roots in archetypal psychology and dance. My hypothesis is that the discipline of yielding through movement as a vehicle towards connection with the collective unconscious requires a particular approach and a considered set of conditions. This echoes the paradox of yielding as a discipline and the curious relationship between intention and yielding. The former helps maintain focus, to quieten the mind and to ‘stay with’ the deepening process. Each time there is a distraction or obstacle in the way, intention brings us back to yielding. One could see these moments as mini gateways or levels through which we can drop deeper into a meditative experience of movement. From a psychotherapeutic perspective, I am interested in how early developmental ruptures or missing experiences observed within the conscious study of the five gestures can be explored through yielding into spontaneous movement. As I have previously proposed, there could be a progression from this conscious awareness of deficits or loss, towards one that deepens understanding. Such progression would move the individual towards reparation through a creative and less conscious exploration of the aforementioned ruptures and missing experiences (Loutsis 2017: 163). I am curious about framing these interruptions as lost parts of Self and whether they can be repaired or retrieved through an immersion into movement and the imagination. If so, this intrapsychic process could be understood as a form of soul retrieval and compliment the intersubjective study of gestures. It may also be the case that when the conditions are right, diving into the imaginal realm enables another form of healing to occur, one that might be intergenerational and not limited to the personal sphere of understanding. In other words, the healing spans that of the ancestors, current and future generations. This seems significant to me as a clinician working in the field of mental health where I frequently witness patients referred for psychological treatment presenting with the familial pain that they have inherited.

Dreamdance 89

It seems to me that a form of embodied soul retrieval through movement is a progression of how movement forms part of the Sesame approach to dramatherapy. This notion of reclaiming parts of the Self, releasing the energy caught in holding a story and making space for something new, feels relevant to all dimensions of disturbance; physical, emotional, mental and spiritual. Here, I am referring to the narratives of trauma, loss or missing experience as held within the body. These need to be loosened in order to make space for new growth and insights. They may range from small incremental moments to intense and significant experiences of catharsis. Either way, there is a need for a cellular shift within the physical body as well as a psychic one. Dreamdance could be seen as an active and creative form which opens the way into those unknown spaces that hover between ‘body sensation and mythical visualisation’ (Mindell 1982: 8).

Dreamdance: yielding to interruptions through ceremony and ritual I have mentioned the conditions and structures that support the process of yielding in movement practice and which can cultivate moments where the unconscious finds expression. Ceremony and ritual offer a means by which a community can gather and support this process. Interruptions in Dreamdance cannot be imposed but may be invoked by creating the conditions and environment conducive to working with archetypal forces. What are these conditions? Moving with others in the shared space and trusting the facilitator to hold this intention. Letting go of real time and moving into dreamtime through the dance requires trust, receptivity and an underlying intention to invite the aliveness of our imagination and the forces of nature. The intention is about remaining open to the active energy of yielding rather than holding onto any other expectations. For interruptions to enter the energy field of Dreamdance, it is necessary to suspend the rational mind, surrender to the depths of the Earth’s belly or to the visionary heights of the spirit world. This dynamic dance is grounded in the material body whilst remaining open to the intelligence of nature and mystery of the spirit. Yielding is an essential and active discipline, an act of trust and a gateway to Dreamdance. In this we can receive interruptions from nature and insights from spirit. Anne Baring brings to our attention ‘the unifying cosmic ground in which both matter and psyche participate and whose connecting substratum gives rise to synchronicities as well as to miraculous healings, visionary experiences and sudden illuminations’ (Baring 2013: 463). Mindell in Dreambody (Mindell 1982: 54) speaks to the role of body in revealing the Self and describes how it might be expressed through different forms, oscillating between psyche and matter; ‘sometimes it appears as the psyche in dream form, sometimes as matter in body motions; sometimes as synchronicities or accidents’. These surprises or interruptions wake us up and bring a new perspective if we are ready and willing to notice. Hartley (2004: 213) refers to this form of process work as ‘an adventure where the unexpected is the guide’ and von Franz reminds us of Mindell’s dreambody as another perspective on ‘the age-old idea of a subtle body’. Ramos (2004: 39) reminds us of the connection between the subtle body and the

90 Aleka Loutsis

somatic unconscious when he references Jung who says, ‘the unconscious can only be experienced in the body and that the body is exclusively the external manifestation of the Self’. Mindell (1982: 5) suggests the dreambody is known through many guises including that of, ‘Shakti, Kundalini, Mercury, Chi’ and to the Shaman’s concept of the ‘double’. Those of us for whom these ideas resonate will recognise the energetic appearances or guides but even beyond individual recognition and acknowledgement the pervasive influence of these archetypal forces will be present. Paying attention to the movement between psyche and matter, the in between-ness and remaining open to the unknown or the invisible threads is in that spirit of adventure! Sandra Ingerman (1991) speaks to our need for wholeness and how the practice of soul retrieval within shamanism can offer a way to heal the spirit. As an ancient practice, soul retrieval deserves further attention in terms of psychotherapeutic application within our profession. But there are various conceptions of this practice. For example, Mindell refers to Castenada’s Don Juan, speaking of a ‘dance of power’ when ‘the body reviews its entire history and expresses its last message before death. Memories stored in the great muscles of the body arrange its motions while Death watches and waits until this last act, a dance, is accomplished’ (Mindell 1982: 18). These concepts provide another perspective alongside developmental and archetypal approaches. We can learn from these ancient traditions about the use of ritual space, how stories from the past are released and lost parts retrieved through ceremony. Marian ‘Billy’ Lindkvist, the founder of Sesame shares her discoveries and her passion for the significance of ceremony, in the form of singing, drumming and stamping that were part of the healing ceremonies she witnessed when working with the Xhosa and Zulu peoples of South Africa. These experiences informed her research and practice in the psychiatric hospitals as well as being part of the genesis of the dramatherapy training back in the UK. Billy was particularly interested in the different types of stamping and how the intensity of these would increase as ‘part of the healing process, and to get in touch with the Great Spirits’ (Lindkvist 1998: 251). The following is an example of yielding to that energetic healing force within ceremony drawn from Billy’s travels in South Africa as observed by Richard Katz. Richard Katz recounts the Kalahari Kung tribe of South Africa performing ceremonies during the night. Fires are lit and tended, special songs and rhythms gather intensity as the heat of the dance increases until the moment when the ‘num’ or spiritual energy is activated and an enhanced consciousness known as ‘kia’ brings healing to the community. The earthy rhythm of the dancer’s moving body intensifies until it yields to spontaneity and the dancer with an open heart becomes receptive to the ‘num’ (Katz 1982: 130). When describing ‘kia’, the healers ‘speak of experiential mystery’ and of becoming more ‘essentially themselves’ (Katz 1982: 43). ‘As the Kungs’ sense of self, time and space are being significantly altered during “kia”, they experience a feeling of ascent’ (Katz 1982: 44). This ‘experiential mystery’ or ‘altered state of consciousness’ has a transcendent quality. The healing is multi layered, bringing relief to physical illness and relational conflicts and connection to spirit. The intention is to restore a balance between inner and outer worlds and maintain harmony between the individual and the collective.

Dreamdance 91

Yielding to an energetic healing and mysterious force through movement within a ceremonial space or place is echoed by Dreamdance. Through letting go or surrender, the spirit of the dance is activated and the dancer disappears or dissolves into the essence of that dancing spirit, eventually becoming essentially themselves. There is a quality of being nothing and everything all at once. This non-dual way of being corresponds to the Kungs’ experience of the ‘kia’. In that altered state of consciousness it is possible to shape shift and receive another form of intelligence, such as visions or illuminations that arise from the unconscious. Descent into the unknown is the necessary direction where the dissolution of old stories can be broken down and released and where with an open heart, as in the Kungs’ ‘num’, space is created for new insights and healing. These ancient traditions strike me to be as important today as they have ever been and are equally vital to both the individual and the collective. Dreamdance is a call towards this work, an invitation towards restoring balance and maintaining harmony in our personal and collective world. To what extent does ceremony and ritual play a part in twenty-first-century cultural practice? There are secular communities in the West who have developed contemporary practices incorporating shamanic principles inspired by the indigenous peoples of the Americas and European traditions and who continue to practice the art of ecstatic dance, ritual and ceremony. For example, Gabrielle Roth’s creation of the Five Rhythms (1990) and the meditation practice developed by Ya’Acov and Susannah Darling Khan, known as Movement Medicine (2009). I recall a ceremony where the drumbeat provided an invisible outer circle. The drumming resonated in my bones, echoing in the spaces within and around my body, calling me into movement. All possibility was simply announced within the steady beat. There was just enough structure to hold the shapes as they moved in, around and through the vibrations of sound. I felt a deep connection to the earth, yielding to her energy and from this a sense of pure aliveness as I danced. In shamanic traditions this would be described as ecstasy. Mindell reminds us of the dreambody as dance, ‘experienced as flow through the body; the earth vibrates, the air is electric, and a mysterious force seems to move one to life’ (Mindell 1982: 17). Being with the meditational breath and rhythm of the heartbeat prepares the dancer to experience ‘the dreambody as the creative impulse behind movement’ (Roth 1990: 51). Being in communion with the Earth in this way must surely remind us of how precious nature is to our survival. It also provides the ground from which all other creative and psychic work can emanate. As in the healing ceremonies described above from South Africa, the conditions in which they take place are significant. In my experience, conditions include building a fire and gathering around the energy of the fire as part of the preparation before entering the space where the ceremony takes place. The ceremonial space is clear of clutter other than perhaps an installation or offering for the elements, for nature and the spirits. Protocols for leaving and re-entering the space in a respectful manner are clearly communicated. Once the circle is formed and the

92 Aleka Loutsis

drumming begins, everything else drops away and the focus is on the rhythm and our feet finding the beat. ‘The circle is an ancient, archetypal form which appears in rituals, celebrations and ceremonies in which the sacred is honoured or expressed’ (1999: 185). Some of these rituals translate into dramatherapy practice in terms of containment of the process. The Sesame approach to Drama and Movement Therapy inherited from ‘Billy’ the drumming and the stamping in a circle and something about the importance of the healing ritual. Sealing the beginning and ending of the ritual space, demarcates the return to ‘ordinary’ consciousness.

Dreamdance: yielding to interruptions from nature In my experience of immersion in movement, and in relation to the example I share at the beginning of this chapter, the unexpected arrival of a nature spirit interrupted the familiar practice of the dancing meditation. It seems the transportation into an altered state was necessary for this communication from an ‘other world’ to be received. During a different ceremony, I remember hearing the distinct call of a creature. I remember my intense frustration at not being able to locate the source of the sound nor recognise the sound of the call and consequently not know which creature had presented itself to me. This call remained a mystery for a long time and I felt haunted by it, compelled to seek it out. One day whilst walking in a familiar park, a place connected to my childhood, I heard that same call from high up in a tree. Finally, I could unite the sound with the creature. There, perched on a branch, a rook, one of many in the vicinity. I was surprised because that call was not the familiar sound of rooks, this was different. The ‘clicking’ sound this rook made denotes how solitary birds occasionally sing to themselves! I notice my desire to comprehend the meaning of this moment in the park; coincidence or synchronicity? What was this call from nature? Perhaps, having surrendered to ‘not knowing’, the answer to this mystery provided the energetic space for it to enter my consciousness. There is something profound about the significance of connecting to nature to retrieve and reconnect to instinct. It has been an important part of my own healing and I repeatedly witness this in my work with severely traumatised people. Even just pausing for a moment to feel the resonance of nature; the rooted and diverse shapes and sizes of trees, the sound of water, the taste of air, feeling wind on one’s skin, sensing the warmth of the sun, the shapes and textures of stones, touching the Earth. I notice immediate physiological changes in the way a person responds to these as the body relaxes and becomes more engaged. I witness their facial expressions soften and sense an aliveness as moments of respite from the psychic pain occur. Nature provides us with many such opportunities for healing and expansion of consciousness if we can allow ourselves the space to stop and notice. Turning towards the elemental energies of nature as guidance, we can discover new ways of moving our bodies. Connecting to the quality and vibrations of natural imagery brings us into our bodies, moves our bodies and awakens our imagination. This is the groundwork for Dreamdance.

Dreamdance 93

There is an urgent need to remember our relationship to nature and to make space in our lives to receive the ‘echo location’ coming from Earth as Dr Martin Shaw discusses in his essay, Small Gods (drmartinshaw.com). This describes how, when we are in relationship with Earth we can receive the call of the rook or experiences akin to the ‘lucid image’ that I felt in Dreamdance. Shaw refers to myth as the bridge to this place of ‘echo location’. For me that place is the dance. Both enable a deepening of relationship with nature, the Earth we inhabit and our cosmos or the wider universe of which we are all a part and to which we as a human race need to be paying attention. At an unconscious level working instinctively with the energy of the Earth and through movement meditation, the flow of the dance was carrying me across the bridge into that echo location landscape where the mythic realm was revealing itself through Dreamdance. The experience I share at the beginning of this chapter was a journey into the unknown, trusting that whatever presented itself to me was part of growth towards individuation. The transformative, shapeshifting, animating force of spirit that carried me to the top of the tree could be translated as the Mercurial God of the unconscious and of the body according to Mindell (1982: 57–59). The tree symbol firmly rooted in the earth providing the steady trusted ground from which it was possible to rise up to the top branches for a wider or collective view of the world. Baring speaks of the dormant potential of the instinct in the unconscious waiting to be released and of the transformative journey from root to crown within the body that contains a ‘hidden wisdom’. Instinct ‘connects us to the great web of life of this planet and beyond that, of the universe. If we reject this vital dimension of our being, we cut ourselves off from the web of life to which we belong’ (Baring 2013: 397). Dreamdance can reconnect us to this web of life.

Dreamdance: gesture as a gateway to imaginal realms As mentioned in the introduction, I am bringing a particular focus to the gesture of yielding; the first of the five developmental gestures. In this section, I invite you to hold in mind yielding as part of a natural cycle. A flow of movement that encompasses the lived experience of the other four gestures; push, reach, grasp and pull. Essentially, yielding reflects the level of trust one has gained, either in early infancy or later in adult life (Loutsis 2017: 162). Yielding remains the central focus. If we allow ourselves to venture into the energetic vibrations of the gestures through spontaneous movement, then another form of knowing or understanding may emerge. Adopting an attitude of openness to what may arise. Initially this appears as just being in the moment, listening to the body, the inner impulses. Identifying this and following its flow requires focus and discipline. The outwards and inward flow of this movement also connects to our feelings and to breath, to the life force. It is similar in quality to a moving meditation; preparing the whole body/Self to receive some form of knowledge, whether that be at a sensate level, through images or both. As discussed in my introduction to this chapter, retrieving insights that have arisen from the previous developmental work and shifting these into a creative process through spontaneous movement brings the possibility of expansion, self-

94 Aleka Loutsis

expression and a new way of conceiving of the gestures as gateways. Simply being with the movement of a gesture and the related sensations, emotions or images, without pushing for an outcome resembles an invocation. Each gesture will have its own story. Participants will find their way into the work either by returning to the developmental cycle and seeing where the resonances are or perhaps simply exploring these within spatial dimensions. From a developmental and intersubjective view point each of the gestures have been experienced and explored in relationship to another. This would imply engaging with horizontal and vertical planes and all the other dimensions in space that enable communication with another human being. If we accept these formative experiences of gesture as a baseline for how we carry ourselves in the world then working with spontaneity and artistic process can offer the possibility of exploring other ways of being. Here one could say there is the possibility for developmental reparation and a form of soul retrieval through the dance. Approaching the story of the gesture as a movement meditation requires a willingness to leave behind expectations of answers and to be in the moment. It resembles an invitation to be curious about those resonances and be with them in the spontaneity of the dance. What do I mean by this? It’s about being with the echoes of the narrative held within the gestures, breathing into them, moving with them and seeing where they take you. It is not about consciously re-enacting a scene or moment from the past when an action such as reaching was not met. It is about being with the feeling of that moment and embodying that through spontaneous movement, letting it evolve through artistry and creativity. Not pushing forward or pulling backwards, not reaching or grasping, but yielding and being with each moment, each impulse to move or be moved. There is a leap at some point in the process from what is consciously known to what is waiting to be discovered. This is the moment when the dance has a life of its own. The heat rises and the heart opens. If we can get out of the way of conscious limitations and let go of expectations, then it might be possible to listen and follow, trust, yield. Then we can make space for some form of interruption to emerge. Letting go and allowing yourself to be receptive to the landscape of the imagination and of the dreamtime. Here then we may reach a gateway, an opening to different levels of consciousness, to the mythic realms of creatures and to the archetypal forces of nature. Here too is the path of dissolution, release, receptivity and re-assembling. The death of old stories making space for new ones. So why is it important to foster these connections and interruptions? Being in relationship with the energies from the dream world opens another dimension to healing body and psyche. It brings us in direct relationship with the ancient knowledge of the land and to the wisdom of the natural world. We are not separate from but are a part of this life on Earth. I am reminded of a client who had lost their capacity to listen and trust their own instinct due to multiple traumatic events in their childhood and adult life. During one session, whilst witnessing the struggle to make sense of their confused, fragmented and frightening world, the image of a horse appeared. Yielding to this interruption and trusting that communication, I suggested we confer with and listen to the wisdom of the horse. The shift from an oppressed and depressive stance to that of animated interest was immediate. The broken, hopeless presentation of the adult

Dreamdance 95

transformed into excited child and the world of the imagination opened its gates. Eagerly looking into the distance for the approaching horse, patiently waiting for it to finish grazing the lush grass and to drink cool refreshing water from the stream, gently approaching the horse’s ear, the client whispered a request for guidance. I quietly witnessed this re-animation of instinct as the client listened intently to the words of wisdom from the horse. This way of connecting to their own inner wisdom captured the client’s imagination and the horse became a frequent visitor in the sessions, entering and leaving the space through a specific co-created ritual. Through the lens of the gestures as spontaneous movement we can see how yielding into the world of nature and allowing the imagination to breathe enabled the client to reach out towards hope and begin to recover or reclaim a part of themselves they had lost. Promoting trust through the active discipline of yielding to movement, learning to listen, follow and receive is where the healing begins as I have discovered from both the ancient and contemporary practices of dance, ritual and ceremony. Creating the space through dance allows another way of being in relationship with our stories; being in dialogue with those interruptions from nature and yielding to receive their energy and wisdom. This way of working leads towards a re-balancing or recalibration of the whole system. One could say that through spontaneous movement and the imagination we are responding to the echoes, resonances or reverberations of the story and re-animating the essence of the gesture. Yielding becomes more than just a word, it has a life and spirit of its own. If we are to engage with that, we have to suspend judgement, remain open hearted to what may present itself and if the conditions are right receive insights and inhabit them in Dreamdance.

Dreamdance: conditions and considerations There is inevitably a shadow side and a fundamental one when it comes to trust. The risk of letting go and the fear this will evoke is not to be underestimated. The perilous descent and encounter with unfamiliar and sometimes disturbing memories, sensations or images cannot be denied. The pull of gravity or invitation to surrender can be terrifying. You can see this in the facial expressions, the change in pattern of breath, the tension of body language; a kind of glazed response and muscular armour as if holding on for dear life. The aim is not to re-traumatise but to eventually overcome these obstacles of core emotions through creativity and spontaneity of the artform and with the containment of a safe structure. I have previously indicated that working with spontaneous movement or yielding to Dreamdance is not a suitable approach for all and this needs to be carefully considered. Those with a fragile ego would benefit from conscious ego-directed movement work such as in the study of the gestures. The Sesame approach to Drama and Movement Therapy encourages an immersive and creative experience with the aim of developing a symbolic attitude towards selfdiscovery. In relation to this training, Richard Hougham refers to ‘poiesis’ and to ‘Keat’s idea of negative capability as a capacity to be with the unknown without striving after fact or reason’. He also identifies certain skills and necessary qualities, such

96 Aleka Loutsis

as: listening and being with the emotional tone and embodied, kinaesthetic sense of the emergent knowledge from the unconscious by both teacher and student (Hougham, 2017: 30–35). The movement sessions with the students offers an opportunity and a safe space for them to become aware of the connection between affect and image expressed through their bodies in spontaneous movement whilst still fostering a spirit of adventure through Dreamdance. Encouraging them to take small steps and to be there when they take an unexpected leap. As a clinician I would encourage an attitude of adaptation to Dreamdance depending on the client group. It is still possible to maintain a symbolic attitude through the work but often this has to be in much smaller doses. Earlier, I shared a vignette of how the image of the horse as an interruption from the unconscious assisted my client reconnect to instinct. Being mindful and culturally sensitive to the language used is also essential. For instance, clients with severe trauma histories will almost certainly be triggered by the word ‘body’ or ‘ritual’. In mental health settings where there is a range of diagnoses, cultivating an adaptive attitude is essential. The idea of ‘possession’ when working with psychosis takes on a very different meaning to that of the ‘kia’ in the Kung. The former has a fragmented ego and will struggle to be in the present moment and is highly vulnerable to overwhelm from imagery or sensations with few resources for returning to the present moment. Whereas the latter begins from a present moment state, communes with archetypal forces but has the support of the community for the return and knows what that feels like to be back in present time. Employing themes from nature for a group diagnosed with chronic schizophrenia and associated negative symptoms can be advantageous. I have observed nature objects to animate a group into creative action. Yielding to the touch of a chosen object raises curiosity and evokes memories. Creating an imaginary landscape with these objects awakens playful and spontaneous responses and supports shared experiences. From there it is a small step to exploring the quality or shape of these through movement. It seems fitting from a Jungian perspective to consider and to name the opposite quality to yielding. Looking back at my working definitions of yielding, some of the challenges that might defy letting go could include the need to control one’s environment, being fearful or resistant to change. There may be entrenched patterns of holding on and closing down as a way to protect and defend against unwanted and unsafe attention and events. These states and presentations are not uncommon and they will be there for a good reason as I have articulated previously (Loutsis 2017: 152–153). These less favourable conditions will determine how far we feel able to dive into the imaginal realms. Our capacity to yield will be dependent on our experience of trust.

Dreamdance: a recalibration of the whole system and a prayer for anima mundi ‘It is said that in Ancient Greece, when a room which was full of conversation suddenly fell into silence, Hermes had arrived, touching the event with his wand’ (Hougham and Jones 2017: 39).

Dreamdance 97

I remember the call of the rook that once interrupted our team meeting at Royal Central: quietening our animated discussions and activating our imaginations. For me, it was also a moment of re-connection with nature and a re-collection of memories, which has formed part of my individuation process. I have shared some personal experiences and discussed some of the influences that have inspired my research, my teaching and my clinical practice. The movement meditation opened the possibility to expand my wings and see the world from a different perspective. Ceremony and ritual provided the ground from which it was possible for this interruption to happen. Teachings from ancient traditions help us understand the importance of restoring balance and wholeness to the collective as well as to the individual. Yielding has been central to this inquiry and has taken me to the depths of the Earth and to some heights. Yielding through movement is potent ‘medicine’, to borrow a term from the Shamans. Dreamdance brings us in direct contact with nature and spirit, helps reconnect to instinct and open to receiving intelligence from the archetypal and cultural realms of the unconscious. In the present time, when our ecosystems are under threat this way of listening feels important. Yielding to Dreamdance not only offers the potential for retrieval of lost parts of Self but also reminds us that we are not separate from the world. Restoring balance is vital for our wellbeing both on a personal and collective level. Dreamdance then could also become a meditation for all life on Earth. A prayer for anima mundi?

Acknowledgements My deepest gratitude to teachers from the world of ballet through to those from ecstatic dance who have conveyed the significance of the ground before taking flight! My heartfelt appreciation to Richard Hougham for his vision and his insights and to Bryn Jones for the steady encouragement. My sincere thanks to all those who have accompanied me on this journey into new territory. Last but not least, thanks to my family and friends for their unique support!

References Baring, A. (2013) The Dream of the Cosmos: A Quest for the Soul. Dorset: Archive Publishing. Chodorow, J. (1991) Dance Therapy & Depth Psychology: The Moving Imagination. London: Routledge. Darling Khan, S. & Darling Khan, Y. (2009) Movement Medicine: How to Awaken, Dance and Live Your Dreams. London: Hay House UK Ltd. Hartley, L. (2004) Somatic Psychology: Body, Mind and Meaning. London: Whurr Publishers Ltd. Hougham, R. & Jones, B. (eds) (2017) Dramatherapy: Reflections & Praxis. London: Palgrave. Ingerman, S. (1991) Soul Retrieval: Mending the Fragmented Self. New York: HarperCollins Publishers. Katz, R. (1982) Boiling Energy: Community Healing Among the Kalahari Kung. Cambridge, Massachusetts, and London, England: Harvard University Press.

98 Aleka Loutsis

Lindkvist, M. R. (1998) Bring White Beads When You Call on the Healer. New Orleans, LA: Rivendell House Ltd. Loutsis, A. (2017) Body, Movement and Trauma. In Hougham, R. & Jones, B. (eds) Dramatherapy: Reflections & Praxis. London: Palgrave. Mindell, A. (1982) Dreambody: The Body’s Role in Revealing the Self. London: Arkana. Pallaro, P. (ed) (1999) Authentic Movement: Essays by Mary Starks Whitehouse, Janet Adler and Joan Chodorow. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Ramos, D. G. (2004) The Psyche of the Body: A Jungian Approach to Psychosomatics. East Sussex: Brunner-Routledge. Roth, G. (1990) Maps to Ecstasy: Teachings of an Urban Shaman. London: Mandala. Shaw, M. (2016) Small Gods. www.drmartinshaw.com. (2016–2019 M. Shaw)

8 DRAMATHERAPY AND GREEK TRADITIONAL SHADOW PUPPETRY Theodoros Kostidakis

Introduction In this chapter, I aim to illustrate how Greek Traditional Shadow Puppetry (GTSP) may be used in further expanding the scope of dramatherapy within the context of the Sesame approach. This inquiry draws from the three parts of my professional background as a shadow puppeteer of GTSP, a dramatherapist and a former architect. Drawing from phenomenological methodologies and autoethnographic elements with a focus on embodiment, this chapter focuses on the individual’s experience when they improvise a piece of shadow puppetry within dramatherapy sessions. GTSP is an intrinsic part of my personal, family and cultural identity. Due to my father also being a shadow puppeteer, GTSP characters, voices, habits, stories, puppets and its white fabric screen have been significant parts of my life since childhood. In performances, I have noticed the special atmosphere and deep engagement the shadows of GTSP can evoke to the audience. It seems beyond mere coincidence that in the first dramatherapy book I read, Jones (1996) specifically mentions that shadow puppetry provides a “kind of engagement [that] affects the projective work” (Jones 1996: 144). Jones does not expand on this comment; something that intrigued me to try to understand “this kind of engagement” and identify its possible therapeutic value. My exploration started during my training as a dramatherapist, when I introduced GTSP as the focus of my own therapeutic facilitation practice. This was followed by me running workshops and presenting on the subject at several conferences. The current chapter is part of this ongoing inquiry, which involves shadow puppetry workshops with children and adults, personal experimentations within performances that fall beyond the traditional layout of GTSP, the introduction of shadow puppetry in dramatherapy sessions and, finally, the quest for theoretical tools to frame this exploration. The spatial setup of GTSP, which I use within dramatherapeutic contexts, involves the performer standing behind a screen of stretched white fabric. A series DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-9

100 Theodoros Kostidakis

of light sources are placed between the puppeteer and the screen. In order to animate the shadow puppets, the performer uses rods to move the puppets across the screen; also the performer holds a vocal role in the scope of the performance. In GTSP, each character has a particular tone of voice, speaking style and dialect. The design of each puppet, in combination with its particular way of moving and speaking, create a unique result, which identifies the character. In GTSP, these are all defined by tradition and individually adopted by each performer in an individualised way. In dramatherapeutic settings, participants are invited to define these elements by creating their puppets and finding the movements and voice that suit them. When I introduced the GTSP art-form in dramatherapy or dramatherapy-informed sessions, I came across two unexpected elements. Firstly, the physical presence of the GTSP screen significantly alters the layout of the room. As a result, the screen hides the audience from the performer and vice versa, creating obstacles to the process of witnessing. Secondly, I observed that GTSP improvisations transmit their playfulness and carefree artistic freedom to the participants’ spontaneous play in a dramatherapy setting. My intention here is to explore these two unexpected elements by framing them as disruptions that occur in the playspace of dramatherapy. By playspace I refer to both the imaginative space of the dramatic encounters and the physical space of the dramatherapy room. Thus, I identify two different levels on which the disruption happens. The first is the level of meaning; the symbolic disruption of psychological and social narratives that GTSP can bear. The second is associated with the level of physical space and its effects on emotional engagement. I observe the same paradoxical pattern at play on both levels: to challenge by agreeing – to interrupt a process through reinforcing it. In addition, I employ Jungian and post-Jungian psychological theories, as they provide analytical tools to refer to personal, cultural and archetypal dimensions of the GTSP experience. As archetypal I identify the collective structuring principles of the human psyche, which influence the form of a specific personal or cultural symbol in a certain moment in time, and are simultaneously influenced by the meaning that other images have within the worldview of that individual or culture (Hauke 2000: 199– 200, 231). The three sections of the chapter use perspectives drawn from each of my three professional identities; of architecture, shadow puppetry and dramatherapy respectively. The first section of this chapter follows the level of meaning, arguing that GTPS has historically allowed for personal, social and archetypal disturbance of an existing status quo. I attempt to do this drawing on my experience of performing and exploring the archetypal figure of Karaghiozis, the main character of GTPS. The second section is focused on the spatial level. In this section, I elaborate on the dual role of the shadow puppetry screen to both hide and expose the performer. When this spatial arrangement is introduced in the dramatherapy playspace, the screen seems to provide more emotional distance, while it also enables deeper explorations. In the third and final section, I extend these findings into the realm of dramatherapy. I attempt to question and disrupt established narratives about dramatherapy – and

Dramatherapy and shadow puppetry 101

specifically the Sesame approach. I particularly question the tendency to understand dramatherapy as providing a sense of structure, reassurance and stability in order to contain the participants’ creative explorations. I argue that Karaghiozis bears the message of an alternative viewpoint: dramatherapy as an agent of unsettlement, disruption and instability.

