Whenever let loose on a beach I immediately find myself looking at the ground around me, stooping, and picking up objects for closer examination. Sometimes it is shells or driftwood. Occasionally it is a useful piece of nylon string. But what I find fascinates me most frequently are pebbles.
On the beach at Filey in Yorkshire, about ten years ago it occurred to me that, although I was exercising great discrimination in selecting pebbles, I might just as well shut my eyes and pick up the first one I stumbled across and that single pebble would give me as much satisfaction.
This observation troubled me slightly, and bided its time, quietly fizzing in the very back of my mind until a few months ago on a beach in Pembrokeshire. That idea about “any old pebble” popped up to greet a new niggling observation. I was noticing in myself a sense of affection bordering on love and nostalgia towards the stones I was picking up and, with some reluctance, releasing again to the wild.
Suddenly these were people. Indeed, they were my patients! Do I have a favourite? No, of course not. Is any one not worthy of love? No. Is any of them perfect? No. Do they share features, and yet retain, each of them, a uniqueness? Yes. Do I take a particular interest in some over others, for a time? Yes. Does each of them accompany me for a time and then leave? Yes. And do I have a sense of the number that I can safely carry, and the number that I can examine closely, at any one time? Yes.
Of course the analogy has its limits. Any analogy that is total or complete ceases to be an analogy or of any interest. I do not see myself as of any use to these stones. I don’t expect any of them to be in any kind of predicament that I might be able to help them through. In fact the roles are somewhat reversed. It is more likely that they can help me with my predicament.
But do they talk to me? Yes.
What makes these pebbles like people to me? What is it they share?
A pebble’s character is shaped by two things: their inherent material, and their experience. Each stone is made of a material which may be soft, hard, brittle, porous. These features, in turn, have their distant origin in constituent and experience – their chemical makeup and the terrible forces that gave birth. There may also be a fault line, or a sheering plane due to differing materials joining. And then there is the tossing and churning, the action of water, and jostling with their fellows which has brought them to their current shape. The interaction of these two broad sets of influences is important. Some will have been more or less resilient to this abrasion. Others may have seemed impenetrable until they split after a sharp tap, to reveal a hollow interior. And then this, in turn, was smoothed and adapted. And some may have been brought here from elsewhere, finding themselves in the company of other shapes and colours.
I found myself moved by the stories of these stones. And by the fact that, yes, some of them caught my eye – bright colours or a wet shine – but that I could pick any one of them, take an equal interest in it and enjoy its company – for a time.
Ultimately, of course, the analogy relaxes its grip and we fall back into our respective places. I turn to my human companion, perhaps compare notes, and move on.
Therapeutic Attitude 