I have been spending the past few weeks honing my creative therapy skills by helping my clients dive into their emotional landscapes via music, visual arts, and writing. This is not particularly new. I have used these modalities many times in my work as a therapist. But as a therapist who is now an active writer, this endeavor has taken some new turns.
The more I delve into my clients’ lives, the more I question my own. The mirroring that I observe is both miraculous and ordinary. If you visit here often, you know that the miraculous and ordinary usually represent the same experience for me. For example, I have a new client who I was told can be difficult to connect with. I have not seen her through that lens. We engaged in some small talk initially, which led to her revelation about art. She repeatedly said that she is not good at art, but she loves viewing it and learning about it. ” I don’t know why I love art, I just do!” We have connected so easily because of our shared love of art. I quickly noticed that I say the same thing to others: that I am not good at art, but am a huge fan of the craft.
I use these creative modalities in order to help others access their emotional worlds and enhance their communication skills. This emphasis on self-expression has led me to analyze further my own unique process. What is driving me? Why do I need to write? Am I incomplete in some way until I release my essence on the written page? Reading Michael’s excellent offering yesterday inspired me further to conjure up a little something for you today. The Universe never fails in complementing my inner musings with outer evidence.
So let me share a small Glove Story with you:
I used to lose my wallet repeatedly or have it stolen. This happened in both dreamtime and while awake. I figured this had to do with a weak identity. When my wallet stopped being stolen or lost, I decided the identity misgivings were resolved. I also have lost many keys in both realms, tying this into mastery and autonomy. This association works for me. Earrings also go missing, leaving me with several solo earrings in my jewelry box. This seems less symbolic and more aerodynamic. Earrings fall off or get caught on things and slip away to earringland.
But then there’s the gloves….
I bought these oh-so-sweet gloves a few months ago. They dazzle with so many of my favorite colors, purple, gray, maroon, etc. They work so week with my plum jacket and black shawl. They are soft and warm and cozy. I have lost one glove at least three times since I first wore them. And every time I was able to retrace my steps and find the stray – until now. Tuesday night I discovered that one of the gloves was not in my jacket pocket. I was at a diner and began to search half of the entire diner, then my car, my office the next day …. Nada.
Then I begin combing the office parking lot and the cafeteria where I ate on Tuesday. I also scaled the campus between said parking lot and cafeteria by car and foot. I discovered other sole ( soul) gloves, but not mine. I even went back to the bathroom stall in aforementioned cafeteria. I later returned to the diner on Wednesday, again asking the same questions and receiving the same answers. Today I went back yet again to the lost and found. I even searched online to see if I could buy a new pair. They are all sold out. I called the store where I bought it and contacted the manufacturer. I also prayed for guidance.
I want my glove back. I do not know why I am so obsessed. I have other gloves that are nice. But they are not enough somehow. I told myself in a few weeks it will be much warmer ( heck it’s spring-like now!) and I will not need to wear gloves. I realize this is a frivolous, high-class problem. But something deeper lurks. Something is stirring within that leaves me sad and unsettled.
Maybe it would be different if I had made peace with my father before he died, or if I could have caught Dexter’s heart problem before it took his life, or if I remained in one neighborhood and school for my entire childhood, or if I was taught that I was always enough simply because IAM. But I wasn’t taught and it is not different.
This Glove Story has no ending. In fact, it has only begun to brew, like a fresh teabag covered in tepid water.