Letting Go, Letting Be

“Letting go, letting be. Highest practice.” - Hongzhi

These guiding words from the 12^th century Chan master, Hongzhi, are at least as relevant today as they were nine centuries ago.

In this autumn time of year, Nature gracefully demonstrates the ubiquitous beauty and practice of letting go. As the temperature drops and the days shorten, dead leaves and twigs remind us of a time gone by, not long ago, when all was green and lively. One morning, frost covers whatever green remains. The scene has completely changed again. Before we know it, all is white with a cloak of snow. Do we even remember the green gone by?

As we approach the darkest time of year, it is natural to seek the warmth and light of hearth and heart at home. Like the frozen plants outside, we naturally quiet ourselves under blankets, burrowing into the depths of our psyches.

Our mad western culture whips us into frenzied shopping sprees. Anything to keep us from our deeper essence…

What would happen if we allowed ourselves to settle under the howl of winter winds, cuddling with our loved ones in front of the fire, eating warm food and listening, listening, listening to the whispers of wisdom most easily heard in the darkness…

We might ask ourselves, what is it we are running from? What might we feel should we allow ourselves to let go and be? What might we notice? What might we sense?

What is it we so fear?

If Nature’s images are relevant at all, we might conjecture that deepest fear is of the very death and dying we are surrounded by.

Dying our Birth

We all know that leaves fall and flowers die in autumn. What may be less obvious is that death surrounds us from the moment we are conceived. We are, in fact, dependent on it for our survival…

How can this be? There is so much to be learned from the littlest expression of our humanness – the embryo. Programmed cell death (also known as apoptosis) is an essential aspect of our early development. Our formation in the womb occurs through a combination of cell activities. Cells divide, migrate, change shape, and even disappear in service of the larger figure being created.

The hands I am typing this article with, for example, began much the way they would if you were to form them from clay. Two little roundish blobs of clay are pressed into more specific fingers and thumbs by pinching out the spaces between fingers. Extra bits of clay are discarded, perhaps to be recycled into some other parts to be added later. The little blobs of embryonic tissue that will form into hands begin similarly, growing webs between the fingers. Through apoptosis, the cells between the fingers die in the 16th week of gestation. If this important cell death does not occur, the child is born with webbed hands that are less able to do important things like typing.

Similarly, the development of the nervous system in young humans depends on certain cells dying at the right time. We now know that the nervous system produces billions of neurons, or nerve cells, before birth. In the later part of pregnancy, the number of brain cells drops, so that we are born with only about one hundred billion. As the little one learns, new pathways are formed while unused ones fade. At several important periods of development, the brain cleans house, resulting in a drastic reduction in the number of neurons.

If death is such an important part of our development, why do we not celebrate it more? Instead, our modern, western cultural tendency is to work hard to achieve what we have and cling to it. We value youthful health, and fight against symbols of aging, the wrinkles, the glasses, the stiffness and aches.

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 – Dylan Thomas

As I watch my parents in their eighties age in a way I can no longer deny, I must also acknowledge my own resistance to them changing. Even with years of practice observing change from moment to moment through Vipassana meditation, part of me still hangs onto an imagined security of the past. Why is it so hard to loosen our hold on what has been and simply embrace what is?

The Lure of this Moment

My life has a way of speeding up, with all the spaces becoming full. Resting in the moment becomes reminiscent of finding a parking space during the Christmas shopping rush. If I start early enough, I find a space before all the shoppers arrive. My practice, therefore, is to give myself space each morning, before things accelerate.

Before I even turn over in bed, I remind myself of breath. Breath moving in. Breath moving out. I sense the weight of my body resting into gravity, the support of the bed under me, the weight of my arm on my ribs. Emerging from my dream into the morning light, I check into sensations in my body. Warm or cold. Tingly. Itchy. Heaviness. Lightness. Achiness or a sense of glow. As I survey the sensations, the possibilities are endless. I find myself drawn into the magic of the present moment. It has so much to offer.

As a practitioner of Continuum Movement, my next step is to make some sounds into the tissues of my body. I often begin by bringing my attention to the mid-line running up from my tail to the top of my head. I make some gentle “O” sounds, sensing their vibration traveling up the mid-line, waking up the tissues. As the sound moves, the aches begin to dissolve. It is as if the cells wake up and stretch and sing. I find my usual morning stiffness melting into warm, soft waves of pleasure streaming up and down my body. Tissues decompress, becoming so light that they begin to float weightlessly in the air. At some point, my body begins to lift itself off the bed and I flow with it into my day.

As the day takes over my consciousness, the activities of breakfast seduce my mind, attempting to convince it that preparing porridge is different, or even more important than being present. On my better mornings, however, the left over pleasure from my morning practice continues to predominate. The sensation of flow in my body is so delicious and omnipresent, it counters the temptation to be distracted by the tasks at hand. Instead, the flow of pleasure infuses the cooking. The porridge tastes better, and I am present to taste it.

Fluid Presence, Letting Go

I notice that when I am in a more fluid state, change is easier. When my tissues are tight, my mind contracts. My body holds on, lessening the sense of inner space. Once my body is flowing, the mind also softens. Old fear-based walls become less important. Mind flows with the moment. Porridge. Cells singing. Morning news. Morning kisses. Whoever enters my morning world becomes part of a fascinating whole, each moment offering enhanced sensation and potential.

Being present in this way requires a willingness to let go. If I demand that reality stay the same, I stop the flow. I stop the pleasure. I may be under the illusion that I also stop death. But death continues, every moment, whether I acknowledge it or not, whether I embrace it or not. The leaves still fall. The frost still comes. I can complain about the loss of green, or I can enter the potential it offers. Ironically, as I embrace the change and death all around and in me, I experience a new level of aliveness. Every dead twig presents its beauty. I am nourished by each new moment in a new way.

The wintery days continue to shorten. The darkness is everywhere. If we push it away, partying late into the night, we may not appreciate the brightness of the snow in the morning. We may not notice when the darkness reaches its peak and the days actually begin to lengthen. Clinging to our winter woes, we may forget to celebrate the death of winter as the spring is born.

Like seeing a glass as half empty or half full, we can perceive a world filled with death or characterized by birth. It is only when we look outside the usual definitions and perceptually enter into each moment that we recognize the wholeness of being, where death and birth are one, both to be welcomed, both offering gifts.

Journey into the Fluid Body

Who am I?

I am but a drop of water within a larger well.

I am the deepest tide under the surface waves.

I am the stillness

Dynamic stillness

Foundation of all being

I am being

I am water

I am fluid

I am fluid.

Who are you?

My life has gratefully guided me from the dryness of my intellectual mind, where I used to live, to the wet and juicy creativity of embodied being.

