:: narrative ::

Paying for contact

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 14:54:00 +0000

This is Pearl. :)

I just finished the two-year training program at the Indianapolis Gestalt Institute (woo hoo!) and so now I am a Certified Gestalt Practitioner, which doesn't make me a therapist but does mean I am more in touch with my stuff than ever. :) This has been a phenomenal (and phenomenological) program (lol) and I have learned a LOT and awakened a LOT in the process.

The other day, walking Pearl, I was thinking about how the process of Gestalt therapy works, and how by being present with others in a Gestalt way we can assist in completing gestalts that have previously been blocked by interruptions to contact. Suppose, for example, that when you were a child you had one parent who never heard you, no matter what you did. Achieved high marks at school, excelled in sports, won the spelling bee--it didn't matter. You just weren't on that parent's radar screen, for whatever reason. Part of the Gestalt view is that chances are good that you developed a way to manage the need the parent couldn't fulfill--maybe you shrugged it off and said, "I don't need her approval anyway"--and that over time, that "creative adjustment" became a pattern that you play out in numerous circumstances. At some point in your life, you begin to notice that you just don't show up on women's radar screens, and you're curious about that. Why does this always seem to happen to you? Will you ever have a happy relationship? What could you do differently?

So this could bring you to counseling, and, if you're lucky, to a therapist who is trained in Gestalt work. And during your time together, you will have a chance to explore and complete the Gestalt that didn't get completed--the need that didn't get met--by the parent who was out to lunch. It's really amazing the way this happens--our beings are always leaning (and sometimes stumbling, and sometimes storming) toward wholeness! This in my opinion is why Gestalt works above and beyond all other modalities (even narrative, which I love): It is in sync with our own deepest desire for wholeness, and we ourselves bring out the tools we need to complete the work. The Gestalt practitioner isn't "magic" and doesn't have a special formula she applies; the practitioner isn't the "expert" and you're not the "person needing help." Through relationship, the opportunity presents itself for that need to be met, successfully this time. And once it is met, you now have a new pattern to use when that particular need arises. Simple? You bet! And beautiful. And effective.

So when Pearl and I were walking, I realized a funny quirk about going to a Gestalt therapy session. On one level it feels great to be able to be with someone who is so awake and aware, and to discover new options for meeting needs that weren't met previously. Good work gets done. Wholeness is emerging. But on another level, at some point we may wake up and say, "Hey, this support feels great, but I'm paying for it. I think I'm ready to have this kind of contact in my life outside the therapist's office!" And maybe that's when you graduate! Or at least you feel good enough about your new options in relationship that you don't feel they are available only in the confines of the therapist-client relationship.

So this is good news for us as individuals, but a good reminder for us as Gestalt practitioners: The idea is not to build a client list of people that fill up your calendar for weeks on end, but to grow a list of vibrant, alive, contactful folks who took the discoveries you helped them uncover and launched out into the world with a sense of their own agency and wholeness! In this way, Gestalt is the best stop-gap therapeutic approach I know for boosting others toward wholeness. But for the practitioner, the trust needs to be in the process, knowing that if you build a freeing, healing practice, they will come. :)

Anxiety as lack of support

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 14:21:00 +0000

I like the Gestalt view of personhood because the edges between organism and environment are fluid and moving together in the dance of the whole. This morning I awoke feeling overwhelmed with everything that stretches before me. There's no reason that this day is any different from another, but things are sticking to me more. I am worrying and feeling like a shoe is about to drop somewhere. I don't know why such feelings bubble up some days and don't on others. Perhaps one day I'll know that. But for now, it's helpful for me to look at my anxiety as a call for more support--from me internally, from my environment, from others in my life.

How can my field shore me up when I feel a little weak inside? In the past, my tendency has been to push through the weakness, to bully it, to get busy enough that I forget it's there. That works, sometimes. But perhaps it's not the kindest way to deal with myself, long-term. Maybe a better way is to recognize the call for support and choose to supply it and be open to it, so a warm current comes flooding in the cold spot where the anxiety holds itself, shivering. Then the anxiety calms and breathes and opens again to becoming part of the flow. Nice.

Finding our way in accelerating times

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 13:14:00 +0000

Maybe it's just me, but lately it feels like the world is spinning faster and faster. A greater number of natural catastrophes. Families struggling. A spinning (but going nowhere) economy. Bizarro political candidates. Things seem to make less sense. And more is being asked of us--in work, in life, in techology, in faith.

