Thursday, November 03, 2005
Parts of Me Suck
Shay Seaborne

A friend of mine offers a monthly salon for women. Each gathering focuses on some aspect of inner growth or personal development, whether it be physical, spiritual, creative, or a combination. At last night's gathering the focus was "Breath of Life."

This friend is a chiropractor, (practicing Network chiropractic) and, in order to feed two birds with one hand, I usually make an appointment with her on the day of the gathering, just before the event begins. This time she asked if I was up for doing SRI (Somato Respiratory Integration). Having experienced some of this before, I agreed, and lay on my back on the table in preparation.

SRI utilizes touch, breath and awareness to effect physical and emotional healing. After an exploratory exercise to identify the area I most needed to work on, my friend asked me what I was called as a child, what nickname I had. My only real nickname was one a friend gave me, and she was the only one that called me by it. But my father shortened my given name, in a way I disliked, and that is what popped into my head in response to my chiropractor's question.

While instructing me in the touch and breathing method, my friend asked, "Who is it that kept you from speaking up? Who is it that should have told you to speak up, that should have wanted to hear what you had to say?" My father, of course. I had an idea of what was coming.

"Now imagine you are a 6-year-old girl, full of exuberance and the need to express, and your father is telling you he wants to hear what you have to say." She told me to hear my father using that nickname in telling me to "Speak up." At first I could not imagine it; the reality of my childhood was too distant from that possibility. Gradually, though, I could let that concept develop in my imagination. What if my father had said, "speak up," because he wanted to hear what I had to say?

As she guided me through the SRI process, my friend told me to say the words as if my father was saying them. Slowly, I began to feel as if he had said that to me, as if I had been nurtured in that Self affirming way. I felt loss and renewal simultaneously, and a tear fell from each of my eyes as I broke out in a broad smile. Instinctively, and because of past reclamation work, I knew that visualizing my father saying that and feeling the feelings that came up with it, was a way to break the old patterns and allow myself permission to speak up.

My chiropractor had me process other thoughts in this way, telling me to say aloud some phrases including, "parts of me are beautiful, and parts of me suck. Parts of me I'm proud of, and parts of me I'm ashamed of." During the last part of the process, in which all the elements are integrated, I felt a startling energetic shift that included a tingling numbness in my arms and hands that bore an uncanny resemblance to that which I experienced during the gall bladder attack. I noted that with interest, as I have learned that such things carry significance.

After the treatment was complete I sat up and noted, "I thought I had been speaking up for years."

"Yes, you have," my friend said, "forcefully, and energetically, but there is a softer speaking up, too." She left me with that question to ponder as part of the continuing process.

Before long, the office began to fill with the variety of interesting women who attend these salons, a mix of familiar and new faces, with introductions, hugs, and excitement in anticipation of our evening together. As usual, we began with a sumptuous potluck buffet. We sat in a circle on the floor, where we introduced ourselves and chatted about sex, men, marriage and divorce, in-laws, belly dancing, homeschooling, and other topics as we feasted on baba ganouj, two kinds of hummous, marinated tofu, a squash salad, pickled beets, spannikopita, warm brie with chipotle-raspberry sauce, veggies for dipping, marinated eggplant, wine, tea, truffles, homemade maple pecan pie and oatmeal cookies, baklava, and other delectables. While in our circle, one of the women, who had sent me a very kind card after the surgery, made sure that everyone knew what I had been through, and all expressed amazement at how good I looked, with some saying that the surgery apparently agreed with me. I have heard similar comments this week; people say I look fantastic, too good to be in recovery. I thank them and smile, because I feel fantastic.

When we were done eating, the chiropractor began to lead the first activity, which was an SRI exercise somewhat similar to the one she had just done with me. We pulled out the pile of blankets and lay on the floor with them, feeling much like Kindergarteners, or girls on a sleep over. We closed our eyes as my friend revisited the "parts of me are beautiful, and parts of me suck. Parts of me I'm proud of, and parts of me I'm ashamed of" exercise. She said this gave us permission to have parts that suck, and to be OK with that.

Next she led us on a guided imagery journey that explored how we felt upon losing our connection at birth. She asked us to be aware of where in our bodies we felt that disconnect, to feel how it felt, and to make the sound that expressed that pain. The room was filled with moans and groans of various pitch, like a battlefield of fallen soldiers.

The chiropractor guided us through finding where our peace and safety reside, and integrating that with the place of disconnect. After we recovered and sat up, she opened the floor for sharing, and looked directly at me, expectantly. "I felt the pain exactly where I felt the gall bladder attack, and made the same sounds I had made during that," I observed. My friend beamed at me in a knowing smile. She was no more surprised than I. Other women shared their experience and observations, and we all felt amazed at the power of healing and wholeness provided by this simple technique.

A midwife and Sufi dancer led our second activity, a combination of chanting and dance. She explained that she had been a Sufi dancer for 5 years, but was not allowed to use the official term, Universal Dances of Peace, because she was not certified--a newer condition that required great expense. She had left the organization after it became what she called "a spiritual Amway," and she had been sharing the dances in an underground fashion ever since.

The midwife/dancer explained that the dance she would teach included a chant from the Aramaic Lord's Prayer, which is much more in line with Jesus' words than the "Our Father" version with which we are all familiar. She recited the opening, "Oh Thou, from whom the breath of life comes, who fills all realms of sound, light and vibration. May Your light be experienced in my utmost holiest," and expressed astonishment that these beautiful and uplifting words could be translated into something so dry and grim as the King James version. All heads nodded in of agreement, and many expressed delight in the discovery of these original words.

As we stood in a circle and began to learn the chants, I suddenly felt very tired, and remembered that I had been up since before 4 am and had had a busy day. I realized that, as much as I wanted to stay for this dance, doing so would be pushing myself too far, and I don't want to set myself back. I hung in long enough to learn the chants and the dance steps, but used the energy shift between learning and doing to give my thanks and regrets. I drove home feeling enriched and uplifted by our gathering of women, as always.