Perhaps you are old enough to remember, as I do, sitting tightly in a little school desk designed to restrain the curious, active bodies of little girls and boys. I was six years old, trying my best to fit into these little classroom boxes. We were told to sit still – for hours – hands clasped in front of us on the desk. Who knows what trouble those hands might get us into if allowed to roam freely…

It has taken many years and much hard work to return to the freedoms lost in those early years. Dancing, stretching, an hour of yoga each morning, cracks and creaks persuaded to change their ways.

I began to find my body in a teach-yourself yoga book I discovered in a bookstore as a teenager. No one was doing yoga then. At least no one I knew of. I loved the stretches. They felt so familiar.

I remember my first dance classes. I had patiently waited for them through my entire childhood. Finally, at eighteen, in my first innocent year of university in Toronto, I eagerly attended a ballet class. We stood in a row along the bar in first position. The perspiration poured down my skin. The pain was unbearable. After three classes, I quit. Would I ever be able to dance?

I was young, but my body was a tightly bound mass of tissue, a carefully protected mass of history. I was born in Sarnia, a town now known as one of the most toxic in Canada. Along with the chemical toxicity I gestated in, my body grew in relation to various other traumas in my family environment. I learned to avoid this painful thing and all its feelings as much as possible. I discovered the intellect was a much safer abode, rewarded with good grades and abundant approval.

Even so, I always loved to dance. That same first year of university when I discovered ballet was unattainable for me, I also discovered the international folk dance club. I quickly became a folk dance addict, dancing five nights a week, and within a short time found myself performing with two troupes and teaching weekly classes. Finally, I was able to dance!

Then, the concussion happened.

It was 1979. The scene was a workshop in Scandinavian turning dances somewhere north of Toronto. The room was crowded and someone accidentally tripped my partner and me as we were dancing. With all of the momentum of the spin we had been in, we landed on the floor, the back of my head smashing into the hard concrete with a thud. That moment changed my life.

The stillness was profound. I could hear the gasps and the doctor present asking me my name. I could see the worried faces all around me. I knew my name, or at least I thought I did, but my brain could not communicate to my mouth. I was paralyzed. I could not respond. After some undefined period of time during which I exerted more effort than at any other moment of my life, I was finally able to say my name. The entire room sighed a sigh of relief. I began to laugh and soon the whole crowd was roaring with laughter. The sound gave me a headache.

Moments later, I was led to a mat at the side of the room to lie down and recover while the dance went on. As I lay there, I turned my head and noticed with awe and delight that I had a companion. On the mat next to mine lay a tiny newborn baby, sleeping while her parents danced.

Years later, I recognized the symbolic meaningfulness of that baby’s presence beside me. It was as if I had been reborn that day. Like the little one next to me, I had been given a new body, and found myself slow to process information in my newly forming brain.

My old identity as an intellectual whiz was left behind on the dance floor. It took some years for me to understand that what I now had available to me was my body.

Discovering the Body

The body I used to carry my intellect from place to place prior to the concussion was in many ways unfamiliar to me. I used to tell people that I processed everything through my body. What that meant was that, if something was upsetting for me, I would get sick. That was the only way my body had to process, or to get my attention. That was also a sure way to get attention in my family.

After the concussion, I found myself unable to function in ways that had been important to my identity before. Instead of jousting with my friends with verbal puns, and winning word games, I began to enter more intuitive realms. My intuition eventually led me to hands-on healing work, which inspired me to study massage and bodywork.

Studying and receiving deep tissue massage immediately evoked experiences I could only interpret of memories. I experienced childhood traumas as if they were happening on the massage table. It took years of therapy and training to resolve and integrate these early experiences to the point where they were no longer subversively running my life. My body, once held captive by these shadowy forces of the past, began to change.

As part of my training and healing, I returned to school to study Dance/Movement Therapy. One of the prerequisites was modern dance and ballet. Twenty years after my first painful encounter with ballet, I nervously returned to ballet class. I was shocked and delighted to find my body now worked and moved quite differently. Where just standing in first position had been torture at eighteen, I was able to actually enjoy much more challenging moves at thirty-eight.

This was not supposed to happen! How could I be so much more flexible at thirty-eight than I had been as a teenager? The only answer that made any sense was that all the emotional and bodywork I had done over the years had enabled my body to release its hold on the past. The places of holding and stiffness were no longer required to protect the emotional pain that had been too much to process as a child. Instead, the tissues could flow and flex with increased ease and pleasure.

Enter Continuum

In recent years, I have been blessed by the guidance and support of a special mentor, Emilie Conrad. Emilie, the founder of Continuum Movement, moves at seventy–six like a twenty year old. She has devoted her life to the powerful medicine of Continuum. In this inquiry into our fluid nature, we use breath, sound, movement, and sensory awareness to slow down, and enter into a more primordial state of being. Our tissue patterns dissolve as we undulate and flow in spontaneous, fluid expressions of the mystery of life. We learn to allow our bodies to move as they wish, honoring and learning from a profound bio-intelligence that is so much wiser than our more linear intellects.

Emilie taught me about pleasure. In her classes, in stark contrast to my family environment, we were encouraged to sense and support the pleasure our bodies are capable of. At one intensive Continuum practitioner training consisting of seventeen consecutive days of this powerful movement work, I began to feel extremely pleasurable spasms running through my heart. My heart seemed to open and open and open in Continuum. I began to sense my heart as a long, broad beam running all the way down to my womb. I had to learn to tolerate the intensity of the pleasure, the love, the expansiveness I experienced.

Life has finally offered a complete counterpoint to that little girl glued to her little chair in the classroom.

While the pain of my early years has eased in the ocean of my fluid body, the scars are not gone. I remember who and how I was in that life, in that time when the terror froze my tissues, seemingly squeezing all the fluid out. Within the resonant waters of my being, I hold that frightened little one in love, bathing her in liquid light. My tissues still remember, but they have also learned another way of being. The stiffness, pain and tensions of the past can still arise, but I am not at their mercy now. I have sounds and breath and micro-movements to revive the undulations of life within. As fluid returns, potential grows. All things become possible. I become all things. I smile. Pleasure drips with the fluid. I have come home.

I am water.

I am fluid.

I am the ocean

I am the sea.

I am the wave across the surface.

I am the tide

The stillness at the ocean floor

I am all this

And more.

Cellular resonance

Cellular reso-dance

I am

I am

I am….

Like the single cell I came from

Like the one ocean we all came from

Emerging

Life on land

Let us swim in the ocean of life

Let us remember our birthright

Let us be.