In the midst of all this swirling, along with end-of-the-Mayan-calendar worries and global climate change, how can we put our feet down and feel grounded? Is it possible to come back into our bodies, to follow our very own breath, to feel our rootedness with the planet? I think it is, but it can only happen right now, in this instant. If we're worrying about October or watching the nightly news and drinking it all in, it's hard to feel rooted here-and-now. Today I want my awareness to be on my immediate living--this moment, these cells, this place, this awareness. I have a feeling that once all my energy is brought back to living this moment, celebration will follow. :)

In search of cultural memory

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 19:50:00 +0000

I am fascinated with the idea of cultural memory--the stories we know about the places in our lives, handed down from our ancestors about how to live, what to watch for, where to build, and what to expect. "Tsunami Warnings, Written in Stone," by Martin Fackler at the New York Times takes a closer look at these ancient stone tablets--some 600 years old--telling inhabitants where to build, where to live, what to expect in the event of a major earthquake and tsunami.

It makes me wonder where our cultural memory is today--where are the signs? Whether you live in the U.S., the EU, Australia, or on a tiny remote island, what signs have your ancestors left for you? What do you wish you knew about this place where you live? How does it communicate its lore? And what very important thing have you all but forgotten?

Completing the Cycle

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 12:56:00 +0000

I noticed this morning that there were a couple of unfinished conversations swimming around in my mind and heart, conversations in which I shared what felt like important ideas about life and faith and the-way-things-seem-to-me-to-work. I had shared these conversations on a listserv that I enjoy, and the folks there are interesting and engaged with life and studying fascinating things. But mostly I am a lurker on these lists, simply reading and pondering and not participating. But in this particular instance, something someone said connected to a very alive experience for me and I commented on it, and that led to bigger thoughts about philosophical setpoints and the possibility of contact in relationships.

Except. In each case, the two people I was corresponding with just dropped their conversation with me, and then returned to the disagreement they seemed to want to continue with each other. One person I had asked what I felt was an important question to, and he just didn't respond at all. The other person offered up his understanding of life-in-faith, but when I shared mine, he made no response. So I felt unwelcome, unregarded, or dismissed, somehow. Or did I strike a nerve? That wasn't my intention. Or did they simply disagree with me and choose not to continue the conversation? Or did they just want to fight with each other and didn't want my questions to draw them off-track?

Who knows? What I *can* know is that the energy was alive and unfinished in me. I would have liked to have had some response so the contact would feel complete and it wouldn't still be churning around in me. So, realizing this, I found both of the email messages, clicked Forward, put my own email address in the To line, and asked myself, "what part of me does that person represent?" and then wrote my response with that voice. The responses were surprising and interesting--not what I might have naturally constructed from my own viewpoint--and I clicked Send. When the messages arrived, I read them as though they had come from the other people.

And the energy resolved itself. I felt things come back into balance, and the cycle completed.

So I offer this as a helpful technique in case you are waiting on a response that hasn't come, wondering about a question that was never asked, or in some other way are waiting on closure from some outside source about something. If each person in our lives is helping us toward wholeness by mirroring what we bring and helping us see opportunitites for growth, then working with these energies within ourselves truly does help resolve issues so we can move ahead. I would never suggest we don't need or want others in our lives for support, love, fun, struggle, and companionship, but it's good to know that we don't have to wait for some seemingly uncontrollable other to give us what we need when the tools for peace are within our reach.

Vigilance

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 11:57:00 +0000

There are lots of reasons—and good reasons—we are vigilant in our lives. We want to protect our families. We hope to protect ourselves. We watch our money. We notice where the dandelions spring up in our yards. We saw that look he gave you. We wonder whether our jobs will last. We watch for clues—continually—from our environment. When to laugh, when to look up, when to duck.

Some of us learn vigilance very early as a creative adjustment to a situation in which we needed to keep our eyes open and our wits about us. We were always watching, watching. Thinking, thinking. Preparing a mental plan. If he comes home drunk, I'll do this. If she doesn't come home at all tonight, I'll do that.

I've been thinking a lot about my own vigilance lately, about the gifts it's given me (it's a create tool for any writer, because it helps you notice absolutely everything), as well as the challenges, the straightjacket, it offers the way I look at the world. Sometimes my vigilance is exhausting because it wants me not only to notice everything but to anticipate everything and then to do exactly the right thing with the information popping up for my noticing. This is, of course, impossible.

