Gestalt knowing begins with the whole—meaning first, words later. I write to translate a mind that moves in kairos, to offer parents and students recognition rather than repair, and to imagine a book that could hold the field.
Speaking with Cathy today felt like standing inside a wide, familiar field—one where the edges of language, teaching, and memory blur into something larger than any single discipline. I found myself reflecting on how the past weeks of writing have not really been about language at all, but about ecology—the ecology of a mind that begins with wholeness rather than fragments. I tried to explain that gestalt processing is not a broken version of analytic thought but a sovereign way of knowing, older and deeper than the remedial stories we are usually told. Meaning arrives first for me, not last, and the words are only the translation labour that follows. This is why my answers come in constellations of essays, why a single question can require seven pieces and still feel unfinished.
I spoke about time as I live it—kairos rather than chronos—how the present rewrites the past, how an article from 2022 can suddenly bloom with new sense when some future event supplies the missing frame. My process looks chaotic from the outside: talking at the computer, letting NotebookLM gather fragments, trusting patterns I cannot yet name. Often I realise I am not writing an essay at all but the skeleton of a book, something that seems to be asking—almost demanding—to be born. Yet I also admitted how inadequate I feel before the task, trying to hold something magnificent in the small cup of English.
We turned toward my classroom and the children who taught me more than any manual. I remembered the boy outside the chaotic room, the stucco wall under our hands, how a little shared regulation opened a friendship and a future. That moment crystallises what I want for my students and my own children: not remediation but recognition that their way of knowing is fit for purpose. I write it all down because language is not natural for me and yet the world requires it; because parents need scripts I once had to invent for myself; because someone must say plainly that silence is not defiance
By the end we were circling the question of a book—twenty-four chapters, perhaps, and the ordinary terror of publishing. I don’t write for the market but for the field itself, for the families who need a cup of tea more than a diagnosis, for the adults who have never seen themselves described kindly. If the book comes, it must be readable, hospitable, generous like my grandmother’s garden. Until then I will keep placing the pieces on the table, trusting that coherence will do what coherence does.
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