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Therapeutic Writing:
Double-Bind, Paradox and the
Therapeutic Journal
Welcome.
My interest here is the therapeutic benefit of journal writing with a particular emphasis upon the healing potential of the humour and irony that emerges within this form of recording.
The initial framework for my thinking is the notion that a fully lived life involves
processes of discovering and of creating and that the link between them is essentially
indefinable. We must be fully committed to both and trust the intuitive play
between.
Both discovering and creating are features of human adaptation. Discovering is an evolutional development of instinctual mammalian behaviour. Creating, however, is a step change, as it is rooted in the exclusively human psychological shift that reveals our mortality.
A stable enough sense of individuality evolves through active expression- the use of
language. If there is no integrated sense of self there is no real independence,
an essential element of an authentic life.
There always remains a gap between our words and the world. The ambiguity inherent in this condition is a source of our power and vitality but
also remains a significant seam of vulnerability.
We trust the language we
use to bridge this gap. Double-binds are belief traps that destroy this trust,
simultaneously attacking the realms of discovering and creating.
Journal writing is one way back.
Therapeutic processes described in this article recreate conditions for play. Feelings
and thoughts held in writing are tagged with humour. This encourages reflection. When we
attend to the complex and somewhat paradoxical interplay of these affective and cognitive
modes of experience we face irony. We return to the gap between words and the world and the
comforting realisation of our limits as human beings and an acceptance of what we are and of our mortality
And so, paper and pencil and two basic rules- 'Write until you smile' 'Look back for the humour'
- open and free to all.
DOUBLE-BIND, PARADOX AND THE THERAPEUTIC JOURNAL
by Jim Cheek
August 2007
‘My contribution is to ask for a paradox to be
accepted and tolerated and respected, and for it not to be resolved. By flight
to split-off intellectual functioning it is possible to resolve the paradox, but
the price of this is the loss of the value of the paradox itself.’ D.W.Winnicott
Introduction to Playing and Reality (1971)
A fully lived life possesses an exciting and
mysterious edge. The very precariousness of our understanding is part of the
appeal- we really are non-stable beings and require momentum to maintain mental
health.
The flexibility of our language and the trust with which we imbue it normally
allows us to live with this underlying fluidity of experience. Somehow we
know when to stop analysing and we allow language to paper-over gaps in our
understanding. However, these gaps remain a serious seam of vulnerability.
Threats to our being come in many guises and it would seem natural to expect
some of these threats to be mediated through the ambiguities of language. My
main concern in this writing is the way trust in language can be threatened
through misrepresentation and misinterpretation and how this can come about in
apparently benign circumstances. Language is built upon trust. If this trust is
destroyed so is the language used. Once damaged, language has to be recreated.
Words, their origins, meanings and use, have to be looked at afresh. This is a
challenging task and one that I feel will always require more than just thought
and talk.
It is childhood experience that I look to first,
particularly those moments of real wonder- that fundamental shift when a fine
balance between feeling and thinking resonates magically with a budding sense of
becoming. No matter how hazy or idiosyncratic these memories may be or how
difficult they are to tease apart, this seems the place to start.
And the easiest way in is through a story.
I remember early childhood being a good time. Long hot sunny summers and the
occasional magical winter white out. No wet grey bleak in-between days like we
get now. We lived in a tiny hamlet deep in farming country with an underused
church and chapel but little else. Dad had recently been appointed head teacher
of a secondary school in the small market town a short car ride away. He was
young, ambitious and a happy man.
A large rambling garden backed our isolated cottage. Dad’s playground. His grey
suit came off and his grubby old green shirt and baggy shorts were on before the
car had cooled. Re-fuelled with a mug of coffee he would be heading for the
vegetable garden with me in tow, struggling to push the old barrow full of
tools. The flowerbeds and borders were ignored or dug up. His mission was
growing fruit and vegetables for the year even if that meant storing every
wizened apple or freezing so many beans that we sometimes ate the wrong vintage.
We would work together until called to eat. Bath and bed and sound sleep awaited
me. He worked on to sunset.
On occasional Sundays dad helped out at chapel as a lay preacher. Mum and I
would go along when he took the service. The place smelt of pine resin and damp.
There was the distraction of funny hats and hair-dos and some very bizarre
singing but the sermons were long and boring for a small boy and I would drift
off into other more interesting inner worlds of my own. Dad talked from the
pulpit of moral fibre, I thought of Sunday dinner.
A small stream marked the lower boundary of the vegetable garden. Beyond it lay
a rabbit cropped meadow, gently sloping up to some dark woods.
The stream was small, clean, fast flowing and ideal for dam-making. It seems now
as though I played there all and every summer.
Favourite stones and rocks gave the dams shape and strength. Tacky clay
waterproofed the structure. Spillways and canals controlled the water-flow from
the growing lagoon backing up between the grass banks. Handy sticks became
sailing craft or warships voyaging between lakeside ports occasionally
threatened by clay bombs or skimming stones. The day always ended with the grand
breaching of the dam and the fun of a cataclysmic flood.
My best friend at Sunday school whispered tall stories about proper school. It
was built on a steep hillside in town and had two playgrounds. Only the older
children were allowed up the steps to the hidden higher playground. Up there, he
fibbed, could be found the special fairground with merry-go-rounds, super slides
and bumper cars. Everything came free. I dreamt about the fair. The colours,
sounds and smells. Best of all the children were in charge of the rides. I
couldn’t wait to be off with dad in the mornings on my way to school.
I somehow lost a spark of humour when I eventually got there. My carefree life
assaulted by sour smells and noise. I’d always felt free to be myself and gently
tease when I noticed adults playing their games and pretending. School was a
different matter.
