The sixty-first session of the Commission on the Status of Women took place at the United Nations Headquarters in New York, from 13 to 24 March 2017. Representatives of Member States, UN entities, and ECOSOC-accredited non-governmental organizations (NGOs) from all regions of the world attended the session. The themes of this years session were:

• Priority Theme: Women’s economic empowerment in the changing world of work
• Review Theme: Challenges and achievements in the implementation of the Millennium Development Goals for women and girls (agreed conclusions of the fifty-eighth session)
• Emerging Issue/Focus Area: The empowerment of indigenous women

Amber Gray, Restorative Resources Director, was a presenter at the Forum. Amber co-presented with colleagues from The University of New Mexico, The Turkish House, and Lutheran Family Services. Amber’s presentation focused on a framework LFS piloted to provide group therapy to Afghan women, who are recently arrived refugees, using a public/mental health and creative arts therapy approach. This group fosters a restored sense of belonging through connection, empowerment, and engagement with meaningful activities.

The framework is being replicated with women from Central African Republic and Democratic Republic of Congo this year. Unlike many group therapy approaches, this framework utilizes a public health approach so the facilitators and the women can co-create the group content and process. The framework is based on Amber’s Restorative Movement Psychotherapy, a mindfulness, somatic and arts based approach to working with refugee and war trauma; survivors of torture; and survivors of interpersonal trauma in cross cultural contexts. Participants attending the Forum from Mozambique and Kurdistan expressed an interest in similar programs, and Restorative Resources is currently co-seeking funds for the Kurdistan program. We are conducting research on impact on a sense of belonging, for the second year.

Dear Donald Trump,

You are definitely not my President, because you single-handedly just broke hearts, separated families indefinitely, shattered spirits, and undermined the values that truly once made America great. Those values of inclusivity, hospitality, and humanitarianism are omitted from this action. I spent yesterday in my refugee clinic, counseling survivors of human rights abuses from Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan. This is the work I have done for twenty years.

The sense of relative safety that refugees arriving to the community of the United States have always felt is now shattered. The place we, as a nation, once held in the world—of sanctuary, of acceptance, of pragmatic humanitarian compassion and action, of equality and liberty for all—is eroded.

I would love to know what you suggest I tell the woman I counseled yesterday; who was tortured and raped by Isis in two different countries, and who had to flee with her two young children, to save her own life, and leave her husband and one child behind? She has been waiting to re-unify with her beloved family; she needs her husbands support to raise their children because she suffers from her history of exposure to war, violence, and abuse. She is only one of the many survivors of gross human rights violations I counsel. Is he going to be able to join his family? Who is supposed to tend to her children when she has to go to work, and make minimum wage, to support them? I invite you to sit with my my clients and listen to them. I invite you to answer their questions. I invite you to represent humanity, and not fear.

This action is shamefully un-American, and so are you.

Tonga, August–September, 2016

There is no word for problem in Tonga. I learned this from the spotter on the boat that took us out, daily, to swim with whales. Anything that arises, troubles, distresses, or hurts, has a solution. Or, with time and perspective, it will ease.

After 11 days in Haa’pai, facilitating “Dancing the Wild Home”, a Continuum Movement and Whale Encounter Depths Retreat, and being with the humpback whales almost daily, I believe in this ease. So much of what causes me to stress or distress, can shift when my perception and perspective shift. This is not always easy, but—it’s possible. Whale encounters have shown me that anything is possible.

How We Meet The World

I awake an hour before I am usually comfortable getting up, and am drawn to the edge of sea and land, where I also see the edge of sky and sea. It’s 6 am. The sun initially edges the sky with fringes of pale pink light, and then golden-orange swirls of sky give way to the first blue of morning. Sunsets are equally colorful, sometimes bold as orange light infuses the clouds with fire, or gentle as pale lavender and rose tints the clouds like a perfume.

A whale breaches, splashing so big it catches all of my sight. It blows a fountain of morning salt water. As I ponder the horizon, I see five more breaches, big and little, Mam’s, babies and escorts, enlivening the edge of the sky/sea.

The horizon appears to breathe with the movement of water, and whales. A few fishing boats stream across the glassy surface. This is my last morning here, and I am as equally sad to leave as I am grateful for the extraordinary interaction with a truly wild place. We arrived here over a week ago, and began our intensive movement and swimming immersion—ocean immersion—with these questions as placeholders for our experience, shifts, and transformations:

How do I meet the world?
In what ways am I still wild and untamed?
How do I relate to gravity?
How does returning to the water change me?

Our days alternated between Continuum Movement explorations, on land, in the sea, and at the edge of the ocean, and swimming with the whales in pristine aqua, indigo and teal water. We explored gravity by walking, swimming, and merging with the sand where the water lapped it. We spiraled, undulated, and floated in all these elements. Living in open-air traditional huts, we slept and awoke to wind, sun, rain, heat, cold and even an earthquake. One of the Continuum sounds we played with is the primordial breath, which sounds a bit like a spooky wind weaving through bare trees. Sending primordial sounds into our spines while we floated and spiraled in several feet of water, above a magical coral reef, and then crawling up onto land as a bow to our evolutionary ancestors discovering sand, land and gravity for the first time; we met the world.

Being Seen

I was almost “charged” by a whale today. Not just any whale, a 50-ton male escort—the male who protects the mother and her baby.

Charge is a bit too strong a word, because I did not feel for a moment he was coming at me—they can’t really see what’s in front of them until they are quite close. But he definitely was letting the boat know that it was time for us to go home, and I was swimming in his path. It was clear a message that its time for us to allow Mother and baby to rest.

This was our second day in Haa’pai, and after a sweet nights sleep in an elegant eco- lodge, where surf, wave and wind are constant lullabies, we were swimming with one of two babies who are unusually social. This year, each island that has whale swim operators has discovered a baby whale who seeks interaction with humans. I witnessed another young male go almost nose-to-nose affectionately with our guide, who he clearly recognized and loves. This young whale also swam up to me, circling around me and gathering me in a proximal belly embrace that became a spiral dance away from each other. I spiraled for a few minutes with him, and when he swam around to me again, his face rose above the water and he looked me in the eye. Barely touching him, I gently kissed his nose.

I wondered if he had some of Cosmo’s spirit sparks in him. When Cosmo, my dog of 8 years, died suddenly in April, my reverent friends assured me he would traverse the Bardo quickly, and come back as a human—in a fortunate life. Good dogs apparently earn this karma. I was horrified. I did not want Cosmo to return as a human. I have prayed that at least part of his spirit would return as a whale.

Flying here, I began to feel his presence much closer than I have in a while and I sense him around me. I knew I’d find him here. He also loved to play; to roll over and show his smooth belly, to run to me enthusiastically, unencumbered joy, when we walked in the wilds. He boldly jumped into the water when we rafted, approaching complete strangers as he swam from inner tube to inner tube. So many of his behaviors were whale and dolphin like, and I sense him in the playful big-bodied spirits I am encountering in this biggest blue playground. A dear friend from Lebanon prepared me for Cosmo’s death by saying that his spirit was growing too big for his body. Cosmo, I hope you’ve found a big enough body-home, and ocean home, for all that love.

