“Jamie, when we first met, you brought up all of my popular girl issues and I didn’t know how to act around you.”
My mouth was agape when Ramona, a member of the Dancing Mindfulness community and now a senior affiliate trainer in our program, revealed this to me several years ago. While I didn’t wish to negate her experience, there was a part of me that wanted to rage back, “But you don’t understand! I’m anything but a popular girl. After all, the popular girls in school gave me a complex that’s taken years of therapy to repair!”
The images of that chubby girl with a bad perm being teased and set up on the Catholic school playground in elementary school came flooding back. The panic I experienced in junior high that I would never be “liked” in that way by a boy or a girl rose up in my chest. The despair in which I found myself as a competitor in high school speech because I never felt pretty enough, talented enough, or likable enough to win the top prizes came into the clearest view. Then I realized—even as an accomplished professional with a public image, I still let the kids I perceive as more popular affect me. And it turns out that many of us still do, long into adulthood.
There’s a great deal of talk about impostor syndrome in pop psychology literature and on social media—the fear that one day people are going to expose us as the frauds that we are and realize that we’re full of shit and have no business to be working in our fields. What I am putting out there for consideration is related and yet essentially different—the popular kid complex. This is the fear that no matter how hard we try, how great we look or how talented we are, we’ll never be invited to sit with the popular kids at their lunch table. While we can argue that in an ideal, spiritually enlightened world there ought to be no such thing as lunch tables and that external metrics of this nature shouldn’t matter, we do live in that world. And no matter how hard we work on ourselves or how deeply we invest in our spiritual practices, things like this can still matter even to the steadiest among us.
This idea may feel like just another variation on the keeping up with the Joneses concept, always wanting more out of a sense of competition. To explain how I see the popular kid complex as fundamentally different and even bigger problem, I’m going to call myself out on my own shit. Many years ago, I set out on the path of my teaching career as an extension of service and continuing to live in the eleventh step as described in a 12-step program—to pray for knowledge of my Higher Power’s will and the power to carry it out. At first I was simply over the moon that people wanted to book me for trainings and read some of my articles. The more I kept putting myself out there, I gratefully received more teaching invitations and my first book contract in 2011, primarily to write for other therapists.
Then at some point, I found myself getting intimated and maybe even a little jealous by the likes of Brené Brown, Gabrielle Bernstein, and Anne Lamott. They are popular! They are on the New York Times best seller list! They have a reach beyond just their niche market. Oprah invites them onto Super Soul Sunday, the ultimate cool kids lunch table for modern times. Here’s the kicker—I like their stuff, I adore their teachings. They put themselves out there the way that I would like to, and what still stops me short is this fear that I will never be as pretty, whimsical, charming, likable, talented, relatable, or popular as they are. I am even prone to thinking thoughts like, “Why does the world need teachers like me when they have teachers like them?”
Fortunately those thoughts come and go, as I know at my core that what I do in my work is a direct fruit of me asking my Higher Power and the universe to make me a vessel, in whatever form that may take. But as much as that spiritual perspective keeps me grounded, I am still human. My meat suit and all its programming can get the best of me. In the language of recovery, I can still get in my own way.
Sometime last year I looked at jealousy—is it that I’m just jealous of people who are better than me and can get things done where I can’t? The teachings of the Kripalu-Amrit lineage in which I study yoga helped me through that one. I accepted that jealousy is a fear that, at my core, I am not enough. Jealousy is about being cut off from the reality of my true Self and my true nature where none of us are separate. Spiritual me gets that. Human me still struggles.
I was recently doing some of my own EMDR therapy on this matter and the Brené Brown brings up my popular girl issues and I’ll never be likable enough to get a Netflix special was tripped-wired. The therapist working on me said “go with that” and I immediately blurted out, “Brené Brown is my Marla Carano.”
Marla Carano was the best speaker in the Ohio region where I competed my senior year of high school. Tall, articulate and charming, she looked about ten years older than the rest of us, wearing a stylish olive green suit for major competitions. She went to one of the powerhouse suburban high schools where her father was the legendary head coach. As a kid from a city school with a small team, I believed I could never be as cool as her. To be clear, she won on her talent. Also to be clear, Marla was always a gracious competitor and genuinely nice to me. I never felt anything like a “mean girl” vibe coming from her. Yet I could never shake the fact that I would perpetually be second or third next to the likes of her because I wasn’t as pretty, whimsical, charming, likable, talented, relatable, or popular as she.
And the reality is, in what has since become the classic Dr. Jamie Marich move that has defined my adult career, I wrote a pretty avant-garde original oratory for high school speech tournaments. My speech created conversations with other students and even other judges even if I didn’t necessarily win top prizes. The move I made that year to put my voice out there is the gutsiness that I celebrate and applaud in my own students. That move, I believe, made me the speaker I am today whose primarily livelihood is literally forged on my ability to go up there and speak truth without fear.
So why isn’t that enough? At seventeen, one could say I was still in high school and having a place in the spotlight matters. But I’m nearly forty. Why can I feel, especially within myself, that life is still a damn speech and debate competition? Maybe it is. After all, I’m still vying with others to win teaching contracts, spots as a keynote, deals with publishers. The cynical and yes, human, side of me knows that there will always be an element of competitiveness to life. As I continued to “go with it” in my own EMDR session that day the larger, spiritual truth filled my heart—teaching and being public in my field must never be a competition.
Our purpose as healers is to alleviate human suffering, bringing one of Buddha’s noble truths into beautiful fruition in this world. This task takes all kinds of people—those who have mass appeal and those who have niche appeal—and all types of talent. Working the front lines of community care in places like correctional facilities, treatment centers, and poorly funded public mental health facilities requires talent and commitment. People who will never give a training or write a book have a different yet wholly essential talents that I do not. This is where the heart of our work is happening and when I get into crazy places with my own ego, I must remember this truth.
In preparing to write this piece, I reached out to Marla Carano Honen, as we’ve been in touch on Facebook through the years. I wanted to make sure she was okay with me putting an article out there in which she is my nemesis of sorts. Marla is anything but a villain; she has helped me to see a higher truth. And in speaking with her about the premise of the popular kid complex—guess what? It affects her too! I firmly believe we are all that “popular kid” to someone who brings up their issues, and all of us have popular kids who bring up stuff that as adults we must learn to heal and to manage.
I also had the chance to spend some time on a retreat (Ram Das: Spring on Maui) with one of my legendary popular kids, Anne Lamott. And guess what? Anne has struggled with the perils of comparison and can still face her own share of dark thoughts. What I learned from her so robustly on retreat is that she continues to put one foot in front of another by working a 12-step program and reaching out to safe people with whom she can be honest. And in a story I ended up sharing with her, Anne helped me to sink into much of the solution.
After sitting through another beautifully folksy talk by Anne in her awkward loveliness, I walked to the back of the pavilion to get some tea. I thought to myself, “Jamie, even though you are getting more public with your work you will never be as likable as that.” And literally in the next breath a lovely young yogi comes up to me and says, “I like watching you dance at the kirtan. It’s so inspiring!”
Okay, I’m human enough to admit that part of my thinking went to, “Wow, a perfect looking young yogini likes the way I dance, I matter... I am valid! Roll credits.” Fortunately the spiritual truths of what I’ve been learning and studying kicked in and gave me the real lesson: When I dance, I am my most authentic self. I dance absent any kind of technical prowess. Dancing and responding mindfully to the music is the purest experience of being a vessel for Divine energy to flow. That doesn’t make me popular, and yet it does something much more magical. It attracts the people who need to feel it too so that hopefully they will be inspired to open up and be their unique expression of Divine flow.
And hmmm... doesn't this sound like something Brené Brown would teach in her groundbreaking work around vulnerability? Turns outI just had to work on my edge around her to fully open myself up to the teaching. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you Brené and all of my other popular kids for allowing me to "go there" and receive your wisdom.
