Word: sylvia
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...Sylvia, an attractive blonde woman with three grown children, used a number of well-tested psychological devices to draw all of us fully into the sessions. We did yoga deep-breathing exercises, and sat back-to-back in pairs, talking to each other only about our immediate feelings, the "here and now" that is all-important to Gestaltists. We looked long and often uncomfortably into each other's eyes, then walked around in silence with our eyes closed, making physical contact with each other-clasping hands, embracing, caressing -whatever we were moved...
After each exercise, Sylvia asked: "Does anyone want to share his experience with us?" When one of us made a revealing response, she deftly turned the group's attention -like a movie director shifting a camera-toward him, moving in for a closeup that was soon followed by flashbacks and moments of drama...
...Frances responded unexpectedly: "Don't call me strong, not now. Not now." Sylvia turned to look at Frances. "Why do you say now? Perhaps you should close your eyes and fantasize. Tell us what you visualize, whatever comes into your head." "I see a lot of black, sticklike shapes," Frances began. "They are moving around, but one is becoming more prominent. It represents today, and it is very important." "Frances," one of the girls interrupted, "I don't know what the hell you are talking about...
...talking about. Last April, my husband shot himself and left me with seven children-and I can't go on, I don't have the strength to go on." She put her head down on the sofa, sobbing convulsively. All of us, shocked and concerned, looked to Sylvia for help. She was silent, watching Frances compassionately. "If you let us," she said, "maybe we can help." At Sylvia's suggestion, Frances, still sobbing, lay on her back in the middle of the floor. We all knelt around her, placed our hands under her, lifted her above...
After a few minutes we gently lowered Frances back to the floor, then placed comforting hands on her. "Now, one at a time," Sylvia said softly, "please return to your seats." (She explained to me later that had we all left simultaneously, Frances might have associated our departure with her earlier tragedy, in which all of her support was withdrawn at once.) Frances rose slowly, lit a cigarette and turned to look at us. "Thank you all," she said, her face breaking into a radiant smile. "I feel much better...