Healing Hands and Vilma Ginzberg


Deborah Myers and Vilma Ginzberg

How can it be that eleven years have passed since I first met Vilma??

She was searching for ease and comfort and was so ready for her body to let go of old stuff, old patterns. She was open to receiving and learning how best to have a daily practice to be a better partner with her body.


It was no surprise when I discovered she was a poet—her words and conversation flowed like milk and honey. Read on to see what I mean! I’ve included the poem she wrote for me!


By the way, Vilma is not just any poet. She has published seven books of poetry, all since 2004, when she was the young age of 77. Named Healdsburg Literary Laureate for 2008/2009.


I’m lucky enough to say that she wrote a poem for me—right after she got home from her first Jin Shin Jyutsu session in September 2010. I had tears when I first read her poem “healing hands.”


Vilma was excited when I asked her if I could share the poem with all of you. I know you will love it as much as I do! It is also in one of her books, Snake Pit.


To read more about Vilma’s work and check out all her magnificent writing, go to her website at https://www.vilmaginzberg.com.


I’d love to hear what you think about Vilma’s poem!


healing hands

for Deborah Myers

© Vilma Ginzberg 09-22-2010

you invite me to your table

padded curved and angled

to accommodate my bone-outlined

flesh-defined body of exhaustion

I spread myself atop it

my yesterdays of try-to’s

planked across its ridges

unfinished have-to’s

making stiffened bridges

of old intent preserved in rock of habit

I hardly feel your first fingers

your touch puff-wing light   butterfly-soft

don’t you need something more jack-hammer-fisted I wonder

slow as morning light washes over doubt

melts layers of thought-armor

polishes the rusted jadedness

softly  subtly  slowly they come

subtle awakenings

stirrings of flesh    and feeling

worlds entire fall apart while other worlds congeal

universes faint away

give birth to new constellations

you move soundlessly around this altar to life

where I am both sacrificial lamb      and sacrament

soon I am as a sauce spilled on shapeless sheets

our mutual though silent rejoicing fills the empty spaces

outside the nearby window finches feed

gratefully on your thistle-seed

and some small uncaged bird in me

chirps again


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