A little boy in a big class quickly learnt the new rules and stored up the
strange, the tedious, the frustrating and plain daft to the end of the day. Dad
would pick me up from the school gate in his car and I would immediately start
spilling the beans on this education lark. It was hardly the best time for him
to hear this stuff and his responses were often short and sharp. Little boys
apparently knew nothing about this sort of thing and should concentrate on their
learning. I learnt a lot about hedges on those journeys home.
There were times as we planted and weeded in the evenings when dad talked a
little about childhood. He had grown up in a small seaside town backed by wild
hills and moorland. Things at home were a real struggle. He hardly remembered
his own father who had been killed when away in the army. His mother survived on
a small widow’s pension and made a little extra in the summer letting rooms to
sea-side visitors. Dad helped by camping out in the field behind the house
during holidays. His room brought in some useful extra cash. His mum, who he
adored, was a regular chapelgoer and took dad along. He loved the singing and
admired the fiery welsh pastor. When times were particularly hard the minister’s
wife would call in discreetly with simple gifts from the more caring members of
the congregation
Dad would often spend days alone in the hills and woods. He camped out with
increasing skill and confidence and brought home firewood, berries and indeed
anything that could be legally gathered. He was still very young and suffered
all the natural childhood fears and anxieties. When unnerved by woodland noises
he thought of the pastor’s words. ‘If you are good and trust Jesus, He will
protect you.’
So it turned out! With every safe awakening Dad’s faith grew stronger.
He found he could stop those wild imaginings and prevent his mind wandering. He
studied the woods and its inhabitants. He learnt the names of the trees, the
birds, the insects and the flowers. Dad felt safe and at home there.
He became a good headmaster. His strength of character and endless energy and
enthusiasm ensured the school did well. His hard work became recognized and he
went frequently away on courses and conferences. He would ask me to tend the
garden knowing that I could be trusted to weed and water and harvest the
vegetables. (Mum was out shopping for quick meals the very next day) These daily
tasks were happily done but for some reason the garden paths started to attract
my attention. I felt some deeper satisfaction levelling the gravel, weeding
between the flagstones and trimming the grass. It made a sort of immediate
difference that interested and appealed to me. Much more satisfying for a young
boy than watching over the vegetable patch tediously marking the passing
seasons. After one long absence dad came home to a tidy garden and a brand new
shingle path winding down to the stream. He bought me an army-surplus tent and
second hand sleeping bag.
The wood at the top of the meadow could be like two different places. With dad
or friends or even the friend’s dog, it was an exciting adventure land filled
with bird song, rabbits and rich earthy smells. When alone I was jumpy and
nervous.
This, I kept strictly to myself.
Dad suggested I pitched my new tent against the fence where the meadow bordered
the wood. That summer it stayed firmly the garden side of the stream.
Later in the year, the stream began to loose its appeal. Despite the delights of
clay and water, the dams became increasingly unsatisfying. Play like this was no
longer enough. Real dams were in my mind from books and television. Real dams
with a purpose and permanence that were built with knowledge of materials and
mathematics. Part of me was ready for something new.
That summer dad took me on a camping expedition. I loved getting out the maps
and laid them out on my bedroom floor weeks before we set off. Maps were the
only thing I collected and I papered my walls with the world. We drove to the
hills and moorland, the car topped up with supplies for a fortnight.
We walked and climbed and nattered in the mist and rain and pitched the tent
wherever we fancied. On these long walks dad talked again about his school days,
perhaps prompted by my impending move to secondary school. He had shone at his
first school. He enjoyed learning and possessed a steely determination and sharp
competitive edge. He eventually won a scholarship to a good school a long daily
bus ride away. The money for books and uniform had to be borrowed this time.
‘Boys talk’, as he called it, filled the back of the bus along with the
cigarette smoke. Adolescent stirrings had recently started to bother him. (As he
rather awkwardly put it!) He felt a clear, stark choice had to be made. If he
were to really succeed at school these thoughts and feelings would have to be
controlled and suppressed. That summer he set off for the hills and woods for
several weeks.
This time he challenged himself, taking risks when swimming, climbing and
camping in rugged, wild places. He tested himself in every way he could.
Each Sunday dad made the trek back to chapel. The elderly pastor still preached
passionately to his now diminishing congregation. Dad listened to those old
fashioned words about God’s rewards for those who overcome their animal
instincts. At the end of the summer dad’s eyes were firmly focused on the prize
of high academic achievement.
His mission was to pay off that loan, strive for a career that would see him
escape from poverty and ensure his mum lived out her days in comfort.
He now sat alone, tough in mind and body, at the front of the bus.
Our expedition was going well but after a few days trekking we needed some rest
and a chance to wash and dry our clothes. A break in the weather found us down a
grass track in a disused and sheltered quarry alongside a lake. Camp was made
and in late afternoon with all our housekeeping done Dad wanted to rest and
read. I set out to explore.
An old road followed the edge of the lake towards a steep sided gorge. A newer
wider road joined the track towards what I could now glimpse was a dam. The
narrowness of the gorge and the wooded hillsides had hidden it from our camp.
Despite some doubts about trespass the sound of tumbling water drew me closer.
The place appeared totally deserted. Alongside the road, a concrete basin had
been built separated from the lake by steel gratings. This mesh held back
driftwood and debris. In this black pool, right alongside the dam wall, swirls
of water caught my eye. Whirlpools like enormous bath plugholes. I stepped back
from the railings a little but walked purposefully out onto the dam to lean over
the lip and watch the water gushing from the base. Another higher pitched
turbine sound came from deep inside the bulk of the structure. For a moment It
seemed to be alive and sensing my unwelcome presence. I froze for a second then
ran.
I marched myself back to camp angry and exasperated. I knew about dams and
understand the structure, the noises, and the purpose of the whole thing. What
was this stupid fear and anxiety? What was the matter with me?
On the way back I calmed myself by collecting wood for the fire. Dad by now had
started cooking up corned beef stew. I went down to the lakeside, paddled around
and busied myself with driftwood and pebbles.
