I finally understand, both emotionally and intellectually, Donald Winnicott’s concept of containment. He refers to the instinctual holding that a caregiver provides to an infant or child, especially in terms of managing and processing intense emotions. The caregiver acts as a container, while the child is the one to be contained. I understood this as I was sketching an idea for a painting and decided to share the sketch with various people, mostly to express my excitement and in hopes that they would find it useful for themselves.
“I don’t understand what you are saying but it’s fascinating how you think.”
It’s as if I’m explaining a theory I’m making up—something entirely unique to me.
Often, I mask truths about us in abstract concepts and share them, sprinkling in bits of reality. Most of the time, I can see the listener doesn’t really want to know what I’m talking about. And still, I keep speaking. I’ve either tailored or completely disregarded the truth I wished to share—hoping that something slips through their shield, and maybe, one day, they’ll see what I’m showing them.
They love to hear me talk. They find my thoughts interesting. But they cannot afford to truly see my words, because that would mean confronting themselves. And yet, part of me also hopes they learn something about themselves through me—that my sketch or blog post might reflect something hidden in them.
I know this too well, and still, I continue to try—banging on the wall to be let in. Forgetting that no one can open the door when they can’t even hear me; the sounds drowned out by the ringing in their ears, echoing from the pounding of their racing hearts.
The heart is the place for holding, containing.
A bite size story 