Plating: Procurement to Plate, the Joy of Partaking III

Why do we bother to imagine and intend how a plate presents?  It's the food that matters, right?  It's the  components  we bothered to prepare that get our saliva started, bile juices turning, that promote the digestive process.  What does it matter what it looks like as long as my body and a meal are in gear?

We humans discount the impact of subtle (and gross) impressions on our being.  Impressions are a food unto themselves.  They satiate a deeper hunger, a hunger that isn't always at the forefront of ourselves.  I saw this when I was a nurse in a hospital.  Patient's fragile states and reduced appetites were often impacted not by the food so much as the presentation.  I saw patients lose their appetite if the meal was huge (imposing, overwhelming).  Countering this, I saw patients gain an appetite when color, care and balanced portions were presented.  It's an energy thing, I think.  A patient's energy is so sensitized due to their illness; they pick up on, register (possibly assume?) the energy of the plater, the server, the preparer of the meal.  When it is mechanical, uncaring it's unappetizing.  Institutional food is not unappetizing solely because it's mass produced, but also because it's mass delivered in an often coarse way.  The automatic and unmindful way we partake of meals or food as a general population has become commonplace.  And so it is reflected in our institutions.  When we become more sensitized to the sacred event in a meal and all the parts thereof,  the event becomes something else.  We become something else other than food shoveling automatons.  A meal is (could be / should be) a sacred event; a nurturing of our being through deep nourishing impressions and thoughtful, balanced nutrients.

When imagining a meal, the long view of how it will be served and how it will end up on a plate is necessary.  Whereas three components on a plate are traditional, a fourth (or more) component makes it a party, a feast.  Keeping intact the original shape and size of at least one component supports the other components which have undergone chopping and/or shrinking (a transformation).  Alternately, if all the components are roughly the same size and whole, it is less interesting and appealing than when one or two have been altered in size and/or texture.

It might be helpful to look at the components of a meal as playing a role.  There is the "hero" on the plate and the supporting players.  The supporting players enhance, even elevate the hero.  They are sometimes the sublime foil for the hero or each other.  They do this through complimenting color, texture, size and shape and of course flavor.  An example of this would be the sweet/sour/pungent accompaniment to meat, such as a chutney or a sauce/gravy.  This is a complex foil.  Complex in color and flavor.  Often the simplicity of a steamed vegetable unadulterated, brings relief to one's gastronomy when the other offerings have more complexity.  

As far as plating goes, harmony and balance are achieved in a meal when proportions are considered in relation to the whole, when colors are complimentary, when texture and shape are varied.  This might seem like a lot to consider and possibly fussy.  Fuss happens when tension moves in.  In a relaxed state, the right everything is available.  There is no hyper considering, worrying, over-concern.  Hence, no fussiness.  Considering the relationship of the meal's components as full and dimensional as well as being sometimes complex, is not the same thing as being overdone or fussy.  Overdone can be loading a pancake with so much fruit, that it does not allow the complex carbohydrate to have a voice of its own.  Or drowning the hero (protein) in a sauce that overbears upon the prime attraction.  Too much.  Not enough thought, restraint, or care-- or perhaps a capitulation to impulsive desire.  The food's end result will always show us the truth of the matter.

There are always surprises in cooking.  The colors you thought you were going to get don't happen or aren't pleasing.  Something shrinks in cooking you didn't expect.  The relationship of the components isn't finding balance on the plate.  Wonderful quandaries!  It allows us to reconsider what is required.  It asks us to sensitize ourselves to what is and to move from there in an open inquiry.  Quite often, the simplest of things like a leaf of parsley, a sliver of orange rind pulls everything together.  What to use?  How to decide?  Relationship should be what dictates the creative impulse.  If parsley was used in one of the components-- to have parsley at its simplest, expressed on another component would speak volumes.  It would be sublimely related. We aren't bringing something entirely foreign, but something, somehow related.  It's an interesting study to soften and open to what is and what the plate asks for.

photo credit:  Lalu Danzker

Service is an interesting consideration.  Do we plate before reaching the table, attempting to  control the received impression?  Or does the meal call for a family-style delivery?  Platters and bowls of the meal's components on the table to individually serve from?  This latter prospect invites a sense of abundance and also a different type of interaction among the meal's participants (things have to be passed to others, conversation ensues).  Every meal calls for its own type of service.