Perhaps the magic quality of the light tipped me into that strange other worldly
state. My body relaxing from days of tough hill walking, now bathed in a balmy
warmth and stillness. Wide eyed at the stunning natural beauty of the place.
Playing mental games with hypnotically exact reflections of mountain slopes,
shoreline trees and the red streaked sky.
The sun was slowly setting over the hills at the far end of the lake. A
shimmering orange glow formed a path right to my feet. Maybe I took that path,
reached the setting sun and headed back, way up in that amazing sky. I felt very
strange but wanting to hold that feeling for a while glimpsing my world through
new eyes. This young boy here at this very moment, on a path to his future, only
needing to be completely true to himself.
And above all, the intoxicating recognition that reality was indefinably
strange. That human experience was somehow paradoxical and that dear dad, would
not be the person to talk with about this.
We ate and chatted, washed up in the lake and settled down in our sleeping bags.
Dad was soon asleep. I lay on my back, hands behind my head staring at nothing
in particular.
Thought chased feeling chased wonder. Sleep would be a long time coming.
That night, despite the promise of the red sky, the weather changed. A light
whisper of rain stopped my thinking. We had pitched our tent well. The quarry
side sheltered us from the strengthening gusts of wind and the gravel soil
drained away the worst of the now streaming rain. Dad and I safe together, in
the best of places and enjoying the best of moments, for the very last time.
Several years passed before I returned to these hills and lakes. I was leading a
group of friends on a camping expedition along with other teams from the same
school. I led my group and drove them hard through foul weather and rough
country to each campsite. We were usually cosily settled and well fed in our
tent by the time the other groups struggled in.
On this particular morning we were marching fast on the ridge above my
well-remembered lake. We were ahead again and as the weather had settled we
stopped in the shelter of a rocky outcrop for a break. I could just make out the
quarry and even the ring of stones forming the fireplace Dad and I had used
years before. This was now the last day of the expedition. We were top dogs by
far. I said nothing, my friends’ conversations turned to school and the imminent
final exams.
Power, strength and any sense of purpose just drained from me as I slumped on
that rock. Some things had gone very wrong since those camping days with dad. I
now had no idea what to do in life. I was bored and miserable at home, confused
and fed up at school. I had never made any real start at formal learning and
bumped and scraped along with no enthusiasm whatever. I daydreamed and
fantasised, doodled and drifted and did just enough to keep out of trouble. I
drew lakes and mountains in the margins of my notebooks, overdrawing detail upon
detail until they all turned dark.
The camping expeditions were different. In rough country and in bad weather,
real risks invoked deep reaction. Meaning for a moment was survival. I focused,
studied and prepared, confident in the landscapes and scenarios created in my
mind. I could make things happen, be powerful, skilful and in control. I knew
what would happen next. I could lead and be trusted under pressure.
I carried the maps. I was constantly adding to my collection and cared for them
well. The mapmaker provided the marks on paper that seemed to demonstrate rather
than describe. This gave me the freedom to convert his signs to symbols and
create a personal picture. The maps now became, in part, my design and my world.
One in which plans could be made and successfully acted upon. Things really did
work here.
These periods of enthusiasm and flashes of excitement were fine while they
lasted. Things held together until the wider world eventually and inevitably
broke through.
A world in which there seemed to be no meaning, no satisfaction and no future. I
found myself on a roundabout of persistent and compulsive quilt and anxiety.
Thought led to feeling and back to the same thought. There was neither a path to
follow nor things to achieve. It was a grim time of stubborn resistance and
quiet desperation.
Things had changed at home. An atmosphere of disappointment and tension had
gradually developed. Dad’s energy and enthusiasm had waned with age. It was
clearly becoming very hard work. He looked permanently weary and headed alone
for his beloved hills at every opportunity. We now talked very little.
I thought of escape. The actual challenge of starting something completely new,
in itself, did not frighten me. The problem, rather strangely, came down to
‘enthusiasm’. Surviving in totally different circumstances would demand total
commitment- for a while. But for what? Would it turn out to be worth the effort?
Would it last? I knew understanding lay deep within me somewhere. I also knew
that false enthusiasm would inevitably mask any glimpse of real meaning. I had
become so practised at pleasing people that I was able to temporarily convince
myself.
It was obvious that I had to get away from home to seek some real sense of
personal control. Critically, I needed to be in a situation where I could be in
total command of any enthusiasm. It was vital to know precisely when and exactly
how I was faking.
I needed to wait in my own chosen space until something or somebody interesting
turned up. I had papers and passport ready for the Outback but I chose what
might have been for me a far bleaker wilderness.
I packed my bag and went teaching.
And now, almost a lifetime later, much of my world is marked out by the old walled garden that I watch over from my study window. These weatherworn walls were built to shelter a market garden predating this present house by a century. They now enclose a space I often find myself pondering.
A blackbird is scratching in the gravel against the sun dappled north wall, messing up the patterns of the fine shingle path.
As I reflect here, now, my eyes are drawn, as they have been many times before, to the point where the path meets the brick wall. What is the attraction? What entices me to finish the raking with a crisp edge? An obsession of sorts I suppose, but no search for certainty. It is a meditative activity attending to particular qualities of these interacting objects. It is an itch demanding a scratch.
The Zen metaphor comes to mind of raked shingle as water matching the ebb and flow of unconstrained life. We make ripples in a world in which we belong- one small part of everything.The wall marks our chosen ground. If we are to make things happen throughout life we require a construct, a context for action.
It is the interface that fascinates me -where the shingle and the wall appear both joined and separated -at the edge softened by a clump of fine bamboo, its shadow playing on the brickwork. The attraction is this rich mix of the visceral and emotional. The raw materials of an affective responsivity I naturally crave.
As I watch the birds in their bath
flitting between a sudden terror of the neighbour’s cat on the old brick wall
and the preening delight of the water it is clear we humans are not quite like
them. Their stress goes with the cat and only I am left to worry about them. The
birds and more evidently the cat, are what they are- they act and rest with an
efficiency we can only dream about.
