February 01, 2004
Just in Case You Thought I Was Finished
They have arrived --- in a shiny, turquoise box marked "Bliss" (no kidding) My Masai sneakers. I have been waiting for them for several months. I guess a few of us jumped on the band wagon, when we saw all they promised. As a result they were backordered.
Here's a synchronicity thread to follow. In September 2003, I went to a workshop given by Ruthy Alon , the Feldenkrais practitioner who created a course called "Bones for Life". In addition to teaching little old ladies, she gives the course for NASA, since astronauts experience bone loss due to weightlessness. I don't deserve continuing education credits, because I only remember two things from the workshop -- that I use....rarely, but they're good.
One is a posture designed to drop the shoulders into a natural, relaxed positon -- for those of us whose shoulders are stapled to our ears all the time. With one hand, place a finger on the vertebrae that is buried most deeply in your neck. Place the index-finger knuckle of the other hand between your front teeth, bite down lightly, and then, holding the bite, pull the knuckle outward, very gently. I can always feel a release when I do that.
The second, is an image that I found useful. Ruthy, a sensuous septuagenarian, talked about the low incidence of womens' bone fractures in some third world countries, in spite of poor nutrition, and the documented presence of osteoporosis. She implied that when posture is properly aligned and energy is flowing smoothly through the body, we are protected. Carrying heavy loads on the head, as women do in many third world countries, requires good postural alignment and balance. She supplied the image of of a Masai woman, a large bundle atop her head, striding with hips swaying and feet rolling. I can get a kinesthetic sense of that. I can't usually get a kinesthetic sense of anything.
Loose Association: "Tuesday's child is full of grace". I was a Tuesday's child, where was mine? Missing. We even had a Tuesday's Child Royal Dalton figurine, pirouetting, to whom I could compare myself.
I have flawed kinesthetic sense because my mother critically scrutinized my every movement, and commented regularly about my clumsiness, dismayed that I "did things like a boy" (meaning, badly). I was an embarassment to her. I was taken to ballet and gym classes for remedial purposes, to improve my rhythm and my coordination. Needless to say, having a public arena in which to display my poor, shamed body and my gross ineptitude was not an antidote for my disappointing lack of grace..
Incidences of public body shame:
Ballet classes. As a child, I could never figure out where my body was supposed to be and how it was supposed to get there. Ballet was a challenge. Frequently the group was instructed to turn right, and I turned left. When I learned to write, I clutched my pencil so hard (are you surprised?) that I developed a callous on my right middle finger. It was my beacon. I could feel surreptiously for that callous, and know right from left. Finally. That ability saved me from standing out in the chorus line.
I was always picked last for sports. I couldn't high jump. I couldn't throw or hit a ball, I had no sense of my body in space. This is a big problem. When someone is trying to teach me a movement, and they say drop your elbow and pivot on your left foot, keeping your eye on the ball, I am scrambled eggs. I could no more do that than tame a cobra. This seriously inhibited my ability to learn anything kinesthetic, like the tango or field hockey or knitting.
In college I took a dance course (required, or I would never enrolled-- don't ask why a dance course was required, either. Suffice it to say that rigorous academics were not part of my college experience.) The course was taught by a man, who, given that I was not gifted in his area of expertise, was not overly fond of me. (My best friend at the time, who was also in the class, had studied with Martha Graham for three years in NYC. ) The dance teacher taught by humiliation. He would critique us individually as we swept and leapt across the floor in groups of three or four. I was scared of him. My confidence in my ability to move my body gracefully did not improve. After that , I successfullly avoided any activity that required knowing where my body parts were in space. UNTIL....
One of my very good friends purchased the IMPACT/Model Mugging program in town. She gently pushed me to take the course for about four years. I knew that self defense would be a good thing to master; it would strengthen my boundaries; it might result in some psychological strengthenng as well. I did not anticipate the extreme emotional reaction I had. The course took place in twenty five hours, over a two week period. There were twelve of us in the group. I say that there was me, (the suburban chubette, going on elderly, matron) and the Colgate Women's Varsity LaCrosse Team. That's not entirely true, but the rest of the class were bicycle messengers and college soccer players, and 19; you get the picture. The course is supposed train you, in an adrenalized state, so that when you feel frightened in a situation and your amygala takes over, rather than freeze, you set a strong limit, and, if that doesn't work, you flee or fight effectively. Most women feel scared of the martial arts guys playing the muggers, muttering terrifying threats, ready to ravish and maim. Let's put it this way. The mugger was not my problem. I was dropped into my worst nightmare. Forget about rape, my problem was being in a group of people, trying to learn how to move my body effectively and, once again, not having a clue how to do it. A tsunami of shame washed over me. I was a train wreck for the first twelve hours of training. I completely relived the experiences that I had had over and over as a child. I couldn't follow instructions, I couldn't fake it. I was completely hysterical when I got home. You will be happy to know that I did "graduate" in front of an audience, and dealt knock out blows to the mugger. I was not adrenalized for one minute of the course. I was wound tight and hypervigilant. I also developed some empathy for the child inside me who "lacks coordination"
So when I saw the ad for Masai sneakers , (in the Bliss catalog) I thought I had better try them out, in spite of their exorbitant price. They do jazz up my step, give me a little hip flick, and loose my vertabrae. I'm worried that they might throw out my back, so I'm wearing them around the house before I decide to keep them. (I can probably sell them on the black market, if I don't )
Walking on my Masai is like walking on those Steve Madden platform shoes, with the addition of a rubber cupcake under each arch . It's unusual. I hope I don't fall off. I cannot imagine doing anything more complex than strolling, right now. I'll keep you posted. It's quite an investment, so I will have to make a committment to regular wear if I decide to keep them. I'm not just doing this to improve my cellulite either, but if that's a side effect, so be it.
Posted by Dakota at February 1, 2004 06:34 AM