A life of ease

The goal of Feldenkrais, or at least of the Feldenkrais-infused physical therapy I'm undertaking now, is not strength or flexibility. It is ease. Hence the emphasis on well-stacked bones. The idea is that if your bones are properly positioned, they will be held in place by gravity or by the weight of other, counterbalancing bones. Little or no muscular effort should be required to maintain a pose. The intention is to reduce the use of muscles as much as possible, since muscles tire and tear and spasm—and hurt—whereas bones are innately sturdier.

My Feldenkrais-based exercises are not as lovely as yoga or as deeply rooted in an ancient and fascinating philosophical tradition, but they lend themselves to the same process of self-discovery. Both invite you to draw parallels between physical actions and tendencies and psychological ones. And both rely on the magnificent luxury of having a thoughtful and wise teacher to guide you in your journey.

The hardest lessons are the simplest

In yoga, a lot of attention is paid to inner rotation and outer rotation of various limbs and firming and stretching of this muscle or that. And I love the choreography of it all. But in Feldenkrais, I'm enjoying the focus on bones and the simple structural mechanics of stacking one spinal bone on top of another. I feel like a giant game of Jenga.

Many of the exercises have the convolutional magic of yoga. There's one in particular that seems to reach every major body part: Lie on your back with your knees bent. Draw your knees toward your chest, keeping your arms straight. Don't let go. Allow your right thigh to flop out and over to the floor, and allow the weight of that thigh to drag your left leg over so that you're lying on your right side, and let the weight of your left leg drag your head over so that your face is down and twisted slightly toward your left side. Then open up your left thigh to the left, and let it drag the whole business in the opposite direction, and so forth. Try not to lift your head from the floor as you spiral back and forth, and keep arms straight so that they serve as pistons. Try it. You'll like it.

I can't tell whether all of this delightful movement is curing my back problem. I've read that it takes at least two months to correct long-standing postural flaws that cause injury, and I've been doing this for only about one month. But like yoga, Feldenkrais seems to have lessons, and the lessons are remarkably similar to yoga's: Detach from your ambitions, and pay attention to your immediate experience; stay within your comfort zone; follow your breath.

It's all so simple. Why is it so hard to do?

Reading between the lines

I've been seeing a new physical therapist for my unremitting lower-back pain. This one is a specialist in Feldekrais, a technique developed by an Israeli physicist and judo practitioner of the same name. My PT spends up to two hours at a time inspecting my (lousy) posture, pursing his lips, performing mysterious layings-on of hands, positioning my parts in unflattering positions and uttering a few very carefully chosen words.

His utterances are so carefully constructed (judging from his name, which has a lot of consonants, especially J's, I think he's Polish, so that may explain part of his carefulness) and pithy, I try to memorize each pronouncement. Then I mull it over at home to elicit the maximum amount of meaning. It's like having my own guru.

One of the first things he said to me was that the body tells your entire emotional and physical story. And he told me a few things about myself: that I was embarrassed about being tall, that I subscribed to a no-pain-no-gain philosophy and pushed myself beyond my comfort zone, and so forth. Nothing earthshaking.

But it got me to thinking about how a single artifact or snapshot in time can reveal much about the past and predict much about the future. The other day, my friend A offered to lend me a hardbound memoir by Patti Smith about her long relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe, and after she left, I opened the book, and a receipt fell out. On the receipt, it was noted that she was given a 25% members discount. And on the lower righthand corner was scribbled in her handwriting "Ganesh." Now, even if I didn't know A, I would suddenly have a wealth of information. I would know that she's "old school" in that she shops in brick-and-mortar bookstores rather than online, that she values "good things" enough to buy a hardback rather than a paperback, that she's a reader (or at least enough of one that it was worth it to her to pay dues to join the bookstore members club), that she's retroflective, that she has an interest in esoterica and perhaps a desire to move the obstacles in her life.

Am I right, A?

All the good news that's fit to print

So my brother sent me yet another example of niche journalism: Positive News, which has good news only. It's like the Onion—on Prozac. Witness these headlines: "Peaceful Nation [New Zealand] Leads the Way," "What Does Love Mean?" "Victory of the Common Spaces," "The Theory of Fun Works!" "Hospital Workers Support Each Other," "Change Is Possible Among Inmates," and so forth. Consider the logo: "Another World is Possible" (note lowercase "is," which subtly undermines the optimism). Somehow, I found it depressing rather than uplifting.

Want to play doctor?

Many people assume I'm a little wishy-washy. In person, I seem to strike people as tentative. But on paper, as an editor, I'm quite aggressive. One writer once told me that having me copyedit his story was like a visit to the proctologist.

Dewlap doo-wop

Here are the kinds of things you learn on a good day of copyediting: a female rabbit is a doe, a male rabbit is a buck, a mother rabbit is a dam, a father rabbit is a sire. You knew those, right? But did you know that a baby rabbit is a dave or a kit? And that when a rabbit gives birth, it's called kindling? By the way, you can tell a female rabbit from a male by the fold of skin under the female's chin, and that fold is called a dewlap.

Don't worry, be happy

I love memorial services. Usually they take place long enough after the death of a loved (or liked) one so that the initial grief, guilt, shock, whatever, has worn off. Essentially, memorials are story hour, all with the same main character—though often the narrator reveals as much about him- or herself as about the protagonist. And always, always, there's a takeaway lesson. Yesterday's memorial service for AW, with whom I worked at the cancer hotline, was all about conquering insecurities and living zestfully. Work hard, play hard. Have fun!