Watch A Presentation About Cellular Recall Therapy

September 2, 2010

Categories: Blog.

Announcement: Listen To Me On Blog Talk Radio This Wednesday

September 2, 2010

Just a reminder of my radio interview on Wednesday next (15th). The Conscious Kickstart show on Blog Talk Radio will be my host. We’ll be discussing “Healing With Cellular Recall.”

Note that the time is 12 noon Pacific.

Categories: Blog.

The Last Lost Boy

July 31, 2010

Originally published in More Magazine

When at the age of thirty-three my children were abducted by their father a second time, I embarked on relationships with younger men. I called them the Lost Boys, this chain of twenty-one-year olds seeking direction at the crossroads of a third seven-year cycle. The surrogate babies; baby boyfriends whose only chance to grow would be triggered by an eventual slashing of the umbilical cord that would leave us both bleeding.

But the Last Lost Boy felt more like a brother—

One Saturday afternoon two newcomers turned up for my beginning jazz class. One was a tall black youth with the body of a linebacker. His friend, an Eurasian, had the slender build and honed definition of a martial artist. They both showed ability, but the black youth soon dropped out. The other boy showed up regularly to every class I gave. He was a conundrum and a pain. He drove me crazy and stretched my patience to the limits. A street-dancer and gang banger from the projects in Defense, he had unlimited talent and the idiosyncratic style of a born clown. Added to this was a real dedication and ruthless work ethic that was continually threatened by his lousy attitude. Whenever he made a mistake he pouted and stamped his foot in temper. Then he’d huff and puff and curse, turn his back and stomp off to the back of the studio. No matter how often I tried to explain that his behavior was disruptive and disrespectful to his fellow students, not to say thoroughly unprofessional, I could not get through. One day he did the unthinkable. A slower student got in the way of his hurricane advance across the floor. He shot out of the corner like a loaded missile with all the energy and bravura and machismo of his habitual pent up anger and frustration. A timid little Parisienne, unsure of the steps, skittered nervously across the floor directly in his path. With a snort of impatience the incorrigible delinquent put a hand in the small of her back and shoved—hard. I quickly stifled the thought of how we all just longed to do that at one time or another, and threw him out of class.
Continued…

Categories: Blog.

More Bad Company; or Bring On the Clowns (Chapter Four)

May 4, 2010

The Las Vegas Girls were not Lilies of the Field. Daily, they toiled mightily. They sweated and stretched, pliéd and spun and kicked their legs as high as their bouffant do’s. They kept their mascarared eyes on the goal, restricted their intake of sugar and fat and loved their dance partners much more than their husbands or boyfriends. Center stage, they climbed onto rickety prop chairs in high heels and executed pencher arabesques, and no risk to life and limb, no horrible wobble of uneven chair legs could displace their effervescent smiles nor quench their steely determination. The woman had been part of the company for more than a year.

She had been recruited by Audrey Turner of The Pagets dance team (Audrey and John Paget had dissolved their dance partnership shortly after arriving in South Africa but had decided to form a Jazz Dance company together.) Audrey had seen the woman dancing at a house party in Sea Point and invited her to join their company. The woman was reticent at first, never having had any Jazz training, but the idea of dancing again since leaving the Ballet Company at nineteen and doing her miserable best to forget her dreams and conform to marriage and motherhood, proved irresistible. Now into her second marriage and second child, it had felt as if the last few years had stifled the very life out of her. She seemed to have been holding her breath, as if any deep inhalation would reignite the tamped down longing in her breast and implode into total destruction of the manufactured “normal” role expected of her. After the first few weeks of training she felt that she could breathe again and looked forward to each day with its morning classes and rehearsals. The challenge of learning a new style, the joy of being back in her body; feeling the ache in her muscles, the pounding of her heart, all this revived her. The rivulets of sweat that trickled over her skin seemed to penetrate all her cells and quench the inner thirst, hydrating the desiccated core of her. Continued…

Categories: Read The Book.

A Re-Movable Feast: Part One (As seen in More magazine)

February 17, 2010

Originally published in More Magazine

My left breast remembers a hand, fingers clothed in latex, impersonal, professional and corpse-cold. A very competent young man removes his probing fingers from my frozen flesh and gives me his diagnosis in a no-nonsense monotone. It is not too good. I have a multitude of lumpy masses invading my tissue. No, they don’t know if there is any cancer but, he informs me breezily, they’ll soon find out. As soon as they perform the recommended sub-cutaneous mastectomy and get the results. Of course, if cancer is present they will then remove the skin as well. He recommends reconstructive surgery. At the time I am not aware that he is a recent graduate of cosmetic surgery and very keen on accumulating experience.
Continued…

Categories: Blog.

