Introduction to White, M.(2011), Narrative Practice: Continuing the Conversations, New York, WWNorton
A bartender was the narrator of this story. He told of a patron coming day after day, sitting on the identical bar stool and ordering the same two glasses of white wine. The bartender knew not to interrupt as his customer was engaged in what appeared to him to be earnest conversation with an unseen interlocutor. After finishing both glasses of wine in an hour or more, he would take his leave. After several years during which they had become accustomed to each other, the bartender was emboldened to ask, ‘Why two glasses of wine instead of one?’ His customer sorrowfully confided in him that the other glass was for his friend who had had to seek political exile. Some months later, his customer ordered a single glass. The bartender did something he never did; he reached across the bar and touched him, saying ‘my condolences’.
Michael, with what you have left behind and in particular the two hoards – these caches of treasures, one of which includes the papers that follow in this text and your archive of videotapes, I cannot imagine a time that many of us will not set out two glasses, one for you and one for ourselves. We have so much more to speak to you about and you have so much more to say to us.
I started writing this ‘introduction’ on the second anniversary of your sudden death. I think it was unwise for me to do so as I found myself writing something akin to my earlier obituary. This precipitated a turmoil of sleepless nights and disturbed days. I took some comfort from Joan Didion (2003): ‘Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it’ (p.188). And some weeks later when I returned to the project, I seemed even farther away from knowing how to proceed. Perturbed, I turned to Ann as you know I do. ‘Why don’t you write a letter to Michael?’ My spirits immediately lifted as I had so much I had wanted to speak to you about and now I could have the means to do so much like the patron ordering two glasses of white wine instead of the customary one.
You will remember, Michael, how we both had finally settled on a date to reunite in Adelaide, after several previous cancellations. Now we had no doubt that nothing could or would get in the way of this assignation. Lamentably, that day turned out to be merely three weeks after you died. My return to Adelaide was for your funeral. I can’t tell you how much I was anticipating such a rendezvous to chart the course of the next phase of our ‘brotherhood of ideas’ in to our respective dotages.
Since the mid 1990s, we had had to regretfully acknowledge that, despite our best intentions, our respective work lives and travel commitments had ruled this out. Do you recall our continual astonishment at how narrative therapy took off after our pre-conference workshop at the 1989 AAMFT Conference in San Francisco and your live interview with the so-called ‘firelighter’, and then the special issue on Narrative Therapy in the Family Therapy Network in 1993 and a year later, the Newsweek article. And more recently both of us had busied ourselves in our respective writing projects – Rick Maisel and I co-authoring Biting The Hand That Starves You: Inspiring Resistance to Anorexia/Bulimia (between 1996-2004) while you were working on Maps of Narrative Practice. Michael, did you have some foreknowledge of your untimely death that you worked so hard preparing what I consider to be a distillate of your life’s work?
It has now come to mean so much to me that I launched your Maps book at the International Conference in Kristiansand in Norway. And I am laughing to myself how when you learned I was scheduled to do so, you used every ounce of your considerable powers of suasion to convince me to call it off. When you could see how unyielding I remained, you came up with some specious arguments bordering on the preposterous. Michael, for one who was so reverent and acknowledging of everyone who crossed your path in your workplaces or throughout your life and who had given such thought to ‘forums’ of acknowledgement, it was a rare occasion for us to arrange something of that sort for you.
Michael, I can’t tell you how relieved I am by these unpublished papers, addresses, workshop handouts, letters and fragments coming to light. Of course, I had known that another hoard existed in the form of videotapes. Although you had published consistently through Dulwich Centre Publications from the early 1980s onwards, I lamented the fact – and you shared my concerns – that you were almost exclusively referenced by Narrative Means to Therapeutic Ends by North American scholars and practitioners.
How often did you and I talk together about how we both owed such an enormous debt to the independence of Cheryl White, Jane Hales, David Denborough and Mark Trudinger at Dulwich Centre Publications. Their publications have engaged with so much of what concerned you, Michael. No mainstream publisher could or would have been able to publish many of their titles. Dulwich Centre Publications has been and will continue to be the primary ‘voice’ of narrative therapy and community work for some time to come. And to think it all began in the early 1980s with a newssheet entitled ‘Coming Events’ to announce forthcoming Friday after-work talks forthcoming at Dulwich Centre in Adelaide. Without an independent press, I believe narrative therapy would never have been able to speak as forcefully as it has in its own manner or to its numerous concerns, some of which you were their spokesperson.
