Is Religion Necessary for Morality?

Therapists hear many opinions from their patients. Such beliefs are not always the focus treatment or what the client came to work on. They simply “appear” in the course of conversation. One of those ideas, quite common, has to do with religion. On numerous occasions my clients mentioned, unprompted, that a religious upbringing was essential to raising “moral” children. Without the guidance of a perfect, all-good, all-powerful being, the successful raising of an upright person was hard for them to imagine.

Arthur Schopenhauer, the 19th century German philosopher, disagreed. So did moral theorists like Immanuel Kant.

Schopenhauer thought religion clouds our capacity for rationality. According to him, early religious training creates an intellectual blind spot persisting throughout life. We then become susceptible to accepting ideas “on faith” instead of reason. Our dispassionate, analytic abilities are crippled, in Schopenhauer’s view. Childhood religious indoctrination requires us to “believe” (lest God punish us either now or in the hereafter) rather than search for truth with whatever logical tools and evidence we can muster.

Early acceptance of miracles and supernatural beings were, to Schopenhauer, the beginning of a path to intellectual and behavioral ruin. He feared religious education would hamper our ability to separate truth from falsehood. Bad behavior, excused by our confused thought process, was considered another potential consequence of a religion-created blindness.

Schopenhauer offered ancient Athens, the city-state of Plato and Aristotle, as a counter example: a moral community not produced by religion and one he thought functioned better because of its absence.

Athens was a genuine democracy: all the citizens voted on every important issue (as opposed to representative governments in which individuals are elected to do the actual voting in legislative bodies like the U.S. Congress). Schopenhauer argued that religion did not exist in Athens in the period to which he refers. Yes, there were gods and some people made sacrifices to them; but no organized, regular religious services were observed with a formal priestly hierarchy and a carefully prescribed method of worship. Nor did religious documents exist (like the Bible or Koran) or any “inspired” list of good and bad behavior similar to The Ten Commandments. Yet, Schopenhauer reminds us that laws were respected, justice was important, civility was maintained, and philosophical schools like Plato’s extraordinary Academy flourished. The question of the good life and how best to lead it was discussed among educated citizens.

At this point you might complain about the lack of rights for women in ancient Athens or the slavery prevalent there. Do remember, however, equality of the sexes is a relatively new issue despite over 2000 years of Christianity. Moreover, the Confederacy during the U.S Civil War justified the hideous institution of slavery by reference to its presence in the Bible. Nor is slavery condemned in that book.

Schopenhauer believed compassion, not religion, contributed to moral conduct, and such compassion was in man’s nature (making religion unnecessary). Indeed, the ability to identify with our fellow-man seems in short supply these days, whatever the cause. The more closely we identify with the superiority of our national, racial, or religious group, the more we are at risk of excluding feelings of sympathy for those who don’t share our nationality, skin color, or faith.

Immanuel Kant, an earlier German philosopher, argued for a different (but still secular) foundation for morality: the categorical imperative. Kant recommended we each ask a question when evaluating our behavior: should my personal moral standards be made into a universal law — a requirement and duty for everyone without exception, or, as he called it, a categorical imperative. Additionally, in considering our answer, he would remind us to respect the dignity of our fellow-man simply because he is human. “Using” others is therefore immoral.

For example, if sexual fidelity and honesty are deemed proper, they must be required of everyone in all circumstances. Adultery, by contrast, however much you believe it would be in your self-interest, would be of no moral value; because proper action is not a matter of how much you might profit from it, but rather, a duty to what is good in itself.

Let’s say you are unfaithful, steal, lie, and break promises. Are you prepared to give permission for everyone to act the same way against you and everyone else? If not, he would argue you have exposed the moral failing of your own behavior.

These thinkers make demands on us to consider whether what we do is justifiable by a process of reason: to look in the mirror at who we are, beyond any religious rule we follow.

Clearly, whether religion is essential to implant the seed of a life-long moral rootedness, one can argue it provides many other things, including a sense of comfort, order, and hopefulness in the most fraught moments of life, as well as a supportive and congenial community of fellow-believers.

