It’s a thank you present from me, to you.

I’ll be returning to Japan, my second home, in the beginning of November 2013, and I will live in Japan until mid-April 2014.

I hope to give lots of workshops. And I will be giving individual lessons in Osaka and Kobe too.

I hope I will see many of you again.

Life is better when we’re together.

Yours,

Bruce Fertman

Photo: B. Fertman

 …from Where This Path Begins

Renderings from the Tao Te Ching by Bruce Fertman

 Sphere within a Sphere.
A child grows.
 
Sphere within a Sphere.
Without knowing this child, she loves this child.
 
Sphere within a Sphere.
A child comes into this world.
 
The child begins to crawl, then walk.
The mother’s sphere grows larger.
 
The child begins to run and climb.
The mother’s sphere grows larger.
 
The child leaves home.
The mother’s sphere grows larger.
 
The child has a child.
The mother’s sphere grows larger.
 
The child’s mother dies.
The child’s sphere grows larger.
 
Sphere within a sphere.
The mother grows within the child’s heart.

Photo: B. Fertman

Bruce,

Today I have a question for you. It’s about the center of the body. People often say the center of body is near the navel. But when I think about the navel as my center I tend to bend at the waist and this doesn’t feel right. When I relocate the center of my body nearer to my hip joints, this seems to work. But actually, I ‘m not sure. What do you think?

Different ideas work for different people. You have to play with it, as you are doing. I have thought about this one for about 40 years. Here are just three possibilities.

In Aikido there is the idea of one point. You meditate on your one point getting smaller and smaller as you are becoming larger and larger. But it is not at the navel. To find your one point, walk the tips of your fingers straight down below the navel until you come to a place that is very firm, just above the beginning of the pubic synthesis. Then press in slightly but firmly, on about a 70% angle, scooping upward toward the back, just where the lumbar spine begins to curve into the thoracic spine. This is easier to show on a skeleton. You just have to poke around until you find what works for you. If I direct through that point just so, then I sense my body becoming strongly organized. But be careful not to start sucking in your abdominal muscles. One point is deeper in than that, behind the stomach muscles. If you tap into this you will find that your body has a tendency to organize itself over the hip joints, which will likely create a sensation of being ever so slightly inclined forward. But it is not a bend from the waist. It’s being poised over your hip joints in such a way that they feel oiled, so you are ready to move in any direction. When the body is in a condition of readiness, like an Olympic diver preparing for a dive, you won’t see a person who is standing at an exact 90% angle in relation to the floor. Their whole body will incline slightly forward from the ankle and a tiny bit from the hip joint.  When you are sitting, and you tap into one point, it will orient you slightly toward the front of your sits bones.

Now if we travel from Japan into China, the Hara becomes the T’antien, which most often is translated as belly. So rather than being a point it becomes a whole area, a large container. In English the word belly usually implies bigness, fullness, relaxation and sometimes humor. My tai chi teacher used to talk about the belly as a large basin, a very big bowl, like  people, in the old days, would use to wash up before there were sinks and running water. My teacher would ask us to move as if that basin were completely full of water. She wanted us to sense the weight of the water, while at the same time, moving so that we didn’t tip the bowl causing the water to spill out of the bowl to the front or to the back or to the sides. This is particularly important when doing tai chi, as it is critical to cultivate a strong sense of horizontality while moving.

For some people this larger sense of center works better.

Now we get to my favorite version.

Nietzsche wrote, The center is everywhere. This frees me. I no longer have to look for “my center” or locate it somewhere inside my body. Actually, I don’t have to try to locate it anywhere.  Drop the very notion of a center and sense what happens. Look around and sense that the center is everywhere. When this works, it really works.

Stephen Hawking, the great astrophysicist, has the same idea, but here he is contemplating our macro-cosmos.

“Now at first sight, all this evidence that the universe looks the same whichever direction we look in might seem to suggest there is something special about our place in the universe.  In particular, it might seem that if we observe all other galaxies to be moving away from us, then we must be at the center of the universe.  There is, however, an alternate explanation: the universe might look the same in every direction as seen from any other galaxy too.  We have no scientific evidence for, or against, this assumption.  We believe it on the grounds of modesty:  it would be most remarkable if the universe looked the same in every direction around us, but not around other points in the universe!  The situation is rather like a balloon with a number of spots painted on it being steadily blown up.  As the balloon expands, the distance between any two spots increases, but there is no spot that can be said to be the center of the expansion.”