For the next half hour, this baby exposed his belly to each one of us, rolling and spiraling to engage us in play. The elegant stripes of his bright white belly are a magnificent highlight on his inky blue barnacle tattooed, one ton body. All three—baby, mom and escort- at some point today approached us close enough that we met the gaze of their eyes. Being witnessed by the deepest compassion on the planet.

This is a mixed blessing.

Our whale guides eventually decided to stop swimming with this most interactive baby, because his Mother was having a hard time “rounding him up” when it was time for rest. He would sometimes choose to swim towards the boat with his human playmates. Humpbacks need rest to survive the long trip back to the Antarctica in November; his mother will not have eaten since she left there to travel to Tongan waters to give birth. It may be that the 1969 ban on whale hunting and the recent development of a whale swimming industry has initiated these more intimate human whale interactions. They are extremely intelligent and compassionate creatures; I have long been convinced they are more intelligent than we are and would begin to transmit to us, in service of evolution. They are teachers if we listen. With our planet on the brink of even more catastrophic storms, violence, weather changes and loss, we might benefit from learning why whales chose to return to the ocean. They were part of the species migration from sea to land, and after earth dwelling for a long time, they returned to the ocean. What do they know?

Becoming water, again

In my psychotherapy world, I am always considering the continuum of human response to the stories and histories I listen to, and the restorative processes I witness and share. Sympathy, empathy and compassion seem to exist on a spiraling continuum and we always have choices about how we engage and encounter other sentient beings. Sympathy has its place, and it can disempower those who are oppressed by human rights abuse. Empathy helps us to connect to others through our ability to feel what they feel; this is essential for understanding in relationship, and it puts us at risk for vicarious trauma when we work, as I do, with the suffering of others who are traumatized. The science of mirror neurons now tell us that we are soft wired for empathy, which may be where humans are in the ongoing evolution of species. Compassion may be a higher evolutionary emotion, practice, condition, or ability; I believe it is. And I believe whales are soft—perhaps hard—wired for compassion, and that this is their teaching. If I were a researcher, I would investigate the heart-brain ratio of whales vs. human. We celebrate and exalt our brain size and brainpower; our brains are admired as the primary source of our intelligence. I suspect whales much bigger hearts are closer in size to their brains, and there is a more myelinated, “high speed” communication pathway between their hearts and brains. They are as emotionally intelligent as they are cognitively intelligent, their heart-brain communication fosters their compassion, which I define as an ability to recognize feelings, positive or negative, in others, and differentiate them from our own. We recognize these feelings because we know them, and have experienced them; we connect with heart to others while maintaining our own integrity. This frees us up for right action; this is how we cultivate deep regard, respect, self-compassion, self-love, and dignity. The element of non-attachment that Buddhist practice promotes may be the grace in love that whales emit; the ocean pulses with this love. As the oceans warm and the humpbacks food source (krill) dies off, we are faced with losing the oceans wisdom keepers. May we grow our hearts big enough to become compassionate creatures who step into the depth of stewardship whales and all sentient brings deserve. As Emilie Conrad, creator of Continuum Movement, often asked: “The oceans are approximately 70% water, and so are we. There must be a reason. Why aren’t we investigating this?”

Thank you, whales, for opening my eyes so I can see with the depth that you do.

Rewilding

On the morning of our last day in Haapai, as I stepped out into the day, a pair of chickens and 7 or 8 little chicks are meandering in the path in front of my door. As the chickens swerved and nipped at tall grasses and flowers, the little chicks wove an uneasy trail behind their mother and her friend. At one point she dug with her little talons, kicking up dirt, and then her little ones picked at whatever insects she churned up for them. Then they plopped right in the middle of my path and she puffed up, ballooning her feathers so the chicks could all assemble. Then they gathered under her, an occasional tiny head or butt sticking out; a tiny chick darting out to find another place under his moms ballooning protection. They rest under the safety of their mother’s circa 18th century ballroom feather gown for 20 minutes; deep rest and settle in the middle of a beach path. Safety, comfort, protection, love. Its everywhere in the wild, and I am rewilding.

One of the participants in Dancing the Wild Home described Continuum Movement in this way: It brings color to the places that are black and white. Exploring this movement practice so close to the source of its inspiration—the ocean—on a remote island; at a solar powered eco-resort; in an open air movement studio; and then taking these embodied inquires to the water and the whales, is a homecoming. Embodying the compassionate wilderness of our hearts.

I am at the airport, leaving. I watch all the humans come and go and reflect on this week plus of encounters with beautiful humans, divine whales, and a wild place.
We are a streaming of arrivals and departures, a continuous thread of whale songs, love and eternal dreaming.

Whales are everywhere, here: they literally punctuate the ocean with their movements. In the space of a few minutes, looking out over the horizon or around the sea our boat is gliding through, we see pairs and trios and pods of whales breaching, spy-hopping, tail slapping and diving. This is an annual pilgrimage site, for breeding and birthing. These prisms of gem-blue waters serve as a safe place for the whales to create new life and tend to their young before they begin their own journeys back to Antartica.

This is big ocean. Tonga is in the middle of the South Pacific, and there is a lot of water. I am one of those unfortunate people who saw Jaws when it first came out, and am terrified of the deep. Having grown up near the ocean, and once been comfortable swimming long distances in it; I began to fear being out in the deep ocean, after seeing Jaws. Swimming with whales in Tonga—which I really wanted to do—meant I sometimes had to swim in deep ocean.

The trip I joined was also a freediving trip and I made it clear to the instructor that I wasn’t interested in freedivng—only whales. I think I was a little scared. But I had never really thought about it and it just seemed unnecessary: Why would I hold my breath and plunge into that deep? I just wanted to see the whales.

This blog isn’t about the apparent madness of the world right now, but it bears stating that the world seems particularly poised on the edge of many disasters, tragedies, horrors. My Utne reader just arrived with this on the cover: Curtain Call. Its about the end of us. I have believed that my niece and nephews generation may be the ones who see our species die out, for a long time. Its not a popular idea, but as the ice melts, weather destabilizes, refugees die in boats and get turned away from safe shores, fires burn, hunters kill precious beloved lions. ..The list goes on. This is why I went to visit the whales. Before I met them, I hoped they might inherit the world, because I have long believed they are far smarter, and more importantly—more compassionate than we. I think I am right.

Back to the water: In the midst of a crumbling world, my Father’s transition, my own free-float out of structured job and the assurance of steady contract work (i.e I am remaking my professional life), I needed to be in the deep. I visited Tonga in the coldest winter anyone could remember there. What that means is winds of 20-25 knots, rough oceans, cold water. The whales love the cold. I don’t own a wetsuit and have never free-dived and was not prepared for how physically difficult it would be to stay warm and float in this season of unusual weather. But that’s where the whales were.

