Autobiography: Memory of a Wild Girl

Lust is not a virtue. It is easy, automatic. It is a contraction of being, like the other passions. It is an attempt at expansion of strength. Many E8s boast of their character; they consider themselves superior. In fact, they may be admired by shyer and more repressed types. But it remains a contraction and a substitute for the fullness of essence, because it arises from a place of lack.

My parents were immigrants from the United Kingdom. My mother came from a working-class English family, and when she met my father, she had already been married to a German man and had three daughters from that marriage. My father grew up on a farm in Wales during the war. Those were hard times. According to all versions, his father was a tyrant.

When I met some of my Welsh relatives, especially some of my uncles, I noticed a certain lack of sentimentality in them—stinginess, austerity, cleverness, and pragmatism, and at times, wickedness, meanness, cruelty, and sadism. I remember seeing my father, my uncle, and my godfather (from the same region) sitting together for hours, chatting in Welsh. They reminded me of three silver-backed gorillas.

I suppose one could say that my parents belonged to the respectable working class. They were very conservative. My father’s opinion was that women should stay at home, care for the children, and not work. He believed that women’s work was partly responsible for society’s deterioration, unemployment, and other problems.

When I was 17, I asked him to teach me how to drive, and he refused. “Why does a woman need to drive?” he said. “A woman should stay home and take care of the children.” My mother didn’t drive either.

My mother is a cheerful, resilient person—a long-term sufferer. She is a good person, eccentric in her own way (English-style eccentric). She is the type who always burns toast without complaining. She provided laughter and fun in my life and always tried to protect me. But I also knew, on some level, that she was weak, that she couldn’t sustain herself in difficult times. Sometimes she seemed superficial and unwilling to go deep. She constantly belittled herself, calling herself an “idiot” for leaving school.

I remember several times (I must have been around 10 or 12) when she tried to hug me, and I would stiffen like a board, my arms at my sides, my fists closed. I didn’t want to, couldn’t, receive her embrace. Something about it felt insincere or weak. When she was upset with me, she would say, “You’re just like your father.”

And he would say the opposite.

Despite their working-class origins, my parents had certain aspirations for their daughters, at least somewhat feminine ones. From early on, it was clear that I would never fit that mold. I was too rebellious, messy, and defiant. My older sister said I scared her when we were little, even though she was five years older. It seemed to me that wherever I went, people wanted to correct me, soften me, mold me into something more socially acceptable.

This was especially noticeable with my mother.

At one point, they even tried to enroll me in a kind of finishing school for girls. Ha! “Not in a million years,” I would have accepted that. That was the exact opposite of what I needed from my mother. In fact, it was everything I didn’t need.

Even so, there are things I appreciate and respect about my parents. Something about the groundedness of the working class: they were practical, down-to-earth people, genuine. Both were instinctive types (E8 and E9).

In general, interactions with my parents were minimal and emotionally undeveloped. They were not expressive, and neither was I. We talked, if at all, about practical things. My father was a craftsman who could fix almost anything, and that made me proud of him. Sometimes he lets me help him in his workshop. For example, I had to hold a piece of metal very still while he welded it. Those moments were important to me, and I tried hard to do well. It was one of the few ways I could connect with him, however minimally.

He didn’t talk much. What mattered was to show him that I was practical too. I wish I could have impressed him that way. But of course, I didn’t know how to weld. If I did something wrong, he would become condescending and treat me like an idiot.

I don’t think it’s fair to expect a little girl to know such things.

I was born in the sweltering tropics of northern Australia. From the moment I came into the world, I was a loud baby who cried endlessly, or at least that’s how the story goes. Even the nurses at the hospital told my mother, “You’re going to have problems with this one.”

My father proudly recounts how he managed to make me stop crying. One night, when I was 18 months old, he came in and hit me so hard, so many times, that I stopped crying. “And you never did it again!” he said with pride. What he didn’t know was that I learned to cry in silence and in private (the silent scream), or not at all, in absolute silence. There was no compassion for my suffering.

My father had zero tolerance. I don’t know how much damage he did to me. A therapist once told me, “You had to be very strong to make yourself stop crying.” But resilient children often pay a high price. There were other times when his violence was more evident, usually with a slap to the head. In general, he was not physically cruel, just authoritarian and emotionally cold. My mother didn’t breastfeed me. She gave me a bottle with sweetened formula. Maybe that bothered me. She had breastfed her other children and was tired of doing it.

Even so, I remember happy moments of play. I remember accompanying my mother to work as a domestic employee. Just before starting school, I gained weight and became chubby, even though my mother said I didn’t eat differently from the others. That label followed me all my life. I remember my first day of school clearly. It was monsoon season (the wet season), and rain was pouring. My mother wore a brown-and-orange patterned 70s dress. I seemed to be one of the few children who didn’t cry. I was excited to go to school and felt safe when saying goodbye to my mother. But during the first lunch, they ridiculed me for

being chubby. I approached the kids hoping for kindness and, in return, received humiliation. Classic playground cruelty.

At school, I did well without much effort. One of my early report cards said I was a “very sensitive child.” A few years later, a teacher described me as “self-confident.” Everything came easily to me. I was one of the best students until about 13, when my grades dropped slightly—surely due to adolescent trauma.

Sometimes I had friends, sometimes not. Between ages 8 and 10, I had a routine: during lunch, I would walk alone around the sand playground for an hour. It was my private world. Occasionally, I’d stop to talk with some kids, maybe play for a bit, but I would quickly lose interest.

Girls’ games bored me; they were condescending and called me “little miss.” I hated it. It sounded like an insult. I preferred chasing games or toy trucks. In the hot, humid summers, we got our feet muddy during recess, building dams, mud villages, and little boats that floated down the current. I loved it. But if anyone was cruel to me, I simply withdrew. I never fought back.

I was never violent. I often doubted being an E8, especially because of how I handled cruelty at school. Nobody ever hit me physically—maybe because I was taller and stronger than most. Sometimes I think that if someone had, maybe I would have learned to fight back. Instead, I tried to erase any form of resistance. If I could go back, I’d hurt those little idiots who treated me cruelly.

I was an outstanding student in almost everything—except in sports. I liked games, but not serious athletics. I was chubby, not fast or flexible like the other kids. I was big, white, fat, and intelligent. I was different from those around me. At age 9, I began to play the clarinet at school. My sister played the flute, and I wanted to learn too. My mother found a cheap clarinet for $80 because my father refused to buy one. But when I advanced quickly and showed talent, he eventually paid for a better one. I took exams and played in school performances.

In Australia, anyone who stands out or thinks they’re better quickly gets cut down. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why they targeted me so much. One thing that saved me during my first years was my cousin Anne, four hours away. We spent vacations together and were inseparable. She was older, and we shared that magical childhood quality: no self-consciousness, endless games, endless conversations.

We stayed close until university. Then she married and had babies, while I became more and more of a stranger.

When I was 11, we moved to a small farm in the hills, half an hour from the town, surrounded by farmlands and tropical forest. It was exciting to have so much space. My sister got a horse and later, mine too. Mine was an old racehorse, practically ready for the pet food factory. But oh, how he could still run! Gill and I spent our weekends riding around the farm and the woods. We led the horses to the ponds, leaping them over logs, even swimming with them in the water. Sometimes we even raced. I imagined that I was a professional rider.

