My first float was a “tester” float, the one to get our feet wet.
I avoided reading any of the literature to not taint my first “pure” (I find that word unclean) experience. I did the ritual of the neat Petroleum jelly over any scrapes and bruises – cause you don’t want to just dip a fresh wound in 800# dissolved salt water… I showered and sat in front of the white spaceship filled with water that reminded me of a Lady Gaga’s music video.
Inside the womb-tomb water carriage I played with balancing my neck on the floating neck pillow – a fun challenge – I stared up until I couldn’t tell if my eyes were closed or open. It is pitch black – it’s not horrific, it’s comforting and snug. I have space to stretch out, reach up, sit up and float.
Floating— I’ve never floated. Not just a sensory deprivation float… but ever. I’m too lean, not much if any fat to keep me buoyant on my annual swimming trips to the Rogue, Washougal, Columbia or on rarest of occasions Willamette. I usually just sink til I shapeshift into a german shepard and tred water… IF I get in past my knee caps that is.
Floating in the womb-tomb was curious – losing track of time is fun, losing track of direction without a blindfold is great. I found myself playing dolphin and making waves with my spine and surprising myself with the startle I’d give myself while my vertebrae re-adjusted themselves during my pretend zero-gravity training session.
And then IT happened. The thing that happens sometimes in meditation practices, or peculiar dreams… I stepped BACK. stepped back in my head and body the boundary between the dark and my inner dark becomes shaded. I keep stepping back and back while strange and silly thoughts process across my mind.
from my journal
“wave forms -spine sacrum fluid”
“head articulate spine to sacrum movement breath deep in cave”
I dress a lovely portrait of what my face looks like from a disembodied spirits point of view… and I could have sworn at one point I was cooking or holding hands with this sweet sassy older black southern woman in an apron.
– I guess I’m what you call a “sinker” cause I didn’t hear the wake up music and was in there a bit longer than I think was planned.
the tree’s were very alive on my bike ride home.