Karaghiozis’ disruptions in meaning The origin of GTSP and the way it developed in Greece and Turkey has been the subject of international debate. GTSP’s ritualistic/shamanic ancestors have been theorised to be Asian, Middle Eastern, Egyptian or ancient Greek (Kaplin 2015: 92). By the end of the 19th century, GTSP had developed into a popular kind of folk theatre in Turkey and Greece. Its plots lost their mythological character and were based on urban everyday life. As an art-form, it is mainly based on oral tradition and individual improvisations. Several Greek characters were invented and joined the GTSP ‘cast’ upon the wide approval of audiences (Ιωάννου 1995, Κιουρτσάκη 1983, Κιουρτσάκη 1985). A myth about the beginning of GTSP underlines its healing aspect, which, similar to dramatherapy, is manifested through dramatic play. According to the legend, Karaghiozis was a builder in the construction of the Pasha’s (governor’s) new palace. He wouldn’t stop telling jokes and funny stories to other workers and as a result, the construction was delayed. Pasha then executed Karaghiozis. Soon after that, Pasha fell ill and kept thinking of the unfair killing of Karaghiozis. Pasha’s psychosomatic illness was healed when Chatziavatis, Karaghiozis’ friend, created a two dimensional shadow puppet of Karaghiozis and enacted his jokes and stories in shadow play. This gave birth to GTSP (Σπαθάρη 1978: 154–155). The GTSP stories are set in Greece, during the Ottoman occupation. Within these stories, there are certain well-known characters participating in almost every play, who have historically represented Greek society (Κοντογιάννη 1992: 71, Ιωάννου 1995: νδ’-νε’). The protagonist is Karaghiozis (Καραγκιόζη), who has also given his name to GTSP as an art-form. He is an impoverished slave, who is constantly out of work and extremely hungry. He is represented barefoot, bald-headed, with one long arm, a hump on his back and clothes full of patches (Κοντογιάννη 1992: 71–72, Ιωάννου 1995: νε’-νζ’). Most of the comedies present him trying to find ways to work and earn money for his family, always ending up beaten and penniless. Karaghiozis has the tendency to joke, mock, lie, disobey, hit and steal from others. At the same time, he is very popular among his friends and he can be very clever, generous, courageous and selfless (Ιωάννου 1995: ξζ’-ξη’). Contradictions and paradoxes are the core of his existence; it seems that this can have an effect on both the personalities of the performers and how they choose to represent him. I understand Karaghiozis as an amalgam of archetypal and culturally specific elements, on which personal meanings can be attached. Therefore I will begin by exploring the disruptions within my own shadow caused by my connection with Karaghiozis. I will also investigate the challenges brought by the collective shadow

102 Theodoros Kostidakis

as seen within a societal context. I proceed to examine the disruptions that the character of Karaghiozis creates on an archetypal level, linking them to the specific paradoxes and contradictions presented by the trickster, as a special type of archetypal shadow (Bassil-Morozow 2012: 18–19; Hauke 2000: 134–135; Jung 1958; Johnson 1991: 4; von Franz 1995: 3–4). GTSP performances are based on improvisation and allow opportunities for selfexpression. When I perform, I feel that I express myself through Karaghiozis and at the same time, he expresses himself through me. Personality-wise, I consider Karaghiozis both as me and as the opposite of me. For instance, contrary to me, Karaghiozis never takes things seriously. Yet, in my performances, he appears as an authentic illustration of my current worries, fears, excitements, thoughts and reflections. While speaking as Karaghiozis, I say things I wouldn’t say as myself. For example, in some GTSP shows I have criticised certain elements of the Cypriot society, which could have been considered inappropriate if they had come from me – a Greek immigrant in Cyprus at the time. A paradoxical pattern can be identified here: I express myself by becoming another – by playing the role of Karaghiozis. My argument is that this is not just an element introduced by the dramatic convention of being in different roles. I stress that this is an element particular to Karaghiozis, rooted in the collective aspects of GTSP. GTSP has been theorised to be a dramatic art beyond individuality, expressing collective matters rather than personal ones (Κοντογιάννη 1992: 63–64). Nevertheless, GTSP has a radical carnivalistic atmosphere (Κιουρτσάκη 1985), characterised by inversion and a restructuring of the established societal power relations. This creates something more than a mere depiction of the community. In GTSP plays, society is not only represented, but also questioned and undermined. This is prevalent when Karaghiozis argues with, criticises or playfully challenges the other characters and the principles or collective tendencies they express. In general, well-established narratives get negated and disrupted by their juxtaposition to the character of Karaghiozis. This tension is evident in the main contradiction between Karaghiozis and Pasha, the Ottoman ruler, who is seen as a symbol of power, morality and law in society. Karaghiozis, having nothing to lose, refuses to obey the monarch. In that sense, he becomes the unacceptable opposite of societal morals and an interruption of the society’s ‘normality’; he represents the collective shadow of the society. However, GTSP has been contributing to the formation of communal identity. Although Karaghiozis is a marginalised character, disrupting the socially acceptable norms, he promotes an identity focused on the community – the exact same community that he challenges. The aforementioned paradoxical pattern plays out here: Karaghiozis challenges societal norms, by accepting them. He embodies the typical dreams, tendencies and aspirations of society, yet in ways that they get exaggerated, ridiculed and thus distorted. This way, the particular flaws and inconsistencies of these societal tendencies become highlighted; Karaghiozis radically challenges these tendencies and sometimes the structure of society as a whole. A typical example is an occasion when Karaghiozis is formally asked what his name is and he pompously replies with a long list of names and titles in one breath – simultaneously following the protocol and

Dramatherapy and shadow puppetry 103

subverting it: “My name is Karaghiozis Karaghiozopoulos, Lord of the Mops, Son of Sir Patched Up, Cousin of Mr Rags, Woof, Meow, I’m-Hungry”. If this challenge of communal norms was relevant only to a certain historic period, then GTSP would have been an outdated art. On the contrary, time references in GTSP have always been selective and determined by artistic freedom. From its very beginning, there was a variety of characters referring to different times and places of Greek history. For example, Pasha from the Ottoman period (15th–19th century AD) co-exists and interacts in the same play with Alexander the Great from the Hellenistic period (4th century BC). Today, most of the specific social groups represented by GTSP characters have vanished in Greece; nevertheless, their particular behavioural principles and moralities are present in the society and easily recognisable by the audience. In other words, the characters do not only represent specific historical Greek social groups, but also they function as symbolic portrayals of certain timeless traits in society; Greek or otherwise. For instance, although Karaghiozis is depicted as a poor enslaved Greek citizen of the Ottoman times, he mainly acts as a representative of marginalised people living in urban environments (Colombo 2008: 14). Therefore, Karaghiozis and GTSP could be seen as historically specific symbols of broader collective elements. To put it another way, the very essence of Karaghiozis is based both on his archetypal traits and the historical way in which these are expressed in him. His archetypal traits are interwoven with Greek, Balkan, Middle Eastern and Eastern Mediterranean historic characteristics. On one hand, Karaghiozis would probably not be himself out of his cultural context, as this constitutes his particular character. Consequently, most of the times I use ‘shadow puppetry’ rather than Karaghiozis in international workshops and sessions, where I wouldn’t expect participants to understand the GTSP historical and cultural references. On the other hand, the feedback I receive from non-Greek speaking spectators of my performances in Greek has been very positive. Moreover, the success of contemporary performances of GTSP shows undoubtedly that Karaghiozis remains relevant to Greek audiences today; even if they are of young age and lack the necessary historical understanding. Therefore, I feel that there is an archetypal core in this character, which goes beyond the time which created him. In order to explore this, I decided to use the shadow puppets of Karaghiozis and other GTPS characters on two occasions of workshops with groups of non-Greek speaking participants. It was remarkable that after just a brief presentation of some characters, the comic element, mockery and rough humour of GTSP became present in the individuals’ spontaneous play. Keeping these in mind, I attempt to explore the archetypal elements of Karaghiozis as a culturally specific symbol which corresponds to the archetypal image of the fool or the trickster. Karaghiozis’ carnivalistic attributes (Κιουρτσάκη 1985: 181–306), and their sharp contrast to Pasha’s seriousness, bear elements of the role of the fool/jester. Similarly to Karaghiozis, the fool is a character who isn’t taken seriously; something which provides him with access to the king’s heart and decision-making. If the Pasha/king is seen as a symbol of the ruling attitude of consciousness (von Franz 1995: 25–29), the oppressed and foolish Karaghiozis could be then considered as

104 Theodoros Kostidakis

the shadow. In that sense, Karaghiozis can be understood as a “comic type” with pagan trickster elements, who follows impulses beyond moral codes, without acknowledging others, because of his unconsciousness and unrelatedness (Jung 2004: 165, 169). As a typical trickster, his extreme hunger makes him cross every boundary, fake different identities, and lead situations to pandemonium (Bassil-Morozow 2012: 24–37). Karaghiozis is “foolish, rebellious, asocial and anti-social, inconsistent, outrageous and self-contradictory” (Bassil-Morozow 2012: 5). His self-contradiction, or the trickster’s enantiodromia of participating in both opposites (Jung 2004: 179), is the very essence of the aforementioned paradoxical pattern and Karaghiozis’ character itself. As a bearer of the complementary or compensatory shadow, Trickster-Karaghiozis communicates serious, meaningful contents by making silly jokes (Jung 2004: 177). He is “both frank and a liar; faithful and untrustworthy; cowardly and courageous” (Colombo 2008: 14). Perhaps Karaghiozis’ and GTSP’s therapeutic function lies in this paradoxical pattern, which strengthens and empowers the conscious attitude by paradoxically favouring the shadow; something which a trickster would typically encourage (Jung 2004: 171, 174–176). In other terms, Karaghiozis challenges consciousness by accepting its traits, exaggerating them and proving them as meaningless. A similar paradox can be observed in other aspects of the GTSP experience, as presented in the next section.

The distorted aesthetic distance in GTSP When I introduced GTSP in group dramatherapy sessions, each participant was invited to explore their own unconscious material by making up an imaginative character and creating their own shadow puppet. During the time to animate the puppets, I came across the vital issue of where I, as a facilitator, would position myself in the room and what this would mean. If I was to join them behind the screen, then their shadow performance would lack an audience. This would undermine the very essence of the art-form, which is to use the physical equipment of GTSP in order to create a non-material shadow play on the screen and tell a story through this. On the contrary, if I joined the audience, the connection, relationship and witnessing function between the therapist and the performing participants would weaken significantly. The presence of the GTSP screen, which can be seen as the very element that differentiates shadow puppetry from other types of puppetry and drama, appeared to be both physically and symbolically “in the way” – interrupting visual and psychic contact. On a practical level, I came up with the solution of positioning myself at an in-between space, from where I could see the front of the screen whilst also observing the performer behind it. However, I felt I needed to investigate further the screen as a spatial obstacle within the web of communications in the dramatherapeutic space, including interpersonal relationships and intra-psychic interactions between the individuals’ different aspects and roles. Firstly, the GTSP screen clearly defines the roles of the performer and the spectator, by separating the space of the stage from that of the audience. Furthermore, the screen

Dramatherapy and shadow puppetry 105

seemed to strengthen the performative aspect of the process, making some participants feel “on the spot”. Likewise, Jones (2006) argues that the impact of the screen on a dramatherapy setup involves clear boundaries between being in-role and out-of-role, as well as heightened focus, concentration and theatricality (Jones 2006: 49). Secondly, it seems that the quality of the screen to allow only one-way visual communication creates remarkable spatial configurations within the therapy room. This links to the concept of aesthetic distance, as introduced by Landy (1997). Although the term of aesthetic distance does not derive from Sesame theory, it can be arguably linked to the oblique approach. Moreover, aesthetic distance often acquires archetypal dimensions within the Sesame context (Dekker 1996; Hougham 2017; Pearson 1996: 12). Theorising puppetry in therapy, Stolfi, Archibald and Tedford (2017) use Lasko’s (2015) term “the third object”, to understand the puppet’s mediation between the puppeteer and the audience. Figure 8.1 shows that GTSP introduces a fourth object – the shadow. In drama and puppetry, the audience can see the subject (actor/actress) or the object (puppet), yet from a perspective different to the one of the performer, while in GTSP the audience sees a completely different object: the puppet’s shadow. In GTSP, the shadows are the performer’s point of reference and their manipulation becomes meaningful only from the perspective of the audience. Although the performer is spatially isolated behind the screen, they communicate with the audience; both in-role, by performing and interacting with the viewers, and out-of-role, by hearing/feeling the audience’s responses and following them to adapt the plot with improvisation. The performer moves the puppets behind the screen having the shadow-result in mind; becoming, in a sense, an audience of one’s own performance (Figure 8.2). Figure 8.3 shows the double disruption of the screen: on a self-witnessing level, the puppeteer cannot see their own performance, while on an interpersonal level, the puppeteer cannot see the impact of their performance on the audience. On one hand, one can observe how the “distance” aspect of the polarity “engagement-distance” increases for the GTSP performer. Arguably, the mediation of the fourth object enhances the performer’s obliqueness in the puppeteer-audience communication, and makes this mediation conscious (Kentridge 2008: 19). Jones (2006) suggests that even the rod of the shadow puppet promotes a sense of taking distance from the narrative (Jones 2006: 50). On the other hand, my experience has shown that this interruption does not lead to overdistancing, due to the very atmosphere that the shadows bear and the mediation of the fourth object. The immateriality of shadow seems to reveal opportunities for projections of rich symbolism, due to the connection of the intangible with dreams, spirits, imagination and human psyche. Furthermore, one can trace the direct connections between the shadows of GTSP and the Jungian shadow. Consequently, it seems that shadows can convey meanings of such depth that sometimes can be overwhelming, misleading and de-stabilising for human consciousness. It is suggested that, if confronted with these meanings, one can come across ethical, existential and archetypal challenges (Jung 1958: 8). In a dramatherapy setting, where this material can be projected onto GTSP, the additional distance that the fourth object introduces becomes important. With this distance,

106 Theodoros Kostidakis

FIGURE 8.1

Perspectives

shadow contents can be processed without the performer being too merged with the narrative and the characters on an emotional level. I consider that it is the disruption itself that provides the necessary foundation for the rich symbolism of the shadows to be approached. GTSP disrupts the balance between affectual participation and critical reflection by over-emphasising distancing, but this seems to

Dramatherapy and shadow puppetry 107

FIGURE 8.2

Shadow perspectives

result in reinforcing the affect. A paradoxical pattern similar to the one identified in the previous section can be observed here. The screen arguably renders the symbolic material more approachable by keeping it at a discernible distance and allowing individuals to glimpse at their own depths via an interruption of visual communication. This can be related to a metaphor about ways of looking at the sun: layers of ‘shades’, which limit visibility, such as clouds and sunglasses, actually enable a person to look towards the sun. On the interpersonal level, as shown in Figure 8.3, the communication between the audience and the performer gets interrupted by the GTSP screen. In the case of embodied play in dramatherapy (Figure 8.1), the performer would potentially gain feedback from the audience based on being able to see, hear them and generally sense them. With GTSP, the communication between the performer and the audience is filtered by the screen. Τhe shadow puppeteer only receives audio messages from the audience and the performer offers “shadow messages”, which only involve a few sensory elements: the performer’s movement of the puppets and sound. The tools the art-form provides the puppeteer with to facilitate self-expression are the design of the puppet, the performer’s vocalisations and their manipulation of the puppet. These are also the only elements that audience can witness. This is another reason why, in a dramatherapeutic setting, I prefer to offer the participants the opportunity to design and create their own puppets and characters; in contrast to GTSP conventions, where the shape, voice and movements of each character are pre-defined by tradition. With this choice, I try to allow for more freedom in the participant’s creative explorations, in comparison with the GTPS performer’s strictly structured scope for sophisticated individual improvisations. My observations have shown that the participants generally seem to feel that they themselves are hidden behind the screen and can only show to the audience what they choose

108 Theodoros Kostidakis

FIGURE 8.3

Dual perspectives

to include in their shadow play. Consequently, the audience’s perception is based on an in-role communication through the art-form. However, this is not the case for the performer. The information the performer receives is limited; it requires further processing and interpretation by the performer (as themselves, out-of-role) in order to become relevant or useful. For example, hearing a sigh from the spectators could possibly be interpreted by the performer as a sign of either boredom or sadness. I argue that, in a dramatherapeutic setting, all these elements – namely, this mainly out-of-role engagement in the communication with the audience, the aforementioned reduced communication with the audience, as well as the spatial isolation of the performer – invite the performer towards introspection. The witnessing function of the external audience can lessen

Dramatherapy and shadow puppetry 109

to varying extents and give more space to self-witnessing. The performer’s awareness of any thoughts, emotions, bodily sensations and images of their own that emerge while they perform link to the reflective pole of the aesthetic distance. However, as shown in Figure 8.2, the performer’s self-witnessing involves their imagination, which is always subject to projections from the unconscious. The performer unavoidably projects their own unconscious material in the process of interpreting and often processing the audio stimuli provided by the audience. Furthermore, during an impactful performance, the development of a different kind of sensory attunement compensates for the visual obstacle. The performer can manage to create an attuned communication with the audience through listening and intuition. Indeed, very often the performer-audience relationship becomes deeper because of the restrictions in view, and thus GTSP can invite the performer to get emotionally engaged in the enactment and intensify the affect aspect of aesthetic distance. In other words, it seems that the performer-audience affectual connection increases through having their interactions interrupted by the shadow play. To sum up, the same paradox seems to appear here in both the self-witnessing and interpersonal aspect of the interruption caused by the screen. The screen disrupts communication and, simultaneously, it is the very condition that allows the physical involvement of the shadows, which in turn allow for emotional engagement and archetypal symbolism. The spatial obstacle to communication creates possibilities of stronger connections. GTSP seems to have the impact of strengthening the aesthetic distance by disrupting it.

Dramatherapy as challenging disruption In the previous sections, I identify the paradoxical pattern of interrupting by reinforcing as central to GTSP and the character of Karaghiozis. In this section I explore the reverse. I apply this paradoxical pattern back to dramatherapy – and specifically the Sesame approach – in an effort to approach dramatherapy in an alternative way and highlight elements which can easily be overseen. Consequently, I examine the element of interrupting through connecting – challenging by affirming – within the Sesame approach to dramatherapy. I attempt to do this by exploring the myth of the genesis of GTSP, which presents a healing process through enactment and is thus relevant to this inquiry. The therapeutic intervention in the origin story becomes a model for a dramatherapeutic approach that holds the paradox in its core. In the myth, Karaghiozis generates change by disrupting the established status quo with his jokes and interrupting the construction of the new palace. I argue that this interruption results in the positive outcomes of Pasha’s recovery and GTSP’s birth. From a psychodynamic perspective, the symbol of Karaghiozis would be the bearer of the unconscious trickster-like elements that Pasha’s rigid consciousness rejects and cannot integrate. Unsurprisingly, these elements find no other way to consciousness other than becoming Pasha’s psychological or psychosomatic symptoms. In the story, Karaghiozis’ jokes are classed by Pasha as problematic. It is only in the final episode when they are seen as being part of the therapeutic process. This

110 Theodoros Kostidakis

happens when Karaghiozis’ presence is imagined rather than physical (aesthetic distance). Likewise, in dramatherapy the individual is protected by being encouraged to take some distance from the contents which have contributed to the presenting issue; in an effort to prevent the participant from being overwhelmed by the emotional charge of those contents. The obliqueness of the Sesame approach arguably adds to that distance through the use of symbol and metaphor. Dekker (1996) identifies that the emotional expression happens within “the freedom and protection of role and metaphor” (Dekker 1996: 40). Symbol, metaphor, role, rituals, attunement and the Sesame session structure are all introduced as ways to ensure that therapeutic interventions happen in a safe and contained way and that the participant is not unbearably challenged, or harmed, due to intensified encounters with possibly painful and disruptive material. In Sesame theory, both poles of aesthetic distance are mentioned; engagement and reflection are represented as “freedom and protection” (Dekker 1996: 40) or “openness to affect … [and] understanding and reflection” (Hougham 2017: 39). However, the focus is often placed on the reflection/protection element and the part of emotional engagement/freedom/affect can be overlooked. Both the story and the paradox, as substantially trickster-like in quality, point to the direction of the omitted aspect. The type of therapy presented in the story appears to be challenging for Pasha, since he is again confronted with the very jokes that he disliked and the very person that he executed. Similarly, an individual in dramatherapy can often be challenged, since psychological growth involves encountering difficult and often unpleasant symbolic unconscious material. Hougham uses the notion of “negative capability” to describe this attitude towards symbolic imagery in the Sesame approach which embraces challenge and risk. “Negative capability allows for and actively encourages disorientation and a step into the unknown, enduring risk and an openness to affect” (Hougham 2017: 36–37). In other words, the process of coming to terms with these symbolic images in dramatherapy – which are represented by Karaghiozis’ puppet and shadow in the story – is clearly described as an unsettling process of being challenged. This, in turn, indicates that a dramatherapy participant is engaged with the disruption of previously dominant aspects of one’s own conscious self. In this story, when the therapy occurs, Karaghiozis’ jokes are simultaneously presented as both problematic and relieving – offensive and healing. The paradoxical pattern identified in the two previous sections is at play here: to disrupt by accepting what is disrupted. Pasha’s authority gets challenged not by the performer doubting Pasha’s decision, but rather by accepting Karaghiozis’ jokes as dangerous and including them as such in the shadow play. Likewise, the same opposing tendencies can be observed in dramatherapy. On one hand, the individual is protected by the unconscious material, while on the other hand, this unconscious material is respected and valued; especially within the Sesame approach and its high appreciation for mythical symbols and their archetypal meaning. In line with this, Hillman (1998) suggests that society is the cause of mental illness, as it pathologises certain archetypal tendencies, like Karaghiozis’ jokes in the story, by depriving human suffering from its mythical dimensions and

Dramatherapy and shadow puppetry 111

making it meaningless. Therefore, the role of dramatherapy and the Sesame approach is to restore that connection with the archetypal dimensions. From this perspective, Karaghiozis represents a mythical way of being which needs to be given voice. In the origin story, this is achieved when Chatziavatis, Karaghiozis’ friend, sets up and performs a piece of shadow puppetry, resurrecting Karaghiozis’ jokes. The performance constitutes a healing intervention which both challenges and reassures the Pasha. Likewise, dramatherapy can be seen as an invitation to a process of being challenged through being affirmed. The oblique approach of Sesame is both a means of protecting the participant through distancing and at the same time an invitation towards negative capability and the participant’s unsettlement; an invitation to experiencing different ways of being, which would be inaccessible to the participant as their everyday self, outside the art-form. This way, the participants’ engagement with their usual identities is interrupted by unexpected encounters with alternative identities. The fact that this happens through an art-form and not through direct cognitive rejection of established norms, brings forth the paradox of Karaghiozis and GTSP. The participant’s experimentation with alternative ways of being happens in the playspace and not in reality. In the “real” world, everything is allowed to remain unchanged. However, the participant’s common ways of being will be ultimately disturbed and possibly replaced by new ones, stemming from imaginative experimentations. In other words, dramatherapy bears interruption and disruption, which are paradoxically accompanied by acceptance of what is already established.

Conclusion In this chapter I begin from my personal experience, knowledge and emotional engagement with the imagery of GTSP and I attempt to explore possible wider applications to the field of dramatherapy and specifically the Sesame approach. The character of Karaghiozis and GTSP point towards understanding dramatherapy as a process of unsettling the participants and challenging their existing patterns of feeling, thinking, relating and acting. It seems that this allows space for new patterns to emerge and to be explored. This approach disrupts established configurations; yet it utilises a process which accepts and endorses the very establishment which the approach seeks to disrupt and ultimately change. Writing this chapter was a personal challenge, as my approach to GTSP imagery can be subjective and personal. However, it was a conscious decision to apply auto-ethnographical approaches in order to see dramatherapy from a perspective which includes my personal experience and understanding of Karaghiozis and GTSP. This chapter highlights this perspective out of a net of infinite possible meanings. I chose to trace Karaghiozis’ paradox in an effort to honour what he symbolises and illustrate these notions in my writing, as an opportunity to explore the dramatherapy playspace and the latent opportunities of embracing the paradox. The exploration of possible interruptions when GTSP is introduced within a dramatherapy playspace highlights the paradoxical pattern of challenging by agreeing. On

112 Theodoros Kostidakis

the level of meaning, I stress that the paradox becomes about the symbolic figure of Karaghiozis and his trickster-like role. Karaghiozis seems to disturb established societal and psychological norms by externally accepting them and farcically exaggerating them. On a physical/spatial level, the interruption caused by the screen results in stronger connections within the dramatherapy playspace. The introduction of the GTSP screen and the shadows in a dramatherapy setup changes the dynamics. The performer’s communications – including both the connection with their own unconscious material and interaction with the audience – become stronger through being disrupted. In other words, the involvement of the shadows as a fourth object intensifies both poles of aesthetic distance. Emotional engagement seems to become more intense by the very elements of GTSP that bring additional distance and promote performativity. In both the first two sections, the same pattern is at play: the disruption happens by strengthening the very thing that gets disrupted. Taking inspiration from these images, in the third section I utilised the paradoxical pattern and the imagery from the GTSP origin story as lenses through which to explore an often secondary aspect of dramatherapy. I thereby presented dramatherapy and specifically the Sesame approach as an agent of challenge, unsettlement, disruption and instability. Psychological change is seen as an interruption of what was before and replacement with a newly shaped reality. The Sesame approach is then understood as a process which goes against the way participants experience themselves, others and the world, through a process of affirming and empowering them. This inquiry started with the image of Karaghiozis and GTSP, and I hope that the exploration of the darkness and shadows of these images, shed some light on different aspects of dramatherapy. If not, I can legitimately consider this as one of the character’s tricks and admit that I have ended up with non-sense while I have tried to make sense. Or, in Karaghiozis’ words, “all together, we will eat, we will drink, and … we will sleep hungry”.

References Bassil-Morozow, H. (2012) The Trickster in Contemporary Film. London and New York: Routledge. Colombo, P. (2008) ‘Introduction’ in Kissane, S. (ed.) In Praise of Shadows Exhibition catalogue. Dublin, Istanbul & Athens: Irish Museum of Modern Art, Istanbul Museum of Modern Art & Benaki Museum, 13–15. Dekker, K. (1996) ‘Why Oblique and Why Jung?’ in Pearson (ed.) Discovering the Self through Drama and Movement: The Sesame Approach. London and Philadelphia: Jessica Kingsley, 39–45. Hauke, C. (2000) Jung and the Postmodern: The Interpretation of Realities. London and Philadelphia: Routledge. Hillman, J. (1998) The Myth of Analysis: Three Essays in Archetypal Psychology. Evanston-Illinois: Northwestern University Press. Hougham, R. (2017) ‘Symbolic Attitude’ in Hougham, R. & Jones, B. (eds.) Dramatherapy: Reflections and Praxis. London: Palgrave, 29–41. Johnson, R. (1991) Owning Your Own Shadow: Understanding the Dark Side of the Psyche. San Francisco: Harper Collins Publishers.

Dramatherapy and shadow puppetry 113

Jones, P. (1996) Drama as Therapy: Theatre as Living. London and New York: Routledge. Jones, P. (2006) ‘The Active Witness: The Acquisition of Meaning in Dramatherapy’ in Payne, H. (ed.) Handbook of Inquiry in the Arts Therapies: One River, Many Currents. London and Philadelphia: Jessica Kingsley, 41–55. Jung, C. (1958) ‘The Shadow’ in Hull, R. (ed.) The Collected Works 9II: Aion – Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self (trans. Hull, R.F.C.). London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 8–10. Jung, C. (2004) Four Archetypes: Mother, Rebirth, Spirit, Trickster (trans. Hull, R.F.C.). London and New York: Routledge. Kentridge, W. (2008) ‘In Praise of Shadows’ in Kissane, S. (ed.) In Praise of Shadows Exhibition catalogue. Dublin, Istanbul & Athens: Irish Museum of Modern Art, Istanbul Museum of Modern Art & Benaki Museum, 17–21. Kaplin, S. (2015) ‘The Eye of Light: The Tension of Image in Shadow Theatre and Beyond’ in Posner, D., Orenstein, C. & Bell, J. (eds.) The Routledge Companion to Puppetry and Material Performance. London and New York: Routledge, 91–97. Landy, R. (1997) ‘Drama Therapy and Distancing: Reflections on Theory and Clinical Application’. The Arts in Psychotherapy 23 (5), 367–373. Lasko, J. (2015) ‘The Third Thing’ in Posner, D., Orenstein, C. & Bell, J. (eds.) The Routledge Companion to Puppetry and Material Performance. London and New York: Routledge, 98–104. Pearson, J. (1996) ‘Discovering the Self’ in Pearson (ed.) Discovering the Self through Drama and Movement: The Sesame Approach. London and Philadelphia: Jessica Kingsley, 7–16. Stolfi, D., Archibald, N. & Tedford, J. (2017) ‘O Body Swayed to Music… How Can We Know the Dancer from the Dance? An Exploration of Aesthetic Distance and Spatial Ambiguity within Creative Arts Therapy Practice’ [PowerPoint Presentation], 14th European Arts Therapies Conference: Traditions in Transitions – New Articulations in the Arts Therapies, 13– 16.09.17, Krakow, Poland. Von Franz, M-L. (1995) Shadow and Evil in Fairy Tales. Boston & London: Shambhala.

Greek References Ιωάννου, Γ. (1995) Ο Καραγκιóζη. Αθήνα: Εστια. Κιουρτσάκη, Γ. (1983) Προφορική Παράδοσή και Δημιουργια: Το Παράδειγμα του Καραγκιóζη. Αθήνα: Κέδρο. Κιουρτσάκη, Γ. (1985) Καρναβáλι και Κάραγκιóζη: Οι Ρíτε και οι Μεταμορφώσει του Λαïκοú Γέλιου. Αθήνα: Κέδρο. Κοντογιάννη, Α. (1992) Κουκλο-θέατρο Σκιών. Αθήνα: Άλκηστι. Σπαθάρη, Σ. (1978) Απομνημονεúματα και Η Τέχνη του Καραγκιóζη. Αθήνα: Οδυσσέα.

9 INTUITION Interrupter or interrupted? Rachel Porter

Introduction Marion Lindkvist is the British pioneer of Drama and Movement Therapy, of which her own particular approach is called ‘Sesame’. Her colleague Audrey Wethered coined a term ‘informed instinct’ (Pearson, 1996, p70) and Lindkvist went on to use this to describe a principle at the heart of Sesame Drama and Movement Therapy practice. In a subsequent interview Lindkvist refined the term to ‘informed intuition’ (Lindkvist, 1998, p98). No one has examined this important principle specifically, nor commented in detail as to what Lindkvist meant by it, though I believe it was a defining aspect of her work and a guiding force within it (Porter, 2014, p35). As Lindkvist developed her approach she found it necessary to evolve and broaden its scope. The Sesame approach developed over time to combine story enactments with drama and movement exercises to extraordinary effect. However, when Lindkvist encountered groups of profoundly autistic children and adults with profound and multiple learning difficulties, she became aware of limitations in the approach. In response to these, she was inspired to develop a new strand to the approach that is now known as Movement with Touch and Sound (MTS). This provided a way of working through the body and senses that did not require a client to understand or follow verbal instructions. It is primarily a one to one way of working, although group-based approaches employing the method have also been developed. Critically this newly evolved method allowed a range of people who had profoundly complex or underdeveloped processual abilities direct and immediate access to creative therapy. With this refinement of her original method, a whole new developmental demographic was given access to dramatherapy. Through this process of methodological refinement and enrichment we see the depth of Lindkvist’s appreciation and DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-10

Intuition 115

understanding of the significance of intuitive processes. MTS involved less pre-planning and less application of prescribed technique. The process seemingly enabled Lindkvist to examine the bare bones of her approach more directly and more clearly; her practice was her research. Unlike many of her contemporaries who set their findings down in articles and books, her research medium was the practice itself. She applied herself to this practice-focused enquiry with utter devotion. In written terms, we now have only a scattering of articles and her single complete written work: Bring White Beads When You Call On the Healer. Much of her writing is anecdotal in nature. There are also some interviews, including one of my own conducted a few years before her death (Porter, 2014). However, There is little rigorous analysis of her clinical work nor the intuitive drives that appeared to underpin it. In order to reach pre-verbal communities she went beyond conventional dramatic approaches. Through her MTS innovations she stripped existent interventional mechanisms bare and exposed more primal and simultaneously transcendent processes (Lindkvist, 1998). Marion Lindkvist and especially the concept of informed intuition, have been the core inspirations for my own dramatherapy practice, teaching and research now spanning 20 years. Lindkvist herself was predominantly intuitive and feeling in nature and this is evident in the juxtaposition of her passionately immersive relationship to practice, as well as her relatively limited academic examination of it. The aim of this piece is to examine something of her innovation that is rarely discussed, yet which she believed vital. I aim to address a silent notion of intuition as an interruption to interventionism and the conventional rationales that appear to define our scientific lineage, medical models and unconscious attitudes. I will attempt to reverse what I believe is a hidden narrative and critique the over emphasis upon planned and prescribed interventions as an interruption to intuitive processes. I will suggest that it might be those intuitive processes that provide the transformative efficacy of the arts therapies. Through examination I will show that intuition is not merely the knowing of future events. I will describe it as something immediate, practical and accessible, a vital and intelligent realm within itself. In this, I aim to demystify and de-fetishise intuition, thereby revealing its natural and reliable ever-presence. I will describe, from theory and my own clinical experience, the process of a pre-verbal session. This aims to validate those underlying mechanisms that function effectively beyond prescriptive models and formulaic planning. Despite its supposed invisible nature, I will demonstrate how intuitive processes are highly sophisticated, complex and relevant in the embodied therapeutic encounter; underpinning all pre-verbal, intuitive, sensory work. In terms of training, the writing will emphasise the benefit to students in gaining clinical experience in pre-verbal settings. It is here that intuition resides unmasked, immediately and directly accessible to support the awareness and integration of pre-verbal processes in a trainees’ emergent practice. ‘Intuition is not a mere perception, or vision, but an active, creative process that puts into the object as much as it takes out.’ (Jung, C, CW 6, para 610)

116 Rachel Porter

Interrupt When does intuition feel like an interruption? When it calls us away from what we have planned, assumed or attached ourselves to. In pulling us towards things unknown and beyond, intuition can be both thrilling and terrifying. In our lack of examination of the intuitive field we can, without realising, project fear and shame upon it as well as exoticising it. But what if our intuitive function were something that could flow, play, soothe us, hold us and even be our guide? If that were the case then surely we would want to know it and serve it, even in its mystery. Wouldn’t anything which might violate or stifle that connection be the interruptive force? I believe that all creative and effective dramatherapeutic practice may be imbued with the intuitive. My critique here is related to those oppressive social, political and cultural attitudes that are normalised and pushed upon us. As someone with an intuitive typology I know this well. For some my message will feel welcome, for others it will offend. But beyond our personal typologies and responses there is a bigger theme and one that I believe is ongoing in our work: how do we balance structure and formula with obliquity and creative chaos in our practice when our culture idolises concretisation to a pathological degree? Wisdom is always to find appropriate relationship between structure and communitas under the given circumstances of time and place, to accept each modality when it is paramount without rejecting the other, and not to cling to one when its present impetus is spent. (Turner, 1969, p139)

Erasure In academic, scientific and cultural contexts the position and value of intuitive approaches are frequently suppressed and undermined. This is not to state that the intuitive domain is more important than any other domain of human functioning, but that intuition is deserving of at least equal acknowledgement and validity in considering that which contributes to the efficacy of the therapeutic relationship. This section of my argument is about equality; bringing something into balance by placing extra emphasis upon the diminished subject. Intuition is a vital factor when working with pre-verbal issues, pre/ post-verbal client groups, creative/artistic process, and non-verbal psychotherapeutic processes. I will refer to a modal system comprised of four functions; intuition, sensation, feeling and thinking. Later I will contextualise those within Jung’s theory of the unconscious. Let us very briefly consider how conventional Euro-American culture responds to them. Those professions foundered on and validated by schemas related to a thinking function naturally acquire a profusion of affirmative terminology to name, describe and validate their methods, actions and results. Thought is generally considered our primary pathway to reason and rationality. Reason and rationale are two of the most prized qualities of anyone wishing to excel in many fields of work. Academic qualifications are built

Intuition 117

around thought-based processes and learning. This is the crowning function of Western modernity. Our politicians, law makers, scientists and doctors must all excel in the domain of thinking. Now, more than ever, in the field of dramatherapy we are under increasing pressure to work in ways that compliment medical models, academic protocols and research frameworks. Our voices are most clearly heard when we examine and express them through the modalities of the thinking function e.g. reading, analysing and writing. As professionals who work predominantly through skill sets related to the sensation function, we possess concepts of embodiment, frameworks for data collection and cultural understandings of sensory processes. This is the realm of the body, organic matter and all that is concrete and tangible. The sensation function is where the work of perceiving data happens. This is also the domain of body mastery where practical and artistic manual skills are embodied and refined. Though the intelligence of the body is often overlooked or undermined, it is something we have the language to discuss and validate, especially in the fields of creative therapy e.g. various models of movement analysis. Darwin categorised feelings and so placed them into the scientific arena. The concept of emotional intelligence has more recently been acknowledged and celebrated in popular culture by writers such as Daniel Goleman (1996). The feeling function is recognised as valuable through it being recognised academically and mainstreamed. As with sensation, feeling has been validated by neuroscience as real and vital in human development. For professionals who rely upon the feeling function we have an established concept of emotional wellbeing, we understand empathy culturally. We discuss and explore emotionality in our daily work and utilise a lexicon of feeling-toned language to further describe and understand its processes. It is of note in this regard that Jung identifies the feeling function as a rational function, in an opposite position to thinking but inextricably linked (Jung, 1923). However, it appears to be the case that those who founded their work and theories on approaches related to the intuitive domain receive especially harsh criticism and rejection from their peers. Research into intuitive processes is frequently attacked, discredited, undermined or undervalued within the mainstream scientific community. The work of Rupert Sheldrake is an example of this. Sheldrake holds exceptional academic credentials including a PhD in biochemistry from Cambridge and a Philosophy of History and Science Fellowship at Harvard. He has researched numerous processes related to intuition and developed a theory called ‘Morphic Resonance’. He has subsequently been attacked and vilified by the scientific community in extraordinary ways. In 2012 a Guardian article about him was titled ‘Rupert Sheldrake: the “heretic” at odds with scientific dogma’. If Sheldrake’s story was unique in this regard we might assume that the critique is valid. He is not unique. Robert. G. Jahn, Diane Hennacy Powell, Dean Rodin and Cassandra Vieten are but a few similar cases. Any scientist, no matter how qualified and prolific, knows that if their study ventures into the intuitive field they will be disparaged by members of their own community. There is an inevitable trickle-down effect from all of this. One such effect being that it becomes increasingly difficult to imagine health care professionals who feel

118 Rachel Porter

easily and readily able to confidently discuss their work in relation to intuition. Instead I and others find ourselves turning to the lexicons of the other three functions in order to credibly describe intuitive drives and perceptions. We don’t have an established or accepted locution to language such mechanisms. Anyone of an intuitive typology or approach will have felt silenced when they were unable to justify their ideas or impressions by ‘rational’ means. Artists may be the exception to the rule. They are indeed allowed to openly claim intuition as theirs and still be taken seriously as an artist. But then an artist would never be called up on to make decisions about a person’s health or wellbeing. In order to be a safe and rational member of the health professional community, there is a pressure to refer only to those functions that will validate practice as it is conventionally understood. The unspoken imperative being to remain quiet about those functions that may be deemed irrational, unscientific and therefore unsound and unsafe. It feels important to work to reverse the idea that intuitive insight is an unreliable resource/discourse. Intuition has its own skillset, which can be mastered and applied reliably. We can evidence this within our own clinical practice. As such the intuitive domain of our drama and movement therapy practice can be discussed and perceived as credible, reliable and even vital within the modalities of our practice. Maybe an over-dependence on theory, models and pre-planned structure is an interruption to the heart of effective dramatherapy practice. Lindkvist indirectly suggested that the skill of ‘informed intuition’ (Lindkvist, 1998) was a vital tool of dramatherapy, as important as theory, rationale and structure. Rational functions are valuable because they serve as containers for and examiners of the inner processes of the work. Nevertheless, an over-dependence upon structured planning, prescribed models, be they developmental or dramatherapeutic, interrupts the most potent healing and transformational elements of the work. I doubt that any practising dramatherapists will disagree with the idea that the work is utterly lifeless without one’s intuitive, improvisational faculties and abilities. Why then is this so rarely discussed? Why are these intuitive elements of our work not named and upheld as defining principles and taught as key skills? I believe Lindkvist was attempting to highlight them in such ways through her use of the term ‘informed intuition’. It is through our own informed conviction and demonstrable commitment to intuition as an essential element in our drama and movement therapy practice that we signal the value inherent within this fascinating dimension of our work. There is such copiousness in this often quietly honed skill set. It is worthy of our efforts to preserve and promote it in practice, as a counterpoint to those currents that may otherwise undermine and undervalue it through erasure in discussion and analysis.