It was fun—an incredible feeling of freedom for a girl. We never learned formal riding; it was an improvised and wild style, nothing like classical dressage. We wore cowboy hats and Western saddles. But most of the time, when Gill and I rode, we did it in silence. We didn’t need words. I think each of us was in our own world. Gill was a rather quiet person.

I didn’t make friends in that area. There was a riding club, but it was full of unpleasant girls. They always tried to tell me what to do, and I refused. They made fun of me for reasons I couldn’t understand. I didn’t accept orders from anyone. From then on, I rode alone, with wild kangaroos, poisonous snakes, and my beloved horse as company.

I had my first period at eleven. Despite having three older sisters, I had no idea what was happening. I thought I was sick. After a few days, I showed it to my mother. She gave me a sanitary pad and said, “It’s for babies and that sort of thing.” And that was the end of the conversation. I suppose that fits with the rest of my life: I was never very interested in women’s things.

Adolescence is never easy for anyone, but if you’re already an outsider, things can get much worse. By the end of primary school, I felt like the queen of the world: the best student, becoming more sociable and a bit popular. I had a couple of good friends and was even becoming more athletic. But starting secondary school—with new people, mean boys, and a cruel group dynamic—plus a severe case of adolescent acne, was devastating.

I had boils on my face that had to be drained by a doctor. This “flowering of femininity” was a damn nightmare. My body felt cursed before it could ever bloom. I felt like Job in the Bible, punished by God.

Childhood innocence turned into competition for the opposite sex—a competition I felt I could never win. I became a true loner. I didn’t eat lunch with anyone. During school breaks, I ran endlessly around the oval or hid in the library, reading and dreaming of faraway places. I wanted to hide from people, but I also longed for connection. I felt painfully aware that I had almost no friends and few arms to hold me if I fell.

I was afraid that someone might attack me physically, as my father had. But they never did. I only received cruel and mocking words. They didn’t hate me enough to fight me. I was

sharp-tongued, quick, sarcastic—a match for the meanest boys. But if I tried to respond with wit, my voice would shake, or I’d stumble over my words, making me look ridiculous.

There was one boy who, every morning, called me “Princess Acne.” I still feel a knot in my stomach remembering it. It was painful to be rejected just as I was becoming aware of my sexuality, my body, and my femininity. What kind of god imposes these curses on young people? I know there are worse things in the world, but my inner state was unbearable. My relationship with the group was shattered, and I had no one to turn to.

I became Untouchable.

I felt powerless and small, unwanted, rejected. The only thing I could do was hold on to myself and keep my head high. I wouldn’t let those bastards defeat me. I wouldn’t show weakness. I hid my soul from the light. I wouldn’t let those dogs trample the little I had left—the only thing that was mine. I think something hardened inside me at that moment. I felt very alone in the world. I didn’t know what to do, so I built an impenetrable wall around myself and turned back to my own resources. I had no weapons to face such a cruel world.

If you have no weapons, you need more armor. The wall grew: the more they threw shit at me, the thicker and stronger it became. There was kindness and light around me, but they couldn’t reach me. The wall had become too strong. My strategy of being kind with people didn’t work anymore. Sweetness now seemed inefficient, even dangerous.

I was never a fluent talker. Each time, I spoke less. My mind felt empty, and when I tried to speak, I went blank. After all, who cared what I had to say? I remember a week-long school trip camping in the wilderness when I was twelve. In the first few days, I lost my voice physically, and when I recovered it, I had drifted so far from others that I barely spoke.

On the last day, a teacher said to me, “You don’t talk much, Mary.”

I replied, “I have nothing to say.”

I felt blank whenever it came to social interactions. Speaking meant risking exposure, suffering new humiliations. Saying something was revealing too much. I remember once making a comment to other kids that ended with them laughing at me. I never knew what they found funny about what I said.

After all, I was one of the best students. I wasn’t a bookworm, but when I did speak, I spoke directly, with no filters. I didn’t understand wordplay or social games. Small talk and typical girl chatter bored me to death.

Each time, I withdrew more into the things that comforted me and made me feel strong in the world. I experienced the human world—social life—as a hostile, cruel, petty place. I felt

an abyss between myself and others, one that seemed to deepen every year. This alienation would reach its peak when I turned twenty.

Running gave me comfort.

When I was twelve, I was inspired by the Commonwealth Games on TV. I fell in love with athletics. Until then, I’d never been sporty. But that year, I started running. My body became strong and agile. I was an outsider, yes, but I found my strength and refuge there.

That strength wasn’t in others—it was in me and the natural world. Running was like becoming an animal again, a predator: a wolf, a panther, a tiger. I felt naked in nature, unseen, free. I had a deep desire to be in total harmony with my animal self. It felt good. It felt right. That animal had a dignity I held in highest esteem—something most humans seemed to lack.

I followed the creek like a wolf with words instead of teeth. I knew how to avoid snakes, wild pigs, ticks, and leeches. I wasn’t afraid. In that world—my world—I was powerful. I was thirteen and never told anyone. Who could have understood? Not my parents. Not my sisters. At school… I didn’t even speak.

But although nature was my refuge, my other great comfort was music.

I had begun playing the clarinet at nine and advanced quickly, with musical sensitivity, passion, and intelligence. At ten, I played the famous slow movement of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto at a small recital. My teacher and the pianist said I’d given them chills. At a rough, working-class school, this made me even more of an outsider. “Mozart? What’s that?” they’d say.

But I didn’t care. Music showed me a world of tenderness, love, beauty, pain, courage, and peace—all that is best in life. By thirteen, I was the only daughter still at home. I spent hours in my room listening to what my mother called “classical funeral music.”

To them, it was strange and out of place. To me, it was salvation. The louder and more dramatic, the better. Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Beethoven. Those moments of sweetness and melancholy made me cry.

I recall a passage from Romeo and Juliet by Prokofiev: a flute drawing a light, trembling melody while Juliet, still a girl, begins to sense her femininity. I knew beauty, love, and tenderness existed in the world because I heard them in music. Music was my mirror. It reflected the tenderness—and other qualities—that many had lost.

Recently, an artist friend told me: “Music kept one part of you open.” And I think he’s right. I can’t imagine who I’d be without that gift. Sometimes, I even felt accepted through it—as if,

by playing, I could finally belong somewhere. In those moments, my strong and sociable nature would reemerge easily. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was powerful. Despite everything, I know I have a great capacity for endurance.

I desperately needed care, attention, and kindness. I invented people—in secret—in my room or outdoors. People who spoke to me with tenderness, who offered me the love I lacked. I think that was my way of balancing things, of silently healing what was broken. Sometimes I spoke aloud without realising, and my father would yell, “Who are you talking to in there, Mary?” He probably thought I was crazy. I didn’t care. I needed that sweetness in my life.

At seventeen, I went to university to study music. It was almost two thousand kilometres from my parents. Freedom! Liberation! I visited them during vacations, but I never lived near them again.

Those first years were wonderful. I excelled and was quite popular. I lost weight, ran again, looked good, and my facial scars faded. I even joined the University Regiment—the army reserve—and played in the military band. I’m not particularly patriotic; for me, it was just fun. Loud, extroverted fun. Even infantry training in the field felt like an adventure—like camping, but with guns.