For as long as I can remember, I have adored flowers. Looking at wildflowers in the fields or noticing several varieties alongside houses in my neighborhood are some of the first pictures that come up in my head when I float my memory back. I remember having to ask my mother’s permission before picking them in my own yard or my grandfather’s yard nearby because I once got in trouble for plucking some of the neighbor’s tulips. I’ve only recently started to appreciate the awesomeness that my mother is named Rosie (which she prefers to Rose)—and that literally makes me a flower child!
I can’t remember when I first received flowers—it was likely when I made my first communion around age seven. I fondly recall getting flowers from my friends and family when I was in my first big stage show at twelve. The confirmation name I chose for myself when I received the sacrament in the Roman Catholic Church is Marie-Therese. I selected the name to honor St. Therese of Lisieux, also called the Little Flower. The first tattoo I got was of a flower (a peace lily on my hip). Even though both of my marriages ended in bitter divorce, I still have several fond memories from both relationships that involve receiving flowers. On a recent pilgrimage to India, one of my drivers—a lovely man named Ratan—climbed a tree to pick me the state flower of Uttrakhand in the foothills of the Himalayas. This gesture had me beaming from ear-to-ear and made me realize just how much I love receiving flowers.
So what better way to honor the sacredness that I am than to practice buying myself flowers? We can put so much weight, especially as women, on what it means to receive flowers as a gesture of love or appreciation. But who is to say that for flowers to have such appreciative value, they have to be gifted by someone else?
Although I’ve picked flowers for myself over the years, I do not consciously recall buying myself a bouquet of flowers until about two years ago. I purchased a beautiful dozen of pink roses to celebrate my separation from marriage number two and all of the pain it represented. After that marriage ended, I entered into a period of deep inquiry to investigate and ultimately heal the remaining layers of relational trauma that kept me in this loop of unserving relationships. And in my sadhana (spiritual practice), my guides led me back to a favorite poem from which I’ve drawn great strength over the years, After A While by Veronica A. Shofstall. After my first divorce, I wrote a song called “Grace of a Woman” (which became the title track to the last album I recorded in 2012) based on a line from this poem. The repeating line in her poem is “after a while you learn”… During that period in my life, this line most resonated for me:
And you begin to accept your defeat with your head up and your eyes ahead
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child
Clearly that was the lesson my foolish heart needed at the time. Yet with one of the classical definitions of foolish being “slow to learn,” there was still more healing to be done…
Within a few weeks after my second husband and I parted ways, I remember standing at the entrance to the grocery store near my home where the florist is located and Veronica’s poem came back to me like a lightning bolt. Specifically the wisdom:
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much
So you plant your own garden, and decorate your own soul
Instead of waiting for someone to bring your flowers
Thus, as a ceremony representing the new phase of healing that life was bringing me through, I bought myself that bouquet of the most beautiful pink roses. I brought them home, put them in a vase, and all felt right with the world.
“I can do this,” I resolved, “I can be okay by myself, as I am.”
During the period of initial healing I bought myself flowers regularly to keep reminding myself of this lesson. Truthfully, I fell out of the practice after about six months. I started to feel much better. And then, about a year after the separation, I started seeing someone. Although not to the same extent as in earlier seasons of my life, I noticed some of the same patterns about needing to be wanted pop back up and disturb the peace in my life. Even though I’m slow to learn when it comes to my personal healing, I do learn and I’ve been able to nip much of this potential destruction in the bud.
Getting my latest book Process Not Perfection prepared and ready for publication happened alongside me doing some deep therapeutic digging about the remnants of relational trauma. Healing those wounds has proven to be the greatest process of my life. The day that the book officially released, I allowed myself to sit on my couch, breathe, and take it all in. And then the wisdom inherent in Veronica’s poem came back once again—go out and buy yourself flowers. Celebrate you! Celebrate not just all that you’ve accomplished, celebrate the wonder that you are! Indeed, decorate your own soul…
We can decorate our soul in a variety of ways along our healing path in ways that are not entangled with attachments to others. Even if you are in a committed relationship, please consider nourishing yourself in this way. Perhaps planting a garden is more your style than buying flowers. Do it. Do whatever is going to help you celebrate your own wonder while cultivating beauty in your life. I am worth it, you are worth it. And perhaps if we deepen into this practice of gifting ourselves with the beauty we deserve, we will indeed spread that healing like wildflowers through this suffering world desperately in need of that colorful energy.
Sometime in the sixth grade, I first heard philosopher Soren Kierkegaard’s wisdom, “Once you label me, you negate me.” I wish I could tell you that my exposure to this teaching happened while I was attending some kind of summer symposium for gifted children. But alas, I heard it folded into a joke by Mike Myers’ character Wayne Campbell in the 1992 comedy Wayne’s World. Because Wayne’s World is one of my favorite films and I watch it several times a year, I am often reminded of Kierkegaard’s teaching and am challenged to ponder its layers of meaning. As a woman in long-term recovery who works with others in recovery, and as an out bisexual woman who serves as an LGBT+ advocate, I often handle questions about what it means to label or be labeled versus what it me mean to define or identify. Moreover, discussions rage around me and within me about whether or not we place too much stock in identifying in a certain way or calling ourselves certain things. Do labels or identifiers help to advance recovery and advocacy, or do they keep us stuck in unhelpful pigeon holes? Do labels really negate us, and does it make it any better if we swap out label with the word identifier? And on a spiritual level, does the practice of labeling or identifying keep us cut off from the essence of our true nature?
Let’s begin by looking at the distinction between labeling and identifying, for exploring this distinction sets a foundation to answer these very important questions.
“I don’t like to label things,” is a line I’ve heard from many people around me, from wishy-washy people I’ve tried to date to employers who have been non-committal about issues like job descriptions, expectations, contracts, and titles. Just about every woman I’ve worked with or known has been hurt in some way by a potential partner saying they don’t want to put a label on something, when it is really just an excuse to buy time or not commit. Yet I have also experienced very deep friendships that can be hard to specifically label or define because the feelings and roles involved don’t fit into any kind of a neat box. And I’ve also accepted work gigs that seem to defy the gravity of definitions and labels. On any given day it’s hard to describe exactly what I “do.” In fact, it’s a bit of a running joke in my family as my brother has long asked me, “What do you do?,” and my stepson often asks, “So Jamie, how many jobs exactly do you have? I count nine.” In my view I only have one job, yet it’s composed of so many facets and segments I can understand where it would feel confusing to people who don’t get it.
So an argument to be made for labels is that in many contexts, they can keep people safe (especially in work settings and in certain interpersonal relationships) and minimize confusion. Labels can work very much like boundaries and expectations in this sense, so it may feel better to many to call it a definition. Yet we’ve all run into cases where once somebody gets labeled as something, especially in a binary context, it creates a limiting and maybe even discriminatory tone. In this day and age, we only have to look to how political affiliations have divided us to see how this plays out. Many Democrats don’t trust Republicans, especially if they find out they are supporter of President Trump, and immediately shut them down as people as a result. The opposite can also happen, as I know many people (especially those who knew me when I was younger and more traditionally religious) don’t want to hear what I have to say because I’m now rather liberal. The devil’s advocate response I’ve heard, especially from others in the LGBT+ community, is that knowing if someone voted for Trump or not is a sign, a mark that helps them know if they’re really safe with that person. Although I heavily relate to this sentiment and even experienced a great deal of it myself after the 2016 election, for me it is not that black-and-white.
The issue of labeling comes up quite a bit in the recovery and LGBT+ communities in which I live and work. My Trauma and the Twelve Steps work is brilliant to some because it is integrative. Yet my perspective confuses many because even though trauma-focused in my orientation, I still introduce myself in appropriate contexts as, “Hi! My name is Jamie, and I’m an alcoholic and addict in long term recovery.” For me, this is an identifier and not a label. And it is my choice to identify publicly in this way, which makes it very powerful for me. Saying this identifier out loud keeps me grounded in the reality of my story, and I take great pride in being able to introduce myself in this way. Where it can feel like a label, in a negative sense, is when people judge me by this identifier, or if I completely define myself by this identifier. For me, identifying opens up possibilities where labeling connotes being limited by the way in which I identify (or by the way others try to identify or label me).
