Here I am again before the blank page, at this hour of the day when light is still only a promise, and the shadows are long and blurred—reminders of everything that remains hidden in the folds of consciousness. Today, I do not write to remember, but to forget: to forget the script I have so painstakingly rehearsed over the years, that invisible score of expectations that dictates my every step, every gesture, every sigh. Today, I open the space of the therapeutic journal dedicated to the most terrifying and most holy of all practices: Improvisation.
I look into myself and see not an ordered room, but an ocean. The internal landscape is a place of constant, pulsating movement, devoid of the geometry of logic. There, in the depths, there is movement without a plan. It is ancient, pre-verbal, existing before language imposed its structures upon the chaos of experience. I feel it as a low rumble, a vibration that does not seek permission to exist. In this space, there is no score, no conductor to wave a baton and impose order. And it is precisely in this lack of order that the immense, paralyzing, and yet liberating truth lies: There is no expectation. Only the moment and the next sound.
How often in my life have I stood on the threshold of a moment, frozen by the desire to know the end before I have even begun the start? Psychoanalysis would call this an ego defense—the attempt of the small "I" to control the vastness of reality to avoid the pain of the unknown. But here, in this sacred act of improvisation, I am learning something else. I do not know what will come—and I do not try to know. This not-knowing is not ignorance; it is a form of higher intelligence, a kind of kenosis—a spiritual emptying so that grace may enter. I admit it quietly, in an almost prayerful whisper: I am here. And this "here" is the only coordinate system that matters.
I understand now that the psychological focus of this exercise is much deeper than mere creativity. Improvisation trains trust—in oneself and in life. It is the antidote to anxiety, which always lives in the future, always calculating catastrophes, always fearing the fall. This journal is about that thin, painful boundary between control and surrender, where the greatest battle of the human soul is fought. We are taught to tighten our muscles, to armor our hearts, to calculate risk. But improvisation requires us to lower the armor. It requires us to look our fear of making a mistake in the eye and see that the mistake is only an illusion. In the world of the spirit, there are no wrong notes, only transitions.
I feel a need for spontaneity like a physical hunger. The soul, squeezed by "must" and "correct," longings for the air of the possible. I want to restore my connection with the present moment, not as an intellectual concept, but as a living experience of flesh and spirit. Because improvisation is not chaos. It is a higher order that we do not always understand. It is living adaptation—the ability of water to bypass the stone, the ability of the tree to bend under the wind without breaking. It is the dance of the archetypes within us, finally receiving the freedom to manifest without the censorship of the Super-ego.
And so, I step into the practice. A prompt before improvising: choose an instrument. Perhaps it is my own voice, perhaps the rhythm of my palms on the table, or simply the rhythm of my breath. The means is not important; the intention is. The hardest part is the instruction: Set no goal. In a world oriented toward results, purposelessness is a rebellion. It is a sacred act. I close my eyes and repeat the mantra that changes everything: "I follow, I do not lead."
What a massive paradigm shift this is! To stop being the architect of my own life for a few minutes and become the witness. To allow the Unconscious, the Divine, the Flow—whatever we call it—to flow through me. Invitations for therapeutic improvisation: I begin with a single sound. It is timid, almost imperceptible. A vibration in the throat seeking a way out. Begin with one sound and see where it leads you. I do not judge it. I do not analyze it. I simply let it be. It curves, it changes, it becomes denser or fades away. And then, the silence arrives.
This is the greatest test. If a pause appears—leave it. The pause is the abyss. Within it, we encounter our loneliness, our emptiness. The instinct is to fill it immediately, to talk, to make noise so we don't hear the echo of our own soul. But in improvisation, the pause is music. It is the space in which God takes a breath. I remain in it, trembling but present.
Then comes the repetition. The monotony. If a repetition appears—stay with it. Perhaps I need to sing the same sadness ten times, a hundred times, until it transforms into something else. Psychoanalytically speaking, this is a "working through," a ruminating of the trauma until it loses its poison. Spiritually speaking, it is a mantra, a prayer of the body. And finally, the freedom of the end. If the desire to stop arises—stop. No explanations. No excuses. Simply an end. (This is a practice of trust.) Trust that you do not need to be perfect to be whole.
After the sounds fade, a quiet imprint of the experience remains. This is the moment for the transition to journaling. My hand reaches for the pen, but it is already a different hand—softer, less insistent. I ask myself: How did I react when I didn't know what was coming next? Was there panic? Was there a knot in my stomach? Or was there curiosity? I remember the moment when the melody took an unexpected turn. When did I try to control the process? I caught myself wanting to make the sound "beautiful," to polish it for some imaginary audience. That was my ego, seeking approval. But when I let go of that desire... What did I feel when I surrendered? Relief. Like falling backward into soft grass. Like coming home.
This microcosm of improvisation is a mirror to the macrocosm of my days. How does this reflect the way I live? Do I not also try to direct every meeting, every conversation, every future event in my life? Do I not miss the joy of surprise because I am too busy securing myself against disappointment?
I listen to what my body tells me. It is the sage that rarely lies. After this act of spontaneity, the body becomes lighter, movements freer. The armor around the ribcage, forged over years by unspoken words and suppressed tears, has cracked. Breath descends deep into the belly, where the center of life force resides. The body says: "I can be in the moment." Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Now. And in this "now," there is no threat. There is only presence.
A hidden resource reveals itself, one I had forgotten. Deep beneath the layers of social roles and neuroses, I have an internal capacity to adapt and create within the unknown. I am not a fragile porcelain doll. I am a river. I am a stream. When I do not control, I connect with the flow. This flow is the very fabric of the Universe. Jung would call it synchronicity; mystics would call it Divine Providence. When I stop swimming against the current, the current carries me exactly where I need to be.
This is integration. This is the alchemy of the soul. To take the lead of fear and, through the fire of presence, turn it into the gold of trust. It is not a one-time act, but a daily practice, a quiet devotion. I close the journal with a sense of humility before the mystery of my own life. I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I do not know what melody fate will play. But I am no longer afraid of the silence before the first note. Because I know the secret: "I trust the process, without knowing the result." And in this trust, in this fragile, improvised prayer, I am finally whole.
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