I have discovered Svaroopa Yoga. It's amazing. It gives me a safe, nurturing way to release my deep core tensions without requiring impossible gymnastic feats. I would recommend it to anyone and everyone - you'll go home feeling so much better in touch with the 'bliss of your being' (which is what 'Svaroopa' means). Especially good for people with chronic pain, or anxiety/past abuse issues.
Check out the video to get an idea of what it's all about.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Poetry - 'The Last One to Know'
The Last One to Know
by Barbara Whittaker
If only you had told her when
the last time was the last
From five into her forties the child in her lay waiting
to feel again that easy scoop
that stole her from her bed and
placed her bleary eyed and trusting
amongst her father’s tools
and the sawhorse where
you draped her
If she had known that was the last
she could have slept without the dread
She need not have bunged on such a turn
when they rearranged the room and
made her sleep right near the door -
somehow in her kindergarten head
she thought the distance from it might have kept her safe -
but knew no words to verbalize her fear
of unspeakable things
If she had known,
she could have played out in the yard
instead of tangled in her shoes
in the wardrobe
with the door closed
except for just a crack
Such irony that even after you had died -
when drinking and disease laid you both cold in the ground
her fears, disconnected from their source
thrived on unchecked
incestuously feeding on the damage in your wake
A child cannot breathe such impossible betrayal
alongside the faith she craves like air
that those who are nearest
are the dearest
She cannot colour such brutality
alongside lavender hibiscus and
yellow allamanda
She cannot register the torture of your touch
with flesh that barely knows
the meaning of itself
Her wordless stories – hers and yours –
sank into a sheltered darkness
And with the sinking disconnected
fragments of herself
As time went on
all she saw were uncles
tinkering, talking parts,
boots propped on a sawhorse,
sharing jokes she didn’t understand
Then at night recurring monsters did their
dark insistent work
scooping her from dream to dream
for decades yet to come
because still she didn’t know
that the last time was the last time.
by Barbara Whittaker
If only you had told her when
the last time was the last
From five into her forties the child in her lay waiting
to feel again that easy scoop
that stole her from her bed and
placed her bleary eyed and trusting
amongst her father’s tools
and the sawhorse where
you draped her
If she had known that was the last
she could have slept without the dread
She need not have bunged on such a turn
when they rearranged the room and
made her sleep right near the door -
somehow in her kindergarten head
she thought the distance from it might have kept her safe -
but knew no words to verbalize her fear
of unspeakable things
If she had known,
she could have played out in the yard
instead of tangled in her shoes
in the wardrobe
with the door closed
except for just a crack
Such irony that even after you had died -
when drinking and disease laid you both cold in the ground
her fears, disconnected from their source
thrived on unchecked
incestuously feeding on the damage in your wake
A child cannot breathe such impossible betrayal
alongside the faith she craves like air
that those who are nearest
are the dearest
She cannot colour such brutality
alongside lavender hibiscus and
yellow allamanda
She cannot register the torture of your touch
with flesh that barely knows
the meaning of itself
Her wordless stories – hers and yours –
sank into a sheltered darkness
And with the sinking disconnected
fragments of herself
As time went on
all she saw were uncles
tinkering, talking parts,
boots propped on a sawhorse,
sharing jokes she didn’t understand
Then at night recurring monsters did their
dark insistent work
scooping her from dream to dream
for decades yet to come
because still she didn’t know
that the last time was the last time.
Poetry - 'First Cutting'
First Cutting
by Barbara Whittaker
Forbidden blades meet awkwardly
catching cloth in gathered folds
lacerating tiny seismic peaks
Equally material,
arm or leg or plaited hair would
just as unconcernedly have
borne the biting steel
- private vassal
- effigy of self
- only object under her control
Perhaps the doll seemed more disposed to
calculated injury
Perhaps it proffered something
less finite
But even with the cutting,
insult adds to injury the
emblematic threads of
scars unseen,
unravelling where
any eye might see
- irreversible hurt
- unforgivable sin
- inconsolable despair in place of balm
the gash a lasting testament to shame
Bewildered mother’s hurried needle
roughly tacks the dolly’s dress
only salting fresh dismay
with ugly telling stitches
The reason for the cutting
left unremedied
The motive for the vengeance
left unpaid
by Barbara Whittaker
Forbidden blades meet awkwardly
catching cloth in gathered folds
lacerating tiny seismic peaks
Equally material,
arm or leg or plaited hair would
just as unconcernedly have
borne the biting steel
- private vassal
- effigy of self
- only object under her control
Perhaps the doll seemed more disposed to
calculated injury
Perhaps it proffered something
less finite
But even with the cutting,
insult adds to injury the
emblematic threads of
scars unseen,
unravelling where
any eye might see
- irreversible hurt
- unforgivable sin
- inconsolable despair in place of balm
the gash a lasting testament to shame
Bewildered mother’s hurried needle
roughly tacks the dolly’s dress
only salting fresh dismay
with ugly telling stitches
The reason for the cutting
left unremedied
The motive for the vengeance
left unpaid
Poetry - 'Unschooled'
Unschooled
by Barbara Whittaker
A shining handful of years
breathlessly welcomes the novel restraint
of rigid school shoe leather
Twirling, parading on feet unacquainted with
imminent calls to attention
is assessed in inches of blue gabardine
all the time dancing through measuring tapes,
buttons, elastic and pins
Smalt saucers tire at the calendar
drag of days weighted by journey to come
succumbs for a time to afternoon’s call
as sleep softly overtakes dreams
So marks the end of a childhood
silently stolen – mutely replaced,
new shoes buckled awry on her feet
no words to define the offences
Evidence finds its own voice
Mother’s cries, child
in a doorway
hushed
She looks okay. I’m sure she’s okay.