I recently put the question out to my hivemind on social media and there seemed to be a general consensus that identifying has a much more positive connotation in the English language than labeling. Another common theme is that labeling is more likely to come from without whereas identifying is something that is very personal to the individual doing the identifying—it comes with within. Skeptics or critics may roll their eyes at me when I say things like, “I am an openly bisexual woman in long-term recovery from addiction and dissociation.”
More PC bull crap. Why does everyone need to label themselves? Or be special?
I offer this response: Being open an honest about these things has allowed me to heal and be able to say and claim other parts of my identify like I am a deeply spiritual person, proud of my Eastern European ancestry, and I live each day to the fullest, enjoying life as much as I can and helping and serving others who my Higher Power sees fit to put into my path. I am a yogi, a seeker, a lover, a mystic, a sister, a daughter, a surrogate mother, a friend, a teacher, and author, a guide, a movie lover, an expressive artist… Shall I go on?
I can celebrate the fullness of my human identity because I’ve learned to be honest about my story and what it has meant to shaping my identity. Robert Ackerman, the teacher and recovery writer, said in a 2015 talk: “You cannot expect yourself to become a fully functioning individual (physically, emotionally, spiritually) if you deny a part of yourself. The key is integrating all of who you are.” I felt like he was talking directly to me, and in the months following this message circumstances allowed me to come out fully (not just to my close friends and colleagues) about my bisexual identity. Doing so was a game changer not just for my mental health, but for feeling more authentic and genuine in my professional work. I feel now that no one can label me, and if they do so pejoratively, it’s lost any power to affect me.
The yogic perspectives and teachings from other spiritual paths may offer a slightly different angle to the challenge. Teachers I’ve studied with contend, “As soon as you say I am…, then you are limiting yourself. Because you are really your soul and the pureness of consciousness.” In fact, in many yoga settings, it’s common to introduce yourself by saying, “I’m called Pragya,” instead of “I am Pragya.” Even saying things like “I am anxious” can be discouraged because you are identifying yourself with your anxiety.” It may be preferred to say “I have anxiety.”
Ever the bridge builder, my feelings are that both perspectives are true. I know that when I look at the bigger picture and my Divine essence, it is very limiting to label or to identifying myself in any way. Who I really am exists at a soul level that cannot be damaged or affected by anything on this plane. Yet I also live on the human plane for the time being and to know who I am in this body, a knowing that is empowered by the ways in which I identify, helps me to thrive while I’m here. Knowing the communities to which I belong and where I stand in work or relational contexts is important. Important, yes; everything, no. Like many answers to existential questions answered through the yogic perspective, the key is to not be attached. Freeing myself from the grip of attachment—to outcome, to definitions, to identifiers, to labels, to anything is the key to health and happiness. And this detachment I practice while also being honest about what matters to me is what allows me to be fully human and fully Divine, dancing as One between the worlds.
In many parts of Ohio, competitive speech and debate is a sport. I caught the bug my sophomore year where I tagged along with my best friend to a tournament. There was something about the pageantry of even a run-of-the-mill weekly speech tournament that was magical—and I wanted to be a part of it! I was transitioning out of figure skating, deciding to focus more on academics, and competitive speech seemed to be the perfect fit for me. I got to dress up, perform, and be my geeky self…how could I not fall in love? I went to a city school with a very small speech team and it made me proud when I was able to represent and often best kids from the Catholic schools and the big suburban juggernaut teams. It felt like I was a skater from a small country going up against the Russian powerhouses! In my competitive days I was never the best of the best, although I got a chance to try out many new ideas that would be the root of what I now identify as my professional voice. Junior year I made it to state and senior year I made it to nationals. Although constantly stuck in the second or third place slot my senior year and bitterly let down at some big tournaments, I remember my time on the speech team as my most precious in high school. Some of my dearest friends, many from those powerhouse schools, were made during my time in competitive speech.
So it’s no wonder, like any obsessed sports fan, that I spent the better part of fifteen years after leaving high school involved in high school speech in some manner as a coach. And coaching young people on several different types of teams proved even more transformational than my own high school speech experience. Yes, I was a “speechie” in high school, as we are often called, yet being a coach crystalized the power of that identity in my being. For this reason, I dedicated my newest book Process Not Perfection: Expressive Arts Solutions for Trauma Recovery to my students, the “speechies” that I coached between 1997 (the year I graduated from high school) until 2011. As I reference in the dedication, they truly taught me the power of expressive arts as healing.
I coached on four teams during that time—I assisted at two schools while I was an undergraduate. I had the privilege of being the head coach of Chaney High School, my alma mater, when I was in graduate school and during the first two years of clinical career. To coach a Chaney kid to a state title, and coach another to three state final rounds in three different categories during his tenure, brought my “small team” kid experience full circle. I thought I was done…what could top that? Then in 2008, when I moved to one of those suburbs I once growled at when I was a city school kid in Youngstown, OH, the head coach of that team (an old friend of mine), pulled me in for one more go as his assistant. I got to coach on two state championship teams, a new experience for me having always either been on a small team or having coached one.
During all of these stints I met such awesome young people—I can think of no other adjective for their spirits or for the experiences I had coaching them. Coaching is not quite the best word. Rather, I had the privilege of guiding them through process, the construct I now celebrate in my work as a trauma-focused expressive arts therapist. To be in process as you prepare for competitive speech, especially if you want to see good results, is to be constantly willing to engage in trial and error. As a coach I often guided my kids through one sentence of their speech or performance piece in thirty different ways, just to test it out and notice what best popped. This same idea applies whether a student is in more of a performance-based category like drama, humor, or poetry reading, or one of the classic speaking categories like original oratory.
Working with my students is where I really developed the competency of listening with my body, a skill that has served me well as a trauma-focused therapist and expressive artist. You listen and you notice with something that often can’t be put into words for a sense of “That’s it!” These moments can happen at 7:00pm at night in a high school classroom, long after other students have cleared out. And then your student may take it to a tournament, try it out, and it falls flat, which can be an invitation back into process. Or, they may take the fruits of their work to a tournament and, following the flow of their intuition, may create even more magic than you or they even thought possible during those hours of practice.
I wish that I could tell stories about all of my students in this piece, but there is simply not enough room! A book wouldn’t even suffice. In reality, they all taught me something. Even the kids who resisted the depth of practice it would take to be competitively successful taught me about process, whether that was getting to explore resistance or to realize that for some kids it’s never about winning. The process is in the having fun, enjoying friendships and trying something new in their high school speech experience. In expressive arts therapy we talk a great deal about the work not being outcome-focused. Because competitive speech is, well, competitive, the end result was imperative to many of the students I coached. It was to me at the end of my high school speech career which is why I don’t think I enjoyed it as much as I could have. Yet I inevitably found that the students who were willing to dive in and embrace the process—the trial and error, explore the range depth—ended up being most successful in terms of trophies and titles won. I think there is a lesson here for those of us who pursue the arts professionally in one way or another—the power is in the process. Focus on the process, and you may be utterly amazed at the outcomes you are able to achieve.
And then we can pick apart what it even means to be successful. In reflecting back on my own high school speech career, I never came close to achieving the success that many of my students did. Yet I now have a professional career and public image that is based largely on my ability to speak publicly. I remember the first time I offered a continuing education training for other professionals in 2007, one of my colleagues asked, “Where did you learn to hold a crowd like that?” I chuckled and replied, “You have no idea,” thinking fondly on all of those hours I spent preparing with my own coaches and friends in high school, talking to walls (a common warm up practice on tournament day), and then working with my own students. The trophies have been thrown away or recycled and yet the fruits of the process remain.
