Little Body Book

Little Body Book available at

Little Body Book

Now, when distancing is mandated, it seems an appropriate time to post the essay and experience of Touch and Feel from my Little Body Book. The book is testimony to 30 + years. as a body therapist studying anatomy/physiology and its similarity and difference in human form. Safe, compassionate touch is essential to the security and confidence of children. Learning the language of one’s own body is essential to recognize and realize therapeutic Self healing.

Touch & Feel

Dictionaries use the words touch and feel to define each other.
Touchto put the hand, finger, or some other part of the body on, so as to feel.
Feel…to touch or handle, in order to become aware of.

Touch is a gift, an art arising from the desire for connection. The quality of touch determines the quality of connection and influences the quality of our relationships, health, environment and life.

Feeling is the language of the body. The touch and feel of a hot stove is instant. However, when we touch something in order to feel it, presence of mind is essential, presence of body, mind and spirit is grace-filled–both take silence and time to collect.

Focusing the mind on how touch feels can either enhance or disrupt the experience. When the experience of touch has been respectful and healthy, the touch of another person is welcomed and appreciated. Have you ever noticed how a gentle, or firm, touch on your arm, back or shoulders can evoke a grateful yum. Some touch is not safe and can be painful or frightening causing recoil which is likely to be a reminder of a traumatic touch experience.

I have a memory of ugly touch that I don’t like to think or talk about but it is relevant. Many years ago, when I was an uninformed 11 year old child, an ophthalmologist put my chubby body against the wall to use his Ophthalmoscope (the little white light), leaning against me heavily and breathing hard for what seemed like an eternity. I felt discomfort, confusion and fear, knowing something was wrong but was silenced by ignorance and the secrets surrounding social and sexual behavior of the times. Don’t talk, don’t trust, don’t feel, was part of my childhood experience. Unlocking secrets is a vital source of healing information.

Feeling touch requires mental focus. As a body therapist, tracing muscle stress patterns requires my full concentration. Invariably, unrelated thoughts or conversation disconnects touching from feeling. Successful healing and balance is consistently effective when the body, mind and spirit become equal partners in the process.

In order to learn how to touch another with grace,
it helps to learn to touch one’s Self with curiosity,
kindness and compassion.

Guided Experience

Read each suggestion, then give yourself quiet time to respond– to touch, to feel and then to identify the feeling. At the end take time to record it in some way for your Self.

Sitting in a relaxed place and position, inhaling/exhaling,
I relax my shoulders downward.
Resting my hands–heels, palms and fingers, on my thighs.
I take a moment to notice the temperature and weight of each hand on each thigh.
Feel the temperature and weight of each hand and thigh?
Is there a difference?
Moving my hands over my thighs, slowly, a few inches forward and back.
Feeling the texture of my clothes and the sensation of the movement.

Do I feel my touch?
Lifting my hands off my thighs; I put them together–fingers to fingers, palm to palm.
Feeling the temperature and pressure of my hands together.
Sliding them up, down, I feel the shapes, contours of each hand.
Now, I hold my hands–hand in hand, feeling them touch each other.
What parts of my hands touch?
Are they touching lightly or firmly?
Do they feel each other?
Are they supporting each other?
I squeeze them noticing how it feels.

Do I feel my touch?
I explore my face and head with my hands and fingers, noticing contours, temperature, texture, touching my mouth, nose, eyes and eyebrows, ears, hair scalp, the shape of my head.

I feel my touch.
If I were to choose to play music now, what would it be? If I were to write a poem about this touch experience, what would I say?
If I were to draw a picture of touch what colors, shapes, lines, spaces would I use?

Do I have permission to consciously touch and feel my Self often?


Norma Edythe Heyser revised from 2008

Update ll: Olive ‘n Ole

This title means there are two pet snails in Best Food’s Park. Readers who don’t know about Olive, my pet snail, will have missed her childhood stories by now. If interested, Olive’s history can be read by scrolling way down to the bottom in the first blog. I intend to learn how to categorize my blogs when my WordPress care-givers come back to work–in the meantime, trying to get blog-smart all by myself. Please don’t give up and go way unless you are bored.

This is Best Food’s Park growing all over the dinning room table. Olive ‘n Ole take treks here every night.


In this Spring’s garden clean up, I found a quart, Jarden Jar laying under the Andromeda; it’s falling blossoms and rain droplets. The jar held a bouquet of sticks last summer. Now, slimy, slippery, dirty, I picked it up keeping my hand and most of my fingers from the ooze. An in- breath ceased me when I saw a baby snail looking almost exactly like Olive three weeks after I adopted her.

