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.