“I was raped, ten years ago, then nine years ago - or yesterday and the day before, depending on whether you're looking at a calendar or through my eyes. Turns out, my mind conserves feelings so well they taste all tangy and fresh when they finally bubble up to the surface.

Bubbles have a way of always floating up to the surface and bursting, you know. When that happened, I hung on for dear life to yoga, meditation, support groups, self-defense and dance-from-the-inside-out classes. And the Santa Barbara Rape Crisis Center, of course, although it was beyond me to see how falling apart qualified as a crisis. I just had a few questions I needed answered: How do I wear miniskirts? How do I dance when someone is watching me? How do I say thanks for a compliment? How do I let my laughter crack the ceiling? How do I reconcile my fear and my sexuality?

In other words, how do I be and love the woman that I am?

Last summer, I spotted the flyer for a workshop with the deliciously intriguing name "Erotic Dance Yoga". Just as I was getting really excited, I learned the in-laws would not reschedule the annual family barbeque if their lives depended on it. Sigh. I still had high hopes to find later dates and venues for the workshop when I logged on its web site. No luck. Another sigh. I did find something I had not quite been looking for though: Niav's story. There were tears, humility, and awe. I told my counselor about this amazing woman: "when I can tell my story out loud without shame or fear, I will stop counseling". She said it was entirely up to me when to stop - she said it was my process. But I had no appreciation for that process, for any processes in general - I wanted results.

A year later, I have left a housewarming party fifteen minutes too late and am driving madly down to the yoga studio. I storm in - and am stopped in my tracks. Then saged. The yoga room I know has been turned into a temple. The vibrant warmth of the orange wall is dancing to the flicker of candles. I can smell the sweet and heavy scent of incense. Yoga mats circled around an altar are awaiting curious yoginis. I pick one and, as any Cancer would do, make it my safe haven for the evening.

The ceremony - the adventure - begins. We dance while the music is playing, we stop as it stops, we listen to a stranger's story of womanhood and sexuality, and we tell her our story. Just as we are beginning to grasp the peculiar similarity between the stranger's story and our own, the music begins again: so we dance some more, and pour some more of our hearts out, until there are no secrets left to keep and no boundaries worth defending. We look into each other's eyes with newfound reverence and understanding: so this is what it is like to be a woman.

We warm up with a simple yoga flow. The familiarity of down dog and up dog ground us after opening our hearts up to, ahem, strangers has thrown us off. We will go through these same poses at the end, too, except, funnily, they won't feel one little bit familiar. Then we do tantric breathing to wake up the Kundalini energy at the base of our spines. Niav tells us the Sanskrit word for vagina: yoni. It sounds too cute for the taboo that it is. We laugh. We're nervous. Alright, we'll wiggle.

Then the whirlwind begins: little girls, women, goddesses, we dance, we slither like snakes, we howl at the full moon. We are free to choose to hold back, to feel our embarrassment, to find power in letting go. Some two hours later, no stone has left unturned in the ever-changing universe of feminine sexuality. As we look around the room, we see the faces of strangers no longer.

Back to the flow of yoga, only a different, unrecognizable yoga, sensual and uninhibited. I am disappointed though - I notice I am mechanically going through the moves, the same old fear cutting off my own body - but I am so weary of containing it I allow it to wash over me this time. It is with astonishment that I find I am not beating myself up over it. Non-judgment melts on my tongue like a piece of Ghirardelli chocolate, milky and sweet.

The celebration ends with the gift of touch, given and received by fellow goddesses. The room is filled with the exotic scent of coconut and the almost palpable sense of connection and gratitude.

We say goodnight to each other and part in the warm night. Tonight's ceremony will not leave any visible marks on us, but I can tell that a seed has been planted in me - and before I fall asleep, I vow to tend with the utmost care and love to the tender seedling it will sprout.

For this is how I grow to be and love the woman that I am.”

Participant in June 2007 workshop

"I am very grateful to Niav and her ‘Erotic Dance Yoga’ class, as the experience touched me on a personal level, as well as, integrating a gathering of women as a whole, to totally experience an exquisite journey.

Always interested in new, awakening experiences I was so grateful for the loving energy that increased my perception of a deep sense of self-respect and the appreciation of what it means to be a timeless woman.

Niav created such a beautiful, spiritual space to let in the Divine and bring together so many different women, ALL of whom, reflected the Goddess within.

In all, the class was a fulfilling and fun (never underestimate the power of FUN) experience. The most important part of the journey was the time given to self-reflection, which inevitably leads to being able to offer more of yourself to others."

Carrie Vuich, participant in June 2007 workshop