This is your chance to let go! Let it out. Feel how wonderful it to let your words fly away. It is an integral part of healing to express what has been within and to let it leave out through you. Words are power spades in the soil of our souls.
And yet this is not just for you. Once you let it out of the cage of your being, it’s not yours any more. Others will read your words and maybe, just maybe, as the world conspires to shower us all in blessings, they will be exactly what they wanted to hear (and often strangely not what you were wanting to be heard). Maybe your words will shift something inside of them and so change their world and, of course, our own worlds. We are all in this together. We are One!
A little introduction: I met Julia when she was leadng a contact improvisation workshop and it was amazing how she, by addressing the sensitive issue of a person’s borders,made us all feel comfortable. When discovering that she is also a writer I applied for her workshop and would like to post here 2 versions of a story that came from our first session: 1)the ”Good version ” and 2)the ”Raw version”. My reason for this is because, when writig, I often don’t get past initial, sometimes ugly emotions to even make up a story. But, if we spend more time and think what we relly wanted to say, the material grows and develops into something we actually like.
The Good version
To my fellow traveler
It was time to leave my parents home. I had moved back to their farm a couple of years ago when realizing that I failed as an adult in both work and relationship. I did not know what else to do. The place was idyllic- it had a barn with cows and horses, pigs and chickens, the fields were well looked after and gave abundant harvest. But I felt lonely inside…and small, so very small – like a helpless child who suffers discomfort, but knows not how to communicate in order to lessen it. It took me long nights of pondering until I came up with something that at least remotely looked like a plan.
There has always been a thick, tall wood of evergreens near our furthest border which we scarsely ever visited. It had frightened me ever since I was little and my cousins had told a story of a man living there who catches and eats prettly, little girls. Not that I wouldn’t know it’s not true, but … the forest looked unfriendly, almost completely desolate and certainly like a place where no one would hear if you called for help. The plan was still forming in my head…
I had a beige backpack full of everything we liked: lemonade , crisps, chocolate chip biscuits, sandwiches, tea in a thermos. Dean was carrying more ‘’heavy stuff’’: a tent for 2 people, a small gas baloon for cooking and,of course, some sleepingbags. If I have to take a dangerous road I cannot imagine it without his calming support and a rational brain that can frighten off any threat: starting from wild animals to ghosts and girl- eating ogers by night. He was absolutely my type: blond, curly haired, English and well-spoken.
I was standing on the only road: when gazing left I could see endless fields and, every now and again, other farms whose owners all knew each other by name. On the right hand side the road continued until the previously mentioned forest.
We had a little quarrel: Dean thought that I only love books who have female protagonists, but I insisted that it’s not true. After he had cornered me with ‘’Anne of ‘’Green Gables’’,’’Jane Eyre’’, ‘’Daddy Long-legs’’ and ‘’Little women’’ I gave up and felt stupid for lacking some more information of masculine books that I could use to my advantage. We walked about ten minutes not talking. Finally I broke the silence: ‘’Would you like some lemonade?’ ‘’Sure’’, he replied and I could sense the tension in his tone lessen. The storm was nearly over. I say ‘’storm’’, but really it was merely a heavy rainfall: we never argued passionately, loudly and uncontrollably. His was the way of logic and mine was the way of emotion. When we didn’t argue, his superiority of reason was something that I felt proud of in front of others, but during a fight it was like a dagger: cold and sharp, cutting to the bone.
‘’Yes, you can come with me’’, said Byron, but it felt like his thoughts lie elsewhere. He was a thin, dreamy young film student with beautiful black hair and a slight accent- his family was Italian except for his mother who came from England and had given him the name of a famous poet. In many ways he seemed like one and although he was not what I dreamt a ‘’Prince Charming’’ to look like he was handsome and itelligent enough, in his own way that is. What got me the most was his voice: very calm and gentile, only slightly above a whisper. I really never heard him raise his voice once and people were not shy to enjoy standing close to him and becomming silent when he talked vividly about his next idea for a film. Here I must be honest, not everyone liked him and not everyone listened attentively when he spoke, but those who did were charmed and thought him very talented.
When Dean smiled he had dimples in his cheeks which made his face the loveliest of all faces that I knew. I memorised this image strongly in my head – it made me feel protected. I had not seen him in two years, but it felt like longer. It’s funny, because I was sure – if we met now it would be like no time has passed at all and we would be chatting merily, playing cards and probably drinking lemonade again. What is be the difference between if I made the decision of not staying together or him? In a long run the regret of ‘’what we had’’ and ‘’what we could have had’’ is equally painful.
