I must admit to loving the theme of this issue, “Resilience: Capturing the Positive.” What I love is the exploration of what happens to us inwardly that allows us to look for meaning after great suffering--what drives us not to give in to despair. After the fall issue, which dealt with tragedy, I was filled with thoughts of how to maintain hope and the desire to live fully in the face of such evil. What choices do we have? We can, if we choose, hold on to feeling victimized and not let go of images of continued trauma and misery. It is difficult to understand how one does not fall into the pitfall of despair at the evil in the world, but continues to strive and grow. For all of us, life contains tragedy--sooner or later we all experience life’s painful circumstances. How do we meet these events and choose options for a rich life? What drives us, therapists and patients alike, to continue to look for meaning and look beyond the immediate misery? Is it the wisdom that comes from having survived despair?

Many of my friends are psychotherapists. Over the years I have come to learn much about circumstances in their lives which have driven them to ask the difficult questions about suffering, despair, and, finally, finding meaning. We have each had to face and struggle with life’s traumas and, fortunately, have come through, bounced back, perhaps become more spiritual and thoughtful and ready to listen, to help another find the resilience and hope for the future. We are not immune to trauma and loss. We have struggled to stay open and turn away from hatred and despair. I have come to believe that it is the resiliency in the person of the therapist which, having been found after much struggle, is, at bottom, what really counts in the relationship with the patient. We certainly cannot fix the evil in the world nor give all of our patients the families that they long for, but we can help them find reasons to live a fulfilling and more joyful life. We can do this because we have had to struggle ourselves with similar longing and suffering, and have come out on the other side, able to capture moments of delight. One such moment is beautifully described by one of my favorite authors, Annie Dillard, in her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: “About five years ago I saw a mockingbird make a straight vertical descent from the roof gutter of a four story building. It was an act as careless and spontaneous as the curl of a stem or the kindling of a star. The mockingbird took a single step in the air and dropped. His wings were still folded against his side as though he were singing from a limb and not falling, accelerating thirty two feet per second, through empty air. Just a breath before he would have dashed to the ground, he unfurled his wings with exact, deliberate care, revealing the broad bars of white spread his elegant, white banded tail and so floated onto the grass.” If only we could float so effortlessly and gracefully into life!

A memory I return to again and again: I am 4 years old, living in the country, and finally allowed to go out and play by myself. I cross a small road and am overwhelmed and awed by the spectacle before me: an entire field of intensely red poppies, bright, glimmering in the strong summer sunlight. In that moment, I am transported to a place of wonderment. It gave me a sense of renewal. I call this the beginning of resilience.

Early in my career as a psychotherapist I met a young woman who had come to see me because of her dependency on cocaine. With the help of a supervisor, I was able to help her give up her drug habit. She continued to come for therapy once a week, but for much of the hour, she remained silent. Not only did she remain silent but she would swivel her chair so that her back was to me for most of the sessions. I interpreted her silence and spoke to her back about what I thought her silence meant: “You must be angry and disappointed with me and therapy and that’s why you’re so quiet.” I wondered aloud what I had done to upset her so much that she needed to shut me out. I remember feeling frustrated and irritated at her shutting me out so completely. Her silence felt like a thick wall that she had built around herself. Little did I know that what she was doing was hiding from me, embarrassed to speak or even to let me see her. After several months of this, she finally started to talk and tell me about the shame she felt and her fear that I would not under- stand. In my youthful impatience and need to know, I had totally missed the real reason for her silence: her feelings of shame. Fortunately, she was able to hold on to her own truth and not renounce what she felt and knew about herself in order to placate me by accepting my interpretation. That happened 20 years ago, but I remember this young woman and I am able to see her in my mind’s eye, sitting in her chair with her back to me. In the years which have passed since those early days I learned to slow down, to be patient and wait quietly for my patient’s readiness to talk. I am more careful now not to jump so quickly to conclusions; I am able to “hold” my words.

From this experience I learned that it is wise and necessary to ask what the silence means and not to trespass with my interpretations. Silence can have many interpretations and the best response may be no response. It can have meanings which defy my best guesses. Silence is a powerful and very private way to keep others out, if that is what is wanted, or it may come out of a need to listen and connect to one’s self and gain nourishment from within by exploring the internal state of affairs. Quiet can create a peaceful place, away from the noise of everyday life, and quiet time is useful both to contemplate and to focus the mind. For some, silence is unbearable and reminds them of the withholding punitive parent who used silence as a powerful tool to control and bully. William James wrote, “No more fiendish torture could be devised than when you speak, no one answers; when you wave, no one turns; but everybody simply cuts you dead” (James, in Wilmer, 2000, p. 21). There are many kinds of silences that serve many purposes: joyous, morbid, punitive, peaceful silence.

Sometimes, words are the culprit; they can be like knives, used only to hurt and obfuscate. A torrent of words can be used as protection, as a wall to protect the vulnerable, tender self from the words of others. “If I continue to talk non-stop no one can say anything to me that might hurt me.” Often, these words have no meaning other than anxiously filling space. As I listen, I can choose to speak or not; if I do speak, how do I know what words to choose? Will my words be “just right” and useful for my patient? Will I say the wrong thing, not use the “correct” pronunciation or tone of voice? I have inadvertently used the wrong words, not understood what my patient is trying to let me know. These errors are valuable lessons; I’m not perfect, only human, and my patient is not perfect, only human. We can continue our relationship, mend our connection, and tolerate our imperfections. We are both “good enough.” Our relationship survives.

The articles that follow remind us that there are many ways to understand the roles words and silence play in therapy. Some think of silence as contemplative and a way to reach a blissful and meditative state of mind leading to transforma- tion; others experience silence in psychotherapy as destructive and confusing, not at all conducive to greater insight and depth. Words can lead to greater intimacy when used by the therapist who is not afraid to be vulnerable and express feelings. Silence can be that magical place where thoughts and feelings can flourish and grow.

REFERENCE
Wilmer, H. (2000). Quest for silence. Einsiedeln, Switzerland: Daimon Verlag.
Letters may be sent to the editor at 705 11th Street, Wilmette, IL 60091, or
msavlin@aol.com

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