Insight from Movement
I just got home from an Alexander Technique lesson. It was one of those more challenging lessons today, partially because I didn't particularly want to go. The kind of lesson that you end up getting a lot out of . . .
So much resistance today, unconscious resistance. And I looked at it. And I feel like I had a moment, and was able to see life a bit differently. And this is how:
I realize that I have forgotten what it felt like to be a child, not just in my body, but everything. I only realize this because the AT reminds me of how it felt to move as a child, effortlessly. I had a lot of images of small children running in a playground, so easy, their torso's so strong, not collapsing into their legs.
I can't believe it's been so long since that kind of movement came effortlessly. And I feel like I have some insight into humans, and how we are when we lose that movement. When the noise starts to be heard in our joints, and our spines get weak.
I was in Gilda's yesterday afternoon and there were a few old men in their, one of which (vern) was talking with the bartender (who was also really old). Bartender asked Vern if he was doing all right, or whatever, and Vern says that he's on his pills now. And I glanced over to see the Vern's shaggy profile, and he looked to me . . . oh, how do you say, he looked different. Like if you said, "There's a shaggy old man sitting to your left, describe him without looking at him," well, I would have described all the talk-about-able features of his appearance, but I would not have captured the experience in the skin and eyes, the subtleties of personality coming out in the body, the story that gets told without saying a word. I might have missed it.
And it occurred to me how you can complain about a lot of things like the government, or healthcare, or media mind numbing, or lies and deceit, or how people don't take care of themselves . . . but you might miss it all if you get to stuck on the words. When I looked at Vern I saw that he thought these pills were expected . . . not in the sense that it is natural to take pills or "normal" per se, but that he may look at himself, and know the number of his age, and say it's expected that a man my age would have to take some drugs, would need to rely on some pills to get by. But he formed that idea a LONG time ago.
I also see this in my own interest in a recent relationship. There was a lot of emotional blocking going on, trying to save myself from realizing what I believe to be keen insight. Not a particularly painful insight, but I thought it would be. It's like when you hear the whole story, when you find out the bigger picture of what's going on, and you have some insight into the way people operate . . . . the way people's unconscious minds control their lives without them even knowing, and to see it in yourself.
It gives me so much freedom, and I fight it because there's no control . . . just awareness.
But I find that I am not resentful, and that (And here's a BIG one for me) I can let my love go, that I don't even have to hang on to that feeling, which is supposed to be such a desirable feeling.
I've been practicing recently whenever something comes up (anything like thoughts, feelings, desires, fantasies), whenever these things come up I actively practicing letting them go. And that means getting out of the way, not holding on, giving these things freedom to live and then die on their own. It takes a particular amount of realization and faith that these thoughts won't kill you or hurt you. I let them go their own way, but I come back to my breath.
It was tempting for a long time just to try to let the "bad" things go. But I find that that is an incomplete practice, and you never really get anywhere if you attach to good things and then say you should be unattached to bad things.
I let go of loneliness, tension, deep affection, calm, frustration, misunderstanding, genuine love.
And here I am, right here, where the breath is. And there is motion, so subtle you can miss it your whole life. I let go of trying to make the world and people the way I think they should be. There is no way of showing people what they don't want to see.
So instead I go to the park, talk with nature, and take care of myself.
People call me selfish. They might think that I don't care about them. It is not true. Instead, it is more of an acknowledgement of my own limitations, my own ability to remain centered in any given situation. I prefer my own company, but others may take it personally.
I have reached out, and been met with pain of years past. It seems whenever I reach I lose my balance, and there isn't a hand to keep me from falling. So I stop reaching so far. It is not out of spite but of acknowledgement of my limitation, after all you can only lean so far backward without falling. As far as I can reach is enough, and it may not be much.
I guess, suffice it to say, I'm learning what it is like to take care of yourself. And it really means learning about yourself, and then forgetting yourself. Loving someone else then comes naturally after that, and from a centered place, from a strong foundation.
Gassho.
What a gift it is to be able to feel everything SO strongly, and to be able to give it freedom, to get out of the way, give it life . . . like a child. Letting go is every day. Ordinary.