Theory My aim in this section is to describe one perspective of intuitive practice, utilising Jung’s theory of the four functions. I don’t believe in any theory base as an absolute truth. I believe theory is simply a container for our experience and learning. Could it be that the chosen theory base of practitioners and trainings is sought to fit the

Intuition 119

typology of the personality? As I’ve mentioned, there is a body of scientific research that examines what I’m calling the ‘intuitive field’ by scholars such as Rupert Sheldrake, Julia Mossbridge, Dean Rodin and Diane Hennacy Powell. These researchers are seen to interrupt conventional scientific systematic thinking. However, I see conventional science as being the interrupting force, as it stands against new understanding and the recognition of timeless and repeating intuitive phenomena. ‘Clinical intuition’ stands out as a separate and lonely outpost. This is a small subject of research within some healthcare professions such as nursing, psychotherapy and body based therapies. ‘Clinical intuition’ as an area of study in psychotherapy has been reviewed and researched by Margaret Arnd-Caddigan and Marilyn Stickle (2017). They cite Berne’s (1977) and Bion’s (1962) findings on intuition as integral to therapeutic practice. Their treatise on the topic predates more contemporary voices such as Betstch (2008), Charles (2004), and Hogarth (2010). It is surprising to note that there is little to nothing written specifically about intuition in dramatherapy literature, despite the fact that we probably utilise it as much as these other professions. Although there are several explanations of intuition found in the various treatises on ‘clinical intuition’, there is no collectively agreed definition. Essentially the term acknowledges the presence of non-rational processes of cognition as evidenced in a variety of health care settings. There is enough overlapping, examined experience and theory to suggest that intuition can be clearly identified within the therapeutic relationship as a discernible and evident process. There is also evidence within some studies to suggest that professionals encounter incidences of fear, shame and ignorance when they attempt to prioritise, qualify or validate intuitive elements in their clinical work. Intuition was identified as one of the four functions as conceived by Carl Gustav Jung within the context of his system of typology. The four functions are: feeling, thinking, intuition and sensation. Thinking is always opposite to feeling and intuition is always opposite to sensation. This means that a cross axis can be created showing the opposing functions are directly in relationship with each other as they share a pole. This axis is movable but the idea is that most people will spend their whole life in a particular typological template within which they expand, or not. It’s important to view all of the functions as having their own domains so as not to reduce them to mere behaviours. Each of these four domains has its own atmosphere and quality of presence, they blend and work together in different ways. It is not the purpose of a psychological typology to classify human beings into categories … this in itself would be pretty pointless. (Jung, CW6, par. 895) In this, Jung appears to foresee the potential for a superficial interpretation of his theory which would distract from the real depth of his intention. We need therefore to avoid the temptation to work with this system in an overly literal and reductive manner. Jung’s work on this subject is important in that it supports and critically validates intuitive approaches through his studious and integrated examinations and his subsequent rigorous explanations.

120 Rachel Porter

Our focus here is upon the intuition and sensation pole. These two functions are known as the irrational functions, thinking and feeling being the rational axis. Lindkvist frequently referred to the importance of her feeling function in her writing about Movement with Touch. Most likely it was her feeling function that helped her build her rationale for dramatherapy practice. The feeling function is often very active within the dramatherapeutic encounter, it serves as a reliable and essential guide in helping the therapist navigate the ‘irrational’ zones of the intuition/sensation axis. Jung’s articulation of the intuitive function as explained within his ‘four functions’ schema provides a counterpoint to those otherwise sceptical tropes. It offers a different perspective. Here the so-called irrational is considered as something not unreasonable but rather empirical, emerging from experience as opposed to objective consideration. In dramatherapy, unlike talking therapy, the site of the work incorporates interventions that are embodied. This, then, is not merely a psychological exchange but engages the proprioceptive, the physiological, the muscular and skeletal, the sensorium as well as the imaginal. This psycho-physical encounter is perennially shaping and shifting itself around the spontaneous unfolding of the therapeutic relationship, which is essentially improvised. It can feel as if the risks are higher because we are moving bodies as well as minds in an extemporised way. The fear of re-traumatisation and the chance of physical harm can weigh heavily upon our sense of ethical responsibility. Therefore notions of working with judicious discernment appear imperative. In this we may waver and lose faith in our own discipline and instead reach for the apparently sanctioned authority of the rational and cognitive thinking functions. In this regard, Lindkvist was radical in that she fearlessly trusted and committed herself to ‘informed intuition’ as a guiding force in her practice. Inspired by her example, I challenge the idea that working primarily within this axis of irrational functioning deems the practitioner themselves unreliable. If one is not practising within the irrational functions their dramatherapeutic process will be flawed, limited and lacking in intuitive acuity. Both intuition and sensation are functions that find fulfilment in the absolute perception of the flux of events. Hence, by their very nature, they will react to every possible occurrence and be attuned to the absolutely contingent, and must therefore lack all rational direction. For this reason I call them irrational functions, as opposed to thinking and feeling, which find fulfilment only when they are in complete harmony with the laws of reason. (Jung, CW6. par. 776) This irrational system of functioning gives us direct experiential access to the unconscious, the imaginal, attunement and the pre-verbal. Lindkvist’s term ‘informed intuition’ could have emerged from the dual processes alive within these functions. She was seeking to articulate the eminence of intuition and instincts in ones approach to clients while acknowledging the corresponding need for intellectual cognition and conscious discernment. I experience informed intuition as a way to work through instinctive processes and the intuitive function while simultaneously grounding impulses and drives in sensory information. So the task is

Intuition 121

not only to balance being informed ahead of a session but also in ways which allow one to be spontaneous and responsive during it. The real challenge is in being with the dynamic and dual processes of the intuitive and the sensory simultaneously as the session unfolds. One must take emphasis away from thinking for the duration of the session in service of intuition. Thinking does not disappear and it is returned to more fully in the analytical stages post-session. In my view, informed intuition is about dual processes and the unification of opposites within the dramatherapeutic encounter. Though Lindkvist refers to intuition, feeling and thinking she doesn’t directly investigate their mechanistic function. Similarly she discusses ‘informed intuition’ but we don’t receive an interrogation of the concept. What she does describe is how people who are pre-verbal require highly sensitised sensory interventions that involve touch, visual and aural stimulation, along with acute and multi-sensory observational skills. She demonstrates how the therapist must be able to relate through their own body with another body while having a recognition of sensory communication as a language in its own right. Through anecdotal descriptions, Lindkvist revealed a knack for seeing what was in front of her, in the immediacy of the here and now. She also held a grounded acceptance of the client as they were, unobscured by any thought-based analysis or judgement. This would seem to chime with von Franz’s insight that ‘The sensation type is a master of noticing details’ add proper reference (Von Franz and Hillman, 1998). These are qualities of the sensation domain that create focus, groundedness, accessibility and make sense of what is happening in the moment-to-moment of the therapeutic encounter. The intuitive heart of the work seems more difficult for Lindkvist to describe as it is more complex in its presentation and harder to explain than its sensory counterpart. It can feel invisible and yet profoundly present, difficult to grasp but always there. The intuitive function will not be as tangible as the sensation function, but its absence would render the sensory interventions mechanical and meaningless. Intuition as a field presents as presence itself, it is insightful without need of information. It can feel like one is being deeply observed or observing even when the eyes are looking away. That interior presence does not require an emotion or thought to exist. It might feel otherworldly, bringing with it a tone of buoyancy, magic and transcendence, but it may also bring a sense of containment and safety in its all-embracing, beyond judging, deeply knowing presence. Though it is important to say that, depending on one’s unique typology, the intuitive function will be experienced and embodied in different ways. For example, some people’s intuition has a more inward focus and in others it is external in its gaze. But the intuition of this type is concerned with events that go on in the background; he picks up the possibilities and the future of the outer surroundings. consistent ref (Von Franz, 1998, p35) To practice within the pre-verbal domains, one must centre their approach in equal balance between these different dimensions of experience. It is as if one pulls the self down into a more fully grounded awareness of the body. Simultaneously one seeks to maintain connection with a quality of transpersonal knowing, as if seeing right through the surface of all the things perceived by the senses. This embodied sense of

122 Rachel Porter

the present moment, direct experience, embodied responding and rigorous perceiving of a client’s gestures and signals creates a paragon of visceral connectedness. Throughout that therapeutic encounter there is an awareness of the unspoken and invisible, an expansive belief in potentialities and knowing beyond form. One might begin to see how the synthesis of these different functions, intuitive and sensory, creates both a strong therapeutic presence and practical skill combined. In order to explore and expand upon what is meant by ‘informed intuition’ it was useful to refer to what is a small but growing arena of research within the medical and therapeutic community around something now called ‘clinical intuition’. This might eventually provide us with theoretical grounding in what can otherwise feel like an unsupported field. However it was by exploring intuition more thoroughly within Jung’s fourfold framework of human functions that we begin to gain insight into how it actually works. We see here how intuition is one element of a quaternary, part of a whole system within our working approach. I have described an operational medium whose service lies beyond the popular empire of ‘common’ sense and logic that colonises our institutions. Intuition dwells in the subtle realms of synchronistic signification. However, in a modern, EuroAmericancentric academic culture, this is perceived as dubious and strange despite the fact it magnetises us towards the things in our lives, and our work, that ultimately feel most natural.

Form A challenge has always been to put words to an apparently oblique and intangible function. But could that challenge be used to exculpate the scientific and cultural erasure of this whole dominion of being and knowing. I am often told that one should not analyse intuition. As if doing so is an affront to its mysterious, transcendent nature. I will now step right through such an assumption. Embracing the dichotomy of writing about the ‘indescribable’, I will reach descriptively into the intuitive territory of this work in order to challenge the notions of its otherness. As my clinical work and teaching are based predominantly in the world of pre-verbal client groups, the encounters I describe here are of a non-verbal nature. I will be emphasising only one domain of a session to chronicle intuition as an integral dynamic force, which guides and underpins several academically conceptualised processes. These appear as building blocks which articulate the intuitive/sensation domain of the work. A possible intuitive pathway through a session might consist of a series of phases: empathising, immersing, attuning, emersion and finally grounding. Here I’m echoing the stages of the Sesame structure (focus, warm up, bridge in, main event, bridge out, grounding) but reframing them within a purely intuitive dominion. I’m not doing this in an attempt to concretise an interventional structure, rather I am hypothetically suggesting a tonal, rhythmic movement through a session’s intuitive underscore. Initially a dramatherapist might begin a session’s intuitive journey via an empathic connection; utilising their own mental and emotional capacity to understand and share their clients’ feelings. This will probably be automatic and not consciously formed. At this point they enter an interpersonal field before any physical interaction takes place.

Intuition 123

This opens the door to the intuitive domain through the feeling-thinking function axis. The dramatherapist is arousing within themselves pre-verbal care instincts, which give way to the intuitive guidance and communications also present in the primary relationship. This enables a more visceral immersion into the psyche and soma of the client. This immersion in the communing presence of another can enable material to emerge from the depths of the unconscious field. That material can be realised and made manifest through the senses in embodiment. Intuition needs to look at things from afar or vaguely in order to function, so as to get a certain hunch from the unconscious, to half shut the eyes and not look at the facts too closely. (Von Franz and Hillman, 1998, p35) Von Franz’s use of the word ‘afar’ is not referring to the distancing utilised for the objectivity of the thinking function, rather she is describing ways that one must blur rational perceptions in order to see beyond them. The act of immersion occupies the sensation function and distracts it from concretising what it sees, which would otherwise interrupt the natural unfolding of the session. It is that uninterrupted flow that allows the unconscious to emerge and the underpinning creative process to be at its most authentic and powerful. One is able to engage in a depth peregrination only if provided with the obliquity required to blur the mental process. This then enables intuitive insights to be sensed, often bodily, and woven through the interpersonal relationship in gestured, feeling-toned, sensorial dialogues with the client. I experience this part of a session as dropping from our mental plane into a more visceral space. Initially being with the client passively while tuning into their rhythms and affectual presentations. At this stage one is often communing with as opposed to communicating to. Then we might consider attunement (Stern, 1985). This is the process of moving and sounding with the client in a way that is aligned with their affect states. We might move from the previous feeling of communion (a merged state being with the other) into communicating (dialoguing and exploring variations). Here the dramatherapist will mirror, cross-modally attune, purposefully mis-attune with the client. This is where the depth work of the session will take place. Though this appears to be a sensorial feelingtoned phase it is the intuition that guides it and creates a sense that the client is being seen, heard and non-verbally ‘spoken’ to. If intuition were not present the client would experience an onslaught of empty movements and sounds, a mere copying of behaviours or a show of feeling that was not connected to them or within the interpersonal field. Emersion is the process of gradually easing out of the intensity of the attunement phase in order to prepare for the ending. Finally there is a grounding, still deeply empathic, which clearly signals the ending of the interaction by breaking up the rhythmic flow of attunement and towards modelling moments of separation as preparation for the goodbye. Particularly vital at the beginning and end of the session, with pre-verbal clients, is a repetitive and pre-planned ritualised activity. Lindkvist stated the importance of

124 Rachel Porter

structure even in pre-verbal work because it serves as a container for the improvised interactions. With each client we encounter a different set of rhythms, forms and rituals that accommodate psychic and somatic idiosyncrasies. Other cognizant interventions may be applied to support the fluidity of the form. However, it is one’s intuitive function that is able to dwell and generate the innovative confidence to morph interventions and navigate the so-called unnameable, unknowable elements of a session. This is made all the more overt when words are rendered impotent in the mind of the other. Between infants and mothers, periodic ‘proto-narrative envelopes’ (Stern, 1985) of improvised attunements take place. These can occur in moments as an infant’s movement stops and then starts again. They have a kind of narrative structure like wordless, moving, sounding dances that are short and repeated. We see similar patterns with pre-verbal clients as processual information and relational input mechanisms move at a slower pace and require what Intensive Interaction calls ‘the pause’ (Nind and Hewett, 2005). It might be that attunement with any client group comes and goes within a session depending on the regulatory needs and attachment style of the clients. So even within a planned session, beneath the surface of prescribed interventions, is a meta-level of affectual, visceral protonarratives that underscore the work within the intuitive domain of the session. In their ‘conversations’, parents and infants mutually adjust the pulse of their vocalisations and vary the quality of their expressions systematically to produce a narrative lasting ten seconds [Malloch 1999] anticipating and regulating the cycles of emotional intensity. (Trevarthen and Malloch, 2009, p215) I see the aforementioned ‘anticipation’ and ‘regulation’ as being dependent upon the intuitive faculties of both parties and the field of relational sentience that exists between the two. Intuition doesn’t merely present itself through insight, rather it is the landscape of the verbal field. In all dramatherapeutic work the intuitive domain is ever present whenever we are working well. Let us pull ourselves out of hierarchical assumptions that this ‘level’ of work belongs in only one place, client group or approach. And in so doing define and demonstrate how such ideas around creative generation and interpersonal process are foundational to our work. These insights are universal. They are alive and applicable in every context. The very nature of Sesame’s Movement with Touch and Sound brings one more fully into the present moment. In this one can attune without interruption to a client and their un-systemised, sometimes even pre-gestural language of sound and movement. Affect attunement and the intuitive realms of the more-than-verbal domains require a sensitivity to spontaneous phenomena beyond structure and form. When we move beyond the corridors of deduction, the need for sequential ontogeny dissipates. Overthinking will interrupt this process. A spaciousness must be created that augments multi-modal expressivity with intuitive intelligence. There can be an accompanying sense of uplift, and wonderment in the connection before quantifiable outcomes appear. This is a dynamic, enigmatic approach, accessible in different ways for

Intuition 125

everyone but learnt only by example through the pre-verbal community itself. It is truly anchored in the present moment. The experience of pre-verbal dynamism is also an aspect of the artistic encounter as Stern suggested in his references to the philosophy of Langer (Stern, 1985 p54, 158, 160) and in his book Forms of Vitality (2010). This further emphasises what value and beauty exists in the plenitude and dynamism of feeling and moving with another body, in its rapture, fluctuations of resonance and dissonance, hilarity and despair. This is the spiralic synonymity of pleasures and pains, the peace of harmonising with the other and the profundity of feeling deeply known without explanation or chronology. It is a shared presence that is in itself a healing force where otherness is no longer fortified. The skill of the dramatherapist lies in their ability to attune to the inner and outer periodic expressions of the client utilising a vast array of emotional and sensory input that is infused with intuitive synchrony. The dramatherapist must be a highly skilled improviser able to match idiosyncratic and uncoded gestural repertoires. One able to be constantly altering spontaneous multi-modal interventions with an expanded consciousness of the embodied interpersonal relationship. One also has to know how to work at certain points strategically with and against the ebb and flow of the vitality affect (Stern, 1985) to encourage exploration whilst supporting and enhancing the neuro-regulatory process. As we work with the invisible force of intuitive communion we pierce through masks, codes, prejudices and linear strategies that thought-based culture has attempted to civilise within us. Here we ‘dance’ within the realms of intuitive intimacy in a way that propels us into the transpersonal and beyond the dominant scientific rationale. Fears around lack of safety, boundaries and questions of one’s own containment can arise when working with apparently unmediated, primal forms of interaction. All of this is similar territory to that of transference, projection, empathy and other non-verbal psychological, functions and dyadic transactions and interactions. To my mind, the only effective way to work with pre-verbal clients or preverbal domains of verbal clients is to travel with, in and through these pre-verbal landscapes. The ability to work fearlessly and skilfully within the irrational realms in a fully embodied and attuned way can only lead to more masterful therapeutic interventions of all kinds, verbal and non-verbal. That is the gift and teaching that non-verbal groups hold for us as a profession and society. I believe we can only fully step into that wisdom when we reject the idea of the non-verbal domain as regressive, and the intuitive realm as secret and dangerous. The above descriptions appear to me to not only belong to the work of pre- and post-verbal client groups. Rather they are recognisable in all forms of dramatherapy practice. The intuitive domain contains within it primary elements that I believe are ever present in creative therapeutic psycho/physical encounters. We might even call this the ‘ground’ of all our movement-based creative therapeutic practice.

Conclusion In this enquiry I have discussed dramatherapy as an intuitive intervention that interrupts an over emphasis and reliance on rationalised thought-based interventions and

126 Rachel Porter

discourse. Many dramatherapists discuss their practice as if it is rooted in pre-prescribed models and theories and would maybe feel ‘naked’ without their interventional toolkit and creative props. But as I have outlined, I believe the underpinning movement of a session takes a very different form. Victor Turner’s study of The Ritual Process, Structure and Anti-Structure brings vibrancy to the idea that society’s contemporary healing rituals e.g. the arts and therapies, by their very nature, rebel against the structures that hold them. The structure in this sense must be cracked open in order for the flow of something more ‘liminal’ and profound to enter the therapeutic space. Our structures, models and plans are the vital containers that hold the liminality of the intuitive field. An interruption must take place between the ‘structure and the anti-structure’. I believe dramatherapy to be a predominantly improvisatory intervention. As such intuition has been explored as one of its fundamental guiding forces. Intuition often tacitly emerges when cognisant frameworks are temporarily suspended in facilitative service to unconscious and creative processes. Though this apparently enigmatic force is rarely named or discussed in interventional terms, I have attempted to show how enabling and fundamental it is in dramatherapy practice. For certain client groups whose developmental evolution is halted through postcognitive decline, profound and multiple learning difficulties or profound autism, an intuitively led approach is indispensable. It can bring hope, affirmation and wonder where once there was a perception or experience of aimlessness and developmental stasis. This is because with intuitive mastery and confidence, one can work without planning and match these client groups’ need for spontaneity and multi-modal gestural idiolects. I have indicated possible reasons for the academic/professional repudiation and attempted stigmatisation of intuition. I have referenced notable examples of this that exist within the public domain. Correspondingly I have cited recognised researchers and practitioners who acknowledge and see value in the intuitive, along with their areas of research and theory that describe intuitive drives and processes utilised in practice. Is it possible that we have been taught to view our intuition as an interruption to the order of our lives and institutions? I believe further research into this subject to be indirectly a political discourse. The backdrop to which is a current climate of social change involving challenges to patriarchal institutional hierarchies. Intuition in this sense could be seen as belonging to principles of the archetypal feminine, the realm of the matriarch, where so often the ‘silent’ unpaid, unnamed work of nurture, improvisational creativity and primary interpersonal development is done. Ongoing exploration into this subject may bring a more conscious and enriched approach to these intuitive processes. Such studies will also benefit the people with whom our intuitive mastery is a potentially life altering intervention in itself. I have endeavoured to prove the importance and benefits of naming these intuitive aspects found within dramatherapy. It is vital we allow intuition to dissolve propensities towards over concretisation. At first it might seem that the irrational is interrupting our safety, our certainty, our great plan. But ultimately we

Intuition 127

might shift our perspective and see that the actual interruption has always been our own culturally conditioned rigidity and fear of the unknown. Prophets and artists tend to be liminal and marginal people, ‘edgemen,’ who strive with a passionate sincerity to rid themselves of the clichés associated with status incumbency and role-playing and to enter into vital relations with other men in fact or imagination. In their productions we may catch glimpses of that unused evolutionary potential in mankind which has not yet been externalised and fixed in structure. (Turner, 1969, p128)

References Arnd-Caddigan, M. and Stickle, M. 2017. A psychotherapist’s exploration of clinical intuition: a review of literature and discussion. International Journal of Integrative Psychotherapy, 8. Adams, T. 2012. Rupert Sheldrake: the ‘heretic’ at odds with scientific dogma. The Guardian online, 5th February. Berne, E. 1977. Intuition and Ego States. San Franscisco: TA Press. Betstch, T. 2008. The nature of intuition and its neglect in research on judgement and decision making. In H. Plessner, C. Betsch, and T. Betsch (Eds.) Intuition in Judgment and Decision Making. (pp. 3–19). New York, NY: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Bion, W.R. 1962. Learning from Experience. Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield Publishing. Charles, R. 2004. Intuition in Psychotherapy and Counselling. London: Whurr. Dissanayake, E. 2000. Art and Intimacy, How the Arts Began. U.S.A: University of Washington Press. Goleman, D. 1996. Emotional Intelligence. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Hogarth, R.M. 2010. Unpacking intuition: a process and outcome framework. Psychological Inquiry, 21. Hougham, R. and Jones, B. 2017. Dramatherapy, Reflections and Praxis. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Jung, C.G. 1923. Psychological Types. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd. Jung, C.G. 1948/1969. Collected Works. US: Princeton University Press. Langer, S.K. 1967. Mind: An Essay on Human Feeling. U.S.A: The John Hopkins University Press. Lindkvist, M.R. 1998. Bring White Beads When You Call On the Healer. Worcestershire: J. Garnet Miller Limited. McCluskey, U. 2005. To Be Met as a Person. London: Karnac. Nind, M. & Hewett, D. 2005. Access to Communication. London: David Fulton Publisher. Pearson, J. 1996. Discovering the Self Through Drama and Movement. London: Jessica Kingsley. Porter, R. 2014. Movement with touch and sound in the Sesame approach: bringing the bones to the flesh. Dramatherapy, 36, 1, 79–101. Stern, D.N. 1985. The Interpersonal World of the Infant. New York: Basic Books, Inc. Publishers. Stern, D.N. 2010. Forms of Vitality. New York: Oxford University Press. Stern, D.N. 2004. The Present Moment In Psychotherapy and Everyday Life. U.S.A: W. W. Norton & Company. Trevarthen, C. & Malloch, S. 2009. Communcative Musicality. New York: Oxford University Press. Turner, V. 1969. The Ritual Process, Structure and Anti-Structure. U.S.A: Transaction Publishers. Von Franz, M.L. & Hillman, J. 1971. Jung’s Typology. U.S.A: Spring Publications.

10 DISRUPTED NARRATIVES Daniel Stolfi

In a YouTube interview posted in 2014, pianist Herbie Hancock (2014), a member of Miles Davis’s renowned jazz quintet of the 1960s, recounts the moment of horror when he botched a chord at a critical moment during one of Miles Davis’s scintillating solos at a live concert. The chord that he played was so bad (‘it sounded like a big mistake!’) that he wanted to crawl under the piano and hide. When he heard the discordant chord, Davis paused for a second and then, to Hancock’s utter astonishment, played a few notes around it that rendered it ‘correct’. As Hancock relates the episode, Davis did not hear the chord as a mistake but as: part of the reality of what was happening at that moment, and he dealt with it … Miles was able to make something that was wrong into something that was right! (Hancock, 2014) Hancock’s anxiety underlies a deep dynamic tension between the seemingly irreparable disruption he experiences as a result of his error, and Davis’s calm and reflective interpretation of the moment as a fleeting interruption – indeed, of his recognition of it as a creative and artistic opportunity. In many ways, the anecdote is analogous of the broken narratives (Kirmayer, 2000) that distressed clients often bring to therapy insofar as it characterises the anxiety and fear they can experience when the vulnerable self is excessively exposed. Viewed in psychodynamic (and in dramatic and existential) terms, such dread can approximate the ‘fear of annihilation’ (Klein, 1997: 61) or ‘cosmic psychic isolation, alienation, and aloneness’ (Stern, 2018: 136) that threatens our psychic identity and wellbeing from the outset of life. By the same token, however, Hancock’s brief narrative is also highly suggestive of the role the insightful, empathic and compassionate therapist can play in facilitating a redemptive or regenerative moment during the therapeutic encounter. DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-11

Disrupted narratives 129

In this chapter, I explore some of the expressive elements that characterise the notion of a disrupted narrative that the client articulates in therapeutic settings and consider how some of its underlying factors intersect with narrative theory and dramatherapy practice as part of the clinical intervention. On the one hand, the disjointed and fragmented life stories the client brings into the therapeutic space constitute a break (often distressing and inchoate) in the flow of his or her normal experiences. Often such a displacement also risks or implies some degree of permanent damage or alteration for the client and can have any number of causes – human or otherwise. On the other hand, it is often through these narratives that the client and therapist negotiate the healing transaction. I argue that this client-therapist interaction and the therapeutic outcome are dependent on the degree of congruence between what the client reports and how the therapist interprets it. Moreover, I suggest that often this relationship is one of a ‘narrative incommensurability’ (Hunter, 1991) that is shaped by the asymmetrical power relations between the two parties. I am particularly interested in some of the conditions and circumstances where this imbalance is skewed in favour of the therapist. To support my investigation, I draw on my research and creative interests and experience as a dramatherapist, medical anthropologist, and artist in the use of the illness narrative, explanatory models of illness, and the narrative and cultural constructions of illness and healing in clinical and other disrupted settings. I have divided the chapter into three broad sections. I begin by contextualising the narratology of dramatherapy, drawing on considerations of the narrative and cultural constructions of illness and healing from across the social sciences. I then explore the nature of narrative disruption, paying attention to critical elements of narrative incommensurability between the position of the client and that of the practitioner in clinical settings. For convenience, I have used the terms practitioner, physician, therapist on the one hand, and client, patient, etc. on the other, interchangeably throughout while keeping in mind the differing relationships and modes of professional practice that exist between medical doctors and their patients and those between arts therapists and their clients. In this part of the investigation, I reflect on how some of the socio-cultural, moral, aesthetic, and clinical constructions of disruption might be contextualised specifically as part of contemporary thinking within dramatherapy praxis. In the final part of the chapter, I outline two interdisciplinary practice models from my own experience as a way of illustrating how narrative might be developed to extend the effectiveness of the medium within dramatherapy applications.

Contextualising the narratology of dramatherapy For the purposes of this conversation, I have in mind Ojermark’s (2007) descriptions of narrative outlined in her review of the literature on life histories, specifically her definitions of narrative, oral history, case study, life story, family or life history, and ethnography. Briefly, Ojermark tells us that:

130 Daniel Stolfi

a

b

c d e f

a narrative has ‘a plot and existence separate from life of the teller’ (ibid., 4) and is time-bound in that it relates our actions and experiences through the past, present and future; oral histories are ‘[p]ersonal recollections of events and their causes and effects’ (ibid.) and can include interviews with individuals ‘on their past experiences of events with the intention of constructing an historical account’ (ibid.); a case study is an investigation of a single case; a life story is the story of someone’s life, or a part of it, as he or she relates it in some detail to another and is often a co-creation between the two parties; a family history is an examination of the past events of a specific family; and an ethnography is a recorded account of a particular ‘culture or group’ (ibid.) and would include its foundational narratives, mythologies, and folktales.

