Demons; spirit guides; celestial lights; rebirth; divine love… for nearly three hours, I sat rapt as Dr. Stan Grof described the transformative qualities of Holotropic Breathwork. Utilizing special music and breathing patterns, it’s possible to experience transpersonal, mystical states and to be revitalized, enlightened, and scared to shit.
Curious about this “alchemical cauldron,” I had come with one hundred and twenty-something other participants, to the weekend workshop in the Berkshire Mountains. After Grof’s lecture, we each chose a partner to work with the following day. Then we divided into six smaller groups, each led by three Breathwork facilitators who outlined the next days’ events.
Each partner would take turns being “breather,” and “sitter.” The breathers were to lay supine, eyes closed, on a mat. As music played, the breathers would deeply inhale and exhale, without pause between breaths. This would elicit the healing trance state. The sitters were to watch intently. Tissues, blankets, and water should be given to the breathers, if needed. The sitters should help the breathers stay safely on their mats. It was possible that their internal experiences could impel them to move in ways harmful to themselves or others. The facilitators would also assist.
I was relieved to hear of these safeguards. I’d been intrigued by Holotropic Breathwork since learning that many breathers re-experienced their births while in a trance state. Consciously re-experiencing the claustrophobia and fear inherent in the journey from womb to world was reportedly integral in ridding the subconscious of phobias lodged there during labor and delivery.
If I were to re-experience my birth would the feeling of doom so often shadowing my life disappear? It was worth a try. But I was also afraid. My original passage had left my mom hemorrhaging and scarred. What would happen a second time? Would I lose my mind, my self-control? It was a good thing that help was lined-up.
“Each couple should decide tonight who’s going to take the first turn as breather or sitter in the morning session,” we were told. “Some people prefer to eat a light breakfast if they’re breathing in the morning. There will be plastic bags available though, if anyone needs to vomit.
“So… any questions before we break? I know it’s been a long evening, and we meet here early in the morning.”
“Yeah, I came late. I’m not sure what you mean by the breather and the sitter… should I?” The thin female with short, spiky hair spoke laconically, as if it were no great importance to her whether she knew or not.
I loathed her immediately. Should she know what a breather and a sitter is! If she’d come on time, she’d not only have known how important they are, but heard it from the originator of the process himself. Plus, she would have learned what impelled Dr. Grof and his wife to develop the technique in the first place. What was she even doing here if she cared so little? How superficial could you get!
The facilitators were unfazed. “Stay after the others leave. We’ll try to answer all your questions.”
In the morning, all the chairs had been replaced by wall-to-wall mats in the auditorium. Water bottles, eye shields, and other personal items placed on the mats laid claim to most. Two free mats remained in our group’s section. The previous night’s late arrivers stood eying them. Finally, they moved next to one of the mats. “You’ve chosen that one?” I verified.
They nodded. I put my stuff down on the other mat. Sierra, one of our group facilitators, came over to the two women. “I’m sorry. We can’t use this mat. Group six is using this section.”
“We’ll take that mat, then,” the spiky-haired female said, moving towards my mat.
“I’m sorry. You already chose the other mat. This one’s mine.” I was proud to hold my ground. Ms. Laconic Hussy wasn’t pushing me around.
Counting mats in the close-together sections, Sierra moved away with the two women. My partner appeared, carrying a pillow. “We’re over there,” he said. He put the pillow on another mat. “I was here earlier. I had to go up front about my medical history. I told them my pressure’s under control. But they gave me an extra pillow to punch–just in case I need to release any energy. I usually punch pillows when I get angry.”
“You’ve left your mat,” Sierra appeared next to us, looking troubled.
“It’s okay.” I was touched by her concern, but not to worry… it wasn’t them that drove me from my mat. “I’m with my partner. He’d already chosen this mat.” Sierra nodded, satisfied.
The room was settling down. Breathers were on their mats, some with eyes already closed. The sitters sat nearby, most on floor cushions with attached backs. I thought of looking for one like that. Three hours was a long time to sit without support, but I decide that perching on my backless cushion was more appropriate.
I didn’t want to relax. I felt I should be on the alert to immediately respond to my partner, even though he’d warned me not to hug him if he looked distressed. He might hold out a hand; I was to hold it. No more than that. Still, he might need protection from himself, or from hurting his neighbor, couldn’t tell. He might need extra bolstering. I was ready.
Dr. Grof led the breathers through a relaxation exercise, and coached them through their first deep breaths. Then the music kicked in. Deep intense rhythms like a pounding surf growing ever more powerful filled the room.
A tortured cry lifted above the music. A young woman thrashed wildly on her mat. Was she epileptic? Dr. Grof looked down at the woman’s convulsing body from the stage. He appeared unconcerned. At least four people were gathered around her mat forming a protective barrier.
