|
 Laing
was one of the most celebrated clinicians of his
day. At the 1985 Evolution of Psychotherapy
conference (sponsored by the Erickson Institute),
Laing spotted a disheveled bag lady (whom some
would label psychotic) entering the lecture hall.
Spontaneously, and in the middle of his talk, he
walked over to the woman and began to converse with
her. After some time had elapsed, and the
woman’s disposition improved, Salvatore
Minuchin, a celebrated clinician in his own right,
stood up and declared that Laing’s contact
with this woman was one of the finest examples of
therapy that he had ever witnessed. Throughout
Laing’s formidable career, there have been a
variety of such testaments to his work. Some of
these testaments came from Laing himself and others
came from those who witnessed his mastery.
In
this talk, I am going to address one overarching
question: what was Laing actually doing in these
sanctified encounters with clients — and how
did he do it so quickly? I will argue that part of
what Laing was doing had already been eloquently
outlined by existential-humanistic writers; as
Laing himself conceded. But I will also argue that
Laing brought something unique to
existential-humanistic practice, something that had
not quite been characterized before, and that has
yet to be substantively articulated. Further, I
believe that this something is at the frontier, not
just of existential-humanistic practice, but all
practice that strives toward depth-psychological
understanding. It is a seedbed for the
future.
Before
I begin, I want to enjoin all of you in the search
for this "something" that made Laing’s
practice unique. As you listen to his commentaries
and my own musings, I encourage you to investigate
this enigmatic question with me—for it is by
no means clear or readily articulated.
Let
me begin then by providing some background about
Laing’s debt to existential-humanism. Next, I
will elaborate on the "something" to which I
earlier alluded, drawing on case illustrations from
his practice.
Laing’s
debt to existential-humanism is clear, it seems to
me, from the outset. Beginning with The Divided
Self (1960/1969) and extending throughout his
entire intellectual corpus, Laing’s focus has
been on 1) the whole human being as opposed to
part-processes; 2) the human being in his
particular world or life-context; and 3) the human
being in relation to existence or creation. For me,
one of the most stirring illustrations of
Laing’s existential-humanistic focus is his
vase/face illusion at the beginning of The
Divided Self. With this illusion, Laing
brilliantly elucidates the angles or stances from
which two or more people can be perceived.
Depending on how one views the illusion, for
example, one may either perceive a vase or two
opposing faces. Likewise, depending on how one
views the gestalt of a human relationship, as Laing
(1969) elaborates, one may see a DSM category, a
neurochemistry system, an information processing
machine, a cauldron of instinctual drives, or a
dynamic, evolving person. Put another way, one may
experience another as an object ("vase") or a
subject ("face"), with all attendant implications.
Let us consider these implications, for they are
subtler than they at first appear. What does it
really mean to take in another’s face, for two
people to really "face" one another? Have you
genuinely opened to another’s face of late? I
have tried to do this more and more consciously
since being inspired by Laing’s analogy, and I
have been daunted by what I’ve discovered.
Like the eyes, the face is a window on the world
and perhaps being itself. It is no accident that
Emmanuel Levinas (Valevicius, 1988) chose the face
as his touchstone for moral decision-making, for
right action. If you can fully take in
another’s face, you are virtually forced to be
discerning in your response to her. For me, the
face not only encompasses one’s personal
experience, but opens out into the vast reaches of
time, space, and creation; it is the mirror to all
that we absorb. For Laing, to witness
another’s face and indeed being is a
metaphysical exercise. (The smile, Laing (1969, p.
31 ) remarked, is more than the "contraction of the
circumoral muscles.") To face another is to
radically open up to possibility, as well as to
dread. Further, Laing’s metaphor deftly
assists us to see the interconnection between those
who are so-called psychotic and those labeled
normal; for if you genuinely open to the psychotic,
you also open in some sense to the anxieties and
possibilities in all of us, in the human condition.
You open to the girl, for example, who feared that
an A-Bomb was ticking inside her; or to the patient
who "feels crushed…even at the exchanges of
ordinary conversation" (Laing, 1960/1969, pp.
