I thoroughly enjoyed the workshop I attended on the 27th September; 'The therapist's journey', where we were able to look at what shaped us as therapists and reflect on, explore and share our journey so far.
Alison read what I thought was a beautiful poem, which really resonated with me, so I wanted to include it on my blog.
About School - R. Nukerji
He always wanted to say things. But no-one understood.
He always wanted to explain things but no-one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn't anything.
He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky.
He would lie out on the grass and look up in the sky
and it would only be him and the sky and the
things inside that needed saying.
And it was after that he drew the picture.
It was a beautiful picture.
He kept it under the pillow and would let no-one see it.
And he would look at it every night and think about it.
And when it was dark and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.
And it was all of him.
And he loved it.
When he started school he brought it with him.
Not to show anyone, but just to have it with him like a friend.
It was funny about school.
He sat in a square, brown desk like all the other square brown desks.
And he thought it should be red.
And his room was a square brown room. Like all the other rooms.
And it was tight and close. And stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil and the chalk, with his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor, with the teacher watching and watching.
And then he had to write numbers.
And they weren't anything.
They were worse than the letters that could be something if you put them together.
And the numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing.
The teacher came and spoke to him.
She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys.
He said he didn't like them and she said it didn't matter.
After that he drew. And he drew all yellow and it was the way
he felt about the morning.
And it was so beautiful.
The teacher came and smiled at him.
'What's this?' She said.
'Why don't you draw something like Ken's drawing?'
'Isn't that beautiful?'
It was all questions.
After that his mother bought him a tie and he always drew
airplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.
And he threw the old picture away.
And when he lay out alone looking at the sky it was big and blue and
all of everything.
But he wasn't anymore.
He was square inside and brown,
and his hands were stiff,
and he was like anyone else.
And the thing inside him that needed saying
didn't need saying anymore.
It had stopped pushing.
It was crushed.
Like everything else.