What Wendell and Dolly Knew About Sanity
…especially in the face of despair
By Lissa Carter, LCMHCS
I had the opportunity to meet Wendell Berry, once.
I was studying environmental science and permaculture at the time, and had signed up to attend a farming conference. Wendell Berry was one of the featured speakers. When he took the stage, someone asked him to speak to one thing we could all do to fight the danger of climate change. He didn't answer right away, and when he did, something about his answer made me queasy. So queasy, in fact, that I didn't even write it down. (I write EVERYTHING down.)
But I do remember that his answer contradicted the question. There is no one thing, he said. That's part of the problem, that kind of thinking. You need to build a relationship with one place, and get to know it--really get to know that specific place through all its seasons and difficulties--and when you do that, that relationship to that specific place will teach you what you need to know about the living world. Then you let your action rise up out of that relationship. You need to be committed, first. Relationship is what matters. Devotion is what matters.
That answer challenged everything about the way I had been approaching my studies and my life. I wanted to escape limit, to escape responsibility, to fast forward to the good stuff where we all lived in earthen houses and ate bread baked in solar stoves that dotted terraced pollinator gardens. I loved the wild premise of permaculture design, that there are no limits to yields, only to our imaginations. We didn’t have time for long, slow commitments. The world was burning, we needed to act now! Wendell’s answer felt too much like the world I had been trying to escape, the world of tradition and responsibility.
But limit, I know now, is a function of maturity. And maturity was not something I had earned yet. When I went up to speak to Wendell Berry at the close of the conference, I had not ripened enough to know what to ask. When he asked me about myself I spouted a meaningless resume. I missed what could have been a moment of true connection.
I never met Dolly Parton, but I grieved her with the same strength I felt at the news of Wendell’s passing. Yes, I live in the Appalachians, just a short drive from Dollywood, and some of the first songs I taught myself on the guitar were songs she’d written (oh the hills were alive/with wildflowers and I/was as wild, even wilder than they). But it’s more than that. Those of my clients who lost their homes or their livelihoods when Helene hit remember that Dolly Parton was one of the first to donate, and her money had few hoops or caveats. Her donation put roofs over heads and food in bellies while we were still filling out forms and waiting for the other help that eventually came.
Many of my clients feel this way, and conversations about Dolly have filled the therapy room this week. As I process these conversations it strikes me that Dolly and Wendell were saying much the same thing, in their extraordinarily different ways:
Know what you love, and love it all the way. Let your life be an expression of that love. Let your energy be used in moving toward the thing that you love, not away from the thing that you fear.
In Acceptance and Commitment therapy, we call this committed action in service to values, and it’s one of the hallmarks of mental health. What I was hearing solely as limit was also, in the other direction, exuberant love. Neither Wendell Berry nor Dolly Parton tried to be all things to all people. They devoted themselves to one thing, to one place, using their lives to explore that devotion.
Approve of yourself and your way of living so fiercely that no one’s criticism can interrupt it.
Self-approval is a form of self-compassion, which is one of the most robust skills in distress tolerance. If we can tolerate distress, we can keep moving towards our values in the face of our fears. And if outright self-approval sounds dangerous to you, remember that this principle functions in companionship with the one before. The “self” we approve of, when we are living in service to something that deeply matters, is a “self” larger than the boundaries of our own skin; it’s the self built by that relationship. Dan Siegel calls this the “mwe” way of thinking; Robin Wall Kimmerer describes it as living as though the world is a beloved relative.
Let your skills and talents and commitments be in service to this big wild love of yours. Never let it get twisted the other way around.
Iain McGilchrist’s work on brain lateralization, The Master and His Emissary, makes a compelling argument for this arrangement. McGilchrist contends that cultures in which left-brain thinking (characterized by a mechanistic and utilitarian worldview) dominates right-brain thinking (characterized by broader patterns of relational depth) experience an erosion of mental and physical health. Putting the left brain in service to the right brain, on the other hand, generates prosocial behavior and experiences such as awe and wonder.
Don’t be afraid of your own shadows and contradictions. You can be big enough to reconcile the opposites.
As Carl Jung wrote: “I’d rather be whole than good”. Or as Dolly said: “It takes a lot of money to look this cheap”. Wendell Berry did not try to write for the masses nor did he cut himself off from the world to commit himself to his smallholding. He found a way to bridge those contradictions. Dolly Parton delighted in the overblown archetype of the ultra-feminine and held her own in the traditionally masculine world of business without backing down.