Now looking back, the students who had the most impact on me are those who were never major contenders for awards. Yet I saw them blossom in terms of confidence and ability to stand tall and speak their voice. I remember one student who came to me during my second stint as an assistant, asking me if he could still be on the speech team even though he had a speech impediment. I adored his spirit right away and welcomed him aboard. He is now a lawyer. The person I coached to the state title at Chaney is a teacher and speech coach herself in Baltimore, and I beam with the pride of a mother when I see the pictures she posts at tournaments with her own students.
So many of my former students are making a real difference in this world, regardless of their chosen profession. Through the wonder of social media and texting, I am still in touch with many of the young people I had the joy of coaching through the years. Instead of talking about gesture placement and intonation, we now talk about life. It warms my heart that they can still seek out my experience, strength and hope… and it’s a two-way street. When I hear some of the young people, I coach make such intelligent life connections that I wish I would have made at 22 or 23, I smile and thank them for sharing a lesson with me.
And this is what I mean by all life being a chance to engage in process.
For years I was scared to buy paint. One of my college roommates was an art major, and it captivated me to watch her paint. She had the capacity to create such beautiful, museum-quality pieces with her amazing talent. I loved to watch her work her magic! To this day I am proud to have several of her pieces and prints in my home, as I’m reminded of those beautiful memories of watching her in-the-zone.
Like many people I’ve worked with through the years, my barrier to painting and to most visual art came from a sense of “I can’t do it,” or “I’m not good enough.” I never seemed to have this issue with music, dance, theater, or writing where there was at least some evidence of my competence, usually in the form of compliments or accolades received. I never had a problem calling myself a writer, for instance, winning many awards throughout middle school and high school. And then came the books…
But to call myself a visual artist? To call myself a painter? Hell no! After watching my roommate work, I still felt you had to have a special artist license to even buy paint…
There is one visual form I felt reasonably comfortably approaching: collage. Born out of my love for making travel scrapbooks, collaging spoke to me because there didn’t seem to be competence involved. And I very much enjoyed the process of taking scraps and allowing them to develop into something meaningful when put together. As I began working with my own expressive arts mentor Christine Valters Paintner, I began to get braver about working with visual arts. Sure, I’d long kept some basic drawing materials in the office for my clients and out at Dancing Mindfulness retreats. Yet when I began working with Christine and realizing just how much Dancing Mindfulness as a program connected with the all-of-the-above nature of the expressive arts, I got braver about exploring my edge as an expressive artist.
I continued with collage and ventured into working with pastels and markers. I quickly found that visual arts had even more to teach me because I didn’t approach them with any kind of expectation about the quality of the product. There’s something to be said about being the worst kid in art class who was never chosen for any shows. Because competence was never my focus in visual art, I was naturally more open to just enjoying it, to being in process, and learning from what making just for fun revealed.
I credit crossing the paint threshold to my ex-husband after he saw how much I liked coloring and pastels. When I was going through an especially rough patch in the Fall of 2016, he bought me a paint-by-numbers kit. Although initially skeptical, I soon found that I enjoyed it even more than coloring books. There was something soothing and containing about having lines in which to work, yet my hand responded to the sensation of moving paint along a canvas. I loved everything about it; the colors, the smells, and yes, even the feeling of accomplishment when I saw the final product. There was some leftover paint and while at my local craft store on a run for some other supplies, I bought a small canvas and decided to use the leftover pain to express something original. I painted a mandala and it spoke to me very much.
I continued with this process for the next few months—finishing paint-by-numbers kits and then using the leftover paint to create something original. After a couple rounds of this process, I got brave enough to order some of my own paint off of Amazon and continue with my explorations. I approached it as something fun to do, something that let me play with color and texture and sensation and not be bound by the shackles of outcome.
A few months into this journey is where the painting that graces the cover of my latest book Process Not Perfection: Expressive Arts Solutions for Trauma Recovery revealed itself to me. And in this revelation came what is perhaps the greatest lesson that I ever received about the power of process: be open to where the unexpected, even the failures, may guide you. A pleasant surprise may blossom when you shed these expectations.
I laid down a foundation in gauche, the first time I ever experimented with this unique form closely related to watercolor. I also played around with using some shimmery paints that you can apply with a spray bottle. I liked the mystical ocean of color that was coming into existence! Then the idea came to me—paint a Hand of Fatima! This blue magic would certainly be an ideal backdrop for this symbol I’d come to adore. I printed out a copy of the hand online to follow. This unique pattern, sometimes referred to as a Hand of Hamhsa, seemed relatively easy to copy or trace, even for someone as unskilled as I. When I looked at the lopsided result of my attempt to paint the hand in white acrylic with a fine brush, I was disheartened.
“See, I ruined my cool blue background,” I huffed in frustration.
In the spirit of process, I rolled with that frustration, angrily ripping away a paper towel and I just started rubbing. I hoped that enough of it would come off so that I might be able to salvage some of the base. What emerged was the cool, rather mystical white outline of a flower that you now see on the cover of the book.
“Wow, the hand now looks like a cloud, or a flower,” I said.
I noticed that my raging by paper towel maneuver also made some very interesting patterns on the canvas that I just began filling in with gold… and then with green. And then as I noticed the flower take shape, I finished off the core image with some of the pinkish-magenta that now composes the flower itself.
I stood back in amazement, declaring, “I did that! It’s beautiful!”
And it was totally an accident, the fruit of staying in process and not being fixated on outcome.
From the moment I began writing Process Not Perfection, I knew that this image would be my book’s cover. For being in the process that birthed this painting is when I truly fell in love with the magic of expressive arts. I adore how the practices of expressive arts therapy invite me into a focus on process rather than perfection, and I am so grateful to be surrounded by a community of other expressive artists who inspire me to carry this lesson into all areas of my life.
To the process, my friends! And to the inevitable magic that will unfold from living a life in process…
True of false: Hinduism is a polytheistic religion.
If you grew up in an Abrahamic, Western context, chances are that you answered “True.” I was certainly taught that Hinduism is a polytheistic religion all the way through grade school and high school. Let’s set aside the word “religion” for the purposes of this piece because many would argue that Hinduism is not a religion at all, and the word itself is a rather new invention influenced by British colonial rule. Hinduism is a spiritual path best described by the teaching of sanatan dharma: truth is universal, timeless, and unchanging. A Hindu saint who influences me, Neem Karoli Baba (Maharaj-ji) taught Sub Ek, or "all one." The precepts that all major religions have in common is the essence of this truth, and followers of this teaching do not hold their path in supremacy above others. The rest is really just details, for we know that truth expresses itself in myriad ways. And in the tradition that we generally refer to as Hinduism, there is only one supreme God—the various “gods” like Krishna, Shiva, Sita, Ram, Ganesh, Kali, and Hanuman are simply manifestations of God; different threads through which Divinity is expressed. As scholar Eknath Easwaran explains in his commentary on The Bhagavad Gita, “From the earliest times, Hinduism has proclaimed one God while accommodating worship of him (or her, for to millions God is the Divine Mother) in many different names” (p. 22).
I adore this teaching, as a humanitarian whose heart breaks to see the devastation caused throughout history in the name of religion and fundamentalism. I also adore it as a person with a dissociative mind who sees the world through multiple lenses and angles. In this piece I hope to demonstrate how getting familiar with the Hindu gods can offer a beautiful systemic metaphor for people to explore their internal world. Yes, there is one God—in the Hindu tradition, God shows up in roughly 330 million ways (the approximate number of major and minor gods). Raised primarily as a Roman Catholic, it always seemed plausible to me that the Almighty could choose to manifest in human form, born of a woman, in the person of Jesus. And I do love Jesus the social rebel and adore that many people find God’s love through Jesus. I could just never get behind the teaching, at least with my whole heart, that Jesus died for my sins and that professing belief in him is the only way to salvation. So it’s safe to say that even as a child, sanatan dharma was alive within me.
