Posted: June 22, 2014

When I was in high school and college I was told by lots of people that I had great posture. As the daughter of a chiropractor (who never let me do my homework or watch TV on the floor) and after a decade of ballet lessons, without having to think about it I walked around with my head held high, my back straight, and my shoulders pulled down. And while this sounds like an ideal way to move through life, by 18 I was struggling with some mysterious neck and low back pain, and had learned through some hard life lessons that people thought of me as unapproachable and maybe even a little stuck up.

We tell a story about ourselves that is grounded in the way we move. For some of us, it stems from unconsciously protecting an injury long healed; for others it comes from feeling we are too short and desperately want to be taller or too fat and wish we could take up less space. Some people hold a strong belief that they are klutzy and spend their life watching their own feet. Growing up I had a friend who was very self-conscious about her smile and walked around with her jaw tight and her lips pressed together, making her appear very stern. She was a wonderfully funny and warm girl, but her belief that her smile was ugly told the world a very different story.

My sophomore year of college I was fortunate enough to take an acting class where the professor also happened to be a teacher of the Alexander Technique. I was doing a scene from The Rainmaker, where a young, plain girl, Lizzie, is made to feel special and beautiful by a confident stranger from out of town. We were half way through the scene when my professor stopped us.

“Jenn, you’re bringing a story into this scene that isn’t Lizzie’s. When you pull your shoulders back and walk around with your chin up you’re armoring yourself. You can’t breath and you can’t feel. The author has written a story about a vulnerable, wounded girl. That isn’t the story you’re telling.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

Then he put his hands on my shoulders and they suddenly widened and released forward into what I can only describe as home. I felt like I was slumped, but I also kind of knew that I wasn’t. I started to breath in a deeper way, and then all of the sudden, I just started crying. We continued the scene and it was probably the best work I’ve ever done.

As I gradually learned to let my shoulders release and widen, my back and neck pain disappeared. People suddenly seemed to be more open and welcoming. But what is so interesting is that I felt more open and easy-going.

Looking back, I realized that growing up in my home we frowned on expressing deep or negative emotions. We were and continue to be a close family, but we held back tears when we felt sad. Hugs only happened at airports and bus stations. What that professor was trying to tell me was that pulling my shoulders back and down and stretching my neck up helped me to create a shield against feeling things too strongly. It made me feel more invincible. It warned people against approaching me.

We tell many stories to the world through how we hold ourselves down, in, up, and together. Sometimes these stories influence how we even see ourselves. But when we get right down to it – are these stories accurate? Are they really us? And if we can find a way to allow for our innate balance and ease to restore itself, what possibilities await?

Posted: August 16, 2011

Yesterday, while taking a jog through my local park, I sprained my ankle. It was one of those disorienting moments where one second I was thinking about how nice it would be to eat a hamburger for lunch and the next I’m sprawled in the dust with the sound of a loud crack still ringing in my ears. I knew immediately it was a bad twist and that I was not going to make it back to my apartment on my own. My day flashed before my eyes—work, errands, packing for a vacation I was to leave on the following day—and felt a frustration and disappointment and throbbing pain that brought tears welling up in my eyes. I pulled my head back and down into my neck, compressing my spine. I started getting angry. If only I had stayed on the pavement. If only I had turned off the alarm this morning and slept in like I wanted to—why was I being punished for doing the right thing and getting some exercise? Who lets this path get so uneven anyway? How am I going to get myself on a plane tomorrow? My trip is ruined!…

When there is a divide between What Is and What (we think) Should Be, we are often thrown out of the present moment. We spend our energy on regret or waste time running through looped scenarios of what might be but usually isn’t. That’s not to say we shouldn’t plan ahead or spend time learning from our past mistakes, but we have to honestly ask ourselves, how much of our daily lives are spent thinking pointlessly about yesterday and tomorrow?

The Alexander Technique is a method of teaching one to be here, fully present and engaged with the now. Sitting in the dust, my ipod and house keys twisted under me, I became aware of how tight my neck, back, shoulders and jaw had become. I stopped, allowed my neck to be free and easy, and allowed my head to delicately come to balance on top of my spine. Suddenly my world came a bit more into focus. My erratic breathing evened out, my heart slowed, and I was able to think more clearly.

A fellow jogger approached and asked if I was alright. I made a joke and she laughed, putting us both at ease.

Most people think Alexander Technique work is about posture—and it certainly is. But above anything else, it’s about learning how to give yourself a choice regarding how you respond to what life throws at you. When you react automatically, when you lash out, or find your emotional life out of control, you naturally contract into a fight/flight response which compresses your neck and acts as a parking break on your whole neuro-muscular system.

Try this: the next time something doesn’t go according to plan, whether it’s a broken glass, a traffic jam, a snafu at work or a disagreement with your partner, see if you can stop and give yourself some internal space before you react. See if you can allow your neck to be free and easy and let your spine lengthen. Step back and observe your thinking and breathing and see if you are lead to a different choice than you might have made only a moment before.

In the end my ankle sprain wasn’t nearly as bad as I had suspected. Generally I find that the hurdles that inevitably spring up are never as bad as I fear they will be.

Author
Jennifer Schulz is an AmSAT certified Alexander Technique teacher. She maintains a private practice in Los Angeles, CA

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