Sand Tray

I find it easiest to describe the benefits of sand tray by talking about my own work, so this page is illustrated with photos of my own trays.

What I value most about sand tray is that it releases something that's been inside me, and offers me valuable insights about what's going on beneath the surface of my life. It's a little like dreaming while I'm awake.

The process is simply to arrange objects until the tray feels complete; I sometimes think of it as "finding the internal yes." As a form of personal expression, sand tray is similar to painting and other forms of art. However, sand tray requires no expertise or technique, and I can complete an artistic thought in a short space of time, usually about an hour.

The shape and size of a traditional sand tray are carefully chosen: the dimensions are roughly that of the "golden rectangle," a ratio of length to width believed by the ancient Greeks to reflect a natural order and used in the design of the Parthenon and other monuments. Letting images tumble from my unconscious into the tray, therefore, allows them to "come to order." The size of the sand tray is what my gaze can comfortably encompass without turning my head, so that I can view the tray as one image.

Sometimes just shaping the sand, without the use of objects, is profoundly moving. I did the tray shown at the left on Sunday, April 11, 2004. I had had an image in my mind of a low, broad road leading away from me. (This image was in sharp contrast to a high, narrow, precarious road I'd seen in a dream and created in an earlier tray, shown above.) It took a few minutes to get the road broad and low enough to fit the image in my mind. Once I finished, I realized I was looking at the trunk of a tree. However, no branches were visible, and neither were the roots; both were simply broad, flat places. I was looking at my process of writing a book: I cannot see how it will bear fruit, and neither can I see exactly where it's coming from. All I have is the path before me. In the words of T. S. Eliot, "For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business."

After another moment, I realized the tray also looked like a birth canal. Writing a book often feels like birthing a child. Again, there were the broad, flat places at both ends of the canal: I cannot imagine what my child will look like when it is grown, or how it will impact the world. (The blue ovals on either side remind me a little of kidneys, which could symbolize how difficult it is to write a book and how "pissed" I am about that much of the time!

The most startling meaning I took from the tray came when I went to leave the room. I had been thinking since the day before about writing an email to a family member with whom I have not been speaking much for the past few years. I was feeling some anxiety about the outcome, and as I went to leave the room to begin drafting the email, I glanced back again at the sand tray and realized I was looking at a road with an uncertain destination. The shapes in the sand seemed to say, I don't know everything there is to know about where I've been, and I don't know where the dialogue with her is going to take me, but the end of the road appears to be a open and comfortable space. I found this profoundly reassuring.

I sometimes approach the tray with a particular issue in mind, and sometimes I start with an image, as I did with the low, broad road mentioned above. Sometimes I have only a feeling of restlessness, as if something is attempting to move through me. I did the tray shown at the right on July 22, 2003, a few weeks after deciding to move to Colorado after many years on the flat terrain of Illinois. The restlessness is visible in the objects strewn across the landscape. The next tray, shown below, was done about two weeks later, after I'd done some planning, and shows a more integrated, less scattered attitude to my approaching move.

To choose objects to place in the tray, I generally let my eyes pass over the items on my shelves and pick objects for which I feel a stirring or a "charge." Although sand tray can be done with dry sand, I generally keep the sand damp because the objects stay in place more easily, and it is also easier to form shapes and patterns with my hands.

My role in the session is to be present with you and "hold the space" for you, that is, to create a safe emotional environment for you to experience what you need.

If you aren't sure which objects to choose, I advise you to "let your hands decide."

When the tray is finished, you can tell me its story if you wish. At your request, I can offer any insights I may have. You leave while the tray is still intact so that its image remains with you, and you may find over the following days that more of its meaning comes to you. If you like, I can send you a photograph of the tray.

Sand tray was developed during the 1920s by therapists in Europe. The best-known book on sand tray, now out of print, was written by a woman named Dora Kalff, who lived in Switzerland not far from the home of Carl Jung. She allowed neighborhood children to use her sand tray, and their parents began coming to her asking why their children were so happy. She developed a practice that helped children resolve issues like bedwetting, recurrent nightmares, physical symptoms, conflicts at school, and emotional problems, and eventually expanded her practice to include adults. I have taken training on sand tray at the C. G. Jung Institute of Chicago, and I use also my skills as a Shadow Work® coach and facilitator to hold the space. Sand tray can help you work through a wide variety of issues, some of which may require only one session while others may benefit from multiple sessions to allow an issue to move through different phases to completion. I'm certain that my two trays about the path ahead, for example, are not the last I've seen on this issue.

I charge $65 per hour session, and I work with adults, teens, and children. Please contact me by email at alyce@alycebarry.com or by phone at (303) 485-5400.