From the author: An essay on the topic of existential therapy, published on my website and in the blogosphere One day, while attending a training group on existential therapy with the wonderful Emmy Van Dorzen, a modern classic of existential counseling, one caught my eye slide shown on a white screen. Human life was represented in the form of an hourglass. The time allotted to a person to live his life was represented in the form of sand, smoothly but inexorably pouring from the upper hemisphere of the clock to the lower. While the top of the watch is full and impressive, the attitude towards each grain of sand that fills it is quite broad and even, perhaps, wasteful. But as the top of the clock empties, the value of what remains increases, and anxiety about how little is left grows. Unfortunately, in real life there is not always room for such clarity. We often live with the feeling that we still have an immeasurably long period of active and eventful life ahead of us, and we still have time to do those important things for which we sometimes don’t have enough room today. That our “golden age” is still ahead, which we will entirely devote only to the most important, coming from the depths of our souls, choices and actions. What's left is to try just a little bit/exert yourself/earn money/take a walk/live for yourself/live for the children/be in search/gain experience, etc., etc., etc... A little more of this, and it will be possible and heal, as they say, for real! Take a deep breath, look around, feel the pulsation of life... But the reality is that this very “slightly” tends to stretch. And stretch for a long time. Often forever. Everything postponed is postponed forever. In one questionnaire, which serves as a template for analyzing the content of a dream, there is the following question: “Are you, as a dreamer, an active participant in the dream or a passive observer?” The saddest thing is when all life is like a dream, and the position of the main character of this dream is a passive observer. When he didn’t do it, didn’t dare, didn’t take a risk, didn’t dare, didn’t choose, didn’t agree, didn’t refuse, didn’t take responsibility, didn’t step, didn’t jump, didn’t believe himself, couldn’t help someone else believe, didn’t, didn’t take place, didn’t show up , did not come out, was not born on his own, and did not give birth to himself. When the very fabric of life begins to have all these “nots” in its consistency. A collection of unrealized possibilities. When, as a result of such a life, all that remains is to utter the phrase with which Chekhov’s “Three Sisters” ends: “If only I knew.” The opportunity to change everything and change it radically, meaningfully, is contained in every day we live. It lies in any unusual choice. Any deviation from the plan. In any burst of spontaneity in this measured and sluggishly swaying massif of swampy predictability and predetermination. In the thought that my usual choice, quite possibly, has long since become the worst. Determined to step towards the new and unknown, even with a solid experience of suffering, mistakes and wounds behind me. In a special and most valuable form of courage. In the courage to be. At that group, at the end of one of the days, Emmy gave us one simple and, at the same time, difficult task. Think and write down the words that we would like to be written on each of us's tombstones. Such an epitaph for your tombstone, the author of which is you yourself. And also write down how we would like to remain in people's memory. For some time the huge hall fell into silence. It’s hard to imagine a moment of greater sincerity and honesty with yourself than when you answer questions like these. And then people started talking. Someone didn’t want any tombstones at all, wanting to be buried unknown in the sea or desert. Some chose one simple phrase as an epitaph, while others chose a massive and detailed quote. Some wanted to remain in the memory of people with their actions, others wanted to continue their work in their children and grandchildren. There were a lot of different things. But everyone who.