Everything began to crumble when a boy I was obsessed with rejected me. I fell into a deep, creeping depression. Even with my new social success, even looking good and being, to some degree, popular, I was still unloved and unaccepted as a woman. I longed for a profound and special connection with another person. And in my best version (or so I thought), I wasn’t enough to find love. I suffered terribly. I lost interest in my studies. Life lost meaning. I stopped running and began drinking heavily.

In my desperation and emptiness, I pushed many people away. Old friends and admirers left me. I was no longer socially graceful, and without my cheerful, outgoing side, I had nothing left to offer. In despair, I turned to God and joined a Christian community—a left-wing group focused on social justice that wasn’t tied to the Church. I still hated the Church, so I didn’t attend. But I stayed in that group for four years, even travelling to India to do missionary work.

In many ways, that was the beginning of my maturity. It was there that I first heard about Gestalt therapy. The people were interested in being whole, healthy, and integrated—even within a Christian framework. I have no lasting interest in conventional Christianity, but I remember that time as important for my growth. I never regretted it. The community was called Stepping Stones. Later, I spent six months in the regular army in Sydney and almost signed a four-year contract—something I would have hated and found impossible to break.

That regiment was far stricter than the university one. I heard the drill instructors and thought, “No way.” I said no to a military career.

I spent about a year adrift, moving from one place to another until I settled in Sydney, a city where I knew no one. I was drinking heavily, sometimes to the point of needing hospitalisation. Life felt empty and meaningless. When someone tried to get close, my lack of social skills usually ruined any possibility of connection.I often ended up alone, drinking, wandering from one bar to another, and almost always reacted with anxiety when people worried about me. A woman walking alone at night is considered vulnerable. But I never saw myself as easy prey. If walking at night had caused me anxiety, it would have defeated its purpose. My intention was to relax, to feel free and expansive.

Only once did someone follow me. It was two in the morning, and no one else was around. A man walked toward me, muttering as he watched me closely. He seemed strong, in shape, and dangerous. When we passed each other, something in me switched on. I turned around and walked directly toward him. We crossed paths again. I looked at him firmly, without emotion, and kept walking. He didn’t follow me again. Of course, I felt some fear, but I’m sure I showed none. He probably expected me to walk faster or flee. What he didn’t expect was that I would turn around and walk toward him.

At twenty-six, I met a group of Polish musicians with whom I shared two great passions: music and alcohol. It was a fleeting encounter, but it meant a lot. Experiencing such an intense physical closeness with someone was simply wonderful. Until then, I had never seen a naked man—much less touched one. How strange—and fascinating—the feeling of another person’s skin. My inner animal purred and growled. It felt completely natural, and I surrendered to the experience without reserve.

They say that by fifteen, E8s have already tasted everything. That wasn’t my case. Sex, for me, has always seemed natural. What was complex was the social labyrinth necessary to reach it. I’ve been a late bloomer in many ways. Later, I’ll talk more about sexuality, but that same year—at twenty-six—I also began a process that would profoundly change my life: I started therapy with Anna Bernet, a Gestalt therapist. The following year, I joined her therapy and training group.

At that time, I was desperately in need of help. I felt, and still feel, very fortunate to have found such a strong therapist. Anna was never afraid of anger or aggression. Nor did she fear confrontation when it was needed. Soft-hearted “good Samaritans,” those who feigned sympathy or worry, had always disgusted me. I could see through their insincerity—and their weakness.

It took me a while to start speaking in the Gestalt group. I deeply admired the way some people could express themselves eloquently about themselves, about others, and about

life. Slowly, little by little, I began to do it too. But at first, I could hardly find words. Anna used to call me “the lie detector.” If someone was being fake or said nonsense, my body reacted immediately. It unsettled me, it twisted me up inside, made me restless. But I couldn’t explain it. I could only describe what I felt. It was as if my body knew before my mind could process it.

I also had to learn that it’s okay to let myself be seen.

At thirty, I bought a house in the mountains, two hours west of Sydney. No more flatmates! Finally, I could expand and own my space. I’ve been living here for fourteen years now. There’s a creative, alternative, slightly bohemian community here. Around the town, there are millions of hectares of national park—where I can go walking. Space! Fresh mountain air! Wild nature! Life here moves at a slower rhythm than the materialistic frenzy of Sydney.

It’s here that I began to find my place, especially socially. At first, it was difficult. But I like living in a smaller community: over time, you start recognizing faces, everything becomes more familiar, more welcoming. I’ve put down roots here: started participating in community activities—festivals, a shared garden, and some music groups (for example, Irish music sessions).

The rest of this period is covered more in the section Change and Transformation.

Opposites.

It has been a constant in my life to feel that, in many ways, I am the opposite of what people perceive from the outside. They say I’m strong, powerful, with little sensitivity to the world. They say I look like stone, but inside I’m soft, profoundly sensitive. They say I project an image of invulnerability, which to me feels unbelievable.

I feel my vulnerability etched on my face. In the past, some people saw me as aggressive when I was only trying to be friendly. Others said I’m expansive or overwhelming. And yet, for much of my life, I’ve felt compressed—like a tightly wound spring. Even when I try to walk lightly, I feel as if I’m carrying years of tension. People say I’m extroverted, but I’m far more aware of my insecurity before the group. I can be shy, even withdrawn.

If I now seem to have thick skin and dense armor, it’s because as a child I felt like I had none. I felt exposed, defenseless, ashamed—as if there were no clear boundary between myself and the world. Now, if I seem indifferent to what others think of me, it’s because I’ve rejected many of the pack’s rules and values. They no longer write the rules for me, though I know they still judge me by them.

For a long time, I didn’t believe I was really an E8, because I was too in touch with the wounded girl inside me. It wasn’t until a SAT workshop a few years ago that a teacher said

something that struck deep: that the E8’s character is that of the inner animal—but not the child.

Since then, I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Over time, I’ve developed a strong ability to be resourceful and self-sufficient. Many people admire this in me. For me, though, this ability comes from a place of necessity rather than pride. The world, in my early years, wasn’t generous. I never felt I could rely on charm, beauty, or popularity to get by. I learned that I had to get things for myself: know how to move, how to orient, how to escape if trapped.

I didn’t want—I don’t want—to need anyone. But of course, I still crave meaningful connection. That’s been one of my lifelong dilemmas. I long for the security of the pack, but I value my freedom and dignity more. The pack can offer protection and belonging, but it also demands obedience and conformity—and punishes, sometimes brutally, those who threaten its stability or values.

Dignity, in contrast to humiliation, was one of the few things I had. I clung to myself. I was all I had. I withdrew from pain and cruelty, and I retreated inward—to my inner territory, the realm of “I.” God help anyone who tries to cross that boundary uninvited. Everything I have—the only thing truly mine—is the sense of being sovereign over myself. That’s what I defend above all. I will be self-sufficient. I will be independent. I don’t need anyone. But of course—that’s a lie. I do need people.

I have a visceral aversion to moralizing lectures, especially when they come from a condescending position. If someone climbs their moral horse to tell me what’s best for me—well, they’d better prepare. No one tells me how to live, how to think, or how to act. For me, that’s a direct violation of my autonomy. I’ve been this way since childhood: stubborn, defiant, reactive. And though people may mistake it for gratuitous anger, it’s something deeper—a defense of my autonomy.

