Scotland and Aye

by Sophia Wasiak Butler

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  The Island of Lesbos

  A Long Way From Home

  The decision to leave behind my country home and participate in a therapist training course during the summer was born out of the desire to improve myself as a person. It is my belief, that without self-awareness we are not able to function in the world as it really is, without becoming completely lost in our own dramas which we orchestrate. I am no stranger to working with the body and mind, having been introduced to body-psychotherapy as a rebellious teenager. At that time it seemed completely unnecessary and totally insane, however, I believe that it has made me who I am today, and most importantly: still alive. The reality of growing up a ‘mongrel’ with a Polish mother and an English father in cosmopolitan London promoted a wonderful equality in multiculturalism. We ‘mieszanki’ or mongrels are a breed of our own, enriched with a double cultural heritage, we are blessed and yet we are often lost in confusion. The need for an absolute identity particularly during teenage years can plunge us into a rejection of one or other culture, language and parent, causing a deep schism in the psyche. By not accepting them, we are not accepting ourselves.

  Often, we believe we are acting from our conscious mind which has the best intentions, however: our unconscious motivations can sabotage our best efforts. How many times have you been baffled at a pear-shaped situation, or someone else’s reaction to you? With a bit of help, we can begin to clear away some of the cobwebs and familiarise ourselves with our inner terrain. Hopefully, we become aware of what we are actually sending out into the world, rather than what we think we are, because the two may be at loggerheads. One of the things which I have discovered on the journey of self-awareness, is that I favour working with the body, or the body-mind (which relies on the natural intelligence stored within your cells), rather than cognitive therapy. The main reason for this preference is that I find the mind to be such a tricky character, however, it does not have the ability to control what the body may unearth in a session because the body does not lie. It can only experience what is already there.

  I cannot omit that I agreed to diving into this adventure after being persuaded by my father’s enthusiasm to experience something new together. It was supposed to be a bonding and learning opportunity. However, at the last moment something came up at work, so it was just me and my silver suitcase. After changing planes in Athens I arrived on the mythical island of Lesbos. Following a two-hour hair-raising taxi drive along mountain precipices with sheer cliff faces and foaming waves many feet below, I was left wondering how explorers ever felt inspired to explore the Greek islands. Lesbos like many of the other islands I have visited looks from the outside like a giant rock, craggy and barren scorched by the sun and pounded by the relentless waves. Yet, once penetrated, these islands house beautiful oases of lush vegetation and sandy beaches. Being a rather large island, Lesbos has an airport and a road which runs it’s perimeter. Following in the footsteps of the famous poetess Sappho, who brought lesbianism its name, the island has become a gay mecca frequented each year by countless tourists.

  Just in case I had any dreams of a paradisiacal month spent by the sea, they were quickly dispelled upon arrival at the centre where the course was held. This training was a month of Reichian body work. This particular one was in a form called ‘Pulsation’, led by a woman with a lifetime of experience in the field. Wilhelm Reich was a student of Freud’s, who found that classic psychoanalysis was not always achieving results. Typically, the patient lays on the couch and talks without ever seeing the therapist who sits behind them, in order to minimise the effects of transference and counter-transference. Reich began to notice similarities amongst clients; they all reported dysfunctional or non-existent sexual lives, breathed in a shallow way and seemed disconnected from their bodies. He started to experiment by asking them to breathe deeply and systematically into the belly, diaphragm and chest. His patients began to tap into and release various tensions and traumas, leaving them freer and less inhibited. This led Reich to map the muscular armouring of the body, in which different segments of muscles work together in holding and suppressing emotions and tensions. With so much energy devoted to ‘holding things together’, very little energy is left for the enjoyment of living, spontaneity and the ‘juiciness’ of our sensual experience. The senses are a fundamental condition of our lives on earth, which we often negate due to our societal conditioning, resulting in painful and diseased bodies because of stagnated energy.

