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.

Procurement to Plate: the Joy of Partaking (part I)

I’m inspired by several conversations I’ve had over the last few weeks.  The conversations haven’t been about one area of life or another.  The vibrating thread through all of them has been the attitude and the relatedness we are willing to bring to the journey, any journey.

The very fact we would look at anything (such as a medical/health treatment, our upcoming meal, a room’s renovation, a child’s education) as a journey is already an attitude adjustment.  A journey, an adventure, assumes a process, an interest in the aspects of the process, possibly an excitement and a curiosity.  Once we are aware of a process being present in our life, we begin to ask questions, identify the beginning, middle, end and inbetweens of the adventure.  Already, there is a palpable life around the process.  A sense of vitality around the questions of what do I/we value, what is a priority, how am I related to other, the process and myself.  Life!  Interest!  Attention!  The Chi/Prana is flowing; I feel more of my life inside and outside of myself.  I begin to recognize by this activation the life all around me.

When I consider the nourishment (and healing) of my body I think and consider the journey of procurement to plate; that is how and where I buy the raw ingredients for a meal, how I consider them (and myself) in their preparation, how I plate, how I serve, how I imbibe what has been prepared and even go as far as to think about how I store leftovers.  Each of these steps on the adventure of feeding myself and others (body and soul) can be layered and complex.  The adventure is solidly centered in:  how can I optimize my health, my received impressions, my well being and pleasure in the engagement with nature, other and myself.

Market Madness.

One of the things that has helped me at the beginning of any procurement journey is to make sure my curiosity is up and running.  There is no place for the automatic, knee-jerk self when I am trying to resonate and sensitize myself to the important job of opening (especially to food and people). 

Because of food sustainability, a reality in USA food sourcing, curiosity is almost required.  Health, sustainability and wellbeing are dependent on diversity; diversity of food sources and the willingness to engage with the unfamiliar.  Market shopping, in this light, becomes an adventure.  I try consistently to purchase one unfamiliar thing from each food group I am buying.  This could be a vegetable, fruit, protein source (ie: an up to now, unknown type of fish), or grain/complex carbohydrate (ie: amaranth, millet).  I try to buy local.  I try to buy seasonal, organic when possible.  I try to be present to what is available; to sense the vibration and aliveness of the food, to have the food come to me, for me to be attracted to its freshness/life (it’s so beautiful!  do not resist!).  I often opt to pick up “bugaboo” foods I hated as a child to see if I have a different experience of them now (ie: brussel sprouts, lima beans, peas). I notice what foods have not traveled well, or were not treated well farm to market.  I notice what was harvested too early and too late.  

Already the relationship has begun.  

If something jumps out at me, makes me smile and be excited, I pick it up, even if I don’t know what it is or what to do with it. To enjoy the curiosity more, I inquisit with the grocer, start a conversation with the other hovering shoppers about this curious food product.  In addition, via the internet, I can find out anything; what is it, nutrition content and what to do with it.  I’ve discovered very interesting, nutritious foods; foods that add color, texture and add an interesting variety to a meal (tomatillos, prickly pear, dragon fruit, unfamiliar melons or squash, several Asian greens I now recognize, but still don’t know their names—can’t read Chinese).  This is important:  Important for diversity of nutrition and source sustainability.  Important for keeping my culinary field open.  Boredom and repetition leads to disinteresting dining, ruts and a lack of diet diversity.  I am feeding my body, spirit and soul.  I want to care and be excited about my engagement with food.

photo credit:  Lalu Danzker

Switching up where you shop, trying new places encourages the curiosity factor.  Try not going to a supermarket for a month; shop only farmer’s markets, farm stands, food coops, non-industrialized food sources.  Yes, it is inconvenient sometimes.  Yes it is a different experience that sometimes is not easy (the selections may be limited, prices pricier).  But again, one’s culinary field is opened, more receptive.  Mindful eating is hardly ever about convenience or what is comfortable.  It’s about interest, joy and pleasure.

