I have been reminded recently of the paradox we often face in our work as counsellors: that is, of how important the everyday things are, and how we can so easily take them for granted. Let me say a little more of what I mean. I work in a northern university. The ‘North’ is a great place to live and work by the way; particularly now they have found a treatment for rickets, cleared the stray whippets off the streets and brought in this new fangled electricity thing. I am still worried it will leak out of the sockets when I haven’t anything plugged in, but the people who know about these things tell me it is perfectly safe. We are promised running water and drainage soon, but I’m not sure whether we’re ready for that fancy stuff. The pigeons are a bit of a pain too, but fortunately I don’t believe in regional stereotypes, so they must be just a figment of my imagination.

When I joined the counselling service here at the university I was introduced to a support group that has been running for several years. It is called the Northern Support Group for Counsellors in Higher Education (NSGCHE) and its purpose is... well, it does what it says on the tin. It provides an opportunity for counsellors who work in higher education settings across the north of England and Wales to meet periodically and, erm, support each other; talking through difficulties, sharing ideas and highlighting good practice. Sometimes the meetings are well attended, sometimes less so. I don’t get to all the meetings but was reminded of its value recently at the last meeting I attended.

I was talking to a colleague there about the rhythm in our work as counsellors. It’s not a nine to five job as such, is it? We are, of course, very good at clock watching, but it is much, much more than ordinary. In the conversation with my colleague, we started talking about the enormity of what we do. People come along to us, often in a state of extreme distress and vulnerability, taking such humongous risks in talking about their problems or feelings. The fragility of the moment is sometimes breathtaking, the delicacy of our responses so essential, and the robustness of the relationship so encompassing. The counsellor and client hold the importance of the bigger picture, and the beauty of the exchange.

I appreciate that there will be many of you reading this who will be thinking, ‘Yeah, tell us something we don’t know’; but I return to the paradox I started with. Of course, intellectually I understand the value of what we do. But then in conversation with my colleague I reflected on how I lose sight of that in the day to day rhythm of my work. People can become demarcated into blocks of time in my diary; narratives are reduced to ‘presenting issues’, and lives are objectively summarised in case notes. I see one person, then I see another, and then another, and so on. I then get in my car and drive along the Northern cobbled streets to my home, flat cap pulled firmly on to protect me from the ever present Northern wind, before returning the next day to take my place at the apparent human conveyer belt borne out of desensitisation. Surely the danger of becoming an empathic automaton is high – if such a thing could ever exist.

This isn’t of course a counsellor-only condition; drifting on without engaging in the moment must be a life occupational hazard. For example, I have just enjoyed a wonderful mountain walk in Wales, but I’m not sure how often I looked up to appreciate the view en route, rather than thinking instead of the ‘goal’ of the summit. It is so difficult in almost all aspects of life I suspect to focus on the moment, without being continually distracted by the ‘bigger’ things, the ‘more important’ things; whereas the pleasure and reward is almost always in the detail.

But this is my point, sometimes things come along to drag me out of that apathy and really make me think. The NSGCHE meeting did just that, and in doing so I realised the other part of my paradox: demonstrating the importance of everyday things. It helped me again realise that in making the effort to step out of my insular, closed door world of being a counsellor to meet with others, I can really begin to see the wood from the trees. By ‘eck – that’ll do me.

Andrew Reeves is a counsellor at the University of Liverpool Counselling Service and editor of Counselling and Psychotherapy Research (CPR).