Person-Centred Counselling and the
Integration of EMDR as a Therapeutic Tool
January, 2002
Prologue
           It
seems I am floating along a soft surface of pine needles and the sound of
gentle wind I hear comes from the treetops arching hundreds of feet above my
head. The delicious smell of fresh pine
languishes in the air and makes me feel as if I am reclining motionless in a
bath of warm water, still to the point of paralysis. As I walk I smile and reach out to lean one
hand against the rough surface of the grandfather of all trees that lined our
property in the hills of the Aberdeen
Mountains. I am gazing to the south, my eyes taking in
the squat stone lined sketch of our cottage framed in by the gentle green slope
of Kerrington’s hillside that stretches east to west and wraps around the cool
waters of Manyon Lake four miles round and glasslike in the morning damp. It must be autumn because the land around me
is not so much grey, but reddish brown with autumn orange and yellow leaves shed
by our tall, summer-lush maples. Their
delicate, crisp leaves that span my child-hand drift downward cradled by
whispering currents silently to the rhythmic patter of morning dew drops
falling from branches too high to reach.Â
I feel warm. The cottage smokes
like a forgotten cigarette left to cinder at the bottom of a ceramic ashtray.
           Like
magic, I’m inside now taking in the golden hues of wood and ceramic tile of the
kitchen. The windows seem steamed up,
perspiration clinging to the corners of each window pane like an auric
crystalline glaze. I want to lean over the countertop and draw a smiley face,
but instead fold the comfort of the moment around me in my own smile. I am
alone in the house. After standing for
some time in the kitchen basking in the warmth the contours of the walls and
floors invite, I step forward toward the open dining area and into the main
part of the house held open to daylight and darkness alike by tall delicately
designed French windows that extend along the entire front and both sides of
this box-like cottage. There is a
familiar texture emerging beyond my immediate perceptual range. I have in me a mild urgency to find something
I am missing. I am seeking something,
yet know I will find it for it is leading me to its location. I follow.
           A
particular smell lingers about the place.Â
A combination of wood smoke, apple cider, fresh damp earth and tea
leaves. The rich smell of cut grass
washes over me, too, with the hypnotic hum of a mower echoing … from somewhere.
           I ascend the staircase, which sits
squarely between the dining area and the living room. The walls on either side serve as the divider
between both main rooms. The underside of the stairwell is the opposite descent
into the creepy basement accessed by a door in the kitchen – the diminutive
size and stature of which was conceivably designed for elves to come and go
through  The stairs have a slightly
hollow sound to them as I thunder up them in a hurry. Flush with the wall to my left at the top of
the stairs is the entrance to my bedroom, which appears more like an opening to
a closet. The room itself is not much
bigger than a closet and is the smallest room in the house. Against one wall and occupying the majority
of space, squats an iron frame comfortable trundle bed wedged in by floor to
ceiling, wall to wall bookshelves equally stuffed to capacity with childish
volumes, my stuffed animals – Raggedy Andy and Anne, Winnie-the-Pooh, Eyore
with his buttoned on tail, and Kanga with little Roo dangling precariously from
her pouch. Dividing the opposing wall is
a double French window some five feet high and four feet wide and open to a
silky breeze that shifts across my skin through a sheer window screen. I sit on the edge of the bed, eyes closed and
breathe in deeply – a troubled breathe.Â
I want to hold on to something that feels like it is leaving me, but
what …?
If only I
could just ...
