clenching…

Friday, March 18th, 2011
elastic band hand

trussed up

Something that I have observed in my body is how I react to stress by ‘clenching’ – not just in the obvious places such as the stomach – but in different parts of my body according to what it is that is getting to me. This can be a very subtle ‘tightening’ and can occur when I hear something about myself I don’t like, or about someone or something else. Or someone singing whose voice I don’t like, or a song I don’t like, or saying something that produces some kind of unhappy resonance. Or doubt, or fear, or worry. And, sometimes, I become aware that this little tight spot is being held; that I am constantly holding it – the way one might try and hold a handful of sand trying not to let it escape. And it occurs to me just how much energy it must take to be holding on to so many little ‘fistfuls’ of stress. Further it occurs to me that each little clenching draws the towards it the flesh around it, pulling on it like tiny blackholes distorting space. And I wonder if these, coming together, and over time, lead to a bowing of the body, a cramping up, a twisting. And I know from yoga – a practice a main benefit of which might be a stretching free of such knots – that misalignment in the body, in posture, leads inevitably to more of the same. It’s as if we were a frame of rods held together by a system of elastic bands that are optimally in dynamic balance, but that if one elastic band begins tightening, it will pull the whole frame out of shape, folding in on itself, limiting its natural movement, until the whole thing collapses into a paralyzed ball…

So it seems to me that it might be wise for me to cultivate an awareness of such clenchings, for becoming aware of one, I can gently ‘let it go’ and this is better done before it has become a knot. After all is it likely that such knots do not have a parallel in my mind…?

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yoga bear…

Thursday, February 17th, 2011

bear demonstrating yoga posture "dancing bear"

bear doing yoga © Meta Penca


Upavishta Konasana

© Beryl Bender Birch doing merudandasana

This picture is one of several taken by Meta Penca, a 29 year old web programmer from Slovenia, of Santra the bear doing her exercises at the Ahtari Zoo in Finland. Strangely, or not so strangely, this is exactly the same as the yoga posture Merudasana, Balancing Bear Posture (rather more prosaically also known as Upavishta Konasana, Seated Angle Posture.) Taking this name into account and comparing the two photographs, it seems obvious to me where the idea came from – it seems unlikely the bear is copying some human.

In the past humans learned a lot from animals. Yoga is filled with examples, then so is T’ai Chi (a part of one form is called White Crane Flaps Wings). Now you might say that the reason for this is because our forebears (*grin* no pun intended) were much closer to nature. However, I imagine that bears were no easier to watch then than they are now in our zoos, books or TV. I would suggest the real difference is that our forebears actually considered animals worth learning from. For them, the gap between us and animals was much smaller. Clearly by the time our civilizations began industrializing this gap had grown almost unbridgeable (some of this is down to religion, but that’s another issue).

If it had not it is hardly to be supposed that Darwin’s revelations about our origins would have caused quite so much consternation. In spite of now knowing that we are directly descended from apes (and they from other creatures all the way back to the first organism), we still have an ‘us and them’ attitude to our fellow animals. That we no longer feel we have anything to learn from them is an example of our hubris, and is not just our loss, but also theirs…

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the perception of time…

Wednesday, September 29th, 2010
life measured by thought and not the senses...

life measured by thought and not the senses...

I have just come back from walking my dog to hear someone talking on the radio about a theory he has of the perception of time that sounds essentially the same as one that I have held for a long time. So I thought I may as well put down my thoughts for the record…

Some years back I came back from shopping and realized that I had been there and back and could barely recall anything that had happened. It was almost as if I had not gone shopping at all – though I had the full bags to prove it… This then provoked in me an insight that gave me an answer as to why it was that time seemed to move faster the older I became…

People are always saying that time seemed to move so much slower when they were children – that the summer holidays seemed to last for ever. It seems to me that the reason for this is simply that, when we are children, we live profoundly ‘in’ our senses – that is, we are constantly monitoring sensory input. An extreme example of this would be a baby learning to take her first steps. The crossing from one side of the room to the other is necessarily a major undertaking. As a consequence, the experience is overwhelming – every totter, every regaining of balance, every step forward is experienced with exquisite awareness. Now, when you or I cross a room, we are no longer aware of our balance, of each footfall and the reason for this is that we’ve automated it. I remember my first driving lessons as being rather analogous to the child tottering. With practice, the mechanical processes of driving a car, that had once left me in a sweat of concentration, slipped into my subconscious, so that now I can drive barely aware that I am doing so.