  This month was one of the most testing experiences I have encountered. The training consisted of sessions beginning at 7 am with an active meditation called ‘dynamic’, followed by a break for breakfast and a quick shower. The morning session consisted of a warm-up and more intense body work, leading to lunch. The afternoon session was more of the same, ending with two meditations before dinner at 9 pm – the ‘kundalini’ and the ‘white robe’29 active meditations. The night session after dinner was usually a lighter one, consisting either of a sharing about the days explorations, or theory, bringing the day to a close at around midnight. I was expecting an intense process, it is body work after all, but this was extreme, even as the youngest person in the group it was a stretch. I was in awe of the oldest man in our group who was eighty years old, with one eye, who attended all sessions and meditations, dancing and laughing all the while. Wow! What an inspiration, life energy was clearly flowing through him, I can only hope we will all have such a zest for life at that age. The routine was rigorous; leaving me with blistered feet, a lip full of cold sores (literally), and calf muscles so tight I was hobbling around like an old woman after the first week! Vanity was impossible, I have never gone for so long without looking in a mirror, applying makeup, or generally caring what I looked like! It was actually incredibly liberating I have to say, not to think about any everyday rituals.

  The teaching was world class, we received lessons and booklets on anatomy and Reich’s theories, which extended far and wide. He diagnosed a system of body types (which Alexander Lowen later developed), based on physical appearance, emotional tendencies and intellectual strategies. However, the main focus was on experiential learning, we were exchanging sessions with each other daily, in the role of therapist/client in a giant laboratory, free to experiment and guided by skilful assistants. The idea was to work with a different person each day, in order to see how different we all are, and yet there are certain systems within the body which function universally, for example; two basic ones are tension and stress stored in the shoulders and anger in the jaw, hence the expression ‘through gritted teeth’.

  It was possible to survive the training itself, however, the setting was a process all of its own. Although I was somewhat angry at my dad for not coming, I could not possibly have imagined him there. The commune was made up of supposedly like-minded people and a condition of stay was working through a morning break every other day. We were assigned the kitchen (which consisted in washing plates and cutlery in cold water from a hose), course room or bar area each day. A taxi-ride away from the beach, down dusty dirt roads, where not even goats roamed due to a lack of vegetation; it felt like a desert complete with scorpions (with a non-lethal sting, but scorpions nonetheless). The place is pervaded by a ‘wildness’ and run by Greek men. It is a brand of spirituality and a lack of hygiene which is not to all tastes.

  There seemed to be many men just hanging around, observing the people, coming and going, which contributed to a sexual atmosphere. The bar was a hit-and-miss affair – it was sometimes open during breaks, sometimes serving fruit and sometimes inexplicably abandoned. In a break it was possible to have a coffee, a cigarette, an alcoholic drink and a sexual encounter. This was the part I was uncomfortable with, it seemed that some people congregated at the commune, to flirt and socialise, leading to an environment of promiscuity a
nd something of a hippy style ‘free love’ vibe. Any processes I had participated in until then had been solely about the experience of the process itself, with rules of silence and sexual integrity. Any feelings or attractions which develop are picked up on and used as a vehicle for the individual to go deeper within themselves, observing how quickly we want to project on the outer world so as to avoid a deep meeting with self. Here, anything goes. Talking, provocative clothes and full contact – I observed the combination with emotional work was quite explosive!

  People within this world had taken ancient Sanskrit names to signify their rebirth into a life characterised by a pursuit of personal liberation. Defenders of this style of life say that it brings process into real life with a focus on personal responsibility, rather than it being something completely cut off from a reality which must be returned to. I understand this line of thought and I believe this world to be a wonderful place of physical liberation for highly repressed people, or those who for example, did not experiment in their teens. It is just a question of taste.

