Before I Die

The wall pictured above is in downtown Louisville.  On a chalkboard wall, you are invited to complete the sentence: "Before I die, I want to . ."  Like many pieces of art that invite public participation, the responses are sometimes poignant, sometimes ridiculous, but never boring.  There, for all the world to see, is a chance to express your hidden longing.  For a time, at least. 

It is often a few weeks between times when I walk past this wall, and often I notice that it has been erased and re-filled with brand new answers.  This startled me at first.  I came back to the wall expecting to see the little words that I had written on my first (or second?) day in my new hometown still written there.  But my words were gone.  Filled in by a new longing from some other human. 

I think, write, and often live in metaphors.  So this, too, quickly became a metaphor for me.  This wall, this sturdy and permanent-seeming installation is actually a daily exercise of impermanence.  You write your desires in chalk, that fragile medium that can be easily wiped away with any hand or washed off with the slightest rain.  The idea itself invites us to acknowledge impermanence.  Before I die.  Before.  Meaning that time may seem long, but it is not endless.  There is a precious window where we get to express and exercise our desires and ambitions.  Do it now. 

This metaphor completely changed my experience of seeing my words disappear.  It made my own longing more real, more precious, and more likely something I would act towards.  The inevitable end makes me want to be and do more in the present moment.  So, ultimately, for me, chalk was the perfect medium to express myself.  Before I die, I want to  . . .

I am fortunate to be in this place and to know people who are thinking about the end of life in a very deliberative way.  In just a few days, there is the opportunity to think and talk about what we value and how to express that by making our plans for the end.  The Before I Die Festival Symposium is November 4th.  I'll be there, uncovering my hopes and desires for the inevitable end.  Join me?

The Science of Small Movements

It happens pretty often.  I see a new client.  We have a thorough conversation, I work with them for an hour or so.  Then, they come out of the massage, slightly groggy and say some version of the following:
"That was  . . . different." 

Sometimes it's positive, sometimes it is less so.  It is this expression that the way I work is not exactly what they have expected or experienced.  I'm okay with that -- even when it is not meant positively.  Not everyone is my client. 

Massage blends science with art and creativity, so all therapists work differently, and our styles are built from our training, our practice and our temperament.  I generally stumble when I try to describe how I work.  What comes out is some kind of word salad of "myofascial," "slow movements," and "gentle." 

This week, however, a new client gave me the perfect phrase.  They called my massage "the science of small movements."  this client was trying to describe how it didn't feel like there was much doing of stuff during the massage, but there was a tiny adjustment that allowed them to breathe in a way they hadn't felt for a while.  I told my client that I was going to steal that phrase (like an artist,) and here we are.

The science of small movements.  That phrase brings together a lot of they physical work I have been doing lately, in my profession and in my other creative pursuits.  The barest pressure on the exact correct spot in a muscle to allow it to release and let go on its own -- allowing the body to do what it wants to do and be well.  The smallest shift in position or facial expression to add highlight to a dance.  The slightest shift of shoulders that relaxes the whole body and makes running effortless. 

I am chafing against the idea of doing big things, having big plans, making big differences.  I feel more at home in this science of small movements.  To go back to being the small stone that makes the first ripple, the butterfly's wing that shifts the air.  This feels more sustainable to me.  I can wake up every morning and think about changing the world, then eventually get overwhelmed and paralyzed by the enormity of what needs to change -- Or, I can wake up and think of small movements, something to start a chain reaction or to keep an existing reaction in motion. 

These days, I'm thinking small. 

Age of Amygdala

The amygdala is that small part of our brain that freaks out when we feel threatened.  I am, of course, oversimplifying the whole range of learned and instinctive behaviors involved in our fear response.  For my purposes, today, it is just important to know that the amygdala is a vital part of that.

This is good for our survival.  This is the whole system that allows us to jump back onto the sidewalk when we step in front of oncoming traffic, or jump back from a snake while we are out hiking.

The dilemma with the amygdala is that it really doesn't know the difference between an imminent physical threat and a perceived intellectual and/or emotional one.

Oncoming traffic?  Freaked amygdala!
Poisonous snake? There goes the amygdala!

Person who disagrees with your worldview?  Hold on to your amygdala!

The Oatmeal has a great comic explaining this in more detail.  I highly encourage you to check it out.  For my purposes, though, I am wondering about the amygdala aftermath.  The high-tension hangover that comes from days and weeks and months of perceived intellectual and emotional threats.  The fatigue that defies rest.

I am fortunate to have curated my social media feeds so that most of what I see is optimistic, positive, and compassionate.  So many reminders that we are not alone, to keep moving, to ask for help and hugs every time we need them.  It's lovely.

And some days, it just doesn't help.

So, I am trying this new thing.  This thing where I am allowed to, for just a little while, bask in the dawning of the age of amygdala.  Let the heart race, let the monkey-mind wander, let the pressure build.  I am using my brain these days like an old-fashioned pressure cooker, where I need to watch carefully as the pressure builds and be sure to manage the release with a gentle, mindful hand.  I am finding, so far, that what happens when I allow this to happen, it's like I've burned off a little bit of the lingering fear and anxiety so that when I exhale, it blows away like so much ash.

So far.  I wonder sometimes how many housewives sustained lifelong injuries from those old-school pressure cookers.  And if I am somehow destined to suffer a similar fate.

This is just one of many ways I am coping with the less-than-ideal, however, so for now I have other options (healthy and less healthy) to draw upon.  And my carefully curated social media feed, that just wants me to dance and be loved.

I'll let you know how it's going.