Clouds and Being

I usually enjoy the flight to Castlegar, the closest airport to my final destination of the beautiful little British Columbia town of Nelson. I love flying over the pristine BC lakes and vibrant, green forests. The closer we get to Castlegar, the more it feels like I can just reach my hand out through the airplane window and touch the trees and boulders passing by.

This day, however, is different. We seem to have left the sun behind in Vancouver and have been flying through clouds for a disconcertingly long time. Knowing how close we usually fly to the mountains, I wonder if the pilot can actually navigate this narrow valley in these clouds. They go on and on. I remember hearing that the pilots chosen to fly to Castlegar are the best in Canada. Castlegar, affectionately known as “Cancle-gar” by the locals, has no radar. Landing here can be treacherous, if not impossible in the morning fog.

This is not morning, however. I have already been traveling all day. Our flight has been delayed because the previous flight to Castlegar was cancelled and time was needed to rebook the passengers onto our flight. Now, as we coast through the seemingly endless mass of cloud, murmurs and groans agitate the passengers. We may need to return to Vancouver. The locals who go through this often are telling stories about the frustrations of various cancelled trips. Then, suddenly, the sky opens up and we see the airport below us. Delighted and relieved, I reassure the woman next to me that this means we can land. We feel the plan descending. Anticipation spreads through the little aircraft until, just as suddenly, the engines rev and we are rising up again, back into the clouds.

 My heart sinks. I suddenly feel hopeless. The fatigue of travel returns to its full weight. How can this be happening? There was a clearing. That is usually all they need. They just need one little hole in the fog and down we go.

The chatter amongst the passengers changes note. It’s a good sign they haven’t made an announcement yet. As long as they don’t tell us we are heading back to Vancouver, there is still a chance of landing in Castlegar.

This can’t go on forever, however. Eventually, the overly cheerful flight attendant announces our destiny. We are heading back to Vancouver.

What do I do with this pit in my stomach? I had been so ready to land and get on with all I need to do to prepare for my training in Nelson, starting in two days! What if I can’t get there tomorrow, either? Various alternatives pass through my mind. All rejected.

Then, I remember.  My challenge, my intention in life is to practice being. There is nothing I need to do here. Probably nothing I can do. I am in the plane heading back to Vancouver. Instead of complaining, I could be grateful for being safe. I could celebrate the opportunity to have a surprise visit with my elderly parents in Vancouver.

I begin to feel a shift. The feelings of frustration, despair, impatience, hopelessness, all dissolve in the love and radiance that grow stronger each moment I stay with the intention to be.

Isn’t this what Buddha taught? Isn’t this what we are here for? To practice being with whatever arises. Even a plane arising after it had already started landing…

When I finally emerge from the plane, back where we started from at the same gate of the Vancouver airport, I find myself calm and smiling. No, I don’t know when I will get to Nelson. No, I don’t know how I will get everything done there that needs to be done before the training starts. The truth is we never know any of these things. We can make plans, but didn’t someone say that’s when God starts laughing?

I love to make plans. Some fire lights in me when I start new things. Perhaps, that is God laughing, too.

I am learning to find love in other ways. The glow I experience when I settle into a being state is far more satisfying than the excitement of planning something that may or may not actually happen some day.

The radiance of being in this moment is even stronger when the moment is challenging. There is an added richness and depth when I can find this state of being when life is hard.

I am not recommending looking for challenge so as to deepen the experience of being, but I do strongly encourage using challenges as opportunities to practice settling into a deeper state of perception. In a state of being, I am calm, settled, oriented to brilliant intelligence of life.  I am present, receptive to whatever the moment offers. Life is certainly a lot more fun this way!

As I enter the airport, like a boomerang returning home, I am surprised and delighted by the surge of gratitude welling up within. I am grateful for the opportunity to be with my parents one more time. Who knows how many more chances we will have? Even deeper, however, is my gratitude for being able to receive the lesson offered on the plane. Regardless of the weather, the clouds have cleared. The sun shines within. From there it can spread. What else really matters?

When it comes to my time to die, what will be most important? Will I remember the efforts it took to organize this training. Or will I remember the precious moments shared with my parents? And the radiance that brought me there. 

And what will you remember?

Melting with Somatic Mindfulness

This past weekend, I attended an inspiring conference in London on “The Contribution of Meditation to the Practice of Psychotherapy.” I was inspired by the number of therapists enthusiastically participating in this conference, as well as by the news that the National Health Service has recognized mindfulness practice as a useful therapeutic modality.

As a somatic/movement therapist and teacher, I experienced a deepening of my own thinking about the therapeutic benefits of somatic presence with ourselves and others. What does it mean somatically to settle our minds and drop into stillness? This question brings me back to the understanding of our essential fluid nature.

Fluid Mind

We begin our lives as fluid. A fertilized egg is almost entirely fluid. During our first week after conception, our tiny fluid bodies undergo a series of cell divisions. As we develop, our bodies become more differentiated and solid. We coalesce into form. Our fluid takes shape as the little embryo develops a mid-line, heart, spine, and brain. Little arms and legs begin as buds pushing out from the fluid core. We fold or bow into our center, then stretch out, uncurling into human uprightness.

Throughout our lives, we continue to curl and uncurl with subtle fluid rhythms. These subtle motions are the essence of Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapy. In this gentle bodywork, we sense the brain and spinal cord, along with the rest of the body, following their embryological folding patterns with each breath of what the founder of cranial osteopathy, William G. Sutherland, termed primary respiration. This is a subtle respiratory motion that begins long before we start breathing through our lungs- the breath of air.

Primary respiration begins at conception and relates to what Sutherland called the Breath of Life. This mysterious force expresses itself through us as we form in the womb and as we continue to form and re-form ourselves throughout life.

As our bodies coalesce into form, our relationship to the Breath of Life tends to become occluded as we orient to the somatic patterns established in life. Some of these patterns are expressions of what we may consider our original design or blueprint. We are designed as humans to have two legs and arms and a head, for example. This is a useful pattern to remember and embody.

Many of our bodily patterns, however, are expressions of compensatory reactions to the conditions of life. When a little one forms in an environment of prolonged, extreme stress, for example, the nervous system forms with exaggerated readiness for stress. The individual may be particularly sensitive to stress, becoming easily overwhelmed or activated by relatively non-threatening situation. How can we free ourselves of such patterns? Or can we?

Suffering, Life and Fluid

In the conference, presenters reminded us of Buddha’s teaching that there is suffering in life. He also taught that we can liberate ourselves from the experience of suffering through learning to be mindful or present in each moment. In mindfulness meditation, we practice this skill, enabling us to be more present in our lives, including in challenging situations. We then perceive options beyond our patterns, and are more able to appropriately meet whatever we encounter.