By now Byron had taken off his shoes and climbed a bent tree trunk looking for the best angle to take a picture of it. I could only stand still and watch him partly admiring his joyous dedication and partly feeling like I could be miles away and he wouldn’t care. This was ‘’a girl chasing a boy’’ story and I had to figure out how to bewitch him. There would be times when we talk and he is looking at me directly making us in the bubble of our conversation seem like the only important thing in the World. And then, times like these where he would be the main character of a book and I – only a reader who is allowed to observe, but nothing more.
The sun was setting over the sturdy chorus of trees and both my fellow travellers were starting to fade back to where they came from – my memories. It was not yet time to be frightened from the dark, but soon it would be if I didn’t prepare. I had the very same beige bag and tent from our camping trip with Dean and a book with poetry of Lord Byron (‘’She walks in beauty, like the night…’’). I listened to the sounds of nature and, suprisingly, they didn’t feel hostile. I tucked my map inside the bag for the day and built a shelter. It smelled of grass and dry leaves from the previous time it had been used. It seemed like our planet and the stars were alike part of one great flock in the dark and the Moon, almost full, was our guardian – looking after our peace during bedtime.
***
‘’Dear Diary,
Today I begin my journey. I might feel lonely, I might become so afraid that I might need to turn back, I might regret ever stepping out of my parents’ house, but I will never forgive myself if I don’t try.
Love you all and allways.
Dž.’’
The Raw version:
To my fellow travaler
I can’t imagine a dangerous road before me without your ever-present support- you don’t even have to do anything, because memories about you create your character so clearly that it almost feels real. Isn’t this strange – in real life we would most likely argue or my over- sensitiviy would not endure your critical opinion. But this time, when we walked on a made up day in a made up forest, I felt safe, because you were next to me and promised never to leave me in a difficulty.
Once I already walked through a forest with some other man to whom my naive heart desired to follow more than anything. He went through a thicket and said that if I wanted to come with him I could, but he will not guarantee my safety. The most terrifying thing was that he would take his own barely visible paths and, when I tried to follow him, I did not know how and lost him. I almost forgot how a safe, peaceful country road looks like when wondering through the wide, thick landscape of a forest.
When looking at the moon I thought only about your honest face- I felt calm when imagining your smile. The moon was a bright, distant reminder that even in darkness there is a hope and that I am not alone in this World – even if I am lost.
We both walked a path between tall pine trees, and you wanted to drink some lemonade and a packet of ‘’Rollos’’ crisps, I also took a can of lemonade and we started to hick up almost simultaniously, because air bubbles were popping inside our throats. I felt slightly annoyed, but now, recalling how it was, I understand that I simply felt safe being beside you and my imperfections didn’t matter – you forgave me everything and I would forgave you anything.
Then you looked at me and said that from now on I will have to continue this journey without him. I did not understand: ‘’How? Why? I thought we are a team”.” I dd not want to believe, I was afraid, very, very afraid of the thick forest around our path. I was terrified of finding myself alone and in the darkness, afraid to fel lonely, afraid of finding an unexpected company. I trew myself around him, begged not to leave me, promised to behave myself and be good and obidient. I felt like a dog who’s owned is about to leave and leave it to un-domesticate.
He truned and walked away and I stood as my heart was walking away with him. I had a rough task before me: to get through the forest alone, focusing all my attention to imagne him beside me again.
On Julia’s workshops:
The creative flow of oneself lies in the depth of one’s being, and, for women, it is not always accessed through plain sailing, I must admit. Julia has the tools and empowering confidence to lead as through the shadowy parts of our being that need to be unleashed, acknowledged, and healed with the grace of the presence. The jewels we would mine come as side-effects of our communion with one another on the common grounds, a space that is divinely held by Julia. My deepest appreciation of having met Julia at this crucial time of my life, when I can hide no longer any unmet aspects of my personality that hinder the growth of my wholeness. For my self-attainment, writing is of essential significance. All comes together as one reality of awareness of myself and everyone around me. Gratitude! As Julia says, “Apart from love, peace, and happiness – nothing else is real!”.
