In which I have a large stone removed from a yurt in my belly and discover a universe inside

I went to Middle Piccadilly at the weekend.  It’s a place that’s been floating around my aura for decades. One of the old school retreat places.  I’ve always wanted to go but somehow never did.  When I had the dosh, I didn’t have the time and when I had the time, I didn’t have the dosh.  Anyhow…I was asked to review it, so off I went. 

It’s a curious place – not quite the serene middle-of-nowhere spa I’d expected.  To be honest, it’s caught in a bit of a time-warp – part seventies hippyshake, part eighties pinefest.  I itched to give it a makeover, to pull out a powerhose and to fill a few skips.  The raw food was amazing though (that might merit an entire separate post, come to nibble it) but what really blew me sideways were the treatments.

Now then. Some (good) places have one or two amazing therapists.  Most have okay ones.  And some (often the big anonymous hotel spas and day spas) have pretty mediocre ones. You know the type I mean –their hands might be busy on your body but their minds are necking cider or having a snog with someone else’s boyfriend.  Anyhow, I think MP has bagged an almost rudely unfair share of the seriously awesome ones.  

I had been prescribed three sessions by co-owner Lisa and first up was one of the best therapeutic massages I’ve had – serious deep fascial work, delving down into pressure points, hitting the ‘ouch’ button (in a good way).  Angela read my body like an orienteerer and went for the icky bits like an All Black making a dump tackle.  Then, while my physical body was still sighing with relief, caught quite unawares, I had my energy body opened up by Claire. While Angela was all no-nonsense, down-to-earth and practical, Claire was an earth mother, soothing, nourishing, comforting and…so tender.  She performed a lovely chakra-balancing nurturing treatment called Hand on Heart (using organic products from the fabulous Cornish company Spiezia.  Check them out, I’d forgotten how good they are). 

‘So, what’s the verdict?’ I asked at the end.

‘Your feminine side is very depleted,’ she said. I nodded.  That made sense.

‘Your throat is closed.  I wonder what it is you’re not saying?’  I remained silent.  J

‘Your heart and solar plexus are out of sync.  Oh, and your crown is fuzzy.’ 

‘Right. So basically, the only bits that are okay are my bottom bits and my third eye?’

‘Pretty much.’  And she shhhed me and took me next door to my bedroom and wrapped me up in bed with a mug of chamomile tea.  ‘Rest.’ 

‘Yes, Mum.’

And I did.  I slept. And slept.

But really, these were just the (very fine) support acts for my final treatment, a shamanic healing session with the wonderfully named Maya.  Now, I’ve done a fair amount of shamanism in the past – I’ve had healing sessions and I’ve done workshops and trainings.  So I thought I knew what was coming.  Wrong.

I’ve often wondered about my shamanic experiences.  They’ve been powerful but cerebral somehow.  Just more mind games?  Just vivid imagination?  Sometimes it feels that way.  So I went into the session feeling, not sceptical but without huge expectations. 

But the sage smudge was heady and the drum beat was soft, rhythmic, mesmerising.  Maya called up guardians, spirits, call them what you will, to guard the space and I waited, my energy body tingling with anticipation.  As she took me down the tunnel to the lower world I felt my third eye convulse.  I strained for ‘seeing’ but Maya caught the trick.  ‘Not in your head,’ she said.  ‘Feel it in your body.  Feel where you’re holding.’

My hands crept to my solar plexus.  I couldn’t deny the feeling – as if I had a huge stone lodged in my belly. 

‘Go inside it,’ she said.  ‘What do you see?’

It was a large space, like the inside of a vast yurt, a domed ceiling, a floor made of dry compacted earth, the air thick with dust. 

‘Is anyone there?’

‘No. I’m alone.’

‘What’s there?’

And the ceiling began to crack, like an egg, and the floor started to crumble away and pinpricks of light appeared and I was caught in the dance of stars. The entire universe inside my belly and me twirling and tumbling like an acrobat.

