nathalie shushan

I am sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat while a world unfolds inside my mind’s eye, a clear vision of rolling hills and the glint of sunshine reflected off blades of grass and pooled in leaves. First, from within my own body, I am in a line of women that are all me, from my youngest self to my oldest self, to whom I dedicate my practice. We are standing one behind the other. There is a palpable sense of bliss, of wholeness. My heart feels open and light. We are guided to take the hands of the selves that surround us and, tearfully, I turn to grasp the hands of my past and future selves on either side of me. I see, now from above, that this starts a cascade of turning and hand-holding across time and space, of all of my selves, like an endless chain of paper dolls but they are all three-dimensional and they are all me. 

My experience with pleasure and pain had become a foundational piece of my existence so, when I found Michaela’s Writing Retreat, it seemed targeted specifically at me: “A pleasurable Mediterranean journey imbued with spiritual practices & creative exploration.” Michaela offered a space and community within which I could get comfortable with my own vulnerability, and the tools required to express from that deeper place. When I looked at the itinerary, I was especially curious about a workshop entitled “Cultivating Worth & Pleasure on Your Creative Path.” It was with Alida, the somatic intimacy coach that Michaela had invited onto the retreat. In my experience strengthening my own mind-body connection and expanding my emotional capacity, somatic therapy has opened doors within myself that I had never before been able to access. 

The workshop was held in a renovated a-frame shed on the finca, with smooth marble floors and a slanted roof reinforced by wooden beams. Our evening rituals sanctified the studio. The entire structure was in the shade of a tree at the edge of the property so, even with its large paneled windows and windowed door, sunlight only ever trickled in and the room stayed cool and dim. We opted to be outside in the sun for most of our daytime practices but, for this exercise, we stayed inside our sacred cocoon. I didn’t know what to expect but I felt open – soft and pliable, ready for whatever might happen.

We trickled into the shed one by one. Michaela was seated against the wall and Alida stood in the middle of the room, waving a burning wand of Palo Santo. Smoke curled upward in wisps before dispersing, filling the room so the air was thick and scented. Yoga mats were laid out in a circle around the perimeter of the room and we each claimed one as our own when we walked through the door. I walked to mine at the back corner of the room and crossed my legs into an easy seat on the ground.  Coolness emanated from the marble and chilled my sundrenched skin.  

When we were all settled, Alida dropped us into our bodies with movement. We rolled our shoulders and circled our torsos around our hips, awakening. I closed my eyes and felt free. I committed to showing up fully – partially because I have learned that it becomes an invitation for other people, too, to feel comfortable showing up fully; partially because I believe that you get as much out of anything as you put into it; and partially because I have less concern about making a fool of myself these days, I find something liberating in it.  

Alida instructed us to pull our journals out. She guided us with prompts which called to mind moments that fed or repressed our creativity. I searched the corners of my memory for proof that I was on the right path. I reached toward my four-year-old self surrounded by books and my six-year-old self writing poems as offerings, and on and on throughout the years, digging beneath the layers of debris I’d gathered as I tried to protect myself from the uncertainty of life. 

We were instructed to select one memory that we could anchor into, a repressive one, which we could take this opportunity to reimagine. I couldn’t help the memory that came to me: the time I worked on an essay to submit to our Study Abroad journal while I was on semester in Paris. It was an all-consuming exercise, an exploration of love in every sense. I asked everybody I could about their experience with love, what it felt like and how it changed them. I remembered sitting at the symphony one night and being so moved by the music that I couldn’t help but pull out my pen and write, feverishly, because my whole body felt alive with love. I remembered being woken up by inspiration at 2am and pulling out my computer to get the words down. It felt like the most honest thing I had ever done. Even when I recalled it from Menorca, ten years later, it was one of my proudest accomplishments. Not just the finished product but the way the process of writing it energized me.

Subscribed

In the workshop, we were invited to speak to the versions of ourselves that existed within this memory. Aloud. First, I whispered. As I imagined my past self seated in front of me, my voice became stronger. I thanked her for paving the way for me to become the person I am today, for her courage and her devotion and her curiosity. I remember laughing briefly to myself because I was sure I wouldn’t cry since the memory I’d chosen was a happy one and, still, I was red-faced and tear-streaked within minutes. After a while, we switched roles. I became my younger version addressing my present self. As my younger self, I told my current self that everything I did was for her, and that I am so proud of the way she turned back toward the life of her dreams, that she is capable and worthy. 

I also remembered the self that, six months later, thought how glad I was to have done that because I had to give it all up to go into the real world. I stood in the barren living room of the house I lived in during my senior year of college, resigned to the idea of a corporate life that seemed like the only way to feel safe and secure in the world. I longed for steadiness, for the sureness of a paycheck twice a month, for a formula and a rubric, for rungs of a ladder of success up which I could climb as long as I worked diligently. In that moment, I willingly placed my dream up on an unreachable shelf and declared, “This is not for me.” 

Eventually, I spoke to both versions of my younger self – the one who lived out the dream and the one who put the dream on the shelf, and I thanked them both for their efforts. I thanked the latter for doing what she thought was best (which was, in fact, for the best. I wouldn’t choose a different life if given the chance). I told her she was brave, too, for marching forth into the world to create a life for herself that was certain, one which would allow her to offer a new kind of support to those around her. I expressed endless love and gratitude for them both. I recognized the limitations and circumstances that enabled their decisions, and felt a surge of forgiveness pour forth from my heart. 

Alida brought the workshop to a close. We were invited to be with every other version of ourselves that had ever existed and ever would exist over the course of this lifetime. In my mind, I saw an infinitely long line of women, of selves, that stretched forward and backward as long as I could see. Me in every single moment. I breathed deeply and let myself lean into the vision. All of my selves joined hands and, with tears of joy, we danced together – liberated and joyful. There was a new lightness in my being, a feeling of acceptance and integration. 

I have been a thousand different women – and, that day, I invited them all to dance.