As we age, we gradually automate everything, until we reach a state where we can negotiate almost our entire lives on ‘automatic’. Though our brain is still processing sensory input, our conscious mind is not. And, when consciousness is untethered to the senses, then we lose that childlike time perception. Apart from our body clocks (that operate in a different way), our perception of time is entirely given to us by what is happening outside us. If we stop paying attention to that, then time becomes entirely fluid, becoming the slave of whatever it is we are paying attention to: if something boring, time drags – if fascinating, it gallops…

So the answer to why time speeds up as we age is that we are progressively disengaging from the real world, the world of our senses, and instead choosing to spend our time in virtual worlds that reside entirely in our heads. Worse, we most of us deliberately annihilate time. How many of us do not sit at our desks longing for the weekend to come? – and by so doing, we compress the weekdays. Or we spend time looking forward to a holiday – and thus compress the weeks to that time…Interestingly, a proof of what I’m saying seems to me to be provided beautifully by holidays – especially those challenging ones where we go to a foreign country. There, our ‘automations’ so often don’t work. Consequently, we are forced back into our senses as we try and ‘make sense’ of things… Thus, on such holidays, a week appears to be a month. Holidays seem to expand time, though, of course, it is not the holiday that is expanded, but the rest of our lives…

So, the rate at which time moves for you is up to you. If while you are eating your cornflakes in the morning you actually pay attention to their taste and texture in your mouth, then your breakfast, rather than being a null-time event, will stretch to occupy a sizable period – an eternity even *grin* Of course, when I got to this point, I realized that this is what Buddhists and yogis have been saying for centuries – all that ‘listening to the breath’ – for, after all, what is listening to your breath other than tuning into the ‘real’ tick-tock of your life, rather than paying attention to that mechanical tyrant on the wall…?

(Incidentally, this is what Legions is talking about in my book The Third God when he says: “Without my senses to anchor me in the now, I have moved swiftly through my own, inner time. A life measured by thought and not the senses is exceeding short.”)

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crucifix versus cross…

Sunday, September 12th, 2010
a crucifix in San Damiano in Assisi...

a crucifix in San Damiano in Assisi...

empty cross in a presbyterian church in Florida...

empty cross in a presbyterian church in Florida...

When I was in Portugal earlier this year, it occurred to me that not a single one of my Portuguese readers has ever mentioned the violence inherent in the Stone Dance, never mind complained about it. This stands in stark contrast with reactions in the English speaking world – where the violence contained in the books is often mentioned. This contrast linked in my mind with a comment my therapist once made to me that “you imbibed Catholicism with your mother’s milk”… At the time I was taken by surprise, being that I am an atheist and that I do not recall even being in a Catholic church (though I was baptised in one). My mother is a devout Christian, but though she was brought up Catholic, when we moved to Scotland, she abandoned Catholicism because she was uninterested in the schisms in Christianity. Her attitude seems to be that she believes in Christ and can’t see the point in denominations. As it happened, she walked down the street and joined the first church that she came to. As this turned out to be the Church of Scotland, she nominally is now a Protestant – though, as I’ve said, she’s not interested in such distinctions.

