It is spring. Baby chicks and bunnies have presented themselves as symbols of birth through the Easter holidays. Tulips and daffodils have been pushing their beautiful heads up through the earth to make their appearance in our gardens. The vegetable gardens are being planted with great care and enthusiasm. The earth is turning green again.
As I write this, I am on a train heading to the little town of Stroud, UK to teach a Continuum Movement workshop, inspired by the developmental movements of the birth process. I cannot help but perceive them occurring all around me! The baby coming through the birth canal senses the uterine and vaginal walls pressing against her delicate skin. Her time of simply resting and growing in the watery world of the womb is quickly passing. Her little head pushes and reaches into the opening in front of her, as waves of contractions meet her little body, washing her out into the unknown. Whether that time in the womb was entirely pleasant or overwhelmingly traumatic, what lies ahead includes unknowns.
How often do we encounter a similar sensations in our lives? I watch the children I work with, as well as my step-daughter, moving towards the end of their school year, accompanied by fears and anticipatory excitement about the unknowns of moving to a new school, a different college program, entering the work world are soon to bring. It is as if the waves of their lives are propelling them forwards, in concert with their own hopes and ambitions.
As a Continuum Movement teacher, I witness and participate in the enormous transition as we completed last month one year since our dear mentor, Emilie Conrad’s, passing and explore what and how we can co-create within this new field of the unknown. Like a serpent shedding its skin, we find the old form dry, tight and sticking in some places while we fluidly slither into naked being in the mystery.
Just one week ago, I returned home from sorting through the last bits of my mother’s life after her passing in July last year. Another wave of grief combines with the one from losing Emilie, as well as the relief that my time of working hard to take care of her affairs from 5000 miles away is essentially done. A new phase of life seems to be replacing the more familiar one of the last few years. I wait upon the threshold of this new life, letting go, letting go, letting go. No need to fight the forceps, the doctor’s timing, or the anesthesia with this birth. Skins upon skins are being released. I remember Emilie speaking of how snakes need to drink a lot of water when shedding their skin. I drink. I practice Continuum to deepen into fluid being. I observe the shifts as life morphs once again.
It is spring. Dare we to believe we know who we are? Do we want to carve ourselves in stone in this way? Or do we take the risk of letting go of what we know so well (and perhaps complain about so often) to make room for the new, the unknown. The promise awaits us, beckoning as the days lengthen and the flowers bloom. Can we have the courage, like the flowers emerging from underground darkness into the sunlight, to give that important push against the earth? That push that frees us, differentiates us, determines us from all we have known in the past? What is it you would create or welcome into your life if you were not so burdened with that one thing (or more) you hold so tightly onto?