Despite the extra complexity of human life, it is important for us to maintain
the potential to act instictively in a raw polar manner. We retain a capacity (no
matter how rarely used) to abandon ourselves to powerful action during which
there is no room for doubt or ambiguity. Chemical messengers course through the
body increasing the heart rate readying us for committed action. This potent
sympathetic part of our visceral nervous system is balanced by the para-sympathetic
system which is concerned with the conservation and restoration of energy. We
rest and recuperate, preparing once more for action. Whether in real time or
play, it is the bio-chemical tone emanating from the interface of these core systems
that forms the basis of physical and mental good health.
Extreme action of any category is accompanied by risk but once the threshold to
instinctual action is passed any attempt to dampen polar behaviour will increase
the probability of failure. There can be no half measures or distractions at
these times. The immediacy of ‘forceful aggressive’ and ‘intense loving’ action
squeezes out time and space. Positive feedback operates here. An edge is passed
beyond which there is an incremental increase in the intensity of response triggered by a chemical
feedback cascade. After instinctual action the body relaxes deeply- if it has
survived!
It is crucial to retain this ability to act at both extremes- to imagine and to
be willing to risk the fighting as well as the mating. This is a key part of the
dynamic balancing process that enables our bodies to relax and be revived and
for us to be vital and self confident as human beings.
Of course, our day to day living is far more routine and any extreme action likely
to be a sign of failure. The reading of our environment and circumstances must
be accurate enough to sidestep trouble and to achieve this we must be attending
with a sense of immediacy and with accurate reference to previous experience.
There has to be constant refreshment and fluidity- we
must live in the here and now but we must also be prepared.
How can we weave a simple metaphor that best cradles the somewhat
paradoxical essence of human consciousness? This will never be easy.
Even at the most basic of levels we are amazingly complex and this complexity
is compounded by being overlain by more evolutionary advanced structures that
operate in similar and interconnected ways.
An initial handle on this complexity attends to the interface of what could be
described as ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ personal space.
A starting point can be found in the primitive pre-conscious processing that
links the inner modulating activity of the autonomic nervous system with the
external reach of the sensory somatic system. By restricting attention in this
way we can model a response matrix linking the action/rest valence of the
autonomic with the approach/avoid valence of the sensory somatic.
This notion of matrix cuts down on complexity by linking matched pairs.
We can imagine their separate functioning and also their interaction.
And here at its most simple we find a blueprint for consciousness- there
are times to think about the ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ as separate and there
are times to think of them as joined. There are times for investigating
and times for acting. Our inner and outer worlds are both joined and separated- a paradox of sorts.
The cat is back in its usual sunny spot, tail twitching as it eyes the blackbird
grubbing around a tree stump. Is the cat thinking- spending time gleaning data?
Is there some interplay between his physical being and simple conscious processing?
Perhaps we humans share in part the cat’s world view. A basic formalation tagged
with primary emotions. This underlying memory structure supports the systematizing
that enables the cat to fine tune his responses, successfully satisfy his primary
needs and thereby reinforce or modify his memory bank.
The self awareness of humans immediately adds another level of consciousness and
a leap in complexity. Just like the cat we give time for the interplay of feeling
and simple memory. ‘How do I feel?’ and ‘What is around?’ This attention increases
the diversity and depth of the patterns that form. The more emotional boxes ticked
in this process the better. In humans this general picture, the gist, is cognitively
scanned for potential sequences and particular detail. Through this imaginal process
we generate and organise a higher order of emotionally tagged memory and facilitate
far more sophisticated functional responses to circumstances.
Our original blueprint still applies. For us humans, what could be labelled as
affective and cognitive processes represent the ‘inner’ and the ‘outer’. When
investigating they are separated. And of course smooth skilled action requires them to be as one.
Sam, a retired builder, repaired winter storm damage to the high wall last
spring. He brought his equally elderly road compressor to break out some
concrete footings. It coughed and wheezed to a halt several times on the damp
day I watched from my desk. He poked around inside for a while and talked about
electrics and the puzzle of the override button when I brought him tea.
Next morning Sam came with tool box, overalls and a notebook. The day was warm
and the price of the wall fixed- there was no urgency.
Old clothes on, spanner in hand, Sam disappeared into the bowels of the machine
emerging after a while to wash the grime from his hands and then scribble away
on his notepad. This apparent gleaning of raw information and then reflecting
continued throughout the day until a final tea-break, when, surrounded by neat
piles of bits and pieces, he valiantly tried to explain to me his latest version
of the electrics from the smudged diagram in his book. He knew a lot more than
the day before but was still uncertain as to the exact problem. Some unexplored
wires disappeared even deeper into the labyrinth.
The following day Sam came early, had the front of the machine apart in double
quick time, fixed a hidden loose connection, reassembled the lot and broke out
the concrete slab before lunch- the compressor never missing a beat. He left
early for the pub before I had time to ask.
Eventually we did have a natter about this shift in pace and understanding. In
his bath (surely one of the best thinking places), he had imagined the original
designer considering the conditions in which his pristine and elegantly
engineered machine would be working. Muddy wet, cold labourers who need to get
on with the job to come alive on winter mornings. If their compressor is not
maintained -will they notice warning lights from their trench? And so, these
crucial wires led to automatic safety cut-outs, overridden just at start up.
It turned out very simple and logical and made tracing that last wire well worth
while. His pint, I’m sure, had tasted particularly good.
Sam’s grubby circuit diagram spread out on my desk points to circumstances
when cognitive processing can be seen as an abstract form of the affective
matrix. The affective interface of instinct and emotion is reflected in the
cognitive mode through the tension between the dual polarities of attend/ignore
and true/false.
