Jean Liedloff
Jean Liedloff (1926 – 2011) is an American author, best known for her 1975 book The Continuum Concept.
She was born in New York. As a teenager, she accomplished the Drew
Seminary for Young Women and began studying at Cornell University, but
began her expeditions before she could graduate. During a diamond
hunting expedition to Venezuela, she came into contact with an
indigenous people named the Yequana. Over time, she became fascinated
with the Yequana, and made a decision to return to Venezuela to live
with them. She wrote her book The Continuum Concept
in an attempt to document the Yequana way of life, in particular their
style of child rearing. From 1968 to 1970, Liedloff was editor of The Ecologist.
A website has been created by members of the Liedloff Continuum Network (LCN) to educate and serve the public: www.continuum-concept.org
From The Continuum Concept:
In
the maternity wards of Western civilization there is little chance of
consolation from wolves. The newborn infant, with his skin crying out
for the ancient touch of smooth, warmth-radiating, living flesh, is
wrapped in dry, lifeless cloth. He is put in a box where he is left, no
matter how he weeps, in a limbo that is utterly motionless (for the
first time in all his body’s experience, during the aeons of its
evolution or during its eternity in the womb). The only sounds he can
hear are the wails of other victims of the same ineffable agony. The
sounds can mean nothing to him. He cries and cries; his lungs, new to
air, are strained with the desperation in his heart. No one comes.
Trusting in the rightness of life, as by nature he must, he does the
only act he can, which is to cry on. Eventually, a timeless lifetime
later, he falls asleep exhausted.
He awakes in a mindless terror of the silence, the motionlessness.
He
screams. He is afire from head to foot with want. with desire, with
intolerable impatience. He gasps for breath and screams until his head
is filled and throbbing with the sound. He screams until his chest
aches, until his throat is sore. He can bear the pain no more and his
sobs weaken and subside. He listens. He opens and closes his fists. He
rolls his head from side to side. Nothing helps. It is unbearable. He
begins to cry again, but it is too much for his strained throat; he soon
stops. He stiffens his desire-racked body, and there is a shadow of
relief. He waves his hands and kicks his feet. He stops, able to suffer,
unable to think, unable to hope. He listens. Then he falls asleep
again.
When he awakens he wets his nappy and is distracted from
his torment by the event. But the pleasant feeling of wetting and the
warm, damp, flowing sensation around his lower body are quickly gone.
The warmth is now immobile and turning cold and clammy. He kicks his
legs, stiffens his body, sobs. Desperate with longing, his lifeless
surroundings wet and uncomfortable, he screams through his misery until
it is stilled by lonely sleep.
Suddenly he is lifted; his
expectations come forward for what is to be his. The wet nappy is taken
away. Relief. Living hands touch his skin. His feet are lifted and a
new, bone-dry, lifeless cloth is folded around his loins. In an instant
it is as though the hands had never been there, nor the wet nappy. There
is no conscious memory, no inkling of hope. He is in unbearable
emptiness, timeless, motionless, silent, wanting, wanting. His continuum
tries its emergency measures, but they are all meant for bridging short
lapses in correct treatment or for summoning relief from someone (it is
assumed) who will want to provide it. His continuum has no solution for
this extremity. The situation is beyond its vast experience. The
infant, after breathing air for only a few hours, has already reached a
point of disorientation from his nature beyond the saving powers of the
mighty continuum. His tenure in the womb was the best approximation he
is ever likely to know of the state of well-being in which it is his
innate expectation that he will spend his lifetime. His nature is
predicated upon the assumption that his mother is behaving suitably and
that their motivations and consequent actions will naturally serve one
another.
Someone comes and lifts him deliciously through the air.
He is in life. He is carried a bit too gingerly for his taste, but
there is motion. Then he is in his place. All the agony he has undergone
is nonexistent. He rests in the enfolding arms, and though his skin is
sending no message of relief from the cloth, no news of live Oesh on his
flesh, his hands and mouth are reporting normal. The positive pleasure
of life, which is continuum-normal, is almost complete. The taste and
texture of the breast are there; the warm milk is flowing into his eager
mouth; there is a heartbeat, which should have been his link, his
reassurance of continuity from the womb; moving forms are visible that
spell life. The sound of the voice is right too. There are only the
cloth and the smell (his mother uses cologne) that leave something
missing. He sucks and, when he feels full and rosy, dozes off.
