Taking Responsibility for your Next Move

What is Driving your Movement?

“All the physical movement is to give her a change so she can own the responsibility for what she wants.” 

How does changing how you move affect the rest of your life?  Movement is movement and the rest of your life is the rest of your life.  Nothing more to see here, right?

Part of me wants to go epic and deep, to talk about the nature of matter, of our existence as movement – the vibration and movement of atoms, the space between parts of molecules, the matter of our cells.  As fascinating as the nature of matter is, it failed my Mom test – the practical, simple explanation I would use to tell my Mom about this.  (Thanks to Rob Fitzpatrick for the concept from his book, The Mom Test).

“All the physical movement is to give her a change so she can own the responsibility for what she wants.” 

This statement came from a teacher and mentor of mine, Candy Conino,  in the discussion of a client case – some of my peers and I gather once a week to discuss questions from our practice which gives us a rich learning environment to build our professional competence and confidence.

In the search for a practical, simple explanation of the what this means –  “All the physical movement is to give her a change so she can own the responsibility for what she wants” – it comes down to this.

We can lose ourselves in our unconscious habits.  We need our habits – try brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand – to know how much attention this basic hygiene task takes without your habitual movement.   But habits can become a trap.

One way that our unconscious habits can become mal-adaptive behaviors is when something important in our environment shifts.  A partner becomes seriously ill or dies.  You have a serious accident or life event that changes how you get through each day.  We can do what we have always done and it doesn’t quite work anymore.  Or we can change but what we do now doesn’t feel quite right and we create a story that explains what is missing now that our partner is gone or our ability to run or walk is altered.  We create our story of coping.  And we cope.  That’s how we survive past the hard parts of life.

One kind of coping is to dive hard into an unconscious habit that feels like a save.

Let’s imagine Lidia’s journey – when Lidia’s partner dies, after an initial grieving period, one possible move is for Lidia to dive into activity – all of the classes, experiences, trips – everything that might have been on hold due to her partner’s poor health or just her unexpressed dreams for what she wanted but didn’t do.  And in that flurry of activity, Lidia sustains an injury, some physical way of breaking down.

She did too much, we say, her body wasn’t able to keep up with all this intense activity.  But more than volume, frequency or intensity of activity, we can also take the measure of the compulsive nature of what Lidia dives into – a way of coping that leads her away from herself.

What somatic coaching can help Lidia do is to bring her movement and her movement habits into conscious awareness so she can choose both how she moves and who she is in this new environment.  Unconscious coping creates a compelling and frustrating experience – while doing it you can lose yourself in the coping activity and at some point, Lidia comes back to herself.  And faces the frustration, the longing, the grief, the fear of what she is adapting to. And the limits of how she is coping.   Time to dive back in.

Somatic coaching can help Lidia listen to herself, her body and how she is functioning in her environment now and know herself – not through a story of who she was or is now, or the way she is coping to save herself, but in a concrete way right now.

Keep it sample, Mom

 

The practical, simple explanation I would tell my Mom is by helping Lidia become conscious of how she moves, she can choose what to do now because she can feel herself as she moves now. And her conscious choice is how she creates the person she can be, with each move, in every day.

Interested in learning more?  Book a free 15 minute call with Cheryl.  No sales pressure, just a caring conversation about what you are looking for and what I can offer.   https://www.kindpower.ca/book/

Ready to start?  Book a 45 minute somatic assessment session.  Then based on what we discover together, I will make a recommendation for what can support you.   https://www.kindpower.ca/book/

Being my #1. What is Somatic Coaching and why does my success depend on it?

Every body can be successful

What do coaches do?  Help you to perform better, to move better – in soccer, baseball, in leadership, as entrepreneurs – to help you improve how you perform whatever field you play on.

 

Isn’t somatic coaching basically the same thing?  It can be.  To respond to how it is different, I need to take you on a little journey.  It starts simply.  With nouns and verbs.