This post and most of the posts I write on food (hopefully) invite you into a sensitization, a receptive mode:  this state is the human gift.  All people have this as a propensity, it is part of our human inheritance.  Receptivity to impressions of food is just one facet of the prism of our existence.  It's a good place to practice the process of opening, sensitizing and receiving impressions and will carry over to all relationships (inner and outer) as its value is recognized.

The Care of Aging Parents: Making the Last Laps Rich (Part II)

In Part I on this topic, I centered the post around the idea of setting an intention of what we want in the healing and transformation of the relationship with one's aging loved one.  Opening to the feeling aspect of what it is we want prepares the ground for the details, and helps sees us through the challenges of what is put into play—what, hopefully, we and our parents want.  In this Part II, I will deal more with the nuts-and-bolts of how to provide the sustenance that makes these last laps rich and meaningful for you and them.

Once the intention is set, it is good to determine how you and your elder are going to work together.  Are they handing everything over to you, abdicating all control?  Or do they want to be co-determiners as long as possible?  How will this work, how is it imagined?  Part of the healing in the relationship is the sublime relating we do with them, and they with us.  The confronting the hard things in a soft way, the 'yes' and the 'no's. The disagreements, fears, the sensitivity to the taking control and having little say.  It's this territory that is fertile, if not a challenge to navigate.  This is where we attempt to optimize our Listening,  our Attending-to/Attention, our Observing.  This is where breath and a nuanced appreciation for what Is can transform the difficult transitions.

You see your elder aging, having a more difficult time doing basic things, like laundry, cooking and cleaning.  You might even notice a hygiene deficit or important memory lapses (not taking medications in a timely manner, forgetting to pay bills, etc.)  By this time, it's late in the game.  It's late in the game, because of Denial.  Denial on everyone's part.  Experiencing or noticing a decline in a loved one or self is not easily accepted and often minimized.  We want the old homeostasis, even though change is well underway.  We think it's ok for them to be left alone for a few hours, or even though their balance is somewhat shaky, it's ok as long as their cane is nearby.  This lack of acknowledgement of a decline is denial and it is dangerous.  The primary concern we should have is safety.  Are they safe 100% of the day?  They aren't if they're forgetting medications, leaving the kettle on when on the stove or not being hygienic.  Always best to err on safety's side.  Have more coverage, not less.

Decline comes in all gradations;  gradual to quick.  It's important that once it is underway, there are watchful others around regularly to gage needed interventions.  It might start with grocery runs, housekeeping every other week, or help with a weekly shower.  A decline in social engagement outside the home is a subtle marker as well.  This often happens when an elder realizes they are losing memory (uncomfortable conversing with people who know them but whom they don't remember knowing) or have lost a physical fitness that makes it uncomfortable to be more active.  Losing memory can be very subtle and effectively hidden  by vague responses.  Dementia is masked by depression and sometimes vice versa.  He/she that has created an intention to be the 'observer' engaged with the elder becomes responsible for this watching and deciding/co-deciding with the elder when intervention is required.

Every situation is so different. There are myriad ways people can creatively care for loved ones, and also myriad situations in which the caring transpires.  It may be a collective of family members, or a trusted caretaker or group of them who reports to an adult child who is far away.  Determining the elder's wishes (early on, if possible) is helpful in determining what can be set up (home care, elder care in a senior community, etc).  And of course what is physically and financially possible for the adult child.

Early on, it is vital to consider obtaining power of attorney and/or a medical healthcare proxy for your parent.  It is easier for you to manage your parent's finances this way, and there isn't any holdup when it comes to healthcare decisions.  Outside sources that may be of help are your elder's doctor's office (might have referrals to home care agencies, social workers, etc), and local community senior centers which have programs during the day. Also seek information about alternative resources to support your loved one's needs, be they day/night companions, meals on wheels, rides to doctor appointments, groceries, etc.  If your elder is coming from a hospital situation, case managers and hospital social workers are knowledgeable goldmines regarding external resources and medicare/medicaid insurance payment of needed medical supplies; mine them fully.  Visiting Nurse organizations will do a full home assessment to determine level of care required and make suggestions.  Often, Medicare/Medicaid and private insurances pay most of this service.

