This is the first installment of a regular column, more a space for creative writing. Mae Tang, who resides in England and has a Masters in Renaissance literature, is the host. She provides her own perspective, offering her own writing, but she also offers space for others. If anyone would like to contribute their poetry or prose, they should contact Mae and submit their writing to her for consideration for potential publication in "Creative Ground." It is our hope that readers enjoy this space, and that writers take this opportunity to communicate their experience of living. |
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[ Last updated, Gestalt! Volume 8 ; Number 1
Gstalt-L, An email discussion group devoted to Gestalt therapy and the community of its practitioners (www.g-gej.org/gstalt-l). Gstalt-J, An email discussion group devoted to research on Gestalt therapy, theory and practice (www.g-gej.org/gstalt-j). Supported by the Gestalt Research Consortium (GRC) (www.g-gej.org/grc). Gestalt Bookmarks, a place to begin researching the field of contemporary Gestalt therapy on the world wide web (www.g-gej.org/gestaltbookmarks). To translate this, or other portions of this ejournal from English, try using the resources at: Para traducir esto, u otras porciones de este ejournal del inglés, tratan de usar los recursos en: www.freetranslation.com Um dies zu übersetzen, oder andere Anteile dieses ejournal von Englisch, Versuch, um die Betriebsmittel an zu benutzen: www. freetranslation.com Pour traduire ceci, ou les autres portions de ce ejournal d'anglais, essayer l'utilisation des ressources à: www.freetranslation.com
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stroking the mane of a horse, life under his hand. a catnip mouse and meow. Questions from his cat. have the power to speak a great language, he wrote. animals: discovering being with, being. The noises of the crowded street faded away into the background. We stood before a cage, rough wood and chicken wire containing a great serpent. Reticulated python he whispered: loops of green and brown and black, piled upon itself, a meandering river curving through the jungle. rubbed its snout raw against the wire. Tattered skin marred iridescent scales, and one eye was still opaque from the half-shedding. The other was golden, remote, ancient, alien. My brother who loved snakes was silent. I could not take my eyes off it, such weight, such gravity, coil upon coil of life, made heavier by suffering, by heat. Its tongue flickered, tasting the air. A vast helpless rose up and swallowed me. I wanted to pull the wood down, tear out the wire and watch the snake flow to freedom. better, he said. All around us the crowd jostled and bustled, oblivious to snakes, to children, to suffering. Years later I think, This is how you learn compassion. I think of a helplessness greater than him, than me, than the snake, than the crowds. I think of what flowed from that cage, and what didn’t. Bear Brings Healing but sometimes the dark prickle, the tearing of teeth and claws, the heavy rasp of her tongue across the rending as she undoes and makes whole. Her gifts are blood and bone and wisdom, courage over courage, hard won. She brings the scars which can only follow from a deep wounding, the knitting which can only follow a true shattering. She is the guide who does not always turn, or wait to see if I will follow. She strides where she strides, she fills the world with motion, with stillness, with breath. Her healing takes place while I stumble, and cry and reach blindly in the dark. Her healing is a reckoning, a releasing, a breaking open of the heart. |
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