I’m mostly a “talk therapist,” something I’m a little embarrassed about given my background in art and design, and my training in Somatic Experiencing, where the body is the focus. I think I’ve always been drawn to words. My parents fostered a love of reading when I was a child, since reading was the key to knowledge and advancement. Early on, I taught myself through the written word. My favorite books were “how to” books that taught me skills. I loved going to the library and looking at back-issues of Popular Mechanics, reading cookbooks, and studying needlework through Victorian handbooks.

So even though words predominate in my therapy sessions, I do shift focus now and then, a shift that benefits my clients and me. Sometimes the shift is toward sensations in the body, the felt experience of a moment. Other times, the shift is toward imagery.

One activity I’ve done with clients individually and in groups involves taking turns...

I can't draw. Almost everyone says it. Me, too. Though I say it a little less than I did. As a teen, I loved arts and crafts, but I shied away from the "arts" part. Drawing seemed scary. I didn't know how to make the image on the paper look like what I saw. And when what emerged on the page looked like failure, it scared me even more.

I'm not sure what happened between then and now. I still can't draw, but it doesn't matter so much. When I do draw (not often), I'm more comfortable with what happens on the page. I'm more at ease letting it be whatever it is, usually a scribble or outline or gesture. I'm okay with letting a line ramble, with letting go of mastery and expectation.

I certainly admire great drawings by great artists, and I recognize the magnitude of those achievements. I know that what I do isn't the same. I can tell the difference. Maybe it's not drawing.

Maybe that's why I feel more comfortable now:  because I can recognize the difference and feel okay...