Vigilance also doesn't really know the limits of her own powers—she's immature in that way. She promises perfect safety. She promises that we'll know what to do. But she doesn't see how her presence changes things that arise. Allowing and Breathing let whatever is emerging in the moment show up, unshaped, unmolded, reasonably—or relatively—uncontrolled. But Vigilance holds everything tightly in the name of keeping the person safe. This means a certain amount of shaping, controlling has to go on—there is a forced construct to protect.

I think it's possible to soften Vigilance into Noticing, which can then relax into the arms of Allowing. A certain amount of growth in safety has to happen to make that journey, and a supportive environment that can be trusted is certainly part of the mix.

Maybe there's enough distance now between the Us we were then and the Us we are now to allow our Vigilance to soften into Noticing. Many things we perceived as threats when we were small may now be annoyances or even less—just small things we now know how to manage. Let's soften where we can, and gradually, slowly, Allowing might just step into our pictures.

The group voice

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 13:47:00 +0000

This past weekend I began a year's worth of training at the Indianapolis Gestalt Institute, where I will add a specialization in Gestalt approaches to the MDiv in pastoral care and counseling. I love both narrative and Gestalt and find that they work together harmoniously to help us be aware of the energy that's arising in the present moment and notice the story that is shaping the expression of that energy.

One of the areas that fascinates me is the idea of the arising field--the idea that we aren't separate individual beings but part of an interrelated field of events in each living moment. (That's a deeper subject that requires lots more explanation, but I'll tackle that in a future post.) The piece that's resonating for me this morning relates to a conversation I had with two others recently. We were discussing different stories in our lives, and I noticed that as I talked about my own awareness, I used the word "violence," which isn't normally part of my vocabulary. Hearing it come out of my mouth was jarring--I felt the energy leap out of me with the word. It shook me up.

Just moments later, one of the other people in the group described a story that included the theme of being forced to do something--the image she painted was not peaceful, and, in fact, I thought, "Oh my goodness, there's that violence theme again!"

The third person (whom I had never met before) was very high energy and had a loud voice. All movements and expressions seemed exaggerated, put-on. In the moment I was aware and curious about the expressions of "violence" that came from two of us but not the third. Then the person mentioned a difficult conflicted power struggle with his aging father and I thought--"aha...there's the source of that energy."

So my curiosity and my question is this: How much of what we express is really "sharing the burden" with another and helping them manifest emotions and circumstances they need in order to heal? Is your anger your anger? Or are you assisting me by feeling something for me until I'm able to feel it for myself?

Popping the lid on our thinking

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 11:32:00 +0000

For as long as I can remember, I have used the phrase "popping the lid on our thinking" to describe that kind of thought that makes a numb for a moment as we feel a new thought sweeping through our minds and opening us to new ideas. Popping the lid means you open to new things and let the fresh breeze of possibility into your consciousness. It's a good thing. :)

Today is Emily Dickinson's birthday, and Writer's Almanac today published this quote of hers: "If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry." Yes, exactly! Let the sun shine in. :)

THIS is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,—
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

[source: image and verse from http://www.bartleby.com/113/1000.html]

Don't let the cloud win

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 11:43:00 +0000

Last night I had a conversation with a friend about the nature of discouragement and the feelings of hopelessness and "why try?" that go along with it. It seems we all run through cycles of times when internally we feel ready and able to take on any task, and then times when we feel overwhelmed and too ineffective to resolve even the tiniest challenge. I'm not sure why our emotional boats pitch and sway like this--perhaps it's our inner sense of identity, maybe it's the stars, or it could be we're all fighting colds. :)

Whatever it is that disempowers us, when we feel low, the cloud of discouragement comes to sit on our shoulders. Suddenly we can't see the way out of things. Answers seem far away. Life doesn't feel right. We doubt our abilities. We wonder whether we'll ever feel effective again.

This cloud, as heavy and dense and real as it feels, is just vapor. Vapor filled with the exhaust of past experiences, of all the doubts that stick to us during ther day, of all the fears we project into the future about obstacles that could arise.