Sanity, especially in the face of despair, requires all of these things. The compelling wild love, the relationship, the commitment at the heart of our lives that is so much more important than the thing that we fear. The willingness to own the complex entirety of who we are.
As Wendell told me all of those years ago, before I was ready to hear it: if we live in this way, throwing our lives behind a commitment to what we love, despair won’t claim us.
Here is his poem, The Peace of Wild Things:
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives might be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
May you rest in the grace of the world, Wendell and Dolly. Thank you for the abundant beauty you left us in the wake of your well-lived lives.
Choosing a bigger story
By Lissa Carter, LCMHCS
Recently I replaced a book of poetry that had long held an honored spot on my tiny waiting-room table for an innocuous paperback titled Stop Avoiding Stuff (not an affiliate link— I just genuinely think it’s a useful book).
The reaction was… not overwhelmingly positive. One morning I found the book stuffed under the cushion of the chair. Another time it got placed, face down, beneath a pile of fliers. One client even jokingly told me that she had considered burying it under the paper towels in the restroom wastebasket.
What is it about those three words—stop avoiding stuff— that has the power to provoke such a strong reaction?
Avoidance is the primary strategy by which we sidestep pain, anxiety, fear, panic— all those uncomfortable and unwanted inner feelings —for the low, low, price of not engaging in the tasks and relationships that make us feel that way. There is so much we cannot avoid—the pain of disease or aging, the large and small indignities of participation in a culture that doesn’t always feel sane, the endless tasks linked to survival for ourselves and those we love—that there is a specific kind of delicious pleasure in escaping the things we can.
Reading a novel instead of cleaning the bathroom. Climbing back into bed for another fifteen minutes instead of taking a walk. What’s the harm? Closing the computer instead of finishing the taxes. Pouring a glass of wine instead of practicing the guitar, as you promised yourself you would…
It’s insidious, right? Sometimes the very thing we avoid is the thing we most want to do. Sometimes the experience we cancel, just to sidestep anxiety, embarrassment, or fear, is the very experience that would create meaningful friendships. Or build self-trust. Or allow us to take a stand on what matters.
There is a question hidden beneath experiential avoidance. A question so painful that we’d rather bury it in the restroom wastebasket than allow ourselves to consider it. Here it is:
If you hold the worth of what you are avoiding in one hand--- and the worth of all you are actually choosing to do with your time in the other--which feels weightier?
What are you choosing to do with the minutes and hours of your life?
For many of us, the day is filled with non-negotiables. Work must be done, emails answered, pets and friends and children and partners tended, homes maintained, money earned. And at the tail end of the day, when we have spent most of our precious focus and energy and time, that’s when the soul comes whispering— “you wanted to play the guitar, remember? You wanted to write? You wanted to walk this evening as the sun went down?” And it is to the soul— not to the emails or the bills or the dishes— that we most often reply “not today.”
It’s easy to notice when we avoid doing our taxes. The world comes pounding at the door.
No one comes knocking when you avoid the sunset walk.
Many of you know that my counseling work is deeply informed by story. I would go so far as to say that the mind itself is made of story. Of the six stacked neurons that interpret reality for us, only two take in the raw sensory data from the world. Two draw on old stories--our history, memories, scripts and schemas--to interpret what we are seeing. And two weave it all, raw data and old story alike, into a fluid picture of the world. A story made of the dance between you and the world.
Which means we have far more agency than we may know. To change our story is quite literally to change our experience of the world.
But what does all of this have to do with avoidance?
If the story we are telling about reality is one of fear, and danger, and rejection, we’ll avoid experiences that create discomfort.
If the story we are telling about reality is one of choice, and courage, and participation, we will avoid experiences that keep us small.
Avoidance isn’t the problem. Maybe the title of that book should be: Stop Avoiding The Stuff That When You Avoid It Life Gets Worse Instead of Better For You and Everyone Around You But You Can Keep Avoiding the Stuff That Interferes With You Becoming Your Truest Self.
Catchy.
Lately I have been working with stories from an ancient cycle called the Cath Maige Tuired. When I work intensively with stories in this way, my reality shifts a little. Why? It’s a dance between those neuronal stacks I was talking about earlier and a part of the brain called the reticular activating system (RAS).