  I spoke to many people who had deeply transformational experiences in these communes and likewise, many who found it overwhelming and in some cases invasive. I certainly had to overcome my own shock, sense of threat and cynicism which always uttered an internal giggle when being introduced to European people whose names were clearly Anna, Peter or Kostas, presenting themselves with names such as ‘Kali’, ‘Krishna’ and ‘Shiva’30. The idea that a new name makes a person more spiritual I find absurd. Would it make you more likely to help an old lady across the road with her shopping? In my experience this kind of renaming often simply inflates the spiritual ego. I also feel that accepting one’s own birth name can be another important stepping stone on the way to self-acceptance.

  One evening, I hovered at the bar, badly sunburnt, wearing a cardigan and shivering despite the thermal evening. I could feel the hot flushes and the chills beginning to wreak havoc on my skin. Where is she? I wondered to myself, I would just like to say ‘Hello’ and excuse myself. An older man, with a mane of unkempt curly hair turned to me – “Why are you wearing this?” he asked in a thick Greek accent, indicating my jumper. “Oh, I’m sunburnt.” “Really?” His eyebrows went up, widening his eyes, seemingly connected to the corners of his mouth which had by now widened into a Cheshire Cat grin. “I have some special healing calendula oil in the kitchen, I could rub some into your back, my hands have healing properties,” he said stubbing out his cigarette and waving them in front of my eyes. I could not have imagined anything worse than being carted off to the kitchen, completely abandoned at this time of night, to have ‘healing’ oil rubbed into my sore back by a sleazy old man. “Thank you, but I’m really alright, just waiting for my friend, she’s playing music here in the bar tonight.” He laughed to himself and stared straight ahead, as though seeing through me in some way.

  I had the constant feeling that my restraint was perceived as frigidity by the people at the commune, that I was comical, like the new kid at school who has not yet learned what is cool. Completely undeterred, I remained standing and shivering while my companion, a moment ago so full of generosity, treated me as a fly on the wall. I have never been much good at going to a bar or restaurant and dining or drinking alone. I always associate it with the loneliness of civilised life, all the people who buy meals for one in the supermarket, living their solo lives – a far cry from the tribal communities we came from. Lacking other company, I asked my companion, “What’s your name?” I should have guessed what was coming, his round, pink face turned once again to me as he heavily proclaimed that his Sanskrit name meant ‘the god of love’ and that no other seeker bears that name. Inwardly smirking I wondered if he like so many others had christened himself. I asked. “Of course not, how vain would I have to be to give myself this name, I was given it.” Ok, I thought, probably by your best friend! The ‘god of love’ had now worryingly turned to face me and I could feel the full weight of his attention, studying me. I looked into the shadows of the outdoor bar, wishing someone I knew would show up. Feeling that the ‘god of love’ was still imagining I might be persuaded into his massage, I asked, “What do you do?” He turned away from me and lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply and slowly, he exhaled just as languorously. “I give light.” He said, delivered in true New Age ethereal style. I could not help the chortle which escaped me – “What do you actually do?” I asked sarcastically by this point, wondering how people can stand communicating in such an ungrounded way about the most ordinary things. “I’m an electrician,” he said turning to face the bar. I laughed and this signalled the end of the exchange.

  The place was peopled by a colourful array of nationalities which I found fascinating. In a group of twenty-odd I found several Slavs, Russians, a Bosnian woman, a Czech man and a compatriot – I was delighted to find Mariola, a Polish woman living in India. The extent of the Polish diaspora never ceases to amaze me! Although they all move in the circles of this commune world, I found several wonderful friends with whom I am still in contact. Occasionally, we decided that a trip to the beach in the afternoon and a little evening dance in the town were just as beneficial as a meditation in the commune.

  For me the experience was a real test of endurance and character. I returned home feeling detoxed in my body, the sweating and body work had burnt out a lot of toxins, my skin was feeling new and clean and I felt motivated to keep up the cleansing. On an emotional level, I felt like I had more space inside, more distance from the chatter of the mind and a confidence coming from feeling a connection with my inner self. Although I returned feeling strong, exhausted and exhilarated, grateful for my experiences and the people I connected with, I do not imagine that I will be visiting this commune again. I have never missed Bonny Scotland, my Scotsman and my dogs so much! The warrior is awakened, able to survive anything now.