I still hang out in Catholic circles, even though I dislike mainstream Catholic social teaching. I draw strength from many aspects of Catholicism and similar Christian paths, and I have a particular fondness for the saints. I adore the saints for a similar reason to why I love the Hindu gods; the saints represent the different ways that God shows up in the world. There are many saints whose lives and teachings have spoken to me, saints like Therese of Lisieux, Teresa of Avila, Hildegard of Bingen, Benedict, Anthony, Jude, Augustine, Ignatius, Maria Goretti, and St. John of the Cross. Not to mention those who are not officially “saints” according to the Vatican yet whose lives and writings inspire me, specifically Fr. Henri Nouwen and Fr. Thomas (Louis) Merton. I love them for their humanity and for the overcoming of struggle, owing all glory to the Divine.
You may be familiar with the concept of patron saints. For example, St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost objects, St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes, and while she’s not been officially labeled this, for me St. Hildegard of Bingen is a patroness of the holistic and expressive arts. Catholics pray to saints who they feel most connected to or who most get their struggle, asking them to intervene before God. For me, the Hindu gods hold similar appeal; the major difference is that they are not intermediaries, they are actually parts or aspects of the One Divine presence. Ganesh, the mighty elephant, is known as the remover of obstacles. Sonu, one of my drivers on my pilgrimage to India shared with me, “Pray to Ganesh first; he removes the blocks that keep you from getting to everything else.” Like many people keep a rosary or medal hanging from their car mirror, he keeps a little Ganesh on his dashboard. Ganesh is an expression of the God, the Divine remover of obstacles.
In Hinduism, gods are often paired by their masculine and feminine qualities to represent the union of consciousness (masculine) and energy (feminine). For instance, you often see Krishna and Radha together, Shiva and Parvati, and my favorite holy couple, Sita and Ram. One of the most meaningful stories in the Hindu tradition is that of Sita (energy), Ram (consciousness), and Hanuman (the monkey god representing breath and the ability to shape shift. Once, the demon Ravana (who represents the ego mind) lured and captured Sita (energy) to exploit her for his own benefit. Ram called upon his devoted servant, the beloved Hanuman. Hanuman mustered the forces of his entire monkey army and they found Sita at the southern tip of India (symbolic because in our lower chakras is where we expel all of our life energy that we waste through worry and fear). They rescued her so she could be reunited with her beloved. Hanuman’s role in this story represents the power of the breath to reunite energy and consciousness. In this powerful fusion of energy and consciousness made possible by the breath, order is restored and we are deeply healed. It is amazing to me how Hanuman took on a large, angry form to destroy Ravana and the city of Lanka by fire; and yet he was able to assume a small, gentle form when he came to rescue mother Sita so she would not be afraid.
If you’ve read my work before on this blog, you know that I have a thing for Hanuman. To use Catholic language, I have a great devotion to him. Yes, his qualities displayed in the Sita-Ram story are a big part of why I love him. I am also drawn to the teaching of Hanuman as a bridge—because he is a monkey, he is the bridge between the human world and the animal world. And in my work I aspire to be a bridge. As a woman living with and healing from a dissociative disorder, all work on myself requires that I bridge the aspects of myself to live in wholeness. As a trauma survivor I draw great strength from Hanuman. As a miracle baby and incarnation of Shiva, born through the intervention of the wind God, others were threatened by Hanuman as his powers began to manifest in the form of a rather naughty toddler. The monkey king, Bali, threatened by Hanuman, devised a poisonous concoction of five metals to kill Hanuman. When Hanuman ingested the potion it only made him more brilliant, graceful, and powerful. A better metaphor for post-traumatic growth I have never heard. Jai Hanuman! Victory to Hanuman and victory to the Hanuman spirit within me.
Just like there are many parts of me, there are many gods that speak to my various parts. In addition to Hanuman I have great devotions to Saraswati, the goddess of music, art, and knowledge. Indeed her quality of knowledge, or Pragya, is the origin of the spiritual name I was given. I cannot think of a better goddess for an expressive artist to serve! Many other feminine expressions like Kali, Sita, Durga, and Lakshmi also give me strength. Just like Christianity uses the term trinity, Hinduism also makes use of a similar concept with the holy trinity of Brahma (the creator), Vishnu (the preserver) and Shiva (the destroyer) governing the necessary functions of life. On the feminine side, Parvati (fertility, love, beauty), Saraswati, and Lakshmi (wealth, fortune, and prosperity) compose a Tridev, or trinity. Whether you embrace these stories and qualities as spiritual teaching or as myth, there are numerous opportunities to notice where you experience resonance. Whether you are doing parts work for your own healing or with clients, the Hindu gods offer rich opportunities for helping one describe their own internal system with these metaphors and allegories. The stories are numerous and if you can step outside of your spiritual comfort zone and explore some of them, you may discover that they lead you closer to the oneness that is God because they can meet you as you are right now.
And isn’t one of the goals of parts work in healing trauma to honor and recognize the parts yet let them lead us to a sense of wholeness or integration? If the word integration is a sticking point for you—don’t use it. Indeed, many of us who’ve struggled with dissociative issues over the years can equate integration with a therapist’s desire to smash out or ignore what the parts have to say. So while the word integration may work for you, consider replacing it with wholeness or totality. This idea works similar to how the Hindu gods operate—many awesomely beautiful parts that compose one, unified whole. Even from this place of wholeness, the parts can be called upon when they are needed. And like in my internal system, one god/part (like Hanuman for me) may be the key to establishing balance and peace in the system.
There is one final aspect of Hindu teaching I wish to discuss here that you may also find useful in your own path of healing as it relates to parts. In the Hindu system the gods are constantly interconnecting and incarnating as other gods (e.g., Hanuman is an incarnation of Shiva, Ram is an incarnation of Vishnu, etc.) and this vibrancy serves the whole. A demon, like Ravana in the Hanuman story, is a part that thinks it is the whole - a part that tries to override the system for its own desires or survival. So the next time you talk about your demons, remember that you are not your demons. Like Ravana the ego mind, they are just an aspect of your experience that’s trying to overtake your entire system. Instead, consider learning to call upon other warriors to help you understand sanatan dharma--that truth is one. That we are not separate. And the largest most healing truth I’ve learned from studying Hinduism is that I am not my demons. I am not even my singular parts. Rather, learning about, connecting with, and healing my parts has allowed me to uncover the truth of who I really am, never separated from Divine presence. Even if working in the Hindu system like this doesn’t do it for you, I hope that you find something in your own faith tradition or in other areas of life (e.g., mythology, pop culture) that helps you to explore your internal world. May we all ultimately live in wholeness, honoring how every part is connected.
To read more:
Achuthananda, Swami (2013). Many many many gods of Hinduism: Culture, concepts, and controversies. Reliant.
Johari, H. (2016). Spiritual traditions of India coloring book. Destiny Books.
Markus, P. (2015). Love everyone: The transcendent wisdom of Neem Karoli Baba told through the stories of westerners whose lives he transformed. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.
Easwaran, E. (2007). The Bhagavad Gita—Translation and commentary by Eknath Easwaran (2nd ed). Tomales, CA: Blue Mountain Center for Meditation.
Sometimes You Get Stuck in Chicago: 5 Lessons From My Life as a Pilgrim by Dr. Jamie (Pragya) Marich
I detest Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. As a frequent flyer for business, I’m usually good for several stops at O’Hare each year—and the busy-ness, disorganization, and delays that come with it. At least one major delay at O’Hare goes down each year, and I’ve even slept on the airport floor in a makeshift sleeping bag constructed of airline blankets. A few year’s back I even nicknamed Chicago O’Hare the mouse trap of America. Since it’s so busy, if there is a delay or nuisance at O’Hare, travel throughout all of North American can get clogged up big time.
Oddly enough I managed to go a whole year without my routes running through O’Hare. Then, when I received my opportunity to go on my first spiritual pilgrimage to India, a work commitment in Chicago necessitated that I fly out of O’Hare. I thought little of it when I booked as I was simply overjoyed that there was a direct flight to Delhi! The night before I was scheduled to leave, I received the notification via text. My flight would be delayed... by 16 hours! For a moment my head started to spin into the hysterics of “This isn’t fair! I’m going to lose more than a whole day from my plans, just when I cleared the space to go to India. See, the universe hates me after all!”
