The couple who’d been sitting on the sofa just five minutes ago had shared a moment of real connection.

The kind of connection that exists between two people who know each other deeply.

I was lucky enough to witness and share in their joy.

What hangs in the air is the lightness of hope - that even through turbulent times the bonds that hold a relationship remain close to the surface.

The relationship has its own energy, character, humour, separate from the two humans that share in it, yet inextricably linked.

It’s curious that when we let that breathe, we can observe its swirling and relish in its dance.

When they stopped clinging to what they wanted the relationship to be, it seemed to find its own voice.

Today we heard that voice.

Today we watched that energy reveal itself again. Playful. Mischievous. Warm.

Today we felt the effervescence and giddiness of love, not in the individuals, but in the space between.

As the ringing of laughter subsides, the room and I are left feeling lighter.

The Present Room is a space for therapists and helping professionals - a place to pause, notice and return to presence in the midst of the day.

Twice a month I’ll share reflections from my therapy room, everyday life and the ordinary moments in between.

See you next time in The Present Room.

If you’d like to receive these reflections in your inbox, you’re very welcome to subscribe.

I write here on the 1st and 15th of each month.

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I didn’t expect my breath to meet the air in a cloud of white steam.

I didn’t expect to see the cherry blossom scattered on the ground.

Expectation. Expectation. Expectation.

Snuffing out curiosity like wet fingers on a candle (I always expect that to hurt more than it does).

I notice my disappointment that reality falls short of what I thought it might be - what it could be, or even what it should be.

My mind in a fight against a universe that’s been unfolding for 18.3 billion years (I’ve not counted but I expect this to be approximately correct).

I stop for a moment.

Glistening beads of sweet dew clinging to petals.

Water dripping down car doors and steam rising from their rooves.

Shallow puddles mirroring the sky.

The rippled reflection of my body as I step over them.

Birds busily flitting in and out of hedgerows.

It’s now I feel my heart rate ease back into a more comfortable rhythm.

My breath longer and more grounded.

My footsteps more purposeful.

My body somehow heavier as I bring awareness to it.

Now I see it all.

Somewhere along the line I found myself back in The Present Room.

The Present Room is a space for therapists and helping professionals - a place to pause, notice and return to presence in the midst of the day.

Twice a month I’ll share reflections from my therapy room, everyday life and the ordinary moments in between.

See you next time in The Present Room.

If you’d like to receive these reflections in your inbox, you’re very welcome to subscribe.

I write here on the 1st and 15th of each month.

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I feel the gentle pull of the magnet as the lid snaps shut.

Click.

I slump back into my armchair with a sigh. It’s not a heavy sigh but it is a tired one. I realise now how much I’ve been holding today.

I love what I do. It’s a privilege and a pleasure to sit alongside fellow human beings as they try to make sense of it all. And I listen well.

A nervous tension wriggles around my body circling my solar plexus. The more I try to shake it off the more it digs in.

I had a similar feeling in my belly a couple of weeks ago at the same time.

It feels like a temporary visitor rather than a permanent resident.

Although my instinct is to shoo the visitor away, I feel the spirit of my paternal grandmother.

She steps into my mind, pulls up a chair, and places a welcoming pot of tea and a plate of assorted biscuits on the table (including bourbons and custard creams - naturally).

“That’s no way to treat our guests” she says with warm Irish hospitality.

Reluctantly, I bow to her greater wisdom, even though I’m tired and my body wants to rest.

“Hello” I whisper gently to the timid presence hiding in the shadows of my belly.

A small trembling figure pokes its head cautiously into the light. Then a little further.

With all the empathy I can muster I scoop it up into my arms and hold it gently.

There is no need for explanation. Nothing needs fixing.

Together we sip warm tea and nibble on biscuits, making as many crumbs as necessary.

With a comforting blanket over our shoulders, we stay this way until the trembling subsides.

I notice the tension in my belly now has space around it.

