Entangled
"Everytime a Knot is Undone, A God is Released" -Barbara Chase-Riboud
Photo by Carsten Ruthemann
A Somatic Medicine Journey in Four Parts
Part 4
“Within each thing you’re creating, no matter how you feel like you’re failing within that particular exercise or what you’re working on, there’s something in there that’s opening you up.” -C. Murillo
And finally, we’ve come to the last part of this unfolding, partly bitter, partly sweet somatic medicine journey. Not that we can ever put a pretty pink bow on messy life lessons and truly call it a wrap. Nor could even the best of us close our eyes, bypass what is painful, take off our shoes, and frolic in an open field of jasmine forever. There will always be things that paralyze us and people that trigger or make one question their footing. Those gut-wrenching sparring matches disguised as text exchanges, where everything from everywhere finally comes out all at once, the gripping emotions, the overwhelm, all the complex churning inside, yeah, all of that continues to cycle through our internal systems, even as grown-ups and cool kids. Various parts may rear their heads and become entangled in the most unexpected and inconvenient of ways, and sometimes they even hijack the entire system, leaving us useless, slightly dissociated, performing outdated patterns, in a chokehold by irrational insecurities and well-justified yet deep-seated fears.
While I know my somatic journey likely won’t ever end, I am reconsidering publicly processing such things in real time. No matter how interesting or resonant it may be to the reader.
I’ve been in a season of making myself completely vulnerable, and I need a break.
This sentiment brings me back to who I’m writing for. Well, first off, it’s for me. Secondly, I write for big-hearted people who struggle with and vacillate between overgiving and total shutdown. My writing is for healers, caregivers, and other high-functioning professionals who feel like they might just completely lose themselves in work that is ultimately the most fulfilling thing there is, and at the same time leaves them emotionally hollowed out and bone-weary.
The last part of this medicine journey has me feeling just that, and, like any worn-out and wounded healer, I sought refuge in the public library and, just yesterday, sat at the altar before a cold lump of clay.
Photo by Zehra Aynacı
Emotional Excavations
This four-part journey has captured a high-level overview of the past two months, when I’ve needed to lean into what has become my own brand of spiritual archaeology. What began as sweet and nostalgic has become a reckoning of sorts that has stretched me, left me feeling scattered and unearthed, and now has me carefully piecing together what has been broken.
Through it all, I hold space daily for people layered with shoulds and doubts. During sessions, I welcome and make room for the voices in their heads, and I try to help them brush away what’s covering them up, the debris that stifles their voice, the weathered stone that blocks their hearts. All of this is just so they can hopefully get a glimpse of what has been theirs all along. Often, it's slow work that requires gentleness, a steady hand, and an open heart. Knowing when to push and pull, when to fall back, when different tools are needed, and for how long, it’s all very spiritual, and simultaneously, surgical.
As a seer, this is the type of devotional work that I’m most suited for; it also requires more from me than I can even begin to articulate. The truth is, any emotional site that I invite a client to must also be a place I’m ready to traverse myself. And if I don’t know when the ground is stable enough to dig, I could find myself causing harm. Essentially, excavation can destabilize, and uncovering too much too fast without proper support can turn the whole thing into a shit show.
Places of Refuge
The technique of fashioning clay reminds me of my experience with birthing rituals. It is a divine experience that can take various forms, depending on intricate conditions, moisture levels, and one’s overall receptivity. Clay symbolizes renewal and reincarnation. -me
I have always been drawn to clay pots, wicker baskets, vessels of all shapes, colors, and sizes. I can’t quite articulate what the fascination is about, but let's just say it’s a positive obsession and it operates at the cellular level. Clay is nutrient-dense, a thing of the earth. It’s where we all go naturally when we are broken down. Our physical bodies ultimately become clay and soil; our skin, nails, hair, and individual bones all pepper the clay.
We use clay to build. It has properties that heal the skin. It is used to build homes, weapons, and tools. Many consume it for its nutritional value; when heated, it hardens. And when wet, it slicks, softens, and is ready to be manipulated.
Sonic Shape-shifting:
“This could either be described as one of my favorite classical jazz albums or a missed opportunity for connection….I guess it all depends on what day you ask.” -me
I mean, I could also wax poetic about clay all day; I have, in fact, and have devoted several hours of research and journal pages to the topic. While I won’t go deep into it in this particular reflection, it is important to note that I sat with clay yesterday and laid my burdens down at its feet. This simple studio, now sanctuary, became a place where I physically held unformed potential in my hand and took a small step to recalibrate my psyche and begin again.
Clay can be molded, made soft and pliable in the hands. It is cool to the touch, rich in reds, ochres, blacks, and browns like my people; red clay can be gripped, formed, and shaped. Moisture brought to the clay unleashes potential. It represents a manifestation held and gently squeezed. It emerges between fingers, and with an activated grip, it opens the hands. No, it escapes the hands and slips between the fingers, knuckles, and nails; it can’t be contained. There’s a spirit in the clay, it's one of patience and faith in the unseen.
The library is another place of refuge. It has always been a magical place for me since I was a little girl. It’s where I go when I need to stave off a depressive episode. It’s where I go for the healing salve of Black literature, and this particular library made it easy, because inside its sea of white authors, they so graciously mark the books written by Black authors with a small label just at the base of the spine that reads “African American”.
I closed my eyes, transformed myself into a walking oracle, and ventured down the first aisle of fiction I came to. The first AA-labeled book I pulled was about a fated encounter between two people after many, many years, and the entanglement that ensues. It has a delicious plot, all the perfect lighthearted elements I need, and has been the perfect escape from my own sensory overload, and I walked away pleased with my own sorcery.
These places of refuge have been my medicine during this last somatic reflection. And it’s a rescue remedy brew, the warm, sweet kind that purges, opens you up, it coats and calms an achy heart, quiets the trauma response, and bruised ego. Sometimes we simply need to take a break from our own polarized parts and the inner complexities of others. A little space to tend to our feelings, bandage a few wounds, and take a closer look at what has consumed our energy, what chords need cutting, and the necessary steps to bring ourselves back home.
Digging Deeper
Which shoulds are you still carrying about your own journey — about how far along you should be, or how this should have gone?
What tool have you been reaching for that isn't quite right for where you are right now — and what might serve you better?
Excavating without knowing when the ground is stable can cause harm. Right now — how stable does your ground feel, honestly?