Its kind of crazy to jump in the water and swim with whales. Whales are big. HUGE . Massive. And yet being in the water with them runs the continuum of deep rest to playful encounter. Whales see us. If they are not interested, they swim away immediately. If they hang out on the surface for a while, they may be beckoning you to join them in their watery home. If you swim to within 30, give or take, meters of them, they may remain floating on the surface or below you. They may get really still. They may then swim away. Or they may circle and arc a pathway that intersects with your tiny treading place in the giant ocean, and see you.

Whale babies seem delightfully innocent and clumsy; there are things they don’t know yet. They squeak like little puppies and often veer right towards you, unsure of their fins and tails; this could seem threatening because these “small” whales are 2-3 tons, but they are curious and want to try you out as a playmate. Mothers, and the male escorts (who may or may not be family) float below, intervening only if they are concerned for the baby, or the baby and her mom. Once one of our group members dove to soon and the mama turned and sped her baby quickly away. Another time the escort began to move because our group had inadvertently separated mom from baby. Some encounters are acknowledgements, and even feel like reacquainting with an old friend. On one of my swims, the baby rose up to the surface and then arced around and swam towards me, then crossed right in front of me. His eyes seemed to suggest that he or she was teasing me. He and his Mama stuck around, but not too close. To be above the silhouette of dark and white (each whale has its own very unique markings), and watch the long body glide effortlessly and slowly away, with a final view of the white fluke as it drops down deep, is magic.

One time a baby rose up to the surface about 10 feet from me, and I popped up to see it there, then when I dunked under, the mama was circling around and swam right by me, looking me in the eye. Are you a worthy playmate for my child? I guess I was. They remained and floated, swam, and even the baby frolicked for over an hour. The escort, whose was just a dark shadow resting on the ocean floor, stayed right under us until they began to migrate. When he rose up, a fellow swimmer was right on top of him and his extended leg was a mere 2 feet from his massive back. Its exciting, its calming, its soothing, and its deeply moving..

Free diving is an exquisite sport, and despite my initial lack if interest and fear, I managed to get to 8 meters on my second try. And held my breath for twenty seconds. It felt completely natural to be in ocean, and as a long time Continuum teacher, I realize that of course—this is home. We are ocean . 70% water. We need to breathe, but we can learn to hold breath to return to our origins and play beneath the surface. As my comfort increased, I began to dive closer to the whales beneath the surface I held my breath for longer times. And when a snorkel filled or a mask flooded and I fell behind my group and was suddenly far from the boat and far from the group in that deep stormy ocean, I soldiered on. Three guiding thoughts: You chose to be here. You know how to swim. If you see a shark just kick it.”

Somehow, I confronted fear and feel in love with free diving and with endless hours in ocean. It was ok to be almost landless for 8 full days. I left these encounters with the sense that the whales are in charge. They know we are here; they’ve been watching us for millennia. They watched life emerge from ocean to land, as they did; then when they chose to return to the ocean, they had seen creatures move on earth. They first heard our legs in the water and then perhaps heard canoes and kayaks, sailboats, motorboats, water ski’s. They hear the sonar of large naval ships (which often damage their usual migratory and feeding patterns) so they know we are here. They are always watching. So I think those of us who arrive out of curiosity and respect, with a sincere interest in learning about and from the whales, might be welcomed. I wouldn’t want too many people in the ocean at any one time, and for now, whale swimming is a privilege. It costs a lot to fly to Tonga and stay here for a week and access a boat that can take you out each day. It’s a once on a lifetime experience for many of us, and one that merits not just the action of being in the water with these ancient ocean wisdom keepers, but also reflection.

Read about whales. Read about the whale wars and whaling industry and the sacrifices they have made as they continue to forge on and steward the oceans. Watch movies like The Whale, and Blackfish. Whales are sensitive, intelligent, compassionate, and holy. When I contemplate the state of the world, I truly hope that if our human species dies out, whales remain and perhaps return to their rule.
To watch a baby whale nuzzle against its mother is to see pure love. As their long bodies wiggle like a fish, the mama stays soft and calm, allowing her child to playfully scratch and soothe itself on her rugged skin. They show wisdom, affection, and acceptance. They allow us to be in their space.

On my last day, I hovered above a mama whale, about 10 feet. She was resting in between ocean floor and ocean surface. Her fins were slowly undulating to keep her afloat. I gazed at the eyes on each side of her head, the top of her head where her massive brain is. We knew the other was there. I told her several times that I loved her. I sounded as close as I can to a whale song and while I have no idea if my tiny sound carried to her, if she heard anything, I trust she knew I tried to outreach my voice to hers. Whales truly feel like the embodiment of love. At home in the oceans, their powerful bodies swimming unbearably long and cold journeys, they move slowly, gracefully, fluidly in their watery realms. Its like being in a waking dream and witnessing the creation of a world. Dreaming. I am beginning to believe that whales not only welcome us; they long for us to respectfully be with them, in their environment, so that they might teach us how to be in this world. They displace a lot of water just in the act of breathing, and the massive ocean they dance in is still all around. Ever changing, their gift is traversing the unknown to ensure that life goes on.
And to remind us: love is big.

There are still places in this world where the sky is awash with stars. Tasmania is one of them. In this Australian island, just off this most ancient land, the night sky is aglow with the light that emanates from the space that still illuminates the death of these once bright cosmic bodies.

To lie on the ground and look into the stars is to look into the mirror. There are numerous citations re: the relationship between humans, and stars. It’s carbon, apparently, that connect us; I am not a scientist but I have read numerous references to the relationship between us, and the stars. In essence, that we are stardust.

After guiding a Continuum Movement Depths Retreat, “At the Crossroads: The Serpents Dream”, outside Sydney; my husband and I traveled to Tasmania to visit a dear friend and to spend a week in the many places alive with raw and wild beauty that define this magical place.

Sydney, the most populated city in Australia, has far less people than New York City alone (#). I am not even sure all of Australia has as many people as New York City. I could look up facts about this, but I actually don’t care in this moment. What I am inspired to write about is how much we have lost, in human evolution and the subsequent development of “civilization”, of our connection to nature.

In Continuum, a movement practice and a life practice, we use sound and movement to engage with our own fluid body and nature. That we are 70% water, and the earth is 70% water, cannot be a mistake. It might be another mirror. The galaxies are also water blessed, and its possible that the movement, flow, and conductivity of water is an aspect of our planetary interconnectivity and holds potential for communication, restoration and healing. As humans, we often say “ we need each other.” Continuum Movement is a practice of breathing, moving and living this question of inter-connectivity and relatedness-between-everything, from the sea to the stars, and embodying the possibility of a sea full of stars.