The reality is here, in this moment. Right now. We are capable creators, who sometimes forget or can't see (for whatever reason), the sheer joy and power of our potential to create. We can create for ourselves clouds around our heads or beautiful meadows under our feet. We can pave our own way with obstacles or line the path with beauty and peace. We create in every moment, and our creations--for better or worse--inspire others to create their own worlds.

So today, if the cloud of discouragement follows you around, remember that it's not real--it's not who you are. Reject the worries that say your life isn't what it should be. Claim responsibility for where you are and know that wherever that may be you have within you the creative power to create the story you want. There is a force (I'm convinced) that is for you--it's part of your creative heritage. Try it and see. Just say to that cloud "You're not real," and pay attention as your internal energy begins to build.

We're not here to be victims or our lives--passive recipients of events--but to create the lives we envision, in love, in blessing, in joy. Let's try it! :)

Listening to Receive

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 13:11:00 +0000

This morning a thought occurred to me about a subtle difference in listening that can make all the difference in relationship. Last night I saw the movie Everybody's Fine with Robert DeNiro. It was a sweet movie with a simple a painful premise: when we tell people in our lives--especially those to whom was are closely tied--that we are "fine" and cover up the real struggles, events, and happenings, we create a distance that makes our relationships artificial. It's true--I've seen it and lived it in my own life.

There is a school of thought (one I do subscribe to, mostly) that whatever we pay attention to grows. So the tendency to not talk about the bad stuff as a way to avoid making it real is understandable. But there's also that level of "protectionism" (I didn't want to worry you) and fear (I didn't want to burden you) that really can be justifications for hiding.

Some of this ability to speak truth has to do with the quality of listening. If we have rarely been deeply heard and received, telling these kinds of realities about our lives--job loss, fears, relationship troubles, health issues--may leave us feeling very vulnerable and exposed. How can we trust the other person to care and handle our truth in an honoring way if they haven't ever received what we've said in the past? If someone doesn't feel your real presence, if they don't really understand you, if you can stand next to them and feel alone, why would you tell them the deepest things you're struggling with in your life?

I think when we make the choice to be authentic, to tell the truth in love no matter how we are received or by whom, it heals us, for usHopefully the other person will receive what we say--maybe not today, and maybe not this time. But when we're authentic, at least the other person sees it and knows we're making some kind of effort on behalf of our relationship with them. And that decision, made as consistently as we can make it, will sooner or later lighten the air between us so that one day, we'll realize that no matter how the other person reacts, we have shown up authentically in the world. And that's big. And it gets easier, the more you do it. :)

Community losses

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 18:14:00 +0000

At my Quaker meeting, we have lost three wonderful women in three weeks. Mary's death was unexpected and a shock--she was in her 50s, a peace activist, a gentle, beautiful woman. Hilda was in her late 80s, and even though she'd lived a long wonderful life, she was strong and sure, with a great sense of humor and more than a little twinkle in her eye. Her loss is huge for all of us. And Betsy, a colorful, 80-year-old artist with a love of expression (who was known to sing prayers in meeting), passed away yesterday morning, surrounded by her closest family members.

Our community rides together in a small boat that is feeling wave after wave of grief. Those who helped navigate with their wisdom and experience are not with us. Who will move into those roles now? How will the community continue? What are we feeling, and how will we share or manage those feelings in a way that help us feel more connected and less isolated?

Grief demands many things of us, individually and collectively. It asks us to feel what we feel. It invites us to share with each other (not all of us feel able to do that, though). It lets us respond in our own way (by pulling away or reaching out) but it draws us into the heart of the paradox of what it means to live. To live and to lose. To love and to let go. To risk loving again, even though this means the hurt will be that much more intense.

This morning I'm wondering what grief looks like for communities--those who lose key people who were so much more than individuals. People who embody the heart and soul of the community in a real way. When they are with us no more, what does the community have? How will it grow and change? What's next, when the clouds of grief begin to dissipate enough for us to begin to consider the road ahead?

Important questions, I think. I don't have answers today--only more questions. But maybe we'll discover them along the way.

