The Disappearing Client

I often reflect on the strangeness of serving as a psychotherapist. It's hard to know the impact of my work, because I'm only present in their lives for a relatively brief period of time, and then I cease to be "there" after the client moves on and the record of our time together is sealed. Last night, I was blessed with a dream that relieved that sense of my estrangement from the future lives of those I have counseled.

It seems that the mother of a 23-year-old client has sent me a video of him, but he's 20 years older. I am watching him as a confident, handsome man who is working dynamically with a group of people. I am moved by how much he has evolved. Suddenly I realize that the video surrounds me--I am suddenly in it, as he comes up and greets me with warmth and affection. A man now seems to be my guide, and he takes me from room to room, where I see "advanced" versions of other clients. Their faces are recognizable, though 20 years or so in the future. The guide seems to be implying, "Now can you see the impact of your work?"

This dream probably occurred in response to a conversation I had with several interns I supervise two nights ago. I was discussing how clients are not there to take care of us, and how they will often leave without notice, causing us to wonder if they are ok, and if we have done something wrong. I told them the story of a woman who disappeared without a trace after two intense years of therapy, and then called me 10 years later to tell me how important our work had been. I did not tell her how I'd wondered for years if she was alive or dead, and that her abrupt departure left me reeling with unanswered questions. No, that was for me to deal with, no her. We were beyond the therapeutic contract, and I was simply grateful that she'd called to tell me she was okay.

 A few days ago, I awakened at 4:30 AM, and decided to meditate. During the meditation, I received a powerful urge to write about a particular topic that has been dear to me since I was a young man. Hopeful  that the project would be meaningful for others, I went back to sleep with a sense of renewed direction.

I become lucid pretty quickly after falling asleep. I begin to search for a place to meditate. I am in a very active setting, people are everywhere, and I don't feel that I can meditate comfortably with all of the activity around me. Finally, I see a group of women working on a project, and I ask them where I might go to have a bit of quiet time. They point to a playroom that's nearby. So I go into the playroom, and it is full of toys. There is hardly an uncluttered spot, so I sweep some toys aside on the floor, and lie down on the carpet, and start to meditate, hoping that the light will come. I feel the energy start to rise in my dream body and I expect the light to come, but suddenly I find myself walking with Julie toward my old mentor Chas, who is dead. I hear him say, "You like dark wood, don't you?" I said, "I like all wood." Then, as I reach where he stands, he steps aside to reveal a beautiful wooden chest that's on the floor with its lid open. It is about the size of a suitcase. It is empty, and it's made of a wood that had the color and hue of old gold--kind of pink and gold at the same time. He is obviously happy with the gift that he had made me, and I am moved by it. I embrace Chas, happy to see him again. I start crying, and then I wake up, crying in bed, feeling grateful to have seen him. 

Now I'm wondering, What (metaphorically) should I put in the wooden chest? It was like a British campaign desk--the kind meant to be carried on journeys and used for writing.

If it were your dream, what would go in your travel chest?