 

What nouns do you know yourself to be?  Son or daughter.  Wife, husband, mother, father.  Department manager, business owner.  Collector.  Cyclist. Citizen. Neighbor.   What is the rate of change in the nouns you know apply to you?  Do they change daily?  Monthly?

Are you more or less a wife or a neighbor between January and March?  Maybe you are a cyclist between April and November but not December to March.  We rely on nouns as the foundation for our stories about who we are, the building blocks of our identity.

To be or not to be….what verb am I?

What verbs do you know yourself to be?  Notice if this question doesn’t make sense.  As a teacher, I do several verbs regularly.  Explain.  Ask.  Listen.  Question.  Search. Demonstrate. Gesture. We tend not to associate as easily with the verbs we do.  I am a teacher and a coach.  I tend not to say, I question, listen, lead, allow struggle, support learning, offer feedback.

How does this relate to somatic coaching and improving performance?   Where do you think improvement happens – in the nouns or in the verbs?

Karlene’s verb is burst

Let’s work through this question with an individual.  Let’s call her Karlene.  Karlene is several nouns, a leader, a mother, a change-maker.  And one of the verbs that Karlene does is bursting through – traditions that no longer serve, outdated policies, inequities.  She is able to both have people feel she cares about them and she can burst their balloon, so that the changes that are called to happen have the space to happen.   Her body is organized around bursting barriers.  So parts of her are in pain – one shoulder, side of neck, hip – the side of her most often applied to bursting barriers.

So as a somatic coach, I could just work with her physical pain and that would help.  I could just work with her biomechanical movement and help her to move better so she can function better.  But without changing her verbs, in this case, the way she is organize to burst in, to burst through, any new change will fall under the weight of this verb, this bursting way of being.

As a somatic coach, I help people like Karlene discover their personal verbs, the way they do what they do, to feel it in their tissues.  And create a way of moving  that makes it more likely they will stop verbing towards pain and start verbing towards more wellness.  Towards more wholeness.  To simply being successfully them – complete. Capable.  Less striving to be and more being.

Somatic Coaching is what and how you move as you

So simply put, somatic coaching is concerned with both what you move and how you move.  And supporting you to decode your own mysterious black box of “Me” so you can become functional in your body as you.  Less about the nouns.  More about the verbs. 

Interested in learning more?  You can:

Sign up for a free 15-minute call to talk about your human condition.  No sales pressure, just a caring conversation about what you are looking for and what I can offer.  Book now https://www.kindpower.ca/book/

If you are ready to start, we begin with a 45-minute assessment (in person or online). Then based on what we discover together, I make a recommendation for what can support you. https://www.kindpower.ca/book/

While individual somatic coaching programs vary – this is not a one and done change effort.  Depending on what a client wants and needs, I tend to recommend 6-10 sessions so we can do more than just identify a personal pattern; we can anchor securely the changes that support my clients to hold their goal with their own hands and know they can achieve it.   If you are already working for your success – it can be good to have someone to give you a hand up.

My Inner Stranger

Picture by Mel Poole on UnSplash

Did you send the report?

I connected with a colleague over a pretty mundane issue – did I send her the report?  Did she receive it?  I went to the place of assuming I had thought about sending it but didn’t actually do it.  This happens.  It happens more right now as I live with my shifting hormonal, menopausal self.

I have developed within myself a sense of competence in certain areas of my life.  In this mid-stage of life, that sense of competence is tinged with a few dollops of chaos, a kind of disorderly reality – the strategies I have used to stay organized, that help me feel on top of everything are no longer working in the way they used to.

In my email conversation with my colleague, this truth popped out of somewhere – I am coming to know this inner stranger, the part of me that can be in tears one moment, touched deeply by a story and sometimes adrift in feeling, my long years of honing my attention, focus on a task somehow coming undone.  In the way that what I thought I did (send the report) and what I did (leave it in my draft folder) are increasingly not the same; what I think about myself and how I show up are not the same.  Part of me is paying attention to something else.