With regards to the extensive reliance on various formats of storytelling within dramatherapy practice described below, I have tended to use the terms ‘story’, ‘storytelling’, and ‘narrative’ interchangeably whilst keeping in mind the above descriptors. However, I am also concerned with the focus of a more clinical critique within narrative theory as a way of introducing greater theoretical, methodological and ethical curiosity to the dramatherapy enquiry than current research into its narratology evidences (Gersie, 1991, 1997; Jennings, 1990; Landy, 1992, 1994; Lahad, 1992; Pearson, Smail and Watts, 2013). In this regard, I have in mind some of the considerable research that has been taking place in the narrative domain within the social sciences over the last two or three decades – medical anthropology in particular. In the first instance, I refer in some detail to Mattingly’s concept of emergent narratives, namely the ‘small dramas … of the everyday in the world of Western biomedicine … that easily escape the notice of onlookers’ (Mattingly, 2000: 181–182). On the other hand, I reference Kirmayer’s notion, within clinical settings, of the ‘broken narrative’ caused by: the incomprehensibility of illness, the inattention and discounting of powerful interlocutors (like physicians), or the debilitating effects of illness on creative and integrative cognitive functions. (Kirmayer, 2000: 171) Meanwhile, a brief scoping of the literature on the uses of story, myth, fairy- and folktale, and the foundation narratives of world cultures in dramatherapy clinical practice over the last three decades underlines the fact that storytelling in its various permutations has become a mainstay within the discipline (Gersie, 1991, 1997; Jennings, 1990; Landy, 1992, 1994; Lahad, 1992; Pearson, Smail and Watts, 2013). Typically, applications of these genres have tended to adopt and follow projective modes of expression, both embodied and symbolic, frequently employing the use of role play, dramatic metaphor, and other performative-based formulations with a range of child and adult populations (Jennings, 1990; Jones, 1996; Langley, 2006). However, it seems to me that dramatherapists are somewhat coy about their

Disrupted narratives 131

cultural competence and in recognising or acknowledging the extent of their reliance on such cultural appropriations and, ultimately, the potential therapeutic misrepresentation that can occur in many of these instances. A case in point is the tendency to make uninformed assumptions and claims about shamanism and the presumed ‘shamanic’ properties of healing (or similarities) in their disciplines (Jennings, 1994; Meldrum, 1994; Jones, 1996; Langley, 2006). I will return to this idea of the colonising narrative later in the chapter. Nevertheless, the broad underlying therapeutic premise of the uses of story and storytelling within dramatherapy praxis is predicated on what Mattingly alludes to as the ‘narrativity of lived experience’ (2000: 182) and the proposition that ‘that humans naturally think in narrative terms’ (ibid.) be it in the form of a life story, family history, and so forth. Moreover, the dramatherapeutic application of storytelling theory as well as its methodological orientations have tended to embrace, albeit generically, many of the hermeneutical and analytical premises set out in the work of psychoanalytic and Jungian theorists and others such as Bettelheim (1976), Von Franz (1997) and Joseph Campbell (1993). Whereas the emergence and significance of personal narratives in the form of the life narrative, the illness narrative, and the wounded storyteller tropes within the medical humanities, medical anthropology, and across the social sciences more generally (Kleinman, 1988; McAdams, 1993; Frank, 1995, 2000; Woods, 2011) have increasingly made their influence felt as well. As Woods has indicated: [t]he voluminous scholarship on narrative – from philosophy, psychology, narratology, anthropology, sociology, literary and cultural studies, healthcare, law and education – has demonstrated its centrality to understanding – the rich and messy domain of human interaction. (Woods, 2011: 2–3) However, I am inclined to agree with Mattingly’s (2000) and Strawson’s (2004) observations that there is also a strong case for arguing against this narrative phenomenology, since this viewpoint maintains that there can be considerable disjunction and deficit between the lives people live and the stories they tell about them. Moreover, such a position can also impede our understanding of self. These narratives that we tell ourselves are ‘teleological structures’ (Mattingly, 2000: 183) that are not true reflections of everyday life. Unlike real life, such a narrative typically has a plot and narrator to provide a rhetorical and aesthetic framework, continuity, and a temporal structure. Moreover, these devices serve to impose meaning where often there is none. As with Ojermark’s description of life histories, narratives in this vein are conditioned by their beginning, middle, and endings. The author or storyteller not only knows where to begin and end the story, he or she is also an ‘arbitrator of perspective’ (Mattingly, 2000: 185), thereby claiming the moral and ethical authority over the narrative as well. This bias, ultimately, gives a narrated life an illusory sense of coherence and an unrealistic moral and ethical benchmark for living a good life (Mattingly, 1998; 2000; Strawson, 2004). In real life we do not have the

132 Daniel Stolfi

benefit of such control or insight and, in some ways, we are closer to ‘characters in a story than its narrator’ (Mattingly, 2000: 184) and have no clear idea of how our lives will unfold. Given the above, I suggest that there is no clear sense that the theoretical and analytical development of narrative or that the use and scrutiny of storytelling within dramatherapy practice has engaged as critically with this ‘narrative turn’ (Atkinson, 1997) or to the extent that the other social sciences have (Goodson and Gill, 2011; Woods, 2011). While dramatherapists have become well versed in using narrative techniques and forms in their practice, I would argue, following Mattingly’s point, that they are less rigorous in their interrogation of the social and relational domains that underlie the narratives clients bring to therapy. Moreover, and in spite of Woods’s earlier assertion, the underlying foundations of narrative theory in the use of story in dramatherapy do not contest adequately the prevailing positivist approaches of evidence-based practice (Goodson and Gill, 2011) that seems to be driving arts therapy professions generally in the UK. We might also argue, along with Thomas Csordas’s (1996) exploration of the performative elements within ritual healing practices, that the use of storytelling within dramatherapy praxis presents as a missed opportunity insofar as we: do not always accept the invitation … to go beyond the sequence of action and the organisation of text to the phenomenology of healing and being healed. (Csordas, 1996: 94) Much of the research carried out by medical anthropologists in the domain of ritual over the last two decades has sought to address this gap by exploring the non-linguistic dimensions of performance, including realms of the inanimate and silence (Mattingly, 2000). How these elements are negotiated between the client and therapist within clinical settings presents an interesting and challenging opportunity for dramatherapy praxis. In particular, dramatherapists are faced with questions about engaging with the ambiguities (temporal, spatial, moral, and aesthetic) that lie beyond linguistic and verbal domains – ambiguities that characterise the phenomenology of the lived experience of the client and the phenomenology of his or her experience of healing. I will explore how some of these inquiries can be approached through creative practice in the final section of the chapter. Meanwhile, I would return to the argument that the relationship between the client and therapist as a narrative condition or contract itself remains one of the central ambiguities at stake and that it has not received sufficient attention within dramatherapy practice. In support of my claim, I propose to review briefly Kirmayer’s (2000) and Atkinson’s (1997) critiques of how the clinical relationship between patient and physician in biomedical settings effect a particular narrative intersubjectivity that is based on the asymmetrical power dynamics at play between the two parties. Both perspectives highlight the fact that the patient-physician relationship is strongly conditioned by the positional and authorial disparity between the two. This disparity is itself conditioned by professional and institutional dynamics and settings that tend to privilege the physician.

Disrupted narratives 133

Exploring disruption and narrative incommensurability For Kirmayer (2000), physician and patient bring competing narrative premises into the clinical space. Because the healing transaction derives from the ideological truthclaim to the primacy of a scientific foundation to account for our health, the paradigm inevitably foregrounds the physician position and authority. In practice, however, the patient’s reality or illness experience is never wholly dependent on medical science for its meaning, and most practitioners will probably agree with Kirmayer that we never tell our stories ‘in a vacuum’ (ibid., 171). On the other hand, while this interpretation reflects what Mattingly has articulated in terms of the disconnect between the lives people live and how they relate them, Ojermark reminds us that life histories are the product of an interactive relationship between the narrator and the audience. In clinical contexts, however, the difference is that this interaction between doctor and patient, Kirmayer insists, is also a contest. Physician and patient tend to appropriate each other’s narratives for their own agendas and in so doing potentially undermine trust. Moreover, the professional context and the social position of both also means that the opportunity to create a shared narrative viewpoint is not assured and can, ultimately, compromise the healing transaction. While Kirmayer draws attention to the fact that the clinician is significantly conditioned by his or her professional context, Atkinson (1997) draws greater attention to the hierarchies within the medical profession itself and the exercise of authority and power that accrues internally along these layered lines. There is also an underlying political economy at work within this frame. Senior physicians, Atkinson tells us, tend to have exclusive and privileged access to their patients’ stories. Moreover, he suggests that the stories themselves are determined by their intrinsic social value and the extent to which this value can be co-opted for medical gains, including the continued promotion of the status quo. In other words, it concerns the extent to which such appropriation legitimises and, to some extent, reifies the senior physician’s authority, even at the risk of ‘sanctioning inappropriate or mistaken medical work’ (ibid., 1997: 329). This assertion not only raises serious questions about ethical conduct on the part of the expert. It also suggests, not without a touch of irony if we consider for a moment Miles Davis’s position and pro-active response in Hancock’s anecdote, a degree of inattentiveness (or even indifference) on the physician’s part in relation to what the patient might be saying in their narrative. Yet there is one more dynamic to consider in this category. Earlier, I suggested that illness is itself a disruption of the narrative structures of our wellbeing. In this context, Kimayer is more specific than both Mattingly and Atkinson in pointing out that there are forms of knowledge other than narrative within the phenomenology of healing that are probably more prevalent (or necessary). These include a range of linguistic, rhetorical and aesthetic devices, all of which may be even more forceful and effective than the repurposing of the existing or current narrative repertoires on Ojermark’s list. However, a successful clinical outcome under these circumstances will depend on the extent to which patient and clinician can harness their inner resources to navigate and negotiate the ideological and institutional obstacles they bring into the clinical space (Kirmayer, 2000).

134 Daniel Stolfi

In making the above claim, Kirmayer is in effect drawing attention, albeit indirectly at this stage, to the importance of creativity and the creative imagination as a primary and vital component of the healing process. It is my contention that it is the creative imagination of the client that is the most important resource with which arts therapists have to work and that it, rather than the therapist’s authority, needs to be foregrounded in the healing transaction within the clinical space. In order for this to happen, the client’s narrative needs to undergo some form of ‘decolonisation’ – an idea to which I would like to turn attention briefly. Referencing Mary Louise Pratt’s (1991; 1997) notions of the ‘contact language’ and the ‘contact zone’ by way of analogy, I suggest that the use of narrative forms, including storytelling, within dramatherapy settings constitute a unique type of ‘transactional’ language between client and therapist – one that is replete with untapped transformational (and hence therapeutic) potential, that is especially empowering for the client. According to Pratt, contact languages, a term borrowed from linguistics, refer to: improvised languages that develop among speakers of different native languages who need to communicate with each other consistently, usually in context of trade … Like societies of the contact zone, such languages are commonly regarded as chaotic, barbarous, lacking in structure. (Pratt, 1997: 6) Contact zones, meanwhile, are spaces of colonial encounters: in which peoples geographically and historically separated come into contact with each other and establish ongoing relations, usually involving conditions of coercion, radical inequality, and intractable conflict. (ibid., 6) In other words, the contact zone: emphasises how subjects are constituted in and by their relations to each other. It treats the relations among colonizers and colonized … not in terms of separateness or apartheid, but in terms of copresence, interaction, interlocking understandings and practices, often within radically asymmetrical relations of power. (ibid., 7) Finally, Pratt argues, within this interchange between the coloniser and the colonised, the latter ‘undertake to represent themselves in ways that engage with the colonizer’s own terms’ (ibid., original emphasis). I believe that this observation is of critical significance to the form of the narrative sensibility we are considering here for at least four reasons. Firstly, it foregrounds the colonised subject’s moral capital, agency and authority in the transaction between coloniser and colonised. Secondly, it disables the coloniser’s hegemony at the same

Disrupted narratives 135

time it mobilises the shift in the power relationship in favour of the colonised subject. Thirdly, it introduces a new rhetorical device or mechanism (Pratt uses a nuanced interpretation of ‘autoethnography’ to describe this engagement (ibid., 7)) through which the subject’s interiorities and exteriorities are reconfigured and given expression, representation, and autonomy. And lastly, it aestheticises the necessary act of subversion (or act of transformation) that the process entails. I would suggest that Mattingly, Kirmayer and Atkinson’s clinically oriented explanatory models are attempts primarily to engage with the interiorities of their subjects’ intersubjective experiences of illness – for both the physician and the patient. Pratt’s model, however, grounded as it is in the socio-political and cultural category of language, speaks to the exteriorities of hers, namely, the colonising and decolonising narrative propensities her subjects bring to the encounter. Nonetheless, both examples serve as critical analogues that could be generalised to psychotherapeutic settings as useful and productive ways for understanding the ‘positionality’ of the agents within the therapeutic dyad and for the dramatherapy profession to engage with the ‘narrative turn’ in terms of research, practice, theory, and ethics. In other words, dramatherapists should pay greater attention and embrace the available narrative schemas that inform and give expression to our intersubjectivities namely, the speech acts, the heteroglossias, the cultural transmissions, and so on that are embedded within the structures of narrative practice. If they choose to do so, they would greatly extend the range and reach of the therapeutic grammar and vocabulary beyond the prevailing over-dependence on dramatic metaphors and cultural misappropriations alluded to previously and which are so prevalent in much current storytelling practice within dramatherapy. I would argue that much of the narrative incommensurability that can occur in the therapeutic setting reflects the therapist’s difficulty or inability (whether conditioned by methodological or ideological constraints or unconscious biases) to listen deeply and therefore to attune adequately to the client’s needs. Perhaps the therapist’s most important job in this context, therefore, is to bring much greater attention to the client’s hesitations and what they are attempting to articulate if he or she is not to hear these stutters and starts as mistakes, in Hancock’s terms – or be too quickly dismissive of them. Developing the requisite sensitivity along the lines described above would go some way to facilitate this process. With this thought in mind I would now like to consider how dramatherapists might engage with narrative praxis in more empathic, penetrating, ‘decolonized’ and meaningful ways with their clients so as to contribute more effectively to the (re)production of healthy relational and social value of (and within) the therapeutic alliance.

(Re)creating narrative (re)connection Previously, I drew attention to Kirmayer’s suggestion that successful clinical outcomes depend largely on the extent to which the patient and the clinician can harness their inner resources to navigate the ideological and institutional obstacles they bring to the clinical space. I made the point that, within a dramatherapy context, the client’s

136 Daniel Stolfi

creative imagination is one of the most important resources he or she has to effect positive healing outcomes. By extension, Kirmayer (2000) also reminds us that: [i]n psychotherapy, we try to construct coherent narrative out of symptoms and behaviours that make no sense or struggle to revise misprisioning stories that make hurtful sense. Sufferers are encouraged to discover new narrative possibilities latent in their own metaphors of self and illness. (ibid., 153) Following the above critique, therefore, there are two practice models that I have in mind regarding the production of narrative reconnection within dramatherapy storytelling praxis. The first derives from anthropologist, Victor Turner’s notion of performing ethnography (Turner and Turner, 1987). The second is from the work of Doug Lipman, a performing storyteller based in the US (2003, 2017). Both are interdisciplinary forms that I have adapted and employ successfully in my own clinical practice, teaching, and research (Stolfi, 2010, 2018; Stolfi, Archibald and Tedford, 2017). Both have proved extremely useful as a set of techniques for addressing the intersubjective exigencies of the client-therapist dyad – especially in relation to working with different experiences of trauma. And ultimately, both lend themselves to the use of projective imagination, creative expression, and arts-based techniques and materials. Turner developed his model of ethnographic performance for pedagogical purposes to help his students understand: how people in other cultures experience the richness of their social existence, what the moral pressures are upon them, what kinds of pleasures they expect to receive as a reward for following certain patterns of action, and how they express joy, grief, deference, and affection, in accordance with cultural expectations. (Turner and Turner, 1987: 140) The process involves selecting ‘social dramas … and other ethnographies … [including] ritual dramas (puberty rites, marriage ceremonies, potlatches, etc.)’ and asking the students ‘to put them in a “play frame”’. A play frame is, according to Turner, ‘a direct or indirect way of commenting on the mainstream of social existence’ (ibid., 140). Moreover, he tells us: ‘[t]here are many cultural modes of framing’… Some use special vocabularies, others use the common speech in uncommon ways … Some frames focus on matters of ‘ultimate concern’ and fundamental ethics. (ibid., 140) The particular cultural script in question is then performed using techniques that are similar to those employed in Psychodrama and Playback theatre. The result gives the actors an ‘inside view’ and ‘becomes a powerful critique of how ritual and ceremonial structures are cognitively represented’ (ibid., 140).

Disrupted narratives 137

Drawing on ethnographic case studies quite frequently in my own work, following Turner’s model, I have incorporated multi-media modalities such as puppetry, mask work and boardgame techniques to further stimulate and channel the creative imagination of my clients and students – as well as my own as practitioner and educator. The format enables the processing of intrapsychic material quite readily and can amplify an awareness of personal agency that helps individuals to contextualise and begin to repair some of the wider problematic socio-cultural dimensions that negatively or severely impact their experiences of illness and suffering – as is often the case with victims of political violence. Alongside Turner’s model, Pratt’s conceptualisation of the contact zone provides a particularly apposite frame of reference when using ethnographic performance in these instances. I have written in more detail on these themes elsewhere (Stolfi, 2010, 2017) Lipman’s storytelling work (2003, 2017), on the other hand, grew from his involvement with emotionally disturbed adolescents, and he has evolved a form of storytelling that combines symbolic and embodied functions to ‘create meaningful connections’ between the storyteller and audience. He relates how stories facilitate these connections through the ‘cycle of rapport’ that is formed between the storyteller and the audience. Stories are innately co-created and contain remarkable ‘hidden’ ways of producing this rapport. At its simplest level, for instance, when both teller and listener have the same identification with the protagonist of a story, a cycle of responding to each other is induced and built up as the narration unfolds. As the storyteller takes a risk, opens up, and exposes a degree of vulnerability, a feedback loop is created whereby a feeling of mutual understanding is established between the teller and the audience and can be increased by this mutual responsiveness that culminates in a deep rapport. In contrast to Turner’s model, which places the intersubjective emphasis on the external dynamics between individual (often as outsider) and the group, Lipman’s model stresses the intersubjective and internal dynamics between teller and receiver of the tale. Moreover, where Turner’s method of using play frames creates: a bordered space and a privileged time within which images and symbols of what has been sectioned off can be ‘relived,’ scrutinized, assessed, revalued, and, if need be, remodelled and rearranged. (Turner and Turner, 1987: 140) Lipman’s method is a more embodied and self-reflective process and perhaps better suited to one-on-one work. The rationale behind this format is deceptively simple yet can be surprisingly effective when adapted to clinical work and can have a significant reparative function for clients. Moreover, I have found it extremely effective as a problem-solving technique in supervision too.

Some concluding remarks The narratives we bring into the therapeutic space are not unlike the refractions produced by angles of parallax. The pencil in a glass of water appears bent because

138 Daniel Stolfi

of the medium in which it sits and by the position of the viewer (or viewers) in relation to the glass. There is an illusory, yet simultaneously real quality to this experience. We know that the pencil is not actually fractured or broken but, phenomenologically speaking, the distortion is real. I began this chapter by relating Herbie Hancock’s delightful story of his experience of playing with Miles Davis and used the anecdote as an analogy to illustrate an ideal case scenario of an aspect of the therapist’s role as empathic listener. Hancock’s experience of having played the wrong chord is a self-perceived real distortion – itself a form parallax – that many of us share in life at critical moments. Unfortunately, we rarely have the benefit, as did Hancock, of someone like Miles Davis to help us out in times of crisis. Moreover, it is not always the case that there is congruence between what the client attempts to present in therapy and the therapist’s interpretation of that material. And vice-versa. On the other hand, it is often the case that the material is incomplete or gets misrepresented or distorted as a result of transferential or counter-transferential interference. In other cases, as Kirmayer and Atkinson suggest, the professional and institutional relational constraints and power dynamics at play in a therapeutic encounter (biomedical or psychotherapeutic) can impede or fracture the communication between practitioner and patient. At other times still, it is the internal mechanisms and workings of the communication medium itself – in this case the narrative structure – that is inadequate. Meanwhile, as dramatherapists we need to be vigilant and alert to our own professional and cultural constraints, projections and blind spots. Nevertheless, while life remains a messy affair, as Woods reminds us, we should not become too deterred. In this chapter, I have attempted to outline some of these critical elements by referencing a number of socio-cultural perspectives on narrative theory specifically. I have done so because I believe that there is a gap in the narratology within dramatherapy practice and that the discipline has much to benefit from the scrutiny undertaken by the social sciences in this domain. By remaining open to interdisciplinary inquiry in this and other ways, I believe that dramatherapy can bolster its epistemological foundations and its field of practice considerably.

References Atkinson, P. (1997): Narrative turn or blind alley? Qualitative Health Research, Vol. 7, No. 3, May 2000: 325–344. Bettelheim, B. (1976): The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales. London: Penguin Books. Campbell, J. (1993): The Hero with a Thousand Faces. London: Harper Collins. Csordas, T.J. (1996): Imaginal performance and memory in ritual healing. In The Performance of Healing, edited by C. Laderman and M. Roseman, 91–113. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Frank, A.W. (1995): The Wounded Storyteller: Body, Illness, and Ethics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Frank, A.W. (2000): The standpoint of storyteller, Qualitative Health Research, Vol. 10, No. 3, May 2000: 354–365.

Disrupted narratives 139

Gersie, A. (1991): Storymaking in Bereavement: Dragons Fight in the Meadow. London: Jessica Kingsley. Gersie, A. (1997): Reflections on Therapeutic Storymaking: The Use of Stories in Groups. London: Jessica Kingsley. Goodson, I.F. and Gill, S.R. (2011): The narrative turn in social research counterpoints, Narrative Pedagogy: Life History And Learning, Vol. 386: pp. 17–33. Hancock, H. (2014): Miles Davis according to Herbie Hancock. 25 April 2019 sourced. www.youtube.com/watch?v=FL4LxrN-iyw. Hunsaker-Hawkins, A. (1999): Reconstructing Illness: Studies in Pathography. Western Lafayette: Purdue University Press. Hunter, K.M. (1991): Doctors’ Stories: The Narrative Structure of Medical Knowledge. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jennings, S. (1990): Dramatherapy with Families, Groups and Individuals: Waiting in the Wings. London: Jessica Kingsley. Jennings, S. (1994): The theatre of healing: metaphor and metaphysics in the healing process. In The Handbook of Dramatherapy, edited by S. Jennings, A. Cattanach, S. Mitchell, A. Chesner, and B. Meldrum, 93–113. Hove: Brunner-Routledge. Jones, P. (1996): Drama as Therapy: Theatre as Living. London: Routledge. Kirmayer, L. (2000): Broken narratives: clinical encounters and the poetics of illness experience. In Narrative and the Cultural Construction of Illness, edited by C. Mattingly and L.C. Garro, 153–180. Berkeley: University of California Press. Klein, M. (1997): Some theoretical conclusions regarding the emotional life of the infant. In Envy and Gratitude and Other Works 1946–1963, edited by M. Klein, 61–93, London: Vintage. Kleinman, A. (1988): The Illness Narratives: Suffering, Healing, and the Human Condition. New York: Basic Books. Lahad, M. (1992): Storymaking in assessment method for coping with stress. In Dramatherapy: Theory and Practice II, edited by S. Jennings. London: Routledge. Landy, R.J. (1992): The dramatherapy role method dramatherapy, The Journal of the British Association of Dramatherapists, Vol. 14, No. 1, Autumn 1992: 7–15. Landy, R.J. (1993): Persona and Performance: The Meaning of Role in Drama, Therapy, and Everyday Life. New York: Guilford. Langley, D. (2006): An Introduction to Dramatherapy. London: Sage. Lipman, D. (2003): Making fairy tales from personal stories – part II. 27 July 2011 sourced. www.storydynamics.com/Articles/Finding_and_Creating/fairy_tales2.html. Lipman, D. (2017): What can storytelling teach us about creating connection?18 January 2020 sourced. www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4S40nn4SdQ. Mattingly, C. (1998): Healing Dramas and Clinical Plots: The Narrative Structure of Experience. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mattingly, C. (2000): Emergent narratives. In Narrative and the Cultural Construction of Illness, edited by C. Mattingly and L.C. Garro, 181–211. Berkeley: University of California Press. McAdams, D.P. (1993): The Stories We Live By: Personal Myths and the Making of the Self. New York: The Guilford Press. Meldrum, B. (1994): Historical background and overview of dramatherapy. In The Handbook of Dramatherapy, edited by S. Jennings, A. Cattanach, S. Mitchell, A. Chesner, and B. Meldrum, 93–113. Hove: Brunner-Routledge. Ojermark, A. (2007): Presenting life histories: a literature review and annotated bibliography. Chronic Poverty Research Centre Working Paper No. 101. Available at SSRN: https:// ssrn.com/abstract=1629210 or http://dx.doi.org/10.2139/ssrn.1629210. Sourced 9 January 2020.

140 Daniel Stolfi

Pearson, J., Smail, M. and Watts, P. (2013): Dramatherapy with Myth and Fairytale: The Golden Stories of Sesame. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Pratt, M.L. (1991): Arts of the contact zone, Profession, pp. 33–40. Pratt, M.L. (1997): Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge. Stern, D. (2018): The Interpersonal World of the Infant. Abingdon: Routledge. Stolfi, D. (2010): The hunter’s son: reflections on a therapeutic puppetry performance, Dramatherapy, Vol. 31 No. 3: 15–18. Stolfi, D. (2017): ‘You’ld be king o’ the isle, sirrah?’ Embodying Spatial Ambiguity as Healing Metaphor. In Cultural Landscapes in the Arts Therapies, edited by R. Hougham, S. Pitruzzella, and S. Scoble, 173–185. Plymouth: University of Plymouth Press. Stolfi, D. (2018): Revisiting Geographies of Health and Wellbeing through the Therapeutic Uses of Puppetry [Conference Workshop], Broken Puppet 3 Symposium: Puppetry: Community, Health, Well-being and Disability: Professional Training Opportunities, 17–18.04.18, Newman University, Birmingham. Stolfi, D., Archibald, N. and Tedford, J. (2017): O Body Swayed to Music… How Can We Know the Dancer from the Dance? An Exploration of Aesthetic Distance and Spatial Ambiguity within Creative Arts Therapy Practice [PowerPoint Presentation], 14th European Arts Therapies Conference: Traditions in Transitions – New Articulations in the Arts Therapies, 13–16.09.17, Krakow, Poland. Strawson, G. (2004): Against narrativity ratio (new series) XVII 4 December 2004 0034–0006. Stunkard, A. (1961): Motivation for treatment: antecedents of the therapeutic process in different cultural settings, Comprehensive Psychiatry 1961 Jun; 2: 140–148. Turner, V. and Turner, E. (1987): Performing ethnography. In The Anthropology of Performance, edited by V. Turner, 139–155, New York: PAJ Publications. Von Franz, M.L. (1997) Archetypal Patterns in Fairy Tales. Toronto: Inner City Books. Woods, A. (2011): Post-narrative: an appeal, Narrative Inquiry, Vol. 21, No. 2: 399–406.

11 EXPERIENCES OF INTERRUPTION Listening to the voices of dramatherapists in training Emma Reicher

A first year dramatherapy student died unexpectedly in the autumn term of 2018 at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama (RCSSD). The impact of her death sent deep ripples of shock and grief through her family, friends, fellow students, and the staff team. Can there be any interruption more devastating than death? Over time, her peers worked hard to process what had happened, honour her unique contribution, and rebuild their confidence. Fifteen months later, as they looked towards the final term of their two-year training, Covid-19 took hold, severing their physical connection to RCSSD, their placements, their families, and each other. In just two years, this year group had experienced a twofold interruption in continuity and containment – the tragic loss of one of the student body, and the loss of an embodied ending. This chapter is a re-telling of the lived experience of interruption, told through the voices of the students, within the frame of a one-off group process session. Group process is a reflective and collaborative modality, run on group analytic lines, and unique to the Sesame MA in Drama and Movement Therapy at RCSSD. It is usually a confidential discussion space, meeting weekly during the first year of training, but the global pandemic we are living through, and the multiple unknowns we are facing, call to us for creative responses to change and uncertainty. At the start of lockdown, the staff team met on a video conference call to navigate the complexity of shifting our teaching online. We talked together about the shock of isolation, and the strange parallel with the theme of this book – interruption – which would soon be published. One of the team directly named the double interruption experienced by our second year students, in their first term, and now their last. There was a moment of silence as the weight of this landed, and then ideas began to flow. We explored how we might offer extra support, wanting to bring the Sesame tradition of ritual into play, and we spoke about the importance of acknowledging the paradox of trauma and prospect within these events – endings as deeply painful, but also original, purposeful, and creative. DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-12

142 Emma Reicher

Most importantly, we hoped to give the students an opportunity to express, to witness, and to integrate their experience. In another connected thread, I had been unable to contribute a chapter to this publication due to my own experience of interruption in 2018. My husband had been diagnosed with a serious illness, and our lives had turned upside down. Perhaps in acute recognition of the loneliness of facing mortality, limitation, and the unknown, I suggested I convene a one-off group process session for the second years, and record the meeting anonymously, so that their lived experience of interruption could be included in this book, providing a counterpoint to more established authorial voices. It would be an opportunity for the students to digest the past, mark the end of their training and make a creative contribution to the dramatherapy discourse. Group Process has been a fundamental part of the Sesame training at RCSSD since 2011, reflecting the philosophy of interdependence and mutuality at the heart of the Marian Lindkvist method. During their first year, students participate in a weekly 90-minute session. Sitting together in a large circle (we are usually around 20 students plus myself, the facilitator), conversation is unstructured and free floating, based upon the original Foulkesian model of group analysis. S. H. Foulkes was a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst who fled Nazi Germany with his young family in 1938, settled in Exeter and later worked at Northfield Military Hospital in Birmingham. Tasked with treating soldiers who had been traumatised by their experiences on the front line, Foulkes brought the men together in occupational therapy groups, talking therapy groups and activity groups, and also organised study groups for the psychiatric team. This new group approach to mental health worked, primarily because it began to empower individuals to express their struggles openly, and because it fostered an environment of mutual support. The men, and the medical team, were no longer alone, but part of a much bigger picture of human experience. For dramatherapists in training, their weekly Process Group is a chance to reflect on the journey they are travelling together, and as a ‘Median’ or medium-sized group (between the small group of the family, and the larger group of society) ‘it straddles the interspace between kith and kin, neighbour and relative, society and consanguinity’ (de Mare 1994: 204). It is primarily a containing forum for the study of group dynamics, and over the course of 30 sessions there is the chance to develop the ability to think analytically, gain a deeper understanding of interrelationships within wider society, prepare for working with organisational dynamics in clinical settings, and explore projective processes. In the words of Brown, ‘self-development through subjective interaction’ (1994: 96). Group Process is not therapy, but it can be therapeutic; a place to experience yourself as an ordinary human being as well as a nascent therapist. Every effort is made to maintain a confidential working space where difficult feelings, and the shadow of the psyche, both collective and individual, can be explored. The narrative of the space belongs to everyone and to no one, and voices represent themes that have meaning for the group-as-a-whole. ‘What we traditionally look upon as

Experiences of interruption 143

our innermost self, the intrapsychic against the external world, is not only shareable, but is in fact already shared’ (Foulkes 1975: 62). Our Course Leader introduced the idea of a one-off group process session to the students, and I sent a formal email invitation, framing the experience in the following words: This space will be an opportunity to come together and reflect on the lived experience of interruption and also make an important contribution to the forthcoming publication, Dramatherapy: The Nature of Interruption. We will record this session and transcribe it anonymously. I will select excerpts from the discussion that carry meaning for the group-as-a-whole, and place them at the heart of the chapter. I don’t intend to analyse or interpret in this piece of writing, merely frame the student voice. We met as an online group using the Zoom video conferencing platform, on Friday 5th June 2020. Nineteen students participated (two of whom had deferred for a year due to personal interruptions) and two were absent. Two students arrived late, and one had to leave early. Ten days before our session, a second collective experience of huge importance emerged in the context of global pandemic – the brutal murder of George Floyd, a renewal of support for the Black Lives Matter movement, and a shocking reminder of the realities of systemic oppression. It is important to bear in mind during the discussion that follows that this group is predominantly white, with a small number of Black and Asian members. Each of us stepped into the online space in a position of ‘not knowing’. Not knowing how the group would unfold, not knowing what feelings would emerge. As agreed, the 90-minute session was recorded, and then transcribed anonymously by an independent third party. I have chosen to offer glimpses of the first hour, when several individual themes seemed to circle and begin to echo, followed by a more continuous excerpt of the final 30 minutes, when the emotional temperature in the group rose significantly. As I looked back through the transcript, I had the sensation of a painting on a large canvas slowly appearing, and I allowed the rhythm of its emergence to lead my selection of material. Small brush strokes (glimpses) gathered, and then grew into more detailed forms building the scene within the frame (the final 30 minutes). The conversation is recorded verbatim, but edited for clarity, and individual contributions have been shortened in the interests of length. I include my own facilitator reflections to link the movement of the session, and I have attributed anonymised initials to individual voices to help the reader follow the discussion. As you read, I invite you to hold a key thought in mind: speaking in a group is itself a process of interrupting. One where the flow of conversation depends upon the interrupting gesture, response, or even silence of the other to power the process of relating. It is not a straight narrative line, more an ocean of eddies, waves, still points, storms, and shadowy depths.