When
he awakens he is in hell. No memory, no hope, no thought can bring the
comfort of his visit to his mother into this bleak purgatory. Hours pass
and days and nights. He screams, tires, sleeps. He wakes and wets his
nappy. By now there is no pleasure in this act. No sooner is the
pleasure of relief prompted by his innards than it is replaced, as the
hot, acid urine touches his by now chafed body, by a searing crescendo
of pain. He screams. His exhausted lungs must scream to override the
fiery stinging. He screams until the pain and screaming use him up
before he falls asleep.
At his not unusual hospital the busy
nurses change all nappies on schedule, whether they are dry, wet or long
wet, and send the infants home, chafed raw, to be healed by someone who
has time for such things.
By the time he is taken to his
mother’s home (surely it cannot be called his) he is well versed in the
character of life. On a pre-conscious plane that will qualify all his
further impressions, as it is qualified by them, he knows life to be
unspeakably lonely, unresponsive to his signals and full of pain.
But he has not given up. His vital forces will try for ever to reinstate their balances as long as there is life.
Home
is essentially indistinguishable from the maternity ward except for the
chafing. The infant’s waking hours are passed in yearning, wanting and
interminable waiting for rightness to replace the silent void. For a few
minutes a day his longing is suspended, and his terrible skin-crawling
need to be touched, to be held and moved about, is relieved. His mother
is one who, after much thought, has decided to allow him access to her
breast. She loves him with a tenderness she has never known before. At
first, it is hard for her to put him down after feeding, especially
because he cries so desperately when she does. But she is convinced that
she must, for her mother has told her (and she must know) that if she
gives in to him now, he will be spoiled and cause trouble later. She
wants to do everything right; she feels for a moment that the little
life she holds in her arms is more important than anything else on
earth.
She sighs and puts him gently in his cot, which is
decorated with yellow ducklings and matches his whole room. She has
worked hard to furnish it with fluffy curtains, a rug in the shape of a
giant panda, a white dresser, a bath and a changing table equipped with
powder, oil, soap, shampoo and hairbrush, all made and packed in colours
especially for babies. On the wall there are pictures of baby animals
dressed as people. The chest of drawers is full of little vests,
Baby-Gros, bootees, caps, mittens and nappies. There is a toy woolly
lamb stood at a beguiling angle on top and a vase of flowers – which
have been cut off from their roots, for his mother also ‘loves’ flowers.
She
straightens baby’s vest and covers him with an embroidered sheet and a
blanket bearing his initials. She notes them with satisfaction. Nothing
has been spared in perfecting the baby’s room, though she and her young
husband cannot yet afford all the furniture they have planned for the
rest of the house. She bends to kiss the infant’s silky cheek and moves
towards the door as the first agonized shriek shakes his body.
Softly
she closes the door. She has declared war upon him. Her will must
prevail over his. Through the door she hears what sounds like someone
being tortured. Her continuum sense recognizes it as such. Nature does
not make clear signals that someone is being tortured unless it is the
case. It is precisely as serious as it sounds.
She hesitates, her
heart pulled towards him, but resists and goes on her way. He has just
been changed and fed. She is sure he does not really need anything
therefore, and she lets him weep until he is exhausted.
He
awakens and cries again. His mother looks in at the door to ascertain
that he is in place; softly, so as not to awaken in him any hope of
attention, she shuts the door again. She hurries to the kitchen, where
she is working, and leaves that door open so that she can hear the baby,
in case ‘anything happens to him’.
The infant’s screams fade to
quavering wails. As no response is forthcoming, the motive power of the
signal loses itself in the confusion of barren emptiness where the
relief ought, long since, to have arrived. He looks about. There is a
wall beyond the bars of his cot. The light is dim. He cannot turn
himself over. He sees only the bars, immobile, and the wall. He hears
meaningless sounds in a distant world. There is no sound near him. He
looks at the wall until his eyes close. When they open again, the bars
and the wall are exactly as before, but the light is dimmer.