Another person began roiling on her mat in the front of the room. Then another. The whole upper corner of the room seemed to be exploding in throes of agony.
My group was breathing intensely, but their bodies were relaxed. My partner made a pulling-up motion over his torso. I covered him with the blanket. A woman’s tough expression softened as she watched her breather. I wondered if the two women had come together, if they were a couple in real life. On the other side of me, a husband watched his wife breathe. They’d buried their 14-year-old dog the past week and had gone through so many emotions they feared they’d have none left. The wife exhaled in short quick, Lamaze-like puffs, her face and body relaxed.
And wouldn’t you know it! The spiked-hair female sat, face averted, far from her partner who curled beneath a blanket. Despite the crescendo of intense rhythms, and the primal cry of instrument and voice, the sitter slumped with legs out-stretched, and eyelids heavy, against the sling-backed chair. Couldn’t she even pretend to be interested!
Sierra came over and kneeled next to the sitter. She whispered in her ear. The sitter’s heavy lids rose. All smiles, Sierra continued whispering. What could she possibly be saying? Definitely no admonishment, as I’d supposed. Sierra continued her close, animated confidence. The sitter shrugged, spoke briefly. Sierra laughed delightedly, nodding her head. A smile flickered across the sitter’s face. Sierra straightened up, and the sitter returned to her previous slump.
I watched Sierra move away. Half dancing to the music, another facilitator approached her. Sierra turned to him, her face bright. Talking to someone seemed to simultaneously switch on a light in her. When she looked away the light dimmed, as if she came to an immediate rest within herself.
Hot spots of violent activity erupted throughout the room. Stolid-looking males were racked by emotion. A woman danced ecstatically on her mat. Her sitter danced behind her, mimicking her motions. For quite some time, a facilitator had been cradling a howling female, one hand behind her neck, the other behind her knees. A man directly across the room from me had lost his pants. As he tossed on his back, his genitals flailed with him. His sitter sat close by, her chin tilted towards the ceiling, arms lifted at right angles from her body, and palms cupped up in a receiving position. Those breathers in violent throes up front still pierced the enormous sound with their cries. Grof crouched close to one of the agitated breathers, his hand on her back.
But most of the room was tranquil. Occasionally, expressions or positions changed but only a few cried out or needed physical support. The sitters sat next to quiet breathers like a huge many-headed organism each reacting independently but synergistically to the sound compelling and containing the room’s activity. As the music receded in intensity, the breathers began to open their eyes, sit up, and signal the facilitators that they were ready to leave the room.
My partner, cleared for the next step of the process, proceeded to the mandala room. I was eager to hear about his trance-like state. The extra punching pillow had gone unused. Only an occasional muttering or raised eyebrow indicated any internal stimuli. And indeed, he said, he’d had no visions, no urges…just lay there immersed in the sound. But he was surprised at how fast the time had passed. Three hours seemed to fly by in minutes, not hours. For a man who carries batteries and chargers in his pocket lest he lose contact with the external world, I thought “just” laying there calmly, not insignificant.
My turn to be breather came after lunch. I wished I’d eaten less. It was hard to resist all the brightly hued, varied combinations of fresh foods. My intestines churned as I lay on my mat. Actually, they’d been overactive since I’d arrived at the workshop a day earlier. It was unusual for me to experience abdominal pain. Maybe it was psychosomatic. I was both scared and eager to confront the negativity surrounding my birth. The pain was just beneath my navel. As our breaths intensified, I breathed fast and deep into my pelvis.
With the music carrying us like a wave, it was easy to keep up the fast rhythmic breathing. My lower abdomen filled with air and deflated in a whoosh with no pause between inhalation and exhalation. The pain disappeared and I was only aware of my breath and the eerie compelling sounds.
But suddenly, my pelvic area started shimmying much faster than my breaths. The lowest part of my torso vibrated at a speed I’d never imagined possible. In fact, if it weren’t for orgasm, or the most labored crunches, I wouldn’t have even known there are individual, discreet muscles down there. Now they were gyrating like a belly dancer.
And then, as abruptly and intensely as it had come, the energy shifted. The quick pulsating was now shaking my upper pelvis. Maracas were playing a wild song of ecstasy and release in my abdomen. Again the energy ascended, pulling me up to my knees. I felt like a reed in a howling wind. I bent backwards into the huge wave of sound. I wished I could limbo beneath it. The shimmying was in my diaphragm, lifting me up and back. I was an arch of energy. The wild tempo exploded in my chest. Next it rose to my neck. The movement was its own master. All I had to do was allow it. A small part of me worried what I must look like to others, but mostly I loved being one with the surge moving up my body. The energy ascended again. My head shook to its rhythm. I was a drum being played from the inside. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the vortex of energy was gone. It had coiled through me, enlivened me, and left. In its stead was a pressing urge to get to my feet, stamp them quick, shake my arms from shoulder to finger tip, cup the air hot and thick and move it over my body.