As usual, great question. I hope this gives you a few possibilities with which to play. If you discover something let me know.

There’s nothing quite like real life.

Helping people who come to our studio for lessons to become more physically and personally comfortable really does help. Sometimes a lot. It’s a beginning. Helping a person experience this newfound liveliness as they engage in an activity, like playing a violin, or doing the dishes, or working at a computer takes the work beyond the bodyself and into the world of action, and interaction, into life. My teacher, Marjorie Barstow, was masterful when it came to “working in activity” within a group setting. That stands as a major pedagogical contribution. Overtime, for me, “working in activity” evolved, transforming itself into “working situationally.”

It was some years ago, a workshop in Lubeck, Germany, an elementary school teacher wanted to work on teaching. I said, “Sounds good, lets do it. What’s the most stressful moment look like for you when you’re teaching?” She says,” When class is over and the students are running either out the door, or to my desk, while simultaneously, the next class is running through the same door and  into the classroom, or toward my desk.” “How’s that feel,” I ask?  She says, “ I feel bombarded”, and I observe her as she answers my question, her eyes wide open, her lips apart, her body arching back, her hands springing up in front of her like a shield, her breath held high in her chest.

To the fifteen other people in the room I say, “Okay, let’s make a classroom.” I ask the teacher where the door is in relation to her desk and the students proceed to set up the room, happy to be participating. I watch everyone move and interact. My job is to get to know people, so I sit back and watch as much as I can.

The room’s set up. The teacher is standing in front of her desk. Half the students are in their seats, the other half ready to stampede into the room. Everyone understands that they now are 9 or 10 years old. “Okay, go!” I watch the scene as it unfolds. I see what I need to see.

The teacher’s eyes are bugging out of her head, mouth open, body arching back, hands behind her, elbows locked, hands pressing down against the edge of the desk, knuckles white, body rigid. She’s virtually paralyzed, appearing much like she did when responding to my earlier question, though much more pronounced.  I get all the “kids” to pipe down and to prepare for “take two.”

I ask the teacher to sit behind the desk. She wondered why she had not thought of that. Once in her chair, I ask her to pull her chair forward, closer to the desk, and then to sit back, to let herself rest against the back of the chair, to let the chair support her body. I invite her to feel how the chair comes up under her and supports her pelvis and her thighs too. I have her rest her hands in her lap, and her feet on the floor. Gently, I use my hands to help her decompress her spine, I make her aware of her facial tension until she is able to release her jaw, let her tongue rest, which softens her breathing and her ribs. I encourage her to feel the weight of her eyelids until her forehead relaxes. I watch her arms disarm, her legs ungrip.

I tell her, even though a batch of kids may arrive at her desk in the near future, seemingly all at once, that one student will get her attention first. “Turn and look at that student and address only that student as if she were the only person in the room. Give her all the time she needs. When you feel finished, notice the next student who catches your attention and do the same. Just see what happens. You won’t know until you give it a go. Okay?”  She says okay. Getting that commitment is important.

I give a nod, the kids flock toward her desk. The questions are coming from everywhere. Resting in her chair she turns her head toward one student and says, “Hi, what can I do for you?” She listens to the child, thinks for a moment, then replies. The other kids are desperately trying to get her attention while she’s living inside of a private world with this one student.  She smiles, and tells the child she looks forward to seeing her tomorrow. She turns to another student and says hello. Suddenly, a breeze of silence fills the room. The teacher continues to give her undivided attention to the second child. Gradually the students at her desk decide to leave until only two are left. She finishes, turns to the two other students and tells them she really wants to meet with them and that she’d like to do it after class. They sit down.

Working situationally.  If you bring a person’s real life into the classroom, they will more likely be able to bring what they experienced in the classroom into their real life.

That has been my experience.

Photo: B. Fertman

Perception

…a way of regarding, understanding, or interpreting something; intuitive understanding and insight.

How are these two women feeling?

Look closely.

What do you actually see, what specifically tells you  how they may be feeling?

I’d like to know what you see.

If you like, share your perceptions with me.

Thank you.

Photo: B. Fertman

This life of ours would not cause you sorrow

if you thought of it as like the mountain cherry blossoms

which bloom and fade in a day.