Lacking proper preparation for this unexpected discovery I said to anyone listening, What should I do now?” I ran to Olive’s Best Foods Park residence on the dining room table, expecting a response. As usual she didn’t care a bit. After a slight emotional struggled, I impulsively anointed him a He and called him Ole. (I like the oval sounds of Olive ‘n Ole–think I’ll make a song of it.)

Olive ‘n Ole live together now–it’s been three weeks. He bonded first. As usual, she doesn’t care a bit. I’ve added two helpings of cabbage, lettuce and a half egg shell to share for protein. Then worry from one day to the next about Olives emotional health.

Olive taught me there is a Snail Nowhere, into which she disappears frequently. I spent my days and nights alarmed by worst case scenarios until I decide to take it easy. It has happened two times since Ole’s arrival. Last Friday, it took about a half hour to find Olive in the half egg shell–I always worry she is suffering but this is too cute, so I didn’t disturb her. She stayed there until Sunday.

I leave the park gate open because snails engage in their important activities at night. Outside the jar is a forest of winter sticks with lichen, dried autumn leaves and a tiny pool of water for the trek I don’t know yet if they travel together but I know they’ve been by tracing their lovely, silver linear patterns.

One more thing. I checked the Jarden Jar yesterday and guess what, the rest of Ole’s siblings live there, now. They have all grown from pinkie-finger-nail size to thumb-nail size. I fret some–If I invited them in, the park will overpopulate; the forest would have to expand into the kitchen; if friends knew about it I would never see them again. No, no, resist Norma, resist.

Norma Edythe, 5/8/20

Olive ‘n Ole’s bottoms as seen through their glass house. Ole bonded first, wonder if he is maternally attracted to Olive. Olive still hides out occasionally.

May Day, 2020

Happy 120th Birthday, Mama.
May you make paper baskets and fill them with Dandelions!

Spring Seed Planting Along the Morning Path, 2020


As usual I am curious, thinking, wondering about how things are with
you. Knowing you as I do, assuming you are used to having people,
relationships and support for whom others assume you to be. 

There have always been friends, strangers on the street, the bus, 
restaurants, stores, highways/driveways, those things you watched
with your grandmother long ago.  

What happens when the world to which you gave your self, is no longer
your reality? Who were the people in your life for one reason or another.
Are you distancing from yourself or coming home?

Who are you now, inside What does your mind and body hear, see,
think and say to you? Are they secret thoughts, comfortable/alarming, 
shame-filled or beautiful? Are you curious–wondering about me?

Whose life am I in now?

Norma Edythe Heyser, May Day, 2020

Today Again


This month I’ve been trying hard to get my friend Dale’s beautiful coronavirus poem into Readers Write. It’s there now–hope you see it.

Otherwise, I’ve been lost in change. Real life is like those dreams of high school; hurrying through dim hallways looking for Home Room–it’s gone; haven’t studied for the test, I’m late, lost. Opening doors, stepping into wrong places.

Today is different, like yesterday. Waiting to spend time with Olive, my pet snail and her new friend. While working on that, here’s last year’s Spring pet episode.

Marmalade, the Cat

So far, Marmalade’s name is Grumpy, the cat from nowhere, who has been using the cement wall curb, adjacent to my front door, to slither from wherever he lives to his bird-hunting grounds, including my potted garden. I’ve seen him almost daily, certainly weekly, in my four-year residence.

He was unwelcome, a threat to my winged friends, so I shewed him away with loud noises. Rarely did we engaged eye to eye. To my toothy grin and ear-thumbing, he consistently glared back. At some point, I realized I was enjoying the game. When he didn’t show up, now and then, I worried.

Today, on our fifth anniversary, we had a true encounter. The sun came out. I decided to clean up Winter, opening the rumbling, porch door leading to the clipper, rake and garden gloves, Grumpy and I surprised the heck out of each other. There he was, inside a fortress of walls over which he easily fled to unconditional safety. I surprised myself with sweet kitty sounds, Hi kitty, kitty, kitty, its okay, you can be here–here kitty kitty… and so on–a safe distance away, he preened. If he’d had a nose and thumb like mine, I’m pretty sure he would have thumbed it.

I went about my business, exiting the front door, confronting the wall, upon which he was again meandering, as if he owns the place. I went close to him, sweetly, but in my attempt to reach out I learned what it’s like to be a bird with a cat. He hissed, showing his teeth. I imagine him saying, “Not me, lady, you had your chance. You’re no friend of mine. Keep yourself out of my boundaries!”