In Continuum, we expand the concepts of interoception, exteroception, and proprioception: Bioception (our evolutionary, and current , connection to all things as expressed through the biomorphic movements that we engage with and become when we engage our fluid system); ecoception (our ability to connect to the natural world through our ability to express movement and communicate as wave motion, to be nourished and nourish our world and be reminded that we are not alone); Cosmoception (our lineage in the stars and galaxies; historical and future; the ultimate mirror).

Continuum Movement may be an antidote to the onslaught of technology, radiation, speed and crowding of our “modern” world. Continuum is where we interoceptively see the sky full of stars, no matter where we are, because we are seeing our own reflection everywhere.

Today marks the five-year anniversary of the Haiti earthquake. I am acknowledging it today with my fellow Continuum Movement teachers. This is our first meeting since our founder and the creator of Continuum, Emilie Conrad, died. And this is the first time I have not been in Haiti for the anniversary of the earthquake.

Emilie Conrad was, and is, one of the most recognized and celebrated pioneers of somatics and movement arts. After a devastating childhood of alienation, illness and abuse, she found dance, and dance became her refuge and her sanctuary. In 1955, after years of dancing with Katherine Dunham, she moved to Haiti. It was there, in this land that is both enchanted and shadow, enlightened and troubled, she began to innovate an exploration into movement as healing, as artistry, and as life practice. This movement practice is called Continuum Movement.

Amber Gray, TRI’s Director, became an Authorized Continuum Movement teacher in 2006. Continuum Movement informs and inspires the framework for restoration she teaches in Haiti and elsewhere. When Emilie died on April 14, 2014, she left behind a devoted body of teachers who will carry her work forward.

Continuum Movement is a significant part of the Body as Voice/Restorative Movement Psychotherapy framework, and the IDEO team was introduced to it in 2013. They have requested more. When Emilie died she bequeathed TRI a significant gift that will most likely be used to create a training program, or perhaps a school, to bring somatic and arts based therapies to more of those who are requesting it. Since the completion of the training series this year (April 23-26, 2014, a one day wrap up of the Body as Voice series, and a two day training that focused on applying Restorative Movement Psychotherapy, with children affected by trauma) we have had requests from not only the IDEO team to continue the training, but also from educators, a program for autistic children, and community-based programs in the provinces, to begin the training series. We also wish to “fortify” the Training-of-Trainers component of the program through more depths training and on site supervision. None of this would be possible without Emilie’s generous commitment to Haiti.

We will work with IDEO to decide the best way to address the unmet needs of those affected by trauma, and to honor Emilie’s passion for, and deep devotion to, Haiti. Because Amber began the Body as Voice series in Lebanon in December, 2014, we will return to Haiti later in 2015, after the series in Lebanon is well underway and to allow for the IDEO team to practice and integrate their skills with ongoing skype supervision. We will continue to update this website with our plans and our progress.

Always, thank you for your support. Ayibobo,

Amber Gray, Director

I am sitting in my hotel room in a lovely suburb of Beirut; for the past 24 hours I have heard sirens almost nonstop. Three bombings in 6 days; one in eastern Lebanon on Friday and then two, in Beirut, in 36 hours. A car bomb went off two blocks from the office I work in late Monday night/Tuesday morning and they arrested a dozen ISIS members in Hamra, one of my favorite neighborhoods in Beirut. It is breaking my heart to see Lebanon crippled under the weight of over a million Syrian refugees, bracing for floods of Iraqi refugees and waves of this insurgent violence that seems to be mushrooming here. It’s growing tense here. I will be leaving tonight with a heavy heart, a sense of personal relief, and deep concern for the violence that seems to be spreading so quickly in the Middle East.

Earlier today, as I joined colleagues to acknowledge the UN’s Day against torture (June 26th), and the powerful and courageous work of a colleague here, one of the explosions occurred in the next neighborhood over. I watched my Lebanese colleagues begin to frantically make and receive phone calls, checking on loved ones, being checked on themselves. The news is everywhere; these recent bombings retribution to Hezbollah for their involvement in Syria. Sunni vs Shia. My friends here say that the extremist groups “want to bring the message to Lebanon”.

A few evenings ago, I took a brief swim between work and dinner, and a lovely little girl (about 7) was playing, alone, in the pool. She smiled and approached me so I asked her name, and she willingly engaged. I learned that she was Syrian; that her Father was still in Damascus because he had work there and had to keep earning money; that her mother was “tired from all the fighting from the war” and was taking a nap in their room. She said she spent a lot of time, alone, in the pool.

When I was her age, I was never allowed to swim, unattended. There were hotel staff at the bar nearby, and one clearly was watching her, but she was playing alone in an adult pool.

This may be a cultural thing, and I have no judgment about it. But from my worldview, that a Mother is so tired she has to send her daughter to a pool is a simple reality of the consequences of war. It’s so easy to turn off the T.V., play golf, order a latte, walk the dog, go shopping. It can’t be easy to leave a little girl alone, in water well over her head, because the non-stop violence and brutality that you have been marinating in for years has exhausted you.

I attended a support group for adolescent age girls who are living outside Tripoli, in Northern Lebanon, about 50 kilometers from Homs, Syria. The facilitator is brilliant and very skilled, and because these girls and their families (if they still have one) are living in a seemingly eternal limbo, not yet resettled and not able to go home for the foreseeable future, this is not an in-depth processing therapy group. Its an activities and discussion/sharing-based support group, to offer the young women a little hope. One of the activities was to “draw a place that feels safe”. They did this in pairs, first sharing a little bit about this place with their partner. One pair shared a picture of a large hill. Underneath the hill was a shelter, furnished like a living room in a home. It looked inviting. Above the hill, rockets were falling from the sky and landing on the hill. When they shared the story of their drawing, one girl broke down, and said: “This is the only place I feel safe. I am not safe here in Lebanon because they do not want us. This is not my home. I am much safer in this shelter my father built, because it is my home.”

I have some precious friends here who I grow more concerned for; its awful to witness the escalating violence, and the pain and stress that of course increases daily for those living their lives here. These are lives just like yours or mine; lives lived by people who love other people, enjoy walks in the forest or along the beach, share their own form of prayer…..Yala.

Later, a moment to dwell. I walked through some of my favorite neighborhoods in Beirut. There are some old places here. I had a strange moment one night; sitting at the St Georges harbor, having dinner with friends, and some of the buildings were lit up in a purple hue. I suddenly felt myself at Sydney Harbor again—where I was barely two weeks ago! For a moment, I could not distinguish the geography of that moment—I not sure how else to express it. I was dwelling in the present tense of space, not place. The harbor was Beirut and Sydney and many other harbors, all at the same time.

Perhaps it was the purple lights; perhaps it’s the eternity of the ocean; perhaps its just pausing long enough to notice things that are the same, wherever we are.

