The last of my daily blogs for 2011 - phew!

So we come to the end of a busy year for me and for Womb Twin.  Twelve months ago, I decided to post on this blog every day. The results have been amazing because I have quadrupled the number of hits I get every day, and so have reached many more people with these ideas.  I will be posting twice weekly from now on, but there are many more adventures  for us to share, so do tag along in 2012.

Thank you so much for following this blog!

Lots happening.  For example, I was sent this link yesterday

Abortions to reduce multiple births on the rise

More than 100 unborn babies were aborted last year by women expecting twins, triplets or even quintuplets but who wanted to give birth to fewer children, official figures disclosed to The Telegraph show.

There were loads of comments, but they were all about the abortion issue. They had managed to miss the point completely, in my view.

So I made this comment.

This discussion has missed the main point here: this is not just an abortion argument, but introduces a wider issue. When a multiple pregnancy of more than three babies is reduced to triplets, twins or perhaps only one baby, the survivors will be affected, both physically and psychologically. No studies of any kind have been done to establish what the psychological effects may be on the survivor(s) of MFPR.  I know that the natural loss of a co-twin or multiple before birth does leave a profound psychological effect on the womb twin survivor.  I have  carried out a ten-year research study involving over 800 womb twin survivors (whose twin sibling(s) died naturally, although in a few  cases the twin was aborted)  and the results are now clear: there are profound psychological effects, the most alarming of which is suicidal ideation, even among children.  The answer of course is to reduce the number of multiple pregnancies,  but prospective parents are so desperate for a child that they are prepared to take enormous risks, for  both mother and  any baby.  Meanwhile, there is a cohort of children who are the survivors of MFPR. This could be a mental-health time bomb, just waiting to go off, but no one wants to know.

I wonder - what you think? 

I wish you all a Happy New Year !

Shira (3) The brothers reunited

(Continued from yesterday)


The Brothers Reunited

At once Bara turned his step towards the sound, for he wanted to find out who was so filled with sorrow and wondered if he could help them in their pain.  Meanwhile the loving voices became stronger, and stronger.  He knew then that if he was truly going to help this poor wretch he must open his eyes, and so he did.  There before him was Bild, weeping by the side of his mare, Mara. 

Bara raced towards his brother, to embrace him and give him all the love he could muster.
 
“I have found Shira”, said Bild, sadly.
 
Bara was puzzled. “Then if this is true why are you weeping? Why do you look so sad?”
 
Bild told him his story of how he had found Shira, but not in the race, that Shira was with him, nearby but always just out of sight.
 
Bara caught his breath. “But that is just what I have found…” he cried, and he looked around then for his guide, so that he could see his face and thank him for guiding him to this place, for the trees were thinning now and Bara could see the way clearly into the light.  But there was no guiding touch upon his shoulder; no gentle presence beside him.  There was no one there.

Bara understood then  why Bild was weeping.  His own heart was breaking because he would never find the magical hiding place, and now even that loving guiding presence was gone.  The two brothers sat together at the edge of the forest, with the mare grazing nearby, and silently grieved for all their dreams: for the race that could never be; for the unattainable Shira; for the elusive, magical place that would never be found.

For a long time they grieved and tried to comfort one another.  Then their hearts lifted a little, for Tamba came towards them from out of the forest.  They took that as a sign to get going again and try to find their way home.  And so the two brothers mounted their horses, and set off on the way out of the forest, along a well-worn path.  Sometimes Bild caught a glimpse of a golden mane, just out of sight, and when the darkness fell Bild had a strong sense of the guiding touch but it faded when he awoke.  Bild too had known the soft touch in his dreams and they both learned to recognise that this was Shira.

It was a long, long journey and they did not seem to be getting anywhere that Bara could recognise on the map, despite his close and regular scrutiny of every possible path and every sign of where they might be.  Bara scanned the horizon and thought as hard as he could, and Bild summoned up all his strength to endure, but to no avail.
 
One day they were sitting by a lake when Bild had an idea.
“When you were lost in the forest and you walked with closed eyes, Shira guided you to the place where I was.”
Bara had not thought about it in quite that way before.  He said;  “I suppose that was Shira, guiding me….”
Bild went on, “And I often get a glimpse of his mane, just out of the corner of my eye, but it seems as if I never manage to see him properly,”
“That sounds as if he is hiding from you,” said Bara.
 
Bild turned to his brother. “But not from you,” he said.
 
Bara looked at Bild for a long time with his bright blue eyes shining with hope.  His quick mind wondered what all this could mean.  Then he knew, and his eyes darkened.

“He comes to me when my eyes are closed,” he said. “ When I am…blind.”

Bara had always had the gift of far- seeing, and had come to rely on this.  His long sight and quick mind made him brave and bold and unafraid to venture into the darkest places where few other people dared to go.  At that moment he realised that to get home he must relinquish his far sight and rely on the gentle touch of the unseen, wonderful horse to guide him.

Bild had other ideas.  If  Shira came to Bara when his eyes were closed, then Bild would be able to see him properly, close to, in all his beauty!  So Bild went and hid in the bushes, and waited for Shira to come.  They waited for a long time, until they were weary with waiting, but the horse never came. 

Then Bild said: “Maybe Shira is hiding from me now.  He always seems to come when I least expect it."

“Yes,” said Bara. “Maybe you need to close your eyes too.”

And so they roped the horses together and they sat still, waiting, both with their eyes closed, both wishing that Shira would come and they would feel the soft guiding touch, but the hours passed and there was nothing.

Soon they decided that they would have to move somehow, and make some kind of decision.  They set off towards the setting sun, slowly, eyes closed, still roped together.

Soon they both had the feeling that Shira may be somewhere near, but they were afraid to look in case he disappeared.  They moved slowly, neither of them knowing where they were going, but still there was no soft touch, no guide. Eventually they stopped in a green meadow where the horses began grazing greedily.  The two brothers opened their eyes to see that the grass was soft and fresh with spring shoots, and all around them new buds were growing and bulbs were shooting.

Bara began to laugh. “ Of course we have arrived here in this wonderful soft grass!” he cried.  We may have had our eyes closed, but the horses knew exactly where they were going!”
 
Bild looked puzzled. “You mean that only if they too do not know where they are going that Shira will come? Is he is hiding from them too?”
 
Bara shrugged.  "Maybe, who knows?  Anyway, tomorrow I will bind up their eyes, then we will all be unable to see and maybe then Shira will come and guide us home.”

