wild horses, wild geese

Before my time in Portugal, I was regularly having dreams of horses. I would find myself in a small pasture or in a barn, trying to manage or organize a small group of horses that was pushing me around and over-powering me. I don't remember getting hurt in any of my dreams but I do recall feeling overwhelmed by their strength and force and stubbornness. I recall being amongst them and feeling their solid, muscled bodies pushing me around as I stood within the herd.

This past week of training was focused on two body-centered practices, Authentic Movement and Skinner Releasing Technique (SRT). Here's a quick description of SRT from the website www.skinnerreleasing.com:

We're all born dancers, with innate coordination and animal-like grace. As time goes by, we tend to lose touch with this natural ease. Muscles tense unnecessarily, and our alignment goes askew. The Skinner Releasing Technique™ (SRT) lets us practice letting go: letting go of stress, letting go of unnecessary holding in our body, letting go of preconceptions about what is supposed to happen, letting go of fear of awkwardness, letting go of the belief that we don't have the right body for dancing. We let go of habitual holding patterns and habitual ways of thinking in order to let something new happen. Eventually, we find energy and power. We rediscover our natural alignment, improve strength and flexibility, and awaken creativity and spontaneity.

I admit that when I was deciding whether or not this massage training program was a good fit for me, discovering that Authentic Movement and SRT were parts of the process was nearly enough to stop me from applying; I have never been keen on the notion of putting my 'self' out there and releasing the animal of my impulses for me and others to see. I've never considered myself a dancer nor a creature with 'animal-like grace.' Athletic coordination? Yes.

Machine power and strength? Sure, at times. Historically, I've gravitated to sports that taught and trained my body how to move and then I harnessed a certain amount of disassociation during the performance of such sports in order to override any pain or exhaustion that was arising from my body.

But a few times each week, I've been running up the cliffs to the east of my apartment and heading towards Lagos down the old cart tracks which trace the line of rocks along the coast. Low and behold, not unlike my experience running back in New Hampshire, don't my shoulders and arms kick in and attempt to offer most of the efforting required to ascend the rather substantial rise of land along the cliffs. How absurd. My arms tighten. My shoulders lock down as I climb. My breathing becomes more constricted, my hands gripping. Sometimes it feels more like personal punishment than an expression of flow and form. Here I have these not-unsubstantial legs extending from my pelvis and I'm using my shoulders to climb a series of hills.

Similar to my efforts at the massage table, my habits are to use hand, arm, and shoulder strength to apply pressure. The result is that I hold my breath, lock my solar plexus, and disconnect the flow of energy from my

feet, through my legs, and up into my abdominals. It may not seem as ridiculous as using upper body strength for massaging as it is to use it for running but it's the same flawed phenomenon. The principles and practices of SRT helped me to become better aware of how I am making movement more strenuous, less efficient, less fluid.

The psychotherapist in me sees that the ways I move in the world were adaptive somewhere along the line.

Locking my pelvis and freezing my hips have served to protect me from connecting to my sexuality (a potentially dangerous place to hang out). Tensing my shoulders and rolling them forward around my heart has shielded me from pain and hurt. Clamping together my teeth and tightening my jaw has stopped me from saying something that might offend someone I care about and cause them to move away, might prevent another's anger and violence. Limiting my breath has allowed me to avoid feeling and expressing emotions that might otherwise upset my homeostasis. Maintaining a low-grade armoring has ensured that the animal of my body would not spontaneously do something that would make me strange, a target for another's ridicule. Using my shoulders, arms, and hands to move through the world has cultivated a false sense of being in control.

I see now that to maintain these once-adaptive body dynamics requires an inordinate amount of energy; energy is coming up so that I can run a hill or feel into someone's quadriceps and energy is simultaneously holding down and restricting any impulses and movements that threaten to ambush the status quo of my body's safety, security, and stability in the world. The result is efforting, enduring, and eventual exhaustion. Eventually, the consequence is also a tweak in my lower back or a locked jaw, aching in my hands and fingers; muscles which might be supple and flexible are instead hard and unreceptive. More disconnection from my animal body is needed to manage the discomfort. Numbing takes over.

Then maybe I dream about wild horses. A week later I dream about them again. And again. Subtle messages from the somatic psyche reminding me about the raw power, instinctual intelligence that moves in the depths and will not go away.

On Friday morning of this week, I awoke at my usual hour (3am) with a profound feeling of awe and reverence for the passion of my body - passion which moves towards people, places, experiences, activities, and sensation. Nothing about passion is intended to be fenced, caged, managed, controlled, or possessed. I love what I love, energy which enlivens my body sometimes to the point of overwhelm as though "I" might disappear or internally combust. Passion, as a primal life energy, vibrates and resonates, not always in sync with the wishes and wants and fears of my mind/ego.

