I am not the expert

I would like to bust a myth

About therapists (such as myself):

I am not the expert,

Of you.

My qualifications don't give the answers,

To the questions of your Heart.

Even if you would tell me all,

About you.

I cannot truly know the darkness of your sorrows,

Nor the depths of your fears,

And I would not be able to tell you,

What to do with your unlived longings,

Or how much to hold on to your rage.

For I am not you.

But, I do know,

Just like you,

How the day can turn into the night,

And how the lush summer meadows,

One day filled with life and light,

Suddenly turn barren and cold.

I have known the dread,

Photo: Vera Brok

That grips my chest,

Wondering when the light will return.

I have known the longing,

To succumb to gravity,

Longing for the Winter to end.

And My,

Have I learnt to bow to these trenches.

When they demand me to sit,

In their depths.

And they showed me,

That if we can bear the dark,

There will come a moment,

That our eyes will start to see,

That first star of many,

Against the black.

And they whispered softly,

That if we can bear our Winters,

Our mind surrenders to the stillness,

We can open ourselves,

To the brood chambers of the Soil,

Preparing for Spring.

' Cause I am just like you,

Another human,

Travelling this messy road,

Called Life.

Let our darkness become a canvas,

Onto which the stars can appear.

Let our Winters become the reprieve,

To our inner soil,

So, the roots of new beginnings firmly take hold,

Before they come to light.

Let's turn our stumbling,

Into a dance with Life.