What am I? The question appeared on the page without my consent. Perhaps the glass of wine I was about to finish had caused me to write the wrong word. It was also late and hours of listening to others had probably made listening to myself problematic. These thoughts and words found their way into the journal open before me and I realized once more that writing like this after work was a good idea. The “what” of my question did not refer to my profession, although my work was part of it, since what I did was inseparable from what I was. This sentence seemed to move me closer to the tension I was experiencing. I wanted to write more about my work. Seconds after finishing this last sentence, I was on my way to the kitchen. Another glass of wine would help the creative process. The black hardcover journal would have to wait a few minutes. We were discovering something together, the journal and me. I didn’t want to write about my day as a therapist. I wanted images and thoughts from the day to help me create narratives. Images would lead me to words, or so I hoped. Back at the writing table with more red wine, I wrote several sentences without pause, as if my unconscious had provided me with a muse. An image from within, of a woman standing before a canvas half filled with what had come to her, made me wonder whether I could be more creative in my daily work with clients. This female artist symbolized my creative side. She’d been waiting for me all day, and she’d been with me while I listened to others and spoke when my intuition told me it was time to do so. This is why I write, I wrote in a new sentence. Writing was my way of experiencing the inner life that was always in creative movement, one image and word at a time.