The next day they saddled up the two horses, who looked well fed on good new grass.  They bound the eyes of the two horses, who whinnied and shifted and seemed to be afraid.  Then Bara and Bild mounted their blind horses, closed their eyes, and waited for Shira to come and show them the way.

They waited for the long time, but there was no soft touch to guide them, only the sound of the breeze blowing in the wind.  They moved off slowly, filled with disappointment, but still hoping, still believing that if they waited long enough Shira would come.

The gentle breeze became a strong wind at their back, almost blowing them along the path.   Bild felt afraid but he relied upon his strength to give him courage.  Bara was wondering why the breeze had become a wind so suddenly, would there be a storm?  He too was afraid but he relied upon his wits and knew that he had only to open his eyes and he would be able to see everything.  He began to think that they may be going the wrong way after all, but the wind was blowing so hard it was hard to stop.  

He turned Tamba’s head a little and guided the two horses into the wind, for he knew that if they walked into the wind the storm would pass more quickly.  They battled on into the wind, their eyes shut against the rain, hoping that their gentle guide would come to rescue them.  They blindly stumbled on and on, the horses picking their way slowly through the rocks.  Bara became concerned for the horses, because there were so many rocks.
 
“I am going to unmask the horses,” he said. “They may get hurt.”
 
Opening his eyes he saw that they were in a thick mist and only a few feet in front of them was visible.
 
“Bild! You may as well open your eyes now, for we can’t see where we are going anyway.  There is a mist.”  Bild opened his eyes, and looked around him, there was no sign of any familiar landmarks.  They were totally lost.  The rocky path was clear under their feet but it was not clear where it was going.  The pathway was all they had to guide them and the wind that blew hard in their faces.  The sound of rushing water was somewhere near.
 
All at once, Bara knew what to do.  “This is enough to go on!”  He cried.  “We have the pathway, and the water, so let’s go on, bit by bit.  We are not lost if we have these.” And so the two horses and their riders moved slowly and carefully into the mist, with the pathway and the river to guide them, heading towards home.

Shira (2) - Bara searches the dark forest

Remember Shira and the story of Bild's quest for happiness?  Here is the second chapter in the story, which is about Bara, his brother.......

Bara's search

Meanwhile, Bara had been racing through the forest. Not for him the wild open spaces that Bild needed for this race!  Bara had the eyes of a hawk and the ability to weave and skim though the trees and along the paths faster than anyone.  He searched out with his keen sight a faint pathway, where few had walked before, and boldly he took it, spurring Tamba onwards and onwards to run faster and faster.

 
Bara kept his eyes fixed upon the darkest places in the forest, for he knew that somewhere in the hidden depth of the forest was the place where Shira lived.  If such a wonderful white horse with a golden mane were to be out there in the open, then surely the whole world would already know him and be able to see him! No. Bara knew with his keen mind and sharp eyes of deepest blue that only the keenest eyes and sharpest wit would be able to locate this secret hiding place where Shira would be found.
 
In his secret heart Bara was a proud man, and was fiercely jealous of his brother’s enormous strength.   To win the race he had to believe that his eyes were the keenest and his mind the sharpest, and he worked hard to use his eyes to read the signs of Shira’s passing and use his wits to deduce where he may be hiding.  His only thought was that secret place.  

Tales for the journey : The Door ( Acceptance)

The door

The wall before me was covered in thick ivy that had grown over the years.  The ivy was strong and the leaves very green.  Yet there was just a hint in the shape of the green covering that suggested there might be something behind it.  Bit by bit, I tore off the resisting stems until the red, crumbling bricks of the wall were revealed.  I searched for many years, tearing away the ivy which, neglected, soon grew again.  Then one day I noticed that there was wood beneath the ivy, and as I carefully took off the leaves and stems I saw that this was a wooden structure and it was the shape of a door.

I examined the door, noticing the strong wood panels, the square strong frame, the veins of the deep oak wood.  There was no doorknob, no keyhole and no key.  The door stood in the wall, mute and mysterious.  Why was it there?  What was on the other side?  Would I ever be able to open it?

I asked a friend to help me.  Together we cleared away the remainder of the ivy, and I explored with my fingernails the crack around the door.  I put my ear close, so close to the wood and listened as hard as I could.  I thought I could hear something but it was only the beating of my own heart.  Together my friend and I debated why the door was there, what may be on the other side.  I sat there for many days staring at the door, dreaming of the day when I might know how to open it and know what was there on the other side.

In my dream a man stood in the open doorway.  How was it that the door had opened?  Beyond the tall figure of the man there was a strange landscape that I thought I knew, but I woke up and the dream faded from my memory, leaving only a sense of loss and isolation.

I grew angry at the mute and silent square shape of the door and I threw myself against it and beat upon it with my fists.  I knew that if I could only open the door then I would know what was on the other side.  I could not go on with my life until I saw that strange landscape that my heart already knew about but my mind could not encompass.  I was obsessed. 

Tales for the journey - Out of the Box (Awakening)

AWAKENING

"Out of the box"

I was in a place of complete darkness. It was a place I knew well and yet I was visiting it with my awareness for the first time. I opened my inner eye of awareness and saw a set of Chinese boxes, made of dark, dark wood with one packed inside the other.

I was where I had always been: in the outermost box, hemmed in on both sides, but I did not care. I had just enough for my needs. I could manage this for a lifetime. I had no connection with the outside world, for this was a prison. I was on a life sentence. I was resigned to never being let out or escaping, in fact I had long since given up on the possibility of escaping. I settled for what I had. I was content. I was alone.

Yet somewhere, faintly sounding in the back of my mind, I heard a child cry out. Something deep in my heart awoke and responded to that cry.

I began to listen carefully to that tiny little voice. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the wall. My listening drew me inwards, to wonder about what was on the other side of the dark, inner wall of my prison. I realised that in the place where I was all I had ever managed to do was to walk in circles.

But if I stopped walking round and made a hole in the wall, what would I find there? I made a very tiny hole in the wall and dared to look through. It was very dark there, and it was filled with fear. I feared that I was stepping into a void; that I would vanish from the world and never find that little voice.

The voice sounded a little louder and in my heart I knew the child was lost and alone in the dark. I felt very sad that this lonely little child had no friend to comfort him.

So I stepped into the dark and fearful place to be near to and comfort the child, but I did not know where I was or what to do. I felt helpless and sad that the child was lonely in his box and I in mine. I realised then that I did not wish to be alone.

