Mar 042016
 

As a tool, the Alexander Technique can be used in whatever application you wish. It relieves pain and restriction, improves performance, is an access to greater facility and ease. But it is not completely innocent of agenda.

It's possible to apply the Technique to minimizing or eliminating inefficient movement patterns that interfere with what we believe we want to accomplish — whether that's working pain-free at a keyboard, playing an instrument, enhancing stage presence, or improving athletic performance. It can even help us “know ourselves” more, developing our capacity to calm the mind and body, direct our thinking, expand our repertoire of expression, as well as sit/stand/move with more ease. This can yield enhancements in self-reflection/meditation, confidence, less emotional volatility, and lighter moods.

But if the Technique were simply about learning how to do what we do, better, there's nothing to prevent the inevitable intensification of our current lifestyle — in work and play, we constantly aim for more, better, faster, more comprehensive, more cutting-edge. Are these improvements in doing what we're already doing, or doing more of what we'd like to do, really what the Technique is about? Is that what it's for? Is that the best it can summon from us?

What if the essential message of the Technique (no surprise here) is to not do? Not, “do what you do with less effort”, but actually “stop doing so much”… ?

I notice that my own alarm bells go off at this questions. Wait! I don't want my desires and energy to be stifled! I don't want to give up my dreams, my aspirations! I want to persist in feeling that I have a say in my life, that I am a free, active agent, that I can and do make things happen!

There's a trap I catch myself in: I tell myself that my training in the Alexander Techique should allow me to keep up a frenetic pace in a busy life, but be able to do it “with more ease”. I think that I ought to be able to conduct myself with “good use” while I persist in filling the hours of my days with Important and Pressing Things to Do. I even use pseudo-spiritual talk about “not doing” as a way of “letting things happen” — continuing to presume that things OUGHT to happen, and will happen in the way or time that I want them to, if I am exceptional enough at “not doing” them!

I suspect the Alexander Technique holds an unsettling insight for me; that the real work (and true freedom) is in letting things not happen.

There's another trick here. I can tell myself that I'm detaching from results as a secret tactic to act disinterested in an outcome, while continuing my expectation that something ought to happen.

But maybe it's not a question of letting things happen outside my desired time frame… maybe those things won't, aren't meant to, happen at all.

How do I know what's appropriate to include in a single day, let alone in my life?

Desperate times call for drastic measures

Sometimes when I catch myself misusing the Technique in this inhibiting-and-directing-while-staying-busy way, times when I notice that I “include” stopping in what I'm doing — but I don't actually STOP doing, I entertain the thought that this is my last day on earth.

If this moment now were one of just a few moments remaining to me, in this physical body on this beautiful planet, I wouldn't hurry it. I also wouldn't delay any inspired action. I wouldn't refuse that bite of chocolate, but neither would I make of it more than what it is — I wouldn't substitute it for whatever I might really want.

When I act as if these are some of my last precious moments, I welcome in every nuance. I smell, I see, I breathe; I tread lightly, I feel what I'm touching, I soften myself to receive every whisper of the world's pressure against me. I allow myself to be as whole as I am, experiencing this time and place. I don't aggrandize, and I don't diminish.

This is what I KNOW it's really all about: Letting happen what happens, and letting not happen what doesn't happen.

I can't tell you how much courage I feel I have to summon to meet this letting go, letting not happen. But again, how do I know what my life should include? Is this letting go really a death of a desire, or like winter, is it only the appearance of death — while under the surface, things are gathering force?

Is true ease the ability to let small questions remain, let hints remain unanswered for the moment, so that their reemergence at a more mature time can startle and amaze us? The wonder wouldn't have been there if things hadn't had time to slip out of sight, come to significance behind closed doors. We need to let things rest. We can't even put our trust in their later development; we need to actually forget about them, forgive (“give as before”) their appearance as a hope or wish. It's the only way they can surprise us later with their relevance.

I've been memorizing this poem by Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, which about sums it up:

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), “Keeping Quiet”

Extravagaria (translated by Alastair Reid)

Jonathan Cape, London, 1972, pp.27-29

(original Estravagario, Editorial Losada, Buenos Aires, 1958)

 

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