Quiet now.
So flows the water of the past and
school must be the bridge
Positioned in class
no first day tears to blur the will
of one already in adulthood –
only disdain for squalling classmates clinging
to mothers who know nothing.
by Barbara Whittaker
A shining handful of years
breathlessly welcomes the novel restraint
of rigid school shoe leather
Twirling, parading on feet unacquainted with
imminent calls to attention
is assessed in inches of blue gabardine
all the time dancing through measuring tapes,
buttons, elastic and pins
Smalt saucers tire at the calendar
drag of days weighted by journey to come
succumbs for a time to afternoon’s call
as sleep softly overtakes dreams
So marks the end of a childhood
silently stolen – mutely replaced,
new shoes buckled awry on her feet
no words to define the offences
Evidence finds its own voice
Mother’s cries, child
in a doorway
hushed
She looks okay. I’m sure she’s okay.
Quiet now.
So flows the water of the past and
school must be the bridge
Positioned in class
no first day tears to blur the will
of one already in adulthood –
only disdain for squalling classmates clinging
to mothers who know nothing.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
'Who Am I?' - Journal Writing Exercise
* I used to......
I used to bury any strong emotion for fear that it would overwhelm me. I used to deny that I felt it at all.
I used to think it was more 'mature' - more important, more safe - to maintain a facade of calm and composure, no matter what the resulting pain was in my head and heart.
I used to have large impenetrable walls in my mind, behind which I had stored the memories of past experiences that were simply too much to bear.
I used to be afraid that if anyone found out about the discrepancy between how I portrayed myself and the weak, vulnerable person that I really was inside, they would despise me, and reject me - that I would end up alone and unloved, and that was what I 'really' deserved.
I used to feel like I would never be able to work out how to be a grown-up - how to feel like one - to feel confident on the inside - to have integrity. It was a mystery to me. (It's interesting that as I came to understand the word, I also understood that I was lacking in it - lacking 'integration').
I used to feel like everyone else's opinion and feelings were naturally more important than my own.
I used to blame myself for the bad experiences of my past (the ones that I could remember) and I would repeatedly and viciously berate myself for my perceived stupidity and gullibility.
I used to think that there was something about me that attracted the sort of attention from others that would ultimately result in more and more pain - for me.
And that perhaps there was some of God's will in this.
I used to believe it was my lot in life never to feel true happiness. I used to think it was better to never have hopes and wishes and dreams, because in the forming of these things, unseen forces would gather to ensure they could never come true.
I used to believe I did not deserve to have good things come to me. I used to believe that it was better to never want, than to want and then be devastatingly disappointed, over and over and over again.
* I feel.....
I feel so incredibly fortunate to have had the experiencs I have had over the last five years. I feel awestruck at the number of fine, caring, helpful, tender people who have come into my life and who have have provided their own individual insights, graciously supporting me as I have continued - and occasionally gotten stuck - on my healing journey.
I feel hope for myself where there simply was none before. I feel, more and more, a sense of
'internal' safety where I can feel free to 'let go', accept myself, and genuinely and authentically 'be myself'. I feel relief, after a lifetime of internally flinching, and clenching and bracing and enduring endless episodes of paralysing fear.
* The games I play.....
The games I play alert me to the knowledge that there is still work to be done. They are signals of my yet unrealized and unmet needs. They are, at times, unfair manipulations to get other people to provide for me the things that I am still learning to provide for myself.
And I play scrabble.
* My body tells me....
My body tells me there was once a lot of pain - more than I could consciously bear. It sends messages and shadows and echoes of past hurts - perhaps so that I will not forget or continue to over-ride the needs of the desolate, miserable child that I once was.
My body tells me that there is yet much work to do. And that it will not last forever. My body tells me though, that it is still capable of many wonderful sensations, and can still support me through many life experiences yet to come.
* I hate....
I hate the insidiously infectious damage caused by lies and deceit self-interest and indifference.
I hate the chasm that I sense between myself and those who can neither comprehend the vastness of my condition, nor the immense effort it requires to endure or to explain.
I hate that I feel that need for other people to understand.
I hate that I cannot yet balance the need to connect with others, ask for and accept help - and the need to be independent and meet my own needs.
I hate unspoken questions, erroneous assumptions, and ignorant dismissals.
I hate the stagnancy and despair of isolation.
I hate that in childhood I suffered in so much silence, and now in the process of healing, society at large still wishes the victim to remain silent - because otherwise, someone must listen - and who will volunteer?