When deciding on an elder institution (if that is an option you are considering), ask a lot of questions, field them not only to the 'home', but other professionals.  Hospital nurses that deal with the geriatric population often have an interesting perspective.  They see people come in from different places in different conditions, they hear and are aware of the best and worst places.  From institutions, ask for family references.  What are the activities (i.e.,  are residents ever taken off campus?), is there music, art, plant, pet therapies? What is the ratio of care, caregiver to resident?  Is there a "care for the caretaker" program helping with staff burnout? You should be able to get a rating on the establishment from the better business bureau, possibly AARP, etc.  Once an institution is decided upon, it behooves you to form congenial, informed relationships with the staff; they see you frequently, they know your expectations, they are aware of your strong advocacy for your parent.  When things go awry, a steady, calm, rational response is much more powerful than a reaction.   The former elicits respect from staff.  The latter elicits defensiveness and does not bode well for the care of your parent.  This being said, uncharacteristic strong reactions infrequently provided (and merited), are a heads up, pull-up-your-socks reminder to caretakers, which can go a long way to improving care.

For all caretakers, at any level of care, at any point in time, it should be assumed burn-out, compassion fatigue, will develop.  It is a huge undertaking having the welfare of another in your hands.  Being connected to one's breath, finding nourishing quiet moments for oneself helps to soften the hardness, opens one to another type of rest and rejuvenation.  Take care of yourself; make sure those caring for your loved one are also taking care of themselves.  It is through this regular practice where the quandaries, obstacles and difficulties are often relinquished.  Less tension in your body and in your life allow for another understanding, a possible spark of creative genius in solving a problem, an attraction to the thing or person that is needed in a moment.  This is the miracle of this process.  The process of healing a relationship, transforming a life in the middle and at the end.  This is what makes the last laps so rich, even while it is so hard.

The Care of Aging Parents: Making the Last Laps Rich (Part I)

This post is Part I of a 2 part series.  It precludes the practical detail of the action of mindful caring for our elders.

We are all born.  We all die.  And almost all of us have elders to consider as we ourselves age.  Without exception, that complex relationship, has its ups and downs (as well as karmic complications) through the relationship's continuum, and inevitably impacts our intentions to our aging loved ones.

At a certain point in a person's life, decision-making is necessarily abdicated due to advanced age or infirmity.  The decisions regarding the circumstances as to how their life will run its course is left to others:  adult children/family or institutions.  As adult children of aging parents, how do we consider what our relationship will be to our loved one's last laps?

For some, its a "no-brainer"; their parents have put into motion through long care term insurance purchase, or moving into an elder community that sees to the layered needs of the aging, or specifically voiced to their family how they would like to live the last years or decades of their life.  For these adult children, it's about follow through, respectfully adhering to their parent's wishes.  Even this ideal scenario is complex.  Possibly the adult children are not in a position physically, geographically or financially to honor these wishes.  Perhaps the aging community chosen is not so ideal, needs to be monitored on a regular basis.  Whatever the arrangement planned, the adult child's committed engagement is required, therefore, altering many aspects of their own independence.  Becoming clear to one's boundaries, capacity and level of commitment is essential.  Setting an intention that corresponds to the relationship you seek to create or maintain with the elder in your life is also required.

Many people claim there is a natural unfolding of this process, everyone involved takes their place.  Why make an intention if this is so?  Making an intention clarifies what you wish for in this relationship, shores-up the commitment with more of oneself.  The expected journey is long; challenges to the healing of a relationship, guaranteed.  An intention keeps us close to ourselves, and what we hope for, especially when the going gets rough and we question the endeavor.

Making an intention opens the field.  The field being one's perception, one's sixth sense.  It's possibly a growing up of the soul, an internal awareness of oneself and other.  It's a path of deepening oneself and one's possibility.  All the facts of the circumstance take a minor role and the relationship rises to the surface of prominent importance.  This is healing.  A possible healing of karma for those engaged and definitely a healing of what has been hard in the relationship.

With an intention, this is practically guaranteed.  How can I say this?  Because with an intention and a commitment to this journey comes a letting go of all that ultimately does not matter.  Whereas the details and circumstances are important, they are very secondary to what is shared. The cream rises to the top, a softening of oneself allows for perception to descend into parts of our self we didn't know we had.  This changes everything.  It also allows there to be this type of change in another.  If we only hold on to the details, the specifics, schedules and external needs-- and only allow that to run this lap, we miss the opportunity the  initial vow or intention created for us.