Thinking landscapes

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 16:07:00 +0000

This morning for some reason I found myself mentally tabbing through many of the best experiences of my life, and I noticed with some wonder that many of them had something in common. Beautiful landscapes. A sense of openness, freedom. A timeless quality that brought peace and a sense of limitless expansiveness. In some situations those where real physical landscapes: watching a thunderstorm out over the ocean; watching eagles circling overhead in Alaska; sitting on a porch in the afternoon watching waves of corn stalks, moving in the wind. And then there's the sky--open, beautiful, always changing. I love the sky in the midwestern U.S.--you can see that is really does go on forever, and it's one of the most defining characters in the Indiana landscape. Not tall buildings. Not mountains. Not gorges and rivers. Not flat land. The sky. A constant companion that lifts you up and out of yourself. Nice.

What are the landscapes in your life, and how have they shaped some of your best experiences? If you have a few minutes today, thumb back through that photo album (even if it's in your mind) and see. :)

New International eJournal in Narrative Practice

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 12:53:00 +0000

A few days ago the Dulwich Centre officially launched Explorations: An E-journal of Narrative Practice. Editor John Winslade writes a wonderful opening piece that sets the stage for the discussion and welcomes input from practitioners, professionals, students, and just people like us living this life all over the world. The Centre is inviting feedback and wants help in shaping the journal in the months to come. A wonderful first effort! Check it out.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 02:55:00 +0000

Impermanence and the Nature of Change

I ran across a Buddhist Web site tonight that had a link in the navigation bar called Impermanence. When I clicked it, the screen said simply (on a white background) This page sometimes links to pages that no longer exist.

That is, of course the nature of impermanence. It is so easy to think that in order for a thing to be real and true, it must be solid, steady, reliable, the same from day to day, month to month, year to year. We crave stability, definition. We want reliable, dependable. Who doesn't want something, anything to count on? I know I do. Something to anchor me. A way to know I'm navigating in a familiar world. These seem like reasonable desires for sane, rational living.

Except. There's a lot of give and ambiguity within that rational boundary. Change is constant, everywhere, always. Your house is not the same place it was yesterday. Oh sure, the walls are there, the furniture may be in the same place, the carpet is the same color. But things are different. Objects have been moved. Dishes have been used; food eaten. Air is continually circulating. Dust has accumulated since yesterday. The cat threw up on the rug upstairs. Change happens.

Today you are a different you than you were yesterday. Your cells are 24 hours older. Your hair curls in a new way. You wore green instead of brown. You overheard a bit of conversation at the coffeeshop and it changed the way you were thinking about a story you heard on NPR. Maybe you'll go home and look it up online and find out more. Your ideas are new; your plans are new; you are a growing, learning, reaching, blossoming being.

Your relationships are in flux. You feel closer to some people than you felt this time last year. You feel more distant from others. Some new friends have arrived in your life; others have disappeared completely. The same for virtues and vices, cravings and projects. They come and go. They begin, you schlog through, and they end. Each one touches you, challenges you, changes you, expands you. Perhaps even constricts you. That part is your choice.

Sometimes it's hard to see--especially in pitching times like these--that the outer world is doing us a favor when it reminds us that it is not as solid and sure as we wish it were. What are we tethering our security to? If it's something fleeting, something that is always changing, sooner or later it will show us its impermanence. The stock market, the new car, the value of the house, the retirement fund, the 20-year marriage, the promise of the big scheme, all could manifest change suddenly so that you can see the nature, the essence of the experience is movement, growth, change. The shifts may be up or down, good or bad, for better or for worse, but what we're really seeing is the reality of each item--impermanent. Movement. Change.

So is there anything beneath all this impermanence that does offer the sense of constancy we seek? I think there is. To me, it's the nature of Life itself, arising, expressing, loving, moving, manifesting. I believe it can be trusted and that there is a harmony arising--even in the midst of a struggling (but now recovering) stock market. The gift to us is in realizing that it is the nature of all created things to manifest continual change and showcase its own movement, its impermanence. Being able to see this and walk happily between the waves of change is both an amazing life-long challenge and an incredible blessing that becomes such a strong core that the rest of our inner life stabilizes around it. :)

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 13:58:00 +0000

What brings you joy?

Just a few moments ago I posted a reflection on a momentary joy on my other blog, and was struck by the realization that the way in which we experience and frame joy may have interesting connections in terms of personality, agency, and outlook.

Is joy to you an inward thing you find yourself?
Is joy a shared experience with a loved one?
The accomplishment of a task or project?
The weaving of a dream?
The absence of restrictions and limitations?

Think of a moment in your life you would describe as utterly joyful and let yourself re-experience it. Feel it fully. Smell the smells. See the sights. Feel the touch. Taste the taste. What does joy feel like for you? Where are you, what's happening, and who are you with?