Of course, there are gaps in who I say I am and who I actually am – this is the work of life to know ourselves past the stories we tell about ourselves.  It’s the surprise that is unsettling – the surprise of how I show up, after 5 decades of getting to know myself well.

At the risk of jumping too deeply into the existential end of the pool, how do I define myself?

In the respect of competence in my work, in this area of consulting, I have an earned confidence in my competence – I trust in it.  I know my strengths, understand my weaknesses, how to live from a place of self-acceptance that my 25-year-old self craved.

It is easy to blame the hormonal changes as the villain, seeing other changes happen in my body and just hope this villain will eventually just go away.  We want what brings us certainty in this most basic part of ourselves – our identity.

I am being me.  And that is changing – the current impact of  my aging process. And there are moments, nearly every week, when I don’t really know who I am right now.  Breaking apart of my sense of self.

I am being and I am becoming. 

This is where certainty doesn’t serve the way it used to.  I used to use certainty as a way to keep the chaos of the world at bay.  Now the ground that my earned competence allows for is to see more clearly that chaos is truly part of my world, part of myself.

This week’s quote from Dennis Leri, a Feldenkrais elder, enfolded my experience of my inner stranger.

What is could be different.  What is different could be me. 

If our identity is a story, what if in addition to a personal memoir of all the ways I’ve been before, my identity is also a mystery, a personal “who-did-that?” thriller?   Except no crime has been committed.  Just being – living into my next chapter.

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Filling in Wholeness: When Part of You Wakes Up

 

After feeling numb, feeling more whole can be confusing.

When I write these postings, I share less about my own Feldenkrais practice, not because I don’t find it interesting, but because there can be a kind of daily grind of working with my own self image/body patterns that I am motivated to work with but don’t really want to talk about all the time.  That kind of, there I am again, doing me sort of thing.  I tend to feel a kind of odd appreciation for how persistent some of my personal coping patterns can be.  But last week, the left side of my back woke up.

When I started my personal Feldenkrais journey with local practitioner Tim Rose, I became aware that I had very little sense of myself on my left side, my ribs, shoulder blade, abdomen.  That I could sit and sense these things on my right side but my left side was a big blank.  I could imagine symmetry, like projecting a skeleton onto my body but I didn’t actually feel any semblance of symmetry.   When we came to this realization together, he gently asked me, “How are you now that you know that?”  I think he expected me to be upset, unsettled.  Instead, I got a glimmer of the kind of body/mind geek I really am.  I was fascinated!  It explained my uneven performance in aikido.  I would learn a technique, really get a good feel for it on my right side and then it was like nothing transferred to my left side – I had to learn it all again.

What do I mean when I say the left side of my back woke up?  Simply speaking, I don’t have to imagine my left side, I can just feel it.  Not as fully as my right side but I can sense details, like the expansion between ribs when I breathe.  Like details of how I bend from side to side.  I feel different walking down the street, feeling the ground through each step but on both sides now.

And for a few days, it was really confusing to feel this, like I had an extra shirt wrapped only on my left side – lots of sensation where I was used to not having any.  And how I moved started to shift a little.  I have a past injury in my right hip and lower back so live with stiffness and less range of motion in my right hip joint than in my left.  Typically, I don’t feel it much unless I am doing some deep lunging steps during aikido training.  Well, that old injury woke up too!

After feeling absence, feeling more was like walking around in a sensory bombardment, sometimes painful, sometimes pleasurable and very unfamiliar.   I had learned how to walk around with half of my back online.  All of the actual connections have always been there, but I was unplugged from myself.

What is a girl to do when her back wakes up?  Not really sure but what I did do was keeping moving, keeping noticing.  And dance in my kitchen.

I am working through a repertoire of Awareness through Movement lessons each week and practice (near) daily internal martial arts practices, so I brought this new, confusing back of mine into those activities.  To do the daily grind of awareness in my movement, noticing how this new jolt of awareness was creating new patterns of movement.  To get familiar with this development in my body/mind connection.  To see what becomes of me.