An intention might start with questions:  What percentage of my time do I want (not necessarily can) to spend with my parent?  With my parent's life affairs? What are aspects of our relationship that are  asking to be healed, would I like transformed? What are the grudges, resentments and hard parts we share?  How can I forgive?  How can I ask for forgiveness?  How much hands-on caretaking do I want to do (again, not necessarily can do)?  What is the necessary sacrifice on my part to do what I think I want to do?  Can I do this?  Can I get help with it?  All these questions are treated as an open inquiry.  Nothing is answered in a hard/fast, black/white way (at this point).  It's a beginning in fleshing out the feeling aspect of the proposed journey.  The decision-problem solving aspect of myself shouldn't jump in at this point, there will be plenty of time for that part to act.  In intention setting, its about allowing breath to enter the feeling center to create some room.

In this place of relationship a trust in something else besides the external occurs.  An adult child's anxiety and worry over the external details, the finances, the medical complications is background material.  It is almost always there, but for the most part doesn't take over our lives because the relationship's intention has helped us make it primary.  The connection, the vibration shared, the meeting and the healing is at the center.

Making the last laps rich, even under challenging and difficult circumstances is possible when this intention is in place.  Intention runs my actions.  I lose it, I return to it, I lose it again, but it is at the heart of what I want for my loved one and myself and steers me in the critical moments.  Our time, our financial resources, our individual direction; taking this on complicates our lives a little (or a lot) more.  Much like people making the lifelong decision to raise children.

In this journey we make, while there are hurdles, there is also a satisfying ride, a relaxing into the sublime elements of being connected to oneself and another more fully, an allowance of a natural unfolding.  Witnessing the external decline of another, whether mental or physical, isn't what you were afraid it would be.  The other's hallucinations, disorientation, good/bad pain days are experienced in a different way as this more subtle relationship is taken on.  The distinct impression of seeing our loved one with one foot in one world and the other foot in another more opaque world is touching and awe-inspiring. We see more of each other, a broader spectrum beyond personality and that is gratitude personified.  It is in this healing relationship one feels one's fortune; and it is reflected back from our loved one, having been shared.

I bring up intention in this first part, because it must precede the nuts/bolts and problem solving of the circumstantial details.  Otherwise, the external drives our actions, not the intention.

Repetition and Transformation

We live our lives in repetition.  So much of our comfort and discomfort is in the everyday cycling through sameness.  Repetition can bring a type of death.  It also can bring a type of renewal.  Renewal to what might have become mundane; the ordinary transformed.

I've taken to like ending my blog each year with a poem post. Below is a year-long series of tweets by poet Ian McMillan, describing the same walk he takes every day, wherein he illustrates the possibility of transformation in an ordinary, everyday sameness.  It is long, so freely skip and play in-between, allowing the impression of a new sameness to fall on open senses.

May 2014 bring the miracle of transformation in ordinary sameness to us all.

Each morning, I get up early and go for a stroll through my ex-mining village near Barnsley; just before 6am, I walk to the newsagent, then down a long hill and up a steeper hill and back home. It takes me about 40 minutes and I tweet about the stroll as soon as I get in. I’m excited by the idea of creating minimalist poetry about a limited canvas, trying to find something new every day from the same mile and a bit. The moon is a regular presence and so is the word “beautiful”. Here’s my selection of some of the tweets I’ve posted since  Christmas Day 2012:

25/12: On my early stroll, by the zebra crossing, one Belisha beacon working, one not, Like the cheapest open-air disco you ever saw.

27/12: On my early drizzly stroll I pretend  I’m in a film noir walking the mean streets of ~LA until a bloke with a dog says “ R8 kid!  Cold ’un!”

28/12: On my early stroll I’m battered by  the breeze, a skiff on the pavement’s lake. A  bit of old Christmas paper like a gull with  holly wings.

29/12: Early stroll. Find a pound coin on the pavement. Beats that 5p I found the other day. Moonlight alchemy!

30/12: On my early stroll I’m struck by the simple beauty of a No Entry sign. The red circle, the white line. It has the power of art.