I walked round in that new space which was much smaller than my former prison, and very soon I came back to where I had started walking. Round and round I walked, many, many times, but there was no way out. The child was still crying and alone and I grieved for that child and also felt sad to be alone.

I began to wonder how this thing had come about: that I was sad and alone and grieving for a little child who cried out endlessly in the dark but no one came?  I wondered who the child was, and why I had always been alone.

I wondered if the child and I could be friends. I wanted to shout out, but I had no voice.

I was left in silence with only the sound of the child's cry to guide me.  Then I realised that the silence was all around me.  The child's cry had stopped, for he had given up in despair.   I tried desperately to call out and found an unaccustomed voice of my own. I cried out in a whispery tone: "Where are you? Why will you not talk to me? I want to be your friend! "

There was silence. There in my dark wooden prison I felt more alone than ever. The silence of that child's cry spoke to me of the death of hope and my heart broke open at last. The pain was terrible. I was racked with it, and clutched at my own body as I knew the pain of true desire at last. And out of that desire came rage and power, that I would have what I wanted! I took my rage and power and smashed the wooden walls of my prison until they lay about me like matchwood.

I stepped towards the centre into the silence where the child had been. There was no sign of the child. He was gone. The wind blew gently around me and I knew freedom, but there was no one there, only myself, staring into the space at the centre of the ruins of my wooden prison.

So I piled up all the wood and made it into a great beacon and lit with the new fire of life that was burning in me. The flames leapt high and the light of the beacon shone out over all the land.

In a distant place where he had been waiting all these long years, a child saw the light I had made and came home.

More tales for the journey: The Jewel (the illusion of power)

The jewel

In a small town a long way away from here, there lived a chicken farmer with a secret.  Every day he went to look after his chickens and count how many eggs had been laid and how many little chicks had hatched out of the eggs.  When he saw the little yellow chickens he was pleased, because he knew they would grow into strong healthy chickens and one day they would lay eggs for him

Sometimes he took some eggs and some chickens to the market, for if he did not he would have far too many.  He loved to walk around his farm and observe the chicks and chickens stepping and pecking around him.  He loved his chickens, but he was unwilling to send any of them away, for he knew in his secret heart that one day one of the eggs would hatch and inside there would be a jewel of great price, and that this jewel would make him the most powerful man in the world.

So every time an egg was laid he carefully scrutinised it, trying to guess what was in there.  Every time he went to market he worried that he had given away the jewel, and so he found all kinds of secret ways of making sure that the jewel was not in the eggs he sold.

A tale for Christmas Day - a matter of choice

Sisyphus unbound

The hill was rugged and steep and the narrow path well worn, for the man with the stone had pushed his way uphill many times.  He was strong and muscular, with strong arms and legs, and he sweated as he pushed the stone higher and higher up the path towards the summit.  The days wore on as he struggled on alone, step by painful step, ever upwards, slowly but surely, inch by inch.  Within a few yards of the top he slipped, and his feet slithered on the wet ground.  The stone slipped from his grasp and it began a slow descent, gathering speed as it went.

This man Sisyphus had once been a king.  He was clever and used his wits to rule and he ruled well with an iron hand.  Yet when Death came to claim him he seemed to be powerless: what use his wits now?  However Sisyphus had already worked out a plan to cheat Death. Sisyphus left him chained to the wall at the gates of Hades in the chains that were designed for Sisyphus himself.

The price of this cunning was an endless, fruitless task, to try and push the stone uphill.  Sisyphus tried to move the stone alone for many years, but soon it was clear that without some help he would never do it.  He would never reach the top and never see the stone roll over the summit and down the other side, thus setting him free from the curse.  He knew he needed a friend, and the first friend he called upon was Hope.

“Just keep trying,” cried Hope, as Sisyphus strained to move the heavy stone.  “The summit is not far, and you are strong.  You can do this, never give up.  Keep hoping that tomorrow it will be better, that the stone will not seem to heavy and will move easily.  Soon your curse will be broken and you will be free.  Keep cheerful and keep believing that this can be done!”

With the help of Hope Sisyphus pushed to stone to the top with renewed strength, but again he slipped up and the stone rolled downwards into the valley with a great crash.  At the bottom Despair was waiting for him, as he always did, laughing.

More tales for the journey: Case Study (2) Letting go of the past

 
I came to a place where I had left an old leather suitcase, which I had once carried for my mother.  I saw it lying there, neglected in a corner and imagined that there was great sadness left in it that seemed to have something to do with me.

 I leaned down and inspected the tattered leather, which I had slashed with a knife.  I saw the damage I had done when I wrenched it open in my desire to find my baby bracelet.  I stroked the smooth leather surface, wondering what journeys that case had made, that I could never know about.  I was lost for a long time, pondering the mysteries of the case.

 Then I saw that the leather was a warm, brown colour and was soft and malleable.  I knew at once what to do.  I took up my scissors and cut carefully into the leather until I had several pieces lying about my feet. 

 I spent a long time carefully planning; placing the pieces this way and that, until I knew what I could make.  For many hours I worked until my fingers were sore and my eyes ached, until I had made a small rucksack and a pair of moccasins.

I saw the road stretching out ahead of me, inviting me to walk on.  I put the sack on my back, placed the moccasins on my feet, and set off, singing.

More tales for the journey: Hiding in the Light (Awakening from pain)

I stood still in that place where they were, and it was dark.  I was afraid to move.  I heard voices and they seemed to be talking to me, but I could not be sure, so I smiled, just in case.  I wondered what they looked like and what they felt inside and I tried talking to them about that.  When I spoke to them about their dreams and thoughts they came close and spoke to me.  Then it did not seem so alone there in that place.

Then the fencing match began, and I was afraid. I did not know the rules, and I could not see where my opponent was, with her sharp rapier, which so often found its mark.  I darted about at quickly as I could, and I learned to see in the dark by guesswork, which threw some light upon what was happening.  I turned away and hid out of sight and out of the way of the sharp rapier that could sting but never killed, that humiliated but never drew blood.

I stayed a long time in hiding, for the rapier was silent and deadly and ay in wait for me to emerge.  If I did, there it would be once more with its deadly steel and the silent masked face behind it,  and the tough vest that admitted no hurt.

And then another opponent whose name was Death took her away, leaving only the memories and the dreams I had made in my own silent space.  I still found my way about by guesswork, and made my own torches to light the way, woven from my hair and spittle, until my mouth was dry and my hair was thin and my scalp was a weeping sore.

A Womb Twin Day message to all womb twin survivors

Today on the feast of St Thomas,  we remember and honour our womb twins.