The question remains, however, whether there is something Schopenhauer and Kant are missing in their quest for moral grounding, beyond these potential benefits of faith. Do you believe religion provides some necessary ethical guidance for our children that these men miss?

I look forward to your thoughts on the subject.

The top image is Man Praying at a Japanese Shinto Shrine. It is the work of Kalandrakas and sourced from Wikimedia Commons. The Question Mark is sourced from the Monroeville Community Website.

A Different Form of Bravery

Most of us don’t think of ourselves as brave. We are not the kinds of heroes found in movies, wartime, or a burning building rescue. Yet one must become the hero of his own story. The reason is simple: there is no one else to do the job. If you are a supporting actor in the movie of your life, audition for a better part.

The clock never stops and opportunities, inevitably, diminish with age. Time still offers chances to change, to try, to dare, but we are captured by long-standing routines. One might say we have traveled the same rut for too long, the furrow deepening with each step. To get out we must climb a wall of earth with strength thought lost.

By 65, the age of my friend Keith Miller, some are already retired. But Keith had at least one more hurdle, one waiting for him over 40 years. Such youthful aspirations are patient, sitting quietly in the back of life’s class, hoping for attention, never raising a hand.

Long ago Keith attended a conservatory and took classes in conducting. He even conducted a chamber group a bit back then, more recently a stint leading a community band, no strings. Keith can’t be called a professional musician, though he has taught piano. The insurance company at which he works as a top-tier technical support analyst is not a wellspring of conductors.

Nevertheless, he had the nerve to apply to the International Masterclasses Berlin, where he would reside for six days in March; and, if he survived, lead the Berlin Sinfonietta in one movement of a romantic masterpiece. Keith was one of 11 students from Belgium, Germany, Italy, Spain, the Netherlands, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Argentina and the USA;  some working conductors with their own ensembles. Almost all were at least 30 years younger than my friend.

But, this is Keith’s story and he needs to tell it:

Packing my luggage for Berlin, I carried expectations, too. Not only from years of listening, but by studying the scores in the months before the masterclass: three symphonies by Brahms, Schubert and Schumann.

This was, after all, my inauguration into the world of orchestral conducting. Sleep medication was the only way to calm my bedtime energy. Most of the anticipation came from the unknown, all that is not in the musical score:

How might the maestro react to my lack of experience? How would I fit, being the oldest student? What of the orchestra’s cooperation and opinion? Would I make good music?

The first rehearsal generated the natural nervousness, heart-palpitations too, but also an internal reminder, “I can do this.” Maestro Shambadal’s steely eyes focused on me. The maestro, Principal Conductor of the Berlin Symphony, was born in Israel and studied with many “greats” including Giulini, Markevitch and Celibidache.

After a few deep breaths I began Schumann’s 4th Symphony. Quickly came a loud clap. The orchestra stopped. Maestro yelled from the back of the room, “It begins on the 3rd beat!” I made the correction and got through ¾ of the first movement before my time was up. A few other stoppages occurred for matters of technique and interpretation. I reminded myself I’d come for just such instruction.

I realized I needed to improve. My desire for the maestro’s approval quickened. The ensemble’s response to my leadership lacked enthusiasm and I knew it.

Three more rehearsals followed and group evaluations, as well, before the concert at which we would all perform. We reviewed videos of the 11 conductors, mine included.

Ugh! My posture was terrible. I looked like a bent old man. Maestro alluded to the same thing. I worked on straightening up, without which I couldn’t communicate command and authority. Here, perhaps, was the explanation for my initial failure to elicit what I wanted from the musicians.

I was selected to conduct the second movement of Schubert’s 8th Symphony at the concert. I marked the top of every page of my score with three words:

POSTURE. TEMPO. RELAX.

Keith worked with an experienced orchestra, many of the musicians retired members of the Berlin Philharmonic, Berlin Radio Symphony and regional orchestras, along with younger instrumentalists.