There was such a vast territory of social, political and ethical concerns that you personally, your writings and your practice were attempting to reckon with. And reading across these unpublished papers will provide for those who had been unaware of this some sense of your erudition, elegance of thought, generosity of spirit and most obviously the courage of your convictions. And you were not alone in these convictions. You had no doubt that Cheryl was what you often referred to as ‘my muse’ and The Family Centre (Warihi Campbell, Taimalieutu Kiwi Tamasese, Flora Tuhaka and Charles Waldegrave) and their Just Therapy mentored and consulted to you as you began to engage with cultures other than your own. And there were many others. And what a reader coming to you after reading Maps alone can start to grasp from the range of these unpublished papers might be referred to as your re-imagination of the ‘social imaginary’. Why do I suggest such grand terms? I do so with some reserve to indicate your vision, even if you restricted yourself to the local and particular about life.
Poetics alongside politics
These papers direct our attention to your politics and ethics but you rarely commented on what I am calling the poetics of either your practice or your thinking in general. Perhaps for you, it was so taken for granted that it was just beside the point or tacit and beyond your own telling. Anyone who watched a videotape, read a text of yours or heard you speak couldn’t help but marvel at the eloquence of your thought. Stephen Madigan mentioned to me recently that often when he would read you, ‘I was brought to tears … tears of awestruck joy very much like reading poetry, very much when one is struck with an overwhelming beauty’.
No one could plagiarize you, Michael, because your fingerprints were over everything you said or wrote. Surely you must have added several hundred questions to the library of therapy enquiry? And how many of your neologisms will turn up some day in the Oxford English Dictionary? In the period between 1981-1986, you were turning Batesonian grand theory in to a practice of therapy that was entirely unique. But what was so fascinating about such an enterprise was your re-working of language so as to ‘get around’ or circumscribe the complexities of relationship, something English cannot adequately do. It was here and in the enchanting externalizing conversations with young people that I first marvelled at your genius with your vocabularies. It was rare for you to say much that you had not previously invented.
Michael, don’t you think we have to turn to poetics for this. After all, your words were at times mesmerizing and it was no surprise to me you drew upon Bachelard and the aesthetic metaphor of ‘transport’ as images for your narrative practice.
If we are to engage with the significance of poetics in narrative practice, I suspect we would have to trouble ourselves and read beyond our disciplines. Why do I believe this would be worthwhile doing? Because, Michael, it is of concern to all of us – and one which will delight us as well – to consider the language by which you brought the world of your re-imagined social imaginary in to view. This would cause us to reconsider ‘externalizing conversations’ and perhaps make more of them than we have so far made of them.
Lyn Hejiniam (The Poetry of Inquiry) wrote:
‘It as at least in part for this reason that poetry has its capacity for poetics, for self-reflexivity, for speaking about itself; it is by virtue of this that poetry can turn language upon itself and thus exceed its own limits’ (p. 1).
Poetics as well as narrative renders language a medium for experiencing experience. You and those you consulted as a therapist or taught as a student seemed provisioned to ‘think otherwise’- to go beyond the linguistic limits which had previously circumscribed them. I observed so many of those who consulted you from behind a one way screen; I can think of only a very few who were not first surprised but then delighted by where such a conversation had taken them to – to have gone beyond where they had been. They were left with an inquiry of their own to think on and live their lives into – of taking a chance of ‘becoming another’ with the implicit understanding that ‘this is happening’.
Does this remind you of our fascination with performative ritual and your carefully crafted re-working of Myerhoff’s definitional ceremony and ‘outsider witnessing’? When we were planning to meet again, you alluded to some matters we had read in the past that we should review. Did you have van Gennep’s ‘liminal phase’ and Turner’s ‘anti-structure’ on your mind? I know I have Norman Denzin (2003), Performance Ethnography: Critical Pedagogy and the Politics of Culture on my list to read with you and see what relevance it might have.