At a recent online aikido workshop, a teacher who I respect and love, Mary Heiny Sensei said, “The connections are there.  You just have to find them.”   When I ask myself why is this kind of work important, my honest answer is, “I don’t like living with limits when I don’t have to.”  When I live with my back half asleep, I am limited to what I can do.  I have the overuse injury on my right side to show for it.  The tantrum in my right hip continues for now and I keep moving.  And noticing.

I hope that in 2021, parts of you that feel absent or not filled in start to come to life, start to move as part of you again.  The connections are there.  You just have to find them.

If your issue is not absence of sensation but the presence of pain, check out my free resource, How Can I Move When It Hurts?  https://www.kindpower.ca/it-hurts/

 

What don’t you miss until it is gone?

Photo by Mega Caesaria on Unsplash

What is something you don’t miss, until it is gone?   One of my favorite lines from an old movie, The Paper, has Marissa Tomei sneezing as the very pregnant wife of the newspaper editor in the movie and say, “You don’t appreciate bladder control until it is gone”. 

Balance is like that – we know it most when we lose it.  Physical, emotional, life balance – we feel the lack of it as we lose it or when we end up on the literal or metaphorical floor.  

Balance is immediate – we know when we have it and we know when we don’t. 

Balance is intangible – what it actually is, how it is affected, what supports it is a little more elusive.   

What feels like balance within you?  In your life?  What do you do when unbalanced?

What restores your sense of balance?

How we experience balance and the loss of balance can show up in different forms.  I could feel more unsure, move in more tentative ways.  I can lose trust in myself and may shrink from some activities.  I can feel diminished, feeling the old in my aging process.  I can feel afraid, bracing against what might come.

I lost my balance once buying corn at a road side stand.  I stepped back from the counter, connecting my calf with the wooden brace extending out of the front of the stand.  In one moment, I was buying corn and in the next moment, I was falling backward.  I felt a sense of control, then felt out of control.  I was falling before I could think I was falling.

How we look at balance yields a view into what it is and how we can inhabit ourselves with a sense of balance.

Intention

Alan Questel says, “When we lose or regain our balance it is mostly recognized through how we move.  We move as a result of our intentions.  When we are unable to fulfill our intentions, it may show up as a loss of balance.”    We have an intimate, often unconscious relationship between our intentions and our actions. 

Have you had the experience of fumbling with your keys, to orient your key into the lock?   This small struggle moment is when intention and action are not relating well.  When I want to get through the door and I fumble with my keys, my intention does not include the process of lining up my key, of inserting it in the lock and turning the lock to release the door.

I am focused on the goal of getting into my house, getting on with it so I skip over my intention in the act of unlocking.  And depending on how many re-usable shopping bags or weapons bags I am holding, I swear a little!

So how do we find the way to fulfill our intention when we move? 

We use two personal resources, perception and manipulation, to fit intention to action.  We tend to focus on manipulation as the skill that needs improving. I find how we use our perception is more often the initiator of the problem.

How well, how accurately, how precisely am I perceiving what is in front of me?  Am I using an existing mental model of the lock in the door to guide my movement?  Or am I having a full, unfettered experience to perceive what is there – my key, the lock so I am set up to do the manipulation needed. 

What perceptual hygiene might be called for to clear away what is getting in the way? Am I absorbed with a rumination about a conversation?  Am I drunk?  Am I absorbed in thinking about what I will do next?   Am I sucked into the sensations of an exhausted body budget?

Try this out – put your key into your lock but see how it would be possible to slide the tip of the key precisely into the slot of the lock without tapping, without bumping the key tip on the outer rim of the lock?  What kind of attention would you need to bring to make a clean insertion? How slow or how quickly would you need to move?

So part of inhabiting a sense of balance can be expressed as a harmonious relationship between intention and action. 

To return to my unbalanced corn buying story, I intended to back away from the stall and encountered an obstacle.  My balance was broken.  I didn’t intend to back into the wooden brace so there is another piece to looking at balance – how we interact with our environment.