My writing to share:
My writing to share: CEĻŠ UZ NEMIRSTĪBU
Kaķītis (no K. Skalbes “Kaķīša Dzirnavām”) jau bija devies prom no savas pagājības. Viņa ceļš piepeši atvijās taisni aiz pašām dzirnavām, pretī (pa)saulei. Bāli iedzeltena un nedaudz izliekusies čūska; tāds visumā bija viens vienīgs, tikai viņa mūžības ceļš, kas palika citu nepamanīts, un tiem pat neieraugāms. Kā tad tā? Mierpilns un sava diendusas sapņa apžilbis, Kaķītis vēroja esamības uzaicinājumu, ko jau labu laiciņu kā tādu savādu likteņa bultu savā sirdī, kas uzjundī alkas pēc neizprotamā un norāda uz kādu vēl neizzinātu virzienu cilvēces dvēseles dārzā, viņš vientulīgi nēsāja. Nezināmais ir visai neizprotams, viņš klusi taustījās pēc iedrošinājuma. Nespēdams pieņemt kādu racionāli izskaidrojumu lēmumu, atmetis galvu atpakaļ, viņš dziļi ielūkojās mākoņu piebirušajās debesīs. To, kas viņu šai spārnotās čūskas ceļā vēl tikai sagaida, mēs neviens nezinām. Tas ir prātam neaptverami; tas varētu būt ceļš, ko ies viņa sirds, sekojot savam sapnim. Gan jau, ka tur viņš sastapsies ar neizmērojamo jūtu pasauli un tās sirdis pluinošo vētru spēku, par ko agrāk viņš tika lasījis biezās un vērtīgās laikmeta liecību grāmatās. Kur tad mīt šī jūtu pasaule, Kaķītis mēdza par to aizdomāties aizvien biežāk. Brīžos, kad saules stari bija cieši jo cieši saspiedušies kažokā, laiski apslidot viņa gurdeno miesu, bet acis, ak šīs tik daudz pasaulē (pie)redzējušās, apžilba un tīksmi ļāvās visam notiekošajam, Kaķītis juta pasaules aicinājumu it visā tās varenībā. Pasaules, kas ved iekšup, uz dzīļu dārgumiem.
Kaķītis man ir rādījis skaidru virzienu. Ceļu pie savas poētiskās, bet vēl
gaužām miegainās dvēseles, kas sava spožuma vēl nepazinusi, ļāvās apbrīnam un
pielūgsmei, ko sniedz ārējā pasaule un tās nebeidzami vilinošie, taču gaistošie
dārgumi.
Some backstory about me: I’ve have rather significant and life impairing anxiety issues. I’ve been in therapy for many years. And for 2 years straight I took part in a psychodrama group therapy, which was a very intensive and even more rewarding experience for me. Since the group therapy ended last summer I was looking for a new different activity/challenge. And I had a suggestion from one of the group therapy organizers to check out this site and writing therapy in particular. As usually do, I sat on this idea to check out the site/therapy for more than a week, dwelling in doubt and caution, whether this is a right thing for me and not a waste of time and/or money. Yet again before taking an action I was looking for encouragement and signs, that this process will be the right fit for me, only to find/imagine more reasons to doubt the usefulness of this writing therapy as the time went on. But lately I’ve learned to recognize these kind of patterns of my mind and realize, that the reality most of the times (99,9%) is different, than i initially imagined, assessed and planned. So after 8 days of dwelling over the decision to try this or not in 9th day I decided to sit down and gives this thing a try by watching and taking part in the introduction session posted on this site. And although i had a strong initial discouragement in first minutes of the first video (about the way the process of relaxing was described) and felt a strong anxious reaction to abandon this, I challenged myself to give it a “second chance”. And boy am I glad I did that. For the following hour I experienced a very immersive and satisfying process of exploring, formulating and writing down my experience about “Perfect”. And I am very satisfied with this process, as I feel, that my writing very well encapsulates my experiences and feelings about this issue.
Here is my end result:
Perfect – the great illusion
Perfect as the ultimate road-map to the meaning of life:
Fulfill all the goals and dreams,
Avoid all the misfortunes and suffering.
But it is all a big f-ing illusion.
Perfect is a false hope, that something better in future life might,could and should happen before it all ends in death.
It is a great disservice by resigning and accepting a shallow and undeveloped view on present life, because there is a potential for things to get better.
Instead of looking and striving for a ways to have a more fulfilling and happier experience in present.
Assuming something in future enables the fear of losing it.
Or even worse – ruining by my own actions.
And to judge myself against my own ideals of perfection:
Evaluating all my failures and shortcoming against my own idealistic expectation,
pushing myself to do more and better, and punishing myself for failing
Is not improving and developing myself to be a better being.
It is a pure self-harm.