But Michael, it was in Foucault’s intellectual company that you found a vantage point from which to reflect on and critique the cultural history of the psychotherapies and their very practices. Didn’t this allow you to ‘think otherwise’ than how you previously had ‘thought otherwise’. I say that because from the very first day I heard you speak about your work in 1981, I had no doubt you ‘thought otherwise’. I recall standing up afterwards as if being directed by some sort of compulsion to announce to the attendees that they should be aware that they had witnessed ‘the founding of another school of family therapy’. I was part right because your life’s work has turned out to be somewhat more than that. Prior to that, you had sought refuge in the political wing of family therapy in the 1970s like I had.
Michael, it was as if Foucault was at times directly addressing you, even if he was pretty opaque about it. Hadn’t you already been discomforted in ways that I speculate Foucault had been discomforted when he worked in a psychiatric hospital as a psychology intern several decades before you did? Foucault provided you with a cultural history of ourselves, did he not? By situating us within our own history and our own ‘therapy’ culture, he provided you with the means and fortitude to not only reflect on our practices but re-invent them.
Foucault challenged the existing narratives about ourselves – those that had us bringing the healing arts out of the darkness and in to the light of psychological expertise and their associated technologies. He informed us how new forms of power, which he referred to as ‘expert power’ became entangled in new forms of knowledge. He, more than anyone I know, had you look well beyond our benevolent intentions and take heed of our effects. ‘We know what we think; we think we know what we do; but do we know what what we do does’. Didn’t you make it your mission to track those effects down and when you found their source, your small-p politics was to seek remedies in your practice. In your reading, Foucault went far beyond and outside an existing critiques of our practices. But by the same token, such a critique brought you face to face with how we too are entangled in the by now established forms of ‘expert power’ and the by now established forms of psychological knowledges.
Foucault had you consider ‘knowledge’ away from any philosophical sense of that. What he had done could be aptly called ‘anthropologies of truth-making’; that is how our ‘truths’ come to be produced and maintained. Where I believe your ethics and politics came in to play was the invention of counter-practices to those that authorised certain people to speak these ‘truths’ and excluded others from these ‘knowledges’ which organized our world into knowers and those who can appeal to such knowledgeable persons. You saw to it that every one of your conversations in therapy was what you referred to as a ‘two way street’, an exchange of reciprocal gifts. (Marcel Mauss). Michael, you always appeared to me to revere the other doubly – for their suffering and their unsuffering of themselves and that they were possessed of knowledges.
The philosopher, Phillip Caputo speculated what kind of therapist Foucault might have been, given that he never expressed any explicit therapeutic intentions.
Such a therapy – if Foucault invented one that is – does not look at the mad as ‘patients’ in the sense of objects of medical knowledge but as ‘patiens’, as ones who suffer greatly, who suffer from their knowledge. Such a ‘patiens’ would not be an object of knowledge but an author or subject of knowledge, one from whom we have something to learn.
Caputo went on to surmise that for Foucault as a therapist:
… the healing gesture meant to heal this suffering is not intended to explain it way or fill in the abyss but simply to affirm that they are not alone, that we are all siblings in the same night of truth. The healing gesture is not to explain madness if that means to explain it away but to recognize it as a common fate, to affirm our community and solidarity.
Michael, compare this to my abstract of a passage you wrote in 1993:
And what of solidarity? I am thinking of a solidarity that is constructed by therapists who refuse to draw a sharp distinction between their lives and the lives of others, who refuse to marginalize those persons who seek help, by therapists who are constantly confronting the fact that if faced with the circumstances such that provide the context of troubles of others, they just might not be doing nearly as well themselves.
And didn’t Foucault reveal to you the historical and cultural limits of these ‘expert’ knowledges, not that it came as any surprise to you. It was my impression that Foucault confirmed your suspicions and gave you heart to persist with what you had already concerned yourself about in the institutions you worked in during the 1970s and 1980s?
Did the Foucauldian vantage point give you some assurance that it might be possible to disengage oneself from the self-inspection, self-problematizing, self-monitoring and confession by which we evaluate ourselves against ‘norms’ according to which Nikolas Rose suggested our ‘souls are governed’.(reference) Why I ask is that you seemed to set great store in not doing what is expected of us. That we might ‘think otherwise’ and expose those desires that had been ‘manufactured’ in alignment with political, social and institutional interests and refuse them.
It was against such re-imagined social imaginary, Michael, that I watched those who had lost heart time and time again gain heart in their conversations with you. Through that means, they would appear to have breathed life in to their own hopes for themselves and their futures. And most fascinating to me they often found themselves to be invaluable and respectworthy, that is worthy of their own respect and yours.