Environment

Why is unlocking the door important?  Our environment determines how we act in the world.  What about choice?  Free will?   I could leave my door unlocked, removing this need to unlock it.  But I don’t, because I live in a neighborhood with a steady stream of people in my back alley looking for bottles and sometimes the opportunity for something more.  So I engage in this ritual to lock my door that feeds my sense of feeling secure. Growing up on a farm, we never locked our door, because a neighbor might need something when we were not at home.  Different environments, different actions.

What creates balance walking up and down stairs?   Do you look down at each stair as you step?  Do you look straight ahead?  Going down stairs, we often look down, literally rounding down to cope with the felt sense of risk while descending.    Stepping down stairs feels less risky than walking down a muddy or icy slope. 

A friend shared her experience of slipping down a muddy slope in a haunted house, losing her balance on the dark and unpredictable surface.  How can we find balance when our environment gives us conditions that are not stable?  What does it mean to have balance when we don’t know what is going to happen next?  What if balance isn’t a state but a process, a response to each moment?

I admit I love watching parkour.  For anyone who hasn’t seen parkour, here is a short glimpse. 

https://youtu.be/1KnpCHYpSuQ

This example includes high levels of athleticism but in its most basic form parkour is the practice of moving in your environment.   

Playground environments are a familiar form of parkour – monkey bars, balance beams, climbing walls.  Watching a child navigate a climbing structure, I see the same close attention, the regard for precisely what is possible for the next handhold or foothold, all within the comfortable range of his own reach, his body’s dimensions within the space.

In navigating uncertain surfaces, we fare better staying open, responsive to our environment.  To brace, to become more rigid in reaction to fear of falling separates us from the information we could be receiving, the sense of the small ridge under your right foot, the slight slope down to the left.  What if balance was the process of an unspoken, felt conversation between the person who moves and the environment she moves through?   How well do we listen to our environment when we move? 

An odd thing happened a couple of weeks ago.  I spent a couple days checking my feet – it felt like something was stuck to the bottom of my feet – I could feel something there.  Then I realized, I was simply feeling more with my feet.  When I opened my awareness, I could feel the grain on the hardwood floor, feel the ridges on the linoleum, feel the texture of the welcome mat to a degree I was not conscious of before.   I don’t have a well-defined “why” for how this increase in sensitivity has come to be; I do know that I have come into a better sense of balance by feeling more.   

Structure

This leads me to focus on a third lens on balance – the question of our structure.

Back to the corn stand.  I am falling backward, tripped over the wooden brace at the corn stand. This story is memorable for me because of how I fell.  Somehow, maybe in some kind of early whisper of my aikido practice to come, I found a way to fold and roll gently onto my back. I was surprised.  The woman selling corn was surprised.  It just happened.  No time to think.   What happened?  Why didn’t I just fall backward, flat on the pavement?

The question for structure and balance is – can we regain our balance once we have lost it, once it is compromised?  And can we do something about our balance before it is a problem?

Clearly, we need to go beyond an understanding of structure as the form or the shape our feet, legs, hips that lets us be stable, to stand without toppling.   All of that is important, but in order to live, to function fully, we need a structure that can move and be balanced. 

Falling is different from movement in its reversibility.  When I step forward, I can choose to pause and step backward at any time during the movement.  When I fall, I can’t reverse it.  At the corn stand, I was going down.  I have an opportunity though, to alter the process and direction of my movement as I fall.  A stumble became a roll.  I was able to move in the direction I was already going and change my action.  Dynamic balance involves a responsiveness to the combination of intention, environment and manipulation of our structure, a kind of flow power to create moment by moment anew our intentions, our actions.  We shut this flow down when we contract, when we brace against what the moment brings.  When we inhabit ourselves with a sense of balance, we call out our capacity to adapt, adjust and find postures of support. 

Time for Integration

I live where it feels like, at this time of year, pretty far north.  This week I have watched leaves start to turn colors, weather forecasts start to hint at near frost temperatures, I daily contemplate the likelihood that my squashes will grow big enough to be harvested before a hard frost.  Do I need to cover them tonight, prolonging my hope for a harvest? 