144 Emma Reicher

The first hour: glimpses I open by restating the time boundary (90 minutes), the agreement to anonymity and the theme of interruption. I notice my own anxiety and trepidation, and wonder how the students have been feeling in the run up to meeting. There is a silence of 30 seconds. It’s so nice to see everyone, I know not everyone’s here yet… but it’s nice to have the opportunity for not such a structured time when we meet… G: Yeah, part of all these formal Zoom things… with Covid… has been I guess an interruption of just not having chit chat with any of you… I definitely miss that. P: We really aren’t going to get that again, because we’re done… not even just mucking around just being stupid together. That makes me sad. D: The last time we were together would have been March or something? When we were all in one room… but we didn’t know that was going to be the last time we’d all be together as a group, so it feels like… our ending happened, but none of us knew… P: In my mind this is so stupid but I remember [tutor’s name] facilitating that session and just being very ending-y… and I remember thinking, ‘No, I will not get emotional about this because this isn’t the end for God’s sake, we’ve got so much more time together I will not be forced to do an ending!’ And then now I look back on that session and think, shit, that was the ending. C:

Silence. There’s something about all these boxes on the screen… I look at one of you and… and I’m thinking about the person but they’re not necessarily looking back at me, it’s a really weird detached way of interacting. E: It feels like we’ve been robbed of a milestone, a rite of passage. N: I was really, really nervous of coming today because… you know, you want to still connect… but then it kind of fills you with all the emotions, like I wish we could hug or I wish we could have eye contact or I wish we could… but then you just can’t have any of it and then you’re kind of left on your own. D: Here we are ending the entire two year experience which we all put so much into… so many ups and downs… I’ve hated it and I’ve loved it; I want it to end, but I want that full stop, you know? The way this is all fizzling out is so flat, and it just doesn’t feel like these two years are getting any sort of respectful ending, and there’s nothing that any of us can do about that, but it does feel really shit – I mean, endings are difficult aren’t they, endings are always messy no matter what way they come but this is quite – I don’t know – definitely an ending to remember isn’t it? L: It’s interesting because for me, it doesn’t feel shit. This is going to sound a bit harsh, but I kind of like it, the fact that we don’t have to have that big emotional goodbye, I’m a bit like ‘yeah cool right see you later’, like that sits well G:

Experiences of interruption 145

with me… not that it’s not nice to see you all, I’m just not good at endings, I don’t like them. The group move through themes of loss of structure, anxiety and fear, living through Covid with health conditions, and significant personal interruptions experienced last year. I reflect back to the group-as-a-whole that I can hear a lot of uncertainty in the space, and it touches a nerve. T:

I’m really hearing that uncertainty thing, when you said uncertainty, I was just like ooh no stop saying that word, because I’m worrying that people keep asking me what’s your plan later? Are you going to stay in the country? What’s your next step? And I just… the only answer I have for now is I don’t know, because I really don’t.

The group opens up more around the theme of uncertainty and anxiety begins to rise. P:

Everything is so uncertain right now… I’m feeling quite shaky right now listening to everyone… it’s making me anxious in a way that I didn’t think it would, so it’s quite weird that we’re discussing disruption. Actually, I feel like this in a weird way is almost forcing this disruption, like making me think about it in a way. I think I’ve just kind of repressed all my emotions… Student W arrives late into the space.

I’m noticing the emotions that are present today, some good feelings, but also all the difficulties and differences that come with being in a group. There is a lot going on politically and socially in the wider world right now, and P, you’ve spoken about how your body’s feeling shaky. I wonder what other feelings might be around for this group? J: I’m glad you brought that up because my whole body’s still feeling completely anxious from what happened last week with George Floyd. And I’m listening to everyone, and I appreciate the impact of not having a substantial ending for the course, but there’s so much racial tension happening and that’s where my mind is focused, the other stuff feels secondary for me at the moment… even talking about it is making me shaky, so it feels like my experience is completely different from everyone else’s… like it’s affected my sleep and thinking about uncertainty and wondering what the outcome of this is going to be… and in a way the interruption has almost helped that because everyone’s stuck at home, and I think because people are more frustrated the tolerance is really low, I know my tolerance for bullshit at the moment is just non-existent – so I’m here but I’m not here. FACILITATOR: The word safety has been used a number of times today, and it makes sense, because there is a lot of life or death anxiety around for us all, in FACILITATOR:

146 Emma Reicher

different ways. For some that might be health issues, and for others it’s about the colour of your skin, in terms of how safe you feel in your body.

Silence L:

This makes me think about how interruption seems to have such a negative association attached to it… There’s the other side of it as well right? So you have the interruption and the horrificness, and then you can have such positive stuff from interruption as well, and they exist together in so many ways… Covid… it’s so detrimental to so many people, yet the positive side of it is – this is going to sound so hippie – but the world has had time to breathe and time to think and reflect. And then from that it’s then gone into the horrificness of what happened to George Floyd, and actually happens all the fucking time, to then having that time to reflect on themselves, and on racial discrimination. I don’t know, and I’m dubious because this happened like seven, eight years ago in London and nothing changed, but maybe now, maybe now because of the positive part of people having the chance to reflect, it’s going to push that forward hopefully? But I suppose… I’m sitting with it and I don’t know… it’s that uncertainty again isn’t it? I’m really feeling that thing of interruption having two sides to it. Maybe that comes from that idea I’ve been brought up with…what my grandma used to say, ‘What’s for you won’t pass you’.

H arrives late to the session. Hi, sorry I was late, I had all of the technical issues in one day, in my country sometimes there are power cuts so we had no electricity but now I’m in. FACILITATOR: Welcome to the session. I don’t want to lose what you were talking about, L, perhaps we can hold on to the thread, was it the opportunity within interruption you were thinking about? There is pain there, but something else too… H:

Z opens up about her personal journey through chronic illness, having to work alongside the training in order to support herself, and the unexpected chance to slow down and respite that Covid has offered. She continues: Z:

In terms of endings I think it depends on each individual. It’s like how you felt in the group impacts your ending and I never made it unknown that I don’t feel part of the group, so I’m like… I’m ending something that I was never really a part of, so I’m not really that bothered and it’s not an individual attack because I think I’d be very clear if it was, but for me I’m just like, OK, on to the next thing. The people I want to talk to, I’ll make a very, very conscious effort to do that and I won’t otherwise. So in terms of interruptions for me it’s been useful to slow right down, but I don’t feel like there’s any love lost, do you know what I mean? Yeah, now that feels really down, sorry guys.

Experiences of interruption 147

Silence. I’m sure it’s not just Z that struggled with belonging here. Were there others that also felt outside the group? J: Yeah, I can relate. L: Me too but probably in a different way if I’m honest – the fact that I have a small child. That’s where I’ve felt separate. There’s never been chances for me to do other stuff outside of the classroom because of her, compared to when I’ve been in other situations. But at the same time, I’ve not felt saddened by that because that life with her is my first, and this is secondary you know? R: I think it’s difficult in a way for me to say that I haven’t felt part – urgh I can’t even say it – part of the group because I come from a different group, and I haven’t had time to get to know you all because I wasn’t on placement with anyone. But I think I’ve been lucky in performing research because I spent a lot of time with those people and they were very open and welcoming… I still don’t feel I’m part of the larger group – but I don’t think that’s anything that’s bad necessarily. H: I think I didn’t realise that I started to connect until I had to leave the group suddenly, and I think after that when I made a conscious effort to connect to people then I realised, oh, OK, I had felt connected to you, but I couldn’t talk to you at that time, so I think ending made me realise how connected I had started to feel to the group in a way. FACILITATOR:

There is a long silence. With the repeated mention of endings, the student who died, K, comes into my mind. I can sense it in the material, although she has not yet been named. In his early work, Foulkes described the ‘autistic symptom’ of a group, that ‘mumbles to itself secretly, hoping to be overheard’ (1957, 1984: 260), and the therapeutic process of translating unconscious thoughts and emotions into open communication. As the group facilitator, I am listening out for what is not being said. This group experienced a big interruption in the first term, when K died. A huge loss. It was very early in your life as a group to go through something that big… was it in anybody’s mind before coming to this session?

FACILITATOR:

W begins to talk about feeling triggered by the framing of this group – too many painful endings mixed together in one session, has it been thought through properly? And the idea of it all ending up in some book – but her connection drops out and we lose her for a minute. On her return she restates her confusion and frustration. G:

I think K’s death has been on my mind from the first mention of this group, and thinking about how we lost someone and how we’ve gained two people… for me that plays into the fracturedness of the ending… but I know that I will always hold these two years as massively impactful to my life, and that who I’ve been through that with is the most important thing, and to me, one that deserves marking in a way that we probably can’t.

148 Emma Reicher

That experience was so heartbreaking, and it was such a bizarre time… it made me feel much closer to everyone as a group… and I think yeah, I think the ending is about fear of losing you all which is obviously tied into that as well. G: I do feel generally that K’s death brought us together… but I also remember it being really tricky to navigate grief with people that I didn’t know that well and different people’s reactions to that. O: I felt really alone when K died and I remember coming into that session for the first day when we were all back in and how I suddenly felt I could share it. Grief is so individual and everyone copes with it in a different way… but we could all – we were all in the same room and we were grieving about the same thing and that felt really comforting in that moment. I think it was the time I felt closest to the group and then from that moment on I felt it created a bond. FACILITATOR: I remember that sense of togetherness, but later on there was also the feeling that it had created division or had been difficult. For some it drew you closer and for others it may not have had that effect…. V: I think I may be struggling with that right now. I’m finding this conversation really hard… because a friend of mine has just died. Reflecting on the ending that we lived through when K died is making it so clear how I won’t have that now at all. I can’t be with anyone who knew my friend physically, we couldn’t have the memorial we wanted for her, we couldn’t see her before she died and just it – there’s – so in a way I think – obviously a lot of these feelings are a part of grief and they’re not directed at anyone, I don’t want anyone to feel like it’s about them but I’m actually feeling really, really angry at our past selves for not knowing how good we had it, and what an opportunity we had… because it fucking sucks not to have it… so this whole conversation is really difficult for me. But I’m glad it’s happening as well and I don’t… I just… I hope everyone else’s loved ones are safe and as healthy as possible, because this is a really, really awful time to lose someone. C:

The next student who speaks has to leave because of a pre-existing commitment: I’m awfully sorry I have to go. I’m really sorry, I don’t want to leave now, it’s such a weird time to go. I’m so sorry for your loss V and I’m sorry that you’re going through this now. I know people who are experiencing the same, I know how difficult it is. I’m going to say goodbye to you for now but I’m still with you… spiritually I’m going to be listening to you. W: I’m so sorry for you, and that must be so hard, hard to have to tell us like this, in this sort of environment… thank you for telling us and I’m really sorry, that’s awful. V: Now that I’ve said it, I’m like oh God, I feel like I shouldn’t have done, I shouldn’t have brought it in here. W: You should, you absolutely should, it’s what’s going on. Thank you for saying that. O:

Silence.

Experiences of interruption 149

There are many times when I let the group sit in silence, and I wait for them to break that silence. But there are also times when I tune in to an undercurrent. At this moment, the phrase ‘I shouldn’t have brought it in here’ echoes within me and I think to myself, I wonder what other experiences might be difficult to bring in?

The last 30 minutes I can feel a question about what’s allowed in here, or what can be said. I’d like to tell you about the genesis of this session. When the staff team met at the start of lockdown, we took some time to think about your year group and everything you’ve been through. That during the first term of your training you experienced the loss of K, and your last term has now been hugely impacted by the pandemic. We wanted to offer you some support, and we landed on the idea of a group session, where you would have some space to talk about these experiences, and add your voice to an important book, symbolising the importance of the student voice alongside traditional authority figures. We’re now in the last half hour of this session, if there is anything that feels like it needs to be said, I invite you to speak it. It’s been a lot tougher for you than other years. L: I hear all that, but at the same time, it feels like first world problems. Yes it’s been tough, but there’s so much other stuff that is so much worse… the interruption is just huge… maybe I shouldn’t compare, but… if I can just link back to what J said, she’s kind of not here, and that seems SO much bigger than everything else, do you know what I mean? FACILITATOR: Well, by talking about it you’re creating space for those issues… W: There’s something about hearing everyone’s honesty that I’m very grateful for – for people like Z who speaks things straight, you’ve always done that, you’ve always said the things that are a bit difficult, and you just did it then too L, there’s something about those slightly jagged bits and that’s what I’m really grateful for. I don’t know what a group is really, and this has raised – I mean our whole group process experience – this has raised real questions for me about what a group is and what your feelings are around it, and maybe nobody is in a group, maybe we’re all just having little sorts of moments of connection on the side, and… I’m sort of encouraged by that actually… by all the little flames and flickers from everyone… so I don’t know if I’ve ever felt in it, or on the edge, or whatever, but I’ve… I like the flames and flickers, so thank you for those. F: I’ve been thinking a lot about connection and disconnection… all the times I did feel in the group, and the times I felt really out of the group… I remember feeling really connected and grateful in the last PCP [Preparation for Clinical Practice]… and then kind of having that connection ripped away and that connection becoming something completely different, where you can’t connect in person the way that we used to, and the way that we want to, and then spending ten weeks not connecting and seeing people miss their loved ones, seeing people die and not be able to have their loved ones with them… and then over the last week seeing FACILITATOR:

150 Emma Reicher

the protests in America and in London, and such connection! And like that’s really all I can think about at the moment, the fragments of connectedness… like peaks and troughs I guess… feeling so connected to you all and then having to not be connected because it will keep us all safe. Z: I’m really grateful for those flickers, those flickers keep us alive… and for having those flickers with K, which keeps the memory of her alive, and I don’t necessarily feel like an interruption will change what has already happened… I don’t know if I’m making any sense. Q: Yeah, I resonate with that too because I feel that as a group we were coming to an end, no matter what, in any form, so the reality is that we will lose contact with many of the group or with some of the group because that’s how groups work. I mean you talk with some people but you don’t talk with all of them, right? I’m really grateful that I had the opportunity to know and to meet like a lot of wonderful people in this school and I’m really grateful that that happened, that they welcomed me from so far away. J: I was actually thinking the other day about therapy and the fact that I’ve underestimated the power of having two years. I don’t think I would have been in continuous therapy if I hadn’t done the course… When I think about my experience, everyone kind of refers to Central as this bubble, and a bubble gives the image of safety, but it wasn’t a bubble for me, I always felt better when I was on a break, coming back after a holiday, kind of feeling refreshed and more like myself. Being here gives you opportunities… like the people I’ve met and placement managers… those are the things that make me smile when I think back on my experience… but I haven’t really made any strong connections with this group… the people I’ve made connections with… like my therapist and whatnot… those relationships are going to be really, really hard to let go of and I’m dreading the ending for that. But I’m happy to see the back of Central, that’s just how I feel, I felt a huge sense of relief when I realised we’d never be there again like, I just feel so much lighter in that sense, obviously in terms of what’s going on in the world I don’t know, I’m in a weird place right now… Picking up on what J is implying, I ask her if her experience is a consequence of being at a predominantly white institution, in a country riddled with systemic racism. She opens up about the pain of microaggressions, of feeling denigrated and let down by the system, by RCSSD, by her peers. H:

Building on what we’re talking about – racism – I think when this interruption happened, I felt a certain sense of pleasure in the destructivity, that now as dramatherapists we can no longer ignore that what happens in the outside world, like the coronavirus was there in the air for a long time but we never talked about it in our classes, and then finally it stepped in through the doors of our classes and then we couldn’t even have the classes. We place so much emphasis upon the rituals, the clear endings, the Sesame structure, but the reality is that there is a whole world supporting us to be the therapist we want

Experiences of interruption 151

to be, and if there is no activism, if there is no planet, if we do not talk about the environmental problems, if we do not talk about the colonial history, dramatherapy won’t be dramatherapy. J: I think that was one of the most painful things for me, the fact that I couldn’t talk about the thing that was affecting my experience the most, because we don’t talk about race in this country, it’s too uncomfortable… so I was just censoring myself the whole time, avoiding ruffling feathers. How can you deal with the problem if you can’t even speak about it? It’s kind of like when people brush it off and say, ohhh I don’t see colour and all that bullshit, well then you don’t see me, and if I can’t talk about the thing that’s affecting me the most it’s going to colour my entire experience so, yeah, it was very, very unpleasant. W: Are there things that the rest of us could have done that you could name that might have helped that talking? J: Well it’s difficult to bring up something and be met with silence. I bring up race and it’s just kind of ohhh and the eyes go like that and people get really uncomfortable, and then I feel bad for making people uncomfortable, and it’s just a lot. Without pointing fingers, we do enough talking about it as people of colour, we’re constantly bringing up the conversation, and at best you might be met with ‘God yeah that’s really terrible’, but then that’s it and then life goes on. To be really frank it’s white people that have to do some of the work, I can’t say it in any other way. W: I think that’s true, and there’s something about the virus and what’s going on in the world that is really underpinning that… highlighting that being BAME means being more susceptible to the virus, underpinned by a sort of cultural inequality, I think that’s a massive thing, about our blindness, institutional blindness… J: Then you get a white person that says, what would you like me to do? It’s like oh now I have to think of ways to educate you… why not take the initiative and just want to educate yourself anyway? It’s just too much work, and it feels like a lot of responsibility for one person, because racism is so massive and archetypal, I can’t come up with the answers, it has to be a collaboration… but if people don’t even want to talk about it, if they’re like avoiding eye contact, you’re not going to get anywhere. L: It’s interesting in terms of what I was saying earlier, about talking things over in group process that feel like first world problems, but now on reflection… there’ve been conversations in this space that have really triggered stuff for me to think about my process and my biases and my prejudices anyway… so it doesn’t have to be huge because sometimes those small conversations are important you know? I don’t know if that’s making any sense… FACILITATOR: It does make sense. The protests have been mentioned, and the idea of activism, but what we face here is a kind of relational activism, and the emotional labour… that has been shouldered by black people, and it matters deeply that the white members of this society step up and talk about their whiteness, learning about their identity, facing four hundred years of

152 Emma Reicher

oppression. I’m thinking about the image that was placed in this group of the jagged edges and how important those jagged edges are, how deeply, deeply valuable. We’re in the last little bit of our time here today and I wonder if there are any quieter voices that haven’t found a way in? L: It’s making me think – sorry I know I’m not a quiet voice, I’ve talked a few times – but it’s making me think about interruption and about the archetypal image, and making me think of it as a real trickster side to interruption… how it can fuck shit up… but then you know how it… FACILITATOR: Liberates? L: Yeah, that’s the word. D: I think in terms of interruption, how I’m feeling is… our ending currently is like a raging interruption… but also that interruption hasn’t taken away the weight and value of the experience that we’ve had together for the past two years. I’m sure there’s a lot about this interruption we can learn from, but also the value of the two years that we have had. T: I’m quite struck with what was said earlier about interruption being useful… having some time to reflect about current issues happening around the world… and I’m remembering something my therapist said… I was talking about uncertainty and how uncomfortable it is and she said, we’re all experiencing that, it’s just that the forms are different. It pulls us away from our regular life, commuting, going to work, going to placement, and then we have some of our own space to think about things. I’m not one hundred per cent sure it has something to do with what’s happening around the world, but I am sure that it is good in some ways, but it’s also bad, it’s a mixture… and I think it’s important at least for myself to acknowledge that there’s good and bad. C: Yeah, I think with interruption there’s opportunity for change. What resonates for me is fear and hope, like there is hope for real change, for real progress to be made right now in the world, but then there’s also fear that it’s not going to happen. B: I’m thankful… I’ve been trying to think what I want to say… and I can’t really think… but I think I’m thankful for the jagged edges. I’m thankful that it’s making my heart rate go up when we’re talking about these things, I’m thankful that I’m having to… hear experiences that are difficult, and it feels so difficult to put it into words… but I’m so glad I’m in this conversation, and these conversations, that need to be happening. It makes me really emotional… and I don’t know, but I’m just thankful for those sharp bits that feel really disgusting, because I have to sit with them… but I’m glad and I don’t know… I’m not sure if that is actually what I want to say… Silence. We arrive at the end of our time and I close the group, acknowledging the importance, honesty, and depth of their contributions, both spoken and unspoken. I confirm that I will share my draft when it is complete. I wish them the best for the next phase of their lives, we wave goodbye to the screen and I end the call.

Experiences of interruption 153

Closing reflections Group Process doesn’t offer a conclusion, or clear cut answers, but it does provide a rare experience of embeddedness – that sense in which we are interdependent, relational, deeply social beings. It serves a pedagogic purpose by opening up a space that is a microcosm of society, revealing structures of power and catalysing students to face difference, conflict and their relationship to authority. As such, it is a difficult and provocative space, but one where the experience of ‘staying with’ frustration, panic, and the unknown, helps to develop an individual’s ability to contain and work with disturbance therapeutically. In the uncertain waters of this process, the emergence of a group image can feel like a life raft, providing a shared talisman that steadies and guides. Although relatively unexplored in group analytic theory, this may be seen as Foulkes’ ‘Primordial level’ of group communication (1964: 115), representing ‘the deepest and most hidden areas of unconscious life’ (Schlapobersky 2016: 340), drawn from the archetypal images of the collective unconscious (Usandivaras 1986: 116). In this session it was the ‘jagged edge’, an uncannily perfect symbol of interruption, imperfection, and impermanence; a symbol that felt true to the difficult experiences the group had been through, but also carried hope in the form of the jagged edge of fire: flames and flickers burning bright. The appearance of a group image like this is unpredictable, but unshakeable once it has taken form. It emerges in the undergrowth of the space, as if nature itself is providing us with an image that we need to turn our ear to. At the time that this group gathered online, international public discourse was simultaneously reverberating with the jagged edges of Covid, and the deep inequalities of systemic racism. Waking up to our mortality, our civic responsibility, our transgenerational trauma… these are interruptions worth bearing, for within each interruption there is an opportunity for growth. Just as the students unearthed what usually lies hidden, reframing their narrative and unlearning some of their social conditioning, so the dramatherapy programme at RCSSD is grappling with its blind spots, decolonising the curriculum, and actively adjusting to this unexpected chapter of our lives. In spite of the jagged edges, these students are still here, still surviving, and more than surviving, thriving. Their ability to be with each other, to listen, and to cocreate is a testament to the depth and rigour of their training, and their commitment to their therapeutic vocation. There is, however, no tidy endnote. There were students who did not speak, students who were not present, and students who may have left the session feeling unsatisfied and heavy with the weight of complex emotions. The devastating loss of K remains, and the loss of their shared ending is painfully real. These jagged shadow elements are an essential part of the process, and an essential part of our whole selves, honoured here with these last words. To the missing, the forgotten, and the voiceless, you are seen, you are heard, you are valued.

154 Emma Reicher

References Brown, D.G. (1994) Self Development through Subjective Interaction, in Brown, D. and Zinkin, L. (eds) The Psyche and the Social World. London: Routledge, pp. 80–98. De Mare, P. (1994) The Median Group and the Psyche, in Brown, D. and Zinkin, L. (eds) The Psyche and the Social World. London: Routledge, pp. 202–210. Foulkes, S.H. (1964) Therapeutic Group Analysis. London: Karnac. Foulkes, S.H. (1975) A Short Outline of the Therapeutic Processes in Group-analytic Psychotherapy. Group Analysis, Vol. 8, 1: 59–63. Schlapobersky, J.R. (2016) From the Couch to the Circle. London and New York: Routledge. Usandivaras, R. (1986) Foulkes’ Primordial Level in Clinical Practice. Group Analysis, Vol. 19, 2: 113–124.

12 GHOSTS Holly McCulloch

Introduction There are instances when specific events are repeated from generation to generation. Freud referred to this phenomenon as ‘the uncanny’, whereby the same situations or ‘obstacles’ present themselves time and again, instead of being ‘overcome’ (Schützenberger 1998: 12). This can be seen on a larger, more global scale, for example when looking at the Second World War, which, as Jung argued, could be seen as a ‘revival of the medieval persecutions of the Jews’ (Jung 1991: 48). It can also be recognised on a much smaller, familial level. A mother and child can suddenly ‘find themselves re-enacting a moment or a scene from another time with another set of characters’ (Fraiberg et al 1975: 387). Time has passed and yet the ‘scene’ – or story – is the same. These moments of recurrence were termed by Fraiberg as ghosts, which ‘represent the repetition of the past in the present’ (ibid. 389). In this chapter I will be investigating the elusive presence of ghosts in the dramatherapy room. My working definitions for the term ghosts are: the unconscious affect that has been transmitted from a previous generation and leads the individual to unwillingly repeat and re-enact stories from their family’s past; the inherited psychological blocks or obstacles that previous generations were unable to fully address or overcome; and the haunting presence hiding in the attic of the family’s unconscious. To begin this chapter, I will be discussing where the concept of ghosts came from, as well as investigating the three factors that create them. Next, I will look at some examples of therapeutic practices that aim to work with clients’ ghosts as well as begin to bridge the gap between disciplines. Then, I will explore how working with myth might help us hold the torch up to the ghosts’ dwelling place, before finally looking at how this research might inform clinical practice. DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-13

156 Holly McCulloch

What are ghosts? In 1975 Fraiberg’s ‘Ghosts in the nursery’ was published. The paper used two case studies of mother-infant relationships that required intervention. In both cases it seemed to be the mother’s history and relationships to her parents that were at the root of her inability to meet her infant’s needs. Fraiberg wrote, ‘In every nursery there are ghosts. They are the visitors from the unremembered past of the parents, the uninvited guests at the christening’ (Fraiberg et al. 1975: 387). By ghosts Fraiberg refers to the ‘forgotten’ painful memories of the parent experienced in early childhood. The parent’s painful memories or trauma become transmitted to the infant through the parent-infant relationship. This can then become a cycle as each generation transmits ghosts to the next. Fraiberg acknowledged, however, that not all painful memories become ghosts. In her paper, she hypothesised rather that it seemed to be the parent’s (i.e. mother’s) absence of ‘affect’ – the acknowledgement of her feelings in relation to the trauma – that was the key to creating ghosts (ibid. 419). It is important to note this caveat as the developmental argument for the infant’s biological parents being largely responsible for transmission of psychological trauma is not self-evident. From reading Fraiberg and others’ work on ghosts there seems to be a recurrent theme of interruption. Using Fraiberg’s two examples of mother-infant relationships, there are three different instances of ghosts ‘interrupting’: the interrupted connection or quality of attachment between mother and child; the interrupted process of affect in relation to the mother’s early traumatic experiences; and the mother’s interrupted psychological progress as past behaviours and trauma are repeated by her with the next generation. If we understand these interruptions as signals pointing to the existence of ghosts, how might we use this in the context of working with clients? How might the therapist observe and note these interruptions? How might we learn to recognise the presence of the client’s ghosts? Holmes referred to intergenerational transmission as a ‘story’ or ‘script’. In his paper, ‘Ghosts in the Consulting Room’, Holmes looks at the implications of intergenerational transmission on psychotherapy (Holmes 1999: 115). He suggests that through the patient’s narrative (as well as a secure therapist-patient relationship) the patient will be able to recognise their parents’ ghosts, which have been passed down to them. Holmes argues that this ‘recognition’ is a necessary first step in order for the patient to ‘realign’ the relationship whereby the patient no longer denies the ghosts’ existence (leaving them to be unconsciously transmitted to the next generation) or feels ruled by them (preventing the patient from feeling able to break the cycle) (Holmes 1999: 116). By the end of this process the patient can accept that their parents were also subjected to inheriting their parents’ ghosts and through this acknowledgement the patient can begin to ‘integrate’ the ghosts into his or her psyche. This raises further questions around how this process of integrating ghosts might look within a dramatherapy context. How might the client’s ghosts impact the therapeutic relationship and how might the relationship in turn support this process of integration for the client? How might ghosts be acknowledged, approached, or addressed within therapy? Lastly, how might a more nuanced and embodied form of therapy allow the client to explore and recognise their ghosts?

Ghosts 157

Both Fraiberg and Holmes suggest that ghosts are present and passed down in those earliest interactions between parent and infant. Holmes hypothesises that there are in fact three ‘inter-related’ factors. The first, which has already been touched upon, is the parent’s absence of ‘affect’. This helps us to identify both how ghosts are first formed and how they become passed down between parent and child. The second factor is the infant’s ‘internal working model’ of attachment, found in Bowlby’s ‘attachment theory’ (Bowlby 2005: 151), which explains how the child internalises the parent’s ghosts and adopts them as their own. The final factor is ‘mentalisation’ or the ‘reflexive function’, which can help identify the ghosts by revealing the interruptions of processing affect (Holmes 2014: 104). For the purpose of understanding how these three factors link together, I will be turning first to ‘attachment’, followed by Fraiberg’s absence of ‘affect’, and lastly looking at ‘mentalisation’ and the argument for a more ‘embodied’ approach.

How ghosts take form ‘Internal working model’ (IWM) of attachment Attachment theory was first introduced by Bowlby as a way of explaining our natural inclination for forming ‘strong affectional bonds’ to certain individuals (i.e. between parent and infant) (Bowlby 2005: 151). Attachment theory has since become an ‘umbrella term’ that encompasses attachment ‘style’ (i.e. the quality of attachment), attachment ‘behaviours’ (i.e. how the infant reacts to separation from the parent), and the ‘internal working model’ of attachment (Holmes 2014: 53). I will be focusing on this last idea. The ‘internal working model’ (IWM) is an individual’s ‘blueprint’ mapping out their way of being in the world in relation to others (Holmes 2014: 54). From the infant’s primary attachment relationship (i.e. ‘parent-infant’ relationship), he or she can begin to predict how to respond to the parent. These are ‘basic assumptions’, which are formed from previous ‘repeated patterns of interactive experience’ between parent and infant (Holmes 2014: 63). Together these patterns of experiences formed in the parent-infant relationship provide the infant with the initial data of what to expect and how to respond, which is a crucial part of their early psychological development. Two main qualities of parent-infant interactions are the ‘reliability’ and ‘responsiveness’ of the parent (Holmes 2014: 60). If the parent is responding consistently and appropriately to the infant, the infant will develop a feeling of security. This goes a step beyond just meeting the infant’s basic biological needs (i.e. feeding) and includes the infant’s need for ‘intersubjective communication’. By ‘intersubjective communication’ I refer to moments of ‘mutual understanding’ between infant and parent (Trevarthen 1979: 346). This can be illustrated through mirrored activity as well as through the parent’s ‘complementary’ activity in relation to the infant (ibid. 343). The parent-infant relationship also sets a precedent for the infant’s future relationships. The IWM stems from those earliest patterns of experience and remains largely persistent and unchanging as they become ‘internalised’ (Holmes 1999:

158 Holly McCulloch

121). It is therefore through the IWM that ‘childhood patterns of attachment are potentially carried through into adult life and transmitted to the next generation’ (Holmes 2014: 66). This can be seen in the Adult Attachment Interview (AAI) in which parents were interviewed to assess their attachment style. From the research a clear correlation was found between the parent-infant attachment relationship and the parent’s own attachment ‘style’. An interesting thing to note was that the AAI was analysed not by the content of the parents’ answers but by their ‘narrative style’ – the way in which they presented their childhood experiences (Holmes 2014: 97). One way of distinguishing the differences in these narrative styles was if there was evidence of the parent’s own unprocessed ‘affect’.

Absence of ‘affect’/unprocessed affect In The Embodied Analyst, Sletvold separates ‘affect’ into two components: emotion (unconscious bodily changes) and feeling (subjective, conscious experiences or sensations) (Sletvold 2014: 9). The former is known as ‘emotional body states’ that continuously change as a result of ‘extrinsic stimuli’ as well as ‘an encounter with another’ (ibid. 8); whilst the latter is the result of conscious processing, also known as the verbal reflexive capacity. Diamond argued that the ability to ‘integrate’ these ‘reflective capacities’ when experiencing a change in an emotional state will ‘depend on the quality of interaction experienced in early development’ (Diamond 2013: 30) i.e. through the parent-infant relationship. An example of this process is when someone unexpectedly taps you on the shoulder. This registers as a change in emotion when the body reacts to touch, such as an increased heart rate caused by cortisol, known as the fight/flight hormone produced in the body. This would then immediately register as feeling, once the mind has processed the event and the change in bodily state and recognised the feeling of surprise using its reflective capacities. This unconscious emotion processing into conscious feeling is largely dependent on the right hemisphere of the brain. This is why, Schore argued, when there is an experience of early trauma there is evidence that suggests an alteration in this hemisphere’s development, which affects the ‘processing of socioemotional information’ the regulation of affect, the coping function and the ‘corporeal and emotional self’ (Schore 2003: 271) It is particularly trauma’s effect on ‘processing of socioemotional information’ that Sletvold defines as a failure of ‘embodied experience’ being able to ‘latch into the reflective function and verbalization’ (Sletvold 2014: 105). This could also be described as a ‘dissociation’ (ibid.), or unprocessed affect (Schore 2003). This does not, however, necessarily mean that trauma cannot be remembered by the individual. In the AAI there were instances when early traumatic experiences were described in great detail. It is rather the absence of subjective feeling, the ability to verbalise how they felt in relation to the traumatic experience, which suggests the existence of unprocessed affect. This is effectively an interruption in the process of the body’s emotion registering with the mind’s feeling. As mentioned earlier using Fraiberg’s example of the mother, the early experiences of

Ghosts 159

trauma have caused an interruption in the mother’s ability to fully process the lived experience of the body into a felt experience of the mind. This interruption may better be understood when looking at the phenomenological approach of the ‘Chiasm’. The ‘Chiasm’, first conceptualised by Maurice Merleau-Ponty, is often symbolised by an ‘x’. It represents the ‘crossing point’ of two opposing sides in relationship with one another, including ‘relationships between mind and body, self and world, self and other … philosophy and non-philosophy’ (Toadvine 2012: 339). The chiasm is, however, more than a meeting point. The components of the chiasm include its ‘reversal and circularity’, which could be described as the chicken-and-egg scenario (the chicken gave birth to the egg and the egg gave birth to the chicken), ‘as well as the unity-in-difference’ (ibid.), where chicken and egg are separate stages of the same life cycle. The ‘chicken-and-egg’ is an example of two opposing concepts that are intrinsically linked. Emotion and feeling can also be defined as two separate concepts, which take place in the body and mind, respectively. They can be reversed, where emotion is feeling, and feeling is emotion; and they are unified in processing affect. It could follow that, as there is a chiasm between mind and body, there is consequently a chiasm between emotion and feeling. The crossover point is where emotion is processed by the mind into feeling or feeling is processed by the body as emotion. An example of a feeling being processed as emotion could be in using the reflective capacities when recalling sadness around a previous event. This can then evoke a change in bodily state, such as tears or a lump in the throat. The other defining quality of the chiasm is known as the ‘gap or divergence’, which exists at the point of crossing. In crossing from one entity to the other there lies a moment of being ‘in between’. Toadvine refers to Merleau-Ponty’s example of one hand touching the other, where ‘the role of toucher and touched reverses’. This leaves a gap from where one’s perception has switched between the hand ‘touching’ to being ‘touched’ – the touch is only felt as ‘touched’ and no longer as ‘touching’ – and this ‘moment when the touch crosses over into the touched is the site of this divergence’ (Toadvine 2012: 341). When considering the ‘gap’ in the chiasm between emotion and feeling, we may better understand the effect of trauma. As previously stated, trauma can cause a disconnection between emotion and feeling, known as unprocessed affect. This happens in the ‘gap’ or ‘divergence’, between changes in the affective bodily state (‘emotion’) and the reflective capacities (‘feeling’). It is in this ‘gap’ between mind and bodily processes where unprocessed affect can be found. It becomes stored ‘in between’ mind and body; lodged in the chiasm. When looking again at the theme of interruption, there is scope that suggests the gap in the chiasm where unprocessed affect is stored could represent an interruption in the process from emotion to feeling. It is this point of interruption, hidden in the chiasm, which might shine a light on demystifying ghosts. Unprocessed affect is the initial or original interruption – in response to trauma – which also interrupts the individual’s ability to process as they cannot connect with their ‘felt experience’ of the trauma. This comes through in the AAI and also Fraiberg’s interviews with

160 Holly McCulloch

the mothers where through their narratives there is a clear disconnection between recalling the events of their own traumas experienced in childhood and their ability to recognise and understand the effects and implications on their relationships with their own children (Fraiberg et al. 1975: 405). Here the cycle of ghosts is clearly evident, where the adult’s narrative style arguably determines whether their own ghosts are transmitted to the next generation. This idea is known as ‘mentalisation’.

