güzel
“The human organism is seen not as a mind-body duality, but as a dynamic network of energies.”
Ten times I must do something before I release it. Repitition for ten days creates a square. I am sick of circles. I am seated at an outdoor cafe in Istanbul, ten minutes walking from my home. The cup my Turkish coffee is served in comes with a round saucer and a second small dish with a circular cookie with circular chocolate chips.
The cookie is not so good. I prefer the sandwiches with a white cheese and thick slices of tomato. Small black seeds on the bun get stuck between my teeth. I carry floss everywhere, so it doesn't bother me too much.
I am fussed about myself today. I put on my green jade ring and a seafoam blouse to lighten the mood. My back hurts. My bones are creaky. I haven't had enough coffee. I am whittling back the amount of caffeine I allow myself daily, and the effect on my mood is terrible. I would sit in the shade, sip espresso, and write all day if my schedule permitted. Soon. She said soon.
The semblance of ten appeared this weekend at the Skinner Dance Release Immersion. I have completed the first five sessions. There are sixteen, so I am a novice. It is deep somatic therapy with movement, sound, visualization, and metaphor. It is poetry in the body; I lit up like the small salt lamp in my new room, a heavy crystal shaped like a pear. I can hold it in both hands. It reminds me of my mom.
The instructor who led the sessions wore a pinstriped pink romper and blue glitter on her eyelids. She had short dark hair and pale skin that smelled like lavender soap. Bubbles. She danced in an orb.
We began on Friday with a two-hour session that went on for three, and I arrived home closer to midnight, sweaty and exhausted. I slept deeply and woke up disoriented. The first day we moved like butterflies who could not find a branch to land. We reclined on the floor with our limbs spread and listened to the piano compositions the teacher selected. Four women and one man; an odd number, so the partner work was upsetting. We rotated through one group of three, and the language barrier meant no one knew what was going on or whose turn it was.
Turkish, Spanish, English, French, and German; one language for each participant. I used my body to convey my messages and drew from my reiki practice to connect with the students. I sent out blue and white light from my palms and drew a ring around myself. I kept to my container and sent the light out to each individual to get a taste of who and what they were at that moment.
We are never the same thing for very long, though some people choose to stay in what they are. I shapeshift so frequently I never know what I'm meant to do or how to dress. I've lost so many items on the road. It doesn't matter much to me anymore what I purchased in the past. As long as I can look down and see the Jade stone on my right hand, I am content with what is. One day this demand will also change. I won't need a physical anchor.
For now, I do.
I cannot hear my voice all of the time. I am not so arrogant to call it by a different name. It is my, tapping lightly down there, and a greater source feeds the channel. But. A big pause; it is still me. She wears a different name, and yet the spirit is the same.
Subtle Fire.
Words from the class that I've collected though I am not holding on to:
Gossamer Threads, Suspension, Graphic, Tipping, Sponges, Gliding.
The Skinner Technique follows a specific script. It settles on the bones like dust particles on a wooden shelf. You cannot shift the narrative - you must use the images, words, and movement chosen by Joan Skinner. Improvisation arises from the individual experience.
What did I hear from within that little room? Rubber mat floors and a window that only opened on one side. It is a bit small and very hot, and the slow, methodical contractions created much heat in my body. My muscles gripped tightly and then released like a web gently spreading between the boughs of a tree. The clothes were damp when we took the back of our hands to each other's knees, brushing.
Spiral movements guided from the wrist, brushing thighs, ribs, temples, and shoulders. Running the fingertips along the clavicle and spine. Creating length and space through gestures. It is a guide, a pointed finger, and the gaze follows. Where are you looking? What are you looking at? The room dimmed, the teacher's voice lengthened, and I was on the floor on my side like a bug tipped over and trying to get up.
What did I hear?
I am with you, always. The voice said. I am here; you do not need to search. Seek, but do not strive. Move if you must, though take a bit to linger in what you've created. Follow only the instruction of what you hear from this place; the heart has a voice. Acknowledge it.
Ten deep breaths I took with my cheek pressed to the floor. A floor that I brushed with a wet cloth and a bit of soap to wipe the marks left by my bare feet. Three participants wore socks. I stuck my toes out and brushed the floor with my bare heels! Striking the ground softly and with force! My leg muscles burned. I was brighter by the effort.
I have not written in ten days, and this is my return to myself. To acknowledge the voice and practice patience.
It is a terrible thing to wait for things to occur. Filling time. Killing time. There is a grand difference. I long for a person to fill my time with, and for now, I must settle for the cats that leap through the windows and walk silently on the wooden floors. I would hardly know they had arrived if it weren't for the creaking!
After the first class, I stopped for Lebanese food, sat alone, sipped the Turkish tea, and dipped the eggplant in the red sauce before piling it into a pita. I ate with my fingers. I placed a napkin on my lap. I watched the women waltz by in their strappy sandals, swishing skirts, and laughing as they went! I watched the men flick their cigarette ash to the street corners, sneaking glances at the girls. I watched the moon change its face once, twice, ten times, and then I got up and walked home.
Photo source.
