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[ Last updated, Gestalt! Volume 8 ; Number 2
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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the slow deliberation of their pacing. She was caught first by their movements, which were meditative, measured. They frequently stopped and started, and gazed down at the ground. They circled and turned in a tight line, but were in no hurry at all. It must be a ritual! She thought, her steps arrested, her own motion suspended by their swaying progress. Yet one of the women would frequently fan herself with a folded up newspaper. And one of the men halted to rub a layer of sunscreen onto his arms. That's lacking respect, she noted to herself, scandalized by their casual disregard. But then she began to question it. They were not dressed so differently from everyone else in the park. And she had fantasized robes and head dresses, golden sickles and early morning dew, not this Summer heat, these droning wasps that the youngest boy batted away with the backs of his hands. So then she felt her own perplexity, and grew to doubt it all. She looked around and noticed no one else watching. They merely glanced in passing. An anxiety filled her. She tried to see if there were symbols marked on the lawn, some arcane sign that might release her. Instead she saw only the butterflies rising, and even a mallard, waddling serenely towards the lake, across the path of their procession. Now telling me this, she leant back in her chair. I was transfixed, but she merely laughed. What happened? I demanded. I remembered, she replied. It was on the news the week before. A maze of tall, exotic grass to be planted, to grow in time. They were following the different grasses, the two inch tall seedlings. That was all. I had forgotten, you see. So there was no mystery in the end. We sat there and smiled, and sipped our lemonades. We were conspiratorial and drawn close by her confusion. Yet on the way home I felt it for myself, the rising push of the grass underfoot. How someone could see the walkers and not the maze. How someone could see the walking and not the maze walked. How the world could be transformed in an instant, the pattern laid bare. And it seemed to me somehow that the mystery was still there. |
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