12,163). The face opens to worlds beyond worlds,
layers beyond layers of history, mystery, and even
cosmology. In the face, Laing intimates, one can
perceive the minutest impacts of family, culture,
and biology; at the same time, one can perceive the
primordial forces of the universe at play—such
as engulfment, impingement; chaos and
obliteration.
Laing’s
chief therapeutic concern it seems to me (and
others at this forum) was honesty—honesty in
communicating, honesty in understanding, and
honesty in healing. Laing’s honesty was
directly tied to his employment of
phenomenology—or fidelity to experience as
lived. Laing was open to and highly encouraged,
maximal disclosure of experience. As he noted in
one of his lectures, his aim was to help people
into their existence, to help them be
themselves. At the same time, Laing was not casual
in his promotion of this philosophy. He stretched
the limits to be sure, but his approach was highly
nuanced.
Integrative
Vision
Laing’s
therapeutic vision was integrative. Parallel to the
Eastern notion of the Great Chain of Being, Laing
conceived of human experience as a series of levels
or domains. Among them: the biological, cognitive,
sexual, interpersonal, and spiritual. How is the
past connected with a person’s current
suffering, Laing (1985) would inquire: "Is it
[related to] what was going on before
[the person] came into the room…? Is
it [related to] events that have been going
on for a number of years? Does it go back to
childhood? Does it go back to birth? Does it go
back to conception? Does it go back to before
incarnation? Does it go back to before conception
and one’s last death? Does it go back to past
lifetimes?"
Laing’s
question then was an ultra radical one: where in
this wheel of existence as he called it, is the
person stuck and how could one gain access to that
"stuck place." In order to stay maximally open to
any experience that a person might relate to him,
Laing cultivated that which he termed therapeutic
suspension. By suspending both belief and
disbelief—and by sustaining a disciplined
naivete--Laing was able to facilitate completely
unanticipated discoveries, meanings, and resources
within his clients.
Conditions
for Change
Presence
was one of the chief means by which Laing fostered
honesty (or authenticity). Ironically, however, one
is hard-pressed to find the term "presence" in
Laing’s lexicon—perhaps because he felt
it was overused. On the other hand, he used a
variety of eloquent expressions to convey the
essence of presence---one of these was attunement
(or "at-onement," as he put it). One of the first
things Laing (1985) did when he sat before a client
was to attune to (or "scan") their
interrelationship. What is the feel, tone, and
atmosphere of this interrelation, he would in
effect ask, and how can one best address this feel,
tone, and atmosphere? Further, and as suggested
earlier he would inquire, how can one find the
"opening," the "chink in the armor" that can access
this person? Laing distinguished between intuition,
which in his view sprung from the larger
(transpersonal) self, and technical judgment, which
emanated from one’s ego. Whereas intuition was
relatively sweeping and direct, the ego, for Laing
(1985) was a kind of "autohallucination," as he put
it; highly limited for his purposes.
One
of the keys to Laing’s cultivation of
intuition was courage. In stark contrast to this
courage was that which Laing (1985) termed
"psychophobia"—fear of the mind. While he
prided himself on lacking the former quality,
however--particularly with the severely
disturbed--there were humorous exceptions to this
rule. For example, Laing (1985) tells the story of
an Olympic weightlifter who came to see him for
therapy following a fit of anger in which he had
slammed his fist through a door. Laing took one
look at the man and sheepishly referred him to "a
good therapist down the street." On the whole,
however, Laing viewed the medically distancing
practices of conventional psychiatry as
psychophobic in the extreme. One of the worst
fears, Laing (1985) elaborated, was the fear of
human beings; and few places is this fear more
evident than in mental hospitals. For me, this
remark echoes Laing’s commentary on the
vase/face illusion. As suggested earlier, faces are
terrifying reminders of our "Selves," in the larger
sense, of our own awesomeness. To the extent we
take our interconnectedness seriously, Laing
elucidates, we cannot help but realize how vast it
all is, and how untenable our petty notions of
normalcy, truth, or health. Even the Great Chain of
Being must be questioned intimates Laing, as it is
hardly comforting—radically amazing
perhaps--but not necessarily consoling.