This morning as I ascended the first stage of cliffs and arrived at the field on the plateau, there were 3 horses grazing on the clover in the morning light. I slowed to a breathless stop and watched. The young colt regarded me with curiosity. And then, despite my potential for being a natural predator, a member of the species which has consistently attempted to tame his ancestors, he approached me, allowing me to rub his face and neck, touch the animal of his body with the excitement of mine.

It takes great courage to follow our passions and impulses, immense trust in life as a benevolent and holding force. Whether it be to write because we dream about writing, touch because our hands keep moving towards the aliveness of another's skin, jump into the sea because it calls, or just breathe into the excitement of making contact with a stranger, not knowing how the Mystery will unfold.

I dedicate this entry to the wonderful soul-friend who makes me delicious coffee in the morning. And to my mother who has 'gifted' herself, me, and the world with her creative spirit (http://mcdougall.bookblogworld.com/). And to my father who has cultivated the solidity of my being with his strength. And to Mary Oliver, whose words reach into me and help me feel the passion of my skin and spirit.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

© Mary Oliver.

les portes de Portugal

I've been drawn to the doors that separate me from the inner places here in this country.

Sometimes I wonder if any two doors are the same. Sometimes I wonder who or what moves within. I feel inclined, at times, to knock.

Other times, I'm content to wonder, to wander,

to let the hidden places hold their mystery,

to let the door speak, to listen.

Psychotherapy holds the same dynamic for me.

Inside are doors, endless doors, unique thresholds to the Mystery. Time and again I find myself wanting to throw open the passageways - reveal, see, identify, assess, understand, know.

Absurd. Sad.

Science (including Psychology) is the 4 year old constantly asking "why?" Unlike the child, Science has lost touch with its origins in innocence and magic. These qualities have been pressed to the outside, to the fray, to the margins. Science has become a machine, maybe unstoppable in its drive to.... to what? Reveal? Control? Harness? Manipulate?

This week we worked with some techniques in Polarity Therapy (http://www.polaritytherapy.org/). As students, we also participated in a day of Breathwork - a practice as old as time in using the basic element of breathing to deepen experience and invite the Mystery within to move. Not sure how much of my own mystery I want to reveal in this medium but 'moving' captures my experience beautifully. I made contact with other times in this human life and with a primal energy that connects all life forms. I connected into a force of sound and feeling that felt as ancient as the sky.

I move all the time to try and understand myself and others better. It's a practical endeavor as a therapist, a very human habit. All the same, the more I open and see, the clearer it is to me that while patterns exist, Mystery reigns. I'm loosely aware of the devastation that has taken place in Japan in the past few days, prior to that in New Zealand (and countless other places, I'm sure). Certainly there are those who will be grappling with Science to trace the etiology of the Earth's movements. Others who will migrate more towards Religion in hopes of feeling some ground on which to stand in the wake of the death and destruction. It's what we do. We feel moved and we want something to hold onto. We see a door and we want to open it.

The trick is that what I see is coloured by my perspective; the inner sanctum seen through the filter of my inner space. And when I close the door, what lies behind it continues to move, with patterns, with mystery - already altered by the very act of being 'seen.'

And so I've answered my own wondering. No two doors in Portugal are alike.

me, happy

Figured it might be good to add a picture of myself just to let mama (and dad) know that all is well and good. This is from the very delightful weekend in Tivara. 10 miles of beach, 3 people. No wonder I'm happy.

Hello family. Hello all.
love, Mart in Portugal

... and the bowl ran away with the spoon

This week I left a bowl and a spoon, both still dirty, in the sink. And then I took a breath, exhaled, and walked away. This might sound like a moment of mediocrity but, for me, it was a mighty and monumental step towards emancipation.

I grew up with some very clear and somewhat uncompromising preferences around tidyness and the management of personal space. I grew up with a sense of timeliness,

being responsible, holding myself in the world with a reverence for right and wrong. My parents instilled in me how important it was to be considerate of others, their needs, their expectations and also to try to offer something positive to the world. I wouldn't change a thing about the way I grew up. And I'm not going to stop growing.

Living with 4 other people I'm learning that the line between right and wrong is an illusion. I'm learning that there are preferences, habits, attitudes, and values. I'm learning that there are outcomes and consequences for every choice but that there is no governing body of righteous action and that the most powerful policing force lives within me.

The most powerful peace-making force also lives within me.

