The body knows

I'll be blogging less frequently for a while. Two main reasons: One, with classes starting up again plus my job, I just won't have as much time. And two, Robin arrives for a three-week visit tomorrow (hurray). One thing that's good about a blog is it gives me somebody to share experiences and thoughts with—that phantom You out there. One thing that's even better about Robin's visit is that I can share my experiences and thoughts with her. (That and several other good things about her visit...)

But there was one other thing about last term that I've been thinking back on that I wanted to record here. At times last term felt like a complete waste, or at least I was afraid that I'd squandered it and not gotten anything out of it. Whether I'm here for one year or two, a whole term is too much to feel that way about. And so I keep going back and mulling over it. Michael (one of our teachers) commented today that with so much that was abstract last term, it would have been hard for us to get much perspective on our work, but that it will pay off this term. We're doing much more concrete work now, observing animals and portraying them, though not simply in an imitative way, and also starting to build characters. He said we'll find that we can physically express more now after having worked so hard with much less accessible material. God, I hope so.

One thing I've been recalling again of late is this odd and wondrous thing that is part of the approach here: Don't try to think it out too much; your body knows, even if you aren't aware of it. That's such a different way of approaching things (and trusting yourself) than I've ever been at home with, or even been encouraged to give way to in the circles in which I've moved.

There was one exercise we did late last term that reminded me of the insight I can sometimes get from my body. We'd learned a particular stylized movement that's based on poling a boat on a river. Kind of like punting, to give it a British term. And then we started to abstract the movement. Then at one point—any point—to go so far with one part of the movement so as to fall off-balance. I didn't know why I found myself going with my one particular moment. It simply happened, and felt natural. As we kept working with our chosen moments, Thomas called one person up in front of the class after another to do their movement, and then he kept pressing: Why that one? What does it mean? What's your feeling there? Give words to what's going on.

I wasn't one who worked in front of the class that day, but it was amazing how telling my moment was when I started to look at it. It had simply felt like an easy and fluid motion, but it actually showed something of the state I kept finding myself in last term. The moment of off-balance came for me after the point where I had just pushed the pole to the stern, thus propelling my (imaginary) boat forward. The next thing you do is pull the pole out, which entails first shifting your weight toward the bow of the boat as you pull the pole out of the water at the stern. Then you shift your weight so that you're leaning back, and looking forward, before moving forward again as you basically throw the pole end into the water out in front of the boat. (The boat's momentum then brings to boat alongside the pole, making the pole vertical in the water, then slightly past vertical as you then push to the stern to propel the boat further.) But when I did the backward shift of weight while looking forward toward where I was heading, I found myself falling off balance to the stern. It occurred to me that that was an apt picture of the frustration I'd been feeling. I'd been wanting to move forward, even seeming to look forward, but I kept falling backwards though how easily I got discouraged.

Writing all this out makes it seem a little woo-woo out there. Kind of a "sure, Eric, whatever you say" kind of thing. But it makes sense to me. And it also makes some sense that there was part of me—and not my rational faculty—that knew it and could find a way to express it, if only I'd pay attention. I find that quite hopeful and encouraging, actually.

The body knows. My brain keeps dismissing that or coming up with arguments against it. But maybe my brain should just shut up every once in a while and listen.