As the winter solstice comes and goes, we pass from the darkness of winter into the light and warmth of summer.

Tales for the journey: The sailor

There was once a man who lived aboard a boat.  It was just a little boat in the middle of the ocean,  but it was built of strong timbers and it had a commodious cabin. The boat was anchored with a chain a mile long, for the ocean was a mile deep.  He could feel the tug of the anchor when the wind blew strongly and he lay in his warm and cosy cabin and it made him feel safe.

For many years the man remained in the cabin, for he had no need of telescope or sextant.  The helm was fixed to move forward and the sails were down, so that he had nothing to do.  The anchor held him fast and he could relax in safety

But one day he heard the call of the wind and the gulls  from the other side of the hatch above his head. The call became more and more insistent until he decided to open the hatch just a little and see what was going on. So he arose from his bunk and reached out.  He opened the hatch just a crack and a sweet smell of sea air came to him.

Tales for the journey: The place beyond the wire - (Resistance to healing)

I awoke and opened my eyes at last. I looked about me in the gloom and I could see the soft bed, the warm enclosing walls and the high window.  The bed was warm as I lay on it and dreamed many dreams where I was falling, skating downhill, missing trains and trying not to drown.  The high window was beyond the reach of my gaze, and I often wondered what I would see if I looked out, but I didn’t.
 


The prison was small but there was enough for my needs.  I had my books and the TV, and some pencils to write with, and I read stories, wrote stories and told stories to my friends who were there on the other side of the wall.  Sometimes I wished I could see my friends clearly, but always there was the wall between us.  Sometimes there was a crashing and screaming and I did not want to hear, to see, or be seen.  I stayed silently inside my warm prison, glad that I did not have to be involved.  For many years the crashing went on, and when it was silent I waited for it to begin again.

Then there was a long silence.  I waited, imagining what may be going on in that silence, what terrible things were being planned against me.  But gradually I begun to wonder if the silence was simply silence, and nothing to be feared?  I noticed the door.  It was in the gloomiest corner, and it was closed.  I lay in bed and wondered what lay beyond the door.  I stared at that door for a long time and heard voices - gentle voices - outside.

One day they called to me, with soft tones and whispered words that I did not let myself hear, for outside the door was terror and mayhem and chaos and I was safer here inside my familiar prison with its comforts and warmth! The voices outside the door became louder and more insistent.  I heard some angry voices saying I must come out, and other voices saying they understood why I felt I had to stay inside.  I heard songs and stories that were not quite distinct, and the voices of people I loved and wanted to be near to.
   
I began to want to open the door!  I walked right up to it, dared to touch it, dared to see its outlines and the way it was closed against me.  I began to rage against the door, against the smallness of that space!  I knew that there were others outside, unafraid, and if the door would only open I could be with them.  I began to speak to them about the door, about how it felt to be locked in, unable to get out.  They were waiting for me to do something but they never said what. I knew I must do something but I didn’t know what.  There was no one to tell me how! I became so angry that I had never been shown the way out of this door!

I was terribly lonely in my tiny cell, and the stories lost their appeal, they were a place to escape to but they were not real freedom.  How I longed for freedom!  To be out there with all the others, able to feel part of them, with them, and to feel the warmth of their presence and really get to know them and see myself with them.

I began to rage against the door, to flail against it with my fists, weeping and crying.  I was so angry that I should have to be in this tiny prison where the air was dank and the window so small.

One day I became aware of soft voices speaking to me: -  the same words again and again.  I was afraid of what they were saying, and blocked my ears to their words. They were saying, “Open the door! Open the door!” but I did not after all want to open that door, because I was afraid of being outside where I didn’t know how to behave, or how to be myself.  Gradually I learned to listen to the voices, because I came to understand that they were my friends, that they wished me no harm.

As they spoke to me gently, I came nearer and nearer to the door, until I could place my hand on it, and feel the cold steel under my hand.  After many days I put my hand upon the latch and dared to turn it.  I was very afraid but the soft voices continued, insisting that it was safe, and that I was held in mind while I tried to do this thing.

I dared to push, and I pushed with all my strength against the door but it resisted.  It was locked.  Then I became truly enraged.  How could they do this to me: lead me to believe that I could open this door!  How can one open a door that is locked?  They were stupid; they had let me down!  They were evil, exploiting me, with my wish to escape; planting ideas of freedom in my head that I could never have!

I sulked for a long time.  I wouldn’t listen.  I lay in my bed and returned to my dreams, but they had a different quality now.  They were about walls, bars, fences and barriers.  I longed to get out but I couldn’t.  How I longed to be free!

 At the high window I heard someone singing.  The song got into my heart and woke me up from my dream.  It was a song about a key.  A key that lay in a dark corner for years and years but was found at last.  How I wished that someone would come and help me find that key!  How I wished that I could be found: - that someone would come and find me in my tiny cell and set me free!  Yet in the deep places of my heart there was gladness that no one had come, that I had not been found, for were I to be seen, to be found, I would have to go out into that fearful place where people may try to exploit me again.

   
One day I saw the key, there in the corner of the room.  I wondered how I had never seen it before.  Maybe I had seen it, but ignored it. It was hard for me, picking up that key.  I waited a long time before I even touched it.     All the time I held it I sang the song to myself, about the key that can open the door.  I could not remember locking it, but perhaps someone had locked it for me, believing that it would keep me safe.  Maybe my mother had been here in this prison.  Perhaps I had been born into the prison and had known no other life.

I did place the key in the lock.  I did turn it.  I did open the door and step out into the arms of those who had waited for me so patiently.  Without them, without their encouraging words, understanding my hesitation, understanding my fear, gently letting me feel my own power to decide, I could never have done it.

I stood in an unfamiliar place, where I needed to hold tight to those who had brought me there.  It was smooth, and there were huge open areas, and I could stretch and run and grow stronger every day.  I saw the sky, the clouds and all the people around me, also running and growing stronger, smiling with the joy of being free!  For a long, long time I played there in this space, with the hard, smooth ground secure beneath my feet, and the high, blue sky above my head.  As I grew stronger I wandered about in that place to find the limits of it, but no one spoke of very much about the outer limits, except for dark hints and sideways glances.  

Then one day I saw the perimeter.  It was made of barbed wire, in a terrible tangled mess, all around the edge of the space where I was, the wire was strong and twisted.  The barbs were cruel and spiky.  I did not dare to touch the wire lest my skin be torn.  I simply stared at it for a long time. The wire was so thick it was very difficult to see what may be outside, but I was filled with fear at the prospect of what may lie beyond.  I became afraid of looking outwards and instead looked inwards to the space where I was growing stronger every day.

