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!

 Walking through the Tutankhamen exhibit at the Pacific Science Center a few days ago was a feast of storytelling through art.   While standing next to statues and hieroglyphs that I had previously only seen in my art history books, I was deeply touched to be walking next to “stories” from humans from so long ago.   Our deep enjoyment of story-telling and story-receiving has been part of being human for as long as we have records of humans.

We are in a season of stories—traditions around all the solstice-related celebrations include many stories.  Each story invites us to experience the world from a different viewpoint.  Each year at this time, as I hear stories from so many traditions, I remember  one of Denise Levertov’s poems.  She uses one of the seasons’ stories to celebrate the freedom of choice at the heart of our humanness.  Here is an excerpt from her poem, “The Annunciation”….

We know the scene: the room, variously furnished,
almost always a lectern, a book; always
the tall lily.

Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,
the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering,
whom she acknowledges, a guest.

But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions
courage
The engendering Spirit
did not enter her without consent. God waited.

She was free
to accept or refuse, choice
integral to humanness.

Aren't there annunciations
of one sort or another in most lives?
Some unwillingly undertake great destinies,
enact them in sullen pride,
uncomprehending.

More often those moments
when roads of light and storm
open from darkness in a man or woman,
are turned away from
in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair
and with relief.
Ordinary lives continue.

God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.

Celebrating our courage, and I am including the daily, perhaps mundane moments of courage along with the to the “life-changing” moments,  could be a key to keeping our own gates open.

Greeting the New Year with Process

While listening to one of several radio interviews with Charles Duhigg , author of The Power of Habit,  I recognized much of what I have learned through incorporating the Alexander Technique deeply in my life

Each time I have heard him, however, I have felt a little “unease” with the emphasis that the title gives to his work--habit. This time as I listened, I realized that my unease was perhaps coming from an incongruity between the title of his book and his message. 

It seems to me that what he really cares about is the power of process—that it is possible to respond to habits in freedom rather than compulsion.

And, in my newly acquired copy of his work, that is exactly what he says at the end of the prologue.  “We now know why habits emerge, how they change, and the science behind their mechanics. We know how to break them into parts and rebuild them to our specifications…..Transforming a habit isn’t necessarily easy or quick.  It isn’t always simple.  But it is possible.  And we understand how.”

How elegantly the process of using the Alexander Technique matches some of what I have read already!  The great gift of the Alexander Technique is its offer of a process that can be deeply integrated into every moment of life—creating the cue to make the choice you want, the specific response to the cue, and the reward of a more and more responsive coordination.

I wonder if the book would have gotten the same “buzz” if it was called “The Power of Process.”    We do have a way of responding to what we might think we don’t want – i.e. habit. (remembering that some of our habits, like tying our shoes, are very handy to have).

Yet what we need is beyond that—it is the Yes beyond our current idea of habits—the “yes” of a Constructive process.