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January 03, 2008


Tim Driscoll

Dear Elizabeth, I have been practicing postures and movements specifically to open my pelvic floor /perineum /throne, and exploring the notion that this throne is the physical manifestation of my Island of Peace because when my sit bones drop, spread, and spin, and my pubis emerges and aligns, and my tail becomes facile in unfurling imaginatively as long and expressive and exploratory as the tail of a sea creature or serpent, then my ribs ease, my shoulders release, and I breathe more expansively and feel ease in my body and thus peace. I believe where I have gotten off track in terms of being centered is in feeling like I still need to prove myself to my father - prove that I can do things with my body every bit as amazing as the sports figures is he so enthralled with - that I wish to hear him talk about me the way he talks about Tiger Woods because it is so ingrained in me from conditioning that sons seek vigilantly and valiantly their fathers pride and approval. The fantastical thoughts of how to prove my worthiness to him or how to tell him I am hurt from him not expressing enough pride in me keep me from engaging myself in the fascination with the expanding potential of my own body through this practice and keep me from writing about the body in the way I am fascinated with it and feel is part of my life's purpose to document as a set of Universal Principles. I keep going back somehow to the preconceived feeling of needing to express my hurt from him not understanding me, that I don't engage in communication with those who do understand me. When my mind goes distractedly into this conditioned response of prove-yourself-to-daddy, I'm off my throne (and I suppose in a way that relates to being off your rocker) because my energy screams all up into my shoulders and I stop breathing. But when my throne expands and I can really sit down through my bones, then I am no longer a prince trying to prove himself to his father - I have become a king - at ease to direct and rule with utter confidence and compassion. The prince I fall back into has an amazing facility with his crown (chakra), but the king I am becoming really knows how to use his throne. And the one self I am ruling is my own - alone right now in my Perineum of Peace, but trusting that as I get grounded into it, I can reach out more as a magnetic field with the harmony that becomes ingrained in me - harmony as opposed to conditioned responses. Perhaps this is my first act of peace within my newfounded Ischial Tuberosity Island.

Elizabeth Andes-Bell

Tim, I am elated that you have taken this work and made it your own. That is the purpose. Your on-going exploration will inspire others to comment as we accept the fact that, in order to live artfully, we must work with reality as it is.

Tim Driscoll

Dear Elizabeth, Much has come from my relating these stories - other stories, related by my mother. She wrote me a story about the many things she remembered about me as a child - she wrote that at five years old, I ran into the house exclaiming. "Mama! Mama! My heart is bounding!" She wrote after that, "I loved that." It made me cry, it was so simple, and I could see myself saying that, see myself so emphatically wishing to make her aware of the feeling I had in my heart, not knowing the difference between bounding and pounding, or getting the two confused so perfectly as to proclaim the beat and the exuberence simultaneously. I believe she wrote all these remembrances of hers to affectionately and perhaps protectively offset the upset I felt from my father's favorite story about me being how he cured me of temper tantrums, but when I gave her praise for her writing, which was so inspiringly simple, she continued to send me a story one every other day, of elements of living on the farm that she grew up on. One story was about milking cows, one about her mother sobbing to her while they washed dishes for a family of nine, one of her trying to stick up for her younger brother who was being beaten up by the older brother, and one about the acre of garden that her mother and the seven children seeded and planted. She tells as part of the story about pressing a tin can around the tiny just-planted tomatoes to protect them from the cut worms that will chew them off right at the base. I realize for one that I have agrarian roots just a generation removed, and how the deep acknowledgment of that has the potential to get me better grounded despite my present city dwelling and having at best, three potted plants in my studio. I spent time on that farm where my mother was raised, remember wanting to be a farmer when I grew up, remember the much-smaller- than-an-acre, but still enormous garden my grandmother had with cucumbers, potatoes, peas that I helped to harvest, shell, peel, and pickle. I loved the feel of the pea pods and the way they snap open to reveal what the plant has produced as seed, but what becomes for us a succulent subsistence. I remember peeking and pushing past coarse, scratchy leaves and seeing the just-right-size cucumber half-hiding beneath the hairy tendrils of the vine. I remember having a huge garden in our backyard in Phoenix and the way the rich soil felt when it had been turned, broken of clods, raked, and readied to affectionately press tiny tomato plants into, and how I loved the thought that in Phoenix when you seed in the fall, the seedlings root deeply during the mild winter, not growing much on top, but explode with bloom as soon as the weather warms up in earliest spring because they root deep despite the winter's chill. When I sent my mother what I had blogged to you before, she responded, "Oh, that's what blogging is - just writing like you are talking." And that is what the writing that she has sent to me is - just like she is talking - there is no craft or pretense, perhaps it comes through so clearly and heartfelt because she has me in mind when she is writing it - I know that when I write here, knowing that you will be reading it - someone who cares about me and believes in me as a wondrous human being - it brings forth a heartfelt, wanting-to-share-everything bounding sincerity. My mother has written, perhaps unwittingly, what I have desired - images to connect me to my roots - she has literally put forth a story of my family's connection to the earth, to sowing seeds, to protecting the roots in such a way that has enormous healing beyond the fact that she is informing me of my roots, which I feel directly affects my pelvic floor and the chakra down there, she has put the stories in writing which is wonderfully simple and clear. She said, "I'm glad you enjoy my stories." I told her, "I admire them, Mom." Writing this down now, again my heart is bounding, and I love that.

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