I was able to see my former prison in the centre of the space, and knew that I was in the prison compound.  The floor was smooth concrete, not living earth.  Again I was trapped, even though there was plenty of space and people were happily playing, living their lives there in the compound, each trying not to think about what might lie beyond the edge.

I listened every day for a voice from beyond the wire.  I yearned to hear a song, a story to encourage me, a voice to draw me onward, outwards towards the wire.  I watched, and thought, and calculated what to do. There were three ways to get past this barrier: first I could lay a ladder against it and climb over, but where was the person to provide the ladder on the other side?  There was no one there.

I decided to tunnel beneath it, and this seemed a good idea.  I worked hard for many months to dig a secret tunnel under the wire; hoping that if I dug up enough dirt there would be a clear way through.  But strangely, (or perhaps not so strangely, for I was afraid), the tunnel kept collapsing, and the more I dug the more I was trapped in the tunnel, away from the fresh air.

It was late evening when I found the wire cutters.  They lay on the ground, available for anyone who noticed them to pick up.  At once I knew that they were for me.  I would cut the wire, strand by strand, until I had made a smooth path through!  And look!  I would allow others to come through with me and we could be together in the place beyond the wire!  I held the cutters close to me all night long, dreaming, wondering how I would see my way, for beyond the wire was a place with little light.

In the early morning I used all my wisdom to create a small torch, and lit it. I stepped out boldly across the compound towards the wire, in the dark before dawn.  The wire loomed over me and I was afraid, but I kept walking and stretched out my hand towards the wire.  I was prepared to risk tearing my skin and bleeding badly, if I could only be free!  I held up the wire cutters as a talisman before me.

To my surprise, the wire gave way under my hand, and as I walked into it, it began to dissolve away.  Then I knew the truth, that I had made the barbs on the wire out of my pain, that the wire was meshing me into my old imprisoned life.  I stepped through, now understanding that I had made the wire out of my fear of freedom.  Now I was making my own way through the space where I had imagined it to be.

I held up the torch I had made and its tiny light showed me the road a little way before me into the dark.  As I stepped forward into my future, I felt hands upon me that were familiar, but which I could not see.  Their gentle touch was enough for me to contain my fear and walk on.

Tales for the journey: Orthan's herd ( scapegoating)

Once there were two goats, Ermey and Orthan. They were brothers. Their master Eblis, looked after them well. Eblis heard that the King needed two goats of purest white for the annual ceremony of atonement. When the spring came and the harvest was gathered, Eblis got his heart's desire: his goats were chosen. One would live and the other would die.

In the palace yard, Ermey and Orthan were standing on a wooden dais, while people scrutinised them from every angle. The King came out of the palace and sat on his throne. He studied them for a long time. The goats held their breath but they knew that they had no need to fear.. The King reached out his hand and touched Ermey. "This goat is without blemish. This goat is chosen." Ermey was lifted down from the dais and lead away. The two goats, who had lived all their lives together until this moment, exchanged glances of farewell.

Orthan was taken out of the city to a clearing, where a few people were gathering. They had pieces of cloth and paper in their hands and some of them were carrying buckets and brushes. There came a great shout from the city centre: "We offer his life in sacrifice of atonement!" And at once Orthan knew, with a great wrench in his heart, that his brother was dead. Orthan wanted to die too, rather than live on without his brother.

Tales for the journey: The Store - (Compulsive caring)

My secret storeroom was full of old and dusty things.  Some of them had once been very valuable indeed, while others were just junk.  It was so crowded in there that it was hard to see which was which.  The room was small, dimly lit and musty, and for as long as I could remember it had been my job to look after it.

I knew what the others would say to me if they knew about my secret store.  “This store is messy!  You have not been minding it properly.  You must sort it all out so that you can throw out all the junk!”  I did not want to be ashamed of it if anyone saw inside, so I set about cleaning the store, sorting it all, cleaning out the boxes and ordering all the items. 

There was a lot in there but gradually I got a sense of what was in there, and I even created my own filing system.  I kept changing the system as I discovered more and more in there. For a small room it contained a lot.  The others never asked me what I was doing.  They just went on playing out in the sun while I was busy organising the store.

After many months of ordering and sorting I became impatient, and I decided to spend all day, every day in the store.  I foolishly believed that if I managed to sort it out, then I would be free of my obligation and would be able at last to play outside in the sun.  Day and night I worked, sorting and ordering and creating a dozen new filing systems each day.

Tales for the journey: Ivy tree (Strength from adversity)Wisdom)

The tree stood by a river that flowed slowly through the scattered woodland.   Round the trunk ivy grew, dark green leaves unfurling and tendrils spreading as the seasons progressed.  The ivy grew quickly, but the tree grew faster.  The ivy spread slowly up the trunk and along the branches, but the twigs of the tree unfurled their tiny green leaves each spring, and in summer the dense, leafy branches left the ivy in shade.

The ivy said to the tree, “I need you to hold me up and enable me to grow tall.  I need to find the rough places in your bark for my suckers to grip you tightly to keep me from falling.  I will drink the rain as it pours and dribbles along your branches and down your trunk.  My roots are intertwined with yours- we share the same earth, you and I.”

The tree said to the ivy, ”I need you to wrap yourself around me, to protect me from the strong winds in winter, to make me strong and enlarge the girth of my trunk with your woody stems.  With you around me I will look stronger, and I will seem to be fresh and green, even in the winter snows.  I know that we are friends, that we share the same space, see the same sky and know the soft kisses of the rain as it falls upon us.”

Years passed.  When winter came, the leaves fell off the tree, and only the ivy leaves remained.

They were dark and shining, and the tendrils waved and twisted around the bare branches as the ivy grew higher still, reaching for the sun.  When summer came and the tree woke up again, and the tiny leaves unfurled, there was less and less of the little tree visible to passers by.  Soon the tree seemed to consist only of ivy, in the vague shape of a tree, dark against grey skies and rustling in the winter wind.

The ivy said to the tree, “See! I am greater than you are!  I am greener and stronger and I can reach all the hidden parts of you.  You are overcome.  You are my slave!  I have conquered you!”

The soft voice of the tree, hidden within the ivy whispered, “You are choking me!  The life is going out of me!  I cannot reach the light so that I can feed and grow.  I do not wish to be your slave!  I will not let you conquer me!”