The music turned gentler. I sank back to my blanket. An incredibly sweet voice rose from the middle of the room. Was someone here singing like that that? It sounded so immediate. But it was hard to believe that anyone could spontaneously sing in such pure soaring harmony.
Suddenly I felt suffused with sadness. I ached for my lost child. I felt the tears coming, tears I usually stop. But I let them come. My body balled up in pain. I pulled my knees close as the tears grew more furious. The music sheltered me, and I was tented by my blanket. I envisioned my son’s long back in front of me, imagined hugging him to me, and cried even more for the chance I’d never get. Finally the pain subsided. The music was sweeter than ever. I lay back on my mat. My body sank into a liquid calm.
After leaving the room, I turned jubilantly to my partner. “Did you see what happened to me? Can you believe I was moving like that? You know I’m like lead when I dance. Even walking fast is hard, sometimes… But the energy just rose up in me! I was totally taken over by another force. Did you see that?!”
Yes, it was very cool, he said. It looked like kundalini rising through my chakras. When getting Reiked, he had once felt his lowest chakra move like mine had. He was happy that I too had that experience now. But wow, if I could have seen what was happening in the rest of the room! Someone had said to him, “This is bedlam. You do realize we’re in a loony bin, right?”
All of the facilitators were busy holding the breathers, he said. There were people wailing, flailing, curled up in fetal positions…
“I was curled up in a fetal position… for a while… no one came to hold me.”
“YOU were obviously all right,” he said drily.
“The guy next to you never stopped sobbing. He used up a two boxes of tissues. I think they turned down the music earlier than planned. People were going berserk. They had to do something to calm everyone down.”
“Really? I did hear the guy wailing next to me. And I heard someone yelling ‘Fuck you, I hate you...’” And I’d wondered if it was a memory suddenly retrieved from her subconscious causing her all that pain. “But that’s all I heard, besides from the music.”
“The energy in the room got a lot calmer when the sound did. People started settling down. The last hour was kind of boring actually. Nothing, really, to watch…”
The groups met separately that evening to share experiences. One man had joyfully re-experienced his birth. Isis had invited another breather to join her temple dance. A vegan reported that he had felt like a wild animal ripping apart his prey. Another traveled through varied landscapes filled with mythological creatures and long deceased ancestors.
Another wished that she had been sitter in the morning. Then she would have seen that the breathers didn’t have to lie down the whole time. And she would have been less concerned about “doing it right” when she was breather. She felt frustrated by her inhibitions and wanted to try the process again.
My experience had seemed a bit pale compared the others’ vivid imagery. After the last woman spoke, I had more confidence in sharing. “Yes, I can relate to that”… I said. “I didn’t want to breathe first because I was afraid of what I might feel and what I might look like. I thought I was going to re-experience my birth and I know that it was horrible. My mom said that I almost killed her.
“But not a single image came up while I was breathing. Only the most amazing energy. It took over my body. It began vibrating in my lowest chakra, really intensely, and then moved up my body, chakra by chakra. I was aware of what was happening to me, but I was totally not initiating it. I never even imagined my body could move like that! So I’m wondering…” I looked towards the three facilitators. “I didn’t have the birth experience, but I have this feeling of liberation… that’s what I was hoping for, an energy shift … so since I got what I wanted, but in a different way, maybe I don’t need to re-experience my birth, after-all?”
“Your body was probably preparing itself for the rebirthing experience,” Sierra said.
I stared at her. Didn’t she realize that I had probably experienced kundalini itself rising up through my body? That the divine cosmic energy supposedly coiled at the base of our spine had risen up and transformed my body? This extraordinary event she could matter-of-factly suggest was a PRELUDE?
Across the circle from me, the spiky-haired female cleared her throat. “I guess I might as well go next… I couldn’t get into the breathing thing… I came here to be with my friend for the weekend, but after getting through being sitter in the morning, I wanted to leave. I felt like all I did was blow a thousand dollars. I ate like a pig, and nothing else. I told Sierra in the afternoon -when I was breather - that I was going to leave, and what a waste it had been...”
She looked at Sierra without shifting her pose. “You said, ‘then why don’t you try really, really hard to get your money’s worth now that you’ve spent it?’ That did it for me! If you had come at me with some, you know – you just need to allow the universe to….I would have been out of there! But the way you said it…” She smacked one palm into the other three times. “That’s how I needed to hear it!”