The drive from Beirut to airport was strange. Usually, I am terrified of the drivers in Beirut; many cars seem to bullet down the highway, all going very fast. They cut one another off by a few inches without slowing down. Tonight, there are significantly fewer cars and I see my driver swerve many times to avoid any other vehicles we pass. I notice myself wondering if there is a car bomb in any of these vehicles. And when I catch myself thinking: “I wonder if the driver is also thinking about this; if that’s why he is voiding cars and sidewinding?” And then I think—what a strange thing to think about!

Twenty-four hours later, I am sitting on a bright white bench perfectly placed on a bright green lawn. I have been deposited by the airport shuttle driver at The Ethan Allen Inn, in Danbury, CT., a place I am familiar with from my childhood. Spent a few towns over. A bird sings cheerfully in the tree in front of me; it’s a warm, peaceful, sunny summer day in Connecticut. I remember them well—lazy, wandering days spent with friends at the local swimming hole or playing games in the many fields that were eventually replaced with surburbia. I am sitting at the convergence of so many realities—calm and peaceful; uncertain and frightened; my own childhood memories; old and new friends and colleagues I cherish in Lebanon. These worlds separated only by the surreality of air travel. It’s a strange place to dwell.

 

I’m finishing a two-week trip to Australia. I taught two classes here, and after a year long run with quarterly trips to my favorite country on earth, I am somewhat numb to the reality that, trauma workshop series complete, I won’t be back for a year, give or take.

Australia is under my skin. Every time I leave, I feel sad if I don’t know when I am returning. This is the saddest I’ve been, because changes in my professional life mean it will be quite some time, and a little harder, to spend the extended time I am accustomed to being here, 3-4 times a year.

I am not going to write about the work this time, I am going to write about Australians. Every time I visit I meet a few remarkable people, and I am reminded why I wish I could just move here.

A good friend and I were walking in Tasmania’s bush; a delightful wetland of rainforest, waterfalls and pools. Towards the end of the hike, we noticed a man with sophisticated camera equipment, walking very slowly, taking pictures of patches of earth. We passed him a few times in our back-and-forth between the waterfalls, and we began to talk to him. It turned out my friend knew his daughter and they shared several close friends or family members in their circles of people.

He was taking photos of lichen and fungi, one of his favorite pastimes for many years. I estimated him to be somewhere in his 70’s. He told us about the different fungi we had seen that day and we talked about all the places over the past 40 or so years he had photographed fungi and lichen, in these very forests. As our conversation turned to travel, he shared that he had covered every inch of Tasmania’s forests and bush-land, many times, and constantly discovered new terrain through his unique and passionate lens on plant-life. He has been to the mainland a few times, but other than that; has never left Australia. As he shared his journeys through native walks that my friend, a local, had never even heard of, his descriptions brimming with love for this land; I realized that he had journeyed farther and to wilder places than I have after seeing more than 80 countries. The long distance nature and fast pace of my lifestyle does not cover the ground, nor does it offer the opportunity to love and caress place with such detail to name, beauty, locale.

He knows each and every subject he has documented as image in intimate detail. Before we began our conversation with him, we observed him spending 10-15 minutes contemplating a small patch of earth before he took a photo. A true journey.

Aussie bus drivers are the nicest in the world. One of the very first times I visited Sydney, I was trying to catch a bus to a beach area. I went to the wrong stop, and because it was a quiet part of the day, the bus driver (who was actually just finishing his shift) said “Aw, come on love, hop on I’ll take you there.” He drove me right to the beach, a few blocks off his route, and after his working hours.

Last night, I went to Vivid in Sydney, near the rocks, alone and by bus. The driver of my first bus ride, who took me into the city, didn’t charge me because he realized I was alone and not familiar with the area. He took the time to point me in the direction I was going. When I went to take the bus home, I waited at the wrong end of the station, and when the bus pulled up, the driver patiently told me how to get to the other side of the station, and to wait on a parallel street. When I started down the wrong passageway, he pulled a bus full of passenger’s over and called to me. I walked back so he could patiently, again, tell me exactly where to go to get my bus. He watched while I found the correct path.

This level of consideration is simple, straightforward, and remarkably usual in OZ.

Vivid was amazing. Australia may be way ahead of the US in combining creativity with technology. The opera house was alight with dramatic moving palettes of color, image, and music accompanying each digital dance. Each museum was transformed into a display choreographed by the latest technology. Very Modern Art. I danced on circles that lit up as different colors, depending on how hard you landed on them. It was an invitation to jump, skip, leap, and hop. Children and adults alike we laughing, and lighting up the enclosure by hop-skotching and dancing from colored disk to colored disk. I have always believed that all cities, towns and villages should contain playgrounds for adults. The negative energies, moods, consequences of our modern stresses and speed might be transformed into playfulness, love and community by what Dr. Stephen Porges research eloquently calls “mobilization without fear,” a state of energized movement and interaction with others. Mainstreaming adult play could be an anecdote to stress many of us frequently endure, and perhaps a preventative to violence.

Tennant Creek is a small town situated in a vast expanse of outback.  It literally sits at the edge of the dry, red earth climate of central Australia and the tropical top end of the Northern Territories. Just a few miles south of Tennant Creek (500 kilometers north of Alice Springs, the center; 1000 kilometers south of Darwin on the coast of the top end), the landscape is suddenly different. The termite hills are higher. The air is denser.  Its hotter. And its flat.

I was invited to teach a staff support day here by a friend of a friend, who was also organizing a similar workshop in Alice Springs. I chose to do this workshop over returning to New York City for the annual Dance Movement Therapy Conference at which I was to participate in several significant (and quite possibly “career enhancing”) opportunities.  I debated for a moment, but having been to Uluru twice, I am drawn to the outback…and could not imagine passing up an opportunity to travel to a remote frontier town in the middle of Australia. A few of my Aussie friends made fun at m excitement to see Tennant Creek—it is truly not near anything. I love space and I love going to uncommon places.

The workshop was attendee by government workers, local organizations, Indigenous people and white Australians. I facilitate staff care trainings as a process, vs. handing out the usual lists of to do and not to do. Culture, tradition, belief all become core to this process. When a group is mixed, at both groups were, and especially in a place like Tennant Creek where the original Aboriginal people are still connected to  country here, and who more recently lost it to colonialism and mining, dynamics are potent. There was a clear divide here, and yet all the people in my workshop were working with the indigenous people. One of them was a member of the stolen generation. That legacy is still an overwhelmingly present one.

I fell in love with Tennant Creek. Somewhat like Darwin but in a far less urban way (Darwin has a city downtown), Tennant Creek is a frontier town at the end of (or the middle of) the world. People living and working there have to be committed to the land. Its tough and honest. I slept really deeply to winds that had an echo I’d never heard before—perhaps because they had danced across such a vast open space, city-less and inhabited by a few cattle stations, indigenous communities, and the few Aboriginal people who can still walk their Songlines.

I had a few interesting events in the red center heart of Australia. One participant in two of my workshops came for a meeting to talk about some of the work we did, and as she walked into my room, she flatly said “I have a joey in the bag can I hang it somewhere?” Sort of like “Where can I tie my horse,” I was stunned at first, repeated her words and then wide eyed I’m sure, I said, “YOU HAVE A BABY KANGAROO?!”