So the little tree grew as wide as it could, trying to burst out of the ivy stems, but they were fixed past to the trunk and would not budge.  The little tree grew taller than ever, reaching higher and higher into the sky, searching for light and space.  The trunk grew thinner and thinner and was barely able to sustain this new growth, but the thick stems of the ivy stood fast.

The tree cried out in triumph, “See! I am taller than you are and the strength you have given me is helping me to stand tall!  I will spread my roots wider, and reach higher and higher until you cannot reach me!” but the ivy said nothing for a long time.

The tree spoke once more, “I never wanted you to be clutching me like this: if you had left me alone I would be a beautiful tree, able to grow into my own shape.  Now I have been shaped by you and I hate you for that!” but again the ivy said nothing and was still and quiet.

Then the tree grew angry and said, “I wish that the forester would come and slice your stems above the roots so I could breathe and grow to any shape I chose!”

The tree listened but there was no sound, only the soft whisper of falling ivy leaves. Slowly the leaves fell to the ground and the ivy was silent and still, and the tree came to realise that the ivy had died.  All through the winter both tree and ivy stood entwined, mute and still, as if both ivy and tree were dead.  But spring came and the tree put out the tiny buds and little twigs grew from among the woody dead stems of the ivy, and blossom formed, white and pure in a celebration of new life.

When the wind blew a little the tree wept for the ivy, which still wound itself in death around the tree.  The ivy was silent and still, but the dead stems were strong and woody, giving strength to the trunk of the tree, which was barely visible within.

As the seasons passed, the tree stood tall and alone in the forest, by the stream that flowed silently by.

Tales for the journey: The Bowl (The discovery of the self)

It was a large earthenware bowl and it had been buried for many years. I had been looking for some time, searching in the ground for signs of where it was buried, and gradually I began to notice the circular shape in the earth. I felt gently round it with my fingers and sure enough there was the rim, jutting out slightly.

It was some time before I was able to distinguish clearly the patterns on the rim.  I became afraid that other people may tread upon it and so I marked out a private place around it, and every day, whenever I had a moment, I came to that place to discover more.  I saw that there were markings around the rim, which may have been damage, a few chips here and there and maybe even a slight crack, but the rim made a perfect circle there, buried in the earth.

I set about digging round the circle and feeling under the bowl with my finger.  I was very careful lest I break it in my searching, so I asked a friend to help me.  We both worked at it, gradually removing the earth around the bowl, until the shape was clear and the bowl stood there in the deep hole we had made.

Then it was time to remove the bowl from the earth, and we tried to lift it- but it was too heavy!  The only thing was to make it lighter, so we set about removing the dirt from the bowl. 

There was a lot of accumulated rubbish that had collected in the bowl over the years, and some of it was quite unpleasant to see and to handle, but with care and gentleness we removed the dirt, bit by bit, careful not to damage the bowl. It was almost empty when I said: “Let’s take it out of the hole and place it in the sunshine where we can see it more clearly. 

Tales for the journey: The coat - (self reliance)

It was a large warm coat that wrapped me in its folds, and within which I felt safe.  It was given me by my mother, who said nothing about it to me at the time, but I came to understand that it would keep me warm against the cold winds that often blew, and so I wore it always.  There were pockets on the outside, and also secret pockets in the inside. In fact there were so many pockets that I sometimes couldn’t find what I wanted unless I searched very hard and for a long time.

In the beginning it was smooth and soft.  It blew in the wind and fresh air wafted around me within the folds.  I soon found the pockets useful. They were large and there was room for all kinds of treasure in them.  I went about collecting treasures, and hid them in my pockets until they were all filled.  People saw me in the coat and said “Look how she is growing!” and I stood tall and proud of being big, but in my secret heart I knew that I was much smaller than my coat.

When I wanted a comb, there was a comb in my pocket, ready for use.  When I wanted some bread, sure enough, there was bread.  It was good to know that I was never in want, that everything I wanted was there, in my coat.

Tales for the journey: Caterpillar (Belief in yourself)

 This is a story about two caterpillars, who lived in a garden long ago.  Every day they wandered up and down the leafy stems and munched at the succulent leaves, and watched the butterflies flying overhead landing lightly on a twig, folding their wings against the rain or opening them to the sun.

The two caterpillars, Clara and Carl, did not have much to say to each other, for they were engaged in the process of eating, growing and becoming large enough to turn into butterflies.  Their friendship was a silent one, as they crawled and munched.  Carl wanted to become a truly wonderful butterfly.  He often thought about the strong and wonderful painted wings he would have when he was changed in the magical chrysalis.  Carl dreamed and dreamed until all he could see- all he could think about- were his dreams of his wonderful, painted wings.  His dreams were clearer when he kept his eyes shut, so he often hung there, replete with leaves, sleeping and dreaming of better things.

Clara was ashamed of being a caterpillar. She felt fat and furry and hated the fact that she must crawl on the ground while the others were already butterflies, fluttering in the sunshine. She wanted so much to fly, she often dreamed about it, and in her dream she flew effortlessly into the sky soaring and turning, visiting every flower in the garden.

She resented being a caterpillar so much and however much she ate, however hard she tried, she stayed a caterpillar. Every day she asked Carl to get out his magic mirror and she would look at herself in it.  Sure enough there she was, her own eyes and face, but the body of a caterpillar behind them.

Tales for the journey: Case Study (1) carrying family pain

It was a dark brown, old-fashioned, leather suitcase of indeterminate age, and it was locked.  It was given to me by my mother, and I carried it about with me all my life.  It had labels all over it, of countries far away, trips made by previous generations, and far-flung countries with names we don’t use any more.

I took the suitcase everywhere I went.  When I went to school it was there, weighing me down and taking up space in the boot of the car: - space which may have been better used to store extra books and equipment.  It came with me when I moved house, and, rather than leave it behind, I threw away precious toys and brought the suitcase instead.  I was an adult before I dared to put it down, and think about it.

One day I decided to try and find the key.  I asked everyone in the family where the key was and they didn’t know. I wondered what might be inside.  I remembered my mother placing in it, when I was very young, a silver bracelet I had worn as a baby.  I wanted to see that, and hold it, and see the size of my tiny wrist at that age, but I couldn’t open the case and get at it.

Then I spoke to a wise woman who knew about these things and together we wondered and thought and speculated about what was in the suitcase.

