For years, I’d been dutifully visiting my psychotherapist to sit upon soft cushions and “do my work.” And, though I had made some progress initially, I could sense there were lava floes brewing in the depths.

As the daily sorrows and furies of this chaotic world kept on accumulating, I feared they would boil over and scorch the pretty upholstery – or maybe even incinerate the couch entirely.

My full sizzling mess felt somehow inappropriate for that tidy little room.

As a lonely young woman, I was simply needing real human connection, which I sought to find with various therapists and counselors.

As a middle aged woman, I still need that same connection.

And I imagine I always will.

But clinicians have always been required to keep “professional distance.” And I have always felt that distance acutely. Without hugs and homemade soup, it’s hard for therapy to fill my longing to be deeply seen and cared for.

To be honest, what I need most is a Grandma. Someone to listen and to care. A trusted “aunty” who can offer sound wisdom. Someone to hold me in her arms while I cry, for hours if need be.

But these are exactly the things that are VERBOTEN in counseling.

No touch.

No getting “involved” with the client.

No giving of sage advice.

No relationship outside of the session.

And yet, true, lasting relationship is the very thing I yearn for.

By design I could never reach that true connection, as any professional is customarily bound to walk right past me in the grocery store to honor my privacy.

This paradox was turning my therapy sessions into a site for frustration, and was taking me deeper into despair.

I couldn’t even PAY someone to care–or so it seemed.

Eventually, I just stopped going. Especially as a busy mom, I could afford not the time, the humiliation, nor the unnerving feeling that my grief was quietly building itself into a tsunami.

It had become glaringly obvious that I was not going to be able to sit smartly and talk my way around all this heartache.

Something else was needed.

I needed to find my way to ceremony.

To feel the depths of what was calling me, I had to head out, past the neat clipboards and the silent front desks, beyond the groomed office parks of traditional talk therapy,

into the realms of ritual and ancestral healing.

I had to find a place where my ancient wise ones were in attendance, a place which would welcome my furious sounds, the thrashings of my agonies and ecstasies.

A place where I could actually touch the unfamiliar edges of my grief; where I could soak in the powerful storms surging through my body, and sound the howling winds; where I could feel my Ancient Grandmothers soothing and cooling my brow; where I could hear their soft wisdoms whispering in my ears.

I lit candles with my community gathered around, then dropped to my knees and allowed them to hold me through the night as I wailed and whimpered.

I wrapped my tired body around a huge maple tree, and wept in her embrace.

I danced and prayed and yowled in the wilderness of my favorite beaches, dancefloors, and journals, and was finally, and gratefully, enclosed in a vessel that could encompass me.

And in this context of prayer and ritual, Grandma finally came!

Here, I could sense her, hear her, feel her hands. Here, I could finally develop relationship with the Ancient Ones of my lineages, with the Animal and Elemental powers beyond the human world. Here I could feel truly held.

Restoring relationship with ancestors has radically changed my life.

When my clients arrive at my door, they are often at a similar point in their lives. Their old strategies of psychologizing their pains and losses just aren’t moving the needle anymore. A new depth is being called for.

They are being called off the couch, beyond talk therapy, into the wilds of ritual.

Here, grief is not a burden, but a portal which can transport us directly into the heart of devotion.

As the pace of world chaos whirls ever faster, our ancestors are beckoning us to look deeper into the sands of time for insight and belonging.

Our Ancient Kindreds are always here, and always have been. They are waiting for us to ask for their company, their guidance, their wisdom.

In this crucible of transformation, beyond talk therapy, may we reach that belly shaking, alchemical moment where our cries become indistinguishable from our laughter, and we are delivered onto the shores of bliss and union.

With these words, I mean not to denigrate or discount the healing we can find in conventional therapy. But I do mean to gesture towards the ritual lands which lie beyond the psychological practicum, and worldview. I mean to empower folks to brave a bit outside the fences, into ceremonial spaces, into prayers which allow us to move our ancestral bodies into intergenerational, ecosomatic healing.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and reflections! Please reach out anytime with comments and questions.

If you’d like to explore working with me in a ritual, rather than a psychological, context, please visit my website, BWellNow.org. Winter is a great time to dive into grief and ancestor work.

May we tend our inner fires during these long dark days of winter –>>Love, Nala Walla

PHOTO by Gui Avelar, on Unsplash