The answers may mirror back some interesting threads you can weave into your day today. Try it and see (I'm going to). Feel free to share anything you discover in a comment on this post. :)

Wishing you joy today!

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 11:57:00 +0000

Themes worth exploring

Today is the birthday of Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk (nod to Writer's Almanac), and here is a quote that to me points directly to the power and potential of narrative:

Whether we work with clients or just live and love alongside others, isn't this what we're doing for each other all the time? We mitigate these fears through community, inclusion, self-awareness, openness, love. They are the mantle of humanity--the fear that we are really separate and not One. Narrative--when we are using is awake, aware, and fully present--is the ship that carries us to another's shore and helps us expand their horizon in their own language.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 13:46:00 +0000

Rules

uma reflexão

Rules. Lines. Schedules. Deadlines. Task lists. Expectations. Minutes-Hours-Days. Weeks. Tomorrow. Yesterday. Plans. Itineraries. You. Me. Them. Buildings. Structure. History. Success. Failure. Right. Wrong. Fences. Treetops...

...oh...

...sky...

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 13:28:00 +0000

An Emancipated Mole

I am reading The Wind in the Willows by Alexander Grahame right now (the one illustrated by Ernest Shepherd...wonderful!). It's one of those books that kept popping into my head repeatedly, so I finally gave in and began reading it. This morning I read about Mole's adventure as he, overcome with reckless joy at the end of a wonderful adventurous picnic with Rat, grabs the oars and attempts to, in his overzealousness and newfound freedom, to direct the boat. The result is a splash in the river, a very wet and chagrined Mole, and a forgiving and reassuring Rat.

It occurs to me that the path to emanicipation--whether that is the freeing of our higher selves, the freeing of our personalities, freedom from debt, lack, or illness, or freedom from any kind of limiting image of ourselves--is rarely linear, step by step, safe. As I push toward my own emancipation, I waver from unsure and hesitant to bold and overreaching. My progress may be hard to see on any one day. I may wind up in the river more than once. And yet, over time, a newer truer freer self, a revealed wisdom, begins to appear. I need to remember that whether I'm sopping wet and humiliated or floating on air, buoyed by the hope and joy of new-found freedom.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 12:17:00 +0000

The big story of a life

Look at the book I just ordered from Amazon.com! I'm very excited about it. This morning first thing I read today's Writer's Almanac email newsletter (which I always do) and discovered today is the anniversary of the day Magellan's crew (18 remaining of 270) made it back to Spain, completing the first successful circumnavigation of the globe. On board was a quiet scholar named Antonio Pigafetta who, similar to the naturalist in Master and Commander meticulously studied and noted everything he found on the ship's three-year voyage. Fascinated by the fact that we know this 500 years later because of the journaling of one person, I thought, "I've got to read that book!" And after a look at it on Google Books (my favorite new find) and reading a little about him on Wikipedia (they don't have much), I found the book here on amazon.com and ordered it.

Those of us living and working with a sense of narrative may find significant connection in Pigafetta's writings. Circumnavigating the world is what we do through the span of our lives--the world we create, poke, test, change, breathe, love. Capturing it in notebooks, in our hearts, in our language, in gifts we give each other is how we come to understand and share the story. That's what I'm doing with this blog. Just sailing east toward more light and understanding.

I'll post some study notes of the book after I get it. Stay tuned. :)

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 12:42:00 +0000

A History of Healing

I received this link from a post on the Narrative Medicine listserv this morning: Mental Health Survivors' Movements. It's really a fascinating look at the development of mental health reform and growth in the U.K., from 1845 to the present day. The site offers a staggering number of links and resources--it's perfect if you're preparing a presentation, paper, or simply want to know more about key people, situations, and publications along the way.

See? We're really making progress. Check out the site if you have a moment.

