On the dilemma that if not all then at least this therapist faces: are you Josephus or are you Dion?
"Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves." This is the advice Rainer Maria Rilke offers in his Letters to a Young Poet. Not a big fan of poetry myself, I can’t say I’ve read the book. But, I found this quote deeply moving during my annual re-reading of The Gift of Therapy, where Yalom uses it to illustrate the guidance he, in turn, gives to younger therapists. To therapists and humans alike, I would add.
In this strange time of year, a period of perpetual twilight when it’s hard to distinguish day from night (I live in the North West of England), the everyday grind of life takes a brief hiatus—a ceasefire of sorts—for a week or two. Whether for better or worse, this pause always stirs something in me. At some point, I feel the call to undertake my own private reckoning and take stock: What have I learned? Where do I stand? Are we there yet?
In those moments, I retreat into that inner sanctuary within me—my own personal pantheon, so to speak. It is populated by my timeless authors (Yalom is always there), soulmates, and kindred spirits, past and present, who inhabit my inner landscape. They whisper into my ear and dwell within my heart—fellow travelers, I suppose.
And when I go there, no questions are answered as such, but somehow, I always feel I have the answer. How fortunate I am to have such a place to retreat to. Do you have one, I wonder, fellow traveler?
The Story of Two Healers. Which One Is You?
What struck me during this reading of The Gift of Therapy was the story of the two fellow travelers. (And this is the moment where you ask yourself, "Is she not going to tell us about neuroscience?" To which I say, "No, my friend, not this time."). Yalom recounts this allegorical tale from another great writer, Hermann Hesse, who tells the story in his novel The Glass Bead Game.
Set in biblical times and places (the Middle East), the story tells of two soul healers, Josephus and Dion. Both were renowned and admired, with many people pouring out their hearts and souls to them, seeking to wash away their sins, find redemption, answers, atonement, or deliverance.
However, the two healers, though equally successful and celebrated in their own ways, had very different approaches to the art of healing.
Josephus embraced an ascetic life and helped people simply by being present—a listening ear for their sins, temptations, lives, and self-accusations. It was as though a small spring of water flowed through his visitors toward him, and he became the stone basin where that water collected into a brook, only to flow onto the desert sand and vanish. He did not judge. He did not give advice. With great patience and receptive passivity, he provided a space where confessions were not spoken into the void. Instead, they were alleviated, transformed, and redeemed through the very act of being spoken and heard.
In short, Josephus’ calling was to “listen patiently and lovingly, helping the imperfectly shaped confession to take form, inviting all that was dammed up and encrusted within each soul to flow and pour out.”
In other words, transposed into our time, Josephus is the epitomy of the finest non-directive, humanistic therapist.
The other healer, Dion, was equally famous, but his renown rested on a very different kind of ability. Unlike Josephus, Dion did not hesitate to give wise counsel, admonish, chastise, or critique. He was a teacher and preacher.
Dion would challenge his visitors, clash with their views, and confront their illusions and self-deceptions. He offered no place to hide. He could see beyond what his visitors themselves could perceive, cutting through their self-delusions with sharp clarity. Dion was a counselor of erring souls and definitely would have been a directive psychotherapist, if he lived today.
These two men knew of each other but never met. Yet they had the same aim in their hearts: to offer deep redemption and peace to those who came to them to the best of their abilities.
At some point in his life, despite his success and fame, Josephus became spiritually very ill. He lost the joy of living, his inner peace slipped away, and he felt himself giving in to temptations. The endless stream of people coming to him with their troubles began to exhaust him.
Seeking solace and some form of redemption, Josephus decided to leave everything behind and embark on a pilgrimage. He hoped that, if only he could find him, the famed Dion—so different from himself—would have the answers to his questions and his suffering.
One evening, taking refuge for the night in a camp, Josephus encountered a man who was also passing through, but in the opposite direction. The man did not reveal his identity right away but offered to help Josephus in his search for Dion. The man knew exactly where to find him—because he was Dion himself.
They found each other and lived and worked together for many years.
It wasn’t until his deathbed that Dion revealed to Josephus where he was going on that night they first met in the oasis. At that time, Dion was in the grip of a crisis of his own, lost and seeking a way himself. He too had left everything behind in search of someone who must have the answers—someone so different from him: Josephus. Thus, two wandering souls, unable to find peace within themselves found answers in the other.
There is so much to be learned from this allegorical tale, and each one of us reading, will see shards of our own experiences, quests, reckonings, and dilemmas reflected in this timeless story of the encounter between two souls—two fellow travelers.
But I guess, for me, today, it left me wondering: as a therapist, am I Jospehus or am I Dion?
I see myself as standing somewhere in between these two extremes, but I do find myself wondering—especially in my hour of doubt—whether I might be better off taking a leaf from the book of my opposite. Thinking that maybe I got it all wrong and that all the answers have been waiting on the other side all along?
But that is still too many questions.
And as the world around me cries, bleeds, and weeps, I realise how lucky I am to still have the questions I seek answers to.
Are we there yet? No, not yet. But I am slowly learning to love the questions.
As always, thank you for reading. Feel free to leave your comments and reflections.
For updates you can follow Ana on BlueSky or subscribe to the mailing list.
Comments