I came out of the meditation and it was all sweetness, all cradling my heartself, my childheartself. My own fingertips tracing my own sweet neckline, my own nose tucked into the crevice of my elbow. I started out by whirly-dancing in the portion marked off for celebration, but soon realized what was called for was a sweet and gentle rocking, a cherishing, a holding. In the wild part I growled and grimaced; I stuck my tongue out all waggy; I gnashed my teeth. I elephant-walked and swung my arms like great trunks. Freedom. A pushing through. Caught sight of myself through half-cracked lids in the glass of a cabinet–saw my reflection. Momentary panic seizure. Self-conscious and what am I really doing here? But then, little by little, letting go. Reeling the line back out to the far reaches, inch by inch. Whatever comes is what is. Let it bleed, let it be. Exhausted now. Was dreamy and blissful in the after-circle, but I needed to leave. Couldn’t process. Any more. Tears came–of course they did. That same wailing and grieving that comes with probing. The pain that’s held in crab claws, those pincers, those clutchers. Jump in and snatch little bits–as much as is digestible. The business of things still rolls on. I like Shanti, the meditation teacher. I like the safety she sketched out. I like her multithreaded stream of communication. Just needed space. After. Relative quiet and relative peace. So many different methods. Different signposts along the way. I am moving on my own silken waves right now. I ended that meditation, the celebration portion, by loving myself. Deep sighs and smiles. Hands, warm pulsing hands, my hands, wrapping my waist curve, pressing like bookends around my middle, my middle earth. The core. The heat! The gentle and flow. And I’m safe and all me, all perfect, all New.
“Being around all these powerful women can stir the pot,” I overheard a woman say.
I have experienced psychic stirrings. Images, intuitions, waking dreams. Knowing. Clear sensory impressions in coversations, feeling what they’re saying, feeling what they’re feeling. Waking in the pitch of night wide awake, alert, wondering what is being asked of me, what is being communicated.
I’ve been immersed in this other world, this Women of Wisdom dimension. This new opening into Beyond the Box of my planning: university, graduate school, all that rigamarole. Now opening into a calling toward LISTENING, toward non-violent communication. And from different corners this call is whispering, which makes it all the more compelling and insistent. And there’s the herbal shamanism apprenticeship. And the Faery Congress. My writing. Ever-present. I am limp and spent. But a good kind of bone-deep calm.
I glimmered a stirring a Lioness purring my coil unfurling. A holding. Container. We are the womb-ones. Concentric circles.