Sure enough. She is a wildlife career and was tending to a very young kangaroo whose mom had been killed. I played with her, cuddled her and kissed her little nose and she accepted it without flinching. Australia has a wonderful tradition of wildlife caring; its tragic there are so many animals killed on increasingly busy roads, and, the tiny ones who are rescued from the marsupial pouches are well tended to. Appreciation for the joy of wildlife and the natural world is palpable here.

I spent much of my free day in Alice Springs at the Botanical Gardens, which are stunning. Descriptions won’t do the landscape justice. I’ve heard people “snuff” at the mention of visiting Alice Springs, because there is “nothing there”. I actually appreciate places of nothingness, because there is stillness, and quiet. However, as with most “nothing” places, one only need pause long enough to settle eyes, ears, and all the senses into then landscape (or seascape) and there is a discovery garden right here.

Alice is a place of spaciousness, extraordinary red earth that truly does pulse with a heartbeat from the center of this ancient continent. Amazing, colorful, adorable  wildlife; a chorus of bird songs that permeate the air  with melodies unique to this land and sky; legendary rock mountains whose stories go back 40,000 or more years.  The obvious and ongoing pressures of the colonization of Australia by Europeans are still evident here. The connection between the Indigenous peoples of Australia, and this land, is also palpable; the abject poverty and forced disassociation of many Aborigines from the earth source  of their stories and traditions is painfully clear. This is country for many of Australia’s indigenous, and there is clear disparity between them, and the white settler descendants. Being in Alice is like standing in the heart center and feeling its brokenness all at once.

On January 12, 2013, I was in Haiti for our Trauma Resources International (TRI) Ke Ansam program. This year, we marked the 3-year anniversary of the devastating 2010 earthquake. There were several commemorations, though not to the scale of the past 2 years. This year, most Haitians spent the day with family, in quiet and deeply personal reflection and acknowledgement. I spent the day with one of “my” families there; Dr. Roseline Benjamin and her children. The night before, we listened to her son Mikaben perform at a new restaurant/ performance space in Port au Prince. His song “Ayiti Se” has become very popular, and I first heard it in the second session of the current training series we are providing for psychologists and social workers. It’s a stunning song, that acknowledges the beautiful, historical, spiritual and magical aspects of Haiti in a way that celebrates her, rather than mourn her, as much of the current news coming out of Haiti still does.

MIkaben is working on a documentary, inspired by “Ayiti Se”, which will share everything that is beautiful in Haiti’s extraordinary history. This film will document the many places, practices, traditions and “Haiti’isms” that weave the historical and spiritual fabric that form Haiti’s unique resilience and beauty. TRI has already supported this film project by creating an opportunity for Mikaben and his crew to attend the sacred ceremonies to honor Ogou, the Lwa (spirit) of Warriorship, and Truth, in Cap Haitien and Limonade. We also visited the scared mud baths in Plen du Nord that occur annually for Ogou. These visits took place July 24-26, 2013, just a few days after we completed part 5 of “Body as Voice”; July 19-21. (Photos are posted in the photos section). This training was a transition training: we are shifting more explicitly into the training-of-trainers format, so that the IDEO clinicians who have been attending the training series can begin to share and train other colleagues wishing to integrate Restorative Movement Psychotherapy into their practice.

The generous contributions, donations and funds awarded at the end of 2012 by The Frost Foundation, The Kind World Foundation, The Marian Chace Foundation, Charles F Gray Trust and Donnalea Goetz will support the ongoing Body as Voice: Restorative Movement Psychotherapy for Survivors of Trauma training through to its completion in 2014. Part 6 of the series was scheduled for December 2013, but had to be postponed due to the ice storms that paralyzed DWI (and cancelled all the flights TRI Director Amber Gray was scheduled to take to Port au Prince, 3 days in a row). We are currently working on the reschedule. Following Part 6, we will take a brief break to allow for the integration of the material, and then TRI will provide 2-3 more trainings in specialty areas such as working with children; integrating ritual and spiritual practice; Continuum Movement and other to-be-determined topics. TRI only offers training in direct response to requests by the recipients; the amazing clinical team of IDEO wants time to integrate and practice what they have learned so that they can request future training topics that will focus on their immediate and long-term practice needs.

As always, thank you for your generous support. TRI welcomes your donations for its ongoing work in Haiti. As we move towards completion of the Body as Voice training series, we will continue to work with IDEO’s projects (which include Mikaben’s documentary project; Child Psychologist Melodie Benjamin’s budding non profit program for traumatized children; and IDEO’s summer camp for children who otherwise do not have opportunities to attend camp). Just as Mikaben sings in his ballad tribute to Haiti, TRI is committed to working locally with organizations and people who enhance and highlight the true spirit of Haiti. When we return to Haiti in 2014, we will meet with our IDEO colleagues to determine our ongoing collaborations.

Bon Anne Nouvelle!

I don’t know how to begin this blog. I left my Haitian home this morning, feeling tired after 11 days of teaching stacked up onto ceremony and cultural gatherings. I felt tired and gleeful. The sun was shining (despite warnings four days ago about Tropical Storm Dorian) and Haiti, for the first time in a long time, was sparkling like a jewel. So I thought about beginning like this: Ayiti Cherie, you are sparkling again, resurrecting your former place as the “Pearl of the Antilles”.

By the time I was boarded on my plane and sitting at my computer, however, another beginning had emerged: The unexpected is to be expected. Actually, there is no unexpected in Haiti—expect anything and everything. I was upgraded to business class, and looked forward to a relaxing journey (3 flights!) home. As soon as I settled my luggage into the bin, I sat down. I suddenly felt that my seat was damp. I stood up, and sure enough, the seat was wet. So were my pants, all the way through to my underwear.

After reporting it to the crew, I went to the bathroom, and am sad to report that it smelled like urine. I reported this to the crews, and they were not surprised—a very elderly woman sat there just before me. I have seen several people pee in the middle of the aisles on fights to and from Haiti, being unaccustomed to the more formal structure of flying bathrooms, so I wasn’t surprised. But I felt gross. The airline changed my seat; all they had was an economy class seat which was much harder and smaller—that was an interesting revelation. I always knew the front cabin was more comfortable—now I know why. It’s a seriously different seat.

I did my best to clean up and dry off. Half way through the flight, I went back to the bathroom. When I returned to my seat, lunch was served. As I sat down, I once again, felt wet—on my hands, arms and sleeves. Red wine!! Everywhere! The man sitting next to me had spilled his red wine everywhere, and not said a word. He WATCHED ME sit in it, and put my hands in it. All I could do was thank him, loudly, for masking the urine smell with the odor of red wine, and get some soda water to dab out the stain.