I often react with fury even to well-meaning comments, especially if I detect the slightest tone of superiority. I often do exactly the opposite of what I’m advised, even if it hurts me.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary…” says an old nursery rhyme. It describes me quite well.

A recent example: a few days ago, a friend started, without my asking, to give me a condescending lecture about smoking. Up to that moment, the afternoon had been pleasant, even nice. But her tone was enough. I snapped, yelled, and left. If I decide to quit smoking someday, it’ll be because I choose to.

Another episode, older, also marked me: I was twenty-one, already chewing gum. I went home to visit my parents. My mother, without a word, took the gum from my mouth and

threw it away—she thought it was improper for a lady. I exploded. I shouted, “How dare you?” It wasn’t the gum—it was her control.

Even now, I feel that same flash of rage remembering it.

I’m learning to accept advice, but only when it’s free of judgment or condescension. I can smell superiority from miles away.I recognize in myself—and in others of my type—a solidity, a strength, and a tension that rarely finds free expression. It’s a latent presence, visible in the eyes, always ready to ignite if someone presses the wrong button. When I look at photos of myself in my twenties, I’m struck by the fierce expression on my face. I think the E8 character is, in many ways, that of someone who has endured too much abuse, too much shame—someone who felt besieged and unprotected.

In my case, shame and humiliation were excessive. I developed what could be called counter-shame: a defiant stance that shouts to the world, “There’s nothing you can do to make me feel ashamed.” I face it head-on—I don’t look away. Related to that, I have a tendency, especially when I was younger, to do exactly the opposite of what was expected. I often sought out deliberately scandalous acts, just to shock others—and laughed in their faces.

For example, when I was twelve, two mischievous friends and I made a disgusting mix of everything we found in the kitchen: tuna, sugar, soy sauce, milk. We took it to school and stirred it in front of the popular girls. Their reaction was priceless—utter disgust. I loved it. I was immune to their rules, to the perfect-girl act. I was free in a way they couldn’t understand. Why should I follow the ways of a pack that had rejected me? Was rebellion just a refusal to be tamed—the animal inside me refusing submission?

To rebel against my mother was easier. She was a strong woman who ruled the house most of the time. There was no way to please her. To rebel against my father was harder—his punishments were violent or threatening. I hated his hypocrisy and confronted him with fury. He would glare and say, “Don’t be impertinent, or I’ll turn you into a good girl.” But I’d already learned: you must choose your battles.

I was never especially good at getting people on my side. I had little ability to form bonds. I didn’t know how to approach people or create affinity. Usually, I stayed on the margins of the group—or entirely outside it. To some, I was simply “weird.” I experienced the human world as something hard, immovable, impermeable. Why try to seduce or please? Sweetness and charm seemed useless—empty. I didn’t know how to use them; they felt powerless. I was never—and could never be—the “daddy’s pretty girl.” I felt repelled by those types, though secretly, I also envied the affection they received.

Suffering to get attention never worked either—it always backfired. There was no room for softness. Crying out loud was almost a crime. My father had no tolerance for tears. He could be cold as stone… except for the rare thunderstorm of emotion that came and went quickly.

Once, as an adult, I called him crying. I was alone, broke, desperate. His response was a scream: “Stop being pathetic!” Some people merge fearfully with the pack, submitting to its protection. I couldn’t. The pack rejected me before I could even try to belong. As a child, I tried strategies to attract sympathy—pretending I didn’t know how to do something, asking for help. My father would reply, “Look it up in the dictionary.” Or worse: “Figure it out yourself.”

I tried to be friendly, but my success was limited. It never guaranteed inclusion. Often, when I approached others with goodwill, the response was cold or even humiliating. That’s unjustified. I had done nothing to deserve such treatment. So why should I feel guilty for anything? It’s the world that owes me. That leaves only one strategy: moving against. Claudio once said in a group, “Some types have no choice but to move against.”

That struck me deeply. Curiously, that’s the strategy I’ve always known best.

I’m more conscious now of my tendency to move inward—to retreat into my inner world, my animal self, or a fantasy realm of kind people and wild landscapes. I still think of myself as small and fragile. I remember an exercise in Anna’s Gestalt group: taking turns to move toward and against others. Moving away was easier, more familiar. Moving closer was the hardest. Still, I enjoyed the “against.” When I’m trapped, angry, or treated unjustly, I tend to move against. It’s how I remember that I’m alive—and that the other person is too. Moving against doesn’t have to be cruel or degrading. It can be healing, revitalising—shaking off the dust and peeling away the layers of civility and falsehood to reach the raw truth beneath.

Observing my character, I see how much the instinct of self-preservation has dominated over the social and sexual ones. Someone once called me “inflexible,” and I think they were right. But that rigidity helped me survive. I recognise a strategy in me that lasted for years without my realising: the total lock mode—no one enters, no one leaves.Friends have told me that I become stone-like, and that in that, I resemble my father. I withdraw my energy, my gaze turns inward, and the steel door closes.

Sometimes, if I was with company, I would become sullen, though that rarely yielded results. Most people didn’t care. And if someone did care, it didn’t matter — I wouldn’t let them in. I could stay in that place for a long time; in my twenties, I think I lived there most of the time. Others found me formidable, immovable, someone who easily turned hostile if she felt even minimally challenged.

But inside, what I felt most was the pain caused by that separation. It’s an act of self-protection. I compare it to a siege wall. If a Social E5 lives in a castle, then I am a castle under siege.

I still find myself observing the world from behind a moat, motionless. A man once told me I looked like a lizard: completely still, only my eyes moving, evaluating the surroundings. If I feel under threat, I don’t give anything away. “They won’t catch me.” I only act if it’s absolutely necessary.

I remember someone once saying that I looked invulnerable. I found that incredible. Again, the opposite. I grew up feeling that I had no cushioning between myself and the hostile world of people. I built this armor to survive. Perhaps those most armored are the ones who need it most. Dignity, in contrast to humiliation, was one of the few things I had. I had to sustain myself. I was all I had. Yet at the same time, there were things within myself that I hated and had to learn to love. I knew that a house divided against itself cannot stand.

Self-Preservation 8s are often described as materialistic. If that means believing that wealth will make me happy, then it’s not true — I’m not materialistic. What I want is to have enough so I don’t have to depend on anyone. For example, not to be forced to share a house when what I really need is space and privacy. Independence is vital to me.

I also think it would do me good to live in community again, to find a healthier balance between my private world and my social one.

All people, men and women, are subject to the conditioning of their culture, the media, etc. But I believe that what’s considered acceptable behavior for a woman is much narrower than for a man. In the retrograde culture I grew up in, I often heard the phrase: “Women should be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen.”

Even though there were many exceptions, it was clear that the phrase existed to keep a woman trapped: take off her shoes, and you take away her means to escape — her independence. Men joked about having a woman tied with a leash between the kitchen and the bedroom. I think Australia is particularly backward in this sense, at least within the so-called “first world.” My female friends would say: “Why are so many Australian women so childish?”

I notice a very clear difference, for example, compared to German women — much more assertive and less tolerant of nonsense. I believe that those of us who are women and also E8s have an additional layer of difficulty in our lives. I once read that a female E8 is seen as an aberration.