Hundreds of years of accumulated experience face a newbie. Some such ensembles take pride in being able to size up a conductor in minutes, and tear him down in less time. Or ignore him and give “their” version of the piece. Still, each player has a job to do: taking the conductor’s vision as achieved in rehearsal, and making the black notes on white paper sing. Keith learned the conductor’s job, too:

His score holds all the notes, every instrumental line on the same page: dizzying to see, much less read while everything is happening in front of him. There is no opportunity to search the lines, the musicians’ faces, and be the director, too. Without an instrument, armed only with certainty, the knowledge of everyone’s role, and his ability to persuade and inspire, he must make something old into something new.

Concert time at last.

Striding up to the podium I was confident and enthusiastic. I brought along a week’s education.

I led with warmth, lyricism, and the dark drama there in the score. The players were spot on: tempo, dynamics and music-making.

What was experience like? The most exhilarating of my life.

I turned and bowed to the audience. Smiles all around. When I asked the orchestra to stand, I saw many smiles among them, as well. I shook the first violinist’s hand and received one word enthusiastically delivered: “Bravo!” The first cellist gave me a hearty thumbs-up.

My mind was captured by one idea.

“I want to do this again and again!”

The previous conductor and I gave each other a big hug. Later, an audience member said the maestro was watching me with full attention and nodding (not nodding off!), as if to say “very good!” After the concert, he congratulated everyone.

Returning to my hotel after a celebratory dinner, I sat at the edge of the bed and cried. All of the emotion and memories, the anticipation and fulfillment, overtook me. Once composed, I began to pack for the trip home.

Courage takes many forms. Sometimes it is simply making the music that is in you, waiting to be made. Taking a risk, not asking permission.

As Oliver Wendell Holmes said:

Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them.

Here is a man who made his music:


Becoming a Traitor to Yourself

All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer.

So begins Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. But these words apply to more of us than the black protagonist of his novel. A careful reader will recognize how many psychotherapy bloggers are quick to condemn themselves. They define themselves as terrible human beings, inconsiderate and selfish. They believe their resentments should neither be felt nor displayed. A “better” person would be kinder, forgiving, more generous. Their unhappiness is taken as a commentary on their value, a failing grade in the class of life.

You will see them marching voluntarily to the world’s slag heap of unnecessary and misshapen things, beyond repair or redemption. They say, in effect, “If you wish to find me you must dig deep in a landfill, where I belong.” I asked one, in light of her self-assignment to the discard pile of life, how then she might describe herself if she were a spouse abuser or terrorist. These are far worse human behaviors than she’d reported and, it seemed to me, her self-condemnation went too far.

Here was a lady who sprinted to the local lumber yard, bought some wood, constructed a cross, and nailed herself to her destiny. To my mind, the bowels of hell (if such exist) are occupied by a group to which she doesn’t belong. They’d laugh if she requested admission.

I might have said, “Get off the cross, we need the wood.”

We can, in just this type of self-punishment, turn traitor to ourselves. I’m not suggesting anyone is perfect. But few of us are so unworthy that we must become our own dartboard. We bleed enough at the hands of fate without offering ourselves as a pin cushion. Some of us have been assigned a shape not our own. Life seems inauthentic. We must reform ourselves, shed the shape assigned, and work to improve it.

First, however, we must buy a new flashlight, stand in a new place, and look with new eyes.

Ellison’s fictional young man sought answers about a path forward. He wished to know who he was. The earnest fellow thought it best to ask others wiser and older. No flashlights for him.

Asked or not, those others give us our first sense of self by what they say and do. Their kindness suggests we are worthy. If they blame us we might think we are not. If they offer false gods, we get a counterfeit sense of what life is or “should” be. We are in the dark.

Ellison’s protagonist tells us he was indoctrinated for 20 years and needed another 20 to achieve self-awareness: to throw-off the self-destructive beliefs he had about himself and the nature of the world. Where can you go to find out whether you are as awful as you think, assuming you don’t like yourself?

Some begin by questioning the most basic assumptions they have. These include whether authority figures are usually right. Which authority figures?

All of them: your parents, government officials, best friends, clergy, and spouse are not exempt. The ones in power and the ones who want it. The pretenders and their defenders. The crowd and the solitary man. The critics and the critics’ critics, the know-nothings and the do-nothings, the show horses and the work horses. Include your therapist, too.

Even your God.