Obviously, this could have been a very irritating situation, but I had to laugh. Wine and piss. This is very Haitian (though rum and piss might be more apropos). One becomes the other. The cycle of intake and output, nourish and eliminate, life and death. I left Haiti with the distinct impression she is in the midst of a grand resurrection, a phoenix rising from the rubble, and while things are far from perfect, there is much to hope for in this country that is too often defined by its misery and corruption indices.

The gems: the parks that were not too long ago tent cities are now brightly painted, refreshingly colorful, play-provoking sites. It’s common to see children playing on playground equipment, lovers or friends holding hands as they stroll through the parks; families enjoying being outdoors together. There are many more freshly built and paved roads, connecting not just places in Port au Prince to one another, but also other cities (Hinche, Cap Haitien) to Port au Prince, which suggest the possibility of decentralizing services and development throughout the country. Even the recently finished brand new road from Port au Prince to Cap Haitien, which was partially destroyed by Hurricane Sandy last Fall, was being rebuilt, again. This never used to happen in Haiti!

I also saw many, many billboards (the primary way to advertise performances and social events) lining the major driving routes in Port au Prince, displaying everything from galas to sales to music to theater to dance to anti-trafficking campaigns and human rights messages. The color, enthusiastic messaging and sheer number of these billboards are encouraging: they show that there are a lot of day and night-time activities going on in a city that just three years ago was shut down by a devastating, murderous earthquake, and that 6, 7 and 8 years ago was shut down by violence. When I lived there in 2004-5, we often had 6 pm curfews.

There is a fair amount of criticism, and equally, uplifted spirits, being expressed by people in Haiti, for their current President. That he had no true political “upbringing “or experience prior to his election can certainly be a point of contention; he has made some mistakes. However, what almost every Haitian friend, colleague, or acquaintance I have talked to about Martelly says about him:

HE LOVES HAITI. HE LOVES OUR COUNTRY.

And, he is teaching Haitians (especially children) to reconnect to Haiti’s long and rich history of culture, spirit, arts, and independence with pride. Students can now do school projects in Kreyol (they have a choice). There are more folkloric dance troops, and more performance spaces and nightclubs to watch them in. There is more traditional (across generations and genres) music to listen, dance and celebrate to. There are two “Kanavals” a year; not just one, as there used to be in the mid and late 1900’s ,before the awful embargo years. Much of what I see emerging under his presidency is the color and magic of Haiti’s soul.

I have written about this before: The more deeply acquainted with, and connected to, Haitians can become with their own rich artistic expression and culture (which so much of the world, unbeknownst to many Haitians, celebrates while they have learned about their own practices and artistry as shameful, primitive or sorcerous), the more Haiti can restore the strength, vibrancy and integrity that is inherent in her individual and collective history.

A newly made friend, who took my Radical Freedom Continuum Movement class in Tokyo in June, just arrived for a visit. Her welcome presence reminds me that I never finished my Japan blog; so here is an updated version, based on her sharing, this morning, of a lovely healing experience initiated by Santa Fe’s magical light. This is the same light that calls so many artists to this land. Before I moved here, I often visited here for replenishment and sanctuary. So without sharing details of her private journey, I will share that it is a lovely reminder of how restorative the land in New Mexico is.

I will share that her description of the light and movement of tree branches reminded me of the first time I traveled to Japan, in 1981, to study Haiku. Haiku has always been my favorite poetry form. I was in college at the time, and without knowing anyone other than a High School friend’s family (whom I stayed with), I ventured there to learn as much as I could about this seemingly simple, yet deeply complex, poetry form. I went to libraries all over the city and read as much poetry, and description and analysis, as I could. I sought out poets to learn from them. And, I wrote. Of all the poems I wrote, only one received praise from my then poetry teacher, who simply said “Yes. You got it. This is Haiku”.

The poem, which is about the moon, is long gone. It did get published in our college poetry journal, which I hope to find someday.

Other than this aspect of my experience, I was not crazy about Japan. It was super busy and crowded. People yelled at me, for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, on the subway. One man poked my breasts on the subway, mumbling something about American women. And when I saw a woman being beaten at a railway station, by a man, and I began to intervene; I was held back and told: “You can’t interfere. This is customary here; it’s ok for a man to discipline his wife”.

When I was invited to teach in Japan, I hesitantly agreed, mostly to cover for a colleague who couldn’t make the trip. I was more than pleasantly re-introduced to some of the magic of Japan, and now find myself longing to return. Having seen several Butoh performances, I experienced a visceral connection to the powerful, dark, and contemplative nature of this particular Japanese art. And having spent much of the past 30+ years since I was in Japan working in multiple contexts of violence across vast cultural spaces, I am better able to enter another cultural context with less judgment and more witness presence.

What I actually wish to share about Japan is my great amusement at their toilets. Yes, there was plenty of magic and sanctity: bamboo (my favorite plant and one that I believe can offer healing on so many levels), Butoh dance, ancient ocean water hot springs, Buddhist temples. But one of the things that truly amazed me is their innovation, as exemplified by their toilets.

When I was in Japan in 1981, all the toilets I used were squat toilets (which I actually like because they are better for the low back). On this trip, I encountered not only a modern standing flush toilet, but a modern standing flush toilet with features.

Some of the features are:
Flushing sound
Bidet
Butt-washing (it had a nicer name, but I can’t remember it)
Drying

The first time I used one of these toilets, I pushed the “flushing sounds” button. The toilet made a flushing sound while it wasn’t flushing! I asked my class the purpose of this, and they giggled, and then stated that it was for making a flushing sound when you were too shy for others to hear your peeing. I then realized how extraordinary it is to be able to disguise any human elimination sounds that might emanate from a public bathroom stall. Brilliant.

I didn’t try any of the other buttons until my last day, because I was a little scared of them. By then, I figured I needed to at least try before I left the country.

I tried the bidet first, and fortunately, it turned itself off after a few moments. Then I tried the butt washing button, and it freaked me out. Not knowing how to make it stop, I stood up, and—the water began spraying all over the stall, and beyond it! I heard people yelp from the other side of the door and there was a bit of chaos and yelling. Apologizing, I sat back down and bore it until it stopped (which seemed like several minutes). Once the toilet calmed down, and I calmed down, I found the “off” button. I stayed in the stall until everyone else left the bathroom.

I didn’t tell anyone about the incident, and no-one in my class said anything, so perhaps none of them were there. What was interesting for me, because of my interest in the parallels between fractal geometry and intergenerational trauma, is that later that evening, when we visited the ancient ocean hot springs, I was bathing in the communal bath rooms, where you sit on a chair in your own stall without walls, and bathe yourself with a small hand held shower. I don’t really know what happened, but within a few minutes of beginning my bath, my hand held shower seemed to develop a mind of its own, and I suddenly heard a scream from a woman to my left. My hand held shower was spraying her!!!!! She was calmly using a bucket to rinse herself, and was suddenly doused by my shower water.