5/1/2013: Different ways of looking at the moon: gaze, peer, peep, stare, glance, gawp. Pointing sometimes, like today. It was so beautiful.

6/1: Early stroll. The moon hasn’t turned up. I’ve been moon-jilted. Maybe it’s slept in. Sky like an empty purse with no coin in it.

8/1: Early stroll. Beautiful sliver of a moon low in the sky. I could almost touch it. I will. I daren’t. I might. Would it feel cold? I daren’t.

20/1: Just took the snowgrip things off my shoes. They feel like something you might find in the haunted wing of a lingerie shop.

21/1: Early snowy stroll. I find myself trudging, so I try to vary it: jazz trudge/hero trudge/tap trudge/thoughtful trudge/satirical trudge/trudge.

28/1: Early stroll. A man at the bus stop wearily lifts his arm as the bus approaches: it’s an exhausted hand-jive, an almost-signal, a wavelet.

16/2: Early stroll. I come across three discarded pens, and an empty pack of headache tablets. A poet’s passed by, I reckon.

23/2: Early stroll. Here we go, another day to seize, from aubade to nocturne, from first  kettle on to last light off!

1/3: Early stroll. Birds fly across the moon,  blossom begins to appear on a tree down the hill. I’m walking through a haiku, it seems.

3/3: Early stroll. I’ve eaten my apple then find another apple on the pavement. Tempted to eat it, so tempted. Barnsley: garden of Eden. Me: Adam.

8/3: Early stroll. I say Good Morning to a bloke in a camouflage jacket and he seems surprised that I can see him.

9/3: Early stroll. There’s a door in a skip and I’m tempted to open it, go through, find a mystical and magical land. Somebody stares at me from a bus.

10/3: Freezing early stroll. Grit wagon  trundles by and sprays me. Now I’m gritty.  I’ll go home and write a country song and a detective novel.

11/3: Early stroll. By the almost-demolished school, a bunch of red fire extinguishers  like chess pieces waiting for a game. Snow speckling them.

12/3: Early stroll. I see the bloke in the  camouflage jacket again, but walking behind is a man in a hi-vis jacket. His evil twin/ soul/conscience?

14/3: Early stroll. A big piece of gold-coloured wrapping paper, lifted by a breeze, flies towards me like a primitive sculpture of a mythical bird.

23/3: Early snowy stroll. A craving for colour in the white. So, thanks to blue bag in tree, green sparkly hat in front of car, crushed marker pen.

29/3: Early stroll. Cold, brilliant blue morning. By the flats where the farm used to be I remember a fire, burning hay. I was 6. My face warms.

30/3: Early stroll. An empty bus passes and I crouch to look at the moon through its moving windows. The driver slows down, thinks I want to get on.

7/4: Early stroll. A mystery by the demolished school: a small box with HARMONICA  written on it but no harmonica in it. I stand and listen: birds.

8/4: On my early stroll my left shoelace unravels itself: so that’s what walking is, a gradual progression that leaves you naked. Better speed up.

14/4: Early stroll. I walk past a door and the smell of toast and the sound of someone whistling and I want to go in and eat and whistle.

15/4: Early stroll. Beautiful visual image of five garage doors in a row, each door a different colour: a green/a blue/a green/a brown/a blue.

20/4: Early stroll. A row of black socks on a washing line seems to be walking in front of a tree just beginning to sprout pink blossom. I find 50p.

21/4: Early stroll. I wish I knew the proper names for clouds, but I don’t. So I’ll call that one George, that one Thinking, that  one Yesterday.

25/4: Early stroll. Meet my brother who looks just like me. Our voices mingle in the morning air. Our breath hangs in sibling sentences.

26/4: Early stroll. I often see that horse in that tiny field but this is the first time I’ve seen that trampoline in the corner. Possibilities.

27/4: Early stroll. That house joined onto the dancing school is To Let. Imagine living there, living near rhythm. Living near jazz and tap.

2/5: Early stroll. I’ve walked up and down these hills for fifty years so I must have worn a groove. I’m erosion on my own.

4/5: Early stroll. I stand, as I often do, where the long-demolished football factory was,  to listen for the sound of ghost footballs  being made.

12/5: Early stroll. An abandoned ironing board near the paint shop. Six snails move towards  it. A bread van lurches as it passes: inside,  rolls roll.

