A Change In Psychological Season

Like many of you, I was lucky enough to have a holiday break this summer. I travelled south and experienced the lovely dance of the Mediterranean Sea against my body.

Sometimes I wonder why we, as humans, seem to gather around the sea and feel comforted by it. I watched people relaxing to the sound and rhythm of the waves, with an almost unspoken faith that somehow, in the end, all will be well.

It is nearly the end of summer, and what a summer it has been. Temperatures have risen and we have enjoyed warmth and long sunny days, but we have also witnessed drought and fires. Although the heat may have felt pleasurable at times, it was also the manifestation of a changing climate, one that has been fatal for some and anxiety-provoking for others.

I have always been fascinated by the narrative we create around the sun and the sea: the idea that the more we expose ourselves to them, the better we feel, as the colour of our skin changes, while rain, by contrast, is associated with melancholia and sadness.

What I particularly loved this summer was the horizon stretching before my eyes and the psychological comfort it brought me. I scrutinised it at length, observing the different forms of life at sea. I enjoyed looking at the large cargo ships sitting along the horizon. Each day, they seemed to change direction with the wind. At night, they became luminous and hinted at the life and activity of the people on board. People who, like us perhaps, might have been looking back towards the shore, imagining something of our lives too.

I also thought about those who take to the sea in the hope of beginning a new life, and about those who lose their lives crossing the Mediterranean.

The sand beneath my feet, the relentless nursing rhythm of the waves, and the force of the water against my skin felt re-energising. There was also a kind of collective, implicit knowing among the people on the beach that this was somehow good for us.

This is summer in all its glory, inviting us into slowness and contemplation. And we, humans, seem to have developed a ritual of sitting beside the sea: waiting, hoping and surrendering.

Now that I am back in London, I have experienced the return of the rain, and that felt good too. I can sleep again. But I also notice a change in my heart.

A part of me feels as though it is still on one of those cargo ships, with an ambivalent desire to be closer to the land while also moving away from the tussle and buzzing of the city. I find myself wondering about my own inner horizon, and about the place of my therapy practice within it.

As I return to seeing clients, I notice something of this transition in the therapy room too. The end of summer can bring us back towards ordinary life, but it can also invite reflection. What are we returning to? What do we want to keep? What needs to change?

Perhaps different seasons ask different things of us psychologically. Summer can invite expansion, movement, pleasure, escape and slowness. The approach of autumn can bring another kind of energy: a turning inward, an evaluation of where we are, and sometimes a clearer awareness of what we want to become.

After such an intense summer, I find myself thinking about our collective growing and becoming, and taking a more existential stance towards the question of what kind of humans we want to be.

I can see on the horizon a change of psychological season.