I hate that there are so, so many people who suffer with similar histories, or even worse.
I hate that so many of us are in so much pain that we unable to think of reaching out to lift someone else. I hate that pain interferes with our freedom to make choices.
I hate the fear associated with saying too much and possibly 'blowing somebody out of the water' - and the constant need to monitor my own and my audience's/friends' responses for fear that I might horrify them, or disgust them, or alienate them forever.
I am deeply moved when I find someone who is willing to put their own pain aside (and sometimes that pain is greater than I can imagine myself) to willingly listen to mine.
I hate that listening to the unspeakable and the unbearable is - unspeakable and unbearable.
But if we do not all listen, hear the stories - how can we comfort each other, bear one another's burdens, make a difference, influence change in society, and communities, and families - and individuals - who perpetuate the twisted sort of thinking and desires that cause such suffering in the first place?
I used to bury any strong emotion for fear that it would overwhelm me. I used to deny that I felt it at all.
I used to think it was more 'mature' - more important, more safe - to maintain a facade of calm and composure, no matter what the resulting pain was in my head and heart.
I used to have large impenetrable walls in my mind, behind which I had stored the memories of past experiences that were simply too much to bear.
I used to be afraid that if anyone found out about the discrepancy between how I portrayed myself and the weak, vulnerable person that I really was inside, they would despise me, and reject me - that I would end up alone and unloved, and that was what I 'really' deserved.
I used to feel like I would never be able to work out how to be a grown-up - how to feel like one - to feel confident on the inside - to have integrity. It was a mystery to me. (It's interesting that as I came to understand the word, I also understood that I was lacking in it - lacking 'integration').
I used to feel like everyone else's opinion and feelings were naturally more important than my own.
I used to blame myself for the bad experiences of my past (the ones that I could remember) and I would repeatedly and viciously berate myself for my perceived stupidity and gullibility.
I used to think that there was something about me that attracted the sort of attention from others that would ultimately result in more and more pain - for me.
And that perhaps there was some of God's will in this.
I used to believe it was my lot in life never to feel true happiness. I used to think it was better to never have hopes and wishes and dreams, because in the forming of these things, unseen forces would gather to ensure they could never come true.
I used to believe I did not deserve to have good things come to me. I used to believe that it was better to never want, than to want and then be devastatingly disappointed, over and over and over again.
* I feel.....
I feel so incredibly fortunate to have had the experiencs I have had over the last five years. I feel awestruck at the number of fine, caring, helpful, tender people who have come into my life and who have have provided their own individual insights, graciously supporting me as I have continued - and occasionally gotten stuck - on my healing journey.
I feel hope for myself where there simply was none before. I feel, more and more, a sense of
'internal' safety where I can feel free to 'let go', accept myself, and genuinely and authentically 'be myself'. I feel relief, after a lifetime of internally flinching, and clenching and bracing and enduring endless episodes of paralysing fear.
* The games I play.....
The games I play alert me to the knowledge that there is still work to be done. They are signals of my yet unrealized and unmet needs. They are, at times, unfair manipulations to get other people to provide for me the things that I am still learning to provide for myself.
And I play scrabble.
* My body tells me....
My body tells me there was once a lot of pain - more than I could consciously bear. It sends messages and shadows and echoes of past hurts - perhaps so that I will not forget or continue to over-ride the needs of the desolate, miserable child that I once was.
My body tells me that there is yet much work to do. And that it will not last forever. My body tells me though, that it is still capable of many wonderful sensations, and can still support me through many life experiences yet to come.
* I hate....
I hate the insidiously infectious damage caused by lies and deceit self-interest and indifference.
I hate the chasm that I sense between myself and those who can neither comprehend the vastness of my condition, nor the immense effort it requires to endure or to explain.
I hate that I feel that need for other people to understand.
I hate that I cannot yet balance the need to connect with others, ask for and accept help - and the need to be independent and meet my own needs.
I hate unspoken questions, erroneous assumptions, and ignorant dismissals.
I hate the stagnancy and despair of isolation.
I hate that in childhood I suffered in so much silence, and now in the process of healing, society at large still wishes the victim to remain silent - because otherwise, someone must listen - and who will volunteer?
I hate that there are so, so many people who suffer with similar histories, or even worse.
I hate that so many of us are in so much pain that we unable to think of reaching out to lift someone else. I hate that pain interferes with our freedom to make choices.
I hate the fear associated with saying too much and possibly 'blowing somebody out of the water' - and the constant need to monitor my own and my audience's/friends' responses for fear that I might horrify them, or disgust them, or alienate them forever.
I am deeply moved when I find someone who is willing to put their own pain aside (and sometimes that pain is greater than I can imagine myself) to willingly listen to mine.
I hate that listening to the unspeakable and the unbearable is - unspeakable and unbearable.
But if we do not all listen, hear the stories - how can we comfort each other, bear one another's burdens, make a difference, influence change in society, and communities, and families - and individuals - who perpetuate the twisted sort of thinking and desires that cause such suffering in the first place?
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