A man can be an outsider, a rough individual who goes against the current, who needs no one and rides into the sunset alone — a solitary cowboy. He can be outside the system and

still be respected, even admired. Men are expected to be that way in the media and popular culture.But a woman? That seems to go against every available model. The strong message we receive is: “This is how you must be if you want to be loved, if you want to find your place in the world.” You must be submissive, modest, pretty, and compliant. You must look up to the man, give him your power, make him feel like a man.

I don’t deny that many women find it comfortable to remain in that role, since it’s the most acceptable one for women. But I prefer to stay alone rather than endure the pain of losing myself that way. I can endure the pain of being alone, but I cannot endure the pain of betraying my own sovereignty. I hear Churchill’s voice: “Never give up.” For me, preserving sovereignty is fundamental. I refuse to accept the suppression of my will.

I remember a story I once heard about how cowboys tamed a wild horse. They rode it until they could break a bottle on its ears. The animal, dazed by exhaustion, believed itself mortally wounded. Then it surrendered. I don’t know if that story is true. But I recognize myself in it. I’ve resisted with all I have any attempt to break my will. Because that will — my spirit — was, for a long time, the only thing I felt I could cling to in a hostile world. It was my center, my refuge, my shield.

I never fully identified with being a girl. Nor later, with being a woman. I didn’t feel male either. But boys seemed to have more freedom. They were allowed to be loud, wild, rebellious. No one expected delicacy, submission, or sweetness from them. The chains of expectation seemed looser around their necks. As a child, I preferred boys’ clothes. Dresses and pretty things didn’t interest me. Nor was I a tomboy exactly — I simply liked to play in the mud with toy trucks. It was simple: I played with what gave me pleasure, regardless of what that said about my gender.

I recall a vivid scene. I was about fifteen. A public street was covered with leaves after a tropical rain. I walked up and started jumping in them. My mother saw me from afar, horrified. She told me I should be ashamed. Again, it was about being too wild, too “masculine.” But I felt pure satisfaction — the joy of doing something right, real, clean in its logic.

When I was twenty and living in a community, the women organized a “women’s night.” I went, but from the first moment I felt no sense of belonging. I told them directly I didn’t feel like a woman. They talk about boyfriends, sex, periods... I had no experience in any of that. Menstruation? Yawn. Clothes and makeup? Please! Time to leave the room! I was disturbed by feeling out of place, but I had no interest in pretending to fit. That wasn’t my path. Those people, clearly, weren’t my tribe.

I suppose I’m feminist, though I don’t read feminist texts (!). I’ve tried, but they bore me quickly. When I try to participate in feminist conversations, I often don’t understand what

they’re talking about. It all sounds too intellectual, abstract, distant.I think the reason I identify as feminist is more visceral: I have a profound aversion to hypocrisy and double standards. And gender issues are full of them. That kind of injustice truly enrages me. I can’t keep quiet, no matter who I’m with.

As for sexuality, I was slow to develop, though I felt a strong desire to experience it. I didn’t learn to masturbate until twenty-one, and my first sexual experience came at twenty-six. It wasn’t a conscious decision; I had nothing against sex. But sex implies another person, and I’ve always had difficulties with the relational world. Some men desired me, but I didn’t desire them. The whole mating game seemed to me a competition — cruel, humiliating, for which I wasn’t prepared.

To whom should a woman surrender? The word “surrender” itself feels wrong to me — it sounds like losing ground. Sex is easy to find. Men are always ready, always demanding. They don’t need to surrender. They can take as if it were a battle, a victory that pierces, a sword that crosses, a heart without tenderness. What I’ve missed — and still miss — in intimate encounters is something very simple, yet rare: kindness, respect, acceptance.

To surrender means lowering the armor and giving power to another. I can only do that if there’s respect, kindness, and acceptance. I never believed in the game of seduction. From an early age, it seemed false, manipulative. I’ve always hated — and still hate — that masculine “conquest” language. No one was going to conquer me. I made sure of that. But secretly, I long to find someone to whom I can surrender without losing my sovereignty. Since I rarely find that, I rarely have sex.

For example, some people talk about “white guilt”: the feeling of being guilty for being white — and middle class — in a country with a colonial history. And yes, the treatment of Aboriginal peoples was, and still is, atrocious. But I don’t feel guilty for something I didn’t directly do. That kind of guilt, for me, is an evasion of action. It’s like feeling guilty for what your grandfather did, or for being hit by a Nazi or a pedophile.

I understand it in historical terms, but as personal guilt... It seems absurd. I see it clearly. It saddens me — and sometimes frustrates me — to see people torturing themselves with guilt. I don’t see awareness in that, nor responsibility. I see a kind of inner prison. And one thing is clear to me: I didn’t come into this life to be a prisoner.

Be gentle. Don’t let the world make you hard. Don’t let the pain make you hate. Don’t let bitterness steal your sweetness. — Kurt Vonnegut

It has been a long road, and it’s not over yet. I think I’ll feel relief when I die. But for now, I begin to notice signs — small, concrete ones — that something in me has changed. People

who’ve known me for years say I’m softer, calmer, happier. Some even tell me my calm helps them find theirs. At first, it felt strange — calm had never been something I tried to cultivate. But now I think it’s a sign of growth. A sign that something in me has made peace with life. One of my favourite expressions returns to me: “The proof is in the pudding.” If I’m calmer, more centred, then I know I’m on the right path.

Gestalt, for me, became a spiritual home. I came from a deep history of alienation — simply being in a large group was hard at first. But there, I found a new way of relating, of speaking, of bonding. Thank God for having found Anna — a therapist who wasn’t afraid of anger or aggression, and who worked with enormous energy in a creative, productive way. I was thirty-one when I did the SAT program with Suzy Stroke and Alaor Passos, which at that time included parts of the Hoffman Process. I gave myself completely to the experience. I was open, ready to learn.

What happened was deep healing, especially regarding anger and aggression.

After that SAT, for the first time in my life, I began to love people — people with stories, with difficult childhoods and open hearts. I felt a physical gift of the heart. During several days afterward, a serene peace enveloped me... but also great fatigue. I was so exhausted I couldn’t even work. One of the most remarkable experiences came on the final day, during the farewells. I hugged others, said goodbye, and suddenly felt, with total clarity, like an overflowing cup of love. I didn’t need to be filled. I was in love. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t not give it.

A therapist looked at me and said, “Wow. If you have so much love, you can have whatever you want.” That phrase stayed with me. Even when I don’t feel it, I know it’s possible. I know that source is in me — or flows through me.During childhood, my feminine side was pushed into the shadows, as if it didn’t deserve light. I resisted any attempt to make me more “feminine.” To me, femininity meant weakness, second-class status: barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen. There were also subtler reasons, which I still don’t fully understand. The feminine models I had nearby seemed to lack dignity.

It has been a true challenge to find the innocence in my feminine side, and to discover a way of being a woman that doesn’t deny my strength, but also doesn’t reject my softer feelings or the desire for tender, authentic bonds. This continues to be a delicate, ongoing process.