MURASAKI SHIKIBU (974-1031)

Photo: B. Fertman

By Keiko Ishii*

I had an operation on my right hip joint nearly three years ago.  With a new artificial hip joint, my walking is fairly normal. Recently I learned that the cartilage around my left hip joint is wearing thin. My orthopedic surgeon warned me against impact. When I go down the steps and my left foot drops down onto the step below, I feel impact. Is there another way? In ten minutes I learned that there was another way. Here is what I remember.

Floating Up

After watching my usual way of going up and down the steps, Bruce quietly said, “Okay. I see.”

He had me place my right foot on the lowest step with my right hand on the handrail. I found myself looking up at the top step thinking, “I have to go all the way up there?” As if he could read my mind, Bruce said, “No need to look way up there. Just see right where you are. That’s enough.”

He gently placed his hands on my head and neck. My consciousness instantly dropped into what felt like my “inner body.” His hands touched my shoulders, my ribs, under my arms. Everything, my ribs, my entire spine, from my tailbone right up into my skull, was lengthening. Everything was getting bigger and lighter, and before I knew it, as if by itself, my body floated up the steps with no limp and no pain.

Falling Down

Bruce then asked me to walk down the steps. Immediately I tensed up. Bruce watched me take one step then said, “That’s fine. Keiko, pause for a second. Where are you looking? What are you looking at?” I was looking straight ahead. But I was not seeing anything. I was too scared about hurting my hip to see anything.

Bruce walked up the steps and joined me. “Watch me.” He faced the handrail, held it as if it were a ballet barre, placed his left foot on the edge of the step, his left leg straight, while his right foot dangled in space above the step below. He let his foot sway as if it were being blown by a gentle wind and with his soothing, rhythmic voice, I heard him sing, Yaa, yaa, yaa… Bruce asked me to do what he did. I did. I swayed my right leg in the wind. I sang, Yaa, yaa, yaa… I could feel my right hip joint freeing, and a relaxation coming over me.

Bruce then leaned every so slightly over his swaying leg, and fell. He landed quickly but softly onto the step below. He showed this to me a few times. It looked simple enough, but when it came time for me to do it myself I hesitated and pulled back my leg from the step. I was afraid of falling down, afraid of there being too much impact on my artificial right hip. Again, as if Bruce knew exactly what I was thinking and feeling he said, “Keiko you are safe.”

I was scared, but I took the chance. I leaned slightly over my dangling right leg and fell. But I didn’t fall. There I was standing on my right leg. No work for my supporting leg. No impact on my landing. I repeated this several times. All I was feeling was joy.

We then did this with my hands touching the wall on the other side, this time my right leg serving as my supporting leg. Bruce showed me again. Again he assured me it would be fine, and it was. No impact. Just comfortable. Facing sideways, I continued “falling down” the stairs until I was at the very last step when Bruce said, “Keiko, wait there for me.”

“I watched you fall onto that dangling leg ten times and everything was fine. That’s exactly what we are going to do now; the only difference is that instead of facing sideways, we’re going to face forward. Can you put your right leg forward and let it hang and sway, Yaa, yaa, yaa…just like this?” For some reason it was much, much scarier facing forward. But I was on the very last step before the landing. So I did it.  I fell onto my right foot. No problem. Then Bruce had me do it again this time landing on my left foot. No problem. It was easy, but…

“But that was easy because it was the last step,” I heard myself say. “Keiko, isn’t each step the same as every other step? If you can do what you just did, both on your right side and left side, easily, then what does that mean?”

I got it. I knew I could do it. I went up to the top of the stairs. I turned around. Suddenly I was afraid, staring into the distance. Below I heard Bruce’s gentle, firm voice, “Keiko, look down at the step just in front of you. You only need to see where you are going next.” I did and, when I did, it was as if everything I had learned from all my Alexander teachers came flooding back to me. My body was organizing itself. There I was at the very top of a flight of stairs, my right foot dangling as if over an abyss. Still I felt fear, the fear of impact, of hurting myself. And just then, “Keiko, you are fine. Really. Just fall. Waaaa…

I did. The steps were coming into my vision, one after the other. Waaaa…and there I was at the bottom of the stairs. I asked Bruce if I could do it again. He nodded and up I went, like a cat, like a victorious hero. Like water cascading over rocks, I almost ran down the steps. Everyone was there waiting for me, happy for me.

*I wrote this piece originally in Japanese, and later in English. I asked Bruce to do what he thought best to make my account read well for English readers.

