Ike: Part 3

The most-often asked question around Houston in the past two weeks has been, "Do you have lights yet?" Utility workers from across the country have come to Houston to help out, and they are being greeted with a hero's welcome. They are still working, now seventeen days after the storm.

"Having lights" is one of those things we won't take for granted again for awhile. It's really amazing, when you think of it-- that light should be available, at any time you want, for as long as you want, simply by flipping a switch! A light to read by, to see yourself in the mirror, to keep the steps safe. "Having lights" means even more: the refrigerator runs so you can make your own ice. The air-conditioner makes living in a swampy climate possible. The computer links you to the rest of the world, and you're back in business. It's said that the dying words of the German poet Goethe were, "Light, more light!" All of Houston would answer, "Amen!"

Chris and I only had to endure four days without power. We joined Richard and Elaine upstairs for breakfast each morning. We contributed the coffee beans and French press; they boiled water on the gas grill, and they had a hand-grinder which held together the civilized world for us. We'd get together again at dinner, to share news of what we'd seen and heard around the apartment complex and the neighborhood. Richard was the Grillmeister. Elaine and I planned menus based on strategic consumption of rapidly-thawing items from the freezer, accompanied by whatever fresh fruits and vegetables we had on hand. We wined and dined by candlelight far into the night, probably about 9 PM, to repeat the next day. The four of us celebrated our re-electrification, the first Tuesday after the storm, with a bottle of Prosecco, immensely grateful and relieved.

In the large scheme of things, four days without power is simply an inconvenience, not a catastrophe. However, many have been without power for over two weeks, and some without their homes, or food, or loved ones. So if you want to help, please give to the Red Cross or Gulf Coast Relief Fund.

The day our power came back on, I left on a business trip to San Francisco, where I lived in luxury with lights and computers and cool weather for nearly a week. I'll never forget the experience of flying back into Houston on Sunday evening, the 21st. It was getting close to 8 p.m., and the sun was rapidly sinking. I looked out the window to orient myself to familiar landmarks, and thought we must still be quite a ways out, because there were no city lights. From the air, Houston usually looks like a glittering blanket that stretches as far as you can see. The landscape gradually emerged: small, concentrated areas where the lights twinkled merrily, surrounded by total darkness. It looked like a patchwork quilt of mostly dark, with lighted sections still few and far between. In some neighborhoods, there would just be one pinpoint of light. (Those were probably people with a generator, and no doubt they were very popular, hosting friends and neighbors for a meal, a shower, or to recharge laptops and cell phones.) Other neighborhoods, dark, silent, and still, dissolved into invisibility.

In Awareness Through Movement classes, we usually begin with a sensory "scan" through your body as you lie on the floor. What parts of yourself touch the floor? What parts are lifted away? At first, the sensations cluster together like the patchwork quilt of the Houston power grid. Some places on your body feel very present, "lit up," and detailed. Other places or parts seem more "dim," less distinct. And some places are just "in the dark," where sensation is absent and movement is unimaginable. As you begin to move gently, with attention, your sensations and perceptions gradually change. By the end of the lesson, more of you is "on the grid," present in your mind's eye, lights on, someone home.

We all have that "inner light," the light that we're supposed to let shine. Attention and awareness can bring light, lightness, enlightenment. . . Here's to LIGHTS ON!

There Must Be An Opening

Get a bunch of people together, and there's no telling what they'll say.

Yesterday, the people ranged in age from 17 to 80: a student, an engineer, an accountant, two musicians, a psychotherapist, a jewelry-maker, a photographer/homemaker, some entrepreneurs. They had only two things in common: they knew one of the hosts (I, or my partner, Chris Welsh), and they had just seen the Geopalooza exhibit at the Houston Museum of Natural Science. We gathered back at our home for refreshments and conversation to reflect on what we had experienced. This diverse group of strangers had come together to talk about ROCKS.

Over tapas and sangria, we developed several alternate theories about the West Texas Marfa Lights: the most plausible were the high concentration of crystals in the ground, causing electromagnetic reactions and "ghost lights," or it's college kids with big flashlights and cases of Shiner Bock at their disposal. Several of our guests confessed that they lusted after the huge sheet of copper ore in the display. Business cards were exchanged with the jeweler, who already had design ideas. We talked about panning for gold and cracking geodes, about fossils and trilobytes, about meteorites, discovery, and preservation of priceless objects.

"I kept thinking about those geodes, which are so plain on the outside, but so glorious on the inside," one man spoke. "Some of them were really ugly, and there's no way to tell what beauty is inside until you crack it open and have a look." He continued, "And, a geode is only created when hot, mineral-rich water seeps or flows in through some opening. The crystals form in the spaces, the void within. Perhaps that's a metaphor for us. We need to seek the void."

That's the idea that stuck with me through the rest of the wide-ranging conversation, and it will linger awhile yet. In the era of 24-hour media, it's hard to find a void, any "empty space" for silence, breathing, one's original thoughts, or rest. One can become completely petrified; schedule, ideas, body "set in stone," without possibility for flexibility or opening to allow anything new to come in. The "hot water" we perceive can erode, or transform.

This weekend, a friend asked me to have a look at his frozen shoulder. He's already had the pictures done, and his doctors have said there's no structural cause they can find for his pain. Short story: after about 30 minutes of a Feldenkrais lesson, he was able to move more, with less pain. What happened? I like to think that I showed him where there was some space, where there was room for possibility. We found an opening where he might rediscover a forgotten pathway in his shoulder, or he might find a new pattern for movement. The point is, he can do more of what he wants to do.

Moshe Feldenkrais certainly understood the idea of "hot water," as he was a man who endured difficult times. He also understood that hot water, or anything else, has no inherent goodness or badness: it depends on the use. Leave your broccoli in hot water too long, and you'll have green mush. If you have enough hot water at the right temperature, you can immerse yourself in it and have a delightful experience. Some anxiety creates stress that wears you down. The right kind of anxiety, in the right amounts, leads to creativity, productivity, and positive solutions. Any perturbation of a habitual pattern can be perceived as "hot water."

Feldenkrais based his work on the interplay of the dynamic human being with a dynamic set of conditions, the environment. Humans grow, learn, and evolve in every dimension as they become engaged with possibility. Possibility is the space, the void, where human treasure is discovered.