Summer, typically, has been a time for integration for me.  A time to step away from the pace of doing I commit to the rest of the year.  A time to sit in utter stillness in my kayak in the middle of a lake with pelicans and gulls as my only companions.  A time to look into a fire in the cooling evening, letting everything be.  A time to pause, watch the sky under the guise of reading on the back deck.  A time to allow. To let come.

I had a different kind of integration experience this summer, a positive disruptive one.  As part of my May training with the Feldenkrais Training Academy, I had a one-on-one Functional Integration lesson with Jeff Haller, our educational director.   Functional Integration is a hands-on lesson, where the practitioner creates learning through touch.  The situation I presented him – I am feeling coordinated, well organized with good alignment – experiencing pleasurable movement….on my left side only.  My right side was fighting like hell to not be that.  My right knee, hip, shoulder ached regularly.  My right foot too.  In my aikido training, I regularly have a kind of Jekyll and Hyde experience – an aikido-like feeling on the left and an awkward, shoving strength experience on the right.   Jeff asked me to do a basic move from aikido (shio-nage for my aikido audience) to highlight for me how I was organizing myself differently on each side.  Then he asked me to lie on the table and explored through touch my body’s organization.  Ten minutes into the lesson I felt in some palpable way more like a whole person.  The how of this part of the lesson is still to be learned; the what of this part of the lesson is with me still.   Soon he easily had my right leg swinging as if I were a skeleton, with no history of sciatica, no muscular knots in my hip and buttock, no learned patterns to cope with pain, stiffness and numbness.  By the end of the hour, I felt connected, balanced, and structurally whole – we repeated the aikido move from the beginning of the lesson and Jeff told me, “When you are organized like this, there will never be any openings”.   Structural strength and ease.  Super cool.

What interests me even more than the lesson, is the process of integration that followed.  I left the training session in May with a new relationship with my right hip, with at least two viable options for how to move it while I walk, how to stand, how to shift my weight – my habitual way of moving and the more efficient way Jeff taught me that allowed for lighter weight transfer, for quicker walking with less effort, for greater stamina – walking uphill became almost easy, like I had a new power source within me to just glide up the hill.   But I was returned in a way to being like a toddler – either pattern could show up.  In the process of integration, I found that I was becoming stiff and sore almost every time I moved from sitting to standing.  I played with options, how to apply what I had learned so far to change my experience. (Because I am going to make this better!)   Some days I felt 20 years older each time I stood up.  A senior toddler – stiff, wobbly, a little confused about how to move from here. And frustrated – – why was this happening to me?  How was this better?   This integration process felt much more like disintegration.

I tried several things with limited success – morning exercises to stretch and open up the mobility in my hips – good for an hour or two.  I changed how I sat, focusing on lengthening my legs, letting go of tension I held while sitting – this worked better but it didn’t change the pattern from happening.   I found some ways to move that didn’t hurt; other parts continued to protest.  I felt the pressure from an internalized, societal idea – this is just what happens when you are over 50. 

What I hadn’t tried is a core part of applying awareness to my movement – slowing down to really sense what was happening in the movement from sitting to standing, in the shifting of weight into my feet.  I slowly came to study this moment in my movement. 

This August, my integration process was supported by another one-on-one lesson, this time with Chrish Kresge.  After presenting my current state, she observed me and asked, “What are you over-using?”  I didn’t know the answer until she asked.  “My knees.”  She led me through a lesson that I was familiar with about the movement from sitting to standing and brought together the ways I was not quite yet integrated.  And it did come together, I came together.   Wonderful.

What can I glean from this integration process to take into my life more broadly?   A key harvest is the role of attention in being with my movement.  I am fully conditioned to use my attention to determine my state of being – how does this feel? It hurts.  If it hurts, how do I make this movement better?  This kind of attention may be an expression of self-care, self-love, but expressed through a corrective kind of care.  There is a subtle kind of limit I place on myself here by pursuing attention anchored to the agenda: how do I make my movement better?   It’s the attachment I put on my curiosity – curiosity to know what is happening to “fix” myself compared to a free, unencumbered curiosity to know.  This attachment changes my attention, changes my relationship with myself. A small difference but the impact on how I treat myself is powerful.

