“Riding the waves of the stormy seas he holds the rudder through the chop and through the breeze. Heading for the warm glowing horizon over there a place of healing, of strength and no despair. The mast stands tall like a tree of hope. The main sail holds steady, committed and copes. The hull, the boat, the base is the relationship, the safety, the containing space. He glances up to the burgee, the little flag right at the top. Giving him direction, north? East? Faster? Or stop? He is the client and with that he is the helm. Bringing with him his anchor, his strife and overwhelm. She is the therapist, the healer, his crew. With him through the waves, the tide, the flowing blue.”
— Jessy Warburg, 2025
“They waited patiently, nervously and quiet. Who will she be? Formal? Relaxed? A riot? They briefly pondered while the clock filled their ears. Will there be one in our room becomes the newest fear. The ticks were gentle but the tocks were sharp. Nearly matching the thud of their wounded heart. They looked down at the floor catching a glimpse of their shoes, A wave of heat and panic right on queue. A scuff on the right and a stain on the left, Will she notice and think of me less? The door flung open like a spinnaker filling with a mighty gust of wind, Down sits another client to hear the clock’s obnoxious ring. He looks so calm how can that possibly be? Did he ever sit here feeling like me? Where my palms are sopping and my knees won’t rest, And I want to bolt but I’m trying my best. To stay on this chair until I’m told what to do, Suddenly foot steps approach the waiting room.”