How does this relate to fluidity? Take a moment, if you will, to think about what happens when are stuck in a pattern. Whatever the pattern is, whether useful or outdated, it involves meeting similar situations in ways we have met them before. Patterns are, by definition, somewhat solid. The more entrenched we are in our patterns, the more rigidly we meet what arises. How fluid can we be when we are identified with our patterns?

On the other hand, the more we learn to step back from our patterns and habits, and observe them as a neutral witness, the more fluid we become. We can see this in our behavior, where we become more flexible and responsive to situations we encounter. Underlying our enhanced flexibility are shifts in our consciousness and somatic experience. Our minds and bodies actually become more fluid.

Return to Fluid, Return to Health

Emilie Conrad, founder of Continuum Movement, points out in her book, Life on Land, that our tissues are altered by context. In the context of our accelerated life in the 21^st century, our tissues coalesce, becoming more dense and rigid. Our perception narrows along with our tissues. We become increasingly locked into our patterns. With speed, we depend more on these automatic behaviors.

Try walking quickly across a room, with the idea that you must reach a particular object across the room as quickly as possible. Chances are, you do not stop to think about how you will place each foot on the floor. If you did, you might not reach the object you are after. As you walk quickly with this goal in mind, you probably are also not very aware of other objects around the room, unless they happen to be in your way. Your perception narrows to the task at hand. Sound familiar? How much of your life do you spend in this mode?

Now, take a moment to consider your body. What are you aware of in your body as you rush across the room? Our ability to be aware of sensations tends to be restricted by speed and goal-oriented behavior. When you pause to consider your body, you may be aware of increased tension and holding, as well as more rapid heart beat and shallower breathing associated with the sympathetic (fight-flight) nervous system. In our accelerated lives, we tend to spend most of our time in a sympathetic mode, although we are designed to be in that state for short spurts as needed in emergency situations. We rarely have opportunities in our modern western culture to truly relax and rejuvenate, which is essential to health and well-being.

Fortunately, Conrad has discovered that we can decompress our tissues. In Continuum, use breath, sound, movement, and awareness to slow ourselves down, and deepen into fundamental states of being underlying our superficial habits and patterns. As we deepen, our tissues melt, and our perception widens. We experience more fluidity and spaciousness, allowing us to be more responsive and creative in meeting our life situations. Other practices that help us to slow down and be mindful in the moment can also support us in melting, but it is important to be aware of how easily we establish new patterns. Even habits of meditation, like always observing our breath in a particular way, can become limiting.

Melting into Source

As our tissues melt, we become more like the little embryo forming in its inner ocean. We become less locked into form. We begin to remember who we are, prior to the patterns we have lived by. Returning to a more fluid, less habituated state,  we can access again our embryological potential. As we let go of our identification with pattern, we remember our source. In Biodynamic terms, we re-orient to the Breath of Life. Our solid sense of self dissolves, as we experience our interconnectedness with all beings. If suffering exists in this state, its force and relevance certainly diminish, melting into the wholeness of our deeper being. 

New Birth Old Birth

If you know me or have been following my blog, you know that there is an enormous amount of change happening in my life just now. You may even know that this is not unusual for me. Perhaps, this is why my specialty with clients has become facilitating your journey through whatever change and transition your life may present to you.

I have encountered so many people lately going through major shifts in their lives. Maybe you are one of them. As I answer questions and review the applications of potential trainees for my new trainings starting in November, I repeatedly encounter the challenges that arise when we consider or intend to make a new beginning.

Each time we start something new in our lives, it is as if we are going through a birth. Our tendency at such times is to re-enact how we actually came into this life when we were born.

You may wonder how we could re-enact our birth later in life. “I don’t even remember my birth!” you might say. Your body, however, remembers what you may not be aware of consciously.

How do you do transition and change? Do you embrace it with open arms? Do you get excited thinking about it ahead of time, then find yourself struggling to stay present when it actually happens. Or do you want to run away from the new event, or to resist it in some other way?

The Imprint of Birth

Research in Prenatal and Birth Psychology demonstrates that babies born early tend to be early for events throughout their lives. Those who had an unusual presentation at birth, like a breech (foot or butt first) position, tend to enter into new situations in a unique or unusual way. When our birth was accompanied by anesthesia or pain killers, we tend to go into a fog or use drugs when facing stressful or new challenges.

Even if your birth was “normal,” you may find yourself unable to ask for or receive support as you enter a new birth in your life. You might ask how much support your mother received while pregnant and during your birth.

Our modern, western culture tends to not provide adequate support for pregnant and birthing women. New mothers need to know that they are safe, that they do not need to perform for anyone, that they are surrounded by trusted friends, family, and other allies, rather than by strangers. The very act of rushing to hospital interrupts labor and can undermine a new mother’s confidence.

The baby inside may also experience interruption, stress, and the transference of authority to strangers. A baby’s experience at birth sets a strong imprint in both body and psyche that can have lifelong effects.

Awareness is Key

There is much more that could be discussed on the topic of how our birth affects us throughout our lives. For now, I suggest taking some time to consider how you do change and transition in your life. How do you feel and act when encountering new beginnings, and the inevitable endings that go along with them? Think about the times in your life when you have moved, started a new job or relationship, or even entered a new class in school. Write down what you remember of these events in your life. What kinds of emotions did you feel? Did you find ways to distract yourself? How did you help yourself cope with the stress of change? And how do you cope with this in your life now?

Are you encountering a change or considering something new in your life? What holds you back from jumping in, if you are not? What impels you to leap forward, if you do?

As you move through transitions in your life, how do you do them? How do you feel when you get up in the morning? Are you groggy and need to move slowly for awhile? Do you jump out of bed full of enthusiasm for each new day? What happens next? How long does your grogginess or enthusiasm last? How do you get out the door when going somewhere? Do you get stuck somewhere along the way? Many of us experience a sense of frustration as we always find ourselves stuck or as if we are pushing against a hard wall. These feelings can be an expression of birth memories manifesting in our daily lives. In that birth is our first major transition in life, its patterns tend to present in times of transition and change.

I invite you to be curious about this process in your own life, and in those around you. The first step in changing a pattern is becoming aware of it. Once a pattern is no longer unconscious, we have more ability to do something different. If you are holding back from starting something new in your life, I encourage you to investigate if you are engaging in a pattern. Now is the time to shine the light of your awareness on such patterns, and so free yourself to pursue what is important to you. I welcome you to this new phase of your life, whatever that may look like for you.

What is Love?

If you have ever been in the presence of a newborn baby, you know what love looks and feels like. You may have heard declarations that babies are close to God, the Divine, the Mystery. Their little faces present a pure expression of presence.