My breath quickly found me and I realized—this is spiritual pilgrimage. Expect the unexpected. It’s supposed to be challenging and yes, the pilgrimage goes through Chicago. You know what that means; another change to cultivate patience through the art of waiting. Another chance to curse life for not working and being inconvenient, only to take that breath and realize my gratitude for even being able to go to India in the first place, especially when so many people are suffering there and in the world over. And maybe that’s what pilgrimage intends to teach us? Patience. Patience with ourselves and the process...
Pilgrimage comes from Latin meaning “to cross a threshold.” The art of pilgrimage has played a vital role in my life in a way I never could have expected as an American elementary student who first heard the term in reference to English colonial Separatists with funny hats. I worked in Medjugorje, Bosnia-Hercegovina—a major pilgrimage site in the modern Catholic world— from 2001-2003. Traveling there as a pilgrim myself first brought me to this sleepy town that would transform my life. I’ve also been drawn to major sites and pilgrimage-retreat experiences in the Catholic world and in the traditions of other faiths in which I take refuge. India was long on my wish list of pilgrimage sites and in the weeks leading up to the trip, I was giddy with excitement that I would be exploring a place that long felt like a soul home!
Oddly enough, the intention I set for this pilgrimage was to receive further help with patiently relaxing into the uncertainty. I’m in the midst of two separate struggles in both my personal and professional life; the epic stuff that may end up in my memoirs someday. The common denominator in both situations is waiting with uncertainty for an outcome to unfold where I have no control over the workings of other people, places, or moving parts. I know that being outcome-focused is futile; enough spiritual study has certainly revealed this truth to me. Yet relaxing into the uncertainties and trusting in the true nature of Self is a challenge to my still healing limbic brain. I am still a human being with human desires and frailties, which is why I continue to practice, work on myself, and yes, make pilgrimage. So naturally the Divine started on me before I even got to India.
An additional three hours of delay with boarding and tarmac issue, plus the fifteen hour flight, gave me plenty of time to reflect on what the pilgrimages of my life have taught me thus far. First, although pilgrimage may involve any crossing of a threshold that requires you to step outside of your comfort zone, travel if you can, as the ancients did when making pilgrimage. Travel is the ultimate metaphor for life. Travel reveals and builds character as you are challenged to deal with things like global events, the weather, delays, and everything that comes with stepping outside of your normal routine.
Which leads to the second lesson—pilgrimage is supposed to be challenging. To intone the wisdom of Jimmy Dugan, one of my favorite characters played by Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own, “If it were easy than everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.” Dealing with the hard, the obstacles that life throws at us, builds our spiritual muscles and forces us to rely on the spiritual resources that many of us hope to strengthen by sitting in the temples or praying in the shrines. If you allow it to, getting there may strengthen you more than what happens when you actually arrive.
In the Croatian language the word for pilgrim (hodačašće) comes from the same root as the word to walk (hodati). That is why for many faithful in a variety of traditions, walking is vital to the journey. Think of El Camino de Santiago, probably the most famous pop culture reference for this phenomenon. While certain destinations are made more accessible as technology develops, one can still embrace travel with the step-by-step, slow pace that walking engenders. This means accepting the delays as part of the process. This is my third lesson learned in my life as a pilgrim.
There is a saying in recovery that expectations are planned resentment, a lesson that’s been instilled in my life as a pilgrim. Number four—drop your expectations and you’ll be opened up to a whole new world of gifts. My India pilgrimage began with this lesson, as I was originally supposed to go for a training. When the dates got moved and I was unable to change my schedule around, the inner-prompting was to still go, especially because I’d already arranged the time off. With this being the first trip to a country that means so much to me and my spiritual development, it makes more sense to build my own pilgrimage than to be in training with little time to see anything else. I’m in the middle of a process unfolding exactly as it is meant to.
Even on my bonus day in Chicago I got to visit one friend/colleague I wouldn’t have gotten a chance to see otherwise due to her schedule. I had more time to visit with another friend and former student. Plus my hosts and dear friends, Jeff and Bradd, attended to my every need. Not only did they introduce me to a new series that has me rolling on the floor laughing, when I woke up on my bonus day in Chicago, Bradd put out many of his art supplies for me with a note to help myself. Even in the delays, I was given the needed message to rest, to create, and to appreciate connection in all of its forms. And when I finally arrived to India, specifically to my first pilgrimage site of Kripalu Samadhi Mandir in Malav (Gujarat), I appreciated the day I had there with renewed vigor instead of grieving the day and a half I lost.
The grand lesson in all of this is that life is the pilgrimage. We are sometimes called to make pilgrimage so that we can be reminded of the skills we need the most as we navigate the journey of life on this plane. I trust that the pilgrimage that I am on presently is nourishing me for the most important pilgrimage of all—the journey to go deeper within. This pilgrimage is constantly revealing the true source of my nature and my pilgrim soul—the Divine fusion of consciousness and energy, the only love story that really matters. When I am fully aware of this Divine presence within me, I can more fully let go of life’s stressors because I know that I am releasing them to this timeless source.
Am I still a work in process with all of this? Until this human brain of mine is fully healed, until the Arjuna within me realizes that he is really Krishna on the field of battle in The Bhagavad Gitaand until I can fully relax into the uncertainty of life, I continue to be a pilgrim. I continue to learn, I continue to grow, and I continue to release more and more of what weighs me down. I travel much lighter than I used to, and I travel joyfully.
EMDR Therapy Phase 2.5: Honoring a Wider Context for Enhanced Preparation by Jamie Marich, Ph.D., LPCC-S, LICDC-CS, REAT, RYT-200
As an EMDR educator, people are constantly asking me what I think of the latest trend in EMDR therapy. In the last year or so, Phillip Manfield’s Flash Technique has become all the rage. My students will tell you that I am not easily impressed by the latest spin on the standard protocol or twists on time-honored strategies for resourcing and regulating affect. I’ve long maintained that if you learn the standard protocol well and have a sense of how to mindfully modify with respect to special populations, dissociation, complex trauma, and the art of embodied resourcing, you have what you need. To be clear, I do not oppose use of the Flash Technique if it makes sense to the therapist using it and the technique helps the client. I also want to make my assessment clear that the Flash Technique, like many other trends that have captivated the attention of EMDR practitioners, is not a panacea or a quick fix. Indeed, it can prepare more complex clients for full reprocessing. Yet Flash is not the fullness of complete reprocessing and it is not a substitute for EMDR Phases 3-6. Indeed, there are many other strategies, especially from the tradition of embodied mindfulness, which can also engender more active preparation for reprocessing. Explaining my assessment of flash in this larger context led me and several colleagues on the Institute for Creative Mindfulness faculty to coin the term EMDR Phase 2.5.
Interventions that are more robust than traditional EMDR therapy preparation (Phase 2) that get a client fully ready to handle the affect that may emerge in Phases 3-6 belong in this critical middle ground. Many others and I have long taught that in working with complex trauma and indeed with most clients, doing one Calm Safe Place exercise is grossly insufficient. While the popularity of Resource Development and Installation or RDI (Korn & Leeds, 2002) and Resource Tapping (Parnell, 2008) inspired EMDR therapists to expand their scope on how to conceptualize preparation, many trauma-focused EMDR clinicians see that there are still other needs to be addressed. Namely, how do we help clients not just to stop, pause, or return to equilibrium when they abreact or when a session is due for closure; rather, how do we help prepare them for intensity? The intensity of affect release and shift that can help EMDR therapy to be so effective can also make it so scary for clients who have long been phobic of both affect and mindfulness.