Parallel with that, you made a great deal of trouble for problems locating them in their cultural milieux, including the DSM technology and the pharmaceutical industry as two prominent sites of their construction. You ‘played’ with Problems instead of being haunted by them in order to knock them off the security of their perches by indicating they are not beyond cultural analysis as some of their advocates would have us believe.
John McLeod (2006), the narrative scholar, justifiably regards narrative therapy as ‘post-psychological’ and perhaps more aptly described it as ‘cultural work’:
In this respect, narrative therapy, therefore, can be viewed as a ‘postpsychological’ form of practice (McLeod, 1999, 2004), or as a variety of ‘cultural work’ (McLeod, 2005) rather than an application of psychological or medical science. Although narrative therapy retains some elements of the basic practice of ‘psychological therapies’, such as talking about problems, consultation with a therapist, and so on, it largely by-passes psychological explanations and interventions, and instead seeks to help people by working with the ways in they talk about issues, and the ways in which they participate in social life”
Considering translation and literary genre
Michael, I am off another tangent here but I have been meaning to tell you that I have become interested in bilinguality and the politics of translation. I know whenever we talked about our books being translated into other languages, we would first marvel at the wonder of it but then we would speak more soberly about our concerns around the export of knowledge. Would narrative therapy turn out to be like any other global brand? Or was it possible to ‘acculturate’ narrative therapy practice to the culture, politics and material circumstances of its recipients? If so, would these ‘border crossings’ lead to mutation, if not transmogrification? By the way, transmogrification means to transform in a magical and surprising way. And could that be one of the means by which narrative therapy continually renew itself?
These questions led to a colleagueship with Marcela Polanco as she was beginning to translate Maps of Narrative Practice into Colombian Spanish. She was determined to ‘foreignize’ rather than ‘domesticate’ your text. As she engaged with this project, she was also constantly considering how your language was in some ways related to the literary traditions of Colombia, including magic realism.
Consider Marcela’s comments on translating us both:
I found a poetic resonance. It is not a language that tells about a lived experience; rather it is a language that once again brings the lived experience to life. It is like a living vocabulary. Life is happening in the vocabularies, not besides them or prior to them. When I was translating a story, I was living it. The idea of time that says that this story happened before and is now being told was irrelevant.
And then compare this to our very first publication in 1985:
These questions are characterised by … a picturesque vocabulary drawn from the vernacular but at variance to everyday usage … a reconceptualization of time away from the restraints of linear ‘clock time’, frequently involving the modification of tense.
Is it worth considering whether there is some connection between your narrative ‘style’ and magical realism? Between your considerations of folk psychology and ‘sabaduria’? Would you be interested in reading a book entitled Ordinary Enchantments: Magical Realism and the Remystification of Narrative with me? Would ‘ordinary enchantments’ sit comfortably with you as a description of people’s experiences of their consultations with you?
These engagements with magic realism have led me to read South American writers, including the extraordinary Uruguayan writer, Eduardo Galeano. He reminds me of you. If we miss you, we can read his stories.
I think Galeano has solved a conundrum of yours and mine. Read on.
Do you remember how baffled you would become by workshop attendees accusing you of being unfeeling, often despite the fact you were visibly distressed in the interview? Remember how you would avoid the verb to ‘feel’ because of its long association with expressive individualism by substituting such nouns as ‘expressions’, ‘sentiments’ and verbs such as ‘to experience’.
Well, Galeano (1992) provides an explanation in his ‘celebration of the marriage of heart and mind’:
Why does one write, if not to put one’s pieces together? From the moment we enter school or church, education chops us into pieces: it teaches us to divorce soul from body and mind from heart. The fisherman of the Colombian coast must be learned doctors of ethics and morality, for they invented the word ‘sentipensante’, feeling-thinking, to define language that speaks the truth” (p. 121).
We have to follow these leads, don’t you think?