There are those who would argue that babies are not really capable of love; they are just designed to look cute and lovable to enable their survival. They need us. Their cuteness endears them to us, stimulating us to protect and nourish them. Babies  have instincts to attach as a survival mechanism, but they are not aware of the people around them as individuals and are not capable of truly loving…

Science has historically viewed babies as bundles of reflexes, not really conscious (or human) until they begin to speak and demonstrate their learning and memory. The belief that infants did not feel pain led to the practice of routinely performing surgery on young babies without anesthesia, until remarkably recently.

We now know that babies are human, sentient beings from the moment of conception. Little ones in the womb respond to sounds, stress and attitudes of those around them. Daddy pats mommy’s belly and baby kicks back. Newborns demonstrate a preference for their mothers’ face and voice. Preverbal children clearly demonstrate memory of places they have been earlier in their lives, as well as prenatal experiences, when we take care to listen to how they express themselves.

Little ones may not have words, but their behavior and play patterns communicate exquisitely. Why would they not be capable of love? In fact, those who remember their early days and are able to describe their experiences include reports of feelings of love. They are aware of and care about their mothers, fathers, older siblings, as well as twins they have lost before birth. Even if babies weren’t capable of loving others, I still see babies as a pure expression of love.

What is Love?

How do we define love? We can look at love as being about affectionate feelings for another person, as attachment, longing to be with the other, appreciation for another. Babies demonstrate all of these quite clearly. But, we can look at love another way.

"Attention is the most basic form of love; through it we bless and are blessed." - John Tarrant

Love can be defined as presence. Being present. Compare this with fear of what will happen in the future. Compare it with judgment: You are too thin/fat; you should eat more/less. You are too selfish; you should consider others. You are too lazy; get out and do something!… Have any of your relatives or “loved ones” spoken to you like this? Is this an expression of love?

All the ways we judge others or situations take us away from what is. Judgments express a need or wish for things to be other than they are. Rejecting what is, rather than presence, takes us away from love. Love is about being with what is, accepting what is, even if we don’t condone it.

I have never encountered a newborn expressing judgment of others, or themselves. They may not like what is happening and be angry about it, but I have seen no evidence of judging. Babies are present with what is. They fully feel their feelings, and then move on to the next. They are pure expressions of whatever it is in the moment. They are presence. Babies are love. We can learn from them.

Our physiology changes when we shift our awareness from negative thoughts, like judgment, and enter into appreciation and gratitude. The heart functions in a more healthy way as we settle into the present moment. When we shift to appreciation, we come back into acceptance of what is. We return to love.

The Love Hormone

If you watch new parents with their baby, you see appreciation. Their eyes light up. You can almost see, and can definitely feel, their hearts light up. If you observe their baby, you will see the same ignition occurring. Is this love?

Ocytocin, an important hormone supporting birth and bonding, and also secreted during love making, is known as the “love hormone.” It facilitates the kinds of interactions and feelings we associate with love. As a child, I used to have a feeling I described as not knowing whether to laugh or cry. What a beautiful way to speak of love! It touches our hearts. When we are touched, we laugh or cry, or at least feel moved in our hearts. An ocytocin feeling.

Babies are designed to be met with love. We all arrive with a need to be welcomed and loved. We also need to have our love received! None of us, including babies, however, can force our love on those around us. Receptivity is essential.

Not all babies are warmly received and met with love. Some babies arrive unwanted. Their parents may not be ready or able to welcome them into the world for various reasons. Or their parents may be shocked by an unexpected appearance.

Those greeting the newborn arrive with their hopes, fears and judgments: Is it a girl or a boy? (In some cultures and families, one is wanted and the other rejected.) How many toes and fingers does my baby have? Does he look like me? Whose nose is that? Is she breathing adequately? These are normal questions to ensure that the little one is our kin, and is healthy enough to survive. Depending on the culture and family the child is born into, aspects of appearance have varying effects.

In a medical environment, these questions dominate. The fear is enhanced. Doctors are trained to look for dis-ease. Their important orientation unfortunately can entrain everyone at the birth scene to their fear. What happens then to love?

Armor in the Nursery

Have you ever noticed how little ones seem so open and soft? What happens to us as we grow older that we are not all like this? Most psychologists agree that we develop armoring of some kind in our early years. When we are judged, rejected, traumatized or otherwise treated unlovingly as little ones, we must find ways to cope. We develop a harder shell to keep ourselves from feeling the pain.

Our armor can develop in many ways. Some children misbehave or treat younger children or pets disrespectfully. Children tend to act out what has been modeled for them. If they have been abused, shouted at, hit, insulted, spoken to sharply, or hushed, they will act this way with their dolls, animals, or others when possible. Some children become very quiet and good. They try to avoid being mistreated by being invisible. They may also be in a shock state, if they have been unable to integrate how they have been treated.

Whatever style the armor takes, it serves to separate the child from his or her pain. Unfortunately, it also splits the child from a more authentic self. For example, a naturally playful, joyful child, who has been scolded for playing and laughing, may take on a more serious persona in order to survive in this environment.

Little ones are extremely impressionable. We are designed to quickly learn about the environment we find ourselves in. A child born into a gentle, accepting, nurturing family learns how to be in gentleness. A child in a violent family learns violence. It is not quite this simple, however. Babies are impressionable even as they are being born. A child of a gentle family may not be born in the gentleness of that family’s home. A birth involving multiple medical interventions may be experienced as far from gentle by the little one. This experience leaves an imprint. Similarly, a child born into a violent family may also be imprinted by the gentle presence of a birth attendant. I have had many students and clients who have reported that the one resource for them growing up was the kindness of someone outside their immediate family circle. They felt this was what enabled them to get through their childhood.

Having a gentle presence or a nurturing family can serve as an essential resource when being born in a speedy, fear-based hospital setting. Even so, being taken away brusquely from mom and rushed to another room for emergency, often painful interventions, easily overwhelms a newborn. Simply explaining to the little one what is about to happen and why can greatly reduce the effects of interventions, as these little humans attend carefully to what is communicated to them. Unfortunately, this simple step is usually omitted. Often, the parents are also overwhelmed by the situation. Even if they are allowed to be with their baby, they may too much in shock and fear to take supportive action at the time.

Armor Melting

It is not unusual for new families to need quiet time to recover from birth. This may not be available until after they return home from the hospital. Once they are able to settle quietly together, which may take professional support and encouragement, the family begins to process their experience of the birth. Being able to talk about what happened in a calm, accepting environment helps them come to terms with it. Baby also needs to be able to express his or her story. Where the opportunity to fully welcome baby was missed, repair can happen.

As baby and parents settle together, they tend to return to what they know within - a biological template of love. If ocytocin has been overshadowed during the birth, it can surge again. Feelings of hurt, confusion, anger, sadness, even despair, that may have been stimulated by birth, can be expressed and released.

