The structure

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Today and tomorrow my Pesso-Boyden Psychomotor Group is meeting. We meet once a year for three days. This might be our 27th anniversary--- I've only been doing it for about twenty two years.

Al Pesso leads this group personally. If you look on his website at his international teaching calendar, you can see just how blessed we are. It makes me weep with gratitude. Poor guy has a dreadful cold. Even guzzling elderberry syrup hasn't helped. He was, however, undaunted, and worked with all of his exquisite attention and brilliance right behind his runny nose.

There were originally ten of us in the group. This year, sadly, there are only five, due to a number of unusual circumstances. Just imagine having nine other, highly trained, very smart, insightful, loving people-- not even including Al-- who have witnessed your development and healing over time. I trust their counsel implicitly.

The work is done through the vehicle of a "structure" Al leads them. Each of us does one, and the others participate as contact figures and audience.

Over the years, the general level of athleticism in structures has changed from three men pushing against a twin-sized Sealy mattress, helping the guy on the other side to contain some monumental energy, or running up and down the stairs twenty times, lightly holding the top of someone's shoulders, gently limiting their hyperactive child aspect (it has become apparent over time just why that child was "hyperactive"), to sitting in one place on the floor, enrolling nuts, kleenex and cups as symbolic figures. We are still doing precise body therapy. As Al has made discoveries and refined his theory, I have been able to embody more and more of myself through the vehicle of his structures. I have actually been "cured" at least three times. For me that means establishing a sustained connection with universal life force energy. One time it lasted a good three months. Al works in smaller increments these days, helping me to "ego wrap" the internal changes I make in structures, so that they do not disappear, rather, they integrate and build upon one another.

You will be interested to know that my structure this year was about my blog, currently the leading edge of my creative expression. What can I say, a girl's got to start somewhere.

First we laid out the turf. I put the printed out pages that I had brought along on the floor in front of me. Al asked me who sees my blog. Then we represented both of you, my dear audience, with various objects (there was a time we used people for representation, but the group was small, and we had to save humans for other purposes.) Of course, no layout would be complete without Reynoldo , the troll , of "you're wasting electrons on the internet". I represented him with a styrofoam cup, and tipped it over with some satisfaction. Take that, Reynoldo. Al "accommodated" for Reynoldo, the styrofoam cup, by groaning.

As I laid this out, I began to experience some shame about "bragging", worrying what others were thinking. Al asked me to check out my projections with everyone. People were either associating to their own process in relation to creativity, and/or were delighted for me. It helped to notice reality. My head knew that, after all, these folks have loved me well for twenty years, even at my most most repressed, lunatic stages. But my amygdala , my little ground hog brain, was on orange alert, dendrites poised on the red button that either turns off the thought/language option, or makes adrenalin surge. It takes away the fun of things when that happens.

Moving right along, I had a memory of being with my mother in the locker room of a club that my family belonged to when I was a child. As we were dressing, a woman complimented me on my hair ribbon. I said thank you, and mentioned that I had an even prettier ribbon at home that had two bows on it instead of one. Well, that was a mistake. For that comment, I was first verbally shamed, then put in my mother's ice chest for the evening. (Cutting connection is a very cruel thing to do to a child). I can still feel the panic of having inadvertently crossed her line. (My amygdala, rearoused, sends visceral signals)

In response to that association, we enrolled an ominous, black chair to represent the negative aspects of my mother, and, out of another chair topped by a fuzzy red blanket, fashioned a classic antidote, an ideal mother who wouldn't have punished me for my pride and excitement.

All the while, Al was continually monitoring my body, taking clues from it for direction. Indeed, my body was responding to the material. For example, I licked my lips when describing something that was pleasing to me, and he noted that, out loud -- asking if I was tasting the pleasure.

But I digress. I imagined having an ideal mother who would have delighted in my excitement and creativity back then. I could feel the visceral relief. We had her say a few things like "If I had been your mother back then, I would have shared your excitement/ been delighted by your cuteness" I can't remember exactly, but you get the idea.

Then some anxiety set in. I had my hands wrapped tight, holding the kernel of my creative energy. I opened my hands abruptly, into a ten finger splay, while I talked about my concerns about becoming grandiose, getting "too big for my britches" (a mother homily). Al immediately knew that I needed help from a containing figure who would allow my creative energy to flower rather than explode. This time, I enrolled a real human being as a "containing figure", an extension of an ideal parent. Al instructed my containing figure to hold my hands and provide some resistance as I unfolded them, so I wouldn't' t feel the need to limit my own energy. The containing figure said things like "I'll help you handle your energy, so that it will be safe for you to bloom."

At the end of my structure, I remember extending my arms out and then in, the back of my hands lightly held by my containing figure saying "Rest and create, rest and create". I could feel a visceral relief in my body, a trust in my own rhythms. I actually felt my hypervigilant-hyperarousal level drop ten notches. I could really rest. In fact, I fell asleep during much of the next structure. I hope I didn't snore.

Al later said that, as a child, not only did I have to be alert for critical assaults, but I had to monitor my own excitement and energy for fear that it would get out of control.

So that's it for another year. If you ever want to do something like this, there are always a few open groups in the summer in New Hampshire. Al has a beautiful new place, designed for the tastes of world leaders and rock stars who have an inclination to heal themselves.

Actually someone should let George W. know. (Six degrees of separation and all--- I might as well put it out there, now that I no longer worry about my grandiosity) He could bring his own Group. I'm sure Al would make time.

Photo note: Another into the window, reflections, what's really there and what isn't picture. Although I cannot fully see the connection to this piece yet, the photo seems to want to be here.