Jottings: writings and pictures that speak to me about psychotherapy
Listening to My Soul by Marion Woodman
In his eighties, he was my analyst.
I had been in England
seeing him for six months,
and was still trying to be efficient.
On Christmas Eve I learned my dog,
who was in Canada, had been killed.
I decided not waste my evening session
talking about my dog.
I arrived as organised as usual.
At the end he sat quietly,
then asked me what was wrong.
Nothing, I said, as I put on my coat.
You have not been here, he said.
I told him my dog was dead.
He wept. Wept over my dog.
Asked me how I could waste Christmas Eve
chattering when my soul animal had just died.
Suddenly his seeing made me feel
what I was doing to my soul.
We wept together.
That's when my analysis began.