What, you may be wondering, does this have to do with the Stone Dance. Well, when I was in therapy, I became aware that the Stone Dance has a layer of structure that is profoundly Catholic in its sensibility. In fact, Catholic themes of suffering and redemption run through the books; there are fundamental subversions of the Garden of Eden story, of original sin, of the casting out of Satan from Heaven… All this in spite of me being an atheist and having been brought up with only a moderate smattering of Christian influence… But we can none of us, it seems, be free of what we “imbibe with our mother’s milk”…(see the first epigraph of The Third God)

What then does this have to do with how different cultures react to the violence in the Stone Dance… First: I myself was not really aware of the violence in the books as being an issue – violence seems to be such a natural part of our lives, that for people to take exception to it, seemed to me a tad perverse. I was, after all, writing a book about the world as I see it… and who can claim that that world is not saturated with violence? I began to see that it might not be the violence per se that some people were finding difficult, but rather something about the way that that violence was being portrayed. Please understand that I am here feeling a way through the shadows – I don’t claim to fully understand this – but I now wonder if it could possibly be accidental that the only other group of people who have not noticed the difficulty in this violence should happen to be people from the country in which I was born; that though I was only in Portugal for 8 years of my life… that I am still Portuguese. And what then could it be about being Portuguese that leads to a different attitude towards violence?

My solution, a solution that came to me when I was in Portugal on my recent visit, I can best explain by what I see as a distinction between the crucifix and the cross. In my experience, the dominant symbol in the English speaking world is the bare cross, unadorned, abstract. In Portugal, in the Catholic world in general, this cross has a man suffering on it. How profoundly is a culture shaped, the minds of its children shaped, by the difference between these symbols? The contrast between the abstract instrument of torture and execution, and the instrument being demonstrated in use, viscerally, by having a man depicted on it suffering? And it seems to me that the profound mystery (in the religious sense) here is that a man suffering on a cross should be thrust into the face of people – especially children – as the symbol of the most profound love. This seems to me to provide some insight into the difference in how people react to the violence in the Stone Dance. For that violence is ultimately about sacrifice and redemption. And it seems that I am Catholic enough to have portrayed a unity between violence and redemption, between violence and love, that is immediately understood by people who have grown up with the crucifix and causes much more of a problem for those who have grown up with the plain, bare cross…

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orthogonality…

Friday, November 13th, 2009

five directions - from the Codex Borgia...

five directions - from the Codex Borgia...

I was doing yoga last night and was struck (again) by how the positions I was trying to achieve with my body had parallels with a particular satisfying way of thinking that I am constantly drawn to: the linking factor is ‘orthogonality’. This word is defined by the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary as coming from the Greek meaning “right-angled”… Consider the word “right” – which in turn is defined as being ‘straight’ – and, at least in English, has the meaning of ‘correct’, and even ‘something that is due to a person innately’…

Now this human obsession with ‘right-angles’ – as for example is exemplified in so many of our buildings (round buildings are an obsession for consideration another day)… with their straight edges, their corners, their square doors, windows etc – this obsession does not seem at all surprising to me. Consider yourself standing surveying the world: there is what is in front of you, what is behind, what is to your right, and to your left. This is, I think, likely to be a particularly strong impression to an animal that stands upright. We have a front and a back… and we have eyes, ears, arms, legs etc – right and left of a central axis… This then finds a deep resonance with the world we live in. With its east/west axis defined by the path of the sun and, except on the equator, the sun lies to the south, and thus, behind us, is north. Interestingly, in the Americas (and other places too) there were not only these four directions, but a fifth… the centre… the place you are standing… the place you ‘are’…

Is it surprising then that this omnipresent orthogonality should seep into so much of our thinking? Our writing systems that move horizontally or vertically across rectangular writing surfaces. Our mathematics. Our attempt even to lay out our cities and our fields in grids and rectangles – inscribing them on a planet that, in many ways, we persist in seeing as a massive square – a world with corners…

For me there is an even more subtle consequence. When I do many things, especially writing my stories, I seek a kind of ‘orthogonality’ – that no longer is tied down to rectangles and corners, but rather to an elegance of connection of all the parts so that they span the space (and time) with a minimal elegance; an orthogonality that contains without cramping, leaving the ‘space’ room to breathe…

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