Habits

What's in a vacation?

I've just returned from a trip to visit my son in Pennsylvania. Geoff celebrated his 20th birthday while I was there, and we both were eager to spend time together. We had had our spring break plans curtailed in March by a snowstorm that shut down everything near Lake Erie, so this was "catch up time."

Geoff had a few days off from work, and I had rented a car, so we decided to hit the road and do some visiting. Pennsylvania is a BIG STATE! (Texas is my adoptive home, and I know from big states. PA: Big.) You can check a Google map: Edinboro, PA, to Warren: Warren to Cornwall: Cornwall to York: York to Pittsburgh: Pittsburgh to Edinboro. We paid calls on my brother in Warren; my 101-year old Aunt (truly the "last of the Mohicans") in Cornwall; a "cousin by choice" in York; and back to feed a pack of starving students at my son's place in Edinboro. When I turned in the rental car at the Pittsburgh airport last Thursday, the attendant said, "WOW--you put over 1,000 miles on this car!" I felt a little wistful to acknowledge with my son that the days of the Great American Road Trip may be over for good. It felt great to get in a good last shot at it.

Why do I tell you this whole travelogue? Ah, dear reader, because the entire trip took me not just to Pennsylvania, but into Non-Habitual Action. That's the whole point of a vacation, if you think about it. Well, I came right up against some of my deeply ingrained habits, and it wasn't easy, to tell the truth. We always do what we always do---and I am no exception.

For starters, food. The grocery store was set up wrong. Not only wrong, but idiotic. More to the point, it was not arranged like my favorite store at home. I kept having to backtrack to find the things I needed, the produce was very limited, and prices seemed higher. Although we visited two really terrific restaurants, the casual dining scene there is dominated by fast food chains or the ubiquitous "family restaurant," where cottage cheese, stuffing, and mac & cheese appear on the veggie menu. I wouldn't have described myself as a picky eater. When it comes to food, we all have our habits and preferences, easily overlooked until some adaptation is required.

I had a blast cooking for my son and his friends, and I think it's the most appreciative audience I've ever "performed" for. He and his roomies have a decent stock of kitchen utensils, pots and pans, even proper dishes -- impressive. I found that they needed a good knife, a vegetable peeler, a grater, and dish towels. And a blender! It then felt more like my kitchen, and I was better able to function, as I learned what they had and made my own additions. Did I adapt to them, or did they adapt to me? Probably some of both. They are already adjusting to the "improvements" quite nicely.

The other habit I encountered had to do with my driving. In PA, the speed limit is 65, tops. Most places, 55 or less. And get this, they actually enforce the speed limit. Cops and state troopers were everywhere. I had a really hard time keeping my speed under my habitual "comfort zone" for highway driving, 70-80 mph. In Texas, if you go 65, you'll never get anywhere. I realize I am making light of a serious safety issue. I was aware the entire time behind the wheel that I was having to pay attention to things I don't really give a second thought to when I'm at home. Happily, I drove sensibly and escaped without a ticket. I wonder how long my better driving habits will last, when I get back to Houston traffic?

I learned, again, that adaptation is a challenge. In the case of food preparation, I was most comfortable adapting my surroundings to my preferences, rather than changing my preferences. With driving, I had to adjust to an unfamiliar car and the prospect of undesirable consequences if I didn't curb my speed. With the grocery stores and restaurants, I mostly complained and then just made it work. Sometimes an adaptation causes additional trouble. For example, if you're dealing with chronic pain, a recurring injury, or insomnia, all require adaptations that can wear you down over the long haul, and can make some problems worse. As human beings, we are "engineered" to be almost infinitely adaptable. Sometimes you adapt just to do the best you can. And as you know better, you can do better.

The Feldenkrais Method helps people to make the most of their ability to adapt, to learn, and to thrive. Some habits evoke irritation as we examine them, like a tendency to drive too fast or exercise to the point of exhaustion or injury. Others, like having a new kitchen tool, can lead to more versatility, more possibilities, more enjoyment as we go along. Our functioning always improves when we've experienced some choices, and when we've had the opportunity to fine-tune what works best. Each Feldenkrais lesson helps you to discover your own best actions, in whatever activities you enjoy. Like a good vacation, each lesson brings learning, renewal, and enjoyment, a new lease on life as you return to your routine.

What is routine for you? How do you adapt?

Artifacts

I saw something amazing on Saturday.

In advance of a group field trip expedition, we went to Houston's Museum of Natural Science to see "Lucy's Legacy: Hidden Treasures of Ethiopia." There were many amazing aspects to this exhibit, not least of which was the pièce de resistance, the 3.2 million year old skeletal remains of "Lucy" herself, an early hominid.

