A Little Chew of a Cue
In the morning workshop, after the ingestion period of all our breathing and movement, we moved onto an hour and a half excavate/integrate period with this cue: As you let your body move, be aware of all the little ‘in-betweens’. Of your fascia. Any small movement. Be aware of your breathing.
In the flow of workshop, verbal cues are best when a bit vague, grammatically speaking—pointed but open, with room to explore. Body, oriented in sensation and imagery, doesn’t like or need a lot of air-tight, ornate explanation. She does not want to think about it; she wants to do it. As a teacher, I am careful to give just enough of a verbal nudge, and definitely not too much. Too little is better than too much because while too much satisfies the mind, it inhibits the body. With too little, Mind might ‘feel’ consternation or anger at not knowing what it is ‘supposed to do’. Mind might be anxious about this, or anxious about having to spend time with Body in unknown-ness. Mind could feel that it is closeted with a stranger. (And it often is.) For the body to open up, the mind must be present but occupied. Give the mind a small bone to gnaw on, keep it busy but involved. Thus a little chew of a cue.
I began my own work with the cue, wiggling about in various sitting positions, my spine digging around. My shoulder girdle had a lot of scouring to take care of. It got busy with tiny motions it rarely does while I sit writing, thinking, reading, talking on the phone, etc. At length, ankles took the lead. They wanted to articulate without being told what to do by shoes or weight bearing-ness. Hips and thighs were surprisingly dumb, unable to speak, but not numb. There’s a difference—dumb is holding back information as if not trusting me, and numb is the sensation-less condition of shock, block, or exhaustion. Perhaps I was generally weary by the time my legs and hips stood up. Perhaps that was why they were quiet. But I suspect they were simply not willing to speak out this morning.
The process came to an end. The hour of furious wiggling had melted clumped fascial strands. I felt easier, more released. My breath—a butterfly tangled and struggling—finally worked free. I got back my good deep breaths.
Now the music subsides. I wind myself in my veil, sheathing my hands and arms—an external extra silk skin; this feels related to fascia. Fascia are internal, in-between silk skins inside our skins. I sit now, the veil over my head. I gaze through the sheer color. I extend my cased fingers. I watch the webbed phalanges. Frog. Duck foot. Human-ness drifts to the perimeter of my view as I sidle backward into my animal. The Moment surrounds me.
And finally…I recline, piling the veil on my belly. Tenderness. Tenderness. This comes: “All that noodling about is worth my weight in gold.”
Exercise: Fascial Noodling
⁃ Go into your Dancemeditation™ Room.
⁃ Choose music that is rhythmic and smooth without lyrics, not too quiet and not too active. Preferably, the music should be seamless. A mix without silence spaces is best, and it should extend for an hour to give you plenty of time.
⁃ Begin with a period of breath and movement—about ten minutes—to get settled. Once you feel yourself connecting internally to your breathing, to being in the room, in your body, move on to this cue.
⁃ Cue: As you let your body move, be aware of all the little ‘in-betweens.’ Of your fascia. Any small movement. Be aware of your breathing.
⁃ Continue with that until the music ends.
⁃ Lie down and rest.
All that noodling about is worth your weight in gold.
How about your fascia?