Recently, Grazia Cecchini told me, “I have this intuition: you need to rest. You need to rest.” I’ve been thinking about that. A castle under siege can never rest. And for years, I’ve lived as if constantly besieged. Only recently have I begun to notice how much tension and rigidity I carry in my body — especially in my shoulders, upper back, and chest. Sometimes even my eyes harden; I’ve noticed it in photographs. It doesn’t surprise me that people

sometimes fear me. That expression, in some way, is inherited. It reminds me of my father’s default face.

Yes, maybe I need to rest.

Paradoxically, one of the ways I rest is through intense physical work or exercise. Few things feel as satisfying as relaxing after a full day of gardening. I feel the knots loosen. At the end of the day, I feel alive, dirty, and completely relaxed. I feel fully embodied. My mind serene. The restless thoughts dissolve. I can speak with ease, feel secure in my body. I sleep like a baby.

That is the natural life — at least, for me.Physical work and yoga — or simply stretching — have become indispensable. I know that now. I used to do it instinctively, without realizing. But there were times I lost that contact. I gave in to laziness, to depression, and numbed my body — or rather, anesthetized it — with alcohol.

Another kind of rest, much more difficult for me, is resting in the company of others. My pattern has been to find rest in solitude. Being with people isn’t rest; it’s contraction. A friend once told me, “You seem to need a lot of space and solitude.” True — it’s still true, to some degree. The contraction still appears when people are near. I need space to breathe, to decompress. Often, being alone brings me a sigh of relief. But I long to rest among other human beings — family, friends, a partner — to completely relax the mechanisms of self-protection. To feel at home with another, without needing to talk or entertain. Just being. I know it’s possible. I know it exists. And yet, for many years, I lost contact with that.

A cousin once told me, “We completely lost you for about ten years.” It’s true. And that’s not just a type of rest — it’s also a type of belonging. When I began my therapeutic work, it was extremely hard for me to cry in front of others. I hadn’t cried in front of anyone since I was a year and a half old. Or almost never.

To surrender meant taking off the armor and remaining defenseless. And to change, I had to be willing to do precisely that: to let someone hold me, stay with me and my pain, without leaving. I remember a group exercise. I was having a great emotional release. At the end, the therapist asked me, “In one word, what do you want?” And the first thing that emerged was: “Protection.”

He looked surprised and said, “You’re so imposing... I didn’t think you’d need protection.” I answered, “I’m so imposing because I need protection.” I think that’s one of the great dilemmas of Enneatype 8. It doesn’t help to hear, “You’re strong, you can handle it.” People assume everything is fine. But an E8 person needs, at some point, to let go of the armor. They cannot heal while keeping it on.

And accepting support or protection from another feels profoundly risky. We live as if we were alone, as if there were no cushioning between us and the harshness of the world. We grew up without a net. Unprotected, exposed too soon to brutality.

All my life, I’ve longed to have allies — someone to have my back, to stand beside me, to fight for me. As a child, I can recall only two occasions when someone defended me. Most of the time, I was alone — and that made me an easy target.

There’s a reason I’ve carried so much armor: to protect the sensitive heart that received so much rejection and abuse. As a girl, my heart was friendly and open, but my gifts of love — my most precious pearls — were often rejected or humiliated. It’s no surprise that my deepest love has gone toward children, girls, and animals — beings who haven’t yet learned to despise love, and who have valued mine and returned it multiplied.

In Gestalt groups and SAT work, I began to feel that flow of open-hearted love again — willing, abundant, and free — spilling from my chest. It’s been a long, slow journey of returning from the land of the un-heart, from the broken heart — sad, wounded, alone. Yet even behind the siege wall, that tender heart has always been there. I know what it means to be a freely flowing source of love. I’ve learned something essential: even a heart that has never known much love can learn to love. That, perhaps, is its truest salvation. Love itself is the healing balm.

Claudio’s teaching on love during the last SAT I attended was deeply transformative for me: that we all want to be loved, but we don’t always develop our capacity to love. That phrase resonated in my depths. The act of loving, of cultivating loving-kindness, can free us from the prison of lovelessness, from the loneliness of self-isolation. To love and be happy go hand in hand. To block the capacity to love is, in itself, a definition of hell.

It’s astonishing how many people have never truly experienced an open flow of the heart. Or if they once did, they are not aware they’ve closed it — and they don’t want to return there.The closed heart becomes cynical toward tenderness, distrustful of love — and ends up empty for fear of feeling empty.

I’ve lived it many times myself: that sensation of having nothing left to give, of a heart dry and exhausted. Then comes the hope that someone else will fill it again: “I deserve unconditional love.” These are positive affirmations, yes — but if that idea becomes passive, a search that always looks outward, the heart stagnates, undeveloped. The muscle of love atrophies. I deeply identify with that image — the closed heart as a passive one. A defenseless baby lying there, waiting to be lifted, withering little by little because the world didn’t return the love it gave.

I’ve understood that we must be active participants in the health of our own hearts.

A passive heart is like a lake that fills only when it rains; when the rain stops, the water drains or evaporates. But a heart that loves is like a lake fed by an inner spring: renewed from within, abundant, self-sustaining. We don’t fill ourselves by hoarding love but by opening that inner source.

No matter how wounded my heart may be, if I want to live fully, I must let it unfold — take it out of its twisted armor. Return to feeling for others. Let the light in, the rain fall, the heart be washed and cleansed. This perfectly describes what I experienced in SAT I, in 2001. I hadn’t known I could feel such love. I used to think all that — openness, tenderness, fearless giving — was hippie nonsense. But it wasn’t. It was true. My body and soul had been waiting for it.

It’s a revelation to discover that a broken heart, one dripping and withering in its own bitterness, can become whole again. That it can know love, lightness, joy anew.When my heart is open and the eternal spring flows, sometimes people draw near and feel nourished, touched. That still surprises me — it’s so new in my life. It feels like confirmation that I’m on the right path.

Working in therapy, I’ve learned how deeply healing it can be to see others find joy and freedom from their prisons. But it takes work — active participation and courage. During my years in Gestalt, I often missed people painfully — and wondered, how could I miss them if I never truly bonded in the first place? Then I understood: I was learning to appreciate others, to feel genuine tenderness. With adults, it’s still difficult, but it’s more possible now. I believe that softening and opening the heart is essential for type E8, and perhaps for everyone.

Practising gratitude is something I never would have done years ago. It sounded too “New Age,” too “nice.” Why on earth should I be grateful? I had no idea how much perspective that practice could change — or how much calm it could bring. I think gratitude has much to do with my greater serenity today. To feel gratitude is the opposite of being perpetually dissatisfied — of living at war with everything. It’s a way of embracing the present, holding life with compassion and appreciation.

A shaman I met once told me: “Take your younger self — the child you were, the adolescent who suffered — and hold her.”Give her all the love, compassion, and encouragement she didn’t receive. There’s no other way. That resonated with things I had already heard many times. Since beginning Gestalt, whenever I feel bad, I sometimes imagine little Mary sitting beside me. I look at her sadness, hold her, talk to her. I’ve done this many times — and it always calms me. It truly relieves much of the pain.

The shaman was right: there’s no other way. That healing gesture reconnects me with myself. I become my own ally, united with my own side. A house divided against itself

cannot stand. I’ve had to make serious decisions: Will I stand with myself, or betray myself? Will I follow the herd in its rejection? Or will I use my adult strength to protect that lonely inner child and show her that I care? Gandhi’s phrase comes to mind: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

That means for me: to be loving and compassionate toward others as I move through the world — even when people pull away. My unconscious reaction by default is defensiveness — a siege wall expecting attack. Constant alertness. But when I became consciously aware, I understood I could change it, soften it.