Now
I’d like to provide a couple vignettes that
eloquently capture Laing’s approach. Following
these descriptions, I’d like you to enjoin me
in exploring the question, "what the hell is Laing
doing with these clients?" Laing:
I
remember one occasion with a girl of seven years
old. She was brought along by her father because
she had stopped talking. He brought her into my
room and he left. She sat on the floor, crossed
her legs, and just sat there—not
particularly withdrawn but certainly not looking
as though she was interested to play or to have
any conversation. She sat there like a sort of
miniature Buddha, and I was sitting in my chair
and I couldn’t imagine how I might get to
her. I asked if she’d like to talk and she
had nothing to say. So I got off my chair and
sat there on the floor in front of her. There
was no plan that I worked out. She allowed me to
touch the tip of her little finger with the tip
of mine and gradually allowed me to touch the
tips of [all] her fingers with the tips
of mine. And I shut my eyes.
I
had a flash when I did that…a pang…of
anxiety that she might do something to my face.
Maybe I was picking up something from the tips
of her fingers, but it went away. And I allowed
myself to become completely absorbed in the
kinesthetic sensations at the tips of her ten
fingers. And for something like forty minutes or
so, nothing [happened] except a
gradually developing movement/dance with the
tips of her fingers…It became absolutely
imperative that I not lose touch with the tips
of any of her little fingers. And I imagine it
began to feel as important to her as it did to
me. After about forty minutes, I opened my eyes
and as I opened my eyes I found her eyes opening
just at the same moment, without a word having
been spoken. So we withdrew our fingers from
each other, and went back to my chair. I said to
her, bring your dad along now if that’s all
right with you, and she nodded.
He
told me later [that] as he was walking
along the road with her towards his car he
turned to her and said, "what went on between
you and Dr. Laing?" She turned to him and said,
"it’s none of your business!" And these are
the first words she had spoken in about two
months! (Laing, 1985)
Laing
(1985) goes on to describe a similar case of a 19
year-old woman in the grip of catatonia. She would
drink her coffee in the morning, Laing reported,
and come to a stop. She would freely walk about and
freeze up. Eventually, she became so panic-stricken
that she lapsed into hours of paralysis. Laing had
one session with her which he described as an
"interpersonal meditation." He further described
the sensation of being suspended in time and space
with her. Soon after that session, Laing reported,
the woman did something very smart: she took a job
as an artist’s model and in effect "marketed
her catatonia." But beyond this cleverness, he
elaborated, she was gradually able to move normally
again.
Laing’s
"stances": A preliminary sketch
What
then, are we to make of these vignettes? First of
all, they are at the very least remarkable if true.
Second of all, they are rife with potential
interpretations, a few of which I shall offer
momentarily. Before I do this, however, I wish to
be clear about one point: in no way do I intend to
formalize that which is unique, spontaneous, and
ineffable in Laing’s style—these are
sacrosanct. That which I do seek, on the other
hand, is to derive some general principles from
Laing’s approach that may assist others, in
their own unique contexts, to become commensurately
inspired.
My
reading of Laing’s healing, then, rests on the
provision of three basic conditions or
stances—presence, invoking the actual, and
vivifying resistance (Schneider & May, 1995,
Schneider, 1998). Presence refers to Laing’s
capacity to hold and illuminate that which is
palpably (immediately, affectively,
kinesthetically, and profoundly) relevant within
his clients and between himself and his clients.
Invoking the actual refers to Laing’s capacity
to assist his clients into that which is
palpably relevant (or charged) as a conduit to
their liberation. Finally, vivifying resistance
pertains to Laing’s capacity to assist his
clients to overcome the blocks to that which is
palpably relevant.
