Healing Hands and Vilma Ginzberg
Posted on September 14, 2021 by Deborah MyersVilma
How can it be that eleven years have passed since I first met Vilma??
She was searching for ease and comfort and was so ready for her body to let go of old stuff, old patterns. She was open to receiving and learning how best to have a daily practice to be a better partner with her body.
It was no surprise when I discovered she was a poet—her words and conversation flowed like milk and honey. Read on to see what I mean! I’ve included the poem she wrote for me!
By the way, Vilma is not just any poet. She has published seven books of poetry, all since 2004, when she was the young age of 77. Named Healdsburg Literary Laureate for 2008/2009.
I’m lucky enough to say that she wrote a poem for me—right after she got home from her first Jin Shin Jyutsu session in September 2010. I had tears when I first read her poem “healing hands.”
Vilma was excited when I asked her if I could share the poem with all of you. I know you will love it as much as I do! It is also in one of her books, Snake Pit.
To read more about Vilma’s work and check out all her magnificent writing, go to her website at https://www.vilmaginzberg.com.
I’d love to hear what you think about Vilma’s poem!
healing hands
for Deborah Myers
© Vilma Ginzberg 09-22-2010
you invite me to your table
padded curved and angled
to accommodate my bone-outlined
flesh-defined body of exhaustion
I spread myself atop it
my yesterdays of try-to’s
planked across its ridges
unfinished have-to’s
making stiffened bridges
of old intent preserved in rock of habit
I hardly feel your first fingers
your touch puff-wing light butterfly-soft
don’t you need something more jack-hammer-fisted I wonder
slow as morning light washes over doubt
melts layers of thought-armor
polishes the rusted jadedness
softly subtly slowly they come
subtle awakenings
stirrings of flesh and feeling
worlds entire fall apart while other worlds congeal
universes faint away
give birth to new constellations
you move soundlessly around this altar to life
where I am both sacrificial lamb and sacrament
soon I am as a sauce spilled on shapeless sheets
our mutual though silent rejoicing fills the empty spaces
outside the nearby window finches feed
gratefully on your thistle-seed
and some small uncaged bird in me
chirps again
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