People are sometimes curious about how a session with me may look.
While no two have ever gone remotely 'the same', there are some parallels.
Someone walks into the room, let's call her Carmen. She's been frozen stiff by the world around. She begins to speak, haltingly at first. I can tell that a script was prepared, but it all falls to pieces upon entering the space. Because anything that can be scripted or rehearsed is not real. The reality is lost to a concept; a flurry of language.
After listening to a few sentences, or a few paragraphs, I catch the faintest trace of it. It shows up as 'a swallowed emotion'. What was that!? Where did it go? I gently ask about it, sometimes by weaving in a story. This is where the tears often flow.
Sometimes this 'swallow' is a tiny glitch. A foot twitches. Or the breath falters. In most situations, no one would have notice. We become adept at hiding this.
It's a folded bud. Unfolding this is the gateway to awakening. As Rilke put it "I don't want to stay folded anywhere, because wherever I am folded, there I am a lie." We are not bad or good, we simply are. The stories are lies. Byron Katie says "There is no authentic story" and somehow, I understand what she means. In fact, as a writer, I try and fail to tell authentic stories, particularly about myself.
This folded place is very difficult to catch in ourselves. We lose track of the words. Where was I? That's where we need a fearless companion... oh, you were talking about your mother, and the way she had the same eyes as your daughter... etc. The defense mechanism has failed.
After this collapse, this surrender, this soul 'enters the room' for the first time. The eyes come online, and the face, though lined with grief, is welcoming and welcomed. There's a kind of halo that will keep swelling and changing color.
After this, the words are secondary; it is presence that matters. Something ineffable continues to fill the spaces; to make itself FELT. To paraphrase Heidegger: 'this gathering luminosity' is the nature of human connection generally. It arises when two beings interact without linear thought, but with a clear intention; to connect. It's being rendered more and more rare in the digital world, where people mistake a social media interaction as real.
This is what I can give to many people I meet. I don't always, I confess. Sometimes, I am inward. Recharging. I was reading once about a Native American walking through a crystal fair, and staring at the ground, not making eye contact with anyone. He mentioned there being so much energy in the space that he couldn't bear to look into anyone's eyes. He might explode; implode; melt into a molecular symphony.
After this, I invite Carmen to stand. She's collapsed physically, to meet the weight of the world. Her spine is slumped. The stomach has become a black hole. The knees are turned slightly inward. The arches have collapsed. She's gotten small. I lift the chest, turn out the knees, encourage breath. More tears. A memory arises, about this thing that someone did to her, and how it changed her worldview entirely. The innocence was left there, to lie in waiting... after that, life became a cruel game of survival, punctuated occasionally with fleeting glimpses of joy. This is where most people get caught. 'The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.' Thoreau.
There's a limit to this. We practice standing in power, and moving through issues. The body keeps collapsing in tiny ways, and I remind her to be strong. It is possible to be strong and soft; to cry without losing pride; the opposite. Tears become the signal flares that we are still alive. But as the legs are shaking, she's tired now of standing on her own two feet, I invite her to lie down.
Then I dance around the body, and find the folded places. People watching me have remarked that it is like watching someone play a musical instrument. There is no sequence. Sequence generally fail. The body can adapt. As I touch a rib, a foot falls out, and as I bring that in, the neck twists. I keep my attention poised; watch every subtle shift. It is delicate, life-altering work. I only know this because I've received it myself, and because I've heard it from people like Carmen.
During this exploration we continue our conversation, based on what arises. It's like a song. We learn to sing our song, and that because our reality, but it isn't real. Now, it's becoming more and more apparent that it was a ruse. This song was the defense mechanism. It requires the foot turning out, or the neck twisting, etc. To correct these, during the conversation, takes great skill and delicacy, but it is essential. These folded places all unfolded, the 'story' has nowhere to hide.
Now, that doesn't mean there was no trauma. There was trauma, by definition. The trauma, instead of becoming a detriment, becomes 'a portal to awakening.'
When she sits up, she is crying, but these are not tears of pain... these are tears of joy. Her breath is natural now; the shoulders relaxed. My eyes water to see this state, again and again. To be human, truly human, is an astounding, beautiful thing. He human experience, though difficult, is staggering, awe-inspiring.
I send her out into the world with some words. Words simply anchor in the EXPERIENCE. And Carmen goes out to relate to others in new ways. Her patterns are losing their grip. Someone falls away, and someone else shows up.
It's impossible to say what I do. That is as close as I could get with words. I'd rather show you.
Love and flow,
Steven