Therapeutic Metaphors for Children and the Child Within

Joyce C. Mills, Richard J. Crowley

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9781134611126
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Mental Health in Psychology
• Index: Psychology

Winner of the 1988 Clark Vincent Award for an "outstanding contribution to the profession through a literary work" and translated into four languages, the original edition of Therapeutic Metaphors for Children and the Child Within was considered a groundbreaking addition to the field of child and adolescent psychotherapy. The 1986 edition was the first—and to this day the only—book that solely intertwines the extraordinary foundational teachings and philosophies of Milton H. Erickson and creative healing approaches for children and adolescents. With resiliency at its core, this revision now brings forward important topics related to neurobiology and cultural value of metaphor and play, along with fresh case examples and creative activities to a new generation of mental health, education, and coaching professionals.

Part I
Prisms of Metaphor

1
The Nature of Metaphor

As the potter places clay in the center of the wheel and slowly begins to spin it, he combines water and a gentle but firm hand to guide the shape of the clay, until a unique object emerges to be appreciated and used in many different ways.

Metaphor is a form of symbolic language that has been used for centuries as a method of teaching in many fields. The parables of the Old and New Testaments, the holy writing of the Kabbalah, the koans of Zen Buddhism, the allegories of literature, the images of poetry, the wisdom teachings of indigenous¹ people, and the fairy tales of storytellers— all make use of metaphor to convey an idea in an indirect yet paradoxically more meaningful way. This special power of metaphor has also been grasped by every parent and grandparent who, observing the forlorn features of the young child, seeks to bring consolation and nurturance by relating an experience to which the child can intuitively relate.

This chapter will provide a spectrum of theories that scan philosophical, psychological, and physiological viewpoints regarding the nature of metaphor. Our purpose in presenting this range of views on metaphor is to communicate a portion of its long and rich history among the best minds of our past and present.

Metaphors and Indigenous Healing Philosophies

At the heart of all indigenous philosophies and stories is the belief that the natural world is our relative, our teacher, and our healer, and that everything is sacred. In these wisdom teachings, the earth, sky, moon, sun, and stars are not viewed through a scientific lens simply to be observed as planets or as parts of the atmosphere. Instead, they are experienced as our Mother Earth, Father Sky, Grandmother Moon, Grandfather Sun, and the Star Nation—as relatives guiding, protecting, and teaching us many lessons along life’s physical and spiritual paths.

Included in this belief are plant and animal life, including insects, fish, and birds. They each carry medicine teachings and stories to enhance our well-being. For example, when an animal crosses or stops in our path, rather than seeing it as distraction or annoyance, getting in the way of where we might be going, it would be seen as a relative from nature telling us something important we need to know that would be helpful in our lives.

In many tribes it is believed that when faced with a rattlesnake, we are being told to walk carefully upon our Mother Earth, “look where you’re going” so to speak, and metaphorically pay attention to how we are living our lives. Upon finding a snake’s skin, we are reminded to shed what no longer serves our highest good. A turtle teaches us about support and self-protection. When threatened it pulls inward and seeks strength from within. When it feels safe, our turtle relative sticks its neck out and moves forward.

According to Grandmother Mona Polacca,² “the Hopi legend of the butterfly can see us through these turbulent times of darkness and confusion by revealing to us our path of transformation” (Schaefer, 2006, p. 125).

This quote from Grandmother Mona reminds me of a story I was told many years ago by a traditional storyteller. I share it here as it is remembered….

And so it is said a long, long time ago there were two Caterpillar People who were very much in love. One day a sad thing happened and the Caterpillar Man died. The heart of the Caterpillar Woman was broken. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone and so she wrapped her sorrow around her like a shawl. Then she began walking and walking… and while she walked, she cried.

Caterpillar woman walked for a whole year, and because the earth is a circle, she returned to the very place from which she had begun walking. The Creator took great pity on her, saying, “You have suffered too long. Now it is the time to step into a new world of color… a new world of great beauty.” Then the Creator clapped hands twice… and the Woman burst forth from the shawl as a beautiful butterfly. And it is told that this is why the butterfly is a symbol of renewal for many communities… it tells us that at the end of all suffering, there is the gift of relief and renewal.

(J. C. Mills, 1999, 2007)

Two Wolves

In the following story, an old Cherokee grandfather is talking to his grandson about inner battles we all experience. Because storytelling is an oral tradition, it is sometimes told in different ways.

