Tooting, Not Tweeting

My head is spinning with the rapidity of absurdity flying from an adept tweeter's inept brain. HOW did the current Commander in Chief devolve into this paranoia? How did he come to the conclusion that his predecessor ordered The Tower Telephone to be tapped? Is this smoke screen number 47? What is he afraid will be found if the investigation goes forward into his connection with Putin - with or without Jeff Sessions? The business man is squid-like in ejecting black ink behind which he's accustomed to hiding. I want to root out the truth.

In order to create order in my own mind, I am turning away from the Trumpeter and attempting to give him the silent tweetment. Hard to do. I've already given him time and real estate in my brain for these sentences. I'm left only with questions. Who? Why? WTF? How did we arrive here? How do we move forward from here?

Indivisible... with Liberty and Justice for all.

May these real and possible concepts be manifest... for ALL.

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Retirement creeps in stealthily. My calendar is freer of client hours and fuller with political and social interactions. Sometimes, I write. In reminiscing about when I was working quite a bit, I find that some memories pop up like welcomed stepping stones across an ooshy pond full of scummy mud, slimy greenish strands, and suspicious mouths and scales of slippery flashing fish.

I remember working one day, with a client whose story I'd heard before, but as she lay on the table, I heard beyond the words the terror lodged in her body. It appeared as an apparition of a tape-worm-like creature which was sapping her energy about the level of her solar plexus. Energetically, I grabbed hold of it just below its head and applied some traction, testing how much fight was in it. Quite alive, but not bucking and diving to prevent its own removal from my client's gracious hosting flesh, so I kept hold of the sucker and addressed the terror stricken child whose life had been shaped by this life-force eating creature.

I sang to her. Who knows how these sessions get choreographed? How did the song come to me?

It's a song from a musical by Lucy Simon called The Secret Garden, which is based on one of my favorite childhood books by Frances Hodgson Burnett. In it there is a song sung by nursery maid Martha to young Mary. "Hold on... it's the storm not you that's bound to blow away."

Somehow, that song reached my client's scared child within, soothed and empowered her. Meanwhile, above her solar plexus, was this shadowy, wraith-like thing, now lifeless in my hand. I opened the window and threw it out. Handy to have my neighbor's trash cans just below my treatment room window, eh?

We talked some about what she experienced, and what I sensed, then the client left. We communicated later that week and she told me she felt different in her stance, in her actions, in her own work... with a new sense of belonging in her life... having agency to do what she wanted to do. Next session, her posture looked different to me.

I'm imagining a yoga pose: Warrior or Virabadrasana. Feet planted wide, bow drawn, arrow aimed... now, follow through. Endorphins flow where body postures reflect our indomitable spirit.

Aim high. Gravity sucks.