A Re-Movable Feast: Part Two (As seen in More magazine)

February 16, 2010

Originally published in More Magazine

Some time in the year 2000 I became aware that my womb was weeping with increasing frequency and I was losing power. I took myself to a woman’s clinic and submitted to the prerequisite examination and tests.

“I’m afraid that you have endometrial carcinoma,” revealed my sympathetic gynecologist. “Happily it is early enough to respond well to surgery. A hysterectomy and removal of the ovaries could give you another twenty years of life.”

My first reaction was, “I can’t afford this.” I was self-employed, uninsured, and had practically no savings. I was still living like a gypsy, week-to-week, with no thought beyond the present.

My second thought was; “My dreaming!” (Lucid or controlled dreaming). The shamans of Ancient Mexico, with whom I had studied taught that a woman dreams with her uterus. I was upset enough to try to explain to the bewildered doctor about the dreaming. There was no way I was going to undergo surgery. The poor doctor was genuinely upset. She kept explaining about the benefit of twenty more years of life, and I kept explaining that that was not a priority. I had a sneaky thought that this could be a reprieve, a relatively easy “out” from the world. I left without giving her satisfaction.
Continued…

Categories: Blog.

The Child Is Not Dead (Chapter Three)

February 5, 2010

The woman awakened inside her own corpse the night of July nineteen, nineteen sixty-five, five days before her twenty-sixth birthday; the night that Ingrid Jonker walked out of the mental institution at Volkenburg, (refusing to die in the same place as her mother before her), seamlessly progressed from rocky shoreline through rough sand that glinted and crunched with the brittle shells of dead mollusks, on into the sea at Green Point. And kept on walking. Just as she always said she would.

As the surf shushed back and forth, sucking Ingrid’s sodden body farther and farther out to sea, and then rushed back to crash on the shore without her, it created great reverberations of sorrow and regret that rippled up the beach under a shifting blanket of sand like some subterranean serpent. When these waves of loss, blown shoreward by Ingrid’s final exhalations reached the main road they slithered under the surface tar and followed the white line on the highway all the way to Bantry Bay where the woman, Ingrid’s friend, lay sleeping. Reaching the foundations of her apartment, they found an opening in the plumbing, squeezed through and rushed upwards into the woman’s bedroom.

The woman was lying on her back, alone on the big mattress on the floor; her new husband was in Paris. Her body felt dense and heavy as stone. She felt the flesh sliding off the bones of her face like melting wax, pooling on the pillow beneath her head. The exposed bones of her skull felt sharp and freezing cold. She wanted to raise her hands to her face and catch the sliding flesh, push it back in place, but although she strived with all her might, her arms would not obey. She could not move. She wondered why she was still there, if she was dead. Then the child in her womb fluttered like an anguished butterfly and she knew that it was alive. And so was she. Continued…

Categories: Read The Book.

Keeping Bad Company (Chapter Two)

November 3, 2009

Although she did her best to maintain a dialogue with Auntie Claire over the next ten years, the girl squeezed uneasily into the vestments of womanhood without the support of her old mentor.

The clamor of hormones deafened reason and the fading reflection of Auntie Claire wobbled uneasily before breaking up in the waters of Nepenthe. Surely she would have advised that marriage and motherhood at nineteen was no escape from a tyrannical father, nor a drug to dull the ache of abandoned dreams.

Then along came Nerina, brimming with life and sympathy; a mentor for all seasons.
Continued…

Categories: Read The Book.

Joan Wulfsohn Talks With “Well Well Well” About Acceptance

August 27, 2009

Categories: Blog.

Auntie Claire de Lune (Chapter One)

August 13, 2009

Pretty Sunset

“It’s just that you are dreamer,” said Auntie Claire-Next-Door. “There is nothing wrong with being a dreamer. I too, was so as a child. My mother used to tease me and call me  ‘Claire de Lune’, which means ‘Moonlight’ Claire and was her way of saying that I was a moony girl, mooning around when I should have been studying.

“‘Mooning’ is an English expression. My mother often spoke English to us as she wanted me to become an accomplished young lady. When I was a girl, it was not enough to be from a good family. It was also necessary to be accomplished.”

The girl became restless as she wanted to go home and look up the meaning of “accomplished” before she forgot it. She also did not understand the meaning of a ‘good family’ as she had supposed that all families were good. What made a family bad? Was it when the children were excessively naughty, or something worse, like the father was a thief (a gonif), or the mother a ‘Lazy South African’ (something her mother despised, which meant a lady who did not wash her own underwear, but gave it to the maid, or who sat all day drinking tea, or worst of all, let the maid do the cooking).

She did not want to ask Auntie Claire about good families as she often asked too many questions and the adults grew irritable. At school the teachers grew more than irritable. They acted as if asking questions about the ‘rules’ was the cheekiest, most unmannered, badly-brought-up thing a little girl could do. Children should be seen and not heard. Continued…

Categories: Read The Book.

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