This phobia of both affect and mindfulness develops as a legitimate response to unhealed trauma and dissociation (Forner, 2019), especially if a person was imprinted with negative cognitions such as: “I cannot show my emotions,” “It’s not safe to show my emotions,” “Showing emotions makes me weak,” among others (Marich, 2011; Marich & Dansiger, 2018). I’ve long taught trainees that even though their tendency may be to get nervous when a preparation skill like Calm Safe Place or container doesn’t seem to work, the client is still getting something valuable out of the exercise if you handle it well. These traditional preparation skills, if you follow the textbook, are supposed to bring about pleasant and resource-worthy experiences. Yet if they “go bad,” you now have an opportunity to guide a client through an experience in distress tolerance. For me, teaching a client that they can sit with unpleasant experiences for a time and/or use other resources to shift the focus is the best possible preparation skill that we can give clients in advance of moving into the reprocessing Phases (3-6) where discomfort will happen. For me, this is the essence of EMDR therapy Phase 2.5.
Our program and my approach to EMDR therapy is known for its focus on mindfulness. While Dr. Shapiro herself was a practitioner of mind-body healing modalities and studied with renowned west coast meditation teacher Stephen Levine, many EMDR therapists are not sufficiently grounded in the fundamentals of mindfulness and embodiment. Having these fundamentals is just as important, if not more important, than knowing an advanced preparation technique like Flash. Especially because Flash is not full-proof; many students and consultants have reported to us that it can “go bad” or open up into full reprocessing before a client is ready. As my colleague Dr. Stephen Dansiger and I explain in our 2018 book EMDR Therapy and Mindfulness for Trauma-Focused Care, the standard EMDR protocol is filled with invitations to mindful awareness. Use of questions like what are you noticing now? (Phase 4), when you scan your body from head-to-toe, what are you noticing? (Phase 6) and prompts like Go with that give us all the evidence we need that Shapiro developed EMDR therapy in a mindfulness context. Often defined as the practice of coming back to non-judgmental awareness, many have posited that mindfulness is one of the potential mechanisms of action in EMDR’s success (Logie, 2014; Shapiro, 2018). Yet if the first time a client is asked to be mindful or embodied is during their first run through the protocol, it may be too late.
As Christine Forner (2019) explains in her brilliant new article on connections between dissociation and mindfulness, dissociation is essentially a state of missing mindfulness. Mindfulness is about connection and dissociation is about surviving disconnection. Thus, many individuals who have spent their entire lives dissociating are literally phobic of mindfulness, and in the standard EMDR protocol we are asking them to be both mindful and embodied. This request is not necessarily a bad thing because learning to be mindful and processing mindfully is a major component of what can help us heal. As EMDR practitioners, we must do a better job of preparing clients for what the standard protocol expects.
Mindful and embodied EMDR therapy preparation requires more than just reading a script out of a book on mindfulness or showing a client a video. While I make several video resources in this area available online, I urge that EMDR practitioners must have a personal grounding in mindful and embodied practices to help clients deal with difficulties when the scripts don’t flow as planned for the client. Complex trauma and dissociation is messy and while we can do our best to give you a step list of what to follow for teaching these skills, drawing from your own personal experiences will help you to respond in the moment and guide clients through distress tolerance as safely as possible. In the Institute for Creative Mindfulness curriculum, we teach trainees to offer skills in all of these areas as part of Phase 2 preparation:
While we are not alone as a training program in teaching this widened scope, we see active exploration of these resources and the problems that they can bring up for the client as real opportunities to work with distress tolerance and engage in EMDR Phase 2.5. If a skill “goes bad,” we work with it to help a person notice the affect it creates or return to the present moment from any shut down that it caused. If a client protests, “I can’t do it,” we ask them how we might be able to modify a skill, which can include shortening the length of time that we spend in a skill.
A particularly strong skill from the mindfulness tradition that, in my view, should be taught by every EMDR therapist as part of EMDR Phase 2.5 is Mindfulness of Feeling Tone. Mindfulness of Feeling Tone is the second of four primary foundations of mindfulness. In this meditation, we ask the client to bring up their present-moment experience, scan the body briefly, and ask them if what they are noticing is pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. Too often we have to orient clients to the language of what are you noticing now and if you’re doing it once they are activated in Phases 3-4, it’s too late. Many of our clients lack the vocabulary and practice with feeling or sensation to begin to even answer this question. This exercise is an elementary yet vital start to the process for it gives them three words to start with that are similar to the EMDR therapy constructs of adaptive, maladaptive, and neutral. You can take Mindfulness of Feeling Tone a step further by deliberately asking a client to bring up some association they would describe as pleasant and then guide them through noticing how they experience pleasant in the body. Do the same thing for unpleasant, which will be more challenging, yet ultimately more preparatory for what is to come in later Phases of EMDR Therapy. They don’t have to sit with the unpleasant experience forever; thirty seconds may suffice. Then you can move on to neutral and if needed, shift back to pleasant, strengthening that adaptive resource with DAS/BLS if appropriate. To watch a video demonstration of me guiding this exercise, please click HERE.
A resource such as Mindfulness of Feeling Tone is similar to the processes of titration and pendulation that Peter Levine actively calls upon in his creation, Somatic Experiencing®. I’ve trained many individuals well-schooled in both Somatic Experiencing and Sensorimotor Psychotherapy® and indeed one of the biggest criticisms they have of EMDR therapy is that we can blast a client in too quickly to the heart of the trauma without easing them into it using processes like titration and pendulation. Titration calls for a slowing down and only working on small pieces of a trauma at a time and then retreating into resources. While this process may go against what many EMDR therapists believe, stringently following Shapiro’s (2018) teaching that “preparation is not processing,” (p.36) I argue that for some complex clients titration is warranted. To me, this is where the Flash Technique is filling a gap in enhanced EMDR therapy preparation. For many years I have addressed this gap, if it appears with a client, by asking them what part of a target memory are they willing to work on first, even if it’s not necessarily the image or worst part. If needed, in the spirit of titration, we retreat into resources and then go back into this gentle test of processing. Sometimes the process of going with what we set up leads us to the worst part, other times it does not and we have to go back and set up the target again to address the worst image or worst part. My modification is another example of an EMDR Phase 2.5 that can lead into full Phase 3-4 that may be appropriate for complex clients. Yet in and of itself, the modification would be incomplete for optimal resolution of the memory.
The Flash Technique also seems to be helpful in the process of pendulation. Levine describes pendulation as the shifting of body sensations or emotions between those of expansion and those of contraction (Levine, 1997; Payne, Levine, &Crane-Godreau, 2015). A key principle of pendulation as practiced in Somatic Experiencing® is that a resilient nervous system is one that can move back and forth between alertness/action and calm/rest without getting caught in the extremes. Pendulation invites a fluctuation between resourced states and activated states as a mechanism for training our nervous system, which can help with long-term integration.
The Flash Technique, as described in this wonderful review by Ricky Greenwald (2017) (click HERE for the link), resonates for me as a practice of pendulation. This makes the Flash Technique a more robust form of EMDR preparation and thus meets my classification of it as EMDR Phase 2.5. I have long felt that EMDR therapists have much we can learn and integrate from Somatic Experiencing® and Sensorimotor Psychotherapy® and I believe that Manfield has given us a way to bring in some of these ideas, especially through the visual channel.
However, Flash Technique is not the only way to prepare our clients more effectively for the intense affect and embodied shifts that will inevitably happen once EMDR Phases 3-6 commence. Some of the mindfulness and embodiment skills that I covered in this article are a mere overview of what EMDR therapists can learn to more effectively prepare clients. I’ve long admired that the flexibility of EMDR therapy Phase 2 allows practitioners to bring in other modalities or approaches that they feel can strengthen the skills a client acquires in preparation. On my team, in addition to traditional mindfulness work, my faculty members and I make use of yoga, dialectical behavior therapy, expressive arts therapy, 12-step strategies, well-established work like Seeking Safety®, and creative interventions offered to us by other leaders in the EMDR therapy community like Jim Knipe and Ana Gomez.
