What do you mean, "Relax" ?

“Relax your forehead, M’Lissa."

I momentarily leave my body and watch myself obey the instructions of the yoga teacher. I wiggle my eyebrows to show that I am ‘working on it’ with a spirit of playfulness— a spirit I would like to possess, but in truth do not.

I am in the middle of a pose I have never done before, in an online class where I am the newest member. We are using blocks and straps and bolsters — items I do not use in my home yoga practice.

I listen to the muscles of my forehead. They do not feel tense. But if I had a dollar for every time someone asked me, “Are you alright?” I probably wouldn't feel the signs of economic collapse quite the way that I do.

I move my eyebrows away from each other, a trick I learned from a casting director during an Aqua Fresh audition years ago.

“Seeing some misery on some faces,” The teacher says. “So you're either enjoying this pose— or if you're not, you're gonna think about something that makes you happy. After all, misery is self created. Remember that.”

I am not sure if it is still my face that’s concerning her, or someone else’s now. But I have learned to keep people from asking if I’m alright by doing something that I jokingly refer to as Resting Massage Therapist Face— which involves lifting the corners of my mouth slightly and tilting my head to one side.

In the middle of my best RMTF, the teacher repeats, “Relax your face. Remind yourself who, or what you dedicated your practice to today.”

The person I dedicated my practice to today was her actually. Because this class was gifted to me by someone I love, who loves this teacher. And I so want to love this teacher too— except every yoga class that I have taken since I began studying human function feels like a spiritual bypassing version of Simon Says.

In the days following this class, I reflect on my experience. A lot. I think about all of the times I have been told what to do with my face. By my mother, my ex-husband, ex-bosses, cameramen, and complete strangers.

I also think about the research I’ve read about how emotions get made in our brains based on signals it receives from our bodies.

I think about how my mother always told me and my sisters, “When you look better, you feel better.”

I think about how much I first believed her to the point of faking most of my human interactions— Then how much I blamed her later on for it.

I also think about how the research shows, again and again, that my mother was probably right.

I lay on the floor and listen to the truth of where I am in the present moment. My breath. The shape of my ribs. The shape of my face. I let myself feel it all. The rage, the pain of watching women’s voices get actively silenced day after day, and the way my own body has felt like an amusement park for the male gaze since I was seven years old.

I also listen to the truth of what I want to do with this one precious life, no matter how many challenges come my way. I feel the tingle in my belly that tells me how important it is to offer women a place to reclaim the power of the innate intelligence that is their birthright.

I email the teacher, one instructor to another, one woman to another, and tell her of my experience. There is so much gratitude and affirmation in her response that I understand why the person who gifted me the class loves her so much and will follow any instruction she gives.

I personally do not wish to be on the receiving end of a one way conversation anymore about what to do with my body. I choose to lengthen my body and strengthen my body the Feldenkrais way— Through questions, experimentation, and moment by moment discoveries about where I am and where I want to go next.

Somatic Sundays resume April 12th. Bring your furrowed brows, your biggest dreams, and something to write with. Because if your brain and body are one— why not have an active say in what you do with them?

Where Does It All Begin?

There is a quote by Viktor Frankl which is so hopeful.

“Between stimulus and response there lies a space. In that space lies our freedom to choose a response.”

But the more work I do with individuals who are seeking change, the more interested I become in the intention behind the responses we are already in the habit of choosing.

Take this example: I never really learned how to swim. It's not like I need a floatation device to get from here to there. It's that if the water situation lasts longer than about 3 minutes, things get weird. I begin to produce enough splashing and chaos to get a sincere, “You okay?” from the nearest person.

So I decided to pay attention to what it was that made swimming such a physically taxing activity for me. The first thing I noticed when I met the water was that my breath was shallow and fast. The second thing I noticed was that my legs were not acting as paddles–they were sort of running in place. And the third was that my arms were doing most of the work.

When I saw the whole pattern, I started to giggle. These movements are all linked to one very clear and reasonable intention: to keep me from going under. The thing I had inadvertently taught myself to do, as a child, was not so much linked to swimming as it was to not drowning. And the irony was that it looked a lot like the thing I was trying not to do!

If we take a moment to consider how our nervous systems use our physical movements to interpret our level of safety, it’s easy to see how big a role our intentions play in creating not only our individual responses to stimuli - but our realities too.

My intention to avoid drowning produced a very particular pattern of movement that kept my brain on a tightrope of survival. But when I became curious, all of my thrashing turned to laughter. Now clearly I could use some expert instruction on how to be a better swimmer— but who can really teach me how to access the qualities of ease and efficiency required to move safely through water without also addressing the pattern of anxiety that was holding me back?

One unexpected benefit of learning through movement is how seamlessly our brains translate the understanding to other areas of our lives.

My not-drowning insight comes into sharp focus these days when I catch myself awkwardly trying to not offend someone. It reminds me to listen more than talk and to enjoy the common humanity that already exists between us. And when I feel that familiar tightness arise in my neck and chest when I am trying to not make a mistake, there is a knowing beneath it all, reminding me that what I value most about living is learning. And real learning is all about the mistakes.

Here's to the joy in finding new physical, neurological, and personal connections as the seasons change once more ☘️

Who Said So?

Did you ever hear the story about the little girl who was watching her mom cook a ham for their holiday dinner?

As the mother cuts the ends off the ham before putting it into the pan, the little girl asks her mother why she does that. When the mother says that it’s just the way Grandma taught her, the child calls her grandmother and asks, “Why are you supposed to cut off the ends of the ham before cooking it?”. When the grandmother tells her that’s just the way her mother taught her, they all agree to call Great Grandma to find out the reason for this ritual. The great grandmother chuckles and says she never had a pan big enough for the whole ham to fit.

My blog post for December was published in the current issue of SenseAbility Magazine where the theme was Learning How To Learn.

I hope my own cutting off the ends of the ham story adds a new element of agency to whatever traditions you embrace as you close the door on one year and cross the threshold into another.

Yours in Learning ~

M’Lissa