“Grandson, it is like there are two wolves fighting inside of us. One wolf is evil, filled with jealously, anger, self-pity, pride, selfishness, and arrogance. The other wolf is filled with love, compassion, humility, generosity, truthfulness and faith.”

After thinking about it for a minute, the grandson looks into his eyes and asks, “Grandfather, which wolf wins the battle?”

The Old Grandfather replies, “The one you feed.”

Rather than a lecture on the importance of making good choices in one’s life, this grandfather tells a story to inspire deeper thought on the part of his grandson. The story becomes a metaphorical pebble tossed into the pond of the unconscious.

SISQUIUTL—The Two-Headed Snake Monster

In his compelling article “The Huichol Offering: A Shamanic Healing Journey,” noted transcultural psychiatrist Dr. Carl Hammerschlag (2009)³ writes how a team of Mexican and American colleagues joined together with a Huichol Indian community to heal a decade-long epidemic believed to be caused by sorcery. It was reported that the “Huichol children living in boarding schools became possessed by demonic witchcraft that transformed them into aggressive animals.”

Honored to be one of the Americans included in the team, I recount a story about “fear” as told by Dr. Hammerschlag during a gathering on our first evening after arrival. After being introduced by the organizer Fernando Ortiz Monasterio to the children and community, Dr. Hammerschlag proceeded to tell a tribal story from the Salish people of the Pacific Northwest about the two-headed snake called Sisquiutl, or the Fear Monster.

With a few hundred wide-eyed children in traditional dress gathered before us, Dr. Hammerschlag began:

The fear monster is 60 feet long, as big around as the tree we are gathered around here. The heads on each end can see in all directions, so nothing escapes its sight. If you were to come upon Sisquiutl, your first reaction would be to run, but as soon as you moved, the Fear Monster would see you and come after you until it caught you and ate you. After you move, which happens instinctively, you have to stand still. Having seen you twitch reflexively, it will come after you. But standing still, it approaches you slowly, first one end and then the other, until it has you trapped between both its heads. Suddenly, seeing itself reflected in its own eyes, it becomes so horrified by its own image that it slinks away in horror.

The only way to escape the fear monster is not to run, because fear always runs faster than you can. If we stop running and face it together we can defeat the monster and make the illness go away.

This ancient indigenous story is surely relevant today. It can be told over and over again to encourage children to face their fears rather than run from them. Like the story of the “Two Wolves,” it doesn’t lecture children about fear, but instead provides a metaphorical bridge to courageous action.

Salt Woman

In December of 1992, while in Phoenix to present at the Erickson Congress, I realized it was time to drive up to the Navajo reservation and visit a man I call Uncle Jerry for my own healing. He and the family wanted to know how we were doing and everything that had happened since our move to Kaua’i. With respect, I brought gifts from the island. One such gift was salt. I explained that this salt was given to me by two people who had helped us after the hurricane. They had told me that this salt was harvested by their grandfather and is considered sacred.… It has been used for healing and blessings by the Hawaiian people for hundreds of years. At that point my uncle said, “Niece, there’s a story for us Dine’ people about this here salt too.” I share it the way I remember it told to me.

A long time ago, there was this village where the Dine’ people lived. One day a mother was carrying her little baby, but the baby only smiled.… No sound came out of her mouth. There was this old woman in the village known as Salt Woman, and when she saw the baby in her mother’s arms, she touched the lips of the baby with the tip of her finger and a laugh came out of the baby. From that day on, it was known that Salt Woman brought the first laugh to a little child.

Uncle Jerry didn’t explain why he told me that particular story, but I could easily guess. He was reminding me to laugh, something I hadn’t been doing very much of since our move. Before I left, my uncle said, “Niece, from time to time when things get hard, take a pinch of salt to your lips and be reminded that Salt Woman is with you.”

I smiled and told Uncle Jerry that I really liked that story and asked permission to share it. Knowing I used stories for healing, he humorously quipped, “Why do you think I’m tellin’ it to you?”

Metaphor and Eastern Masters

The young monk asks, “How shall I see the truth?” The master replies, “Through your everyday eyes.”

