[This is the last of four blogs about Narrative Therapy: for the background to this letter see 25. "Rachel's Massage"; 44. "Rachel's Counselling"; and 49. "Shedding Mr Nice ".]
Dear Rachel,
How are you? I hope this finds you well and happily settled to your new life in Opotoki. I expect you’ll be surprised to hear from me but I wanted to let you know how things are and to thank you again for all your help last year. And, on the odd chance that you will be inAuckland
As you can see from the enclosed manuscript, I have been writing. I hold you entirely responsible! Whatever the mix of magic potions and therapies you exposed me to, they seem to be working. I think I must be your star pupil. (Still competitive as ever!) The writing and story telling in particular has helped me put the fragments of my life into some semblance of order. Perhaps, cross your fingers, even to keep them there. I’m amazed you managed to cajole me to do anything so creative, just as I’m amazed that you were able to help me confront my chaotic inner life.
Rachel, I hope you’re not too busy to read this. I thought you might like to receive feedback on some of the ‘outcomes’ of your professional work. I hope so. You were great at rescuing me from isolation and fragmentation. At encouraging me to see the wholeness of things, larger shapes and pictures, to make connections. I set out on a course of counselling with you in trepidation that I might unravel to the point where I was nothing more, at the core, than a grey mushy blob.
I went by your old place last week. Scarcely recognised it. The hedge has gone, replaced by a freshly painted fence, a smart new gate and a brass letter box. And the house has been completely renovated. Looks smart and trendy and totally characterless. It misses you.
I miss you, Rachel. I was sad you moved away. But it did cut the umbilical cord and set me afloat again. Afloat, not adrift. And not careening around haphazardly. Picking up direction and wind speed. Feeling positive about the future. Ready to party. I do hope you can make it.
Love,
James.
Dear Rachel,
How are you? I hope this finds you well and happily settled to your new life in Opotoki. I expect you’ll be surprised to hear from me but I wanted to let you know how things are and to thank you again for all your help last year. And, on the odd chance that you will be in
As you can see from the enclosed manuscript, I have been writing. I hold you entirely responsible! Whatever the mix of magic potions and therapies you exposed me to, they seem to be working. I think I must be your star pupil. (Still competitive as ever!) The writing and story telling in particular has helped me put the fragments of my life into some semblance of order. Perhaps, cross your fingers, even to keep them there. I’m amazed you managed to cajole me to do anything so creative, just as I’m amazed that you were able to help me confront my chaotic inner life.
Rachel, I hope you’re not too busy to read this. I thought you might like to receive feedback on some of the ‘outcomes’ of your professional work. I hope so. You were great at rescuing me from isolation and fragmentation. At encouraging me to see the wholeness of things, larger shapes and pictures, to make connections. I set out on a course of counselling with you in trepidation that I might unravel to the point where I was nothing more, at the core, than a grey mushy blob.
I went by your old place last week. Scarcely recognised it. The hedge has gone, replaced by a freshly painted fence, a smart new gate and a brass letter box. And the house has been completely renovated. Looks smart and trendy and totally characterless. It misses you.
I miss you, Rachel. I was sad you moved away. But it did cut the umbilical cord and set me afloat again. Afloat, not adrift. And not careening around haphazardly. Picking up direction and wind speed. Feeling positive about the future. Ready to party. I do hope you can make it.
Love,
James.
________________________________________________
RSVP, James
After the sharpest showers the sun shines brightest;
No weather is warmer than after the blackest clouds,
Nor any love fresher or friendship fonder
Than after strife and struggle, when Love and Peace have conquered.
There was never a war in this world, nor wickedness so cruel,
That Love, if he liked, might not turn to laughter,
And Peace, through Patience, put an end to its perils.
- William Langland, Piers the Plowman (c.1362)
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