art reflects life: a starting point

Sorry to disappoint but this is not going to be a philosophical analysis of the title. Just a fundamental question: does it have to? 

Time and time again the subject matter of my mind ramblings while in the process of writing, get presented through lived experiences. Can you imagine my horror when I realised I was writing a play about the Abu Graib torture ... What eventuated was an exploration into what Jung calls the Shadow. Yes. It was torture, not physical but deeply emotional.
With the themes playing around in my mind for The Invisible Woman it should not have come as a surprise when they started crossing the thin threshold between imagination and reality.

When on the Dancing Spirit Tour to South of France, we were holed up in this exquisite chateau and attending workshops led by the acclaimed mystic Caroline Myss. I remember the first evening feeling a bit off-kilter, not quite myself, whatever that meant.

I had a weird experience on that first evening. I was approaching Caroline, intending to introduce myself and thank her for her first book Anatomy of the Spirit, which had had a positive influence on me. I walked past a Dancing Spirit colleague, who was all aflutter and highly anxious, in awe that one of her idols was in such close proximity. When I approached Caroline, I held out my hand and managed to say my name. But then I became dumbstruck. Whilst I have respect, I have no reverence of power per se, or adulation for accomplishment, so I was at a complete loss to explain or even understand what had happened. I mumbled something and literally turned to run away. It was only passing this other woman that I realised I had taken on her feelings, her energy. This was so unsettling. I remained feeling strange for the rest of the evening - not quite in my skin, is how I would describe it.

The first day of workshops had its difficult moments for me and I reread my notes especially those that are underlined: "Why am I here? Why am I here?" I also wrote, "now I feel the full impact of being in a room all day with Americans." I am not even going to attempt to explain that here. I was however astute enough to ask "Do I own this?" when I noted I felt like crying. I had hoped by writing it down I would be able to prevent any shedding of unexplained tears.


My insides crumble like a mudslide. Dense matter reduced to sludge. A slippery slope. Tears surging behind my eyes. Detoured by solid resistance. Close my eyes. Pull the lid down on all that fluid grief. Heaviness, words spin around unable to latch onto anything firm, solid. But the words are committed to task. They stand strong when I feel weak. They reverberate to ensure articulation: Validation. Stand in my Power. Invisible. 

During the second day of Caroline's workshops, she was discussing how to approach and support people experiencing depression. Her words lay close to home and I felt the urgent need to ask her to elaborate, to clarify something she had said. I raised my hand. Caroline looked and indicated for me to go ahead but I was interrupted by this woman from the night before, who rationalised that she had a burning question that needed to be voiced. While she was talking, a range of emotions washed through me, from being disgruntled, to anger, to sorrow and grief. I felt unseen, unheard, unimportant. When this woman finished her question and it was duly responded to, Caroline waved her hand in my direction and asked "did someone over there have a question?" I replied that the moment had passed and that I would not pursue my line of thought.

My reaction surprised me. I felt like bursting into tears and so quietly left the room. Once outside I decided to take a walk to calm myself and to figure out what was happening. Why this emotional surge? Of such tidal proportions? 

I walked down some beautiful French country roads howling. I didn't stop walking until I felt I had cried it all out. Cried what out? I was at a loss to explain. As I retraced my steps, I retraced my thoughts and considered being 'unseen'. Was this a narcissistic part of me that simply couldn't handle being unseen? unheard? I could laugh at this. Had I become an Invisible Woman? Were these the feelings that would authenticate my title?

Why do I need to be seen?” She thought. “And when or if I am seen, what am I seen as? Who am I seen to be?”
She shook all these strange feelings and looked away to the outside realm. She scanned her body. “I am here. I see Myself.” 
More thoughts rode the swell of emotion. “What is it to be seen?”
She looked around at the others seated in the room with her.
“I cannot see you
You cannot see me
You do not know my name
You do not see me
You give me words that do not belong to me
Why do I need to be seen to feel that I am here?
If I am in my power, do I need to be seen? Why? Why do I seek an observer? To validate I am here? To validate me?
Turn it around. 
What is the gift of invisibility?
I can watch quietly and perhaps glean the truth.

Why do I need to see the truth?













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