 First of all we looked at the outside, and we examined the labels carefully and tried to work out which grandmother or grandfather had taken which trip, but it did not help me in my quest for I really wanted to know what was inside.  Together we wondered what was inside and speculated and cogitated about the contents of the case.

In my mind’s eye there were terrible things in there, and I was afraid to open it, lest they leap out at me and eat me up.  Gradually my fears calmed and I realised that the terrible things would be dead now and maybe they had lost their power over me.  Then I began to feel deprived and lost, excluded from the secrets of the case.  I wanted to hide the case away and stop being obsessed by it, so I angrily threw it away into the cupboard and tried not to think about it for a long time.

As the years passed I found that I badly needed to know what was in that case.  I thought about it every day, and did not feel able to live my life fully without the knowledge it contained.  So I took it out again and dragged it with me once more to the wise woman.  I raged against the case and the fact that it was locked.  The wise woman sat and waited for me to express my rage and I turned my rage upon her and said, “ Why are you so indifferent to what is in this case?  It is life and death to me, why are you so dismissive of what is so important to me?”

The wise woman said then, in a quiet, gentle voice, that the suitcase was never mine.  It still belonged to my mother.

I was shocked by this.  Of course the case was mine!  It was my gift, the only real gift my mother, in her inadequacy, ever gave me. I had made it my life’s work to carry it about for her and I had surely earned the right for it to be mine?  I stormed out of the room leaving the wise woman alone with the soft smile that enraged me, and I shed bitter tears.

Alone in my room I began to tear at the leather, wrench at the lock, but the case would not open.  I knew that if I could only open the case- if I tried hard enough- it would open and I would know the secrets of my heart and my mother’s heart.  I would know WHY.

I went to the wise woman and I left the case at home.  I felt alone without it, lost and vulnerable.  I wept for my loneliness; for my wasted years carrying the case, which would never open of itself and reveal my mother to me.  For in my mind’s eye in the case was my mother, carrying it for her mother.  I realised that she had carried it for her mother and maybe my grandmother had carried it in her turn.  Like Russian dolls, each mother within her mother carried the case: it got heavier with each succeeding generation.

Then one day, within my mind’s eye, I dared to open the case to see what was inside.  It was a terrible black hole that ate everything in its path, and I was afraid and closed the case hurriedly.

 I knew that I would never dare to truly unlock the case, but equally, I would never give it to my child to carry.  Surely I should take out the bracelet and give that to my child, and throw the rest away?

So I took the case to the wise woman, and with her help I cut the case open.  I sliced through the wonderful labels that spoke of past dreams and disillusionment.  I reached in with a trembling hand and felt inside the case.  It was filled with hurt and resentment and unrequited love.

Now it was overflowing with feelings and fears, and memories of past dreams; and there in the midst of it all lay my silver bracelet- not shining, as I had imagined it, but drab and tarnished.  The curling, faded photos; the little unspoken thoughts and un-given gifts; the unrealised dreams and terrible, terrible shame that I saw there I knew nothing of: they were not mine.

Clutching the bracelet  (the only thing that was truly mine), I turned and walked away.

Tales for the journey: Tiny's castle (lack of self confidence)

Once upon a time there was a king, who was very small. He was so small that other people called him Tiny, but he was king nonetheless. King Tiny lived in a palace that wasn’t so bad: there was a good view of the hills far away, and there was plenty of food and drink to be had.  He gathered some friends about him and they played games and laughed a lot.  Sometimes they went off and explored the surrounding area, but they always came back to the same place.

Then one day a war began.  There was noise and terror and nothing seemed certain any more.

Tiny summoned a band of men to build him a wall around the palace.  They stopped laughing and playing games and spent all their time building.  At first there was just a wooden palisade, but the noise went on, so they made bricks and dug up stones from the ground nearby.  Sometimes stones were thrown over the wall they were building, but they did not have to be afraid - they just used them to make the walls thicker and higher.

Tiny was proud of his wall.  He was sure it was the best wall in the world. “If we build it just a bit thicker and higher we won’t be able to hear any noise at all!” he cried.

But that didn’t work, so they decided to make their own noise.  They shouted and screamed and jumped until they couldn’t hear anything except their own noise.  This was good!  When there was lots of noise inside as well as out, they could feel safe, but at night there was no sound in the castle Tiny could hear the enemy moving around outside.  He imagined all the ways the enemy might get in, so he decided to make a castle keep, with a thick wall and tiny windows.

He worked so hard on building the castle keep that he sometimes forgot about the war raging outside, and he liked that. 

Tales for the journey: Sam's Garden (Healing negativity)

Sam lived in a little house that was small, but all his own. Every day the sun shone in at the window, but the glass was so dusty he could hardly see out. He didn’t care, because as long as he had his fiddle he could play until his heart raced with pleasure and longing for something he couldn’t quite understand.

Sam woke up one day and saw that his garden was unkempt. “I have neglected my garden. I really should do something about it,” he said. He went out into the garden and he saw the bindweed and the lawn rough and un-mown.
He asked his father to help him. He said, "My son, when you were young I tried to tell you how to make your garden grow, but you did not listen. You must do this yourself. I can lend you some tools if you like.”

So Sam went home that day with a spade and hoe. Sam pulled at the bindweed until great swathes of it lay on the ground beside him. He cut and pruned and hacked until the garden was piled high with rubbish. “Now the place looks even worse!” he cried. “How can I get rid of this rubbish?”

His neighbour Dick called over the wall. “Let’s have a bonfire!” shouted Dick, and in a trice the weeds and twigs and brambles were burning and smoking and sparks were blowing high into the sky. Sam took out his fiddle and played until the mess in the garden was forgotten.
Weeks went by and the garden was just as he had left it. The spade and the hoe were left out in the rain. Already rusty, they rusted still more.

A certain tune began to hum inside his head. It lay at the side of his mind just out of reach. He paced the floor and wondered what the tune was, what it meant, but it would not come to him.

Tales for the journey: Shira (1) Bild races in pursuit of Shira

A long time ago in a land far away, lived two brothers, Bara, and Bild. They were strong and full of youth and energy for life.  Bara was very tall, with deep, blue eyes that could see a speck on the horizon.  Bild was so strong he could lift great rocks and hurl them down the mountainside to roll on to the river. 

The two brothers lived to ride.  They had horses, many of them, each with strong muscular legs that would take them racing over the hills.  They loved to race against each other.  Sometimes Bild won, and thrust his strong fist into the air with triumph, but his brother Bara won just as often and he smiled until his blue eyes shone, and he laughed with joy.