The RAS changes the focus of attention depending on the set of stimuli we are currently most attentive to. As the salience of a particular topic rises within your attentional frame, the RAS filters sensory data to highlight that topic. So the more I attend to the Cath Maige Tuired, the more my story-weaving of reality references the themes in that story.
When this happens, the Big Story replaces the stories I generally go to by default— my small stories about the mistakes I’ve made, the anxieties I’m feeling, whether or not that person over there likes me.
When the big story is the one weaving my reality, my avoidance changes. I’m not as worried about my personal anxieties or discomforts.
Where the small story might say: “you’ve worked so hard, you’re tired, you don’t like that sweaty feeling or the pain of sore muscles, you’ll feel anxious if you put off answering that email, go ahead and avoid this walk” the big story says “This world is woven of plants and birds and colors and light, you can avoid answering your emails for a little while and just deal with the anxiety.”
…When the big story is the one weaving my reality, it comes knocking at my door when I avoid the important things. Not the unimportant ones.
At the end of the Cath Maige Tuired the great battle-poet Morrigan speaks of two possible futures. One of milk and mead and spreading forests, one of hunger and war and devastation.
She doesn't say which will happen. They are likely only a story apart.
The story in my mind determines which experiences I avoid. What I avoid shapes my future. I am choosing, every moment, which future I wish to live in.
I’ve been slowly memorizing one of David Whyte's poems I’ve long loved. It starts with this couplet:
Turn sideways into the light, as they say the old ones did
and disappear into the originality of it all.
When David Whyte discusses this poem, he talks about drawing inspiration from a moment in Irish mythology in which the people of craft, a people lessened and diminished by numerous wars, choose to walk away from yet another war. They do so by sidestepping this dimension and entering into another.
In doing so they lose much of what they have fought for over their long years on this land. They lose much of their old shape. But in refusing to participate in a diminishing conversation, they salvage the essence of who they are.
One story might say: by avoiding war they make a terrible mistake. They must take action by fighting for their land.
One story might say: by avoiding a courageous “no”, they make a terrible mistake. They must take action by leaving war behind.
The avoidance of one story becomes the action of another. Two possible futures unfold.
Where the small story whispers “this hurts! throw that book in the wastebasket!” the large story might whisper…”what is the price of avoiding that thing you are avoiding?”
What are you choosing to avoid? Why?
What is the story you walk around with that informs that choice?
Is there a bigger story you’d like to choose? A story about the future you want to live in, a story about the person you want to become, an inspiring vision you hold for the world?
_________________________________________________
One of my Big Stories these days is the idea of reforesting a swath of Ireland —a wildlife corridor/greenbelt of once and future forest. I’ll be telling stories from the Cath Maige Tuired at the Story Parlor in support of this vision. If you’re in the area this autumnal equinox, please join us!
Melting the ice
The temperature has dropped sharply in the mountains where I live. Yesterday the thermometer read 5 when I went out for a walk in the recently fallen snow. I could see a few birds huddled in the shelter of a holly tree, and the tracks of a squirrel. Otherwise, all was quiet. The beauty and stillness kept me out longer than I realized, and when I came back inside it took a while for me to thaw out. First I felt numb, then slowly, as my senses reawakened, there was a painful burning in my skin.
One of the meditations that I practice involves a similar process, an internal process of scanning the body for pockets of numbness or frozen tension. Ice can collect in the hinges of the jaw, in the space between the eyes, behind the navel, between the shoulder blades. Once identified, we can bring the warmth of the breath to these numb or frozen places, gently inviting the consciousness to re-enter and reintegrate.
“Freeze” is a shorthand description for one of our primary central nervous system responses to real or perceived threat. Going still, quiet, numb, is one way to slip below the radar of a predator. It’s a survival instinct. And so many of my clients have been describing this response lately, a stillness, a frozenness, a numbness in response to the violence and instability happening in our country.
The American Psychiatric Association, American Psychological Association, and American Counseling Association have all been very clear that the work of therapy is directly impacted by policy. Issues of equity, distribution of resources, and the abuse of human rights are all directly related to mental health, and therefore advocacy on behalf of our clients for social justice, protection from harm, and access to support comprise an important part of our ethical code. And yet often, in the course of my work, a client or supervisee will mention strong feelings or fears regarding changes in U.S. policy, and then quickly shut themselves down, saying “but I shouldn’t talk about politics”.