Let
me elaborate this perspective in the context of
Laing’s work with the seven-year-old mute
girl. This girl, it seems to me, was both terrified
and eager at some level to break out of her shell.
Probably owing to past trauma, her entire world was
designed to constrict, petrify, and deaden; and
conversely, to keep her from venturing out, taking
a risk, and declaring herself. Both literally and
figuratively, her world had silenced her. Laing, on
the other hand, was able to provide conditions or
stances through which she could come into
herself, into her voice. Through
presence (holding and illuminating that which was
charged), Laing was able to connect with her and
contain her struggle, and she, in turn, felt safer
to explore herself; by invoking the actual
(reaching out with his hands) he was able to invite
her to embody that which was emerging (e.g., risk,
courage, connection); and by vivifying or silently
bringing her attention to that which blocked her
emergence (e.g., fear), Laing was able to catalyze
her will to overcome that blockage. Another way to
frame this formulation is that Laing held up a
series of mirrors to his client. The mirrors of
presence and invoking the actual helped the girl to
perceive that which was emerging in her (e.g., the
yearning to expand, assert, and declare herself);
whereas the mirror of resistance helped her to
perceive (reassess, overcome) that which hindered
her from emerging. Taken together, these mirrors
enabled the girl to survey her "battle" (that which
was emerging vs. that which was blocked), sort out
the stakes in that battle, and risk the decision to
overcome that battle. Her rebuke of her father in
the aftermath of therapy was a natural consequence
of her self-realization.
I
think it is no accident that Laing (1985) looked to
ancient methods of healing to describe his
work—very little that is modern seems
parallel. Laing, for example, equates his approach
with that of ancient Greek physicians who utilized
an "incubatorium" to minister to the sick. The
incubatorium, according to Laing, was literally a
snakepit in which the ailing were immersed. The
ailing person would receive a message from the
gods, so the story goes, and convey that message to
an overseeing priest who would administer the
treatment. Laing also equates his work with an
ancient Hebrew sect called the therapeutae (from
which the term therapy is derived). This sect,
according to Laing, cultivated the high art of
attention or presence as a healing practice.
What
then are we to make of Laing’s analogies to
incubatoria and therapeutae, to meditations, and
suspensions of space-time? I think what we are
witnessing here is a prophetic call to a future
therapeutic age. In this future age, the therapy of
the day will be hardly recognizable by today’s
standards, yet may be a lot closer to the esoteric
healing standards of ages past. I would go so far
as to say that the therapy of tomorrow will be an
"energetic" therapy. Instead of relying on the
overt or the categorical, such a therapy will
emphasize the preverbal/kinesthetic field within
which the participants interact. That the "New
Physics" (e.g., Rupert Sheldrake’s
"morphogenetic fields" and David Bohm’s
"implicate order") echoes this visionary direction
is no accident. For each of these
perspectives—including Laing’s--converges
on mutually influencing energies, non-local
resonances, and "field" harmonics (Feinstein,
1998).
One
last note, for those who are skeptical of
Laing’s claims—and there is reason for
such skepticism--Loren Mosher, a former Laing
associate, has conducted a series of investigations
of Laing style sanctuaries. In his investigation of
Soteria House, for example, he found that at two
years, the outcomes were "in no way worse…and
on many measures better than" those for a
conventional psychiatric hospital (Mosher, 1997, p.
5; see also Mosher & Menn, 1978; Mosher,
Vallone, & Menn, 1995). Specifically, the
Soteria data revealed that patients had "fewer
readmissions, less outpatient care, better jobs,
left home more often, and had far less medication"
than their conventional patient counterparts
(Mosher, 3/7/99, personal communication). This data
provides much to ponder, it seems to me, in this
"decade of the brain;" and much to consider about
the politics that is driving the science.
So
where does this leave us a decade after
Laing’s death? With a psychonaut, a pioneer, a
startling new horizon.
|
![Colloquia Topics Index [link]](../colloqui2.gif){kind=small}
![Psychotherapy Main Page [link]](psyther.gif){kind=small}