Charlie Nicholson
Bio
Yoga teacher. Trauma sensitive yoga teacher. Freelance writer & copywriter. Freelance documentary development executive. Passenger of plant medicines. Follow me on IG: @charlienicyoga & find out more at charlienicholsonyoga.com
Stories (7)
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We are made of liquid crystals and can do our own crystal healing.
We are captivated by crystals. Always have been. Mesmerised by the way they harvest light from the world around them and then fling it back outwards in every direction at once, throwing a tiny galaxy of stars around themselves. By their dream-like hues, which no human-mixed palette could match. And by the fact that they were created many thousands if not millions or billions of years ago, then churned out of the Earth's crust by some extraordinary stroke of volcanic chance, the stories of their journeys from rock to finger or throat stoking their mystery.
By Charlie Nicholson5 years ago in FYI
I had a tantric massage
‘So what do you think of it?’ he asked, indicating with a wave of his hand the maroon walls wrapped around a huge four-poster bed hung with matching drapes, the low, breathless music floating somewhere beneath the ceiling, a Moroccan lamp flinging jewel-like points of light across it in the otherwise-darkness. There was an earthy smell of an essential oil, but I couldn’t say which it was.
By Charlie Nicholson5 years ago in Filthy
Last year I froze my eggs. It was strange, bruising and cost a lot, but I felt set free
The first thing I felt as consciousness returned was someone patting my leg. It was my consultant surgeon, standing beside my trolley in the recovery room of one of central London’s leading fertility clinics, beaming down into my face, which I could sense was still a blank from the general anaesthetic, along with the rest of my body.
By Charlie Nicholson5 years ago in Families
I don’t remember the day I became a woman because I was too embarrassed
I’m fairly certain I was 14 and I believe I must have been at school when I started — an all-girls boarding school. I suppose there must have just been a lot of blood suddenly there in my underwear. So much! So deeply, darkly, thickly red! This is me guessing at the thoughts that must have tumbled through my head, presumably in a toilet cubicle. But I do have a vague sense that I was surprised at the sheer volume of blood that fell out of me, and that sensation of it falling — viscous, a bit like honey without the sugary stickiness, and very warm; I still find it curious. The smell of body and iron.
By Charlie Nicholson5 years ago in Viva
A Menstrual Healing Meditation Helped Me Dig Into a Goldmine of Inner Wisdom
I asked my friend Amy McKeown, a mental health and wellbeing and women’s health consultant who works with organisations to develop employee wellbeing strategies, to lead me in a menstrual healing meditation. She is among the first intake of women training to become a facilitator of menstrual medicine circles, a new healing modality developed by psychotherapists and women’s health experts Alexandra Pope and Sjanie Hugo Wurlitzer and taught through their UK organisation The Red School. It involves holding a woman in a meditation and using the power of ‘menstrual cycle awareness’ (MCA) to gain insight and healing across the physical, emotional and psychological layers of her being.
By Charlie Nicholson5 years ago in Viva
I wasn’t depressed, an addict or battling PTSD but ayahuasca still changed my life
In the treacle darkness of the maloca, surrounded by sighs, belches, yelps and giggles – there was even barking – of people I’d only just met, as the medicine wound its way through us all, I suddenly had a strong urge to stick my hand down my trousers and stroke the flesh of my right thigh. “So soft,” I murmured aloud, “so warm.” I wriggled my fingers in between my toes, noting the rainforest sand lodged between them, and then — the touch receptors in the skin of my palms dancing — stroked up and down my legs, traced the hard-soft-hard contours of my abdomen, chest and arms, the grooves of my throat, raked my fingers through my hair — as a lover would, or an obsessive cartographer confronted by pristine landscape. Everything felt like a miracle; every square millimetre some newfound treasure. I wanted to nuzzle against my own skin, climb inside it and finger the surfaces of my bones.
By Charlie Nicholson5 years ago in Potent
I Was the Other Woman. I Waited for the Man I Loved — in Vain.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting on my balcony in East London tearing pages out of a stack of notebooks, feeding them into a fire in a little iron brazier I had found on Amazon (always has exactly what you have never needed before) and watching the flames lick my words.
By Charlie Nicholson5 years ago in Humans