Recently, for instance, I was in a state of inner hostility. Angry and frustrated with myself and the world. It was palpable — I received roughness and defensiveness in return. So I decided to experiment. Instead of closing further, I made the effort to adopt a tender heart, a goodwill disposition toward those I passed. I smiled. Focused on a gentle expansion in my chest. And of course, my day completely changed. People responded differently. Everything you give comes back. Be the change.

I think I’ve learned to disarm others — and myself. Some have told me they find me disarming. A friend even said it’s like my “calling card”: that in tense situations I help others relax, calm down, open their hearts, let kindness flow again. I’m not always conscious of doing that — but I believe that’s something good. And the world needs more of it.

My conscious habit now, when I feel contrary or angry with everything, is to remember kindness, beauty, and innocence. It’s easy to see what’s wrong; harder to step back and see the bigger picture. I’ve had close relationships marked by bitterness — and I’ve learned that bitterness easily slides into hell. Life collapses into a smaller and smaller space of resentment. Some people have reasons to be bitter. Perhaps I do too. But where does that road lead?

I was thirty-four when I discovered Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now, which I think hit the mark for me. Everything I’d done in therapy had softened me enough to receive it. It wasn’t new teaching, but something in me clicked. What I’d learned in Gestalt began to sink in at a deeper level. I must have read that book at least ten times. Each reading gave me a clearer understanding. I consider that moment the beginning of my true adulthood. I learned I could surrender to life as it is — here and now.

Surrender with kindness. With compassion. As Tolle says: “To fight the Now is a form of madness.” I had been fighting the Now for a long time. I had a hungry mouth, waiting for someone — a therapist, a friend — to feed me. I had been hungry for years. And when I finally found a therapist I could trust, the long-accumulated longing of that lonely child burst open. But that was only the first stage — a lake that filled when it rained but emptied when not constantly replenished.

Over time, I began to feel like an adult — no longer a child waiting for life to save me, but a woman capable of caring for her inner world. Then, little by little, the eternal spring began to well up from within.

Later I became interested in meditation and Buddhist practice. At first, after resisting stillness all my life, I approached it with vehemence: “Why stay still and do nothing?” I was impatient, hyperactive, reactive. But eventually I began to understand.

I even apologised to some Buddhist friends for my earlier attitude — and they accepted it with grace.

I learned to seek that inner being below the mind — to enter the depth of this moment, because it’s all there is — and to discover that this is enough. Because at this moment the whole universe is contained.

I was lucky to live near several Buddhist centres and began attending the daily service of a Sri Lankan monastery where I could walk in peace. And as I always say, “The proof is in the pudding.” The changes were tangible. After my first meditation retreat, for example, I realised I no longer had the impulse to kill spiders or cockroaches. My tropical childhood had made me a ruthless hunter of such creatures. But now, simply, I released them outside. That wasn’t something I had worked toward — it just happened. No goal, no plan. And it’s precisely such unplanned signs that I most understand as true growth.

This surrender to the Now also strengthened something in me: calm. Impatience and restlessness — those old background noises — began to loosen. I experienced moments of true peace.

With that inner transformation came new social ease. I began talking to people again, feeling more secure, more open, more interested in natural connection.

I started organising parties at my house — big events, loud, with live music and dance. For someone who’d always lived on the margins, that was very special. During the following decade, I hosted many such gatherings — most of them a success. Some even featured the best musicians in town.

My theatrical, humorous side began to bloom. I found a community that accepted me as I was. I loved that side of myself. I became the lead singer of a band of “gypsy cabaret,” and we toured festivals across Australia. I wouldn’t say my heart was fully open yet, but it was softer, and I realised — some people actually liked me! Thirty-four years old, and only then did I feel truly liked for who I was, even though I still felt clumsy and shy in many ways.

During that period, I met people with whom I still have close bonds — people who feel like family. I had missed that kind of carefree connection — being with people without

overthinking. I had once shunned those party environments — with all the alcohol and marijuana — but I realised that, during my twenties, I had missed all that whirlwind of social life.Now I wanted to reclaim that lost time — in grand style! Years of big parties.

Romance, however, kept eluding me. I had a few infatuations with men I could talk to deeply — about Buddhism, about being, etc. That was already huge progress after so many years without that connection. At thirty-one I went out with a man for eight months. He was clear: “This isn’t a relationship; we’re not a couple.”

That hurt, because I had wanted it to be. I felt deceived; he’d seemed so interested. Later I had other adventures, but nothing deep. It was pleasurable, comfortable — I liked sex. I loved sleeping next to someone. I wondered how I’d lived so long without that feeling. Then, yes, there were more sexual adventures, but I decided not to keep chasing them. Experience has taught me that what I seek is not purely physical connection. I don’t even know what to call it — but I can tell when my heart isn’t in it.

Recently I took an MBSR course (Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction). I was unusually disciplined about it. During the course, I noticed a strange, delightful sensation of tranquillity — a kind of childlike contact with life.

Mindful awareness has opened the door for me to appreciate life’s small things: a glass of milk, a sparrow, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the smile of a stranger. I feel more gratitude for those subtle threads that weave everyday magic. It’s the opposite of needing intensity and drama to feel alive.

Of course, mindfulness must be practised continuously.

My Moroccan friends explained why they pray several times a day: “Just as the body needs food and drink several times a day, the soul needs constant reminders of God.”

Conclusion

Rereading all this, I see that one recurring theme is my relationship with the pack — belonging versus not belonging. I admit that I often cling fiercely to myself and what’s mine, to my sovereignty — out of fear that the little I have will be trampled by the herd. In that sense, I’ve always identified somewhat with type E5: holding tightly to what is precious. Yes, with avarice. I give my energy only to what feels truly valuable.

I still wonder if I need the pack — but not in the way they, or I, might expect. I still wrestle to find my place in the world, my path, my gifts. But I feel much more congruent with

myself now. I’m not a born leader; rather, I feel like fruit ripening slowly, maturing. All my life I’ve been learning a few essential mental lessons:

How can I soften and open with people? What is this surrender that’s so hard for me? How can I yield without feeling defeated?

I’m learning to surrender and accept things as they are. Not to be constantly fighting, struggling to change everything. Fighting what is wastes life — keeping you on high alert, drained, full of stress. How can I make space even for what hurts me? To accept that I can’t always have what I want, that not everything will change, but still remain open and spacious. To allow even disillusion and dissatisfaction. Zen teacher Joko Beck speaks of becoming a larger container — a vessel big enough to hold the whole of life, not just the pretty parts.

Almost Ten Years Later

As the publication date approaches, I reread this biography I wrote almost ten years ago and realise it needs an update. What else has changed?

Transformation continues. I sold my house and left Australia, spreading my wings, creating my life as I went. Energy moves, and with it new possibilities reveal themselves.

As Rumi says: “Go and unfold your own myth.”

I walked the Camino de Santiago three times, even crossing the wild mountains of Aragón in the deep winter. Glorious days, full of adventure and joy. I’ve lived an abundant life, accompanied by tenderness, purity, and innocence — and an immense, exuberant joy. Menopause has arrived. A knee injury and weight gain have caused some sorrow. But growth continues.