Let’s compare the two.

Closed form of curiosity:  Why do my knees hurt?  What do I need to do differently to make it better?  I could work on strengthening my thigh muscles, on opening the flexibility of my ankle joints.  I could wear knee braces to keep my knees moving in good alignment.  

Open form: What is happening when I stand such that my knees hurt?  What do I notice?  I could notice the placement of my feet, the direction my knees move coming to standing.  I could notice where my head is in relationship to my feet and knees, what arc it makes.  I could notice where my eyes move, where the weight of my head is placed and the work needed to keep it upright.  I could keep going in this form of curiosity, in exploring possibilities.  I could also keep going in the closed form of curiosity but I can see an end to what seems worth exploring.  If my knee hurts – will I look further than the next set of joints for the cause?  What about how I am using my spine, how I organize the weight of my torso over my knees?  

A closed curiosity, an attention attached to a “fixer-upper” agenda is just more limited. I am formed by decades of corrective care – from myself and others. The pause to allow for open attention is to notice what I notice. To allow for repetitions of unproductive patterns.  To learn.  This is the habit of attention that is more important than exactly how I make my movement.  How can I relinquish the driver’s seat on the quality of my movement?  Because the body likes and embraces what works better.  I am my body. My attention determines the nature of our relationship together.

Real learning, doing something that is actually new and different than what I have done,  is situated in this kind of love – this attention in the form of open curiosity to my state from a stance of acceptance, an embrace rather than a bracing against what is present.   What kind of love is this, that attends to how I am?  

How do you orient to difficulty?

Photo by Jukan Tateisi.

What is difficult for you?  What happens when you face something difficult?  A conversation? A strong,  emotion emerging out of nowhere.   A task you don’t know how to do.  Or a job you’ve been working on for a while without getting anywhere.   Or does the thought of how difficult something might be stop you cold?

We are creative geniuses when it comes to confronting difficulties in our lives.  In a moment we can project a full color, surround sound movie of how hard it will be, what the other person will say or do in response, how badly we will do, with exquisite details tracking out our most villainous traits.  Or the dramatic pathos of ourselves as a victim of this circumstance.  Against the backdrop of these kinds of personal projected movies, what is most likely to happen when we encounter a challenge, an unpredicted bounce of Fate’s ball?  Stop, quit and roll.  We take the emergency exit off of difficult highway.

I’d like to say that I meet difficulties now with grace and grit where needed.  After 2 years of what I call my f**!!king equanimity practice,  I can say I am more conscious when drawn into my swear-a-thon protests when I can’t get something done – usually trouble-shooting something on my computer or on fix-it projects at home.   We can get so creative in our catastrophizing natures, preparing the script for how our life goes when we know, deep in ourselves just this.  “I can’t do this!”

So if our creative intelligence knows how to play the life game of difficulty with moves like “This is too hard!” or “Why is this happening to me?”  –  Can we learn how to adapt our game?  Or create a new one?

There is a really handy concept coming out of Feldenkrais work.  It’s called making a first approximation.  Moshe Feldenkrais, the creator of the approach, used to say, “Learning is what we do when we don’t know what to do.”   One of the by-products of the approach to learning we are familiar with (e.g. learning from teachers and other sources of authorized knowledge) is that we come to understand learning as applying what we know to the situation we are facing.  If what we already know runs out without solving the problem, we are conditioned to look to an authority outside of ourselves to resolve the problem.  I can’t do this!

Self-taught people and entrepreneurs already know this – learning is what you do when you don’t know what to do.  Try something and learn from there. 

How can you allow your first approximation to learning how to do what you don’t know how to do?  One of my teachers tells it this way, “Gather information, make the plan, work the plan, adapt the plan.”  Repeat as needed.

