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I am asking for a kind of revolution in our work. Let us re examine what we do.
—D.W. Winnicott (Abram, 2013, p. 312)
When I was asked to write a review of a book on Winnicott, I agreed without hesitation. Everybody loves Winnicott—this will be a breeze, I thought. Then I got a hold of the book, and, I must confess, was filled with dread. The book is 466 pages long and is comprised of 18 disparate essays by authors, most of whose names I did not recognize. Primarily British and French psychoanalysts, they are not the usual New York Relational crowd, whose language and thinking roll off the page for me by now. I was daunted by the challenge: the sheer size of the book, the unknown voices, and what I assumed would be an unwieldy lack of cohesion due to the number of essays, making any thematic review unlikely. The book sat on my night table for weeks, gathering dust as my anxiety mounted. Winnicott was gradually transformed from a benevolent nurturer of spontaneity to an admonishing ghost, needling me in the evenings to hunker down and do away with pleasure. Whenever I found myself with free time to read, I only wanted to engage my own creative work and would resent Winnicott's impinging presence.
One week in March, just as spring was struggling to announce itself, I went on a retreat for several days in Connecticut. I needed a break from all things psychoanalytic and felt only the slightest twinge of guilt as I ignored the book and filled my bag rebelliously with novels and poetry. However, something compelled me at the very last moment—perhaps it was Winnicott himself winking down upon me—to stuff the book into my backpack and lug it up to the country with me. The following day, after clearing my body and mind with a long walk in the woods and a series of quiet meditations, I curled up in an armchair by a sunny window looking out onto fields and bare trees and opened the book. Before I knew it, I was transported into a nourishing and stimulating world and did not lo