16/5: Early stroll. A runner gasps by. The grumpy bloke who never returns my Good Morning returns it grumpily as we walk through fallen blossom.

18/5: Early stroll. Dandelion clocks in verges. Abandoned football on top of a bus shelter, looking like the moon. Clocks/moon: time/space stroll.

19/5: Early stroll. A tiny snail rushes towards a huge snail. A discarded lipstick sits on the floor, waiting for a smile.

26/5: Early stroll. Bright sunshine, and a full moon dawdling over my brother’s allotment, which is bathed in sunlight, moonlight,  lettuce-light.

30/5: Early stroll. It’s such a lovely morning that I feel my shadow wanting to skip. I try  to resist, but my shadow insists. Roof  pigeons watch.

2/6: Early stroll. Equine excitement on the street: four escaped horses corralled into a  front garden by a passer-by. House owner  still asleep.

3/6: Early stroll. A plane makes a chalk mark across the sky. Passengers look down and  say “there’s @IMcMillan on his stroll. We’re in his tweet”.

4/6: Early stroll. Under a sky the colour of boredom I hold my stomach in as I pass a Slimming World poster and almost tread on a slug.

5/6: Early stroll. Sculptures: the wheelie  bin monoliths, the single stone placed on the low wall, the imperfect pavement circle of spilled pop.

13/6: Early stroll. A home-made (stick and string) bow and arrow on the floor. I pick them up. On the corner: a hubcap that could be  a shield.

15/6: Early stroll. Muggy, damp. Two snails make their slow way towards two discarded beer cans near the roundabout. Party time  next Tuesday.

30/6: Early stroll. A helicopter flies very low over my head just as I walk by a huge white arrow in the road that’s pointing at me. I  walk faster.

6/7: Early stroll. Mist over the valley where the pit was. An empty eggshell on the floor as though the mist has escaped from the egg.

9/7: Early stroll. A fridge-freezer in a garden like the start of a fridgehenge, and a bus full of people in hi-vis jackets like a sun on wheels.

27/7: Early stroll. Dozens of snails climbing Mr Moody’s garden wall. Slow music on a brick piano. Rose petal patterns on the path.

28/7: Early stroll. Two small blue betting-shop pens on the floor tell a tale of hope. A single stick of rhubarb points Northward.

30/7: Early stroll. Someone has placed a hubcap on a low wall; it’s like a grey metal sunrise. I lean to try and align it with the real sunrise.

31/7: Early stroll. That brick-shaped piece of polystyrene means that someone, somewhere is building a polystyrene house. 4th little  pig, maybe.

2/8: Early stroll. I find a single jigsaw piece by the empty houses. Turn it over: a blue sky. The man on the mobility scooter waves.

19/8: Early stroll. A vivid sunrise over the old pit then, unbelievably, a single orange button by the bakery. The sunrise represented.

22/8: Early stroll. Mist over the valley, the  trees poking like broccoli. The man in the  Men at Work sign is still wearing wellies. The moon hides.

23/8: Early stroll. In the soft-edged rain I  buy a big bag of porridge at the shop then  trudge down the street like a disappointing/surreal Santa.

24/8: Early stroll accompanied by the nihilistic dance music of a burglar alarm. Three party poppers stuck to the wall of the betting-shop: win!

26/8: Early stroll. The few pink clouds fade, reflecting the pink rose petals scattered  on the pavement. Beside the chip forks. And that biscuit.

28/8: Early stroll. Moon like a half-constructed emoticon. A runner pounds by so I increase my walking speed momentarily. As does that  ginger cat.

30/8: Early stroll. Bright cool morning. As I pass the streetlights they go out and I try to ignore the stone in my shoe which nags like  a memory.

6/9: Early stroll. A few leaves on the floor like scouts for autumn’s wagon train. The temporary traffic lights are at red and I stand very still.

11/9: Early stroll. Three white vans pass,  followed by a black van, then a white van. Like a chess game on wheels. One overtakes. One turns off.

14/9: Early stroll. Couldn’t find my glasses  so the sunrise glowed like a three-bar electric fire and the grumpy bloke shone like a  shaky angel.

15/9: Early stroll under shifting, dramatic skies. A white van trundles by, the passenger holding a map. I see it twice more: lost, wandering.