‘Now blow it all out into the fire beneath your feet,’ said Maya.  And I panted out the stone, my body convulsing like I was giving birth to a black hole.  And it moved, from my solar plexus to my womb and a wave of regret swept over me, for the neglect of my feminine (both earthly and divine), and I wept, big heaving sobs, tears streaming down my face.  And then it went altogether, leaving a lightness in my body, a space. 

And other things happened (she removed bits I didn’t need and put back bits I’d lost, some made perfect sense and others were well weird), but I think I’m stretching you too far anyhow, already.  You’ll either roll your eyes and go ‘yeah yeah’ and move on (and I wouldn’t remotely blame you), or you’ll go ‘Yeah’ in which case I’d say, go, go… try it yourself.  J

Woodpeckers and general weirdness

Things aren’t right. I have that horrible sense of life sliding away in the wrong direction. As you know I look for signs all over the place. A dear friend, a Jungian psychotherapist and dream analyst, once told me that you should keep a beady eye out for the things that flirt with you – things that pop up and catch your eye. Sometimes they will be subtle – a colour, a shape, a pebble (Lixtroll!). Sometimes they will hammer themselves into your head as if you’re a stupid child who refuses to understand. However they arrive, they have a lesson to teach you.
The last few days it’s been a woodpecker. James and I were sitting in the living room chatting when we heard this strange tapping.
‘Is it Daddy?’
‘I don’t think so. Daddy doesn’t do DIY.’
‘Good point.’
‘I think it’s coming from the garden.’ And I walked towards the window to see a flash of black and white disappearing.
‘I think it was a magpie, tapping on the wheelbarrow.’
A few minutes passed and it started up again, more insistent this time. James crept over. ‘No. It’s a woodpecker.’
And so it was. A large one with bits of red. The wheelbarrow is leaning against the picnic bench and – don’t ask me why – but the daft bird is pecking it. Not the table, which might make some kind of sense, being wood. No, it’s the wheelbarrow, made of whatever it is that wheelbarrows are made of – some kind of metal for certain.

So, this woodpecker obviously had some kind of message and, as I do in these situations, I pondered what it might be. The woodpecker is associated with storms and thunder – it is said to give a particularly shrill call and become very active before storms and so can be an indication that a storm is on its way. Woodpeckers don’t only drum or hammer for food, as is commonly known, but they also use it as a form of communication – to tap out their territory, to attract a mate, to keep track of one another.
So I felt it was warning me – possibly of storms to come. And come they did. First we had shenanigans with James, not wanting to go to school, playing up, feigning illness. He loves his school and is very happy there but I do wonder if the uncertainty of the move and all is starting to get to him a bit. Or then again, maybe he just fancied a day at home. But when you balance your entire life like a pack of cards, it’s tough when one falls out of place. Then we started getting nervous about the move. Our buyer promised it would take a maximum of two weeks to sort out the issues that are holding up his own sale. Eight weeks have now passed and still no resolution is in sight. We are beginning to wonder if, once again, we have been suckered by this guy. Adrian has been uncharacteristically irritable. He’s been yelling at Jack (not so uncharacteristic, come to think of it) and stomping round using the Hoover like some kind of weapon (which is more unusual).
We had hoped that we would get some decent news today but no, nothing, nada.
I was so cross that I wrote a stiff email to our estate agent, warning that if he didn’t honour our exchange deadline (two weeks away now), we would pull out. In the past we have rolled over all too easily – this time we have to be tough.
Woodpecker can bode that we’re out of sync or out of step. I hope that’s not true. Sometimes its message is that we need to rest up, to pull together our strength. I know that’s true but it’s just not possible right now. At other times it – interestingly – is said to call people to the shamanic path. I have been fascinated with shamanism for many years and have done several trainings in it, including soul retrieval which is truly intriguing. I’ll tell you more about it another time as it’s quite involved. I based my children’s book Walker Between Words (which some of you are so kindly critiquing for me) on its practice – all the shamanic practices described in the book are based on fact. But in the last year or so I have stopped journeying (the shamanic technique for travelling to other realms for guidance and healing) so maybe the woodpecker is urging me to get back to that (it is supremely soothing, quite apart from anything else).
But then again, and I am clinging to this more than anything, Woodpecker can mean an uprooting, a change of abode.