We are impacted by the contexts in which we are situated. As we all learned during Helene, we rely on so many systems to receive our water, our food, our power. We are not atomistic individuals, we are interdependent organisms within an ecology. What impacts that ecology impacts us. To exclude that conversation from the therapeutic endeavor would both undermine the work and disproportionately place the burden of change on the shoulders of the client. Yes, it would be inappropriate for me to tell a client what to believe or how to vote. But as long as the client is leading the conversation, to shut politics out of the room would be a grave error.
So here we are, in a freeze. What can a person do when their system is completely overwhelmed or numb in the face of complex dynamics over which they have little or no power?
For me, it starts with naming what it is that matters. We only go numb when there is a threat. Name the threat. What is at stake here? Is it compassion? Justice? Safety? Care? Find the values that matter most to you in your reaction to what you see happening. Name three.
Remember that a value is like a compass heading. You never “arrive” at North, but you can head north. You never “arrive” at compassion, but you can head in that direction. Already this begins to thaw the ice, because I may not be able to ensure justice for all, but I can act justly. There is some room to begin.
If you are physically safe, start by taking in cues of physical safety. Allow yourself to acknowledge the complex truth that you are safe in this moment and others within your ecosystem are unsafe. This distinction is important because if you are safe, you can use that regulation to align with your values and behave calmly and clearly in the direction of those values. If you don’t identify your safety, you may find yourself too numb, dissociated, or dysregulated to act on what you know.
Conversely, if you are unable to acknowledge that others in your ecosystem are unsafe, you will distance yourself from the motivation to act for the wellbeing of all. Physical safety is one of our most foundational privileges, and if you have that privilege, you can use it to stay regulated and to think clearly. When we are thinking clearly, we know that it is in our self-interest to act on behalf of the wellbeing of all in this interdependent ecology.
So: breathe, take in cues of physical safety, and let yourself begin to melt any frozenness or numbness in your system. Notice where in your body you feel dissociated or frozen, and let the warmth of the breath begin to welcome these parts of you back. It may hurt, as thawing does, but continue to breathe slowly and softly and welcome more and more of your consciousness back in. Notice any emotions or sensations that arise as you bring sensation back to the numb parts of yourself. They may be clues as to why you numbed those parts in the first place, and may need some kindness and consideration as they come back into awareness.
When you feel ready, name the values at stake. What matters here? What was so painful that you numbed your awareness to cope with it? Here’s a list of some common values, as a starting point:
If we think about a value as a compass heading, we can create a map that aligns our day-to-day life with these values. It looks a little like this: Values -> Priorities -> Goals -> Plans -> Present moment intentions.
Walk each of your three values down this chain and find the level at which you feel you can act on that value today. We are only human, and there are limits to our energy and time. One of the reasons we freeze or numb out in the first place is the feeling of overwhelm, that we can’t do all of it to the extent we wish to, so we have to numb out. If, instead, we can compassionately acknowledge our limitations, we can identify the places we can act.
For example: if the value at stake for me is kindness, and I feel paralyzed by the unkind treatment of others that I am seeing in the world, it could be that I will freeze and either hide or try to stay unaware of all of the situations that are unfolding an unkind, inhumane way.
Or I could walk this value down. I can’t ensure kindness for all. I can’t even prioritize that today, let’s say, because I need to take my sick child to the doctor. Perhaps today, I can’t even set goals or plans. But I can intend to respond to everyone I encounter with kindness. On another, better-resourced day, I might be able to prioritize kindness and plan a letter to my representative regarding unkind policies, or set a goal of giving a direct apology to a friend to whom I was unkind. I find the level at which I can engage, and engage. It may burn a little, as it does when we thaw out. But that feeling is the feeling of circulation returning. It signifies a return of life force.
We are situated within an ecosystem. Just as we rely on many others for our wellbeing, many others rely on us. As each of us does this internal work of melting our icy places, finding the small ways we can act on our values, we tend to the integrity of the entire ecosystem.
When we do our own inner work, we are acting on the part of the ecosystem over which we have the most agency and power. Rather than feeling hopeless and powerless at our inability to change the behavior of the most harmful and powerful, we can shift our focus toward bringing our own behavior into alignment with our deepest values. And that allows the beginning of the thaw.
The Creative Path: A Guided Group Experience in Art, Self-Compassion, and Renewal
Open the door and join us on the creative path… to renewal and and joy, as we move right on into summer!