20/9: Early stroll. The moon slips in and out of the clouds, auditioning for a horror film. I stand in front of the new CCTV camera,  holding a cucumber.

22/9: Early stroll. The moon hangs in the  sky like an idea I wish I’d had. Two carers  rush to change a flat tyre. Someone waits in a room somewhere.

23/9: Early stroll. Single lights: the security light illuminating the cemetery, the car  with one headlight like a radioactive monocle, a bathroom.

26/9: Early stroll. Dark and quiet. The man  on the mobility scooter nods as he rattles  by, crushing a discarded Bob Marley cassette, tape waving.

30/9: Early stroll. I eat an apple from my tree under a fingernailclipping moon. The two  grey-haired ladies walk by me laughing. I spit a pip high.

6/10: Early stroll. Vivid constellations remind me how small I am. A man says “Has tha seen a white dog?” Is that it there, shining in  The Plough?

14/10: Early stroll. Morning still as a coat  hanging in a wardrobe. I find a shiny penny beside a red removal van from Cornwall. A man’s cig glows.

15/10: Early stroll. Five minutes later than usual, so I pass different people. The bus shelter is empty. That light is on. That light is off.

19/10: Early stroll. Can you be dazzled by  the moon? This morning I was. A red necklace lies on the path like a jewelled snake. Two  shattered brollies.

21/10: Early stroll. A white cat looks at a white car, as though trying to decide what kind of cat it is. Two people ignore my cheery “Morning!”

22/10: Early stroll. The scaffolding on the pub throws beautiful shadows in the pavement. Raised voices from an upstairs room. A  hedgehog bustles by.

30/10: Early stroll. I wish I could save this morning’s light in a shoebox and release it on a gloomy December afternoon.

1/11: Early stroll. In the heavy mist, a discarded 2p coin gleams like a fallen moon. I pocket it. Hens cluck at me from behind a hedge.

3/11: Early stroll. The sky is a delicate,  questioning blue. That green box I moved off the road yesterday waits for me on the  pavement, frostily.

5/11: Early stroll. Rain flecks my glasses and a man in a black coat and black hat passes with a black dog on a lead. Only the lead is visible.

18/11: Early stroll. A light goes off in a bedroom and on in a kitchen, as though light has  fallen downstairs. Loaves are put on the  bakery shelves.

22/11: Early stroll. Perspective and slope make that man as tall as a tree. A red van parked by a white van: wine on wheels.

24/11: Early stroll. A tennis ball sits in the  pavement like a failed idea; the two older women who walk most mornings smile at the Christmas lights.

26/11: Early stroll. The moon is a huge grin in the sky. The dead cat by the Post Office looks oddly peaceful. The paper boy’s head is down, hood up.

28/11: Early stroll. The moon is in and out of the clouds. My old house is empty, but it has new windows. I lift a fallen bin. It clatters.

30/11: Early stroll. A clear sky vivid with stars and an astonishing sliver of almost-orange moon. Two skinny men in tracksuits appear from shadows.

2/12: Early stroll. Over several months that cardboard box has turned to mulch. It has a time-based beauty. I slip on it, laugh, slip again.

3/12: Early stroll. I’m held by the sight of leaves falling from a tree in the cemetery. The man in the paper shop draws his wife a map.

5/12: Early stroll. Those hedges have been trimmed so the view down that back street  is different. I refuse simile, even when I see a red glove.

6/12: Early stroll. A woman in bright white shoes waits in a darkened bus shelter. A kid goes by on a bike with his hands in his pockets. Puddles.

7/12: Early stroll. Sign on a lamp post: LOST BLACK LAB. A man whizzes by on a bike, coat flapping like a super-hero’s cape. Cycleman!

8/12: Early stroll. A man comes out of his house, looks at the ladders on top of his van as though he’s contemplating climbing them to the moon.

13/12: Early stroll. The ginger cat beside the tarpaulined caravan. The tattered circus poster. The lit snooker table in the empty pub.

Rebirthing

If it is true that trauma (and ecstasy) are stored in our cells and tissues, impacting our psych and function through our life in subtle and poignant ways, then it would make sense that the events of our birth (and perhaps even conception and gestation) would also be embedded in the deep foundation of who we are.