Mentalisation vs. an ‘embodied’ approach ‘Mentalisation’ is the ability to see how we are viewed by others as well as how others view themselves (Holmes 2014: 99). It is a process of understanding our interaction in the world beyond our own perspective by holding the ‘other’ in mind. In other words, ‘mentalisation’ is the capacity to reflect on ‘intersubjective experience’ (Sletvold 2014: 105). ‘Mentalisation’ is arguably similar to how Holmes describes the process of ‘realignment’ to ghosts. Both require the individual to see the bigger picture beyond their own experiences by considering the other person’s (i.e. parent’s) perspective as a way of recognising and accepting that ghosts appear as a culmination of an intergenerational legacy. It is the ability to ‘mentalise’ that could be incredibly important in order to prevent trauma becoming transmitted to the next generation. ‘Mentalisation’ is largely a verbalisation process. Wolynn suggests that language holds the clue to the inherited familial story. He refers to this as the ‘core language approach’. Although Wolynn does note that core language can include non-verbal communications, there is an emphasis on words when describing ‘deepest fears’ which may point to or indicate ghosts (Wolynn 2016: 57). Others argue, however, that language can be misleading and may ‘interfere’ with more truthful narratives told through ‘the face and the body’ (Sletvold 2014: 25). Sletvold argues that to be in ‘contact’ with the ‘embodied emotional processes’ of both ourselves and the other is necessary in order to ‘mentalise’ (ibid. 105). Language cannot always achieve this as there is often a disconnection between the individual’s active experience and the reflection of their experience. This disconnection makes ‘mentalising’ a challenge and questions the effectiveness of the verbalisation process. What is missing is contact with the lived experience through a more ‘embodied’ approach. By an ‘embodied’ approach I refer to the utilisation of the mind-body connection (Sletvold 2014: 1). The mind-body connection is the understanding that we experience the world as a whole person, rather than splitting human experience into ‘mind’ and ‘body’. An ‘embodied’ approach recognises that mind and body are intrinsically linked in our interaction with the world. In this case, it is this engagement with the mind-body connection which could be used as a way of mentalising experiences of trauma. One argument for a more ‘embodied’ approach is that intergenerational transmission itself is a non-verbal process. Diamond refers to this process as ‘intergenerational transmission of affective biological states’ (Diamond 2013: 30). She explains that the infant picks up on the parent’s painful ‘forgotten’ memories through the parent’s non-verbal communication of affect. This intersubjective communication

Ghosts 161

(or lack thereof) is then processed and internalised by the infant. The process of transmission is therefore inherently embodied as it is unconsciously passed on through parent-infant interactions. Interactions are also embodied as memory, which is formed ‘in the doing’ (Diamond 2013: 103). This idea is known as ‘brain-body memory-making’ (ibid. 101). This means that memory is formed through ‘whole’ experience and stored in both mind and body. Some memories, however, are ‘forgotten’ (i.e. trauma) and are therefore unconscious. These unconscious memories are often pre-reflective as they have not yet been processed into consciousness. Diamond suggests that these unconscious memories are effectively stored in the body as body-based memory. This is also known as ‘implicit’ or ‘corporeal’ memory (Diamond 2013: 103). Diamond states it is this ‘implicit knowledge’ ‘where the legacy of early relational dynamics leave their mark in patterning behaviour’ (ibid. 104). This relates to the infant’s IWM and unconscious internalised ‘relational dynamics’ that influence the infant’s pattern of response. It is a type of ‘body know how’ that ‘can underlie procedural acting out, and the compulsion to repeat’ (ibid.). It is this unconscious repetition of behaviours that become ghosts as one generation’s experiences are transmitted to the next through repetition of ‘implicit memory’ (i.e. trauma). Diamond argues that the process of mentalisation is not enough as mind and body must be engaged to contact the ‘implicit’ memory. Diamond suggests that this can be achieved through ‘enactment’. Enactment engages mind and body ‘in the doing’, by which I mean both are essential in the process of ‘acting’ or ‘playing’, which is by nature spontaneous and experiential. Enactment, therefore, can arguably engage the unconscious body-based memory, which may be largely inaccessible to ‘mentalisation’. In addition, she states that ‘shifts in enactment are required for any affective change to occur’ (Diamond 2013: 105). This means that enactment can also engage the experience of affect through ‘body know how’. It is the key to reaching unprocessed affect in the body. I wonder how we might use this in our approach in working with clients? How might the client’s unconscious affect, transmitted by previous generations, be seen? How might we as therapists listen out for it? How might ghosts manifest as interruptions in the therapeutic relationship? How might we give a voice to clients’ ghosts? We begin to explore these questions further in the following sections, which respectively look at how other disciplines have tried to illuminate ghosts, and how working with myth may act as a vessel to hear the voices of our ancestors.

Bridging the gap In this section I will be looking at some examples of therapeutic practice that aim to work with ghosts and bring them into consciousness. I will purposely be working in chronological order as this gives an accurate reflection of the shift towards ‘embodiment’ over the last 20 years. In 1998 The Ancestor Syndrome was published, in which Schützenberger explores how ‘genosociograms’ can help bring to light elements of ghosts. A ‘genosociogram’

162 Holly McCulloch

(which comes from the words ‘genealogy’ and ‘sociogram’) is a family tree that maps out a detailed history of events, relationships, and ‘narrative’ (Schützenberger 1998: 10). Genosociograms look at: ‘who raises whose children … who arrives – through birth or moving in – at the same time as another goes away – through death or departure, who replaces whom in the family’ (Schützenberger 1998: 11). Schützenberger states that Moreno, the founder of psychodrama, was an important influence on her practice. She references Moreno’s ‘social atom’ – an artistic representation of our relationships with others (Schützenberger 1998: 9) – as well as his concept of ‘co-conscious’ and ‘co-unconscious’, which is also known as the group or family conscious. This relates to ghosts as it suggests that a particular group with ‘intimate bonds’ can share collective ideas, experiences, and ‘narratives’ as part of each individual’s psyche (Schützenberger 1998: 7). Ghosts could therefore be lurking in the shadows of the ‘familial’ unconscious or ‘co-unconscious’. Schützenberger looks at how genosociograms reveal ‘hidden loyalties’ between family members, the familial ‘legacy’ that comes from a pre-mature death, and ‘anniversary syndrome’, which highlights the significance of certain events in the family’s history being transmitted to later generations. Schützenberger provides case studies of her work where she has worked with patients suffering from repeated familial illnesses that are non-genetic and yet still inherited (Schützenberger 1998: 95). Schützenberger deduces that this could suggest an ‘invisible loyalty’ (ibid. 96) across the generations, tethering someone to their ancestor. More recently, there has been a noticeable shift towards engaging with more experiential forms of therapy, which use embodiment and enactment in their methodology. In Carnabucci and Anderson published a book that explores the similarities and differences between two approaches – psychodrama and systemic constellation work – and argues the benefits by integrating the two. In applying both methods, they argue, there is a complementary relationship formed from the differences that can perhaps better address today’s complex and varied issues (Carnabucci & Anderson 2012: 173). I will look at two examples of these differences: conscious vs. unconscious reality, and subjective vs. ancestral narrative. Psychodrama starts from ‘conscious reality’ that is also the participant’s (or protagonist) ‘subjective narrative’. The protagonist brings their personal issue from real life, which becomes the ‘scene’. This scene helps the protagonist ‘experience the here-andnow circumstance’ (Carnabucci & Anderson 2012: 52). This approach is quite direct in that it stays close to the protagonist’s subjective reality. Conversely, systemic constellation work begins with ‘unconscious reality’ that exists in the ‘ancestral narrative’. It is more ‘abstract’ as it focuses on the ‘larger story’ (Carnabucci & Anderson 2012: 53). It begins with the family history of the client, which is then represented as a ‘constellation’ using other members of the group (ibid.). The focus is not on the client’s subjective narrative but has instead zoomed out to find earlier inherited factors from previous generations. This is a more indirect approach with the aim to bring awareness to unconscious traumas in the familial narrative (Carnabucci & Anderson 2012: 55). I wonder how these two approaches might complement one another? How might the conscious subjective and unconscious ancestral narratives cross over?

Ghosts 163

Even more recently, in 2017 a paper was published detailing a five-year experiment: a group of psychologists, psychotherapists, counsellors and dramatherapists worked in collaboration to create a ‘theatrical model of genogram’. The paper makes reference to ‘body memory’, which is used by the actor as a way of engaging with affect from lived experience (Fiaschini 2017: 96) This relates back to ‘brain-body memory-making’ as it is using the mind-body connection to access the experience of the memory. Fiaschini uses this ‘embodied’ understanding as a way of approaching ghosts. The theatrical model can be broken down into two phases: the ‘emergence’ of the genogram using embodiment, and ‘storytelling’ of the family tree, which is then retold as a ‘fairy-tale’. The main aim behind this ‘model’ is to use body-memory to evoke unconscious and affective material in relation to the participants’ family ‘story’, which can lead to ‘open revelation’ in the ‘telling’ (Fiaschini 2017: 103). Aesthetic distancing is then used through the ‘fairy-tale’ version so that ‘personal events are transposed to a universal level’ (ibid. 104). This distancing process allows the individual to take a step back from their own familial story. These examples offer some indication of how therapeutic practices are working with ghosts using elements taken from psychodrama and dramatherapy, which could suggest the beginnings of a shift towards a slightly more embodied approach. Whilst there is some incorporation of dramatherapy practice, such as the use of embodiment and story, I would be interested in exploring how we might work with ghosts by starting with universal stories rather than the client’s personal narrative. In the following section I will be exploring how this may be done using myth.

The potency of myth Here I refer to my introduction and the concept that intergenerational transmission or ghosts can be seen on both a personal and a collective level. This means that not only has there been repetition of the past in the present within families but that there have been national and even global repetitions throughout history. These are the universal experiences of human existence; they are the ghosts of all our ancestors. Myth could be looked at as historical evidence of ghosts on a ‘collective’ level. It feels useful here when discussing myth to also include reference to the field of theatre practice as its relationship with ancient texts holds relevance in furthering my enquiry. There is potency to myth, which Grotowski describes as containing ‘certain concentrations of human experiences’ (Grotowski 2002: 55). The hundreds of years of passing down stories from generation to generation seem to have distilled the stories’ meaning. The language of these ancient stories may have changed but their essence remains; they contain the voices of our ancestors (Grotowski 2002: 58). Grotowski argues that engagement with these ‘texts’ brings about a ‘sincere confrontation’ between the collective experiences and ancient truths of previous generations against our own views and experiences of life (Grotowski 2002: 58). This confrontation allows us to find connection (and divergence) between the personal and the universal. It might be that myth holds up a ‘magic mirror’ to ghosts, uncovering their ethereal presence by confronting the individual with the larger, collective ancestral picture. Engaging with

164 Holly McCulloch

myth, therefore, can begin to bridge the gap between the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious, in order to find the familial or ‘co-unconscious’. The collective unconscious, as well as the personal, makes up the unconscious parts of the human psyche. Jung distinguishes the collective unconscious from the personal by its origin. Jung argues that personal unconscious is the result of our own repressed experiences that used to be conscious, and therefore owes its ‘existence’ to ‘personal acquisition’; whereas the collective unconscious has not gone through this process of being repressed by the individual, and instead exists by means of ‘heredity’ (Jung 1991: 42). Ghosts could therefore be a blend of the personal and the collective; its contents have been ‘repressed’ by a previous generation and are consequently ‘inherited’ as such by the next generation. The familial unconscious could therefore be ‘in between’ the personal and the collective unconscious. Looking back to Merleau-Ponty’s ‘chiasm’ I wonder whether there is a chiasm between the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious? These are two distinct concepts that are also in relationship; within the collective unconscious exists the personal, and within the personal unconscious there is the collective experience. The personal and the collective unconscious could be said to sit in opposition to the other, between ‘self and world’ (Toadvine 2012: 339) and yet there is a commonality between them as together they make up the psyche’s unconscious. Connection with myth seems to contain a crossover point between the collective unconscious and the personal, which is perhaps what Grotowski refers to as ‘sincere confrontation’. Myth connects the individual to the collective unconscious and this in turn connects the individual to the personal unconscious; by being confronted with the universal a better understanding of the personal is gained. A ‘divergence’ also seems to exist between the collective and personal unconscious. It is in this ‘gap’ where ghosts could be found. From confronting the collective unconscious with the personal through myth we may come across a story that is neither collective nor personal. This is the ghostly narrative which is ‘re-enacting a moment or a scene from another time with another set of characters’ (Fraiberg et al 1975: 387) … it is unfamiliar and yet familiar; it is inherited and yet subjective. It is therefore through connection with myth, and consequently the collective and personal unconscious, that ghosts may be recognised. The final step of this process is conscious making, which is a unification of conscious and unconscious material. This links back to ‘mentalisation’ or the reflexive function. As mentioned earlier in the chapter, Diamond argued that for this process to be harnessed there must be enactment. Through enactment there is the possibility to find the link between mind and body, conscious and unconscious. It is also in the ‘lived experience’ of the enactment, or re-enactment, where the missing or unprocessed affect can be found. I believe this is the key in recognising and working with ghosts. As mentioned previously, unprocessed affect is a form of interruption between emotion, which is stored in the body, registering as feeling, which is stored in the mind. This is reflected in the idea of unprocessed affect being lodged in the chiasm. Working with myth therefore not only engages mind and body through the embodied enactment but may also engage unprocessed affect which is found ‘in between’.

Ghosts 165

It is my hypothesis that through myth enactment ghosts may be lured out and met. These three links (or chiasms) – mind and body, conscious and unconscious, personal and collective – are arguably all engaged during myth enactment. It is perhaps the holy grail of unification. Unification of conscious and unconscious contents is linked to Jung’s ‘transcendent function’. Jung coined the psychological term ‘transcendent function’ stating that ‘transcendent’ illustrates the divine-like ‘transition from one attitude to another’ (Jung 2014: 73). This new attitude is reached from the process of integrating unconscious contents into the conscious psyche. (This relates back to Holmes’ realignment of ghosts.) In order to reach this stage, there needs to be some recognition of ghosts by delving into unconscious material. Jung argued this material can be accessed using the ‘uniting symbol’. By ‘symbol’ I refer to the expression of an inner truth that has not been processed by consciousness (Jung 2014: 75). The unconscious and conscious can then be brought together and this is the ‘transcendent function’. Jung suggests that this process can be realised through dream analysis as well as by fantasising or ‘active imagination’ (ibid. 77). I wonder whether this process could also begin to be realised through myth enactment. It is through the enactment of symbolic material in myth that the collective unconscious can be confronted with the conscious parts of the psyche. It is perhaps a step further than dream analysis as the enactment uses an embodied approach to the symbolic material. This allows the unconscious material and unprocessed affect to be accessed through the mind-body connection engaged in enactment. This unconscious material is the first step of the unification process. We could then imagine how unconscious material is confronted by consciousness through the symbol i.e. collective truths confronted with personal experiences to make meaning (Grotowski 2002: 58). It seems possible, therefore, that the enactment of symbolic material found in myth can bring this ‘meaning’ into consciousness. This is where ‘creative formulation’ (gathering of motifs) meets ‘understanding’ (attributing meaning), which are two halves of the ‘transcendent function’ (Jung 2014: 85). It is through the enactment of symbolic material that recurring motifs may begin to resonate and reverberate within. In other words, myth enactment might well act as an enhanced embodied approach to recognising and realigning one’s relationship to one’s ghosts.

Final thoughts So how might this inform our work as dramatherapists? First let me refer back to Holmes who emphasised a secure therapist-client relationship as integral in allowing the client to call forth their ghosts (Holmes 1999: 125). It is only once the therapeutic relationship is firmly established that the client feels safe enough to begin this exploration, which I have looked at doing through myth enactment. Forming this secure relationship is therefore vital for working with the client’s ghosts. This leads me to wonder how the therapist might be able to note the presence of a client’s ghosts through the therapeutic relationship. In other words, how might the therapist pay attention to the ‘chill in the air’?

166 Holly McCulloch

In addition, it appears that interruption is a key theme when trying to observe ghosts. As previously illustrated, ghosts interrupt psychological progression because they are also born out of an interruption, known as unprocessed affect. This in turn suggests that through observing these interruptions one might begin to feel the presence of ghosts. In the context of working as a dramatherapist, I wonder how these interruptions might present themselves? Could they be overt forms of interruption exhibited by the client, such as a sudden outburst of ‘uncharacteristic’ behaviour or unexplained bouts of unresponsiveness and disengagement toward the therapist? Might they be more subtle forms of interruption, possibly masked as resistance, such as the client remaining fixed on repetitive action and storylines over an extended length of time? In another sense, the approach outlined in this chapter also engages in interruption. It is in fact a deliberate attempt at interrupting these unconscious and inherited ghosts. By using myth enactment we are trying to interrupt the unconscious influence or authority the ghosts have on the psyche. In addition, I wonder how this approach of focusing on collective stories might also interrupt a more traditional, excessively personal and subjective approach to psychotherapy? How might directing the client’s attention towards the collective experience help bring them to a place of acceptance, healing, and integration with their own personal trauma? As a recently qualified dramatherapist I wonder how I might observe and respond to signs of ancestral interference. For instance, by building a secure therapeutic relationship with my clients, noting these moments of interruption, and being receptive to recurrent themes in connection with the client, I hope to develop my sensitivity in recognising ghostly presence. In addition, by working with myth and observing the roles, actions, and symbols both enacted and felt by the client, I hope to begin to start a dialogue between the client and their ghosts so that they are no longer under the phantom’s thrall. During this research, as well as throughout my training, I have tried to put my ear to the ground and listen out for this deeper ancestral connection. This is an ongoing process and I believe is partly what Hougham meant by encouraging students to develop a ‘symbolic attitude’ (Hougham 2017: 30). To finish I refer to Holmes’ realignment with one’s ghosts. It is this process of integration that helps prevent ghosts from being transmitted to the following generation. I wonder how this process may be further explored using myth enactment so clients may recognise their ghosts and begin to give them shape and colour and slowly accept their existence as a small part of the larger self. It is this that I believe sets us on the path ‘towards health and wholeness’ (Pearson 1996: 9), which is an integral value of dramatherapy.

Acknowledgements Thank you to Alanah Garrard and Richard Hougham for their encouragement and support during different points of this writing process. I would also like to thank the course and my individual therapy for igniting these questions around ghosts and why we as individuals and as a collective often repeat events in history as part of our narrative.

Ghosts 167

Lastly, I would like to thank my parents – to my Dad for modelling to me generosity, patience, and intellectual curiosity; and to my Mum for modelling openness, personal growth, and a deep compassion for others.

References Bowlby, J. (2005) The Making and Breaking of Affectional Bonds, Oxon: Routledge. Campbell, J. (1991) The Power of Myth, New York: Random House Inc. Carnabucci, K. & Anderson, R. (2012) Integrating Psychodrama and Systemic Constellation Work, London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Cox, M. & Thielgaard, A. (1997) Mutative Metaphors in Psychotherapy: The Aeolian Mode, London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers Ltd. Diamond, N. (2013) Between Skins: The Body in Psychoanalysis: Contemporary Developments, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Fiaschini, F (2017) ‘The memory of the tree: a new theatrical model of genogram’, Dramatherapy, Vol. 38, No. 2–3, 94–105. Fraiberg, S.et al. (1975) ‘Ghosts in the nursery: a psychoanalytic approach to the problems of impaired infant-mother relationships’, Journal of the American Academy of Child Psychiatry, Vol. 14, No. 3: 387–421. Grotowski, J. (2002) ‘Theatre is an encounter’ in Towards a Poor Theatre, New York: Routledge, 55–59. Holmes, J. (1999) ‘Ghosts in the consulting room: an attachment perspective on intergenerational transmission’, Attachment and Human Development, Vol. 1, No. 1: 115–131. Holmes, J. (2014) John Bowlby and Attachment Theory, East Sussex: Routledge. Hougham, R. (2017) ‘Symbolic attitude’ in Hougham, R. & Jones, B. (eds.) Dramatherapy: Reflections and Praxis, London: Palgrave, pp.29–42. Jung, C.G. (1991) The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Oxon: Routledge. Jung, C.G. (2014) Collected Works of C.G. Jung Volume 8: Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, Princeton University Press. Available at: https://0-www-degruyter-com.catalogue.libra ries.london.ac.uk/view/product/452932. (Downloaded: 22nd May 2019) Merleau-Ponty, M. (1968) The Visible and the Invisible (Trans. Lingis, A.). Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Pearson, J. (1996) ‘Discovering the self’ in Pearson, J. (ed.) Discovering the Self through Drama and Movement: The Sesame Approach, London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers, pp 7–16. Schore, A. (2003) Affect Dysregulation and Disorders of the Self, New York: W. W. Norton. Schützenberger, A. A. (1998) The Ancestor Syndrome: Transgenerational Psychotherapy and the hidden links in the family tree, London: Routledge. Sletvold, J. (2014) The Embodied Analyst: From Freud and Reich to relationality, East Sussex: Routledge. Stern, D. (1985) The Interpersonal World of the Infant, London: Karnac Books. Stern, D. (2004) The Present Moment in Psychotherapy and Everyday Life, London: W.W. Norton & Company Ltd. Toadvine, T. (2012) ‘The chiasm’ in Luft, S. & Overgaard, S. (eds.) The Routledge Companion to Phenomenology, Oxon: Routledge, pp 336–347. Trevarthen, C. (1979) ‘Communication and cooperation in early infancy: a description of primary intersubjectivity’ in Bullowa, M. (ed.) Before Speech, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wolynn, M. (2016) It Didn’t Start With You, New York: Penguin Random House LLC.

13 SESAME FOLKLORE Adam Atlasi, Kathleen Blades and Nicole Wardell

This chapter is an exploration of ‘Sesame folklore’. Using Arnold van Gennep’s Rites of Passage and Carl Gustav Jung’s notion on individuation as our critical frameworks, we reflect on our journey from trainee dramatherapists to life post-qualification. This journey calls to mind the archetypal image of the bird’s nest from which we have taken flight. Our structure, therefore, navigates a similar journey through a ritual schema in three parts: ‘Nesting’, ‘Interruption’ and ‘The Passage’. An important part of our process has been writing from our individual and collective experience of the Sesame approach to dramatherapy. We include story, poetry, song and images in the hope that the reader may relate too, resonate with or feel the folklore of the community we speak about, even if they are unfamiliar. We share the journeys we have taken after leaving the nest, Royal Central, to where we are now as developing, maturing dramatherapists. Within ‘The Passage’ we offer personal reflections, each closing with our initials. We reflect on that which unites us and that which sets us apart within our individual stories. We also consider the nature of interruption; both external and psychological. With this in mind, we follow the invitation embedded within the training; open sesame; open yourself, to the unknown, as we look to uncover personal treasures hidden within our practice, just as the sesame seed opens itself to reveal the nourishing life source hidden within. We wish to allow for the interruptions to move us, surprise us and shift our path, perhaps carrying treasures on the wind to seed in an altogether different place.

Etymology It seems pertinent here to consider the origins of the word sesame, to invoke and amplify the image. Latin sesamum, from Greek sesamon: ‘Seed or fruit from the sesame plant’ (Etymonline, 2019). From the sesame plant comes life, flowers, seeds and oil. It’s been used by our ancestors for centuries and is found in cooking, DOI: 10.4324/9781003042792-14

Sesame folklore 169

cosmetics and pharmaceuticals; enriching and supporting life. We note the etymology of the word sesame here to re-hear it. To taste it once again as the sesame plant. To re-read it as an uncapitalised word. As Sesame trained dramatherapists, the word seems to lose its original meaning and take solely the meaning in which Marian ‘Billy’ Lindkvist, founder of the Sesame approach, gave it; Sesame. The practice is in many ways ritualistic and archetypal. Being together, in a primal and attuned way; enriching and supporting life. An early borrowing from late Babylonian is the phonetic shawash-shammu, meaning oil-seed (Etymonline, 2019). We are reminded of learning songs phonetically whilst training. We stand in a circle, pacing a rhythm with our bare feet on the ground, feeling the connection and vibrations as we stamp, the bodies move intuitively, we focus on the teller of the song, and repeat ‘Tongo, Tongo’, once the group are more confident our gaze moves from the teller and notice each other, notice our movement, we share moments of eye-contact with other members of the group, smiles, we are in a rehearsal room at Royal Central – but it feels like we are everywhere and nowhere, we are one. There is something ritualistic about learning songs phonetically. The way our ancestors would have. How they told stories and sang around the campfire. How we learn as children. We learn to speak by listening to sounds. By working out words and associating meaning to them. Etymology is the study of word origins and the way word meanings change with time (Ward, 2019). Comparatively, the Sesame trained dramatherapist, studying mythology and stories also notes the origins and changes that come with years of telling and retelling. Folklore. It is a moving, pulsing and organically grown phenomenon. The spoken word, the sung word. The Sesame approach to dramatherapy took its name from the magic password in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves: ‘Mille et une nuits’ which then became open sesame in translation (Etymonline, 2019). Used in mythology, literature, opera and TV shows, open sesame elicits excitement, possibility and escape. A Sesame trained dramatherapist will feel the words open sesame as a legacy of ‘Billy’. She opened the Sesame method. She allowed space and soil for the therapist to be with the client. To hear them and then re-hear them. And the work, therefore, grew into a plant with strong roots and many offshoots that reach toward the sun, twist and turn, seed and blossom flowers.

‘Nesting’ We are Adam, Kathleen and Nicole, three graduates from the MA Drama and Movement Therapy training (MADMT) at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama (RCSSD) 2017–2019. The training teaches the Sesame approach, which is grounded in ‘Billy’s’ pioneering work on the non-verbal language of Movement, Touch and Sound alongside Rudolf Laban’s Art of Movement, Jungian Psychology and Peter Slade’s Drama Work with children. Other modules include Myth, Developmental Psychology, Performing Research and Preparation for Clinical Practice. Each student engages as a client in individual therapy with a Jungian analyst, group

170 Atlasi, Blades and Wardell

dramatherapy and group process as well as facilitating over 100 hours of dramatherapy sessions for a diverse range of client groups within clinical settings (RCSSD, 2020). Throughout the training, alongside our peers, we explored the ‘impulses, images, roles, relationships, repetitions, and stories that expand and constrain [our] experience’ (Sajnani, 2013: 382). Our cohort – of 18 – were often found together, as a collective; storytelling, celebrating, sharing potluck lunches, running with the wolves, playing in the snow (for some, for the first time). During the second year of the training, the three of us collaborated on the Performing Research project. The aims of this unit were to ‘acquire an understanding of current theoretical and practical debates concerning research within the broad discipline of drama. [Thereby, developing our] research [skills], analytical and critical thinking [as well as engaging in] collaborative practice and presentation’ (RCSSD, 2018: 27). We embodied one of the numerous roles we might take as dramatherapists to nourish our practice; Practitioner-Researcher. Our research title was born out of our shared interest in Sesame’s folklore. We attempted to hear the voices of a community we’d be emerging into, to hear their stories, and to visualise where in the world Sesame dramatherapists travel to, set up camp and nurture their profession. We had been meeting regularly as friends and had a sense that those who had experienced the training before us might have embraced similar rituals; feasting on wine and cheese, sharing stories and dancing. Now, over a year on, we are still drawn in by this sense of a shared experience. Through our writing, we hope to acknowledge those who have gone before us, but at the same time, to find out what Sesame is for each of us. The Stone Soup There was once a soldier who had been travelling for many days and nights. He was tired and hungry. He set out to find food, water and a place to rest. From the top of a mountain he saw a village but when he arrived, he saw no one. He approached three houses and knocked on the doors to ask for refuge. An old woman answered the first, but she said no and slammed the door shut. A young boy answered the second, he said he wasn’t allowed to speak with strangers and closed the door gently. A young woman answered the third and said she had nothing to spare. The soldier set down his bag in the square and lit a fire. From his pocket he took out a stone that was wrapped in cloth. He placed the stone in a pot and placed it on the fire. The young boy was curious and carefully approached. The soldier told him that he is making stone soup, but it’s much better with a carrot. The young boy ran home and fetched a carrot. One by one the villagers came, their curiosity stirred by the stone soup. Soon there were potatoes, parsnips, leeks and broth. The village shared the soup and danced and sang into the night. The old woman asked the soldier if she could buy the stone. It’s not for sale, he said, and he continued his travels. We first heard this story on the training during a Myth session, facilitated by the course leader, Richard Hougham. At that time, we felt the story was about coming together, community and connection. In different versions of The Stone Soup, the Soldier exists as Traveller, Tramp and Stranger. With each retelling the story changes. New images rise to the surface. As Gaston Bachelard suggests in The Poetics of Space,

Sesame folklore 171

‘the image has touched the depths before it stirs the surface’ (1994: xxiii). Stories stir secrets within the Self, mediating the internal and external experience. As we revisit this story now, we notice a shift; it resonates with our passage from trainee to graduate. It might also be about moving on, into the unknown. There is a sense of being at home with oneself, which enables us to move on, and at the same time, mark the moment of coming together. There may be those with whom our paths will cross again, and others with whom our connection will be fleeting. The stone in The Stone Soup seems to unite a community. The Soldier facilitates a feast and gives everyone a role. These roles are taken and fulfilled for apparently selfish reasons, and yet, the villagers find joy in giving. This story reminds us villagers to be kind to the soldier; to embrace new experiences. As the Soldier, we are encouraged to embrace the role of outsider or fool who makes soup from a stone. As Sesame trained dramatherapists, this resonates most when we ‘sit around the fire’ with clients or professionals for whom dramatherapy represents a ‘fun’ or ‘foolish’ unknown. At its core, Sesame practice is about connecting with another and providing a space for healing. The villagers found nourishment and community from a soup stewed from a stone. This calls to mind the Alchemists, who transform base metals into gold through a seemingly magical process. The healing hearth of drama can be found in the magia naturalis; the ‘natural magic’. For example, traditional myths, stories or fairy tales, such as The Stone Soup, contain parallels to the archetypal images that possess our inner experience. James Hillman describes these ‘possessors’ as the ‘Gods’ within; those archetypal forces that drive the journey inward and rise to the surface through the imaginal world of the unconscious. ‘By considering the personified archetypes as Gods, they become more than … instinctual patterns of behaviour [or] ordering structures of the psyche … these persons, by governing my complexes, govern my life’ (1975: 35). The question is ‘Who?’ in the psychic world is presently demanding our attention. And the task of dramatherapy is to capture the archetype that reveals itself in images and nurture it, rather than interpret. Through embodied and experiential exploration, we make explicit our internal conflict in order to manifest change (Stevens, 1999). Jung notes that alchemical processes can symbolise the individuation process; each person’s path to ‘wholeness’; an ego-Self union (1963: 555). ‘Jung maintained that [an individual’s] development could become arrested and distorted not only by [interruptive] events in history of the maturing individual, but also by his fear of taking the next step along the path of individuation’ (Stevens, 1982: 152). And as Joseph Campbell states, ‘It has always been the prime function of mythology and rite to supply the symbols that carry the human spirit forward, in counter action to those other constant fantasies that tend to tie it back’ (1949: 11). Through mythic parallels and archetypal imagery, we enter the liminal, transitional space, in search of a symbolic language, which allows us to express all the contradictory feelings we might face when shadow and light converge within our Self; a point of interruption. From this interruption, we notice the possibility of taking a different path; the ritual of transformation from one state of consciousness to another. And the search ‘calls to mind a certain sort of movement: not an aimless stroll - and yet, not a straight-line journey with a definite goal’ (Tuby, 1983: 7). Instead, snake-like, we

172 Atlasi, Blades and Wardell

spiral, close to an elusive goal, meandering through inevitable setbacks, approaching the edge, leaning… falling; just as the alchemist consistently falters in their search for gold. We continue our search…

‘Interruption’ The three of us have moved home since graduating; Adam is based in Surrey, Kathleen in Norfolk and Nicole in Copenhagen. We are apart but remain connected; continuing our rituals through video call and Google Drive. Amidst the COVID-19 crisis, a trip to Copenhagen to finalise editing was cancelled. We have had to adapt, as many have, to working remotely at a distance we are unfamiliar with. We were interrupted. Interruptions are a part of nature; like a river carving mountains, the river’s path has many tributaries and distributaries, each of which signals a point of interruption; diverging, splitting, flowing downstream and discovering its course. These interruptions may be external forces, or they may be psychological in nature, surfacing from the depths of the unconscious; personal or collective. At the time of writing, we are mindful of George Floyd’s death and the immense impact felt across nations. The older orders are being interrupted and with interruption comes the opportunity for change. Interruptions are ubiquitous; pervasive. From the minute everyday ones, to the gut-wrenching, inimitable ones. Often interruptions hold negative connotations of disruption, avoidance, or shock. However, they also provide opportunities to pause, refocus, inquire or offer permission. All cultures and communities practise rituals to understand and mark major life events; often stories narrate the passing on of traditions and beliefs to future generations. Ethnographer and folklorist Van Gennep coined the term ‘Rite of Passage’ to describe major rituals of birth, initiation, marriage and death. These major rituals in turn are categorised into rites of separation, transition and incorporation. All rites are part of this triadic categorisation and each contains an order within itself; the preliminal (rites of separation), liminal (rites of transition) and postliminal (rites of incorporation) (1960: 11). Our training journey to become Drama and Movement Therapists could be a rite of incorporation; completing the journey and assuming a new identity. The first phase is preliminal or separation; the new trainee symbolically detaches from their former self. For the three of us, this was leaving work, travelling to London and moving home. The second phase is the liminal or transition; the trainee has left their former self but has not entered the next. This phase describes the trainee’s experiential learning, the psychological interruption; the trainee’s sense of Self is questioned and is in the process of being redefined; in therapy and group process. The final phase is the postliminal or incorporation; the passage is consummated by the ritual ceremony. When speaking to this trainee experience, the ending ritual is the Graduation Ceremony; a ritual that dates back to the first universities in the twelfth century. The tutors and Principal give an address, before the graduates walk the stage, shake hands and cross the threshold. Having completed the ritual, the trainee holds their new identity; Drama and Movement Therapist.

