“wow! what a class!” – Healthy Lymph Workshop Feedback and Afterthoughts

icybrookandmossyrocks1jan2012
lymph (lĭmf) n.
2. Archaic A spring or stream of pure, clear water.
[Latin lympha, water nymph, from Greek numphē, young bride, water nymph.]
bro͝ok
noun
a small stream.
“wow! what a class! Brooke, that was an amazing workshop… I left feeling that I wanted to go to a few more lymph workshops, or a series so that I could integrate this practice more into my own daily life. I really felt that I didn’t know what I was there to learn, that I was following an intuition to be there, and that I was generally disconnected with my lymphatic system, poor overlooked and overworked system, no more! Whatever happened in there was kind of mysterious… The exercises were subtle and yet I felt worked. I went really deep in the savasana, I felt so much more integrated with all levels of being: physical, mental, emotional and the subtle body. Thank you for all of the print outs, I had no idea that there is such a subtle intercellular path for clearing toxins.
Thank you for helping us to awaken our lymphatic systems and for awakening us to supporting it. You inspire me!” -JH

I have just discovered a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson called The Brook. It is about the transience of human life and the eternity within which life flows.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5L0ih3RLjw

The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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