Aileen Crow and Sandy Jamrog have a chapter in Encyclopedia of Childbearing, Oryx Press, 1993, titled:  "Spontaneous Rebirthing", in which they say: "A person's own experiences of being born, whether or not they are remembered, determines many of their deepest and most basic beliefs.  These are called birth-engendered beliefs.   Beliefs are not just abstract thoughts; they are psychophysical realities.

Everybody knows that tension interferes with breathing and efficient muscular function.   What is not common knowledge is that unresolved perinatal experiences can initiate patterns that tend to live on throughout a person's whole life on a non-verbal and non-conscious level.  Birth-engendered beliefs are anchored in the body, in the musculature, the fascia,and the cells of the body.  They live in the body's memory, in breathing and movement patterns which condition perception and the interpretation of experience.  They affect behavior and relationships throughout life, as Stanislav Grof (1985), Arthur Janov (1983), Sondra Ray and Bob Mandel (1987) have shown."  Also,  "Birth-engendered beliefs can help or hinder a woman's experience of giving birth.  For example, a belief such as,"Nothing good comes easy" may interfere with the birth process by functioning as a non-conscious imperative that must be obeyed.  Patterns of unresolved conflict tend to repeat themselves.  When a prospective mother experiences a spontaneous rebirthing, an opportunity is being presented to complete some important learning about her own birth that might otherwise interfere with her giving birth to a child."

These "patterns of unresolved conflict" can be said to be a type of PTSD (Post traumatic stress disorder) and as mentioned in an earlier post, Somatic Healing, can often be effectively dealt with working with a competent bodyworker.

Rebirthing is the actual intention a bodyworker and client have together to go back to the moment of birth and hopefully resolve the conflict or trauma present, through movement, sound and breath (talk not usually being the primary therapeutic modality).  Rebirthing also can occur spontaneously if one is an altered state, deeply relaxed or experiences a trigger that sets the memory into play.  The latter could be a PTSD reoccurrence unless facilitated by a competent bodyworker.

"Living as they do in the body, birth-engendered patterns and their accompanying beliefs are accessible to receptive, non-invasive touch,and to an attitude respectful of the purpose behind the person's rebirthing experience.  we have found that the use of hyperventilation to induce emotional involvement is unnecessary."

'In the old days', rebirthing was accomplished through specific (and in my opinion, contrived and static) breathing patterns.  This approach itself was rough and unto itself, tended to be somewhat traumatic.  A gifted bodyworker these days uses the basis of healing relationship to encourage the right breathing pattern for the right moment (naturally arrived at by the trusting client);  as Crow/Jamrog indicate above, receptivity, non-invasive touch and a respectful attitude are key to a successful rebirthing experience.

"People sometimes go into spontaneous rebirth experiences during bodywork sessions when they are encouraged to pay attention to sensations, feelings and movement impulses.  Releasing tension might also disrupt habitual holding patterns that may be covering early traumatic conflict, and so stimulate spontaneous rebirth experiences. "

This statement of Crow/Jamrog would indicate the imperative need to engage a seasoned bodyworker with whom to evolve a trusting, healing relationship.  Such a practitioner should be sensitive and experienced in recognizing subtle tensions and physical patterns, is able to witness movement tensions and has the maturity to be discriminating in action in order to facilitate a healing.  A successful rebirthing is a liberation.  It makes possible and provides capacity when there was none prior.

Aileen Crow has been an Alexander teacher since 1969.  She taught at ACAT in New York City until she formed her own AT training program in 1978.  She is a Creativity Counselor in private practice in NYC and in New City, NY, is a Laban Movement Analyst (since 1969) and a Dreambody Process-Oriented therapist.   Her most recent interests are calligraphy, Solo Focusing and transforming trauma.

Aileen's more recent writings have been in A Moving Journal (1993-2006 ),  AuthenticMovementCommunity Blog, and the Journal of Authentic Movement and Somatic  Inquiry (JAMSI) AuthenticMovement.Journal.com.

Sandra Jamrog  is a Teacher and Practitioner of Body-Mind Centering, an Infant Developmental Movement Educator and a Childbirth Educator.  She is certified with The National Certification Board for Therapeutic Massage and Bodywork and a New York State Licensed Massage Therapist. Sandra has been working with birth and parenting since 1974