All of these strategies are available to you and to your clients! Learning them and implementing may not feel as simple as reading a script or following a simple set of steps. I know that many EMDR therapists want these steps spelled out and this is natural for adult learners. However, it seems that every few years I talk to therapists who get caught up in the latest trend without learning the context that surrounds it and this is problematic. Even more problematic is if practitioners believe that the latest thing will replace their need to do other, more comprehensive resourcing. There are no short cuts in EMDR therapy; it takes hard work and personal commitment to become fluent and responsive. Committing to the expansion of your skill set using some of the other strategies we described here and your own personal practice with many of these skills means that you will excel at working in EMDR Phase 2.5!
Please, let’s make this an active blog. Share in your comments if this “2.5” concept resonates with you and what you have done to foster this level of preparation other than using the Flash Technique. I look forward to hearing from you.
Special thanks to Institute for Creative Mindfulness team members Amber Stiles-Bodnar, Dr. Stephen Dansiger, Suzanne Rutti, Adam O’Brien, Ramona Skriiko and several others for their contributions to this piece.
Forner, C. (2019). What mindfulness can learn from dissociation and dissociation can learn from mindfulness. Journal of Trauma & Dissociation, 20(1), 1-15.
Greenwald, R. (2017). Flash! Trauma therapy just got easier and faster. Trauma Institute & Child Trauma Institute Blog. 28 November 2017, available at www.childtrauma.com/blog/flash/
Korn, D., & Leeds, A. (2002). Preliminary evidence of efficacy for EMDR resource development and installation in the stabilization phase of treatment of complex post traumatic stress disorder. Journal of Clinical Psychology, 58, 1465–1487.
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In the summer of 2000, I set out on my first proper backpacking tour of Central and Eastern Europe. For six weeks I would be visiting all of these historical places that I studied about for years, and I was ill-prepared! The cheap $20 rolling duffle bag with pieces of things pretending to be straps just would not do, especially on the trains. During my first stop—Prague—I saw how much easier it was for other young travelers to navigate the trains having proper backpacks. So at my next stop—Krakow—I found an outdoor shop and paid $80 for my first real backpack. She was amazing! Blue with black trimming, she was so easy to pack, and so wonderful to carry on the trains. I feel like she opened up the world for me and the possibilities in it even wider. For the next nineteen years, she would literally help me carry the baggage of my life and my transformation.
The word “baggage” has taken on an interesting emotional connotation in modern times. My mother always warned me not to date a guy with “baggage.” By the time I got to my mid-thirties, I was brave enough to respond, “Um…mother, I got quite a bit of my own baggage by now.” There’s even a Game Show Network series called Baggage hosted by none other than Jerry Springer where dating show contestants evaluate each other by whether or not they can live with each other’s baggage. And as a trauma therapist I’ve long helped people come to terms with their baggage, a word they often use for the burdens they carry. Sometimes I help them to shed the load that’s weighing them down and other times I help them to make peace with their past and how they carry it. Using the backpacker’s metaphor, sometimes we just need to get a more efficient piece of luggage.
Recent events prompted me into some deep introspection about baggage and all of its metaphors and meanings. I am currently on a one-month tour of the U.K., teaching and writing. When I got to the airport, I noticed that one of the last two functional buckles holding my old girl together had cracked and broken. Over the years everything that once made the old girl an ideal backpack went bad—the waist buckle, the chest strap, some chords and zippers. The two back straps were still intact which made her still okay to use. And suddenly that was no longer the case. I checked in at Cleveland for my flight to London. Yet trying to haul a month’s worth of gear into London city from the airport with a broken backpack was exhausting. I gave her one more go as I proceeded up to Scotland last week and the strain wreaked havoc on my shoulder and back. Knowing that there was no way to fix or to replace the buckle, it was time to lay her to rest and get a new pack.
I was surprised at how difficult that was for me. I’m not really the type to get attached to material things, yet there I was, attachment sick over literal baggage.
“Wow, Buddha would have a field day with this,” I snickered.
The old girl was different. She carried me through the healing journey of the second nineteen years that sought to unravel the confusion and pain that tangled me up in the first twenty. Setting out to travel the world was a major component in my recovery for it showed me new perspectives and different energies. When I ended up moving to Europe for three years in November 2000, I carried everything I needed in the old girl. She came with me on every international trip that followed as I connected with these lost pieces of myself.
When I walked into the outdoor shop in Inverness, Scotland, I reflected on just how far that 20-year-old girl who walked into a similar shop in Krakow had traveled. Two marriages come and gone, sobriety, a doctorate, seven books written, a successful business established, major mental health relapses healed and still healing, coming out in various ways, a story of transformation still in process… Most importantly, we’ve achieved liberation by connecting to the certainly of who we really are and what we stand for—we are total and yet continually evolving towards wholeness. Traveling, embracing the journey—both literal and metaphorical—brought me these gifts.
And now the time had come to get a more functional, efficient pack for the next nineteen years and beyond. When Mark, the lovely salesman in Inverness, explained all of the features on the state-of-the-art red Osprey pack I was privileged enough to buy, my first response was, “But the pouches on the new pack aren’t like the old one—I liked that feature better!” I chuckled at myself—realizing how it’s so easy for all of us to do that during the change process. Without a doubt my new pack is better for my body, contoured for a larger woman’s back and hips and full of efficient features. This new pack is 15 gallons smaller than the old girl, which will force me to pack more efficiently. That’s probably a good thing! I knew in that moment that as attached as I can get to the things I’ve gotten used to, they may no longer be what serves me the best presently.
I’ve learned to travel lighter in the last nineteen years, both literally and metaphorically, and this adjustment certainly helps. I am also a human being struggling to make sense of attachment and heal or release the storylines I carry. In trauma focused therapy, working with attachment is a topic du jour. As an EMDR therapy trainer, I often entertain questions on how well our curriculum can help trainees to work with attachment trauma. While it’s clear that many people with complex trauma were severely wounded in early childhood by the caretakers with whom they should have formed healthy attachment, I’ve never felt that repairing attachment is the entire answer. As a mindfulness-focused EMDR program committed to East-West integration, detachment is just as important. I heartily believe the Buddha’s teaching that attachment or clinging is one of the three main causes of suffering. Yet we are human and healthy attachment is a legitimate need—so how do I reconcile this one, Buddha? Contemplating this question in meditation has taught me that acceptance and letting go are vital to the change process. We can do this at the same time as we grieve the childhood we needed and never received. We can also bring healing to the younger, wounded parts that may still live inside of us, modeling healthy attachment for them. Letting go of the storylines and the attachments that no longer serve us in the present is paramount. Letting go clears the path for healing at all levels.
I ended up letting go of the old girl in my hotel room in Scotland with a note for hotel staff to do what they saw fit. It felt appropriate laying her to rest on the international road, especially in a place as magical as Scotland. I was also blessed to stumble upon a teaching from de-cluttering guru Marie Kondo during the days I wrote in Scotland. She advises, “Have gratitude for the things you're discarding. By giving gratitude, you're giving closure to the relationship with that object, and by doing so, it becomes a lot easier to let go.”
I don’t think I’ve ever read anything so wise and so applicable for people on any path of recovery. Gratitude is a quality of recovery that directly helps us to let go of unhealthy or unserving attachments, yet in modern times gratitude can become so difficult to practice. We are socialized, especially in the West, to focus on what we don’t have instead of celebrating what we do. Further, practicing gratitude can feel impossible especially when you’ve been so hurt and so wronged by life and the people in it. Hopefully this will not block you from at least giving the practice of gratitude a try in your process of letting go and lightening the load.
I thanked the old girl vocally before I left the room that day, and writing this article is a way of publicly offering my thanks. Yes, it’s to an object, yet think of how much this wisdom can also help us let go of the so-called “baggage” from our past that weighs us down—memories, shame-based scripts, unhealthy coping skills, and the impact of wounding relationships. We can thank those things and those people for the role that they played for us at the time. Even the horrible stuff—if you are willing, thank it for its role in bringing you to where you are today, hopefully on the precipice of a major shift in your continued healing and recovery.
Institute for creative mindfulness
Our work and our mission is to redefine therapy and our conversations are about the art and practice of healing. Blog launched in May 2018 by Dr. Jamie Marich, affiliates, and friends.