What do I mean? If you have been shamed and demeaned or neglected, especially in your early life, such treatment came from those on this list. If you accept their judgment then you internalize the guilty verdict on your character and talent. You will judge yourself as they have, carrying their voice, now your own, inside you. Indeed, if even a house of God is the source of repeated reminders of the indelible blackness in your heart, a religious book can become a cudgel to beat you with.

Worse still, believing them, you will continue to seek their “wisdom” and approval; desiring a possible reconsideration of your character since their magnetic attraction remains powerful. Or, you may search for others like them, those who claim they are only doing this (injury to you) “for your own good;” in effect, redefining harm as “caring.”

Here is the first bit of “fake news” we receive in life, making us vulnerable to those who offer us — their sheep — a caring hand that will instead shear us of the goods we own and the belief in our own goodness. These “wrong choices” of association with “wrong” people depend on the magnetism they share with those who began our “wrong” indoctrination.

Their magic only disappears when you recognize who they really are; and, who you really are.

Some authority figures deserve to pass the test. Others do not, nor should you return to them. You may be scared to be without their shoddy shelter. The security you believe they offer, however, is an illusion. You can only get out and get away.

All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer.

The first painting is George Hooker’s The Subway (1950). The second is the work of Tetsya Ishida: The Servitude and Deforming of the Salary Man.

The Music of Catastrophe

If music means something important to us, our contact with a new person finds us trying to discover what musical loves we might share. Thus do friendship and romance begin.

In a world where isolated suffering comes easily, music, like some of the other arts, reveals we have much company in our emotional distress.

Songs add language to instrumental expression, making them more precise in meaning than purely instrumental music. Vocal composition is literally sung to words, but there is just as much of the human experience in the more abstract forms, even if a symphony is not so easily identified with the particular circumstance (say, a broken heart) described in lyrics.

Sound offers solace if a composition reaches the tender, injured place inside. Few pieces, however, deal with cataclysm and collapse. To my ears, one of those is the Symphony #4, the last such work of German composer Johannes Brahms.

Brahms was a life-long bachelor from Hamburg, who died in 1897. He achieved recognition early and much success afterwards. The major unhappiness of his life was his unfulfilled romantic attachment to Clara Schumann, 14 years his senior; the widow of the man who first recognized his genius, the composer Robert Schumann. Some believe their age difference, his virtual adoption by the couple, and the shadow of Brahms’s indebtedness to her late husband made the consummation of his ardor impossible. Brahms’s final symphony reveals he knew much about human calamity, whatever its source.

Lacking a description from the composer about what his symphony “meant” — if anything or nothing — we are left to make our response personal. Perhaps no language exists with which to “understand” Brahms’s Fourth and my use of catastrophe is misplaced, but I am not alone in the opinion.

That disaster, if there is one, occurs in the fourth and last section of the work, the concluding 10-minutes or so. There, too, you will hear a much commented upon “conversational” quality in Brahms, when the wind instruments “speak” to each other. David Hurwitz of Classics Today, finds “active rage and impassive grandeur” in the ending. Jerry Dubins wrote, in Fanfare magazine, of the “final rush to oblivion … on the symphony’s preordained appointment with disaster and annihilation” in “a score of gloom and doom.”

Why might one want to listen given this description?

To me and the many who rank the work one of the most perfect and moving in the entire classical repertoire, much poignant beauty accompanies the ride into the abyss; indeed, because of it. The reasons for listening are no different from those causing us to appreciate a sad song. In Brahms’s 40-minutes we become the composer, inhabit his intellectual and emotional journey, and are seized by towering grandeur; perhaps even  swept away, exhilarated by the suspense and power, and moved to tears. Some would say a great work of art, if masterfully performed, can change us.

Franz Kafka knew the power of all art forms and wrote about the potentially transformational impact of writing:

What we need are books that hit us like a most painful misfortune, like the death of someone we loved more than we love ourselves, that make us feel as though we had been banished to the woods, far from any human presence, like a suicide. A book must be like an ax to break the frozen sea within us.

Will you be changed?

You can find out in 40-minutes time.