Michael, you never cared to look over your genius but I would like to consider your genius in improvisation. In your scintillating and respectful conversation with Salvador Minuchin at the Evolution of Psychotherapy Conference in 2005, Sal kindly insisted that there was so much more to your practice that the ideas you pinned it on. You accepted this in principle by introducing the metaphor of jazz improvisation but locating that in the craft of musicianship. You insisted that that comes first. Could we take this metaphor seriously? And if so, aren’t we going to have to consider pedagogies relevant to improvisation, once a person has mastery of their craft? Why don’t we read Sudnow and Dreyfus (2001),Ways of the Hand: A Rewritten Account (MIT, Boston) together? This is an auto-ethnography in which he painstakingly describes how he becomes a jazz musician. And then why don’t we talk to our friends who are engaged with narrative therapy and jazz?
Maps of Narrative Practice has no reference to improvisation but I wholeheartedly agree with what you said – everyone has to first learn how to play and only then can you improvise. Afterall, I had always considered you to improvise within a structured framework of intention. And Maps provides such a plurality of remarkable frameworks of intention. Without this book to be read alongside Maps, were you ever concerned that ‘maps’ might turn out to be ‘manuals’ of the rules and regulations variety in which the spirit of this work could fade away?
Good news, Michael! I know you will be delighted to learn that Stephen Madigan’s book will be released any day. Stephen was like Boswell to your Dr. Johnson. He too has a hoard of audiotapes of conversations you had together from the early 1990s onwards. In the early chapters, he provides a history of ideas, the intellectual provenance for narrative therapy. You mention these references too in your posthumously published ‘Keeping the Faith’ interview and it is reassuring to me that this history has been recorded. This put me in mind of the wide reading in the social sciences of those intellectually tumultuous times. It was almost as if every time you turned your back there had been another ‘turn’ eg. linguistic, discursive, cultural, narrative, etc.
I know we purposefully didn’t discuss what we were going to talk about given the dates were set. But I had already begun to transfer paper after paper on to your computer. And you were pleading with me for patience as you just couldn’t get around to reading them. Michael, I really wanted for us to consider if there is a danger of narrative therapy becoming theoretically passé. What do I mean by that? Surely Foucault was the most prescient commentator on the period from the end of World War 2 until 1980. But the world has changed so much over the last 30 years, has it not?
Tony Judt writes:
Something is profoundly wrong with the way we live today. For thirty years we have made a virtue out of the pursuit of material self-interest: indeed, this very pursuit now constitutes whatever remains of our sense of collective purpose. We know what things cost but have no idea what they are worth. We no longer ask of a judicial ruling or a legislative act: Is it good? Is it fair? Is it just? Is it right? Will it help bring about a better society or a better world? Those used to be political questions, even though they invited no easy answers. We must learn to pose them again.
Don’t you think narrative therapy needs to renew its reading of anthropology, cultural studies, sociology, women’s studies, etc. to catch ourselves up to the world we live in? That has always been narrative therapy’s life blood. It was such fun for me in the 1980s, a scatterbrained sparrow pecking at seeds of ideas to keep your mole company as you burrowed down into the world of ideas, digging your own tunnels through them until some years later they became distinguishably yours. In the same way, you marinated your pre-existing practice with ideas until your practice became distinguishably yours. I remember to this day standing at the University of Auckland library reading Kevin Murray’s paper: ‘Life as Fiction’ which was a revelation to me and of course its bibliography inexorably led us to Bruner and others.
I hope I have good news. It is too early to say. In such matters, time will tell. But I found a book chapter entitled ‘Stories Told and Lives Lived: An Overture’ by Zygmunt Bauman and despite my age, it has excited me in some ways similar to reading Murray’s paper in 1985. I have been reading Bauman, Sennett, Ulrich Beck, and most recently Giddens and his ‘politics of living’. These scholars are trying to capture both in theory and in life the effects of the new capitalism that has emerged in tandem with globalization. I don’t know yet where this will lead to but if nothing else, it will ensure that narrative therapy does not meet the fate of other therapies which emerged at a specific place and in response to their times. There is nothing sadder for me than a school of therapy whose theory no longer is pertinent to current circumstances. And to top it off, yesterday I had one of those uncanny experiences I love so much. I found a recent chapter by John McLeod and read the following:
‘Narrative therapy creates a means of taking analysis of social problems offered by sociologists such as Bauman(2004) and Giddens (1991), and usefully employing these ideas within a therapeutic space’ (footnote Bamberg, Michael G. W., Narrative-state of the art, p. 244)
How did he know that?