Watching dishes accrue each day. Watching debris build up on the kitchen floor. Watching mold grow on the ceiling and walls. Watching dirty and clean (but damp) laundry collect on the furniture. Coming home from class at 8pm to find that the sliders onto the patio have been left ajar all day. Emerging from my room at 6am to see that the main door to the house has been left open all night. Noticing that the shower no longer drains because of sand building up in the pipes. This is my classroom. This is my current training ground into becoming more fully human. Mom and Dad prepared the soil but no amount of cement, staking, fencing, or externally imposed laws will hold back the upheaval from below. My housemates will not be tamed or trained. They insist in being themselves! I can kill myself (or them?) or I can pay attention to the gifts of this grand gesture from the Universe.

What is REALLY wrong with dirty dishes and disarray? What is REALLY wrong with having a stranger enter our house and take our personal belongings? What is REALLY wrong with the plumbing overflowing? Nothing.

I tried for awhile to stay on top of the mess in my own way - 5am would find me not-so-quietly doing dishes and wiping counters while water boiled for my tea (this, of course, brought me up against my upbringing in a very binding way - how could I be quiet and considerate of another's wish to sleep while simultaneously bringing 'order' to the land?). Then I noticed that my attempt to model 'right' behavior was falling on blind eyes. No one even recognized my service to the greater good. They just kept making dishes and leaving mess in their wake.

The choice... hold tightly onto my own values of right and wrong and suffer. Or let go of this 'battle' so that I might be happy.

I tell a tale of being a teenager and moving into a new home. I remember clearly that my parents gave me a choice in how I wanted my room to be painted: "What colour of white do you want?" At the time, it seemed like a very practical way to decorate. Now when I move into a new home I see it as an opportunity to reveal the depths of my

complexity - my passion for colour, my attraction to both subtlety and intensity.

I'm not sure whom or what I would meet if I migrated a little away from "should" and ventured into possibility - no right, no wrong. It could be chaos. It might be crippling to my life management and success (though, at this point, maybe not so noticeable!)

It might be an adventure. And every adventure begins with one step. My step was a dirty bowl and a dirty spoon.

people...

There's a story that goes with these images. Between my apartment in the ghetto and my local haunt (Lazuli Bar) where I regularly utilize internet services while enjoying morning coffee (served by Sebastian) and after-class beer (served by Miguel), there's a corner of the beach which is territory for the creative power of the human spirit.

There's a man, his name is maybe either Lupi or Lukey (he gave up trying to get me to understand him after repeating himself 4 times - it was a rough morning for him). He spends each day inviting art to this part of the beach, this corner of the planet. He builds sand sculptures, very pleasing to my eyes because they are both playful and skillful, allowing me to remember what it was like to be a child and feel awe for the whimsical and magical, the world as it was before I grew into seriousness. Dragons, gnomes, castles, alligators, and other creatures rise up from the world they inhabit below. They come to the surface to see what's real here, what we humans believe in.

This morning I enjoyed a beautiful run along the high cliffs. I came down to the beach and watched the surfers begin to gather in the growing surf. Something has shifted here in Praia da Luz. The weather has turned ever so slightly. The British retirees who live here much of the year have been joined by young men, travelling in vans and beat up Land Rovers, coming in search of waves. A nice shift, I gotta admit.

As I was walking from the sand to the stone 'boardwalk' I passed by the sand artist standing, staring at his corner of creation. His sculptures had been toppled sometime during the night. My breath caught in my throat. I hadn't spoken with him yet other than to say "bon dia" - a morning greeting. I looked at his eyes, his crestfallen shoulders. I said, "What happened?" I wasn't going for intelligence in my question, I was going for contact with this man - arriving back to his life to see that it had been altered, dramatically, sadly.

We exchanged a few words with our limited shared vocabulary. He knew the word "stupidity" and I knew the words "I'm so sorry." I asked him if I could take his photo. He agreed. Fortunately for me, earlier in the week, I took a couple of pictures of this corner of creation as the sun rising in the east, caressing the shoulders of the magical beings while the world was waking up.

Side jump... without getting into the confusing and gnarly details, I've managed to trigger (annoy, anger, frustrate, piss off) one of my housemates in the last couple of days. I'm not at all clear what to do about the situation because I've approached her a few times with an olive branch and she seems uninterested in making peace or getting to the heart of the issue together. This has made life in class and at home a little tense for me. She and my other female housemate are very tight and so I'm feeling a little ex-communicated (I'm actually feeling a flashback to middle school but that's another story!). I've been doing much soul searching and feeling into my own heart. A sense of helplessness rises up because I don't like living in tension; I very much like the experience of stepping into the proverbial 'fire' with someone and coming out the other side together, more deeply seen and known.

It is/was very tempting to make an 'other' out of my classmate - make her an adversary because of the discomfort and helplessness that I am feeling. Lord knows, sometimes there's nothing I want more in the world than an 'enemy' so that I can reinvigorate my sense of being a separate self who needs to be constantly vigilant and ready to rumble to protect my personal territory (aka "ego"). But meeting the sand artist this morning helped me to look at this with a broader vision.