The Creative Path: A Guided Group Experience in Art, Self-Compassion, and Renewal- an entry by Julie King Murphy
Helping others is a core value that shapes our callings—and for many of us in roles like counseling, teaching, coaching, healthcare, parenting, and community work, it’s more than a job. It’s a way of life. But it can also be exhausting. If you’ve ever felt like you’re pouring from an empty cup, you’re not alone—and this might be exactly the right moment to refill it.
This spring, my colleague Leigh Rainwater and I are thrilled to offer The Creative Path, a small-group experience designed for helping professionals and for those who help others as part of their personal lives, too. The program is open to anyone who wants to reconnect with creativity, self-compassion, and a sense of joy. We'll gather for four Tuesday evening sessions starting May 13 at the welcoming new ArtPlay-Studio space in Asheville’s Montford neighborhood.
Each session is a time to slow down, experiment with art (no experience necessary!), and engage with others who are also committed to living—and giving—with intention. You can choose to register for just one or two sessions, if that’s what works with your schedule, or join us for all four.
✨ The Essentials:
When:
Tuesdays, 4:30–6:30 p.m. — May 13, 20, 27, and June 3
Where:
ArtPlay-Studio, Montford area, Asheville
Cost:
$70 per session, or all four for $200 (includes all supplies!)
To register:
Follow this link or email me at Juliekingmurphy@gmail.com
Why Self-Compassion?
When I first encountered the term self-compassion, I was juggling a full-time job, raising young children, launching a business, leading small group retreats, and preparing to start graduate school in counseling and expressive arts therapy. Like so many helpers, I was good at being kind—to everyone but myself.
Practicing self-compassion changed my life. It gave me access to deeper energy, greater patience, and a fuller capacity to be present for others. Over the past 15 years, I’ve seen the same thing happen for my clients, my students—and honestly, I’ve had to re-learn it’s importance again and again myself. It’s not a one-time fix. It’s a practice.
What research (and experience) tells us is this: People who actively practice self-compassion are more resilient, forgiving, and motivated. They have better relationships, cope more effectively with stress, and show greater long-term well-being. And yes—self-compassion helps us help others better.
(For more, check out Dr. Kristin Neff’s work at self-compassion.org.)
Creativity as a Path to Healing and Connection
The good news? You don’t have to meditate for hours or read piles of books to practice self-compassion. Sometimes, all it takes is bringing together some art materials and an idea for a process to try, sitting down with a few other people (or even just yourself), letting go of judgment, and seeing what wants to emerge.
Art-making gives us permission to play. To explore. To make mistakes and grow from them. It’s a surprisingly powerful way to reconnect with ourselves and each other. Whether you're writing a poem, making a collage, painting with your fingers, or shaping clay—when approached with gentleness, creativity becomes a kind of medicine.
Each session of The Creative Path will include:
Two guided art processes (think: journaling, collage, drawing, painting, clay sculpting…)
Gentle body-based or mindfulness practices to ground us
Time to share and connect, or simply reflect quietly, as you prefer
This isn’t therapy. It’s not about performance or technique. It’s about exploration, self-kindness, and discovering joy and meaning in the creative process. No artistic experience is required—just a willingness to be curious and kind to yourself.
A Little Backstory
Leigh and I have been supporting each other in our own creative self-care for the last couple of years—often meeting weekly with one or two others to make art and other times identifying what spaces and pockets of time we could find, even after the original ArtPlay-Studio location was destroyed by Hurricane Helene. That shared commitment—and the friendships that grew from it—helped us through tough times, and ultimately inspired the timing and theme of this particular program.
The new ArtPlay-Studio location is warm, light-filled, and often buzzing with creative community. It feels like the perfect place to host this next chapter—one grounded in creativity, compassion, and connection. As the studio's founder, Kristen Edge, often says: "Art is for everyone." We couldn’t agree more.
Ready to Join Us?
Whether you come for one session or all four, we’d love to welcome you to this space. Come as you are. Bring your curiosity. Leave perfectionism at the door.
To register or ask any questions, email me at Juliekingmurphy@gmail.com. Payment options include Venmo, PayPal, or Zelle—and if the timing doesn’t work but you’re interested in future offerings or individual sessions, please reach out. We’d love to stay connected.
Here’s to choosing creativity. Here’s to being our own friend.
We hope to see you soon on The Creative Path.