My heart feels the pull of the excited chatterings around the dinner table.

I’m ready to rejoin my family.

The Present Room is a space for therapists and helping professionals - a place to pause, notice and return to presence in the midst of the day.

Twice a month I’ll share reflections from my therapy room, everyday life and the ordinary moments in between.

See you next time in The Present Room.

If you’d like to receive these reflections in your inbox, you’re very welcome to subscribe.

I write here on the 1st and 15th of each month.

Subscribe now

Warm air from the air conditioning brushes against my skin as I wait for my 9am online client.

Outside, the magnolia and cherry blossom are bursting into life. Daffodils lift their bright yellow heads.

It wasn’t long ago that frost was biting at this time of day, making the path to the room a little icy.

With the temperatures climbing into double figures, the promise of warmth is tantalisingly close.

As the seasons turn, it’s easy to forget how still things can feel in winter.

But right now there’s a sense of aliveness.

The seasons seem to echo something in me - a fluctuation between anxiety and calm; resistance and rest.

The weather of my mind can turn stormy out of nowhere - like an April shower from a seemingly clear sky.

I wonder what the weather is like inside.

I notice patches of turbulence deep within my belly.

Nothing dramatic - just a low, unsettled hum.

I stay with it for a moment. Not trying to change it. Just noticing.

The warmth of the air on my skin. The light through the window. The stillness of the room.

Outside, the blossom is still gently moving in the breeze.

Something begins to settle. Or perhaps it’s simply being allowed to be as it is.

My client will be here soon.

For now, there’s nothing else I need to do.

The Present Room is a space for therapists and helping professionals - a place to pause, notice and return to presence in the midst of the day.

Twice a month I’ll share reflections from my therapy room, everyday life and the ordinary moments in between.

See you next time in The Present Room.

If you’d like to receive these reflections in your inbox, you’re very welcome to subscribe.

I write here on the 1st and 15th of each month.

Subscribe now

This is rare. I often see one, maybe two. Four is a real treat.

I imagine what the air feels like under their wings - rushing through taut feathers, then whooshing past as their tails twitch to change direction.

Gliding silently in and out of the framed glass panel, I wonder what they’ve spotted on the ground. A mouse or a vole? Maybe they’re just playing but I imagine their attention is more purposeful than simple fun.

Can I make my attention purposefully playful today?

The aerial display commands my curiosity. I know it won’t last long, so I try to make the most of it.

The birds almost make music as they dance in the space above my head. It’s gentle, soft and peaceful - my heart rising and falling with its melody.

As I admire their gracefulness, I’m reminded that my mind does something similar. It circles round looking for something to focus on. It’s never long before a thought or a feeling lands in the centre of my attention.

Right now, I’m in a moment of joy. My heart is lifted - like the birds on the thermals.

Can I stay with this a while longer?

Can I allow the bubbling in my chest to soar and savour the simplicity of now?

I keep the red kites in my attention for a few moments more.

My next client session is in 5 minutes.

I’ve had a good lungful of fresh air without even leaving my seat.

The Present Room is a space for therapists and helping professionals - a place to pause, notice and return to presence in the midst of the day.

Twice a month I’ll share reflections from my therapy room, everyday life and the ordinary moments in between.

See you next time in The Present Room.

If you’d like to receive these reflections in your inbox, you’re very welcome to subscribe.

I write here on the 1st and 15th of each month.

Subscribe now

I’m going for a walk and I’m taking the room with me.

It’s easy to put one foot in front of the other and plod the familiar streets around my home. It’s harder to stay with my footsteps and really feel the ground beneath me - each one offering a brand new perspective on the moment.

Thoughts, to-do lists, comparisons, judgements - all vying for attention in the overcrowded marketplace of my mind.

Like the stall holders’ promise of a bargain too good to be missed, these shiny thought clouds tempt me into following them down another cul-de-sac.