This is a process of learning, trying and learning that relies on a felt sense of our own resourcefulness, our ability to find some way to complete the task.   I dearly love the people in my life that come with their own perfectionist programming.  But it can be a pretty tall stakes to require new tasks to be easy, simple, to require ourselves to do them with a high level of skill.  We all have some part of ourselves that is ready to criticize when we fail, when our efforts do not yield the results we want.   We want to stay within our circle of competence, our comfort zone where trying and succeeding come together.   As I see the world from the other side of 50, I watch that circle get smaller for some, one way we can contract with age.  For others, their circle widens, as they invest in new skills, new possibilities.  New ways I know how I can.

The first approximation leads to the second approximation.  And the third.  We can refine and improve our effort through this process of learning when we do not already know what to do.   We can shift our little engine that feels it can’t to a little engine that knows it can find a way up the mountain.   Increasing our sense of resourcefulness is the journey of several mountains that started as impossible, impassable obstacles and become possible.  And maybe even easy.   We all faced these mountains of can’t when we learned to sit, to crawl, to stand, to walk, to run.  This resourcefulness is within us. 

So I leave you with a possibility challenge – do you have the courage, the curiosity to explore what is possible for you?  Can you re-examine the edge of the limits you know?  Can you include in your image of yourself, the you who doesn’t know the answer, the you who can discover it?    If you dare, please share on my Kind Power page https://www.facebook.com/yourkindofpower/ .

Freedom through Wholeness

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

I recently returned from a week long meditation retreat with Jon Bernie, described as a nondual spiritual teacher who is also a delightfully authentic human being.  My experience, nested on my ongoing learning processes through the Feldenkrais method with the Feldenkrais Training Academy, turns my reflection to the question of how can we find freedom through our sense of wholeness?

As a coach, one of the ways I work with clients is to support them to see, feel and know more clearly how their habitual way of operating might be locked into a pattern of behavior that takes them away from what they want.   Bringing this habitual (unconscious) pattern into clearer view is like a key to freedom from living with the constraint of this pattern.  Our habitual patterns can be supportive – we need our habits to be able to operate through routine tasks.  Imagine if you had to brush your teeth each day as if it were the first time?

Our habits can also be self-made prisons.  The key to unlocking our prison door is through awareness – catching ourselves in the act of the habit so we can stop and choose something else.   Philip Shepherd in his book Radical Wholeness says it this way, “You find yourself stuck in a pattern that thwarts, stunts and denies the energies of your life…one of the foremost challenges of moving towards wholeness is learning what freedom means to us, learning to notice what diminishes it, and learning the freedom of expressing our true selves through how we live.”

Habits give us a sense of security.  Our habits are like a little software program that we can run that takes care of this moment – we enter into a pre-programmed way of operating and we feel secure – this moment is predictable.  Taken care of. 

How do we find security in freedom?  What happens when you bring your whole self to a task like brushing your teeth?  Is it possible to brush them in a habitual way when you bring a whole awareness to each moment?  Where do you find more possibility, more creative ways to clean your teeth – through a habitual procedure or through a whole engagement of yourself? 

So why does this matter anyway?  You might be feeling – I’ve got way more important things to do than to fuss with how much attention I bring or don’t bring to something like brushing my teeth. 


Except for this.  How many of your habits are a kind of a contraction, a kind of compromise that you are not aware you have made – swapping efficiency or familiarity – doing something the way it feels right that leaves you without access to the freedom to choose something else?

Sleepwalking with our habits, we get increasing locked into a constrained life, repeating a process that works for a secure outcome.  Sounds good – predictable.  Except life has a way of disrupting our patterns.  Philip Shepherd insightfully comments, “The most difficult thing in the world is to question an assumption you’ve never consciously made…how do you even begin to question something that is so normal it is invisible?”  

Cultivating your awareness can open up your adaptability – this is a kind of power that can bring security in freedom.  It’s just part of being whole and acting from there.