Nikita

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERANiki at work.            Photo:  Pam White

On Saturday, our beloved cat Nikita passed. He had been with us for 18 years. Niki’s story is a good one.

My dance company and I were performing in St. Petersburg, Russia.  One evening, Pam and I were walking in the city – it was summer, and the evening light stretched into the early hours of the morning.  We strolled across the Anichkov bridge, where several people stood with boxes of kittens.  In one of the boxes was a tiny sickly kitten with a spot on his nose.  We were flying out the next day.  We tried to find a cat carrier.  We tried to find a vet.  No luck.  We went to the airport, and sitting in the waiting area was a family with a tiny kitten in a carrier.  “We should have taken him,” I whispered.  “We have to find a way.”

Back in the U.S., I called Helen, our Russian translator and described the kitten.  She found him.  She found a carrier.  She found a vet.  Several Americans were still in Moscow after the dance festival.  Lisa First, the director of the festival agreed to fly the kitten from Moscow to New York.  Helen agreed to fly him from St. Petersburg to Moscow.  We flew from Martha’s Vineyard to rendezvous with Lisa at JFK.  In our last conversation with Helen, she asked if we would take another kitten from a kitten club. Her name was Musia.  Helen had adopted her sister Dusia.  We said sure.  In for a dime. . .

Here is where it gets even more bizarre.  Our plane couldn’t land in New York – air traffic.  We circled over JFK.  I stared down at the airport willing the plane to land.  I knew that Lisa had a very narrow window of time before she had to catch her flight from New York to Minneapolis.  Finally we landed.  I raced through the airport down to the area where Lisa was waiting.  Couldn’t find her.  Finally spotted her across a very crowded room.  She handed me the carrier with a smile, and I started running through the airport.

Our flight back to the Vineyard was scheduled to leave in five minutes.  As I ran, I could see little black and white paws stretching through the carrier.  Musia.  I reached security (fortunately nothing like post 9/11 security).  The security x-ray was broken.  I pleaded.  They relented.  I ran.  Pam was standing in the doorway of the airplane.  All the stewardesses stood behind her looking worried.  Pam said later that they were going to hold the plane no matter what.  Musia, Nikita, Pam and I took our seats.

Musia passed two years ago.  She was an extravagantly beautiful, completely sweet Russian beauty. Niki stayed on.  His job after our daughters left was to sleep between us so that whenever we awoke, we would hear his purr, rest our hands on him.  His other job was to teach us how to be a part of everything, how to dissolve into the day, the moment, how to receive, how to taste everything all of the time.  He taught us that up until his last breath.

Thank you Nikita.

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a beautiful read

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I have just finished reading Waves in Deep Still Water: Listening for Mind by Candace Crosby.  I met Candace this summer at the Body-Mind Centering Association conference in Portland, Oregon.  “May I join you,” at lunch opened out into shared stories, including the one that is the heart of her beautiful book.

For over ten years, Candace worked with Christi, a young woman who had suffered a catastrophic traumatic brain injury as a result of a car accident.  With Christi’s  parents and a devoted team of medical and alternative practitioners, Candace brought her empathetic skills, her curiosity and heart to the mystery of helping Christi trace a path back into the world.  This is not a story with a simple ending.

It is Christi’s story, but also Candace’s.  With great vulnerability, she traces her own questions and fears about the direction and shape of her work.  Her process of opening and discovery is a parallel journey to Christi’s.  This book is an important part of the conversation about vulnerability and healing. The title captures beautifully the need for dropping deep to feel the subtle movement that arises from the apparent stillness where all of the usual signs and markers are absent or only faintly felt.

 

 

thank you Dr. Sacks

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This image is available as a poster through Brain Pickings.  When I heard that Dr. Oliver Sacks had passed on Sunday, I thought of what was recently said about the also brilliant Anna Halprin on the occasion of her recent 95th birthday:  “A life well-lived.”

Thank you Dr. Sacks.

landscape, bodyscape

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In October I will be offering a workshop at the annual ISMETA (International Somatic Movement Education and Therapy Association meeting. They have asked me to speak to the question of how Authentic Movement can nourish somatic movement education and therapeutic practices.

I have been thinking about how we in the Authentic Movement community can make that work more available and explicable to the larger community.  Even more delicious and tantalizing.

I have also been thinking about the word “somatic” and finding it oddly missing or misunderstood in common parlance.  If I tell someone that I am a somatic movement therapist, they often look a little blank and polite.  I need to polish my elevator pitch.  So I would like to unpack that as well.

This is what the ISMETA website says:  The field of somatics has developed over the last century through a process of inquiry into how consciousness inhabits the living body. The term is derived from the word “somatic” (Greek “somatikos”, soma: “living, aware, bodily person”) which means pertaining to the body, experienced and regulated from within.

My explanation is that somatics connects the bodily experiences of structure, function and expression by teaching us how to listen to and feel the body more deeply.  It is not physical therapy yet it has the effect of improving function, resiliance, expressivity and pleasure.  It helps us to become more awake and peaceful in our mystical, carnal selves.

How does that happen? Lots of ways.  Touch.  Breath.  Movement.  Stillness.  Investigation.    Curiosity and acceptance. Some of my work is in partnership with horses.

In a recent session, I worked with a client with a painful shoulder to practice neutral observation of the “voice” of that shoulder throughout the day.  We played with gradations of tension and relaxation, with “chunking down” movement in and around the joint, and with exploring how the rest of the body – fluid, fascia, organ – could support the whole upper quadrant.  We loooked at how movement sequenced from the opposite foot all the way through that arm, passing through the inner columns and hollows of the body.  We talked about images and memories connected to the restriction.  In an Authentic Movement session, she had the experience of water flowing through the inner channels of the arm and shoulder, and then pouring down the arm and fingers.  The water became warm and salty, and she realized that the bracing in the shoulder was related to an inability to release her sadness about an early trauma.

Authentic Movement is an improvisational, contemplative practice.  There is a mover or movers and a witness.  The witness acts as a container for the experience of the mover[s].  The mover moves without direction of any kind, including music. The invitation to the mover is to “wait to be moved.”  That means to allow and follow any impulses arising from the bodyscape.  The mover is neither editing nor shaping their movement.  The witness is not judging or analyzing the movement, but rather providing a safe container for whatever arises for the mover.  After 20 minutes or more, the mover[s] finds a way to finish and then the mover and witness may speak about the experience.

Authentic Movement is “aimless.”  It is not pointed at a goal.  It is similar to meditation in that it offers time and space for the conscious and non-conscious play of body and mind to occur.

I often weave it into my therapeutic and performative work because I find it the richest and most profound way of attuning, and also the most surprising.  I love it because it further unravels the tendency to direct, dissect, understand, interpret, produce.  It is restful but it is not resting.  I experience it as a correlate to the intercellular fluid in that it provides the oceanic, psychophysical brine that connects all of the parts of myself.  It is the big undoing.

For more information, please contact me.