Photo: B. Fertman

Do not spill thyself; lean forward neither into appearances nor opinions. Receive the light as it shines directly down upon you and through you. Know that this light resides in you, no, that this light is you, that this light dims the moment you begin looking for it out beyond yourself and elsewhere. So perceiving, stop and direct yourself unhesitatingly back upon your own thought. Instantly, without effort, you will stand easily upright, command your own limbs, work miracles.

Emerson inspired passage by Bruce Fertman

At Crosslands, a Quaker retirement community, fifteen eager students, between the ages of 85 and 105, wait for the workshop to begin. After learning everyone’s name, and talking a bit about what will happen through the day, I ask them if there are any activities that are hard for them.  All hands go up.  One woman’s sparkly eyes catch my attention. I begin with Agnes.

Sitting fairly upright, she aligns her walker squarely in front of her chair, easily stands up, then very slowly shuffles over to me.

The bottoms of her feet are not leaving the ground.  Her ankles remain locked in a 90 degree flexion.  Her knees hardly bend. Her hip joints look stiff.  She’s hunched over.

“Agnes, would you mind walking back to your chair, and sitting down again?” Thinking that a bit odd, she nonetheless turns around and heads back to her chair.

I watch her slow, careful, shuffling. I watch her tentatively turn around, pause then sit down, gracefully. Her hips, knees, and ankles all flex smoothly and easily. Her balance is good. She’s transferring very little weight into her walker. I ask her to lean back against the back of the chair and just get comfortable. Her spine naturally lengthens. Her poise is good. I’m wondering…

“Agnes, did you ever fall when you were walking?”  Yes I did, and I broke my hip.”  “When was that, I ask?”  Agnes calculates. “Nine years ago.”

“Agnes, I couldn’t help noticing how naturally upright you are when you are sitting, and how well your legs work when you stand up and when you sit down. You look really beautiful and strong. When you get up and down your balance is so steady.” “Really, she says?” “Group, what did you see?” They agree. I can see they like Agnes.

“If I helped you with your walking, and if I promise you that you will not fall down or get hurt, would you consider working with me a little?”

Agnes thinks about it for a moment, smiles, and says, “Sure.”  She gets up and slowly shuffles over to me.

“Agnes can you keep the same amount of pressure between your hands and the walker, but gently let your head float up a tiny bit further away from the walker, so your spine feels more like it does when you are sitting?”  She becomes slightly more upright.  Her eyes tell me she’s a little scared.  Agnes, you are safe, I promise.  Tell me, do you feel more pressure or less pressure between your hands and the walker now?”

Surprised, she says, “More.”  “Isn’t that interesting?  You’re head’s further away from the walker and somehow that allows you to transfer more of your weight through the walker into the ground. You are higher up and yet you’re more stable. Feel that Agnes. It’s like this Agnes. A tall skyscraper could be very stable. And a little round hut close to the ground could be very unstable.”  I can see the wheels spinning. She gets it. Rounding over and trying to be closer to the ground might not be helping her.

“Okay Agnes, as you are standing there and sensing your stability, can you shift your weight slightly side to side, from your left foot, then to your right foot, and then back to your left foot, without losing your large, stable structure?” I can see that scares her a little, so I walk around behind her, softly touch her ribs, almost surrounding them with my large, warm hands, and send a little support up through her spine. I see her collapsed chest fill out and her head come back over her neck. For assurance, I keep my hands on her ribs.  Agnes shifts her weight.  No problem.  Then she shifts back again. No problem. I remove my hands so softly she doesn’t realize they’re not there.  She shifts again.  She continues several more times because she likes how it feels.

“Agnes. Well done. Now this time, when I finish talking, I want you to make sure that when you shift your weight, you shift your weight onto a truly straight leg, a completely straight leg.  See what happens if you firmly and gently refuse to crouch over or bend your knees. But for this to work you are going to have to make up your mind to leave yourself up here, no matter how odd it feels.  Go ahead and make your decision.” I can see a brave look come onto her face. There’s strength in her stance. “Agnes stick to your decision, and when you are ready, shift your weight.”

She does it perfectly. I see her friends in the class watching closely. No one is drifting off. “Agnes, well done.” This time when you shift your weight to the left, as you did so well, be there for a second, and bring your right knee forward and touch my hand.” My hand is now two inches in front of her knee. She does it, and I say, “Good.”  I move my hand three inches away, and ask her to touch my hand again, and she does. Then four, then five.  Agnes looks really surprised. I said, “Agnes that is what your knee does every time you sit down and get up, so I knew you could do that. I will not ask you to do anything that I don’t know you can do. I promise.”