Under these difficult feelings awaits the original one. Love is our essence. Love is our original state. When we return to love, the armor begins to melt. For little ones, melting can occur more readily as the armor has had less time to harden. Fortunately, armor can melt at any time of life. As it melts, our tissues also thaw. Our faces soften and widen. We begin to see and feel what we have barred ourselves from, and we begin to allow ourselves to be seen and felt in ways we have resisted.

Return to Love

As love returns, we come into presence. Instead of orienting to whatever event it was that caused us to become armored, we let go and return to the present. In love, we welcome and receive this moment, as we needed to be welcomed and received at birth.

The greatest challenge often is not about welcoming and receiving others. It is not about loving someone else. The greatest task for most of us is to love, welcome and receive ourselves. Then, we become open to the love that awaits us. As we learn to love ourselves just as we are, regardless of the number of fingers or toes we have, or whatever else we may judge about ourselves or have experience being judged about us, we begin to attract and be attracted to those who can love. In returning to love, we return to our birthright.

A New Birth: Love or Fear

When we study the neural pathways of the brain, we see that we are hard-wired for fear. We are designed to be able to react quickly to threat. We are on the look-out for danger, and immediately become more alert and ready to fight or fly when it presents.

Our perception of fear, however, is not hard-wired. It is programmed by our experience. That programming begins before we even exit the womb at birth, and tends to determine how we respond to challenges in life.

Fortunately, we are also designed for love. When we have had a difficult beginning, or extreme challenges in life, we may need to work harder to bypass established patterns of fear and access the love.

Prenatal Learning

As little ones in the womb, we prepare for the world we are to be born into. As with all of our survival needs prenatally, our perception of threat before birth depends on mother. Our growth and development vary according to how mother perceives her environment. If she feels threatened, baby develops a body and nervous system prepared for danger. When mom feels safe and nurtured, baby prepares to live in a safe, nurturing world.

As Bruce Lipton points out in his book, The Biology of Belief, “The responsiveness of individuals to the environmental conditions perceived by their mothers before birth allows them to optimize their genetic and physiologic development as they adapt to the environmental forecast” (p. 157). The rising field of epigenetics explores how genes are turned on and off in this way.

The Gateway of Birth

For many of us, our prenatal programming is reinforced by how we are born. Birth is designed to give the nervous system a jump start as the head squeezes through the birth canal and then expands with our first breaths. Ideally, we experience an ignition to our whole system, with each organ enjoying the massage of our passage out of the womb. We then emerge into the loving arms of mom, supported by her nurturing partner and community. Our bonding with mom is fostered by oxytocin, the “love hormone” naturally released during childbirth.

Modern, western birth is rarely this gentle and welcoming. Many of us were pulled out of the birth canal with rough tools or hands. Birth attendants are usually relative strangers, even if their hands are gentle. Babies are often taken from mom - home and lifeline for the last nine or so months - to be weighed, cleaned and measured. Many are rushed away from mom to another room by strangers in an atmosphere of fear and crisis.

Our first breaths are accompanied by this imprint of how we are received at birth. Our first sight with our new eyes is often the blinding lights of an operating room or neonatal intensive care unit. Our nervous system reacts to this extreme stress. When our cries do not bring us back to the soothing familiarity of mom, and we are too small to fight or fly, we withdraw into shocked silence. Oxytocin is hard to access in this state.

Mom, in the meantime, begins her own physiological withdrawal when separated from her baby. Her body reacts as if her baby were dead, and bonding and breast feeding can be impeded.

While we may appear to recover from this startling beginning, these early experiences leave deep, lasting impressions on our rapidly learning nervous system. We may find ourselves later in life easily overwhelmed by change and challenged by relationships. New beginnings are quickly, unconsciously associated with our birth. We forget that we are now grown, highly capable individuals. We regress into our infantile experience, feeling helpless, alone, unheard, unseen, unloved.

Return to Love

The good news is that love is our essence. We can return to it at anytime.

I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to work with newborns and small children, as well as adults who harbor an inner little one. I have witnessed first hand how the nervous system and the psyche can shift back to an orientation to something deeper and more essential than one’s trauma history.

When we live in the shadow of an early imprint, we are not really here in present time. Some aspect of us is always interpreting our experience according to that first experience. A major key to returning to love is to bring our attention to the present.

Babies Tell their Story

Babies are not able on their own to differentiate between what they are remembering and what is happening now. They experience everything as now. They readily respond, however, if we differentiate for them.

When I work with babies, they often begin to “tell the story” of their birth, as soon as they sense that I understand this territory. They may begin to push or turn as they did in their birth. It can be helpful for babies, as it is for any of us, to be able to express to others an intense experience they have had. If the feelings associated with that event are too extreme, however, little ones can become overwhelmed by their memory. Babies easily get lost in this past pain. It can be remarkably helpful to make a simple statement differentiating then from now. I might say something like, “Yes, that’s what it was like then. I’m sorry you had to go through that. And you got through it. You are here now. Here’s mom now.”

It can be surprising how quickly babies will settle with this information. And, yes, babies do understand what we say to them. They may not know all the words, although evidence of their comprehension is amassing. They certainly understand, however, our intentions and respond to our words.

Little Ones Within

All of us have within us the influence of our own prenatal and birth experience. In that our modern western culture does not endorse this kind of memory, we are not supported as toddlers in talking about these experiences, which would bring them into more conscious, explicit memory. We are nonetheless under their influence.

We are all capable of regressing into an infantile state, where we lose access to our more grown up resourcefulness. If we have had a difficult birth or prenatal experience, we will tend to slip into this early state when encountering major change or transition. Like the babies we once were, we may be unable to differentiate in this state between then and now. We may then find ourselves unable to cope, depressed, withdrawn, or incapacitated by primal rage or terror. It is helpful to have support at these times from someone who understands the trauma states little ones can experience. There are also ways to support yourself in these situations.

Present Time, Love Present

Just as I help my little clients to differentiate between then and now, it can be helpful to remind yourself that these feelings are from the past, when you were too little to protect yourself. Let yourself remember how old you are now. Remind yourself of all the skills you have developed that you didn’t have back then. For example, you can read. You can walk and talk. You can earn and count money and pay for things. Perhaps you can drive, hold down a job, dial the phone. Make a list of these simple skills that you have that you didn’t have when you were little. This can help you to remember who you are now.

Make yourself look around the room you are in. Take note of the colors, shapes, images you see. Name what you see. This brings you into present time. Similarly, attending to and identifying sensations you feel supports you in being present. Take note of simple sensations like heat in your foot, the sensation of the your body resting in the chair. Make tiny movements with one hand or finger or other body part, and let yourself be with the felt sense of that momement.