Sesame folklore 173

An interlude… First: nesting The bird’s nest; Royal Central. The mother and father took us under their wings, we were tended to and nurtured. Like those who had gone before us, we came from all walks of life; different countries, cultures, religions and languages. All of us in different shells and accepted into the nest. This place became our shared ‘home’. A place of shelter, refuge and security. Second: interruption ‘With wings we can look at things from both the perspective of earth and heaven at the same time. Intuition and inspiration seem to arrive unexpectedly on wings out of thin air as the first sign of any creative act’ (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010 : 240). The leap from the nest was a scary one; into the unknown; fall or fly. We are finding our own way. At the same time, we are venturing into the world of professional practice and against a similar backdrop of change within the profession of dramatherapy as a whole. The world too is traversing a significant threshold. 2020. A new decade. A point in history where it seems that alongside wider political fracture and divide, many older orders are being challenged, reviewed and redefined. We are, once again, in an interruptive state. Third: passage Like that of the ‘Plain Indians [comparing] the sacred circle of the nests to their own tepee … the helpless offspring continue to be tended by their protective parents, sometimes even after they learn to fly…’ (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010 : 238). Through our writing, we continue a relationship with our ‘protectors’ – as supervisors, colleagues, mentors or perhaps, less literally, by remembering or turning back to impactful advice, moments and words of wisdom shared. We have often shared a yearning to reconnect and return. To see each other again, celebrate, reminisce and learn from one another. Just like the birds who ‘return year after year, sometimes from the opposite side of the globe, to the same nest, evoking a sense of home’ (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010 : 238). In the following section we offer personal reflections, sharing individual experiences of moments, elements and phases of the ritual process. In so doing we remark on our own stories and the ways in which we have felt held, challenged and interrupted. We grapple with the innate challenges within the ritual process, particularly the final phase of reincorporation, which requires assimilation and forging identity in new places, new communities and ultimately, an ever-changing world.

‘The Passage’ I have returned home. (25.07.2019)

Having graduated and returned home to Denmark, a journey I knew I would take, it feels rawer and more muddled than I expected. Life, interrupted.

174 Atlasi, Blades and Wardell

As I write this, I hear her breathing, heavily, aided by the oxygen tubes stuffed in her nose. It’s been a year since we graduated, and it feels surreal. In some ways it seems like I’m on my summer holiday, being held by the connections of those places and people just across the water. And yet, life has been filled with so many changes; the good, the bad and the ugly. As I am navigating my path as a Drama and Movement Therapist, in a country that doesn’t seem to know what it is, I feel an immense weight on my shoulders to honour Sesame and do those before me, my teachers, supervisors, friends and colleagues justice. It feels quite lonely. The simple task of saying dramatherapy in Danish, ‘dramaterapi’, feels unfamiliar yet familiar. I encounter professionals within fields of education and psychology and am met with hesitance and wonderment as to what dramatherapy is and what role, if any, it has here. Although feeling much better equipped and confident at answering the question ‘hvad er dramaterapi?’, ‘What is dramatherapy?’, I’m met with questions of its relevance and validity. Will I be accepted by the already established associations and other mental health professionals? Will institutions, organisations, schools, the average person be willing to give myself a chance? Tears roll down my face as I am engulfed by the sadness and grief of what could have been. I squeeze his hand tightly to let him know, he is not alone. My first meeting with the only other qualified dramatherapist here in Denmark was exciting and nerve-racking. I attended her open workshop introducing dramatherapy; it was wonderful to meet people with genuine interest and curiosity. I felt hopeful. After the workshop we had a chance to speak and towards the end she asked: ‘Du er Sesame, ik’?’ ‘You are Sesame, right?’ ‘Is it that obvious?’ I replied. I felt immense pride. I am Sesame. This was also mixed with a sense of something lingering in the air. I felt a curiosity of what was left unsaid.

Sesame folklore 175

(21.11.2019) The nest, remaining and left behind. The branches naked and exposed. Allow me to re-introduce myself. I have spent much of this past year focusing on my personal healing, dealing with loss and grief in its many forms and looking for work. At times I have felt guilty, slow and unproductive as I found it hard not to compare myself to my peers and friends’ successes and progress. Throughout this process I have needed to let go of expectations; others and my own. I have needed to be gentle and kind to myself as well as allow myself to be. I am on the precipice. Taking deep breaths as I expand my wings. My return home resonates with the journey of the traveller in the tale of The Stone Soup. I have often felt like an outsider, from being asked ‘Where are you from?’ to being touched without permission; the other often unsatisfied with my answer. In light of Brexit, COVID-19, the Black Lives Matter movement and the general attitude towards foreigners in Denmark, there are feelings of alienation and uncertainty. I am many things. I am a minority. I am in-between the boxes. I am; biracial, female, educated, healing, modern-day nomad, bilingual, survivor. And not necessarily in that order. I feel the need to belong. To belong to something greater and to feel connected. One such place is with my Sesame tribe – the wolf pack. My tribe watered, tended and nurtured my inner Sesame plant. They have been a part of my mystical, magical journey. We saw ourselves and each other in the stories, became kindred spirits in the shared movement and explored our voices from within. The beauty of Sesame is the mystic embodied experience. In the words of Salvo Pitruzella, it offers ‘spiritual magic’; ‘special moments when it seems that an invisible undercurrent connects people in a mysterious way, beyond words, thoughts and even, paradoxically enough, beyond their very selves’ (2018: 8). I comfort and remind myself, with the words we were told many times throughout our training; ‘trust the process’.

176 Atlasi, Blades and Wardell

Come to the edge. We might fall. Come to the edge. It’s too high! COME TO THE EDGE! And they came And he pushed And they flew… Christopher Logue 1926. (Knowles, 1999: 473) NW

My eyes adjust… …I notice dark’s light… …the twilight.

As Hougham outlines in his article exploring numinosity, symbol and ritual within Sesame’s approach to dramatherapy, Sesame ‘works in the twilight … it plays tricks with our vision – we see faces in the trees and the rocks, we sense the possibility of night before it has properly arrived’ (2006: 3). In the tradition of Jung, these experiences are described as numinous; spiritual; an experience of power ‘wholly outside conscious volition’ (CW8: Par 383). In the twilight, we sense the unknown beyond the threshold. It draws us in… …and looking back, we realise… …we are far from home. What is home? The Oxford Dictionary defines home as ‘the place of one’s dwelling or nurturing, with conditions, circmstances, and feelings which naturally and properly attach to it, and are associated with it’ (2019). Therefore, home is not only the physical place, but also relatedness, community and the cluster of feelings associated with them. Personally, I feel a strong sense of homecoming nostalgia, more intensely now having ‘flown the nest’ and begun my journey into the unknown as a freelance dramatherapist. London swallowed me whole. The nest disintegrates behind me. Stone Soup resonates once more. Like the travelling tramp, each step takes me further from a home I used to know. The fire burnt out. I travel on from London. I spread wings through South-east Asia, in search of distance from what I left behind and what I hoped to return to. The search; feet buried under the scalding sand’s surface, wandering the jungle at night, surrounded by a symphony of sounds; lazing on the river raft, carried by the current; Wassana; immense and gentle, her skin textured and tough, her eyes kind and weathered; climbing the mountain canyon and soaking in the sunset; laughing with friends old and new; days gone without saying a word. Each moment fleeting but wholesome; impactful; numinous. I feel connected.

Sesame folklore 177

On my return to the UK, I expected to continue my freelance dramatherapy; to ‘take the stabilisers off’ and start putting everything I had learnt over the past two years into practice. But the universe told a different story. The COVID-19 pandemic meant that I, like so many, faced cosmic uncertainty. Those projects fell through for funding; six months isolated from shielding family; I fell between the cracks of the UK government’s support. As I’m writing, I notice difficulty; distraction; diversion. The storm is setting in, the room darkens – perhaps I’m finding it difficult not being where I wanted to be. Where I expected to be. I expected to hit the ground running but the unknown interrupts expectation. Lockdown. An interruption. An invitation to look again. I loved the MADMT training; gave myself wholeheartedly to it, climbing my forever mountain with a backpack bursting to the brim and I will always hold treasured memories from my experience at RCSSD. However, looking back, my time went unprotected. I burnt out. The training required rigorous self-reflection, interrogation and resilience. My experience of Sesame existed as if it were in a bubble, separate from reality. It calls to mind the cuckoo bird that takes over the nest and needs constant overfeeding. By this I mean simply that when we exist within the bubble, within the nest, Sesame seems as if it is the only way. Now, however, re-imagining the nest opens us up to the possibility of taking a different path. Sesame is embracing the fork in the road as a gift rather than encumbrance. The path isn’t linear. We consistently falter. We get lost in the dark. Yet our eyes adjust, and we notice things we didn’t before. We integrate our experiences within our sense of Self and with each fleeting moment, we realise a ‘new normal’. This seems resonant within our current context of enforced isolation, where we hear stories of those who, in the dark, found new ways to connect; in a book, in folktales, forests, films, family, friends, in the garden, on Skype, Zoom or Google Meet. Now, I have set up camp elsewhere; within the NHS. I’m currently working as a CAMHS Mental Health Practitioner, with young people at risk of inpatient admission due to mental health crises. The team is stretched to capacity. I’m forced to jump before I can fly. I’m unravelling the layers upon layers of professionals, services, institutions, legislations, labels, diagnoses, medications; navigating a network that is complex, saturated and under sourced. I consistently falter. This environment is in stark contrast to the nest I once knew; there are thorns, the tree is tired and there are no leaves to shield against the wind. At times, I do feel disconnected; from Central, dramatherapy practice, my cohort and a community. However, my peers are still with me; sitting around the fire. I am a Sesame dramatherapist and I am a Mental Health Practitioner. I’m stepping into the unknown to explore how these two roles coexist. This is the edge. I lean in. An interruption. An invitation.

178 Atlasi, Blades and Wardell

To adjust. To learn. To grow. To fly. I’m on Zoom. I’m training in LGBTQ+ awareness within clinical practice. We introduce ourselves; Mental Health Practitioner, Inclusion and Diversity Lead, Child and Family Psychotherapist, Receptionist, Occupational Therapist and Transgender Pathway Lead. We are six in total. We are three Sesame Dramatherapists. The wind outside howls. The giving tree trembles. A nest has fallen. Looking back, I realise… I am home. AA

I am swept away I visited Central as an undergraduate student in 2014 for Eugenio Barba ‘In Conversation’. I stood in the Atrium, feeling unworthy of this school, waiting for my copy of The Paper Canoe to be signed. I stood there again three years later, feeling unworthy once more, on my first day as a MADMT trainee. ‘It is often said that life is a journey, an individual voyage which does not necessarily involve change of place. One is changed by events and by the passage of time’ (Barba, 1995: 1). During the first term, I resonated with the image of a paper boat on the sea; saturated and fragile. v v /| / | v /__|__ \————/ ~~~~~`~~~~'~~~~~ I felt like this little paper boat until we sang on the last day of term one. Singing connects us to the other and brings us into contact with the whole; ‘where people have agreed to work together and weave their voices with a multitude of others, all wounded and communally hopeful … rejoice in the birthright of voices raised in song and in recognition of the storytellers we are all meant to be’ (George, 2000: 193). This was my initiation. I take off my shoes and feel the earth beneath my feet. I follow the others through the trees, over the river, and up the mountain. There is a small clearing where we sit. We listen. I am swept away by the imitated environment. I can feel the moisture in the air, the sound of the wind and rustling leaves, the smell of damp plants. I open my eyes. Our elder tells a story; one that we will likely pass on when we will lead the way through the trees. In the summer of 2019, having recently completed the MADMT training and awaiting graduation, I visited the Eden Project. I was looking over the edge of the nest, sure I was ready to fly, but not knowing where to go. I walked around the Mediterranean Biome and followed my pair’s birdsong. This imitated environment

Sesame folklore 179

was very much alive. I was in the forest with maps and fire exits evenly spaced. Folklore had taken a form in the plants, birds, sculpture and paintings; some with paint peeling, cracked and hidden behind the overgrowth. This environment marks the start of my journey leaving the proverbial nest. We’re in the dramatherapy space. I am leading another through the trees, over the river, and up the mountain. There is a small clearing where we sit. There is a loud bang. And now thunder. Somebody is playing the drums. My client looks at me. There is a moment of pause. We have been interrupted. We are no longer in the clearing. Barba describes balance in the body as ‘the result of a series of relationships and muscular tensions. When we amplify our movements … our balance is threatened. A whole series of tensions set in action just to keep us from falling’ (Barba, 1995: 19). This notion of tension and balance symbolically resonates. The core of my work as a Drama and Movement Therapist is relationship; being with the client intuitively, at a time when we are being asked to ‘keep your distance’ (GOV.UK, 2020). I am working with the tensions; expectations, power, unconscious biases, politics, and trying to keep balanced both psychologically within myself, and relationally with my client. Whilst I try to ensure the therapy space is uninterrupted, we do sometimes hear music from the therapy room below. The floor is alive. An amplified movement which threatens our balance. Some clients play with the sounds and create stories from the thunderous drums or twinkling pianos. Others jump loudly to respond. Some music therapy clients use the instruments to respond to the noisy ceiling. The rooms communicate. ‘Did you hear that? We had better hide! Follow me’ they said. I follow. ‘We’ll be safe here’ they said. We lay down and look up at the stars, feeling the earth beneath us. The shared floor has, on several occasions, taken its own role embodying the outside world; separate, yet ever present. Interruptions from the floor can alter the pace and flow of a session, seemingly destructive and impatient. However, I have experienced them to be constructive and synchronous; providing an underscore of pathetic fallacy to the play; or becoming the other. The space somehow feels more contained despite this external interruption. ‘Individuation does not shut one out from the world but gathers the world to oneself’ (Jung, CW8: Par 432). I wonder if these interruptions are an offering from the wider consciousness to lean into the edges and work with those twinkling irritations or thunderous shadows. I have flown the nest though my wings are not fully formed. I am trying to balance my emerging career, to find a rhythm amongst the turbulence of interruption. I am at a point of renewal, dropping feathers and growing new. I am privileged to collaborate with other therapists and wellbeing professionals, sharing my work and broadening my wingspan. I am a woman learning to embrace the brightly coloured attributes of the male bird. To be both; grounded and brave; monotone and songbird; traveller and villager.

180 Atlasi, Blades and Wardell

I am learning to hold these tensions in balance just as Sesame holds a space for hurting and healing; like the traveller’s stone, wrapped in cloth, safely in her pocket. KB

‘Homecoming’ There are those birds who year on year return to the same nest, giving rise to a sense of home and homecoming. Through our chapter, our hope was to evoke a similar sense of homecoming by tending to the archetypal image of the Bird’s Nest; that which nurtures, holds and protects us before we take flight. As Sesame trained dramatherapists, we have journeyed through the training, our Rite of Passage, and emerged into a shared space. Instinctively, we know how to build a nest of the same kind, yet unique to each of us. We must challenge, interrupt and encourage each other to open sesame. As such, might we embrace the tricks twilight plays on our vision and reimagine the walls, doors and floors of our home, in the same way Bachelard invites us to in The Poetics of Space (1994). Through his words, we enter an oneiric home, an existential space; immaterial, dreamed, imagined. Bachelard calls for us to suspend time, transcend history and enter the dwelling with a sense of the half-dreaming consciousness of reverie. In our home, in our story, this reverie is Sesame lore. Sesame’s methodology is an epistemological obstacle that interrupts the flow of knowledge, forcing new ideas to appear. Thereby, what is known about Sesame also incorporates its own history of errors and divagations. This is how stories come to be. Our pedagogies and practices should not describe our home as it was or is, but rather, set our bearing towards what it could be. ‘The person you are right now is as transient, as fleeting and as temporary as all the people you’ve ever been. The one constant in our life is change’ (Gilbert, 2014). We are all connected by our shared experience; our story. There are many stories within this story, of which each of us has a different way of telling them. Our writing process has been a Rite of Passage. Since flying the nest, we have been in the liminal phase once again; transitioning and adjusting. We have experienced moments of intense disorientation, psychologically letting go of what was known so that flow may take place with ‘half-dreaming’ consciousness. ‘A dream has to be lived with. It is not a puzzle waiting to be solved by intellect. It is, rather, a living reality and must be experienced’ (Roose-Evans, 1996: 3). Upon reflection, we notice that in our earlier drafts, we were unconsciously protecting the training or justifying ourselves and our profession. At times it felt beyond our capacity to complete this writing in the face of both personal and collective interruptions in the context of 2020. We sat with this. We are tired both physically and emotionally, but from this space, we offer honest reflections of our experiences. We speak from the now and find nourishment from this. The archetypal image of the nest serves to remind us to return home periodically by (re)turning inwards. We carry this with us, like the stones in our pockets.

Sesame folklore 181

Use a smartphone camera or QR code scanner to scan this QR code.

References Bachelard, G. (1994) The Poetics of Space: The Classic Look at How We Experience Intimate Places. Boston: Beacon Press. Barba, E. (1995) The Paper Canoe. USA and Canada: Routledge. Campbell, J. (1949) The Hero with A Thousand Faces. London: Paladin Grafton Books. Etymonline, (2019) Sesame (n). [Online] www.etymonline.com/word/sesame#etymonline_ v_23285 (Last accessed: 20/10/2019). Gilbert, D. (2014) The psychology of your future self, Ted Talk [Online] www.ted.com/talks/ dan_gilbert_you_are_always_changing?language=en#t-394149 (Last accessed: 23/11/2019) GOV.UK (2020) Coronavirus (COVID-19) [Online] www.gov.uk/coronavirus (Last accessed: 17/05/2020) GOV.UK (2020) 03 May. [Online] https://twitter.com/govuk/status/1256901340367917062 (Last accessed: 19/09/2020) George, M. (2000) ‘Language of the Heart, Voices of the Self’ in Armstrong, F. & Pearson, J. WellTuned Women: Growing Strong through Voicework. London: The Woman’s Press: 192–204. Hillman, J. (1975) Re-Visioning Psychology. New York: Harper, Perennial. Hougham, R. & Jones, B. (eds.) (2017) Dramatherapy, Reflections and Praxis. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Hougham, R. (2006) Numinosity, symbol and ritual in the Sesame approach. Dramatherapy Journal. Vol 28 (2): 3–7. Johnson, D.R. (2018) Learning from experience: the legacy of Billy Lindkvist. Dramatherapy Journal. Vol 39 (2): 76–83. Jung, C.G. (1969) CW Vol 8: The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. USA: Princeton University Press. Jung, C.G. (1963) The Mysterium Coniunctionis: An Inquiry into the Separation and Synthesis of Psychic Opposites in Alchemy. London: Routledge. Knowles, E. (ed.) (1999) The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 5th edition. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Oxford Dictionary (2019) [Online] https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/home (Last accessed: 21/03/2020) Papadopolous, R. (ed.) (2002). Refugees, home and trauma. In Therapeutic Care for Refugees: No Place Like Home. London: Karnac: 9–40. Pearson, J., Smail, M. & Watts, P. (2013) Dramatherapy with Myth and Fairytale: The Golden Stories of Sesame. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Pitruzella, S. (2018) ‘The space that divides and connects.’ Betweenness and the intersubjective perspective. Dramatherapy Journal. Vol 38 (1): 3–15.

182 Atlasi, Blades and Wardell

RCSSD (2018) Performing Research MA MFA Advanced Theatre Practice Programme Specification 2018–2019: Performing Research. Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. RCSSD (2020) Drama and Movement Therapy, MA [Online] www.cssd.ac.uk/ma-drama -movement-therapy (Last accessed: 21/09/2020) Ronnberg, A. & Martin, K. (eds.) (2010) The Book of Symbols: Reflections on Archetypal Images. Koln: Taschen. Roose-Evans, J. (1996) ‘Ritual, journeys of the heart’ in Pearson, J. (eds.) Discovering the Self through Drama and Movement, The Sesame Approach, London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers: 104–120. Sajnani, N. (2013) The body politic: the relevance of an intersectional framework for therapeutic performance research in drama therapy. The Arts in Psychotherapy. Vol 40: 382–385. Schrader, C. (2012) Ritual Theatre: The Power of Dramatic Ritual. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Stevens, A. (1982) Archetype: A Natural History of the Self. London: Routledge. Stevens, A. (1999) Reflections on dramatherapy as initiation through ritual theatre, in Cattanach, A., (ed) Process in the Arts Therapies. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Tuby, M. (1983) The Search and Alchemy. Guild of Pastoral Psychology. Van Gennep, A. (1960) The Rites of Passage. Reprint. Oxfordshire and New York: Routledge. 2004. Ward, A. (2019) Etymology (Word Origins). [Podcast] 04/03/2019. www.alieward.com/ ologies/etymology (Last accessed: 02/03/2020)

INDEX

Figures indexed in Italic page numbering AAI see Adult Attachment Interview acceptance 38–9, 46, 48, 111, 121, 166 accidents 39, 55, 89 activity 13, 15, 21, 30, 37, 71; creative 19, 21; groups 142; pre-planned ritualised 123 adolescents 78, 137 Adult Attachment Interview 158–9 aesthetic distance 54, 104–5, 109–10, 112–13, 140, 163 aesthetic framework 131 aesthetics 4, 9, 36, 48 affect 156–8, 160–1, 163; clarification of 25, 29; Fraiberg’s absence of 157; mothers’ absence of 156; parents’ absence of 157 “The Age of Interruption” 3 aliveness 89, 91–2 analysts 18, 26, 69 ancestors 6, 62, 66, 81, 88, 161–3, 168–9 ancestral connection 166 anger 27–8, 54, 59 anthropology 130–1 anti-structure 71, 126–7 applications 9, 44, 111, 113–14, 130; dramatherapeutic 131; psychotherapeutic 90 appropriation 16, 19, 133 archetypal 18, 72, 88, 97, 100–1, 151, 169; forces 65, 89–90, 94, 96, 171; imagery 6, 23, 171; images 26–7, 29, 32, 103,

152–3, 168, 171, 180, 182; psychology 88, 112; traits 103 archetypes 15, 25, 34, 87, 113, 167, 171, 182; described by Stevens as combining the universal with the individual 25; and the Jung theory of 24; personified 171 Arnd-Caddigan, M. 119 art forms 6, 20, 54, 57, 101, 104, 107–8, 111 artists 1, 36, 49, 81–2, 118, 127, 129 arts 1, 3, 6–7, 10, 21, 48, 62–3, 66–7, 76, 87, 91, 113, 126–7, 140, 182; dramatic 102; modern 81, 112–13; outdated 103; therapists 129, 134; visual 54, 57 assimilation 16, 19, 173 Atkinson, P. 133, 135, 138 attachment 31, 156–8 attention 4, 6–7, 13, 27–8, 36–40, 44–5, 48, 60, 63, 65, 69, 79, 87, 89–90, 132–5; client’s 166; individual 44; lost 28; paying 90, 93, 129; transfixed 48; unsafe 96 attunement 11, 109–10, 120, 123–4 audiences 3, 99–101, 103–5, 107–9, 112, 133, 137 authorial voices 142 Bachelard, G. 170, 180 Barba, E. 48, 178–9 Barfield, O. 6, 9–15, 18–19, 21–2 Baring, A. 89, 93

184 Index

Beckerman, H. 45 Being-in-the-world 24–6 Berger, J. 81 biases, unconscious 135, 179 Bilal Bagh, Bangalore 52 Black Elk 83–4 Black Lives Matter movement 1, 5, 143, 175 Bloom, H. 9 body 15–16, 31, 41–3, 46, 48, 83, 86–7, 89–93, 96–8, 117–19, 121, 145–6, 158–61, 164–5, 167; based memory 161, 163; motions 89; moving 86–7, 120; physical 89; states 42, 158; student 141 Body Movement and Trauma 86 Bortoft, H. 9, 13, 16–17, 19 Bowlby, J. 157 boys 53, 57, 59–60, 75, 77, 170 brain 30, 158 ‘brain-body memory-making’ 161, 163 Brody, H. 78 broken narratives 128, 130 Buber, M. 30 Butler, J. 52 Campbell, J. 68, 131 Carle, E. 59 caste 50–2, 58 Cave, N. 7 ceremonies 57–60, 84, 87, 89–92, 95, 97; final 59; healing 91; initial 58; marriage 136; performing 90; and ritual 89, 91, 97 challenges 3, 5–6, 10, 53, 64, 70, 96, 101–2, 111, 126; archetypal 105; Karaghiozis 102, 104 change 7, 10, 30, 36, 38, 52, 95–6, 109, 111, 150, 152, 158–9, 172–3, 178, 180; affective 161; psychological 25, 30, 112; real 152; social 126 characters 46, 48, 65, 72, 99, 101–3, 106–7, 132, 155, 164; elder 48; imaginative 104; marginalised 102; mythological 101; symbolic 32; troublesome 68 chiasm 159, 164–5 childhood 62, 92, 94, 99, 158, 160 children 50, 54, 56–8, 60, 70, 99, 160, 162, 169 Chodorow, J. 26 chthonic 64, 67, 71–2 civilisation 50–1, 69–70, 72 class 51, 53, 150 client, hesitations 135 client groups 96, 124, 126, 170; post-verbal 125; pre/post-verbal 116; pre-verbal 122

clients 20–6, 28–33, 40–1, 53–7, 59–60, 94–6, 120–5, 129, 132, 134–5, 137–8, 155–6, 161–3, 165–6, 179; distressed 128; pre-verbal 123–5; process 32; reconnecting 96; verbal 125 climate change 52 clinical 6–7, 31–2, 35, 70–1, 113, 115, 118–19, 122, 127, 129–30, 132–7, 139, 142, 154–5, 169–70; constructions 129; examples 32; imperatives 44; outcomes 133, 135; practice 6–7, 35, 87, 97, 118, 130, 136, 149, 154–5, 169, 178; settings 129–30, 132, 142, 170; and therapeutic space 133–5; work 115, 119, 122, 137 clinicians 88, 96, 133, 135 co-presence 40, 42–3 Coleridge, S.T. 6, 9, 13, 18–20, 22 collaboration 25, 31, 151, 163 collective 25, 97, 163; memory 66; representations 10; structuring principles 100; unconscious 18 collective awareness 55 collective consciousness 52, 84 collective experience 143, 164, 166, 168 collective ideas 162 communication 2–3, 5, 8, 29, 40, 92, 94, 104, 107–9, 123, 127, 138, 167; attuned 109; human 3; in-role 108; intersubjective 31, 157, 160; non-verbal 160; open 147; performer’s 112; puppeteer-audience 105; sensory 121; unconscious 23, 31; virtual 43; visual 105, 107 community 5, 7, 50, 56–7, 59–60, 79, 84, 89–90, 96, 102, 117, 140, 168, 170–2, 176–7; events 57; library 56; new 173; professional 118; scientific 117; therapeutic 122 concretisation 116, 126 connection 67, 86–91, 94, 96, 101, 104–5, 111–12, 135, 137, 139, 147, 149–50, 163–4, 166, 169–71; direct 88, 105; empathic 122; interrupted 156; intimate 72; live 45; mediated 39; mind-body 160, 163, 165; physical 141; strong 109, 112, 150 conscious experience 24, 26, 31–2 consciousness 1, 9–11, 14–16, 18, 23–33, 47–8, 63, 79, 92, 94, 103, 109, 161, 165, 179; altered state of 87, 90–1; enhanced 90; evolution of 9, 11, 14, 17; expansion of 38, 92, 125; half-dreaming 180; historical evolution of 10, 17, 21; individual 10, 58; modern 10–11, 15;

Index 185

mythic 21; primitive 10; state of 17, 171; superindividual 18 contact languages 134 contact zone 134, 137, 140 containment 92, 95, 121, 125, 141 conversations 1–2, 11, 53, 58, 63, 78, 96, 124, 129, 142–3, 148, 151–2; invisible 77; sharp 73; three-way 5 Corbin, H. 76 COVID-19 1, 4, 43, 141, 144–6, 153, 172, 175, 177, 181 creative imagination 9, 11, 134, 136–7 creativity 14, 21, 30, 94–5, 126, 134 crow 28–9, 75, 77, 79, 81–2, 84 Csordas, T. 132 cultural 5–7, 10, 35, 37, 50–1, 64–8, 72–3, 96–7, 99–101; appropriations 131; attitudes 116; commissions 65; competence 131; constraints 138; dimensions 100; inequality 151; misappropriations 135 culture 2, 7, 14, 36, 47–8, 50, 52, 57, 64–5, 70, 81, 84, 87, 100, 172–3; academic 122; ancient 10; conventional EuroAmerican 116; gendered 51; healthy 84; hegemonic 52; popular 11, 117; thoughtbased 125 cycles 20, 48, 59, 65, 124, 137, 156, 160; menstruating 58; monthly 58; natural 93 dance 62, 66, 80, 86, 88–91, 93–5, 97, 113, 124–5, 140; dialogic 41; dynamic 89; ecstatic 91, 97 ‘dance of power’ 90 dancers 90–1, 113, 140 Davis, M. 128, 138 dead see also death 81, 83–4 Dead Papa Toothwort 68, 72 death 2, 20, 26, 28–9, 48, 55, 57, 90, 94, 115, 141, 145, 147–8, 162, 172 development 3, 24, 37, 42, 44, 109, 171; early psychological 157; primary interpersonal 126; work 93 dialogue 5, 26, 32, 41, 95, 166; progressive 5; real 2; sensorial 123; unfamiliar 2 Diamond, N. 158, 160–1, 164 dimensions 71, 82, 89, 93–4, 100, 105, 110–11, 118, 121, 132, 137; deeper 67; mythical 110; non-linguistic 132; socio-cultural 137; spatial 94 disability 13, 54, 126 discipline 35, 37, 39, 83, 87–8, 93, 120, 130–1, 138, 155, 161, 170; active 89, 95; incubatory 84

disconnection 149, 159–60; see also connection discussions 5, 9, 63, 97, 118, 141, 143 disengagement 166 disrupted narrative 4, 128–9, 131, 133, 135, 137, 139 DNA structures (inorganic inheritance) 66 drama 2, 15, 54, 57, 84, 104–5, 112–14, 118, 127, 130, 136, 139, 167, 170–1, 182 drama and movement therapists 172, 174, 179 drama and movement therapy 2, 5, 87, 92, 95, 114, 141, 169, 182; practice 114, 118; training 169 dramatherapeutic 6, 100, 118, 120, 131 dramatherapists 20, 38, 40, 47, 49, 99, 122–3, 125–6, 129–30, 132, 135, 138–9, 141–2, 163, 165–6; freelance 176; maturing 168; practising 118; trained 169, 171, 180; trainee 168 dramatherapy 1–182; applications 129; discourse 142; foundational 84; freelance 177; group sessions 45, 56, 104; literature 119; playspace 100, 111–12; practice 1, 4–5, 45, 63, 92, 115, 120, 125–6, 129–30, 132, 138, 163, 177; praxis 129, 131–2; profession 135; programmes 153; Sesame 9, 11, 14–15, 72; sessions 99, 170; and shadow puppetry 99–113; space 179 dramatic cartography 79 dream 2, 18, 22, 29–30, 40, 46–8, 53, 55, 63–4, 66–70, 75–98, 102, 105, 165, 180 dreambody 89–91, 98 dreamdance 87–9, 91–3, 95–7 dreaming 46, 67, 69–70, 75, 77–8, 80–1 dreams 2, 18, 22, 29–30, 40, 46–8, 53, 55, 63–4, 66–70, 75–98, 102, 105, 165, 180; analysis 78, 85, 165; form 89; great 81–2; image 18; maps of 78, 84; people’s 82; personal 66, 77; scattered 55 dromenon 84 drug abuse 56 dual perspectives 108 dual processes 120–1 duck rabbit 12 duende 67 dyad 23, 25, 32, 125, 135–6; client-therapist 136; therapeutic 23, 135; therapist-client 25 earth 10, 15–16, 63, 67, 81–3, 86, 91–4, 97, 173, 178–9 Eden Project 178 ego-complex 79–80, 83 ego-consciousness 14

