Mind in Motion

• | Print |
•  Email

The Teacher Learns

1994, All Rights Reserved

Toby lies on my Feldenkrais^® table with his head turned to the right and his right hip slightly lifted. His blue polo draws taut over his flat lower back. Searching the contours of his back, I see an asymmetry. Perhaps the right side hollows out a little more than the left? His mid-spine dips forward, arching in a continuation of the proud dancerly posture—chest up and stomach in—he takes in standing. Feeling through his shirt, I gently touch the tightness of muscles in his mid-spine and abdomen, noting that the left side seems less resilient, tighter than the right.

His legs, turned out as in first position, toes pointing more or less toward opposite walls, present an unusual configuration for lying prone. People lying on their stomachs usually rest the tops of their feet on the table or turn both feet in the same direction as their heads.

I am curious how Toby's way of holding himself effects his movement. Gently moving parts of his body and noticing how he takes up the motion, I begin to investigate his movability, that is to say, his readiness to act. Even though the movements are tiny, I can feel how easily he moves in each direction. Placing my hands around the crests of his hip bones, I tilt his pelvis forward and back ever so slightly, noticing that the very bottom of his spine hardly moves in response. As his pelvis rocks, I feel his left hip's reluctance to lift away from the table.

Gently rolling Toby's pelvis side to side, I keep within a range no wider than my thumb. Tracking the response up through his spine and ribcage and down through his hip joints and legs, I compare his current movement with what I know is possible for human structure. When his right hip lifts away from the table, his lower back arches slightly and the motion diffuses easily through his spine and chest. When his left hip lifts, his lower back does not change shape as easily as the other side. The left hip feels heavier and there is no ripple of movement up his spine.

I remember seeing something similar in his walk when he entered my office. The left side of his pelvis was held slightly forward, his low back refusing to follow along with the movement of his left leg. Toby said that since he injured his left foot in a bicycling accident, it was impossible for him to get up to relevé, a dance position of standing on the balls of the feet. After watching him demonstrate this difficulty, I asked him to walk around the room a bit.

"I walk like a duck," he said, commenting on his typical modern dancer's walk: legs turning out and feet splayed. "Doctors have told me that it isn't any good for me, but every time I try to change it my back hurts."

"It's difficult to alter just one aspect of how you move."

As he walked around, the way his left foot moved caught my eye. Something was missing: rather than pushing off with his toes, Toby lifted his foot before he could arch his heel away from the floor. He kept his ankle bent so there was no clear push-off. At the end of the step cycle, the motion of each leg differed greatly. When he stepped forward onto his left foot, his right leg stretched behind and his lower back arched in response; when he stepped onto the right, his back was still and his left leg hardly moved back.

Touching him, I say, "Notice the differences in the muscles here in your lower back, buttocks, and belly. Do you feel how you are tighter, here on the left? See, if I rock your pelvis gently forward and back, your left hip and back are pretty still."

"I can feel that. "

"When you walk, you don't seem to get much push off with your left foot. Your back isn't doing what it needs to do to help you. Here, let me bring you into a slightly different configuration," I say, gently suggesting a bit of arch in his lower back until his chest becomes more aligned with the vertical plane. "This will probably feel rather unusual. Walk a bit and tell me what you notice."

"It is strange."

"Does it cause any pain in your foot?"

"No."

Before proceeding, I want to make sure that the plan forming in my mind would not create a new problem. I know that what he can't do to come up to relevé is also needed at the end of each step in walking. Watching him, I find that my conjecture is right: the limitation appears in another activity. The pattern of limitation is not specific to one action, it is pervasive. This overlap allows me to investigate without focusing directly on the problem, giving me a chance to ask, what is interfering with his movement?

I also ask myself, how would this person move if he were going so efficiently? To answer this question requires knowledge of the body's biomechanical design. In order to comprehend how each part can contribute to the action, I must have a clear idea of an optimal pattern. But by taking into account the student's asymmetries and imperfections, I ensure that what I see fits his particular structure rather than some abstract ideal.

In Toby's case, certain dynamic elements—relationships nested in the complex coordination we call walking—were missing. His pelvis did not move in the way it needed to for him to push off with his left leg. He lacked the necessary movability in his lower back. His left hip joint was hindering, rather than helping, the action. The same phenomenon occurred when he attempted to rise onto the ball of his left foot: without the rest of him accommodating appropriately, his weight couldn't shift easily onto the front of his foot.