The top photo is the work of Ville Miettinen. It is described as, “A crevasse (moulin) in the Langjökull glacier, Iceland. At the time it was perhaps three or four meters long, a meter wide and some 30-40 meters deep.” The second image is the 20-year-old Brahms in 1853. Both are sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

The Therapeutic Journey and Our Problematic Concern with Destinations

We are an impatient race. Tasks don’t get done fast enough, the wait in line is too long, the computer too slow. Our destination looms like a slave-driver of our own creation, craving full speed to the end of our journey and the imagined prize awaiting us there.

What are we missing?

Many of those in long-term therapy are ambivalent about the inevitable end of the journey. They correctly recognize that accomplishment of one’s therapeutic goals means the terminus of the walk through the mine field of the psyche, the regular sessions, and the severing of the therapeutic relationship.

The mine field traipse is the only one they hope to dispense with. Indeed, most would say removal of unexploded emotional bombs caused their enlistment in treatment in the first place. By contrast, the absence of session-bound, intimate time with the therapist is dreaded, like ejection from a cocoon.

The story is even more complex, however; both for those who fear the loss of their road-trip, therapist-guide/companion and those who believe the journey’s end will bring nirvana, the permanent release from all suffering.

Consider: more than a relationship is forged in treatment. There is a process of struggle, self-reflection, honesty, learning. Perhaps nothing before — nothing the patient has tried or accomplished — has been so hard, but so rewarding. Each step in each session is enriching or intense — alive — even if fraught with portent and overlaid with tears. The furniture in the office stays the same, but the mental furniture gets rearranged, replaced, knocked-over, tested, taken apart, and put together. All this is “process,” not product. All this is overlooked when clients reflect on their ambivalence about the end of counseling and loss of the therapist.

In part, the problem is our instinctive goal-directedness. Often, however, the target — whatever it might be — is not as special as anticipated. Heaven does not exist on earth. We get used to even a transformed life, no matter how worthy. We become accustomed to our new, higher cruising altitude of emotional stability. The background activities — the daily maintenance of clothes, body, and living surroundings — still must be done. As the Zen proverb goes, “After enlightenment, the laundry.”

Therapy becomes a road traveled-well only if we try to notice everything, absorb everything along the way. It is not like pursuing a diploma: trudging through courses in philosophy or calculus that are endured, not enjoyed. The treatment isn’t like having an ice cream cone in its pleasure, but absorbs our entire being as a fount of learning. The engagement is total, the preoccupation remains in mind even after the session ends, the effort is important, the risks great. You are reaching for the next handhold on the mountain. Yes, you are doing so to reach the top, but you will be on summit for just a few minutes, a static place no one can live. You soon must move below. Life is in the movement. What you took away was the experience, the incremental achievement of all the concentration and self-surpassing courage you could muster.

Cervantes’s Don Quixote reminds us, “The road is always better than the inn.”

The post-war circumstances of military veterans add to the discussion. None of them want to relive the horror. Yet, some will say it was the most intense experience of their lives. Moreover, the intensity is missed, if not what created it. Thus, the therapy journey brings not only pain, but something of value in its dedicated, focused, life-on-the-line process. Not a deadened, dull, inert state of being.

Elite athletes, similarly, don’t enjoy every moment of their competition. The combination of actions and emotions includes strain, focus, effort, and fear of failure, as well as elation. We tend to think of goals and the pleasure associated with their achievement without full recognition of the other experiences they live while in motion, in process, and in the moment. Yet this is what any journey worth taking entails.

If you are currently in long-term treatment and agree with my description of the journey’s value, you might say: “Well, then. Now I’m not just fearful of losing my therapist, but the journey, too!”

Fear not.

If the treatment has been successful, a wider world has gradually opened to you outside the counselor’s consulting room. Many journeys beckon, inward and outward, outside your comfort zone, where all journeys live: more and different friendships, travel, new vocations and hobbies, increased openness to art or music, spiritual awakenings, returning to school; and, too, “thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”*

You will embrace some of what once frightened you or found you closed off. Not all things, but some things. Even from the defacing hand of age, a man of thieving heart, will you wrest unexpected gifts.