“And I said, ‘but how can I breathe, how dare I breathe when my brother died of a lung infection four years ago? Ended up on a vent before he died… a totally meaningless death…’” She stopped. Waited for the tears to unblock her voice. “I was able to ask his forgiveness… for still being alive…and you helped me so much… everyone did. You were all so…kind.” She spoke the last word as if new and wondrous to her tongue.
Sierra smiled. “Well I’m not sure what I said is in the facilitators’ handbook... “Would you like to share your mandala?”
“No! I can’t draw!” But she put the paper in front of her. Dark trees covered the paper. Between the thickly interlaced boughs and trunks appeared slivers of light.
I was blown away by her admission. There I was, feeling holier-than-thou about her, while she was paralyzed by pain.
Dr. Grof had mentioned the lack of consensus about the origin of mental disorders, and the little difference in cure rate between the different models of treatment. The important factor in one’s healing, he said, is in the quality of feeling unconditionally accepted. In that supportive environment, the psyche is freed to communicate with its higher self, and to tap into the intrinsic healing wisdom of the body; a wisdom that’s connected to divine source.
During the twelve years that I had worked on an acute, hospital psych unit I had repeatedly witnessed how the staff’s attitude affected a patient’s ability to heal. Treated with respect and kindness, the patient’s pathologies became much less pronounced. Treated with hostility and impatience, the patients became correspondingly depressed, psychotic, and unmanageable.
But despite my positive clinical work with patients, I still became angry and impatient when others acted in ways I didn’t understand. This knee-jerk reaction had won me few friends.
If Sierra had been as harshly critical of the disinterested sitter as I was, she would have only created more anger and defensiveness in her. And then, when she was equally unable to participate as breather, it’s doubtful that she’d have listened to Sierra’s advice, no matter how well put. Through Sierra’s loving attention, the woman had overcome her own resistance and anger and was able to access healing emotions within herself.
I had been completely mystified when Sierra engaged the sitter in what seemed to be the best of jokes. Now I got it. The joke was on me. The despised woman was actually my mentor. Of what use was any opening and enlivening of my chakras if I remained pinched and defensive? Was healing even possible without a corresponding psychic shift?
I excitedly shared my impressions with my partner after the group. “I couldn’t stand her! And now I have such respect for her! Just goes to show…”
“Your tutor,” my friend remarked, “was the one yelling ‘fuck-you,’ when you were breathing.”
I sat up front on one of the sling-back cushion-chairs nearest to the stage to hear Dr. Grof on the last day of the workshop. My partner, who felt neither the need to listen that intently, nor wished to sit on the floor, sat in one of the chairs further back. The spiky-haired female sat in the first row of folding chairs.
Dr. Grof spoke of the universal consciousness that manifests as discreet units in our individual personalities, and the sacred rites practiced by ancient and indigenous cultures to facilitate the return of part to whole, from separateness to source. Holotropic Breathing is a “new technology of the sacred,” informed both by the ancient rites, and the current scientific belief that matter and energy co-exist in a vibratory universe with a synchronous relationship between parts and whole. Jung’s belief that the psyche is not contained solely in the individual brain, but is part of a collective unconscious, and that synchronicity not coincidence explains seemingly random events, aligns with the new vibratory paradigms of healing, Dr.Grof said.
After the talk, I spotted my partner with some people in the back of the room. Drawing closer, I was surprised to see it was my spiky-haired mentor and her weekend companion.
“Hello!” my mentor exclaimed as I joined them. “I want to thank you!”
I stared at her. Why? What could she possibly be thanking me for? I had her to thank. Through her experience, I’d seen the smallness of my heart, and had been fully impacted by the knowledge that healing is reciprocal. Community heals individuals, and individuals heal community. But those insights were gained through first despising her. She couldn’t be thanking me for that!
“How about a hug? I think a hug is called for, don’t you?.” She approached me tentatively.
“Yes!” That, at least, I had no doubts about. She was so thin. I could feel all her bones. “It was so very brave of you what you did, what you shared… It’s so enormous the pain and loss that you must feel. I know…” I faltered, still clasping her, thinking she must be thinking ‘how could you possibly know?’ And it wasn’t the time to tell her: I know all too well about meaningless deaths, and the pain a sister: my daughter suffers. I continued, “such brave, courageous work that you did. I hope that it’s the beginning of a healing journey for you...”
“You helped me,” she said, as stepped apart.
“I did?”
“Yes, when you mentioned your mom. Then I decided, I’d talk about my experience.”
My mom? What had I said about my mom? Oh yeah, that I almost killed her. And somehow waving that skull and crossbones had freed my friend to speak of her brother’s death.
There it was again. Another unconscious, powerful healing joining me and my spiky-haired foe, friend, mentor. Some mysterious force between us had helped each to drop some of the crippling fear and anger blocking us. No random coincidence, it seemed, that each was pivotal in the other’s transformation. Call it synchronicity.