I suspect for Sam there was a preliminary sorting process. He needed to be sure
enough that the proposed procedure was necessary, interesting and had a
reasonable chance of success. He also needed to be comfortable and suitably
equipped for the job. The old clothes and dirty hands signalled the intention of
getting into the machine and gleaning all available data. There would be an
intuition that crucial evidence would be missed without this total commitment.
The mental focus would be to maintain the attentive quality of all the senses.
Peering, sniffing, feeling warmth or cold, getting under the covers, embracing
the patterns but holding back from the rationale of the machine. Then sensing
the right time to step back, clean up and with pen and paper, generate
true/false sequences out of these patterns until a spinning head indicated the
need to return to the machine or have a break.
Whilst not wanting to dwell too long on Sam in his bath it is interesting to
think about the circumstances where we set plans aside and attend to design.
Initially the rational mind investigates the properties of the machine,
critically evaluating every aspect. We ratchet up the scientific process,
doubting every easy answer and not rushing to any resolution.
Then the meta-ritualistic bath-time flip. Images of the machine in use are
generated, shared, as it were with the designer. Out of this abstract dialogue
comes new insight- the eventual users of the machine must not be punished for
ignoring its engineering excellence. Good design in this context supports
ordinary workers doing a tough job in appalling conditions. They do not need a
siren call advertising machine misuse. Silence and a warning light are enough.
The quality of the design depends upon a genuine understanding and consideration
of these men. Good design is in part a measure of humility.
Now it is summer and children are playing in the sandpit down by the wall shaded
by an old apple tree. I occasionally hold this image of a young child playing
here alone, in that fantasy world with warm evening sun, all fears and needs set
aside, no parental interruptions and no hidden presents from the cat. This child
simply wants to feel ‘at home in the world’-a natural instinctive need.
The captivating thing about sand is the range of responses it evokes at the most
basic of levels. As sand flows smoothly through the fingers it draws us in like
water. It is an irresistible invitation to be completely as one with life itself
-to feel connected and part of everything. We touch, we feel, we look, and as we
do so we sense the sand through an underlying receptive structure. As we process
these natural qualities of sand, we create patterns that inevitably encroach
into our conscious mind. The partial meaning of these patterns provokes more
thoughtful scrutiny. We need to explore some more and this might entail an
active mark- a sign of the here and now. Four sheer sides of a sand castle can
be enough to set the mind in motion. Here now, at this very moment, attending in
turn to the shapes we have made. Now we have the beginnings of sequence as well
as pattern in our emerging understanding of the qualities of sand. We can start
using the word ‘sand’ with confidence. Language can be built on it.
In play the child can explore, freely switching between affective and cognitive
modes, in a safe supported setting with no real concern for outcome. Satisfying
play depends upon good feedback between these modes of experience. The quality
of feedback relies very much upon balance. Children know (and adults tend to
forget) that both aspects are of equal significance. Play is very much about
getting this balance right. It is the symmetry of playing and not the pace that
is important.
This sense of balance is crucial in the development and use of language. The
value of the words we use is rooted in the symbolic way they cradle both
affective and cognitive meaning. Our confidence in the use of these words
depends upon a stable balance in their symbolic structure. We need to trust the
words that we use, as through them, we join that which is essentially separate.
They mark the space between.
There is in all children, a natural desire to know ‘what happens next?’ If
children can anticipate, they can adapt and so successfully survive. Play
stimulates an internal story-spinning process that harmonises affective and
cognitive processing. Good playing requires balance- good story-spinning
requires rhythm. The resulting story can be projected forward and tested in the
imagination. If it holds up it is likely to be of real use when asking ‘what
happens next?’
The child might sense that a certain rigour is required here. The story may be
fragile and so remain vulnerable to the pressures of raw experience. To be of
use, a story has to survive any immediate, partial threat. There must,
therefore, be commitment to holding the whole thing. It must be remembered.
A natural way of stabilizing an internal story is to express it in a form that
will survive this immediate threat. Children who are asking ‘what happens next?’
will start telling their stories. It is crucial that they find an attentive
enough audience if they are to create objects they can trust, as some leap of
faith is inevitable. To be of use these stories require a degree of stability.
But stability only comes through use.
In smooth action we respond to circumstances as they arise by placing ourselves
within the metaphoric space between the affective and cognitive modes. The
flexibility inherent in this process smoothes out minor irregularities and
maintains a natural buffering ability enabling us to deduce meaning from
incomplete messages. Smooth action has a play-like pace and rhythm. A mild sense
of reaching forward, an itch of anticipation, maintains the momentum.
Of course the realities of day to day living inevitably disturb this story
spinning state and we need ways to handle breaks in smooth action. If no panic
buttons have been pressed we scan our mood and mind, seeking knots that can
easily be teased out. If the disturbance remains we attend to the detail. A
simple ritual sets aside a thinking space within which the problem can emerge.
We attend to the disturbance as we would a new object in play. We seek pattern
and sequence, generating feedback between the affective and cognitive modes
until the problem becomes clear enough to act upon. We then act and adjust – or
not.
There are times when problems stubbornly remain. Now is the time for deeper
reflecting and new questions need to be asked. There is a requirement to step
back further. It may be time for change -time to ‘make things happen.’
It is now midsummer and one of those magical, balmy, never ending evenings. The swifts have stopped their noisy chase around the roof tops and soared high for the night. A bat is showing similar skills flitting through the overhanging oak. I am quiet on a bench against the high wall which is still radiating stored heat from the day. A child is asleep in a tent pitched on the grass, tight against the sheltering west wall. This has been his home for the summer. This is amongst the best of times.
It would seem natural that most children, at some time, experience a sense of
wonder at the world and glimpse, however fleetingly or idiosyncratically, the
mysterious nature of human existence. Times of deeper reflecting become for some
moments of intense heightened awareness. Perhaps the more restrictive the
environment or more rigid the personal defence mechanisms, the greater the
potential intensity of these occasions.