You never become indestructible, but you can move along in life more confident in the ability to manage most of the hurts; accepting that, they too are a part of the human experience, the beautiful/terrible richness of life.

You will not become everything you could be. No one does. But you will be alive to the world.

You cannot ask for more.

* The last words of Wordsworth’s poem, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.

The top photo includes Remains of the Via Appia in Rome, ner Quarto Miglio, by Kleuske. The second image is called Roma, via Appia Antica: Arco di Druso e Porta San Sebastian by Lalupa. Both are sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

What Does Your Therapist Dream About?

Therapists tell you little about themselves, especially their dreams. Why would they? The woolly, wild world of the unconscious might suggest the counselor is a rapist, murderer, or thief.

Looking at him through the lens of the dream makes the treatment about the practitioner, not about the patient. It cripples the client’s ability to project his own long-standing issues onto this person: react to the counselor as if he were a father or mother identical to the real dad or mom.

A crucial part of classical psychodynamic treatment relies on the client playing-out his long-standing relationship problems and historically driven expectations of trauma or rejection within the session. The patient is unaware, at first, of the “mistaken identity” going on, where his reactions are more about his own past than the practitioner. If the therapist reveals too much about himself, he risks becoming the man of his chaotic dreams to the patient, not a benign, but blank canvas upon which his client throws the paint of his own internal life.

Dream interpretation is an art, not a science. Its value is difficult to demonstrate, though some therapists swear by it. Too many possible interpretations, no way to validate them. Yet they can be helpful. Certainly they may enlighten. Regardless, dreams are hard for the patient to resist discussing. An open therapist needs to take in all the uncensored data provided, the better to serve him.

Though I claim no specialty in dream interpretation, what I offer here is a partial explanation to those who wonder about the kinds of dreams therapists have.

The simple answer is, I doubt they are much different from those of people of similar upbringing, temperament, and overall life experience. I might add two exceptions:

  • Certain kinds of dreams are recognized as symptoms within the diagnostic framework developed by the American Psychiatric Association. For example, one possible symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is: “Recurrent distressing dreams in which the content and/or affect (emotion) of the dream are related to the traumatic event(s).”
  • Conventional wisdom tells us that high achievers have recurring dreams dealing with things like being late or unready for tests. Since people with advanced degrees prepared well for examinations (and took so many of them), the unconscious disquiet of discovering you are not ready or present for a test, a crucial appointment, or a presentation requires no leap of insight. Many of us were either driven to succeed, afraid of failure, or both.

Ah, but this discussion is rather impersonal, so I will offer an actual dream of one person I know well and present you with two interpretations. Moreover, I invite you to take the interpreter’s role yourself: be the therapist.

Whose dream shall I speak of?

My own.

Get ready. Prepare yourself for the unexpected nature of the story. The partially unclothed aspect, too.

I was sitting in the smallest room of my old office suite. Yes, the washroom. Some vulnerability here, don’t you think?

The door to the W/C led to the waiting room, the lobby of the office suite. I shared the workplace with other therapists. Unexpectedly, one of those counselors opens the door to the washroom. A man. He walks through a side entrance I hadn’t noticed and was never there before. I pushed him out and spoke with him soon after.

The extra door was installed without my knowledge, he informed me. Even though all the other counselors rented the space from me, they somehow did this unilaterally, without discussion with me, and with no warning.

Several of them were in a meeting which I joined. I talked to them. I spoke of the danger to our patients, our duty to protect, and our professional liability. Since our clients all used this facility, I stated this unlockable entrance would constitute malpractice. The head of the group argued back, though I can’t recall the details of her rejoinder. The assembly of counselors was mostly docile and unpersuaded by my logic. In the end I went off, saw my next patient, and did my job.

What should be made of this, if anything? Well, I can recall failed attempts at rational persuasion dating back to my childhood. Mom ran the roost, like the female leader of the other therapists. My mother was a tough cookie and dad worshipped her. No amount of logic or effort were enough to effect changes in the family dynamic. Should I leave the interpretation at that or try another tack?

