I recently found a picture of me that is from a key experience for me with the Alexander Technique—a story I often tell when introducing the Technique to performers.  The moment occurred several months after I  played Cordelia in King Lear at Washington University in St. Louis. Morris Carnovsky was King Lear. (Carnovsky was one of the original members of the Group Theatre, had played Lear all over the world, including with Peter Brook.) Given this amazing opportunity, I worked diligently to prepare myself for the role. Performing with Carnovsky was as powerful an experience as I had imagined, and I was proud of my work and grateful to have played the role. A few months after the show closed, Marjorie Barstow, my Alexander Technique teacher, came to Washington University to do a workshop. I asked her to help me use the AT for one of Cordelia’s monologues. When I began the monologue in the play, I moved my hand towards Carnovsky who, as Lear, was sleeping in front of me. I had always wanted my hand to move towards his face in a way that carried all of Cordelia’s love with it. I could never quite get my hand to do what I wanted—no matter what I said to myself, my hand looked stiff. As Marjorie Barstow helped me to use the Alexander Technique, my hand did what I had wanted it to do! Then I began to speak, and suddenly my voice was responding to my ideas about the text and its expression. I had done OK with this in performing the role, but now my voice was working for me more than OK. And then I suddenly realized that some of the words meant something more, something different from what I had thought. I understood the text better. At that point I was so overwhelmed that I could not continue the monologue. I had had strong acting moments before, but how they happened was always a bit of a mystery. This was no mystery—I had consciously used the Alexander Technique and all of the work I had done on the role and this monologue was not only working, it was also expanding my understanding and expression.

The room that I most loved at Marjorie Barstow’s* house was her study.  There was a fireplace in the corner with tiles around it.  Enclosed bookshelves.  Dolls.  The telephone that she most often used.  And a revolving wagon wheel  glass-covered coffee table with many many magazines on it.  There were magazines about things that we knew Marj was interested in—horses, ranching, dolls.  And each year we also noticed new magazines—new topics, some surprising.  It was perhaps the first time that I consciously recognized someone choosing to challenge herself with new topics and ideas.  We might call it adult neuroplasticity now.  *(Marj is the woman who introduced me to the Alexander Technique and with whom I learned to teach.  She was the first graduate of F.M. Alexander’s first teacher training course.)

A friend posted something on Facebook last week about a children’s book that I know I read over and over again as a child—Watty Piper’s 1930 story, The Little Engine That Could.  The story is about some railcars who need an engine to pull them over the mountain.  Several engines, for differing reasons, choose not to help.  Just as they are about to give up, the little blue engine, who happens to be a “she” engine, arrives and, even though she isn’t sure she can do it, agrees to help.  That is when the “I think I can” rhythm of her effort begins.  Ultimately, she succeeds and the chant turns to “I thought I could--- I thought I could---

The themes of the book made me smile in recognition of how much some of the story could be recognizable in my beliefs today.  One of my fancier Alexander Technique terms is “psychophysical history.”  We all have a psychophysical history that creates our present day behavior.  Much of that history is very helpful—and when we run into an old idea that we are interested in updating, , a little chant of “I think I can I think I can” can be a great companion.

Greeting 2013 with wonder!
Happy New Year!