The use of the word 'transcendental' best cradles the nature of the experience-
the strange, other worldly, timeless observing of the moment. Transcendental sounds
what it feels like.
A characteristic of these moments is that there is an awareness of two differing
but linked notions. Firstly, that ‘everything is as one’ and that in recognising this,
the ‘I as beholder’ am subsumed in the ‘one’ - I belong here as an individual and can
adapt to the world. The second element is that there is for the individual, a potential
and indeed imperative to live life. ‘Things can and need to be done.’ The link between
the two ideas is indefinable but the emotional charge of simultaneously locating
oneself both individually and socially triggers a feedback cascade leading towards
an overwhelming sense of being at home and of loving the world.
It is important in relation to this writing to differentiate between childhood
and adolescent transcendental experience. For the adolescent this is the space where ideas
become visions and crucial choices are made. The experience invigorates and informs
and can be re-visited through personal ritual to prime the processes of living
and maintain a purposeful life.
For the child what has to be done first is to gain independence, to be oneself,
to be able at crucial moments to say 'no'. And if saying 'no' proves too difficult then acting 'no' has to be enough
Gregory Bateson, a creative thinker with a fascinating range of linked
interests, promoted (in the 1940’s) the concept of double bind in relation to
mental illness. His ideas were of limited use in terms of explaining serious
illness but have proved valuable when considering mental processes and potential
threat to mental health. The general characteristics of double bind situations
are expressed by Bateson in this way:
1. ‘When the individual is involved in an intense relationship; that is, a
relationship in which he feels it is vitally important that he discriminate
accurately what sort of message is being communicated so that he may respond
appropriately.
2. And, the individual is caught in a situation in which the other person in the
relationship is expressing two orders of message and one of these denies the
other.
3. And, the individual is unable to comment on the messages being expressed to
correct his discrimination of what order of message to respond to, i.e., he
cannot make a metacommunicative statement.’
(Gregory Bateson, Steps to an Ecology of Mind 1972)
My introductory statement for this article noted the separate nature of the processes of discovering and creating and described them as being different realms of experience. This notion is of particular significance when considering double binds. I suggest that in double bind situations traps exist in both realms of experience thereby preventing effective reflection, learning and the enjoyment of life.
It is important at this stage to re-emphasise why processes of discovering and processes of creating can be described as different, despite both being adaptive features of human development. The investigative processes of discovering can be taken to be a natural evolutionary development of mammalian behaviour. We learn, as do many animals, to increase our chances of survival and success by adapting to our environment. Creating, however, is fundamentally different, as it stems from the uniquely human psychological awareness of mortality. We cannot flourish if we are gripped by the knowledge of death. We seek purpose in our lives primarily to overcome this fear.
The realm of discovering encompasses intuitive action and problem forming.
The flexibility of smooth intuitive action relies upon a balanced and dynamic interface of affective and cognitive processing. Disturbances of intuitive action are a natural feature of day to day living and here, just like Sam with his troublesome compressor, we stop for a moment to reflect. Our first task is to allow the problem to form and in order to do this we draw upon memories.
The affective/cognitive interface of smooth intuitive action is reflected in problem forming through the interaction of episodic and semantic memory. In this basic model, episodic memory is our recall of life experiences and semantic memory our store of theoretical knowledge. Episodic memory can be thought of as a string of semi-stable personal stories that sub-consciously inform the here and now. We create and moderate these stories by processing emotionally charged events. In ideal circumstances these experiential notions reflect a comprehensive and rigorously honest sense of individuality and provide positive support to day by day living.
Episodic memory is particularly important during social interaction. If we can be accepting of ourselves we are likely to be open minded and sensitive towards others. We will pick up the overall pattern of situations- the gist. The flexibility of episodic memory allows the sense of ‘more’ significant and ‘less’ significant to inform our reading of experience. This is crucial in terms of maintaining an open mind for long enough for the gist to be revealed. If we turn too quickly to the detail of a situation and apply our theoretical knowledge the ‘more’ or ‘less’ episodic axis is buried under the true/false formulas of semantic memory. Little room remains for ‘perhaps’ or ‘maybe’ or indeed ‘good enough’.
The creative realm generates the sense of identity and purpose that supports smooth intuitive action and effective problem solving. Disturbances naturally break into intuitive action. Meta-disturbances from the realm of creative identity also unsettle the routines of day to day living and demand significant developments in how we view and how we do things. Some meta-changes are responses to immediate situations and circumstance; some reflect the part meta-action plays in moderating the anxiety emanating from our human awareness of mortality.The creative representations of reality generated by meta-action cradle this anxiety allowing us to feel, in part, liberated and invigorated.
Discovering enables us to learn, creating allows us to enjoy life. Learning and enjoyment are the key features of a lived life.
It seems likely that most people experience moments of heightened awareness at some time in their lives- moments best labelled as transcendental.
Transcendental experience is challenging and exciting because it marks the moments when we glimpse existential paradox.
In discovering we recognise that we are a product of our particular human experience and history. In creating we recognise that as adults we are free to choose what is to be significant in our lives and are required to choose who we are becoming. The paradox in these terms is that we are both bound and free.
Transcendental experience is transforming in that this paradoxical essence of human experience is revealed, recognised and accepted. The transforming experience is unrepeatable but in personal ritual the paradox can be approached and re-experienced.
Our sense of purpose and meaning is rooted in these moments of transcendental wonder when personal and cultural identity spark. At these times we feel at home in the world and see a course of action in life. This notion, this vision, informs both action and learning. If it is ignored or denied, chronic identity problems are likely to occur that will disrupt action and learning.
A double bind forms when traps develop simultaneously in the realms of discovering and creating.