Let’s visit recent events as possible triggers of the sleepytime return to my professional practice. I read two disturbing books in the days before the dream. As Dr. Michael Breus notes, some believe dreams are “a means by which the mind works through difficult, complicated, unsettling thoughts, emotions, and experiences, to achieve psychological and emotional balance.”

The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois and The Revolt of the Masses by José Ortega y Gasset both carry profound messages about the dark side of humanity. The first deals with American slavery, the second with the growth of a naïve, destructive, anti-intellectual “mass man” who may destroy the pillars of Western civilization. Du Bois led me to watch Slavery by Another Name, a superb, but equally unsettling documentary on the color-line that existed in the South even after the emancipation of blacks. Their forced-labor and imprisonment by legal and extra-legal means was new to me.

I was powerfully affected, but not, I thought, to the point of emotional distress. Still, these books and the movie offered a larger vista on what happens when reason fails and men know only rights and not duties to something virtuous and greater than themselves.

One more feature of my dream was a lack of control. Being interrupted in the washroom by a stranger is profoundly threatening. One is literally caught “with his pants down,” though I felt more surprised and angry in the dream than in danger.

The books also might have amplified my personal concerns about the current state of Western democracy: another possible precipitant of the strange story. If this is so, then perhaps I should alter my life: dip a toe into the ocean of earthly woe, not bathe in it. Rather ironic, in light of what I did during my career, which on some days was a daily if not hourly immersion.

Other interpretations are possible, of course, but I hope you get the idea.

Your own analysis might tell you about both yourself and me. Do remember, that the therapist must remove himself from his issues when doing therapy, including his investigation of dreams. Freud was a notable exception who performed a self-analysis.

So, you now get to be the psychologist. Complicated, isn’t it? Give it your best shot.

The first image is called Think Different by Neotex555. It includes within it a statue plus a portion of Kandinsky’s Fugue, the entirety of which makes up the painting that follows. Finally comes Sean Foster’s Cloud Frenzy. All are sourced from Wikimedia Commons. For more about the function of dreams, you might want to visit a very fine post by Dr. Michael Breus.

Do Therapists Only Care about Money? An Airplane Morality Tale

I will not persuade you.

No, I will not persuade you therapists are not in it for the money. If all you see are greenbacks in their eyes (🤑), I don’t imagine I can dislodge your thoughts. I can’t deny we work for a living. Indeed, some of us live well, go on vacations, have pricey things. No, I will not persuade you, but instead offer you a story about one noble and gifted therapist.

Perhaps then you will persuade yourself.

Three people make up our cast. Two participants, one observer. All occupied one side of an aisle on a commercial flight. Little identifying information about the 30ish man in the window seat will be mentioned.

I had the aisle seat. Call me the observer. A pretty lady with thick brown hair sat between the young man and me. Bald men, at least this one, notice luxuriant hair!

As we waited on the tarmac, I saw the window-seated gentleman fanning himself. True, the compartment was a bit stuffy before take-off, but I wondered why he hadn’t opened the nozzle above to create a cooling air flow. Perhaps he hasn’t traveled often, I thought. I reached over the napping woman and touched his arm, pointed up, and twisted the nozzle. He smiled and the fanning stopped. I went back to reading my book.

The sleepy woman’s eyes opened:

I became aware of some intense breathing from the gentleman to my right, turned to look at him, and noticed he was sweating profusely. I asked him if he was okay, and our interaction began …

He told me he ‘hates flying,’ especially, the take-offs and landings. I recognized the brief conversation helped him to regain control of his breathing, so decided to continue distracting him by engaging in some light discourse. I was also very, very relieved he wasn’t having a heart attack! He told me he was traveling to visit his girlfriend, and when I joked it would be her turn to visit him next time, he laughed, ‘Oh no, she’s moving (here); I’m not doing this again!’ He shared that he has a young daughter who loves to sing and so I invited him to tell me more about her. He seemed to appreciate the distraction and smiled when he spoke about her.

My focus was to remind him to take deep breaths, attending to the slow inhalation/exhalation of his breath. This gentleman seemed somewhat embarrassed, but also quite grateful, and certainly did not eschew my help.