Challenge yourself to see how you are safe in this moment. Our fear is never actually about the present. It is about what could happen in the future, and is based on the past. Even if you are in a burning building, your fear is not about this moment. You are relatively ok in this moment. Your fear is that you will never escape… that it will get worse…that you will be burned, or more burned, or lose your things and loved ones, or lose more of them than you have already lost. In this moment, you can always find some sense of safety, something that tells you that you are safe.

As you come into present time, you will begin to find love. You can support this process by thinking of what you feel grateful for or appreciate. Gratitude and appreciate actually shift your physiology. There is always something to feel grateful for, even if it is just the breath you just took.

Breath is Life

By the way, are you breathing? When we are in fear, our breath tends to become shallow and fast, as the sympathetic nervous system prepares us for fight or flight. If you are not in actual physical danger, where you need to be able to run away or protect yourself, it can be helpful to sit or lie down and put a hand on your belly. Let yourself become aware of the movement of the breath in your belly. You will feel your hand rising and falling with the breath. This awareness supports your parasympathetic nervous system, which is involved with rest and rejuvenation.

As you settle, love becomes more accessible. You can begin to think about what you actually desire in relation to the situation at hand. You can begin to appreciate what you have and build on that. You may even choose to share your love with your inner little one. Imagine him or her and ask yourself what that little one most needs. Chances are, it is to be held and loved. This is something you can provide, even if you didn’t receive it back then. Go ahead and visualize yourself holding this little one in your arms, in your heart. It is never too late to love and be loved.

Meeting a new beginning or change from a state of love may in itself be a new beginning for you. You may find yourself going through a different kind of birth in this moment. Welcome to your new life!

New Beginnings: Presence, Awareness and Being

Are you ready? Is something changing, or about to change, in your life? Your work? Your relationship? Your home? Your sense of who you are? Your level of gratitude and appreciation for who you are, your passions, your purpose, your…?

We are all changing continuously, moment to moment, day to day. In our modern, western culture, we learn to reject change. We call it “growing old”. We call it “uncertainty.” Insecurity. Immaturity. Lack of commitment….

We have so many ways to defend ourselves against our natural impetus for change. As little embryos in the womb, we cannot survive without change. This is growth. This is development. And this is true throughout our lives.

As little ones, we embrace change. We are eager to learn, anxious to be older, to go to school like our older siblings, go to work like mommy or daddy. As teens, we long for the day we can drive.

How do we lose this enthusiasm for change? How does it become the enemy to be resisted at all costs, rather than a welcome opportunity to learn and grow? What is it that occurs as we mature, and settle into the unconscious ruts and rituals of our lives? At what cost do we lose touch with the magic of newness? And how do we revive the zeal we have lost?

Presence

As I write this, almost everything in my life is new. I have just moved to a new country on a new continent with a new relationship. I am delighting in discovering the nuances of difference between the English I have learned to speak in Canada and the U.S., and the English spoken in the UK. At times, I enjoy mastering my ability to recognize British coins; at other times, when I am tired, I feel slightly overwhelmed by how aware I need to be, even doing the simplest tasks, like buying groceries.

My old habits are less relevant here. I must pay attention and make conscious choices every moment. I don’t have to work hard at acknowledging a new beginning. Instead, I must remember to stay present with all the newness. This is key.

This awareness is the essence of my intention in life and work, and what I most desire to offer my clients, students, and all I encounter. I acknowledge that all the change I am currently adjusting to challenges me to practice even more consistently the skills I have been developing over the years. The simple act of observing my breath and sensations, being with each moment as it arises, supports me in drinking in and digesting my new environment, rather than being flooded by it. I have learned to orient to something deeper and more consistent than the outer reality I encounter. This aids me in riding the waves of life, like resting on the fulcrum of a teeter totter, rather than balancing on the faster moving ends. Instead of being drawn into the details of each up and down, I perceive changes within an awareness of the larger whole of my life and the world I live in.

I believe we all desire, at the deepest level, to be more present in our lives. We have learned, through meeting various conditions of our lives, to pattern our behavior in relatively predictable ways. We require patterns and habits in order to function. As the teeter totter moves, my body needs to shift its balance accordingly. This is a largely automatic response. If I had to figure out the intricacies of how to balance with each shift, I would soon fall off! Similarly, if I needed to plan each finger movement involved in typing this article, it would not be available for you to read! It would simply take too long and too much effort to produce. If you needed to think about how to open your mouth with every bite, you would still be eating breakfast and not have the time or energy to read this article.

We see such challenges in stroke victims as they re-learn how to maintain balance and to move an affected hand. Like little children establishing these patterns, people with neurological issues often need extra sleep. They need time to integrate what they are learning (or re-learning). They also require the added rest to recover their energy. This also applies to new beginnings.

Anyone can become drained when dealing with the demands of newness. It is important to recognize change and the learning it requires. Otherwise, we may negate our needs, complaining about the demands of our lives, our jobs, our relationships, etc. We tend to expect things to stay the same. This may be our first mistake. Life is constantly changing, and we must be, too!

Recognizing, accepting and meeting change requires awareness. We cannot adapt to change easily if we deny or miss that it is there. We become aware by being present in the moment. If we go along with life just expecting the same old thing, we may not notice change until it is too late.

Perhaps you have heard stories about animals in Asia predicting a tsunami. They apparently survive where humans don’t by sensing danger and leaving the area before it hits. A report from National Geographic states that “animals can sense impending danger by detecting subtle or abrupt shifts in the environment,” and that humans once also possessed this “sixth sense.” (http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2005/01/0104_050104_tsunami_animals_2.html).

What is this sixth sense? I am not an expert in animal sensation, but I do have expertise in human awareness. I have been repeatedly amazed by how much I and other humans can sense when we slow down and pay attention, when we bring our awareness into the present moment, beyond our usual habits and patterns. This is presence.

The Power of Slowing Down

In our modern, western culture, we live at an unnaturally fast pace. We depend on our habitual routines to keep up. As technology has accelerated, so have we. I watch with both awe and horror as young children master video games I can barely comprehend. They are much too fast for me! I am interested in the information delivered by body sensations. It is impossible to be fully aware of our sensations at such high speeds. As we slow down, our awareness can deepen and widen. We shift into a more natural mode of perception, like little children and animals.

As an Occupational Therapist, I am saddened by my knowledge of how the speed of technology can interfere with development. Sitting at a computer, for example, challenges the small child’s ability to learn in their natural way, through movement and the body. Children learn quickly these days to dissociate from their bodies, losing touch with an important source of information. This may relate to the epidemic of learning and behavior problems, as well as other developmental delays.