A focus upon two statements may offer an illustration here:
1.Rational thinking controls emotion
2.Academic achievement brings freedom
Although both notions are crucially flawed, they hold enough commonplace acceptance to disguise this fact. Indeed, when the statements are taken independently, these flaws are not particularly significant. If the two statements are combined, there is a tendency for embedded snags to link up and generate potentially serious difficulties.
The notion that emotions should be rationally controlled usually comes down to a belief in the suppression of instinctive arousal. Authoritarian adults are intuitively reluctant to accept that children must retain and nurture the capacity to react instinctively and therefore independently in certain situations. They forget that to live well and wisely is to retain this fundamental independence of spirit. Healthy emotion emerges, along with language, from well balanced pre-verbal responses to the world. Therefore, any serious attempt to suppress emotion inevitably leads to difficulty as it denies the reality and validity of this sub-symbolic process.
The other aspect of this example of double-bind is more obvious. The dangers of suggesting academic achievement brings freedom are clear. There is an implication in this statement that personal knowledge will come only with time. That you must wait for meaning in your life and be unconcerned, at this moment, with ‘how’ you know. It is a belief that denies the validity of a personal perspective and suggests that you are not yet qualified to comment on your own life. Wisdom will always be along later.
If the two notions are foisted simultaneously upon a trusting recipient they might easily be conflated. The immediate connection is likely to be between the ideas of ‘rational control’ and ‘academic achievement’. Surrounding similarities are cancelled out leaving the false formula: ‘rational control of emotion brings freedom’.
This is a fundamentally false and destructive belief. A double-bind is created along with a sure path towards chronic insecurity and anxiety. Some way out will be eventually required and it will never be straightforward.
A ‘step out’ rather than a ‘step back’ now becomes necessary.
Childhood transcendental experience is likely to combine a sense that ‘everything is as one’ with an imperative to ‘live life to the full.’ We might interpret this awareness as ‘we are as one with God' and ‘God will guide us’. We might choose to accept this as a supporting story by which to live life sensing that further investigation will not make things work better. Perhaps we have heard of writers, artists and philosophers who have delved far more deeply but appear to be no happier.
If we trust that God will guide us, a simple daily ritual can be enough. The equivalent of kneeling in submission and then sorting the day ahead. We can accept that full responsibility must be taken for some things and that others can be safely left in the hands of God. All very simple then.
When trapped in double bind this straightforward practice and trust does not work. The ambiguity implied in ‘we are as one with God’ and ‘God will guide us’ cannot be accepted and is now (quite correctly) interpreted as paradox. To state the metaphoric tension here in a raw way - if we are as one with God we do not die. If we have a task in this lifetime, we do.
The trust given freely through a neutral acceptance of ambiguity now has to be regenerated through an active acceptance of paradox. Simple daily rituals are not enough for this difficult task. Paradox must be brought to mind, re-experienced, acknowledged and accepted. Only then can the day ahead be effectively imagined, thought through and begun. To face this we need a meta-ritual that induces the experience of paradox.
The realisation and acceptance of existential paradox can be a source of humour, heart-warming emotion and indeed excitement. (It is far more liberating than a contradiction!) So much of our busyness is a distraction and denial of this essential truth as we attempt to distance ourselves from the reality and significance of our mortality. And because we all tend to do so, no matter what our intelligence and no matter how knowledgeable we become - then we can afford a very human smile.
But in double-bind, when our detachment from paradox has perhaps become the only certainty and security in our lives, when fantasy joins thought and feeling, when creative living ceases and when depression closes in - what then can be done?
We can reach back for that smile, mark it down on paper, keep hold of the paper and look at the evidence now and again.
We start writing.
Donald Winnicott, the child psychiatrist and influential object relations theorist, refers to a sequence of states as being generally part of any
therapeutic process. (Playing and Reality p56 1971)
1. Relaxation in conditions of trust based on experience.
2. Creative, physical, and mental activity manifested in play.
3. The summation of these experiences forming the basis for a sense of self.
As a psychotherapist we would expect Winnicott to elaborate his ideas through examples
of his work with patients. In the case notes following this list, it is
Winnicott who facilitates the initial relaxation, stimulates play and is of
course an essential part of the summation through reflecting back in a
shared space what he senses to be significant.
It is interesting to set these
stages alongside ideas of therapeutic journal writing in cases of double bind.
There appear to be marked similarities and also the appealing possibility of
dispensing with the services of a therapist along with the risks of explanatory interpretation. This aspect is particularly significant in double binds as in these circumstances the breakdown in trust is not with the people themselves but towards the model of human experience they appear to insist upon. The problem becomes one of language. In these instances there is likely to be a deep resistance to any talking cure. The therapist might well be trusted but the language used will remain a major barrier.
The ten year old birthday boy is wondering what his money might buy. There is nothing particular in mind but it would be fun to shop even though town is miles away. 'Much better to add it to your savings' is the advice, 'It is good to save for later.'
The exams are coming soon and the older brother has been rewarded with a cash bonus.
'If you do as well I will make up your account to match his.'
'But why am I saving money if.....?'
'Don't worry dear boy. I'll make sure you'll not miss out.'
One more challenge would disappoint. Two might annoy. And so the trap is poised.
Models of human experience tend to be descriptive rather than explanatory. Models invite participation and support investigation and these activities always involve language. The dynamic interaction of discovering (adapting and learning) and creating (making good things happen) is a key feature of a lived life and in some form is part of any useful model of human experience. The flexibility of language enables us to handle these differing realms with a degree of confidence.
In double bind situations the model offered inhibits the development of language by devaluing these dual processes of discovering and creating. Discovering requires an active balance between affective and cognitive modes of experience- between memories 'of' and memories 'about'. Creating requires a sense of individual choice and freedom of expression- a sense of becoming. The very complexity here masks the falseness of models, for example, that suggest emotional responses should be suppressed or that individual freedom is insignificant until maturity. If the healthy development of language is inhibited, pathological activity starts to surface. Discovering and creating are reflected in fantasy and obsessive/ compulsive behaviours, all of which lead towards dissociation and a breakdown in self confidence.
