chapter  8
Feet of clay: psychoanalytic boundary violations and the wounded healer
Pages 6

I found an eggshell on the nature strip in front of my analyst’s house. I had walked down her path at the end of my last session before the Christmas break, my head down, and my eyes to the ground. The shell was white against the green of the freshly mowed grass and stood out against the yellow summer daisies that were sprouting there. I picked it up and cradled it in the flat of my hand. Its edges were torn and cracked in places. There was a small, creamy stain in the center. Otherwise, there was no sign of the bird that once lived inside.