After we reached cruising altitude, he seemed much calmer. From time to time his breathing turned faster and more shallow, which would prompt me to engage in conversation to provide a distraction. We spoke about his destination. I shared some of my favorite places there and he told me what his girlfriend had planned. I encouraged him to enjoy the weekend, fearing he would worry about the return flight instead. I also supported his willingness to fly, given his clear dislike of it!

When we began descending, our fellow-passenger was in distress again. I turned my head toward him, and thought I was directing my voice quietly just to him, never imagining you (on the opposite side) would be privy to the ‘therapy.’ I was focused intently upon him, as a counselor would be with a client.

I used ‘grounding’ mindfulness, and ‘present moment awareness’ strategies to help him control his breathing, and distract him from his fear. I coached him through some diaphragmatic breathing by instructing him to put his hands on top of his ‘belly’ (which sounds less serious than ‘diaphragm,’ and somehow always prompts a smile).

I asked him to attend to the rise and fall of his hands on his belly, and the feel of his hands against one another. When I noticed he was holding a soft velour hat, I encouraged him to pay attention to its texture. I coached him to pay attention to the muscles in his feet, legs, arms, shoulders, and neck, to experience each area relax, to wiggle his toes — anything to take his mind off the descending plane. I kept cycling through the breathing exercises. It seemed to help him, fortunately.  Of course, I also supported his positive progress.

Once we landed, he again seemed quite grateful but a bit embarrassed. I worried for him on the return flight, so tried to empower him, as we regularly do with our clients, by reminding him he managed the trip with the help of some newly-learned techniques which he could do for himself.

What did I feel during this exchange? I focused on calling up anything I could think of to help him, and keeping my voice calm and steady, as he was struggling a lot! I was pleased in a wondrous way, that I happened to be there and able to help. Such serendipity in the world!

I was also a little embarrassed to discover my ‘therapy session’ was overheard. (The gentleman behind us caught my eye when we stood up to de-plane, to acknowledge the ‘session,’ as did another person in that row). I hoped he and others were not distracted by the repetitive refrain, and that my struggling seatmate was not self-conscious about anyone overhearing. I felt a bit of the ‘therapist’s high’ that happens once in a while, when we have helped another person to find the ability to succeed, and we hope, empowered him to use the new tools to help themselves going forward. I was amazed that by some coincidence I was in that particular seat, at that time and I forgot all about the nap I had eagerly anticipated.

If anything, Catherine “Candy” Davies minimizes all she did, and the gift she displayed in doing it. A tour de force for sure. For over two-and-a-half hours Candy worked with the gentleman, sped through a sandwich, read a few magazine pages, but retained constant awareness of her ‘patient’s’ emotional state. I congratulated her when we landed and she introduced me to her husband waiting inside the airport. Later I found her online and asked if I could share her story. She kindly provided most of the details you’ve just read.

Candy was not always a therapist. She earned an MBA and worked for a large corporation, as well as a non-profit. She’s also been a teacher of college business courses:

My ‘midlife crisis’ led me to a career change, and a return to school to earn an MSW.  I have been working at SUNY, New Paltz (the State University of New York, New Paltz Campus) since 2007 and am happily married to husband Bill. We have two grown children of whom we are very proud.

When I shared the story with Bill, he commented it was yet another example my career change was the right decision.  I agreed with him, for it put me in a place to help this young man.

Legendary basketball coach, John Wooden, said: “The true test of a (person’s) character is what he does when no one is watching.” Even though a few of us listened-in (you can’t hear everything on an airplane and my book was engrossing), I would remind you Candy remained unaware of her audience until the end.

Maybe now you have persuaded yourself — by virtue of my seat-mate’s basic decency and therapeutic talent — that counselors are not the self-interested rascals you thought we were. Then again, maybe not.

But regardless of what you think, Candy will still be out there, giving her best, healing when possible, living her values.

Biased though I am and special though she is, in my experience she is not alone.

Below “Candy” Davies SUNY photo, is a High Contrast, Stylized Vector Image showing hands helping each other, the work of Phollox. The last image is A Helping Hand, by Jean-Paul Haag. All but the photo are sourced from Wikimedia Commons.