And here's the e-mail address to subscribe to the Narrative Medicine listserv (although I can't find a link on the Columbia site for some reason): narrativemed-list@columbia.edu.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 11:17:00 +0000

Life as (a Prerequisite for) Art

I found this story from today's Writer's Almanac fascinating: "It's the birthday of Roald Dahl, born in Llandaff, South Wales (1916). He was sent off to private boarding schools as a kid, which he hated except for the chocolates, Cadbury chocolates. The Cadbury chocolate company had chosen his school as a focus group for new candies they were developing. Every so often, a plain gray cardboard box was issued to each child, filled with 11 chocolate bars. It was the children's task to rate the candy, and Dahl took his job very seriously. About one of the sample candy bars, he wrote, "Too subtle for the common palate." He later said that the experience got him thinking about candy as something manufactured in a factory, and he spent a lot of time imagining what a candy factory might be like. Today, he's best known for his children's book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

What a great experience to serve as the seedbed for his story--it blossomed from a joyful life raft of an experience while he was in a place he resisted. I wonder whether we all have lift rafts in times like that. How many times have you said, "I never would have gotten through that, if it hadn't been for __________." What is ________ for you? Whatever it is, I'll bet it's central to your story. I know mine is.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 00:31:00 +0000

Who are you?

The more I notice stories around me, the more they begin to multiply and expand and move and change. Stories are very organic, living things--moving almost like streams through consciousness, sometimes full and expansive, sometimes barely trickling and drying up. A person with little access to his or her own story is like a dry creekbed. A person with a rich, rolling, full storyline can be like whitewater rapids (better get out of the way of his raft on that river!).

But I've been noticing more and more how changable and instantly constructed our stories are. We have certain stories we live within--ideals, morals, structure, believes, practices. In our family, we do this, but never that. But in the right context, with the right amount of freedom, with a playful relaxed self, those set descriptors might change--maybe just a bit, maybe a lot.

I'm coming to believe that although we think we carry this great, heavy storyline with us from birth to death, we are actually creating it this moment, in the now. We have great minds and replay who we were (or thought we were, or told ourselves we were) a year ago, three years ago, a decade ago, an hour ago. But we're really constructing that story in this instant.

What do you hear, right now?

What do these characters look like?

How does your left foot feel?

There's your access to your story, arising, in the only moment there ever really is. And now is. And now...is.

Something to think about, isn't it? :)

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 15:59:00 +0000

Stories Aren't Words

If you have four free moments, take a look at this video clip from YouTube: Where in the Hell is Matt?. Talk about a profound way to connect everyone in one joyful, moving story!

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sat, 10 May 2008 15:47:00 +0000

Endings

Partly because of finishing grad school (yay), partly because of the passing of Michael White, and partly because it's been a year since my dad died, I've been thinking a lot about endings lately. Today as I drove my son's friend home, I noticed that the three sister cows I always enjoy seeing along that route weren't out in the pasture this year. I discovered that the barn where the pigs used to be is vacant and falling down. My favorite landscaping company has gone out of business. So many happy images, memories, relationships, now lost with the turn of the earth.

As I drove through the countryside, I noticed the idyllic scene of a country road with wildflowers, a small footbridge, and planted fields with just the tiniest shoots of new corn appearing, captured perfectly in my rear view mirror. It, too, was passing. Lost with the turn of the earth, the scene disappeared from my view as I turned my gaze to the road ahead.

I resist the temptation to live a life based on gazing longingly in my rear view mirror, but at the same time I do think there's a sadness that needs to be honored and acknowledged. In all these beauties, in all these gifts, lies their inherent end, somehow. My faith says it's not the end, that's not all there is, and there is a way to accept the gift without mourning the loss. But I haven't figured that part out yet. Right now the awareness of the passing seems to season the having--I was acutely aware of appreciating that footbridge before it passed from my site. But it also creates in me a mournful wish to go back and appreciate all the gifts I took for granted in the past, not knowing then what I know now--how quickly and irrevocably the earth turns.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Murray) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 19:26:00 +0000

Remembering Michael White

A really sad event happened this week in the narrative therapy community. Michael White passed away suddenly on April 5 after a collapse the day before. Worldwide services are being held at sunset in a number of different countries around the globe this week to remember Michael and his family during this time. Here is a link to the Dulwich Centre Web site with more information about services.

I was blessed to attend one of Michael’s workshops in Indiana a few years ago. I have read much of his work and his ideas and presence—and especially his compassionate and unwavering support of those who seek freedom from limiting constructions—have had a huge impact on my life, personally and professionally. Michael’s work gave me the language to share my sense of the inherent goodness of people as well as specific tools to assist them in moving beyond limiting images of their unlimited selves. He will surely be missed, and I know that many, many fine people are carrying his ideas forward even now.