One
of the great pleasures of living in a residential community
is that you never know when and where profound insights will
be gained, and experiences recounted or shared. In contrast
with, say, a counsellor or social worker who will interact
with a young person in predictable settings (MacDonalds or
an interview 
room?),
or between 9.00 a.m. and 5.00 p.m. on weekdays, the residential
setting is a virtually unlimited store of resources for such
encounters. I can recall without effort memorable moments
during meals, at the kitchen sink, at bedtimes, at the ironing
board, watching television (yes, even then!), in cars and
on trains and buses, cutting hedges or by the compost heap,
on ladders and climbing trees, on and beside the cricket pitch,
by a piano, on stage during rehearsals for a pantomime, in
a passage, on the stairs, looking out of a window, by a gate
or fence, during homework, while filling in job application
forms…and that doesn’t include holidays and sailing,
climbing and on the beach.
Feelings
don’t come packaged and planned. You can’t tell
when and how they will emerge, and they often take us by surprise.
Anyone who has experienced bereavement and personal loss knows
how tears can appear without notice and in unexpected locations.
For this reason I am interested in research that indicates
little difference in the outcomes of those who have received
formal counselling after the death of a relative or friend,
and those who have not. All things being equal the latter
will, in time, find situations and people in which, and with
whom, they can share their grief and sense of loss. The process
can neither be organised nor rushed.
So
it shouldn’t have come as too great a surprise to me
to find that it was at the snooker table in our dining room
in the middle of the evening when one of the youngsters staying
with us asked a profound question that seemed to come from
nowhere. He was playing snooker with an adult, and another
adult was looking on when the question came out: “What
are mothers for?”
That
was it. No more detail or background information, and no elaboration.
One of the adults, pausing for thought, if not breath, commented
that one of the things mothers did was to have babies and
to care for children. Not unpredictably, the young person
said that he knew that, and wasn’t asking about biology.
He wanted to know what they were for.
There
was something in the way that he asked the question that indicated
its huge significance to him. So the adult, who had spoken
wisely, acknowledged this by turning to the other adult and
asked what he felt. The result - a response in the form of
eyes filling with tears. He found the question had gone right
to the heart of his own childhood experiences and the loss
of his own mother.
It
wasn’t long before the moment passed, and although I
was informed of it before the evening was out, and kept myself
alert to any possible continuation of the feelings associated
with this line of enquiry there was no trace of the question
surfacing again. There had been no warning that it would arise
in the first place, no time for the preparation of a reply,
and it had disappeared or been retracted equally quickly.
I’ve
known this sort of process again and again, and I have often
pondered what might have gone on. Did the child sense that
the adults didn’t have an answer? Was it a matter-of-fact
question of the order of, “Which was the last country
to get no points in a Eurovision Song Contest?” Or was
it that the sensitive response of the adults and the tears
were noticed and appreciated by the child, and that what was
needed was the assurance that it wasn’t a silly question,
and that others might have deep emotions too?
Years
ago, I guess I would have been disappointed that there hadn’t
been anything more tangible to recall, that the discussion
hadn’t gone further and some form of resolution found.
Now I am beginning to realise that one needs to respond with
integrity and sensitivity and to be prepared to leave things
at the point where the child has moved on. I say, “moved
on”, but this applied to the conscious and expressed
level of things. It’s likely that the feelings that
gave rise to the question in the first place remain and will
lie dormant until another occasion, who knows when?
Of
course, if I were a counsellor or social worker I would tend
to probe things further, however sensitively, because I could
not count upon there being another occasion. The fact that
we are involved with the young people as long as they wish
to remain in contact (and that means for life in many cases)
changed the whole dynamics. But even without this long term
commitment, a therapeutic setting and approach is a rich environment
in which to explore feelings together.
I
can’t write any more because it’s time for lunch.
I hope you will understand why I have to go. You never know
what might come about in the next forty-five minutes or so!