Comparing what could be with what is, I made a hypothesis about how his problem is situated in his movement. Asking him to temporarily alter his way of moving, I tested which solution would be beneficial. I continue my evaluation after he lies on the table, confirming what I observed in standing. This checking helps Toby understand the relationship between what I pointed out in the evaluation and what we are about to do on the table.

My hands explore the boundaries of his habit by moving his legs, pelvis, ribs, and shoulders. My hands are neither instructing nor commanding, rather I suggest one movement and then another. I am asking how he moves in each direction, listening to changes in the quality of motion. I notice where the movement thickens, where it would take more work to overcome what should, ideally, be easy. I'm asking questions and listening to the answers, getting to know Toby through my fingertips.

Thinking about the way his foot meets the floor and the way in which the floor pushes back through the skeleton, I begin to press ever so gently on the bottom of the right foot. The resulting force flows up his leg, connecting through his spine to his head. Though the movement of the lower back is somewhat restricted, a line of support—the very foundation of standing—is present. From the left foot this skeletal chain reaction is blocked by contracted back and buttock muscles. These tight muscles absorb the force and stop the transmission of movement at the pelvis.

Since I can elicit the appropriate response on the right side, I work to refine it. Just as this method follows a kind of somatic Marxism—from each according to its ability—I follow the path of motion through the skeleton. Starting with movements of the foot and working my way up to Toby's head and neck, I clarify each link's role in passing force. For example, I look at the relationship of the leg to the pelvis, investigating how slightly different angles of the leg effect the transmission of motion.

After I can elicit a response from the right side that distributes the work globally, I return to pressing through the left leg. The difference is clear: something is definitely missing on this side. The parts do not work together, some coming together just cannot happen.

Before I can ask if he notices, Toby remarks, "That's so different. It's like this leg is stupid or something. It just doesn't know what do. And my back, it feels stiff and heavy."

The invariants, the relationships that could change but do not, act as a corset around his body, allowing some minimal give but preventing certain patterns from ever manifesting themselves. Tracing the movement limitations in the forefoot, lower leg, hip, back, and lower ribs, I explore how these interweave to form Toby's habit. His foot seems stiff and he holds his breath whenever I touch it. I go to his pelvis and lower back. I'm searching for a transition point from which to elicit the missing movements; so far I haven't found one.

Moving on, I become interested in his ribs. They seem glued together. I return to the movement of pushing through the right leg and investigate how the ribs fit into the picture. Returning to the left, I look for some movement, however small, that could make the ribs a part of the movement rather than a part of the problem. Though their absolute range is small, ribs can move quite a bit when we breathe and when we twist or bend. Ever so slowly, I encourage each rib to move, reminding it of its birthright. Toby takes a deep breath, relaxing his belly and settling a bit more onto the table.

Returning to his pelvis, I find a little more willingness to move. Starting with the areas of his low back that move with ease, I begin to evoke the various movements that are possible, alternately differentiating the movement of the joints and correlating the relationships between the bones at either side. What movement is possible here? What is the consequence elsewhere of interfering with motion here? Lifting the hip a bit away for the table, I explore how to call forth the movement lacking in his back. I continue with the same strategy: researching the exclusive movement of a joint and then inquiring into its inclusion in the larger constellation. At no point do I insist, knowing that if each local motion improves a little and if the pieces start to fall into place, at some point, the boundaries will melt away and a new global organization will appear, whole and vibrant. The shift we working towards is discontinuous, it is a change in kind rather than a change in degree. So I continue, following the line of a motion that is not yet present, preparing each place, from toe to head, for its part.

Returning to Toby's left foot, I gently push again. I can see the motion going through to his head, making it nod slightly. His foot and lower leg are freer, allowing them to make the movements necessary for pushing off. Even more importantly, his back and hips know what to do. A new pattern has come into focus.

I slowly guide Toby to sitting and, after giving him a few moments to get comfortable, bring him to standing. He walks a few steps, stops, and comes easily to relevé.

"Hey, I can do it. How did you do that?"

• < Prev