A Lesson in Flowers
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.
She grinned at me. Did she know who I was? Was she expecting me?
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.