I have a little spot of sand. Every day is fresh. Every day is new. What happens on this territory is not determined by the wind, the high tide line, or the drunken or bored or angry visitors who come during the night. What happens on this creative territory is a reflection of the openness of my heart and my willingness to accept all that passes my way, greet it with curiosity and compassion rather than make it personal - it's not personal, it's Life.

Today, Lupi/Lukey has a long day in the sun and breeze re-creating life as he feels it in his hands. I, myself, have a late start and will head to a massage practice session this afternoon. This will give me, too, an opportunity to create a part of the world by using my hands - inviting the magic and mystery out from below the surface.

I'm learning that feeling into life from fullness requires that my mind and heart be open and that my hands are ready to build and receive rather than heavy with weaponry.

pictures of Portugal

Getting closer to sorting out the technology to bridge my visual experience of Luz, Portugal with the internet world. Above are images of Laressa, the local colours, the splendour of the rock cliffs, the immensity of the ocean, and the
breathtaking way that light and colour melt into life in this part of the planet - fluid, constantly shifting, defying words, defying capture of any kind. My love and gratitude to Jesse, a classmate and housemate who astounds me daily with his generosity and kindness of soul and allows me to stay connected to the world via his MacBook.

sinking in

I see that my exploration and education into the world of bodywork is ripe for metaphors. As this third week of training comes to a close, I realize that I've sunk in and I'm landing.

Earlier in the week we learned about fascia, the fibres which enfold the muscles, assist in movement. As you rest light hands on the surface of skin above a muscle, let gravity do its thing and breathe, you might feel your fingers sink below the layers of skin and rest on the thin layer of fascia that covers a muscle. If you quiet yourself, continue to breathe, let go of your preconceptions, your knowledge of anatomy, you will be invited into the body, you will embark on an exploration, a dance between your touch and the world below.

I have been surprised by the level of inner dis-ease with which I have reconnected over the first few weeks of this program. Being out of my comfort zone I have rallied my old familiar ways - pushing back, resisting, and struggle. I have vacillated between doubting, fearing, withdrawing and enduring, efforting, breathing into low-level letting go. I appreciate those of you who have encouraged me to relax, lighten up, enjoy the experience. Sadly, when I imagine or experience an external 'threat' not a lot of my historical survival instincts have revolved around relaxation and surrender. And so this quality of release seemed elusive if not impossible (I can actually engage the absurdity of efforting to relax).

A mainstay of my challenge of working with massage is that my hands em-body my efforting and rather than being soft and receptive, they are strong and hard, muscling my way through a massage in hopes of getting it 'right.' Again, the feedback from fellow participants and trainers has been to relax my hands, soften my touch and bring my strength up from the ground and through my legs, hips, pelvis, and torso. The training is touching fascia was a doorway into softening. It's amazing that as I touch without attachment, agenda, effort, and the noise of my so-called knowledge, as I allow gravity and quiet to reign, my hands travel the terrain of muscle, get invited into an exploration. No weapon-wielding soldiers are permitted access. Only an energy that embodies curiosity, quiet, playfulness, and openness is invited in to dance, to move and be moved.

Side travel -- This week I dreamed that a black bear attacked me as I was running through the woods with Ben (who was a small puppy). He charged out from the bushes to my right and took me by surprise, picking little Ben up with his mouth and running away. I realized I had two textbooks in my right hand and I threw them at him, hitting him in his rump and causing him to drop Ben who ran back to me. In another instant, the bear returned and, feeling overwhelmed by the pain and fear of the predicament, I 'woke myself up' deeply affected.

The next night as I fell into the dreamful sleep, low and behold, the bear re-emerged from hiding and charged me again. This time his fur had changed from black to brown but his ferocity remained. This time I was in an old, white Chevy pickup truck and I managed to evade injury and attack. I don't recall what happened after that but I knew that something was coming, that my psyche was stirring.

Yesterday was a practice day in the training program. This means we have a partner and we exchange massages, the full body sequence taking about an hour and a half each. Laressa was my partner and into her fascia, into her skin, exploring the terrain of her body's energy, her muscles, her joints, and bones I fell. I fell through playfulness and I fell through pleasure and curiosity and a quality of innocence grounded in not knowing but being willing to learn. And I landed. The experience of giving this massage was better than most of the massages I have received thus far in my life.

By the closing sequence of the massage my body was 'humming.' I realized I had finally arrived here in Portugal, in this training program, in the dance of communal living. My body is waking up in a profound way through the process of being receptive. 'Feeling into the fascia' is a gentle doorway not only into my client but into myself as a partner in the massage - a metaphor I can perhaps carry into other ways of sinking into life and landing.