186 Index

elders 57, 59, 178 embeddedness 153 embodied 11, 23, 157–8, 160, 163, 165, 175; approach 165; emotional processes 160; enactment 164; forms 156; functions 137; sense 121; ways 87 The Embodied Analyst 158 embodiment 16, 18, 99, 123, 161, 163; concepts of 117; intuitive 44; the process of uniting the imaginary separation between body and mind 31; use of 162 emergent narratives 130, 139 emersion 122–3 emotions 27, 42, 53, 57, 60, 94, 109, 121, 144–5, 147, 158–9, 164; bodily 42; complex 153; core 95; exploring 54; inhibiting 87 enactment 16, 20, 59, 72, 84, 109, 161–2, 164–5 encountering 53–4, 110, 174 endings 70, 92, 101, 123, 131, 141, 144–8, 150, 152 energy 84, 86, 89, 91, 93–5; active 89; divine 37; elemental 92; heavy 53; relational 29; spiritual 90 engagement 6, 20, 50–1, 53, 55, 57, 59–61, 66, 99, 110–11, 135, 160, 163; emotional 100, 109–12; imaginative 11, 15; out-ofrole 108; visceral 37 environment 5, 54, 72, 89, 96, 142, 148, 177; holding 87; problems 151; safe 54; therapeutic 57; urban 103; violent 57 essays 3, 64, 70, 93; “The Age of Interruption” 3; ‘Myth interrupted’ 64; “Small Gods” 93; “Walden ou la Vie dans les Vois” 70 ethnographic performance 136–7 ethnographies 129–30, 136 etymology 168–9, 182 Event Horizon 46 events 19, 21, 48, 78, 96, 115, 120–2, 130, 141, 155, 158, 160, 162, 171, 178; interpersonal 43; multiple traumatic 94; personal 163; previous 36, 159; unitary 17 evidence 65, 118–19, 158; historical 163; narratology 130 evolution of consciousness 9–11, 14, 17, 21 existence 23–4, 32, 38, 55, 68, 101, 130, 156, 158, 164, 166; human 163; separate 10; social 136 existentialism 10, 14, 33 experience 4–5, 10–20, 23, 25, 45, 47, 53, 90–3; client’s 20, 44; clinical 115; everyday 11–13; inner 77, 171;

interactive 157; interpsychic 33; intersubjective 160; meditative 88; missing 7, 89; passive 21; personal 66, 70, 111; subjective 16, 26, 32 experiential mystery 90 exploration 23–4, 58, 99, 111–12, 125–6, 132, 165, 168; conscious 88; creative 101, 107; experiential 171; psychotherapist’s 127 expressions 7, 10–11, 25, 32, 40, 65–8, 87, 89, 94, 124, 130, 135, 165; creative 31, 33, 136; emotional 110; symbolic 26, 81 facilitators 89, 104, 142, 145–9, 151–2 fairytales 15, 20, 62, 65, 74, 77, 85, 113, 138–40, 163, 171, 181 false imagination 83 familial 51, 155, 162, 164; boundaries 51; stories 160, 163 families 51, 56–60, 66, 97, 99, 101, 129–30, 139, 141–2, 155, 162–3, 177; history 5, 130–1, 162; shielding 177; young 142 fantasy 30, 33, 83; see also creativity fear 28, 45, 53, 57–9, 83, 87, 95, 102, 119–20, 125, 127–8, 145, 148, 152, 171; of annihilation 128; buffeting 73; deepest 29, 160; project 116 female therapists 50 Fiaschini, F. 163 Floyd, G. 143, 145–6, 172 folklore 51, 65, 168–9, 179 folktales 52, 130, 177 fool 72, 103, 171 forces 3, 6, 26, 40, 44, 47, 52, 65–7, 89; cultural 67; interruptive 116; mysterious 91 Foulkes, S.H. 142–3, 147, 153 fourth object 105, 112 Fraiberg, S. 155–60, 164 free floating discussion 142 freedom 10, 54–5, 87, 107, 110; artistic 100, 103; inner 21; and protection 110 freelance dramatherapists 176 Friedman, M. 30 Friedman, T. 3 fulfilment 21, 42, 120 functions 6, 26, 40, 87, 103, 115–20, 122–3, 125, 171; cognitive thinking 120; feelingthinking 122; intangible 122; integrative cognitive 130; intuitive 5, 115, 120–1, 124; irrational 120; reflexive 157, 164; symbolic 77; therapeutic 104 fungal mycelium 78 gang violence 56 gender 51–3, 57, 62

Index 187

gender socialisation 60 gendered behaviours 60 genosociograms 161–2 gestures 20, 54, 69, 86, 88, 93–5; client’s 121; developmental 86–7, 93 ghosts 7, 48, 57, 71, 155–7, 159–67; client’s 156, 165; demystifying 159; and Fraiberg’s ‘Ghosts in the nursery’ 156; and Holme’s ‘Ghosts in the Consulting Room’ 156; Holmes’ realignment of 165; inherited 166; interrupting psychological progression 166; manifesting as interruptions in the therapeutic relationship 161; and myth enactment 165; parent’s 157 The Golden Stories of Sesame 54 Goleman, D. 117 Gormley, A. 46, 49 graduates 5, 169, 171–2 “Grammatica Parda” 4, 63, 69–72 Greek audiences 103 Greek characters 101 Greek history 103 Greek Traditional Shadow Puppetry 6, 99–105, 107, 109, 111–12; art-form in dramatherapy 100; characters 99, 103; experience 100, 104; in group dramatherapy sessions 104; performances 102, 105; performers 107; screen 100, 104, 107, 112; shadows of 99, 105; stories 101 grief 66, 70, 81, 136, 141, 148, 174–5 Grotowski, G. 72, 163–5 ground 5, 47, 86–7, 91, 97, 125, 166, 169, 177; fertile 43; trusted 93; unifying cosmic 89 group 15, 20, 35, 38, 46, 50, 54, 56–60, 96, 137, 139, 141–50, 152–3, 162–3, 169; analysis 142, 154; culture 130; dynamics 142; facilitators 147; members 46; non-verbal 125; occupational therapy 142; online 143; organised study 142; sessions 149; social 103; student 2, 5; therapeutic 62 group-as-a-whole 142–3, 145 group process 141–2, 149, 151, 153, 170, 172 GTSP see Greek Traditional Shadow Puppetry GTSP Greek Traditional Shadow Puppetry 99 Hancock, H. 128, 133, 135, 138 healing 6–7, 9, 11, 26, 30, 36, 40, 54, 58, 86–8, 90–2, 95, 129, 131–3, 138–9; force

90, 125; intervention 111; medicine 83; outcomes 136; personal 175; potent 118; process 90, 109, 134, 139; transactions 129, 133–4 ‘The Healing Flower’ 54 ‘The Healing Herb’ 54 health 118, 133, 140; conditions 145; issues 146; mental 88, 142; person’s 118 Heidegger, M. 25, 33 hermeneutics 16 Hill, D. 28 Hillman, J. 11, 110, 171 history 2, 9–10, 14–15, 51, 63–4, 67, 69, 71, 77, 90, 162–3, 166, 171, 173, 180; colonial 151; family’s 162; human 10; linear 69; natural 37, 182; oral 129–30; transcending 180 Holocaust 65 home 51–2, 54–5, 59, 73, 78, 81, 83, 145, 170–1, 173, 176, 178, 180–1; moving 172; oneiric 180; parental 79; returning 173 homecoming 176, 180 Hougham, R. 73, 110, 166, 176 human consciousness 10, 14, 105 human evolution 14 human experience 10, 25, 44, 142, 160 human psyche 65–7, 100, 105, 164 identities 4, 17, 46, 62, 70, 102, 104, 111, 151; communal 102; cultural 64, 99; explicate 70; forging 173; new 172; professional 5, 100 illness 66, 129–31, 133, 135–9, 142; chronic 146; long-term 28; mental 110; narrative 129; physical 90 imagery 23–5, 30, 86, 96, 112; natural 92; symbolic 26, 110 images 2, 4–7, 18–20, 22–33, 55–6, 67, 70, 72, 76–9, 83–4, 93–6, 112–13, 152–3, 168, 170–1; associative 73; dynamic 25; frozen 6; interrupting 76; lucid 93; mental 13; mythic 20; poetic 70; singular 77; static 20; symbolic 26, 110 imaginal 4, 7, 45, 78, 84, 88, 120; act 30; approach 66; discipline 82; lines 79; manifestation 76; maps 79; perception 76; performance 138; presences 78; realms 7, 93, 96 imagination 4, 6, 9, 11–14, 16–22, 26–7, 75–6, 79, 83, 86, 88–9, 92, 94–5, 97, 105; active 15, 33, 165; creative 9, 11, 134, 136–7; dangerous 77; false 83; organ of 76, 81; and participation in Sesame

188 Index

dramatherapy 9, 22; primary 13, 18–19; real 11, 20; secondary 13, 19–21 immersion 82, 88, 92, 123 improvisation 38–9, 43, 57, 100–2, 105, 107, 118 impulses 1, 17, 20, 65, 87–8, 94, 104, 170; artistic 82; creative 91; grounding 120; inner 93; shadowy 40 India 43, 50–2, 58, 62, 82 individuals 2, 15, 38, 43, 47, 50, 65, 103–4, 130, 137, 139, 142, 157, 166, 171 individuation 11, 84, 93, 97, 168, 171, 179 infancy 93, 167 infants 16, 124, 127, 139–40, 156–7, 160–1, 167; movements stop and start again 124; pattern of response 161; see also children informed intuition 114–15, 118, 120–2 Ingerman, S. 90 Ingold, T. 78 innate, challenges 173 innocence 59–60 The Inoperative Community 64 instinct 14, 30, 33, 92–7, 114, 120, 123 intelligence 78, 80, 87, 89, 91, 97, 117; emotional 117, 127; intuitive 124 interaction 3, 11, 42, 57, 70, 109, 112, 123, 125, 133–4, 158, 160–1; client-therapist 129; intra-psychic 104; parent-infant 157, 161; relational process 29; subjective 142, 154 interdependence 142 intergenerational 7, 88, 156, 160, 163; legacy 160; transmission 7, 156, 160, 163; wounds 7 internal working model 157–8, 161 interpersonal 2, 104–5, 107, 109, 123–5 interpsychic activity 25, 53 interrupting 2, 21, 63, 65, 67, 69, 71, 73, 79–80, 109, 126, 143, 156, 166; force 119; frequency 35; gesture 143; images 76; previous formations of the world 78 interruption 1–8, 12–13, 27, 38–40, 87–9, 94–7, 111–12, 115, 126–7, 141–7, 149–53, 156–9, 166, 171–3, 179; collective 180; continuous 84; cumulative 87; double 141; external 179; lived experience of 141–3; mythical 72; nature of 1–3, 72, 143, 168; origins of 3–4; personal 143, 145; psychological 172; theme of 2, 144, 159; willed 6, 9 intersectional framework 182 intersectionality 55

intersubjective 94, 135, 137; collaboration 31; connections 26, 30; exigencies 136; matrix 40; moments 28 intersubjectivities 23, 135; narrative based on the asymmetrical power dynamics at play between parties 132; primary 167; and therapeutic relatedness 24 interventionism 115 interventions 32, 57, 120, 125–6, 129 intrapsychic activity 25 intrapsychic process 88 intuition 109, 114–27, 173; chronicle as an integral dynamic force 122; clinical 119, 122; de-fetishise 115; informed 114–15, 118, 120–2; people’s 121; sensation axis 120 intuitive domain 116–18, 122, 124–5 intuitive insights 118, 123 intuitive typology 116–17 irrational functions 120 IWM see internal working model Jahn, R.G. 117 James, W. 12 Japan 35, 37, 47–8 Japanese art and culture 48 Japanese horticultural practice of shakkei 6, 35, 37, 42–5, 47 see also shakkei Jastrow, J. 12, 22 Johnstone, K. 39 Jones, P. 99, 105 Jung, C. 2, 4–5, 10–11, 14–15, 18, 23–30, 32, 76–84, 117, 119–20, 155, 164–5, 171, 176, 179; archetypal theory 23, 25; fourfold framework of human functions 122; Red Book 83–4; Romantic psychology 11; transcendent function 2, 25, 32–3, 119 Jungian thinking 18, 31, 82, 96, 100, 131, 169 Kalahari Kung tribe 90–1 kami 37, 41 Kane, S. 78 Karaghiozis 6, 100–4, 109–12; carnivalistic attributes 103; character 104; character of 102, 109; disruptions in meaning 101; in international workshops and sessions 103; oppressed and foolish 103; puppet and shadow 110 Katz, R. 90 King Lear 71, 73 Kirmayer, L. 128, 130, 133–6, 138 knowledge 59, 85, 88, 93, 111, 133, 180; dusky 63–4, 70; intuitive 42; objective 10

Index 189

Laban Movement module 87 Lakshmibai, R. 52 landscape 20, 36, 46, 71, 87–8, 94, 124; borrowed 37; distant 37; imaginary 96; natural 68; pre-verbal 125; wild 68 Landy, R. 105, 130 language 4, 7, 12, 23, 63, 69–71, 73, 96, 117, 121, 134–5, 160, 163, 173, 181; behavioural 4; core 160; history of 10–11, 15; improvised 134; native 134; non-verbal 169; of psychoanalysis 70; psychological 4; sacred 64; symbolic 171; transactional 134 Lanny 64, 68–9, 73 Lavery, D. 11 letters 85 Levinas, E. 1 Levine, S.K. 21 life histories 129, 133, 139; Ojermark’s description of 131 Lindkvist, Marion “Billy” 5, 44, 90, 114–15, 118–21, 123, 142, 169 lines-dreaming 78, 84 Lipman, D. 136–7 lived experience 6, 9, 24, 31, 93, 131–2, 159–60, 163–4 lockdowns 7, 141, 149, 177; see also COVID-19 MA Drama and Movement Therapy training 2, 5, 169, 177–8 MADMT see MA Drama and Movement Therapy training magia naturalis 171 marriage ceremonies 136 mass psychosis 65 Mattingly, C. 130 mediation 105 medical anthropology 130–1 meditation 45, 97 memories 2, 7, 13, 18–19, 36, 63, 66–7, 69–71, 77, 83, 85, 90, 95–7, 161, 163; ancestral 66; corporeal 161; flesh 63, 66; forgotten 160; implicit 161; molecular 68–9; personal 66, 72; skin 63, 66, 70; treasured 177; unconscious 161 Menon, Prof. N. 51, 53, 57 menstruation 58–60; impurity 58; rituals and ceremonies 59; taboos 58, 60 mentalisation 157, 160–1, 164 Merleau-Ponty, M. 23, 31, 159, 164 Miller, J.C. 30 mind-body dualism 31, 42, 159–61, 164–5 Mindell, A. 86, 89–91, 93 Mossbridge, J. 119

movement 7, 11, 44, 46, 52, 54, 56–7, 85, 87–98, 100, 112–14, 127, 167, 169, 171; amplified 179; empty 123; exercises 114; leading 52; meditational 86, 93–4, 97; performer’s 107; practice 89; rhythmic 122; sessions 56, 96; spontaneous 86, 88, 93–6 Movement with Touch and Sound 44, 114, 124, 127 MTS see Movement with Touch and Sound mutuality 41, 142 mycelium, fungal 78 mystery 30, 84, 89, 92, 116 myth 4, 7, 9, 11, 14–15, 18, 20, 62–73, 77, 93, 109, 155, 161, 163–7, 169; absence of 64–5, 73; contemporary 68; engineered 65; language of 70, 72; of origin 169; potency of 163; traditional 171; true 11, 21 ‘Myth interrupted’ 64 mythic scenography 64 mythologems 63, 72 mythology 66, 130, 169, 171 narratives 7, 64–5, 89, 102, 129–31, 133, 137, 160, 162; ancestral 162; broken 128, 130, 139; emergent 130, 139; epic 63; established 100; foundational 130; incommensurability 129, 133, 135; personal 131; subjective 162; turn 132, 135, 138; truthful 160; unconscious ancestral 162 narratology 129–31, 138 nature 2, 4–6, 10–11, 14–15, 18–22, 32–3, 37, 39–42, 46–8, 65–6, 70–1, 73; inanimate 20; inherited human 65; nonverbal 122; part of 42, 172; precious 91; sensible 14; supposed invisible 115; transcendent 122; voice of 1–2 negative capability 95, 110–11 nest 5, 168, 173, 175–80 The New York Times 3 Nicholl, C. 71 norms 53, 60, 102; gendered 57–8; psychological 112; societal 102 Northfield Military Hospital 142 oblique 72, 122 oblique approach 11, 105, 111 occupational therapy 54 Ojermark, A. 129, 131, 133 Orpheus 70, 73 Pan Gu (Chinese myth) 15–17 pandemic 4, 7, 149; COVID-19 1, 4, 43, 141, 144–6, 153, 172, 175, 177, 181; global 1, 4, 7, 141, 143

190 Index

participants 26, 29, 32, 39, 54, 57, 59–60, 94, 100–1, 103–5, 107, 110–11, 162–3; performing 104; speaking 103; young 59 participation 4, 6, 9–13, 15–21; cognitive 12; imaginative 13, 21; modes of 9, 17; mystique 10, 14; primal 10, 14–15, 18, 21; transformative 19; unconscious 14 Pasha 101–3, 109–11 patriarchal 51–3, 55, 57–8, 60, 126; barriers 51; egos 58; norms 52, 57–8, 60 patriarchy 5, 50–5, 57–62 perception 11, 13–14, 17–18, 20, 32–3, 41, 118, 126, 159; audience’s 108; automatised 20; habitual 13; human 13; rational 123; subjective 24; unconscious 27 performances 8, 48, 65, 84, 99–100, 102–3, 105, 109, 111, 132, 139; contemporary 103; ethnographic 136–7; therapeutic puppetry 140 performers 100–1, 104–9; audience affectual connection 109; awareness of any thoughts, emotions, bodily sensations and images of their own 109; doubting Pasha’s decision 110; standing behind a screen of stretched white fabric 99 personal 66; accounts 5; acquisition 164; dignity 58; experimentations 99; inventory 7; reflections 5, 143, 168, 173; unconscious 66 perspective 7, 12, 17, 42–3, 51, 89–90, 97, 105, 106, 111, 118, 120, 127, 160, 173; arbitrator of 131; imaginative 6; psychodynamic 109; psychotherapeutic 88; socio-cultural 138; subjective 181; therapist’s 56 perspectives 106 phenomena 10–13, 23–6, 29, 60, 155, 169; interruptive 47; peripheral 35; repeating intuitive 119; spontaneous 124 phenomenologists 24 phenomenology 23–4, 33, 113, 132, 167; of healing 132–3; narrative 131; practice of 23, 33 philosophy 6, 9, 32, 42–3, 125, 131, 142, 159; contemporaneous Romantic 11; eastern 43; existential 24; medieval scholastic 14 physicians 129–30, 132–3, 135 Pinkola Estes, C. 53 place 35–8, 43–8, 53–4, 70–3, 77, 79–81, 91–3, 110–12, 122–4, 141–3, 150, 152, 170, 173–6, 180–1 placement meditation 45 Pogue, A. 37

poiesis 21–2, 95 Porter, M. 64, 68 Porter, R. 44 possession 65–6, 96 Powell, D.H. 117–18 power 3–4, 25–6, 50–1, 53, 58, 64–5, 69, 84, 133–4, 143, 146, 150, 153, 176, 179; dynamics 132, 138; gendered modes of 51; male 51; mediating 6; oppressive 52; relationships 135; transformative 39 practice 3–7, 23–5, 35–45, 54, 58–60, 86–92, 113–16, 118–21, 125–6, 129–30, 132–6, 138–40, 161–3, 168–71, 177–8; cultural 91; experiential 40; patriarchal 58; ritualistic 60; self-care 54 practitioners 13, 38, 41, 44, 118, 119, 126, 129, 133, 137–8 Pratt, M.L. 134–5, 137 prayers 96–7 pre-verbal 115–16, 120–5; communities 115, 125; issues 116; processes 115; settings 115 primary imagination 13, 18–19 ‘Primordial level’ 153 primordial mind 84 prison 35, 45 prisoners 6, 45–6 processing 26, 108–9, 137, 157–9 profound disabilities 54, 126 programmes 2–3, 57–8 protests 150–1 proxemics 6, 43 psyche 5, 8, 30, 33, 63, 65–6, 69–73, 76–80, 83, 85, 87, 89–90, 154, 156, 164–7; conscious 165; individual’s 162; polyphonic 80; spontaneous 78 psychiatric hospitals 90 psychiatrists 142 psychic 20, 26, 89, 124; contact 104; contents 21; inventory 83; occurrence 29; pain 92 psychoanalysis 66, 70, 167 psychoanalysts 44, 142 psychological typology 119 psychologists 1–3, 163 psychology 6–7, 9, 11, 15, 31, 33, 63, 69–71, 131, 174, 181; analytical 24, 33; developmental 169; radical 21 psychosis 65, 96 psychotherapeutic 2, 88, 90, 116, 135, 138; applications 90; process 2; settings 135 psychotherapists, existential 24, 163 psychotherapy 4, 17, 63, 119, 136, 156, 166; orthodoxy 72; seen through science and clinically as relational 31

Index 191

puppeteers 6, 100, 105, 107 puppetry 104–5, 113, 137, 140 puppets 99–100, 104–5, 107 QR code scanners 181 quality 7, 12, 20–1, 24–5, 30, 32, 43–4, 48, 91–3, 96, 105, 119, 121, 124, 157–8; creative 20; defining 159; opposite 96; paradoxical 44; sensory 13, 20; transcendent 90 race 151 racial discrimination 146 racism 5, 150–1, 153 RCSSD see Royal Central School of Speech and Drama re-traumatisation 95, 120 real 2–4, 11, 20–1, 25–7, 42–5, 76–9, 83–4, 87–9, 111–12, 122–6, 131–3, 143–53, 160–3, 165–6, 176–8 real imagination 11, 20 recalibration (system) 95–6 reciprocity 40–1, 43, 87 Red Book 81, 85 Reena, Sadangu 61; thoughts 60 reflections 5, 143, 168, 173 relational dynamics 161 relationships 5–6, 17–18, 20–1, 27, 32, 37–8, 43–4, 66–8, 86–7, 93–5, 129, 156–7, 159–60, 162–5, 179; clinical 132; creative 80; extra-sensory 10; immersive 115; interactive 133; interpsychic 32; mother-infant 156, 167; normal 29; parentinfant 156–8; parent-infant attachment 158; patient-physician 132; primary attachment 123, 157; therapist-client 165; therapistpatient 156; unconscious 32 religio 83–4 religion 51–2, 58, 65, 82, 173 religious 52, 58, 67; minority 52; practice 58; sanctity 58 research 36, 39, 87–8, 90, 115, 117, 119, 122, 126–7, 129–30, 132, 135–6, 155, 158, 170; frameworks 117; medium 115; performing 147, 169–70, 182; scientific 119; therapeutic performance 182 resources 96, 133–6 rhythms 36, 87, 90–2, 123–4, 143, 169, 179; earthy 90; inner 67; interruptive 1; oscillating 45 rites 57–8, 171–2; of incorporation 172; of passage 57–8, 168; of separation 172 ritual 54, 58–60, 63, 66, 84, 86, 89, 91–2, 95–7, 132, 136, 141, 170–2, 176, 181–2; ceremonies 58, 172; closing/separating

55; co-created 95; dramas 136; healing practices 92, 126, 132, 138; horizon event 46; menstrual 59; process 126–7, 173 The River of Consciousness 23 Rodin, D. 117–18 Romanticism 9, 11, 22 rooks 2–3, 79, 92–3, 97 Royal Central School of Speech and Drama 2–5, 15, 87, 97, 141–2, 150, 153, 168–70, 173, 177, 182 Sacks, O. 23–4 Schore, A. 23, 31, 158 Schützenberger, A.A. 161–2 Schwartz-Salant, N. 32 screens 6, 43, 99–100, 104–5, 107, 109, 144, 152; bright computer 36; white fabric 99 Second World War 65, 155 Seeing Like A Feminist 51 self 3, 10, 15, 17–18, 39–40, 43–4, 46–7, 70–1, 88–90, 97–8, 112–13, 159, 166–7, 171–2, 181–2; determination 5; development 142; reflective process 32, 137, 177; vulnerable 128; witnessing 109; wounded 62 ‘self and world’ 164 self-care 54, 56 sensation 18, 30, 36, 39, 47, 67, 81, 94–6, 116–17, 119–20, 143, 158; bodily 60, 109; function 117, 121, 123; pole 120 separation 10, 15, 18–19, 31, 123, 157, 172, 181; imaginary 31; indefinable 30; rites of 172; subject-object 18 services 121, 122, 177 Sesame 9, 15, 54, 62, 90, 111, 114, 140–1, 168–71, 174–7, 180–1; approach 3, 11, 17–18, 72, 87, 89, 92, 95, 99, 101, 109–14, 127, 167–9, 181–2; context 105; dramatherapists 177–8; dramatherapy 9, 11, 14–15, 72; experience of 177; folklore 168–71, 173, 175, 177, 179, 181; founder Marian Lindkvist 44; method 5, 7, 25, 31, 44, 169; methodology 180; open 168–9, 180; practitioner Rachel Porter 44; practitioners 21, 43; session structure 9, 110; structure 18, 21, 122, 150 Sesame Drama and Movement Therapy practice 114 sessions 11–12, 28–9, 45–6, 54–9, 94–5, 103, 121, 122–4, 126, 142–4, 146–9, 153, 179; dramatherapy-informed 100;

192 Index

one-off group process 141–3; planned 124; pre-verbal 115; previous 29 shadow perspectives 107 shadow puppetry 99–101, 103–5, 107, 109, 111, 113; dimensional 101; and dramatherapy 99–113; and the dual role of the screen 100; workshops 99 shadows 38, 49–50, 65, 71–2, 74, 85, 101, 104–6, 108–10, 112–13, 142, 162, 171; archetypal 102; collective 65, 101–2; compensatory 104; non-material 104; personal 65; puppet’s 105 Shaheen Bagh, Delhi 52 Shakespeare, W. 71 shakkei 6, 35, 37, 42–5, 47; artist gardeners working in liminal fields 47; spirit of 35, 42 Shaw, M. 63, 66–7, 93 Sheldrake, R. 117 Silva, C. 37 social media 3 social sciences 4, 71, 129–32, 138 society 50–1, 53, 70, 102–3, 110, 125–6, 134, 142, 153; matrilineal 50; patriarchal 53, 55; representing Greek 101 soul 2, 14, 43, 49, 67, 74, 76, 85, 97; imaginative 10; of the world 7; retrieval 7, 88, 90, 94, 97 space 15, 19–20, 27, 29–32, 39, 46–7, 56, 86–7, 89–95, 141–3, 145, 149, 151–3, 169–71, 179–81; ambient 47; ceremonial 91; clinical 133–5; defined 47; dramatherapeutic 104; existential 180; imaginative 100; online 143; provocative 153; ritual 90, 92; transitional 171; visceral 123 spatial 36, 94, 99–100, 104–5, 108–9, 112–13, 132, 140; arrangements 100; configurations 105; isolation 108; obstacles to communication 109; setup 99 Spinoza 42–3, 49 spiralic synonymity (pleasures and pain) 125 spirit 5, 10–11, 14, 38, 62, 65, 68, 76, 88–91, 93, 95–7, 113; dancing 91; human 171; possession 57 spontaneous movement 86–8, 90, 94–6, 126 spots of time 67, 70 states 3, 12, 15, 21, 26–7, 64, 76, 88, 96, 123; emotional 158; inner spiritual 76; interruptive 173; intersubjective 30; psychological 30, 76; relational 87 Stern, D. 30 Stevens, A. 34, 171 Stickle, M. 119 Stolfi, D. 105, 136

stone soup 170–1, 175–6 stories 15–17, 20, 48, 51–4, 63–73, 94–5, 101, 109–10, 130–3, 137, 139, 155–6, 163–4, 168–73, 177–80; ancient 67, 163; collective 166; fragmented life 129; misprisoning 136; mythic 11; old 72, 91, 94; origin 109, 111; personal 72, 139; sharing 170; universal 163 storytelling 4, 7, 64, 69–70, 130–2, 134–5, 137, 139, 163, 170 students 2, 5, 43, 73, 96, 115, 136–7, 141–5, 147, 153, 166, 169; catalysing 153; fellow 141; first year dramatherapy 141; second year 141; undergraduate 178 symbol 11, 25–8, 30–3, 51–2, 76–8, 81, 83–5, 95–6, 100, 102–7, 109–12, 153, 165–7, 171–2, 181–2 symbolic attitudes 11, 68, 95–6, 166 symbolic deities 51 symbolic material 107, 165 symbolic portrayals 103 symbolism 85, 105–6, 109 symbols 22, 25, 28, 52, 65, 73, 77, 83, 102–3, 109–10, 137, 165–6, 171, 176, 181–2; cultural 100; mythical 110; uniting 165 systemic oppression 5 taboo 58, 60 Tawny Grammar 70–2; see also Grammatica Parda teachers 88, 96–7, 174 teams 3–4, 141, 177; psychiatric 142; staff 2, 141, 149 tepees 83, 173 theatre 47–8, 66, 70, 113, 139; arts/ therapeutic practice 35; folk 101; practice 163 therapeutic 26, 29, 36; interventions 109–10, 125; misrepresentation 131; practice 3, 12, 23–4, 33, 36, 119, 125, 155, 161, 163; process 29, 109, 140, 147; relationship 6, 26, 33, 47, 116, 119–20, 156, 161, 165–6; space 15, 27, 31–2, 36, 126, 129, 137 therapeutic encounters 40, 115, 121–2, 128, 138 therapists 20, 22–8, 30–2, 40–1, 46–7, 120–3, 125–30, 132, 134–6, 138–9, 141–2, 150, 165–6, 168–72, 176–80; arts 129, 134; compassionate 128; female 50; navigating the ‘irrational’ zones of the intuition/sensation axis 120; qualified 40; use of the art form 20 therapy 9, 11–12, 17–18, 22, 24, 30, 105, 110, 113, 126, 128, 132, 138–9, 142,

Index 193

156; allied 54; continuous 150; creative 114–15, 117; drama and movement therapy 2, 5, 87, 92, 95, 114, 141, 169, 182; expressive arts 21–2; individual 166, 169; occupational 54 third object 105 Thoreau, H. 63, 70–1, 74 Tolkien, J.R.R. 6, 9 trainees 115, 171–2; experience 172; experiential learning 172 transcendent functions 2, 23–5, 29–30, 33, 165 transference 25, 55, 125 transformation 20–1, 24, 33, 135, 171 transgenerational trauma 153 trauma 2, 8, 36, 71, 86, 89, 98, 136, 141, 156, 158–61, 181; early 156, 158; effects 158; histories 96; personal 166; psychological 156; transgenerational 153; unconscious 162 trickster 64, 102–4, 113 tropes 39, 120, 131 trust 86–7, 89, 93–6, 133 Turner, V. 136 typology 118–19 unconscious 10–11, 13–15, 23–33, 66, 71–3, 79–84, 87–91, 93, 96–7, 109–10, 123, 153, 155–6, 158, 161–7; attitudes 115; biases 135, 179; compensations 32; counteraction 26; data 25–6; influence 166; material 26, 30, 32, 104, 109–10, 112, 164–5; parts 164; reality 162 understanding 16–17, 23–5, 27, 29, 31–3, 86, 88, 93, 110–12, 115, 131, 135, 157, 160, 164–5; automatic 17; binary 53; conceptual 57; deeper 32–3, 142; developed 30; historical 103; mutual 137, 157; psychological 24; rationalistic 66

unknown 141, 177 unknown spaces 89 value 11–12, 81, 116, 118, 125–6, 133, 152; cultural 65; therapeutic 99 vera imaginatio 83 Vieten, C. 117 violence 56–8, 62 virus 151; see also pandemic voices 43–4, 68, 72, 80, 83, 99–100, 107, 111, 117, 141–2, 161, 163, 175, 178, 181; authorial 142; contemporary 119; individual 143; quiet 152; student 143, 149 von Franz, M-L. 65, 79, 81, 83, 102–3, 121, 123, 131 Weltanshauung 65 Wethered, A. 114 wisdom 85, 94–5, 116, 125, 173; hidden 93; inner 95; supra-individual mythic 10 “Wisdom of the Mythtellers” 78 witnessing 39, 41, 52, 94, 100 wolves 53, 62, 76, 170 women 50–3, 55–8, 60, 62; celebrate 51; contribution to historical pursuits 51 Women Who Run with Wolves 53 words 21–2, 67–8, 70–2, 77, 79, 95–6, 109–12, 122–4, 133–5, 142–3, 152, 160, 165, 169, 175–6; history of 10; printed 71; sesame 168–9; spoken 169; storyteller’s 67 workshops 52, 103, 174; open 174; running 99 yielding 86–97 Zeller, M. 82 Zoom 143–4, 177–8