The Right Moves
One day, many years ago, when I was working as a psychologist at a
children's institution in England, an adolescent boy showed up in the
waiting room. I went out there where he was walking up and down restlessly.
I showed him into my office and pointed to the chair on the other side of my
desk. It was in late autumn, and the lilac bush outside the window had shed
all its leaves. "Please sit down," I said.
desk. It was in late autumn, and the lilac bush outside the window had shed
all its leaves. "Please sit down," I said.
David wore a black rain coat that was buttoned all the way up to his neck.
His face was pale, and he stared at his feet while wringing his hands
nervously. He had lost his father as an infant, and had lived together with
his mother and grandfather since. But the year before David turned 13, his
grandfather died and his mother was killed in a car accident. Now he was 14
and in family care.
His face was pale, and he stared at his feet while wringing his hands
nervously. He had lost his father as an infant, and had lived together with
his mother and grandfather since. But the year before David turned 13, his
grandfather died and his mother was killed in a car accident. Now he was 14
and in family care.
His head teacher had referred him to me. "This boy," he wrote, "is
understandably very sad and depressed. He refuses to talk to others and I'm
very worried about him. Can you help?"
understandably very sad and depressed. He refuses to talk to others and I'm
very worried about him. Can you help?"
I looked at David. How could I help him? There are human tragedies
psychology doesn't have the answer to, and which no words can describe.
Sometimes the best thing one can do is to listen openly and sympathetically.
psychology doesn't have the answer to, and which no words can describe.
Sometimes the best thing one can do is to listen openly and sympathetically.
The first two times we met, David didn't say a word. He sat hunched up in
the chair and only looked up to look at the children's drawings on the wall
behind me. As he was about to leave after the second visit, I put my hand on
his shoulder. He didn't shrink back, but he didn't look at me either.
the chair and only looked up to look at the children's drawings on the wall
behind me. As he was about to leave after the second visit, I put my hand on
his shoulder. He didn't shrink back, but he didn't look at me either.
"Come back next week, if you like," I said. I hesitated a bit. Then I said,
"I know it hurts."
"I know it hurts."
He came, and I suggested we play a game of chess. He nodded. After that we
played chess every Wednesday afternoon - in complete silence and without
making any eye contact. It's not easy to cheat in chess, but I admit that I
made sure David won once or twice.
played chess every Wednesday afternoon - in complete silence and without
making any eye contact. It's not easy to cheat in chess, but I admit that I
made sure David won once or twice.
Usually, he arrived earlier than agreed, took the chessboard and pieces from
the shelf and began setting them up before I even got a chance to sit down.
It seemed as if he enjoyed my company. But why did he never look at me?
the shelf and began setting them up before I even got a chance to sit down.
It seemed as if he enjoyed my company. But why did he never look at me?
"Perhaps he simply needs someone to share his pain with," I thought.
"Perhaps he senses that I respect his suffering." One afternoon in late
winter, David took off his rain coat and put it on the back of the chair.
While he was setting up the chess pieces, his face seemed more alive and his
motions more lively.
"Perhaps he senses that I respect his suffering." One afternoon in late
winter, David took off his rain coat and put it on the back of the chair.
While he was setting up the chess pieces, his face seemed more alive and his
motions more lively.
Some months later, when the lilacs blossomed outside, I sat starring at
David's head, while he was bent over the chessboard. I thought about how
little we know about therapy - about the mysterious process associated with
healing. Suddenly, he looked up at me.
David's head, while he was bent over the chessboard. I thought about how
little we know about therapy - about the mysterious process associated with
healing. Suddenly, he looked up at me.
"It's your turn," he said.
After that day, David started talking. He got friends in school and joined a
bicycle club. He wrote to me a few times ("I'm biking with some friends and
I feel great"); letters about how he would try to get into university. After
some time, the letters stopped. Now he had really started to live his own
life.
bicycle club. He wrote to me a few times ("I'm biking with some friends and
I feel great"); letters about how he would try to get into university. After
some time, the letters stopped. Now he had really started to live his own
life.
how time makes it possible to overcome what seems to be an insuperable pain.
I learned to be there for people who need me. And David showed me how one -
without any words - can reach out to another person. All it takes is a hug,
a shoulder to cry on, a friendly touch, a sympathetic nature - and an ear
that listens.
--
With Love,
Ganesh Baba
My Group: Kriyababa_spiritualjourney-subscribe@yahoogroups.com (Send a blank email)