Here is a quote from Bauman to whet your appetite:
Articulation is an activity in which we all, willy-nilly, are continually engaged; no experience would be made into a story without it. At no time, does articulation carry stakes as huge as when it comes to the telling of the ‘whole life’ story. What is at stake then is the acquittal (of not, as the case may be) of the awesome responsibility placed on one’s shoulders – and on one’s private shoulders alone – by irresistible ‘individualization’. In our ‘society of individuals’ all the messes into which one can fall are proclaimed to have been boiled by the hapless failures who have fallen into it. For the good and the bad that fill’s one life as a person has only himself or herself to thank or to blame. And the way the ‘whole-life story’ is told raises this assumption to the rank of an axiom. (Bauman, Z.(2001) Lives told and stories lived: an overture in The Individualized Society, Cambridge, UK, Polity, p. 9)
Well, Michael, I agreed on a 5000 word limit and I expect I have exceeded that a bit. You know that bottle of Glenfiddich single malt whiskey I inherited from you? Well, believe it or not, there is just enough for two more glasses, one for you and one for me. Still, I wish you were here to drink for yourself.
The story narrated by the bartender at the beginning of this chapter relates to the story ‘Ceremony’ in Galeano (2006).
Note 1: Ann and Carl Auer
Ann Epston’s suggestion to write a letter to Michael drew upon the chapter ‘Voices’ in Catching Up with David Epston, A Collection of Narrative Practice-based Papers published between 1991 and 1996, pps. 33-38).
Note 2: two-way gift
It was fascinating for me to read the very first lines on the first document we co-authored from Marcel Mauss’s ‘The Gift’:
To accept without returning or repaying more is to face subordination, to become a client and subservient, to become a minister…..while to receive something is akin to receive a part of someone’s spiritual essence. To keep this thing is dangerous, not only because it is illicit to do so, but also because it comes morally, physically and spiritually from a person. The thing given is not inert. It is alive and often personified, and strives to bring it is original clan and homeland some equivalent to take its place.
Note 3: magic realism
In our correspondence, Marcela would constantly refer troublesome passages of the stories you included to someone called Gabo and would be provided with spectacularly apt versions. Baffled, I finally asked- “Is Gabo a friend of yours?” She apologized for not realizing that I would not know that Gabo was the nickname for the legendary Colombian writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. That rang a bell for me as Jane Speedy had made a similar connection in Narrative Inquiry and Psychotherapy which I had read a week before you died and forgot about.
Note 4: hoard
I found a hoard of my own recently, a half a cupboard full of handwritten notes of all the meetings I attended with you in Adelaide between 1983-1993. Those enchanting words of yours are so distinctive that they can take me back to the very day they took place at Carrington Street. This particular quote is from a handout for a workshop entitled – Consulting Your Consultant’s Consultant – for the Australian Family Therapy Conference in Sydney, Sept. 1985.
We also quoted Ivan Illich (in Kumar, 1980) on the vernacular:
It was Varo, the great Roman grammarian, who used the word for the first time in order to designate those words which are grown in our own garden, as opposed to peregrina, pilgrims who have settled in the home. He made the distinction between the word derived from the outside by some kind of teaching and the word grown among us.
Note 5: hypnosis descriptions if necessary.
than those descriptions of your work as hypnosis? Michael, I suspect this might bother you but everyone I have talked to of late whom you interviewed sooner or later used the term ‘trance’ eg. ‘in a trance’, ‘trance-like’, etc.(I INTERVIEWED SOME PEOPLE…)
Note 6: Galeano’s celebration of heart and mind:
And who did he “steal” this from but none other than the sociologist/political activist Orlando Fals-Borda who wrote the book: Action and Knowledge: Breaking The Monopoloy of Knowledge with Participatory Action-Research.(footnote).
Note 7: jazz friends
For instance Dean Lobovits and Peter Fraenkel.
Didion, J. (2003). The Year of Magical Thinking. New York: Knopf.
Galeano, E. (2006) Voices in time: A life in stories XXXXX.
Galeano, E. (1992), The Book of Embraces. T. by C.Belfrage, New York, WWNorton,
Illich, I. Vernacular Values in The Schumacher lectures, S.Kumar(ed), 1980, London, Blond and Briggs, pp. 77-78.
McLeod, J, Narrative thinking and the emergence of postpsychological therapies, Narrative Inquiry, 16-1 (2006), 201-210.)