In double binds, traps operate simultaneously in the realms of discovering and of creating. Therefore it seems reasonable to suggest that any therapeutic intervention should mirror this duality. Double binds are characterised by a breakdown of trust in language. It is only through the regeneration of this trust that a sense of individuality and self confidence can be restored. An obvious starting point is some form of writing.
A personal journal can be trusted for what it is. In overwhelming anxiety and
insecurity it can be relied on to hold almost anything and everything - from
anxiety holding doodles, through early organisational efforts, to flashes of
deep insight. A journal offers a space that encourages new form by allowing
formlessness. A space where feeling and thinking can be teased apart by the asking of simple paired questions. 'How am I feeling?' / 'What am I thinking?' By working hard at this we will start noticing the interaction between memories 'of' and memories 'about', between affective and cognitive modes of experience and how they are both joined and separated in the realm of discovery.
And then- as we cradle our feelings and thinking and relax with the paradoxical notion of them being both joined and separated, unexpected events sometimes occur. A flip into the creative realm can take place, evoking visions of a purposeful, satisfying and fully lived life. Although these ideas are not fully formed, we sense there is a contribution to be made.
When things have gone seriously wrong in life, the space between discovering and creating is often invaded by defence mechanisms. These we learn to
trust in our own perverse ways. In these circumstances we will resist writing,
as it challenges these carefully crafted defences. Any new writing effort will
require some special support and words are not necessarily the best way to
start.
The patterns and sequences found in drawings can often offer some
comforting opening ritual. Making the first non-threatening marks on the page
makes a difference. Doing something - doing anything is the starting point. It
is the geometry of journal keeping that is so appealing. The play between
pattern and sequence that is impossible to replicate on a computer screen. Each
playful spin creates an imaginative lift - a space where we can be amused and
pencil-mark our defensive habits and strategies. A new code of annotation can
now develop, overlaying our personal narrative. It is through these notes, the
underscores, arrows and explanation marks, that trust is nurtured.
What is it with words? Perhaps that so many mental traps are sprung in this way.
Where the ideas held by the misuse of words have replaced creative thinking. In
these circumstances words become both the problem but also remain the path back.
Where can we start with these words? We may have lost the ability to accurately
perceive and predict or tell a useful personal story but we rarely lose our
sensitivity towards our use of words. We can tell when we are misusing them.
When we are being lazy, obscure or dishonest. We are either comfortable or
uncomfortable. When we talk to ourselves we can pretend otherwise, when we write
we know.
But knowing does not make it inviting, easy or indeed possible. The process of
writing, the initial process of story spinning, has in itself to be made
appealing. We have to remove the sting. Thinking and feeling brought to the
journal may not be immediately accepted but the effort of recording must be maintained.
No matter how desperate the troubles, a sense of the strange and
amusing will be around somewhere. The first rule for this preliminary effort is
to ‘write until you smile’. And with that smile, that spark of humour, a
moment’s relaxation can be allowed. A spin has been induced in the learning loop
and a start has been made.
We can mark differences within our written narrative by noting the flash of
excitement attached to humour. By acknowledging with a smile our very human
frailties and mistakes, we maintain momentum towards a truthful but warm picture
of ourselves. The humour also encourages re-appraisal as we don’t mind so much
going back to the smile.
The requirement to ‘read back through the writing’ is the second rule.
A deeper understanding is embedded within the literal humour that supports our
written narrative effort. Humour will form clusters separating responses to our
affective and cognitive processing. It is important to consider how we respond
to these signs of humour when we look back through the writing. It is likely
that we will be attracted less by the narrative struggles and more with the
tension between a literal and metaphoric interpretation of these moments. There
is a shift to an abstract view. The narrative can now be set against the context
of personal vision, purpose and our fragile sense of becoming. This is the realm
of irony. The appeal of irony is that it provides regular reminders of the
essential non-certainty of a lived life. That the unknowable aspects of
experiencing inevitably restrict objectivity and that an active edge of ‘knowing
subjectivity’ is the best we can hope for. Irony gently reminds us that what we
often take to be objective is an illusion and that if we seek wisdom there is no
alternative to a fully lived life. Irony rather more harshly reminds us that to
maintain the edge of a lived life we inevitably are looking forward. We must
accept and embrace our mortality.
All this effort, all these human flaws and embarrassing mistakes, all this hard
work to live life well so that we can, maybe, leave this life in peace. Not
really a smile or a chuckle is appropriate here, more like a deep sigh. It is, in
the end, this sense of detachment we need. Perhaps irony can be thought of as a
‘homeopathic’ remedy of sorts. It induces a fleeting glimpse of death so
stimulating the basic processes of living.
We have to find ways of loving ourselves and we have to find ways of loving life
for what it is. If we have religion, and trust its ways of holding ideas - its
symbol system and its language, then things are easier. If, for whatever
reasons, we don’t possess this trust and we need to create our own way of
looking at life and truth - then we have a much harder task. It is one thing,
looking inwards - not taking ourselves too seriously and accepting our human
nature with all its flaws and weaknesses. It is far more difficult not taking
life itself too seriously. To accept and perhaps be quietly amused by the irony
at the very heart of the human condition.
Huff and puff as we might, we cannot even be certain of death - only the
question - does death exist? And the answer has to be both yes and no.
All we are left with then is paradox and the possibility of a very wry smile.
Jim Cheek may occasionally be found at:
JimC
heek@proa.org.uk
References
Winnicott, Donald.W.
PLAYING AND REALITY
Tavistock Publications 1971
Bateson, Gregory.
STEPS TO AN ECOLOGY OF MIND
University of Chicago Press 1972
Brookes, W.
‘What is Education’
In TEACHERS FOR TOMORROW
Edited by Kenyon Calthrop and Graham Owens
Heinemann Educational Books 1971
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