We do it to the other side.  Occasionally I remind her of her long spine and of the better stability she has through the walker, and of her straight legs. She’s now comfortable with my touch, which I use sparingly to remind her that she doesn’t need to crouch down.

“Agnes, in a moment you are going to shift your weight to the left onto a straight leg, send your right knee more forward than usual, and when your knee is forward, I want you to let your foot hang down like a horse’s hoof. Then you are going to let your foot come down to the ground wherever it wants to.” She does it. No shuffling, no sound, but I do not say anything about it.

“Well done. Agnes, is this fun?” Eyes sparkling she says, “Yes, fun.”  “Good. For me too.”

“Okay Agnes, can you sense that your feet are now slightly apart but instead of being side by side, one foot is just a little bit in front of the other? She nods. “Can you continue sensing all your stability, and shift your weight diagonally forward onto your straight right leg?  I am standing behind her, my hands on either side of her ribs encouraging her to remain easily upright. She takes her step. “Perfect.”

About 10 minutes have gone by. We are in another world, a world where time has stopped. Agnes has taken one real step.

We do the same with the left knee, and then with the right again, and the left again.

“Okay Agnes. If you can take one step like that, one stable, safe step, then don’t you think you could take two, and if you can take two safe, stable steps, don’t you think you could take three?” Agnes, decide to walk like that, at whatever speed feels comfortable for you. Go take your walker for a walk, as if you were walking a shopping cart down the isle of a supermarket.”

I stand behind her placing my hands lightly upon the back and sides of her lower ribs. We’re in tandem. When her right knee goes forward my right knee goes forward right under hers. But my touch is so light she hardly feels I am there.  After taking about 5 steps, my touch fades away. She is walking on her own, with her walker, upright, stable, safe.

“Agnes. Look at George, and walk over to him.” She does. She’s smiling. Now look at Ethel, and walk over to her. She does. She’s gaining confidence. Now look at Ada and walk over to her. She let’s out a laugh. Each time she walks over to a person, Agnes is thinking less about herself and more about the person she is seeing.  And each time, without noticing it, she is walking faster. But looking around, I see that Agnes’s friends are noticing it.

I am standing in front of Agnes. I kindly hold my hands in front of her inviting her to put her hands on top of mine. It’s like I am inviting her to dance with me. Agnes looks me in the eyes, not thinking about her body and places her palms on top of my palms.  “Agnes, I am a very good walker, and I’d like to be your walker.” I ask Ada to take Agnes’s walker promising Agnes that I will give it back to her. “Agnes, take me for a walk.” As Agnes walks forward, I walk backwards. She’s leading and I am following. We’re dancing.

“Agnes, walk me back to your chair.” She does. I sit down. My hands slide out from under Agnes’s hands. Agnes is standing fully upright on her own, but I say nothing. I slide my hands back under Agnes’s hand. Bending over slightly, I slowly begin to stand up and reflexively Agnes helps me onto my feet. I ask her to turn me around, so we can switch places, because it is her turn to sit down.  She is not thinking about herself, she is thinking about turning me around. She is in the lead.

“Thanks Agnes. You can sit down now.” I drop my hands away and, without her walker, Agnes sits down.

Agnes feels safe, secure, and stable, because she is.

A mother, 70, has a son with cerebral palsy.  He is now 40 years old.  The mother is small and the son is not.  For years the mother has lifted her son from his wheelchair to the toilet, and back again.  I ask her to show me how she lifts her son up. The mother moves well. She has to.

I notice an almost invisible gesture she makes just before she begins the trying task of picking up her son. She quickly strokes the right side of her head, moving her thick, gray streaked hair back behind her ear.  I ask her to pause for a moment.  I ask her if she felt the movement she just made.  The mother says, “No, I didn’t do anything yet.”  I said, “Yes you did.” I tell her what she did. I ask her to do it again, very slowly, consciously.  She does.  I ask her to do it again, and then again.  I ask her to continue, but to do it now as if her mother were brushing her hair.  She continues. Soon the mother begins to cry.

I say, “Okay, go and lift up your son.” She stops. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.  I can wait. Then the mother says,  “I am too old to do this by myself.  I need help.  She turns to her younger son, who is in the room, and asks him if he wouldn’t mind helping her.  He is happy to do it for his mom, and for his brother.

The mother stands there watching her two boys.