My diet has begun to transform, and my body rejoices again. Swimming and, above all, cycling through the forest have become unexpected pleasures. My knees are improving. I’m learning to live from the heart. To live from the soul. To live from faith. I no longer work in the traditional sense, but I volunteer — playing music for the elderly, singing at funerals. I share my gift with the dying and their loved ones.

It’s a sacred moment, when the veils between worlds grow thin. Music, then, becomes medicine — a balm for the soul, a comfort for the spirit, a help in crossing the threshold. This work has meaning for me. I feel strongly the presence of those who have remained

behind, of those who have been forgotten. It does me good to share with them, to console, to relieve.

Two recent experiences opened me up completely. They came unexpectedly. As a child, I sometimes had moments like that, but they disappeared quickly. I can only describe it as a religious experience. A torrent of the Holy Spirit (I don’t know what else to call it) ran through my body and broke me. An agitated, deep, not sad cry — not in conflict. Crying from joy and awe. Running and singing on the beach in winter. I didn’t try to stop it, though the experience took me over. It was a state of grace, of immense joy, a wave of love for God and for the entire world. In that state, there are no questions. Everything is clear. Everything is perfect.

The other experience was during an ayahuasca ceremony, accompanied by the heavenly chorus of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and again came that expansive cry. These experiences are blessings. When Moses descended from the mountain, his face had changed. And that’s how I felt. There are experiences so strong, so full of majesty and awe, that they stay with one for life. I don’t understand everything they mean, nor do I need to. The message is as clear as water: a call to purity.

It sounds strange, but it was evident… I am still unfolding what purity means for me, but something spiritual was purified — mind, body, and spirit. To live aligned with my truest nature. To keep sacred what is sacred. To live with honour and good will. To walk the path high. To be noble.Innocent before the deception of the world. My purity and innocence are not my weakness, as I once believed — they are my strength. I shared these experiences with some spiritual friends, and to my surprise, they all said the same: it is a sign of an angelic presence.

It also seemed strange to me that, on two occasions, I had been assigned the role of “angel” in Gestalt/SAT theatre work. It irritated me then (“again?”), because I wanted to play a wilder role, something crazier. But now I see that presence has long been part of my life. I don’t know if it’s about a real being or my own higher nature.

Claudio once told me: “It’s as if you had never fallen from paradise.”

I don’t know what all of this means, nor how it will unfold. It’s a call from above. The path of the heights is arduous, but the view is magnificent.

In a recent retreat, I was profoundly moved by a teacher. He gave me a gift — a transmission that penetrated the deepest part of my being and now unfolds in ways I didn’t expect. All my work before had been preparation for this.

He entered my fortress through the back door, and I let him in. I had never had such a strong emotional connection to a teacher or therapist — not even Claudio. I allowed myself to be open with him, and I surprised myself. He spoke to me like a lover, not with lust, but with tenderness. He said my name in such a loving, soft tone, with such affection… no one had ever said my name like that. Not even my mother had spoken to me with such sweetness.

And that eye contact, without words — the kind that makes the rest of the world disappear. His eyes burned me. What on earth is happening? Is he a hypnotist? A magician? After the retreat, of course, I fell madly in love with him. Something inside the fortress had opened, and fresh air entered, awakening long-buried sensitivities.It took me time to work through this experience and extract its pearl.

It was on the verge of becoming a desperate obsession, with the teacher as the source of all love and I as a bottomless well of deprivation and hunger. Yet, the energy clearly began to move through different areas of my life. I became much more active, physically and socially. Something strange happened — I found myself enjoying people more. I seem to have a more generous spirit now, more warmth and sweetness. I feel more involved with those around me. People say I seem different, more relaxed. The tapestry of everyday life in my community began to entertain me again. I started seeing things from a fresher perspective.

I’m writing again, with more fluency, more ease. My way of singing has changed; I feel more attuned to music, in every way. That teacher awoke my inner lover. He gently caressed my heart with his presence, with that tender voice — an intimate secret meant for my heart alone. A subtle and powerful medicine. I felt it quite literally.

And now, the rose begins to bloom. The first petals unfold.

This is my rose. My inner lover. I faint in his arms. Life flows through me with more grace, more ease. My body has become more sensitive to the subtle. I allow myself to be touched, to let sound and vibration rebound through my heart. Now I can conceive a tender, loving union — one I couldn’t have imagined before. A fusion between lover and beloved, a union born within. I became multi-orgasmic for the first time. My nervous system seems to have been recalibrated. The body doesn’t lie. The warrior — tired, wounded, hardened — begins to melt.

In some way, the fortress dissolves, and through its cracks, light filters in. The archetype of the lover has been born. It’s a soft, receptive, living energy. A vibration that doesn’t cling. It moves through me toward the world. It is seen with the eyes of the artist, the poet.The music I now believe is born from there — from the loving soul I carry within. It’s a wine of another kind. It doesn’t harm the body, doesn’t demand or overflow. It’s more a quality of

being than a burning desire — a new way of being in the world. A radically different orientation from the one I knew. For a long time, I thought the warrior and the lover were incompatible. But now I see the lover was always there — silent, waiting. It was the sacred air of music that came back to save my heart from final contraction. And now there’s enough lover in me not only for myself or another — but for the whole world. I am a lover of the world.

As Rumi wrote: “To find the beloved, become the beloved.”

This expansion will eventually calm — as clouds inevitably return to cover the sun. Pain and loneliness are as natural as the seasons. But for now, it continues to unfold in surprising ways. And I’m still enjoying it. I’ve been lifted to the heights of a celestial mountain, but now it’s time to make my own path toward that summit.

Integration

Trauma.

This deep impact on my nervous system led me to recognise — and begin to investigate — trauma in my life. For a long time, I didn’t want to look in that direction. The word trauma felt too strong, too dramatic, too tied to a victim's identity. But as my sensitivity to subtle energies developed, it became clear how much I was still trapped in frozen, undigested traumatic responses.

Some come from experiences I don’t even consciously remember.Others, perhaps, are wounds inherited transgenerationally — ancestral traumas. Almost by chance, I came across teachings and books that traced revealing connections among my patterns and their traumatic roots. It was like turning on the light in a room that had been dark for decades.

Behaviours and traits that had always seemed innocent — my slow social development, the constant feeling of being “wired differently,” the chronic fatigue, isolation, my mind going blank because I don’t know what to say, the overwhelm of social life, the sense of not reaching my potential despite my gifts, the romantic obsession, the addictions, especially with alcohol — all of it began to make sense in this new light.

This is a new awareness. I’m just at the beginning of this learning, but my work in Gestalt and SAT has already uncovered many of these layers. I’m excited by this field. It fills me with hope — the real possibility of healing more deeply.

And finally, Claudio

Claudio, you were in my life in many ways for almost thirty years. Your teachings guided me when I needed them most — they were like maternal milk saving me in my darkest times.

You saw beyond my roughness — the pearl I carry in my heart. You gave words to experiences I didn’t know how to name. Your faith in me helped me look at myself with new eyes — to recognise what I had begun to forget. You were a father figure. A grandfather. A friend.

I miss you, Claudio.

May we meet again in a new land.