We begin this chapter with a glimpse into the Eastern masters because the essence of their philosophies metaphorically parallels the development of the child. The Eastern masters teach that interaction with life and nature is the way (Tao) to learn, grow, and solve problems. This interaction with life and nature is also the very way in which the infant and child take in information and gradually synthesize it into a cohesive world-view. In this sense the teaching approaches of the Eastern masters and the developmental processes of the young child can be viewed as analogical.

Eastern masters from many orientations have long made use of metaphor as a primary vehicle for teaching (Kopp, 1971). Recognizing that most students would approach their learning from a logical, rational perspective—and that this perspective in itself would form a barrier to progress—the masters sought more indirect means. For example, rather than attempting to explain such concepts as the unity of man, nature, and the universe in logical thinking terms, Taoist master Chuang Tzu used stories, parables, and fables to help his students discover and experience their meaning metaphorically (Kopp, 1971, p. 61):

There was once a one-legged dragon named Kui, whose envy of a centipede led him to ask, “How can you possibly manage a hundred legs, when I manage my one leg with difficulty?” “It is so simple,” replied the centipede. “I do not manage them at all. They land all over the place like drops of spit.”

In Zen Buddhist approaches these stories and fables developed into concise, carefully crafted koans. Koans are paradoxical riddles impenetrable by logic. One type of koan uses direct, simple statements that are actually indirect and quizzical (Kopp, 1971, p. 67):

Tell me the sound of one hand clapping,

or

The flower is not red, nor is the willow green.

Another type of koan uses the traditional question/answer format but in a nontraditional way. Typically a student asks an expected or predictable question of a master, who then gives an unexpected and completely inscrutable answer (Kopp, 1971, p. 67):

The young monk asks, “What is the secret of Enlightenment?”

The Master replies, “When you are hungry, eat; and when you are tired, sleep.”

or

The young monk asks, “What is Zen?” The Master replies, “Boiling oil over a blazing fire.”

The power of this approach lies in its enigma, which serves to provoke a deeper quest for knowledge on the part of the student.

In some Zen Buddhist sects, the koan is the primary teaching vehicle. Rossi and Jichaku (1984) explain that the koan’s importance comes from the fact that solving its riddle requires the student to bypass or transcend normal dualistic modes of thought. Right and wrong, black and white, lion and lamb must fuse into a unity if the koan is to be solved. In this way, the enigmatic, cryptic, and metaphorical quality of the koan forces the mind to reach past itself for solution. In this very reaching, however, the search for solution crumbles into the spontaneous flow of enlightenment—which was there all along. Rossi and Jichaku quote Master Hakuin’s description of his own enlightenment experience, which begins with an all-consuming, restless absorption and culminates with a seemingly paradoxical insight (Yampolski, 1971, p. 118):

All my former doubts vanished as though ice had melted away. In a loud voice I called: “Wonderful, wonderful. There is no cycle of birth and death through which one must pass. There is no enlightenment one must seek. The seventeen hundred koans handed down from the past have not the slightest value whatsoever.”

“Enlightenment” for the Eastern masters is always with us. It is not something we have to learn or seek. However, we do have to remove the clutter that stands between enlightenment and our personal experience of it, and one way to do that is through the metaphor of koans, stories, and fables. An excerpt from The Garden of Anecdotes (Xianyi & Yang, 1981) best relates this point:

“Hui Zi is forever using parables,” complained someone to the Prince of Liang. “If you, sire, forbid him to speak in parables, he won’t be able to make his meaning clear.”

The prince agreed with this man.

The next day the prince saw Hui Zi.

“From now on,” he said, “kindly talk in a straightforward manner and not in parables.” “Suppose there were a man who did not know what a catapult is,” replied Hui Zi. “If he asked you what it looked like, and you told him it looked just like a catapult, would he understand what you meant?”

“Of course not,” answered the prince.

“But suppose you told him that a catapult looks something like a bow and that it is made of bamboo—wouldn’t he understand you better?”

“Yes, that would be clearer,” admitted the prince.

“We compare something a man does not know...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Half Title page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Foreword
• Foreword from the First Edition
• Preface: Bridges to New Beginnings
• Acknowledgments
• Other Titles Available by the Authors
• Introduction
• A Child’s Fantasy
• Part I Prisms of Metaphor
• Part II Creating Therapeutic Metaphors
• Part III Multidimensional Applications
• Part IV Evolutions
• Appendix
• Additional Recommended Reading
• References
• Index