Slowing down, we return to sensory awareness, and enhance our ability to integrate new information. We may more easily sense danger or change in its early stages, like animals before a tsunami. We can then take appropriate action to prepare ourselves. In an accelerated mode, we tend to miss what is happening around us. We are too busy or distracted to notice the subtle changes in our environment that could warn us of an upcoming storm, or body changes that could be early signs of cancer, or the changes in our partner that could be signs of dissatisfaction in our relationship. When we overlook these early signs, we may be taken off guard and are less able to adapt.

Living our lives at high speed also leaves us vulnerable in another important way. We lack the time and space we need for rest and rejuvenation. We become stuck in the mode of the sympathetic (fight-flight) nervous system that is designed to operate for short periods of time during emergencies. In this mode, our blood is primarily directed to our big muscles and structures required for fight or flight. Organs essential for digestion, reproduction, and repair are put on hold until the crisis is over. Then, we are intended to have time to rest and recover (parasympathetic nervous system).

In our modern world, we humans seldom know how to rest, even if we have the time. Instead, we collapse in front of the TV or DVD player, and are bombarded by violent, speedy over-stimulation. Rather than being replenished, our resources  become further depleted. When a real emergency arises, we have less ability to meet it. Even less threatening challenges of everyday life can become overwhelming when we lack the resources to cope. What might otherwise be a welcome change, may feel like the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Embracing Change

What does it take to welcome and embrace change? First, it is important to be aware that the change is happening.

How does change manifest in your life? Are you aware of change? Do you have expectations about continuity? Yes, it is reasonable, if you have a job that pays the bills, to expect it to be there when you go to work each day. It is appropriate to expect your mate to be with you as promised, for your children to appear when you arrive to pick them up at school, for your clothing to be hanging in the closet when you go to put them on.

We depend on a certain amount of permanence in our lives. Yet, all of us have encountered situations where that permanence is interrupted. The mother of a friend is diagnosed with cancer. A relative is in a serious car accident. A spouse loses his or her job. The company you have invested in fails.

Chances are you or someone you know have gone through such challenges. In case you are one of the lucky few who has not encountered any tragedy or loss, I remind you of the daily news. Hurricanes, volcanoes, earthquakes, forest fires, floods, war, crime, economic crashes. I could go on. My purpose here is not to depress you or to emphasize the extreme suffering so easy to perceive on the planet just now. My intention is to point to the often unwelcome incidence of change.

Just reading about these challenging events can be stressful. What are you aware of in your body as you consider the last two paragraphs? Do you notice tension anywhere? How deep or shallow is your breath? How relaxed do you feel? Can you feel your body resting on the chair or whatever is supporting you?

Most of us have patterned ways of reacting to stress and change. These patterns can be helpful in dealing with emergencies. Our tendency, however, is to slip into patterned reactions as soon as stress arises. Our modern, western lives are inherently stressful, speedy, and over-stimulating, with little or no true rest. We  spend most of our time in a stress response, geared for emergency. When an actual crisis, or extreme change, comes along, our chronic tension reduces our ability to effectively respond to what is. Our lack of present-time awareness lessens our resilience.

How much of your time do you spend thinking about how something is going to turn out, if you did the right thing, or what you can do or say next? Maybe the thing you obsess over isn’t even that important. It might be what to have for dinner.

Have you ever found yourself lost in planning the future or reviewing the past in this way and not noticed something demanding your attention in the present moment?

Letting Go, Letting Ourselves Be

Life passes so quickly. Walking on the beautiful nature path just steps from my new home in Devon, my eyes are drawn to the infinite variety of arrangements of leaves, flowers, branches, and even donkeys! I feel like a small child drawn to the brilliant creations of nature. With each, I notice, there is a combination of old and new. Brittle brown leaves rattle in the breeze beside their young, green siblings. In our modern, western culture, the extremes of life – birthing and dying - are isolated by hospital walls from other, perhaps gentler expressions of life. Nature, in contrast, displays all life’s stages on one, unified canvas.

We learn as little ones to grasp and hold onto what we cherish. We learn to attach names to each object. Cup. Nose. Mama. Juice. We must learn through our adult years to establish ourselves firmly in our lives, and then let go. We struggle to develop a career, a family, skill in whatever sport or hobby we choose. Then, as we age, we gradually shed these identities, often struggling in this direction as much as we did coming in.

I have been learning so much in the past months about letting go. When I release my hold on what was once so important to me, I am free to embrace the present. My work for many years has been about facilitating this ability to be present in the present. As I settle into my new life in the UK, I recognize an opportunity to start anew once again. Along with deciding about furniture and where put my things, I am also looking at new ways to support you in being present and more fully embodying your life. I invite you to join me in this new venture.

Please take a moment to consider what is most important to you in your life. Make a list of what is most dear to you. As you consider these things, people, activities, places, or whatever it is that is meaningful to you, include in your awareness your body language. One of my favorite teachers in my Dance/Movement Therapy training, Susan Aposhyan, used to talk about listening to “all of our people.” Take time to listen to your bones, your skins, your muscles, your heart and other organs, as well as your intellectual brain. Each aspect of you has important information and perceptions to contribute.

As you consider the messages from your body, you begin tuning in to sensations. If you find it difficult to attend to a particular aspect of your body, try starting by observing your breath. Let yourself be aware of how fast or slow it is, how deep or shallow, how easy or effortful.

Let yourself be aware of the chair or other structure under you. Can you sense the weight of your body as you rest into the support of gravity? You may have a sense of your body, or part of it, pulling up from the surface under it. Just noticing. Nothing you need to do. Just sensing. Just being aware. Just being.

We begin this journey into being in present time by practicing being aware. You may find that, just from following the suggestions of the last two paragraphs, your breath has slowed down and deepened. Your body is starting to shift from sympathetic fight flight mode to a more relaxed parasympathetic rest and rejuvenation mode. This is a first step.

If you find yourself attracted to this kind of slowing down and developing awareness, I suggest you continue to practice being aware as often as you can. Remind yourself of your breath and the support of gravity under you whenever you think of it throughout your day. Take moments here and there to deepen into this awareness.

One of my intentions for this series of articles is to support you in being able to develop this skill of being. Please join me for this journey of awareness and exploration. I suspect you will find, as I have, that you discover within yourself new levels of pleasure and aliveness. I look forward to exploring with you.

I offer classes, workshops, seminars, professional trainings, as well as private therapy and mentoring, both in person and via phone and Skype. For more information, please refer to my website at www.cherionna.com or email me at cherionna@cherionna.com.

Read more articles on this kind of awareness practice in relation to healing, Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapy, and Continuum Movement.

If you are drawn to become a Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapist while deepening your awareness and presencing skills, please consider my upcoming trainings, starting in November in Nelson, BC, Canada and Portland, OR.