Tuesday, May 08, 2012


A Lesson in Flowers

More 20 years ago I attended a workshop with John Bradshaw in the cafeteria of Las Vegas High School. John was wearing a white dress shirt with no tie and stood right down on the level where we were sitting. This was before he started thinking he was a famous speaker.

As the climax of the workshop, he offered us a creative meditation opportunity and suggested we go inside our minds and meet our inner child. He didn't say wounded inner child or maladjusted inner child, he just said  inner child with no embellishments.

It wasn't a "guided" meditation since his only voice-over was "Go meet your inner child" or words to that effect.
Lest we be wary of this experiment, he informed us there were psychology students from UNLV standing by in case we got upset.. Having them there bothered me. I think I resented the fact these were only psychology students as if we didn't rate real psychologists. How serious could this be? (It turned out nobody needed them. I bet they were disappointed and vowed never to volunteer for anything ever again.)

I had no worries at all except perhaps thinking the people on either side of me would distract me with crying or screaming.

Once he set us loose in our own minds to find our inner children, he was silent.

I was then, and still am now, good at reaching an alpha level and doing creative visualizations. I've 
received a good deal of inspiration from wandering around in my subconscious. (In fact, there're a good deal of people who would say I wander around in my subconscious a good deal of the time.)

So I went into a relaxed state immediately and "saw" myself walking into an elaborately decorated parlor with Victorian style furniture done in large flowered upholstery. There was, in this small feminine room, a little girl with curly hair, dressed in a white frilly dress, lace trimmed socks and shiny, white Mary Jane shoes. She appeared to be about four or five years old.

She grinned at me. Did she know who I was? Was she expecting me?

Suddenly she said, "Come on, let's jump on the sofa." And she hopped onto the sofa and commenced jumping up and down with wild abandon.

I gasped and said, "We can't do that."

She said, "Yes, we can. It's my sofa." I had no argument for that so I just watched her enjoying herself in horrified silence.

She then ran over to a fabulous black-enameled baby-grand piano. She situated herself on the bench with  her feet dangling above the floor. She began pounding on the keys making a loud, cacophonous sound, smiling as if it were the most beautiful sound she'd ever created.

I shouted over the din, "We can't do that."

She said, "Yes, we can. It's my piano." I silently gave her that and shut up and simply listened.

She then ran out French doors into a wonderful garden completely covered in bright, big, beautiful blossoms. She laughed with delight, wrapped her arms around the stems indiscriminately grabbed up a huge bouquet.

I cringed and said, "We can't do that." I was still worried we'd be scolded.

She said, "Yes we can. It's my garden."

At that point John brought the meditation to a close. I glanced around the room feeling guilty that my inner child trip was so joyful.

I realized then, my inner child was fine. It was my outer adult that was seriously fucked up.

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