Open Window

I saw Alice in Wonderland last weekend. It was sort of a metaphysical-mythological-shamanic journey on acid (well, with the 3-D glasses anyway). Not only was I wildly entertained by the visuals, but also by the extraordinary mind of Lewis Carroll. What kind of brain, firing at what kind of level, would it take to come up with that story line, those amazing characters, that language?

My spiritual/philosophical belief system would remind me that there is no separation from the source of all creation and its expression, making Lewis Carroll no more extraordinary than you are or I am; perhaps just more in touch with his creativity or less inhibited about putting it out there for judgment.

Most people have a slightly tweaky part of their mind that’s kept under wraps, a bent sense of humor rarely shared, or imaginings that they’re glad no one else can peek in on—I know this is true; I hear it in therapy all the time. I had one of those moments just this afternoon.

My friend Trudy, also a therapist, with whom I share a suite of private practice offices, was passing by my office, stuck her head in my open door, and noted the curtain, gently ruffling in the breeze.

“It’s nice you have your window open—and the curtain keeps flying things out. I get flying things if I open my window,” she lamented. We exchanged a few more words and then she left to prepare for her afternoon clients.

Images of a baseball, a swirl of leaves, a Frisbee, a kite, maybe a pigeon or two flying in her window, hovering overhead, landing with a soft thwump or a ruffle of feathers on the couch next to a client, brought a chuckle at the absurd places my mind frequently takes me. Later I shared this with Trudy.

“So you see why I’m reluctant to ever open it,” she said, straight faced.