What I’m really after is some peace and quiet - some freedom from following everything put in front of me. I want something that will re-energise me in the 60 minutes I have between meetings.

Can simply being in my footsteps give me that? Let’s give it a go!

As I try to stay with now, I feel the familiar tug of a thought on my shirtsleeve. So that’s what I stay with.

I’ve been doing this on and off since I was 23 (I’m now 53 with significantly less hair on my head and significantly more around my ears) and I find the same pull away from now.

I know this doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong. It just means I’m human.

I start again. The next opportunity is right here. No need to go back to the beginning. It’s right beneath my very nose.

I gently whisper to myself “you’re already here”.

The sound of my voice brings attention to my sense of hearing. I stay with this.

Birds chirruping; wind gently rustling branches; the distant hum of the main road; the soft panting of Bear beside me.

Allowing the sounds to meet my ears as if I’m sat in a concert hall listening to an orchestra.

Although I recognise the sounds, I let them wash through me with as little interpretation as possible. I want the pure experience before my mind starts making sense of them.

For a few moments in a row I arrive at the peace that’s been sitting underneath the chatter of the marketplace all along.

Like a child seeing snow for the first time, I stay with the undeniable truth - I’ve never been here before.

This is a brand new moment.

I’m on the frontier of the undiscovered.

The seemingly mundane becomes as captivating as a beautiful sunset — not because it’s special, but because I’m present with it.

My footsteps somehow feel lighter, my heart more open, my breath more expansive.

I’m in The Present Room.

And the walk continues.

The Present Room is a space for therapists and helping professionals - a place to pause, notice and return to presence in the midst of the day.

Twice a month I’ll share reflections from my therapy room, everyday life and the ordinary moments in between.

See you next time in The Present Room.

If you’d like to receive these reflections in your inbox, you’re very welcome to subscribe.

I write here on the 1st and 15th of each month.

Subscribe now

My 10am cancelled a few minutes ago and I’m sat wondering what to do with this unexpected pocket of time.

The room feels different when there’s nowhere to rush to.

Do I read the emails that will inevitably pop into my inbox? Do I scroll the latest news? Maybe make myself a snack?

There are a hundred and one things that can distract me from sitting still and being.

Yes, I’m physically in the room. But can I return to The Present Room? Can I carve out some space to simply be?

This is the inner room of stillness in a world of noise and competing distractions. This is the room where I listen to my breath and allow things to be exactly as they are. This is the room of calm presence and curiosity where everything is already perfect. This is the room I invite you into - a place of stillness to return to.

As therapists we hold space for others every day. We stay present and alert to clients’ emotional fluctuations and meet them with empathy and acceptance. In The Present Room we reflect that back to ourselves. How would that be? - to afford yourself the same luxury you lovingly and willingly offer your clients, lucky so and sos?

I’m looking out onto my garden in Hampshire. The wind is gently rippling the lush grass like a wave across the small lawn. I didn’t get round to giving it its last cut before autumn came so it’s longer than it ought to be. Right now I’m pleased with that decision (or lack of one). Had I been more on it in September I wouldn’t be witnessing this wonderful swishing display right now.

It’s peaceful in here. The muted greens and greys are calming and the skylight offers a glimpse of the ever changing cloudscape. Right now it’s almost too bright to look at as the sun breaks through an increasing envelope of blue.

For a moment there is nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to be. No rushing to the next thing on my to do list. I notice my shoulders are scrunched so I relax them as I exhale. They soften a little further with the next. Now I can feel the full weight of my body in the armchair. I’ve arrived.

The Present Room is a space for therapists and helping professionals - a place to pause, notice and return to presence in the midst of the day.

Twice a month I’ll share reflections from my therapy room, everyday life and the ordinary moments in between.

See you again in The Present Room.

If you’d like to receive these reflections in your inbox, you’re very welcome to subscribe.

I write here on the 1st and 15th of each month.

Subscribe now