The story of how the archeologists happened upon the world's most famous fossil was inspiring, humorous, and very moving. What touched me even more is that all of the objects in the exhibit are truly part of the national treasure of Ethiopia. I was struck by the extraordinary generosity and trust of whatever powers-that-be in that country, who approved sending these priceless artifacts on a six-year, round-the-world tour, so that their national and cultural story could be told. Controversy surrounded the tour: should these objects leave the country? Are they too fragile to travel? Can adequate security be provided? Then, my irreverent mind imagined the scene of the people hired to pack everything for shipping. Are the pieces numbered? Do they come with a diagram for reassembly? Was Lucy transported in bubble-wrap? Do they save all the containers, or get them new when it's time for Lucy to move on? Mercifully, I stopped short of completing my "Saturday Night Live" sketch, but it did make me giggle. I also felt appreciation for the countless people behind the scenes who packed, sorted, insured, transported, negotiated, arranged, displayed, dusted, filmed, wrote, and otherwise contributed to produce the exhibit. There's a lot invested in preserving and transporting those artifacts!

Artifacts, however valuable, are ultimately leftovers, just found objects. When they are discovered, the artifacts provide evidence upon which a story or explanation about the objects can be created. We want to know the origins, and we want to assign meaning. One can wonder what archeologists from the future will find and surmise about us, and our lives!

Similarly, muscular tensions, aching joints, and other physical limitations provide evidence about your life. Your habitual patterns of action and use of your own body can leave artifacts---leftovers-- in today's experience. (If you get quiet for a moment, you might discover evidence of the local pollen count, this morning's traffic, or that last phone call.) Habitual patterns of thinking and emotion also leave their effects, seen in your body. While some people see evidence of defects to be fixed, the Feldenkrais Method has another viewpoint. The Method does not judge the artifact, and does not attach a story to it. The artifact is information, something to be curious about, to explore, to relate to a coherent whole: and then to create different possibilities for an improved future.

What artifacts have you discovered, preserved, transported?

(This piece was originally published in the Feldenkrais Center of Houston newsletter 04/14/2008)

The Jetsons

I grew up with Judy Jetson.

If you are too young to know about "The Jetsons", get thee to YouTube, Google, or Wikipedia to fill in this important gap in your cultural and historical knowledge. (Pictured above, left to right: Astro, the dog ["Rastro!"], daughter Judy, meet George Jetson, Jane, his wife; his boy, Elroy. . . dee dee deep da deep dah dee dah. . .)

Strange that after spending a couple of weeks pondering the Houston fossil display of 3.2 million-year-old Lucy and our human prehistory, that I should leap to my childhood memories from 1960's TV Land and everyone's favorite family of the future, the Jetsons. I guess I'm pondering A Big Question: What makes us human?

Perhaps because the 60's were so tumultuous, the Jetsons were a comfort. The moral of the story seemed to be, "The more things change, the more they stay the same." In spite of space travel, civil rights, and urban blight; or video phones, robots, and flying cars; teenagers would still be teenagers, dogs would still tear up the house, and your boss would still be a jerk. "The future is safe. No matter how much change occurs, we will still be --
HUMAN."

George Jetson's car flew him safely to work at Spacely Sprockets as he read the newspaper. (Kind of funny to think of it now. Even Hanna and Barbera had not imagined email, Blackberry, or NYT Online.) Jane sat in front of a mirror that applied her makeup and fixed her hair. She could whip up a scrumptious steak dinner instantly from a pill (just add water), and clean up afterwards in a snap. Take that, June Cleaver! Jane also had Rosie the Robot as housekeeper, nanny, and confidante. The most memorable episodes always involved the hilarious malfunctioning of some piece of technology -- Rosie on the fritz, conveyor walkways standing still, cars careening between planets -- forcing the Jetsons to solve the problem on their own, "the old fashioned way," as it were. As it ARE. Was "The Jetsons" actually an archetypal hero's epic journey, in which human qualities withstand bombardment by technology, and triumph? Hmmmm. . .

When my clients in the Feldenkrais Method ask me, "Will I be able to (fill in the blank: walk better, stand taller, sing, golf, move without pain, etc.) without thinking about it?" I understand what they mean. We idealize a George Jetson life, where the mundane and the unpleasant are dealt with remotely, or on auto-pilot. When we deal with problems, we want things fixed. We seek out experts, substances, or programs of various types to fix us. However, to experience the potential for pleasure in life (which lies at the heart of the Method), you have to be involved and engaged. You have to be paying attention. Ultimately, it's your ability to learn that lets you ride the wave of change.

I used to envy Jane Jetson, but now I enjoy preparing meals for friends and loved ones. The shopping, the chopping, the stirring, the tending, all connect me with my senses and my experience of aliveness. Our technology -- from ancient implements of chipped stone, to the iPhone, to bionic limbs and organs and beyond, even to flying cars? -- can help us feel more alive, or more disconnected from ourselves and our own capacities to create, to survive, and to thrive. The choice is ours.

When do you feel most alive?

(This piece was originally published in the Feldenkrais Center of Houston newsletter 04/21/2008)