  Ears the goat

  29 Both types of meditations were developed by the mystic Osho, designed to help Westerners especially escape from the busyness of the mind

  30 Kali: Hindu goddess of destruction/death and rebirth. Krishna: Hindu god of compassion and love. Shiva: Hindu god of transformation

  The End of a Goat Era

  Soon after returning home from the interesting journey in Greece, I realised that my darling had been sparing me some of the realities of his daily life for the month of my absence. Bright and chirpy the morning after my arrival home, William is readying himself for work. As I sleepily mumble: “I’ll walk the dogs today.” I am surprised that I receive a pat on the head and strict instructions to rest. As William walks out of the bedroom he casually says, “Just put the goats out when you surface.” I happily return to napping, feeling like a lady of leisure. It seemed that no sooner had I dropped off to sleep, than I began to hear a sound which rudely intruded on my dreams, like a demented Chewbacca…

  Running downstairs in my attractive rozowy frotkowy szlawroczek31, hard as sand-paper after so many years of use, I tear outside to see what unearthly creature has colonised my garden. I find one goat manically smashing her head into the fence of her sleeping barn and as I look around to locate her companion I nearly have a heart attack! There is a fully grown Galloway blackhead cow standing my garden and a goat in my vegetable patch surrounded by half-consumed gardening utensils. Now, knowing as I do that a couple of people are killed each year by cows in Scotland whilst trying to save their dogs, I wisely grab my two by the scruff of the neck (figuring that the goats can fend for themselves). Whilst in the precarious position of protecting my modesty and screaming unavailingly, a neighbour casually strolls past, getting an eyeful of the spectacle.

  The island of Lesbos seems an age away as I run into the kitchen with a face as red as a burak32 and light up a cigarette: the dogs are barking, one goat is trying to escape, the other is snacking on my organic vegetables and ‘Daisy’ the gargantuan cow is standing ominously in the garden – what on Earth can I do? Many unhelpful thoughts flash through my mind, mai
nly with the flavour of ‘How did a girl from London get herself into this?!’ Or ‘I wish I had a few tranquiliser darts!’

  Ungrateful savages – we nursed the goats back to health, loved and cared for them, how did they become such megalomaniacs? The goats who by this point, require daily tethering thanks to their ability to; jump, eat or trample any enclosure attempts, have become an absolute nightmare. Terrified to go outside, I quickly throw on some clothes and decide there is nothing for it – I have to get myself to the pub in town if I have any hope of tracking down the farmer, who may otherwise wait days to check that herd. I escape through the front door into my post-box red-eco-mobile and drive at lighting speed to the nearest town.

  Thankfully, the two Polish girls I have befriended are working that morning, “Boże Marta, daj whisky szybko!”33, “Co sie stalo? Wygladasz okropnie?!”34 Marta says. Kasia also pops her head out of the kitchen, but seeing how bad the situation is she wisely decides to let me have the drink first and ask questions later. The whisky accompanies me outside with a badly rolled cigarette and a concerned Marta. “Hmmm, Czekaj”35 Marta says when I explain what has happened through a wiązanka36 of expletives. I visit Kasia for a refill in the time she is gone, but anticipate a long day when Marta comes outside looking whiter than me – I called my Babcia in Zakopane,37 “Zosia nie jest dobrze”38 – “You have to get rid of them.” Appreciating the total hybrid of Polish and English which the girls and I now use together, I am informed that goats are likely only to grow in will power and the desire for fresh pastures which renders them incredibly strong. I return inside, shivering from the cold and realise that I cannot drive home at this point, only to find Kasia, charm cranked up to full force talking to a man with his paw around a pint of dark ale. It seems she has managed to convince this ‘bear-man’ that I have in my possession two incredible goats.