One day their father said, “There is one race that has never been won.  There is one horse that is faster than any other, the greatest horse that ever lived.  This is Shira.  He has a flying golden mane and flashing black eyes and a tail like the west wind.  Will you ride out in search of Shira?”

And so the two brothers raced onwards and onwards, night and day, to catch Shira, the fastest horse that ever lived. Soon the arguments started: “When we find Shira I will ride him because I am the oldest!” said Bara and he dashed onto the open plain.

"I am the strongest and will find Shira first. Try and catch me!" cried Bild and he spurred his horse onward and onward, deep into the forest until he could not longer see his brother.

A healing path (7) What are YOU holding on to?

In order for the healing to be complete, you have to let go.  This means not only letting go of your womb twin but also letting go of everything in your Dream.

As you explore the possibilities within your Dream,  you will see how you have been keeping it alive.  For instance, the original lack of connectedness with your twin for example may have become displaced onto a lack of connectedness with your close family or your partner.  Are you holding on to the lack of connectedness which is preventing you from connecting to  people and keeping you in islation?

A healing path (7) Forgiving yourself

 A womb twin survivor writes:

When I was younger I was a very depressive teenager, drama queen, codependent, scared of being alone especially in the dark at night, paranoid about being kidnapped, convinced my parents had given away my twin, convinced I didn’t belong here, lonely, full of grief & sadness, woeful, full of self pity, unable to set boundaries, didn’t know what I wanted, lethargic, no motivation for life unless I thought it would fill the hole in my soul I had, searching for something/one. I carried this into my 20s when I started to drink heavily & binge & starve – again contradiction – loved to eat & yet I’d starve myself until my body craved food so much I’d binge for weeks on end. Wanted attention & yet I didn’t, wanted men to think I was sexy & yet didn’t want to have sex with them – was called a prick tease a lot; wanted to fit in & yet didn’t really like/trust anyone. Episodes of not wanting to live yet not wanting to kill myself either – just wanting ‘it’ to be over.

 What is wrong? The Dream is all.  The self pity is real, for the wound is real, but the wound can heal.  If you pick at the scars, they will never heal. 

A healing path (7) Forgiving others

 This is what it is like to be filled with resentment.

Why doesn’t everyone else have this? How do they cope? I am jealous & resentful of all those people around me doing normal things – I feel totally disconnected today – the whole world could blow up I wouldn’t give a toss –I’m sick of fighting this – sick of trying to make a life – I don’t want to accept myself as a depressive failure because I know I’m not – I’m cut off from that part of me that loves life – I’m cut off from the joy, the being-ness – I feel alone & desperate – like its never going to be any different – like this is all there is .

What is it in ME that I have to do this emotional work – where do I ever get with it? Where am I going? I just don’t want to be this person today – this person with all this shit still, this person with all these emotional problems, with these anxieties, with no job, with an underweight, undernourished sick body.  I don’t want it anymore & I’m not sure how much longer I can cope with this. Manage to get thro life – but I want to LIVE it. What do I do with it? – what do I do with it? How do I become free from this?

Resentment starts when our expectations or dreams are disappointed. We have lost something very valuable to us. We want recompense for the damages. But who can recompense us for the loss of our womb twin? This is a loss that cannot be restored.

The answer is to forgive.

A healing path (7) New beginnings

After the ritual is over you will feel a sense of awakening and new life, which may take a few months to come to your awareness.  My own experience was that, almost at once in 2002 I plunged into the womb twin research project, and within four years I had created the first Womb Twin book, Untwinned. 

Within ten years I had created the Womb Twin organisation and published four more books.  I look back now and wonder how I had lived for so over fifty years achieving almost nothing!

But it is not always so clear-cut. There may be  more work to do.  There are three reasons why the awakening may not come.

1. The Dream of the Womb is not yet clearly recreated.

If major changes do not come, or do not last, or seem less profound than they should be, there may be more in the Dream than you thought. This story illustrates what can happen.

Healing path (6) From grief to acceptance

"If I Could Be Where You Are"

Where are you this moment
Only in my dreams
You're missing, but you're always
a heartbeat from me.

I'm lost now without you.
I don't know where you are.
I keep watching,
I keep hoping,
but time keeps us apart.

[chorus]
Is there a way I can find you?
Is there a sign I should know?
Is there a road I could follow,
to bring you back home?

Winter lies before me,
Now you're so far away
In the darkness of my dreaming
The light of you will stay

If I could be close beside you,
If I could be where you are,
If I could reach out and touch you,
And bring you back home.

[chorus]
Is there a way I can find you?
Is there a sign I should know?
Is there a road I could follow,
to bring you back home?

To me...

The pain is in the wishing for the world to stop, for things to have been different.
The healing is in the peaceful acceptance and the letting go.

After I let my twin go, almost at once I felt his presence close to me and he has been with me every since. Now it is not about wishing he was here with me, for he is here, and this time he is here in a way that is good and healthy and healing, not painful. It's like he is in the right place now. He is home.

A healing path (6) Towards making a memorial

Towards making a memorial ritual

As time goes on and you get better and better acquainted with your womb twin, then you may begin to associate some object or substance with him or her.  I have found that an item of clothing does well, such as scarf or shirt. A scarf is particularly good, as  you can wear it  around your neck until you get to like the warmth and closeness of it to you.
Alternatively it may be a book, a letter, a plant or a stone. Anything will do.  If at the moment this all means nothing to you it is because you are not ready. Just hold the idea in mind for a while and one day, quite suddenly, you will know what to do next.

A healing path (6) Time to say goodbye

The day comes when it is clear that holding on to your twin doesn't help you or your twin. Now we come to the crucial part of the womb twin work.  After you have read this page you may decide you are not yet  ready: that would not be surprising if you have barely begun to consider the possibility that you ever had a womb twin!

This stage has two elements: one is to "find" your womb twin and the other is to "let go" of your womb twin.

A healing path (6) holding on to your twin

It is very hard to let go of something that you don't know you are holding on to.  The survivors of the kind of twin pregnancy that involves one or more unresponsive womb companions - human or not -  have a big problem with holding on and letting go.

Somewhere deep down, there is a feeling that some infinitely precious Something or Someone  who lurks nearby and just out of sight and awareness, but the presence is crucial to a sense of inner peace and comfort, for only when the twin is near are things as they should be.

And so a silence descends, that may mean you are silent and unresponsive in your behaviour to others in your born life.  This is how you keep your Dream alive and communicate that sense of lack of communication to others.