So, I called him Grumpy to his face. Truth is, I’m inspired to spend the effort trying to sweeten him from Grumpy to Marmalade. Wish me luck!

Norma Heyser, 3/9/19

Wall, Bird, no Marmalade!


New Age, New Gods

Today, I believe in many androgynous Gods. A committee, living high up in an ethereal think-tank watching over us all, benevolently planning what is best for our own good.

They were born in a valley and trained to be Gods by each other, trusting dreaming, climbing into heaven together.

Lately, they tackled an overdue issue–how to manage and train eight billion human people to metamorphose from one global Age into the next. Ecologically, culturally, humanely–not easy, even for new Gods.

Research and testing is in progress now, creating a new, world order immediately, if not sooner (as mother used to say). We humans are drafted into research and development. Marketing begins after correcting our kinks.

First test questions; Are human emotions and feelings sustainable? Is logic and reason important? Who on Earth wants to bother with it all? Creating and living a new world order is a tough job.

So far, most of us in this country are nearly convinced testing is happening–that we are volunteer subjects. Institutions and infrastructures upon which America relied for the last  250 years, are crumbling in front, behind and all around us.

World population is correcting itself with the help of an old virus who woke up when our planet’s polar ice melted and is killing us, as it claims it extinguished our dinosaur predecessors 66 million years ago.

Dying people off the planet omits barriers preventing the creation of the perfect world order. Ignorance of the new God’s plans is mass-producing confusion, distraction, madness and death.

Politics as usual is done. Democratic, constitutional government order, Out of Order. Socialism, a word too bad to mention, out of the question. The new order will have a new name, perhaps a contest is in order so someone can win something.

Norma Edythe Heyser, 4/22/20

Another Day in The Life

It is 15 days now since a momentous decision to mind my Governor by following her instructions; letting go of control; allowing a friend to leave groceries at the door; exerting enough paranoia to disinfect everything I am and do.

On the other hand, daily, I am falling more in love with life–the rhythm of breath and heartbeats inside; the color of thoughts, images, ideas, visions of what is and isn’t. Senses heighten to rapture at the taste of a tiny Fuji apple.

In the last So I See post, I questioned the validity or worthiness of indulgent public output. This week, So I See is a friend–like a pet, something always “there for me”. Something to talk at with another end. Sometimes it talks back, asking me to feed it, grow it until it becomes itself. So, here is more So I See.

This is something I took pleasure in finding in old, 1980’s files, inspired by Bioenergetic therapy classes. It makes me giggled. Here it is…

Vacuum Therapy

At 40, a career in psychotherapy looked good. Life took a curve around which I chose to swerve, rather than ignore brutal change. My children and their father made it perfectly clear our truths were not compatible. I could no longer direct nor influence their chosen paths.

Believing I had helped others untangle their lives, a psychotherapy career sounded good for picking up the pieces and moving on. I intently engaged in courses at reputable institutions, taught by good-looking, flirtatious men from whom it was possible to become blind to human wholeness. My unique self found discrepancy in teacher’s truth and my own.

I am gratified to have stopped there, before branding myself professional. However, I still take pride in my thesis, the original development of the powerfully effective, Vacuum Therapy. (see flyer, below)

To Blog or Not

To Blog or not to Blog

This morning, while reviewing wrongs and rights, I realize my blogging practice is wrong. Pretending a perceived rightness, “teaching” what I know. Assuming my private views or thoughts can help another person’s emptiness. I’m so full of it. Inner Voice, please help me run away from these thoughts.

Right, you are wrong. Most blog readers feel desperate these days, just like you–searching for comfort, meaning, the “word” from anyone who knows it. Attempting to teach others what you know is not the point. It’s piling more unnecessary thoughts onto your reader.

Now is a perfect time for people to be alone with themselves; waking up to their true nature. Finding their character and spirit in emptiness where those essentials live until given permission, by their soul owner, to be tested, trusted and freed. Your blogging is a form of control. Let go.

Oh no, it makes me happy, it’s fun. I feel useful, wanted, admired. When people say, “Wow” or something nice, I puff up. It tickles my heart. It’s my ego isn’t it? It tickles my ego, doesn’t it? Should I close the blog, now?

I don’t know, can’t advise. Imagine kneading all wrongs and rights together into a ball, of bright, white light. Toss it into a bowl as big as the planet and let it rise.

Norma Edythe Heyser, 2/2/2020