After my husband and I made our mutual decision to establish a therapy centre, we approached the process of choosing a name in much the same way as we would when looking for a name for a child of our own. We considered all the factors that might influence this decision. Perhaps the child will find its own name? Should we choose a name based on tradition or boldness? Should we follow the path laid out by our ancestors, or dare to step out, or try to combine the two? Or should the name be the result of a family vote? Should the father or the mother choose, or maybe a sibling? Should we leave it to chance? Or to the internet? Should we ask the neighbour? Could we perhaps avoid choosing a name altogether? Under no circumstances did we, or did I, want to do that. Choosing a name was a long journey for us, for me. Voting camps formed. To some, the name seemed novel, original, and pleasant even at first hearing, while to others it felt familiar: a name that became clear during a image induction. I felt that MURMO would be the most appropriate, the one that best suited our emerging new therapeutic centre, it could embody our professional concept and encapsulate everything in its meaning, atmosphere, and symbolism that seemed to be taking shape. There was complete agreement and harmony around this name.

Many people ask what the word murmo means. It meant a lot to me when I was a small child. I had a cloth diaper, this was my little ’blankie.’ It was called Murmó. I could ’murmo’ (’murmur’) with it, which which gave me a soothing feeling. Even my kindergarten friends knew it and I knew their ’murmos’. Of course, I never wanted to give it to anyone, I would always sleep with it, take it with me to kindergarten, and if my mum, driven by some crazy idea, dared to wash it, I always got very sad and angry. I could not understand how she dared to do such a thing. Doesn’t she know how important and unique my murmó is? After washing, it felt different, it smelled different, and sometimes it even had a different size. Since then, I know that mothers are driven by hygiene concerns when it comes to keeping objects, or ’blankies’ clean, but back then, my priorities lay elsewhere. Even when I was at school, I kept it in my closet for a long time, and even when I got older, I still didn’t want to throw it away. How could I part with an object, that I had with me in my sadness, in great secret of course, an object that cheered me up and calmed me down. The most important thing for me was always knowing it was there, and that it was always there when I needed it. I felt as if a part of me was in that little piece of cloth. A little piece of me is still in MURMO.

For me, the name of my blankie also encapsulated the space where fantasy and imaginative play take place, as well as every form of therapy, in which I love to work. The space where the soul can unfold within a safe therapeutic relationship always captivates me, and even if the work in this space is exhausting, the wonder I experience here gives me strength again and again. Transition or reality? Out or in? Down or up? Everything becomes both transitional, and at the same time very real and true, or it simply reveals its true nature, which was there all along but had not yet shown itself. A therapeutic process is hard emotional work, it is a serious matter. Just like play. You can’t take it lightly or joke about it. Alongside its seriousness, every moment is filled with playfulness, invention, creativity, and the power of creation.

Where are we?

If we are in the murmo, then we are in a place where soul artists create day in and day out. They are not perfect, just good enough.