I am not suggesting that this was an example of intergenerational (or any) trauma; when I apologized in Japanese several times, she kindly laughed and resumed her bathing. I bemusedly pondered at the likelihood of my spraying people in Japan, twice in one day, with water gone wonky. This is where the inquiry into fractal geometry (i.e. a self replicating equation being a metaphor for how the Fx*$ did that happen twice in one day?!) comes into place. I was there to teach Continuum Movement which is the most fluid, watery movement practice I know. Continuum is an ongoing inquiry into water as connection, healing, and life. This is certainly something for me to contemplate: Having shown up to share a movement practice created from the restorative aspects of water, I actually caused some surprise—and even some startle—by spraying complete strangers with bath and toilet water.

Amber’s visit to Foundation house, one of the global leaders in torture treatment and refugee well-being:

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Beginning in October, 2013, Amber will become the ADTA’s Western Region Member-at-Large, for a two year term.

http://www.adta.org/

This is my second time to Lebanon. It’s always difficult to put into words why one loves certain places with a particular fierceness. Lebanon is one of those places for me. When I left here, 3 years ago, I felt really sad that I might never come back. Despite everyone-who-cares-for-me concerns such as “Is it safe?” Why are you going to Beirut”? Isn’t Lebanon awfully close to Syria”? I couldn’t wait to get on the Middle East Air Liban flight from Paris to Beirut.

I travel a lot, and never feel like I am too far from home. I’m good at traveling—don’t get jet lag, sleep right away on my new schedule, feel pretty energized within 24 hours. I have some very good friends here, and we were visiting the magnificent Cedar forests of northern Lebanon yesterday, and talking about my feeling of connection to this truly ancient place. I don’t know if you’ve ever remembered something long-tucked away in a memory crevasse, but I suddenly realized that one of the first foreign people (if not THE first) I have ever met (or have a recollection of meeting) was a Lebanese man, Sharif. Sharif was a groomsman in my best friend, Susan MacDonald’s, older brothers wedding. This wedding was a big, big deal for me—-and representative of the kinds of kindnesses best friends parents show to the little ones who are important in their kids’ lives. I had never been to a wedding and coming from a small family with most extended family members living far away, would not have a chance to go to many weddings (I have been to less than 10 or 15 in my life) so the dressing up, the fanciments, the ritual and sanctity were all a first for me. So was meeting Sharif, who aside from being one of the handsomest men I have ever seen (yes, to this day) was one of the kindest. On my second trip to Lebanon, I am finding that these are not such unusual attributes here.

Susan and I stared at Sharif a lot, and giggled and probably pointed. His response was to spend time speaking with us, and he told me about Lebanon. His words created an image – a very visceral one—of a land of mountains and sea, of glittering and lively cities and ancient places; I think in my little girl imagination (I was still in grade school) it probably sounded like paradise. So I have always wanted to come to Lebanon, and sitting here now, with dear friend and colleague Dr Rabih El Chamay (who is ultimately responsible for the invitation that brought me here in late 2009), I am really touched to remember the kindness of a once stranger so many years ago that planted the seed to visit not only Lebanon, but also the world. Many years and wars later, I hope Sharif is ok.

Lebanon has many treasures, and on this trip I have been to the north and the south, and must comment on the variety of symbology one encounters while driving Lebanese highways. Headed South, within 30 minutes of Beirut proper, there are Lebanese flags and Hezbollah flags lining the highway; billboards of martyrs appear every so often all the way to Tyr. Headed North, one is soon winding though mountain villages and seeing images of Mother Mary and innumerable saints, everywhere. The canyons and hillsides are dotted with ancient…I mean truly ANCIENT—monasteries. It’s like being inside a quaint, old-fashioned Christian history lesson.

A primary reason for my travel here was to present a dance movement therapy workshop at the NISCVT annual conference. NICSVT is an organization that works with the many Palestinians refugees who have been warehoused here (yes, that’s really the term) since the 1940’s. The focus of this years conference was on education for refugee children—as I am sure you, the reader, can imagine, there are many issues with education for people who have been living in a stateless condition in a country that will not grant them full status to study, work, or participate in daily society. The relationship between the Palestinians and their Lebanese hosts is a long and complex one, and I won’t elaborate here. I learned a lot on this trip; about Palestinian involvement in (and instigation of) some of the horrible conflicts that have plagued Lebanon since the 1970’s. Having visited at least 4 camps in Beirut and Tyr, I have seen the conditions that the Palestinians are forced to live in; in self constructed mini cities with dangerous wires dangling thickly over every alleyway and blocking the sky. Buildings and alleys through these mini cities are cramped, crowded and dirty just from the sheer impossibility of squeezing anything else in. People are literally living on top of one another in a city planners unplanned haphazard nightmare.

I was part of a panel of co-presenters who spoke of dance, music and arts therapies. We were asked to summarize creativity in the learning process, and one statement really stuck out to me: a rationale for limiting the numbers of children in school (many children here do not have any access to school) because there are not enough seats. Both Deborah (the music therapist) and I spoke to the issue of learning as a process of creativity and development…and my comment was simple: Kids don’t need seats. They need space. And it doesn’t have to be a lot of space. Those of us who enjoyed liberal childhoods exploring safe landscapes are blessed to have known space. The space I am referring to is the space to have a place, to exist, to belong. Giving each child a place is more important than a seat. Children learn (the younger, more so) through exploration in sensation, movement and creative expression. A balance in structure and freedom is essential to healthy development. Refugee children, by definition, do not have this balance. These refugee communities who have been defined by their refugee status for as many years as the Palestinians have, deserve the right to, space for, place in, education. If there are no literal seats, the children can sit on a mat, stand up, move and play as they do in many experiential educational settings. Of course, this requires resources, and resources are scarce for the Palestinians, and also for the local Lebanese NGO’s who support them. There are many remarkable, highly educated, very intuitive, courageous people working with the Palestinians in Lebanon.

In addition to the many Palestinian communities, there are estimated to be a million Syrian refugees in Lebanon. Most of them live with host families or, if they have the resources, are renting homes. Many are living in the Palestinian camps. Lebanon is a tiny country; in March I wrote about the impact of increasing umbers of Syrian refugees into Jordan, which is buckling under the pressure. The same can be said for Lebanon. UNHCR is trying to meet the many needs (complex health care needs, mental health needs, basic needs), but the needs outweigh the abilities or resources of any single agency or country. Bluntly, its time for the West to ease the burden of the humanitarian crisis that is growing on a daily basis in the Middle East. I recently read that many Syrians are being denied asylum status in the European Union; there doesn’t appear to be any movement to resettle the Syrians yet. I do know there are practical considerations in any countries resettlement numbers and demographics, and, I also think there is a lot of politics and fear that determines who gets refugee status, where, and when.

Many of the Syrians prefer to go home, and are waiting to go home. But until there is a sincere and concerted effort by the global community to intervene (which I do not condone on a consistent basis) in this clearly long-term and horrific conflict, there is no home for the Syrian people to return to.