Withhold

~ a clearing exercise to damn or to heal

Pune, 1989

In our Rebalancing Bodywork training, a small-boned Spaniard named Gyaneshwa took meticulous notes while I tended to watch, listen, and finally learn the techniques through our hands-on exchanges.

I watched over his shoulder during an anatomy lesson of the human foot. In fine detail, he drew a precise illustration of its twenty-six bones, their joints, tendons, and muscles, using tiny arrows to indicate the ankle’s movement with talus, metatarsal, calcaneus in delicate script.

I absorbed our lessons through my hands and body once we chose partners, removed our clothes, and tried out what we’d just been shown. As the weeks and months passed, our work with each other in our class of twenty-six, grew more skillful. I worked with most of my fellow students, including some who spoke no English, some who seemed to have an innate and intimate understanding of exactly what a body needed – how slow, how deep – and others who seemed to have been asleep during instruction and ran over sensitive areas like a car zooming over speed bumps. So we’d begun to select our practice partners with increased deliberation and consideration.

 In one of our group clearings, the teachers implemented a process called “Withholds.” We sat cross-legged in a looping circle taking turns picking out someone in the training with whom we had an unaddressed issue or something we hadn’t yet had the courage to articulate. The process went like this:

“X, I have a withhold for you. Would you like to hear it?”

X: “Yes.”

“Your feet are always dirty. I think you should wash your feet more thoroughly before coming to class.”

X: “Thank you.”

That was the setup. If you agreed to receive the withhold then your only response could be, “Thank you.” This bypassed or avoided an argument or confrontation, and allowed each person to speak their mind without reservation.

Quiet, studious, unassuming Gyaneshwa, with whom I hadn’t exchanged a session, chose me. “Deepam, I have a withhold for you. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“You are so annoying – always asking so many questions.” As he spoke, his hands curled into grabbing gestures, his face contorting and shoulders hunching. “You always try to get attention.” Before I could respond, he added, “Like a small child.”

I blinked. I swallowed. Took a breath and held it. “Thank you,” I whispered, and shuffled back a few inches.

Sita. Almost everyone else had singled out Sita. Her constant questions, never listening to instructions, not paying attention to what her hands were doing, and having to bring in ashram workers to give treatments to because no one would work with her. She was a fifty-year-old German with thick glasses, a mass of greying curls, and a glued-on smile. It was true she was a pest, but before Gyaneshwa had at me, I’d felt sorry for her, even as she grinned wider with each assault.

My stomach had begun to hurt from all the vitriol my fellow students had been holding for the two plus months we’d been together.

Sulo was a fiery Italian with a mane of sand-coloured hair and an infectious laugh that came from deep in her belly. Her translator, Bodhi, sat beside and slightly behind her.

“Sulo, I have a withhold for you. Would you like to hear it?” I said.

I waited while Bodhi translated. Her face opened wide in surprise, a hand flying to her chest.

“Si.”

“I’m attracted to you and would love not only to work with you but to be your friend. I’m sad because my Italian isn’t good, so I haven’t thought it possible for us to become friends.”

“Grazie.” Her face so soft and welcoming, both hands pressed against her heart.

There was the elegant and seeming aloof Katarina that some of the men confessed to. And poor Sita, again and again from both men and women.

Then came Satyarthi, one of the teachers, a former dancer who’d been working as a bodyworker and teaching for years. “Deepam, I have a withhold for you. Would you like to hear it?”

Oh god. “Yes.” I leaned forward as one might lean into a harsh wind.

“I love having you in this training,” he said. Sure. “In the mornings...” Okay, shoot. “It’s great watching you dance and dancing with you.” Please, get it over with. “Your enthusiasm is infectious.”

I waited.

He frowned, puzzled, and opened his hands. “That’s it.”

I fell forward, my breath releasing in a gush. The room erupted in laughter. It seemed the others had also been waiting for the, ‘however,’ the ‘but’ you’re too loud, too much, too, too, too.

At that moment grievances seemed to dissolve, the air lighten, and the circle of us link back up.

Months later, as we prepared for graduation, Gyaneshwa volunteered to play the part of a lecherous client for the performance I’d elected to direct. Sulo played the innocent therapist he chased around the massage table. Rehearsals were infused with laughter, high fives, and communal discussions, sometimes with evocative Italian gestures.

These are memories from more than thirty years ago, vivid as yesterday, more precious than pearls.

Sulo and I became sweet friends, closer each year we met in India, as her English improved and my Italian stumbled along. We took three other trainings together and have stayed connected with many visits in Italy and Canada over the years.

I wonder how differently things would have turned out if there had not been that tense and challenging Withhold exercise.