In this endeavor I have found relationship.  Relationship with farmers, small market purveyors, local artisan cheese makers and bakers. I ask questions, they ask me questions. They know me, I know them.  We have a mutual appreciation.  This is soul warming. It does my heart good (as it probably does them).  It is more fun, more interesting.  I feel more connected to my food, because I am.  I know the source.  I know where the fish came from.  I know how the fish was treated because I know the guy who trucked it.  This impacts my well being.  This infiltrates my preparation (I think of them as I chop and cook); their efforts are closer to me.  I feel a fuller connection, I feel a Oneness.  I have a sense of obligation to them, the food and myself to cook well what has been provided. 

photo credit: Lalu Danzker

I have only had remarkable outcomes and experiences doing this.  Buying a chicken from a small poultry farmer, getting to know her in the process, how she treats the chickens, what she thinks and feels about her chickens have given me a transformative culinary experience. I glean her excitement and love of her work, her relationship with her birds.  When I eat her chicken, it is like eating a miracle.  I taste its domestic wildness in the fiber of the flesh, the deep, earthy flavor. I feel its realness; I feel the farmer’s love and investment in the flesh.  The chicken’s good life is transmitted to me.  It is an experience.  This is a joy. It almost feels like receiving a sacrament, a total privilege to partake.  Also, a small portion goes a long way, leaving me fully satisfied and satiated.  Most ordinary chickens (even the organic ones) I am left with wanting more, because I am missing its essence, lost in its poor treatment in life and death.

In following posts, I will continue with the related processes of Partaking:

Preparation, Plating, Service, Leftovers; how does more engagement in these ordinary efforts feed more of me, enhance my wellbeing, and support joy in living.

Food as Impressions: Impressions as Food

All things are connected.  All things are one.  If this is true, everything we impart to our bodies, whether vegetation or animal is something that is already a part of us.  In a Whole world, the relationship we have with this food would be mutual.  Then why do we (as a general rule) not behave in accord?  We ignore this connection in the most basic ways.  We find ourselves when eating, not paying attention, reading a magazine, eating it from a take out container or pot.  When we prepare food we impose ourselves upon the resource at hand.  We make all the decisions (usually automatic) without finding that relationship to the thing that eventually will enter our body and hopefully nourish it.  We are under the mistaken notion that by just ingesting the food, we are nourished. And we are, but only partially.  When we make a relationship with the animal flesh or vegetable before us in the preparation process, a symbiosis of sorts is created which is rich in impressions, an aspect of eating almost always under rated, unnoticed and unacknowledged.  This type of food has a higher vibration, nourishes more of me.

Digestion starts with the impressions received by our six senses.  So, proper digestion starts in the eyes,  and nose, touch,  and even ears (ie: crackling sound of fat in a pan meeting flesh or vegetable).  This of course happens before it even gets to the gustatory sense.  The parasympathetic nervous system (our relaxation response) kicks in when the attention is related to what is at hand.  Our senses trigger the bile juices in the gastric system that begins the process of digestion.  This whole process makes the intake of impressions and food Whole; it's a primary impression.  So, it's not purely "aesthetic" or even a luxury to give attention to presentation.  It's imperative to our Wholeness.

It's a mistake to see an act of care (attentive detail to presentation) as an extraneous ego act ('it looks nice').  To be mistaken in this way is an example of how far we have devolved in our culture in regards to self care; care of what we see, our impressions and care for our digestion process, which is greatly compromised at this time between the surreal industrial-farmed product we are provided and the diminishment of what is important (ie: eating off a plate vs eating out of a box).  As we begin to attend to this vital relationship, our sensitivity and impressions become more refined.  

We have five receptors on our tongues that register sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and pungent (the sublime combination of sweet and sour).  Western palates have been exclusively indoctrinated to sweet and salt through proliferative processed food use, marketing and habit.  To consider that all five qualities of flavor be present at a meal is an exercise in finding unity.  Likewise, providing diverse color and texture is to bring harmony to the senses and the receptors in ourselves that long to be met.  The balance of acid and alkaline inherent in foods is yet another demand.  If we are related to what is in front of us in the preparation stage, these aspects of unification unfold very naturally.  I become sensitized to the call of a dish, the meal as a whole.  I become aware of the components and how right or wrong they are for each other, be it in shape or size, complexity or flavor.  It becomes an interesting interplay and exchange between the raw food ingredients and myself.  A dialogue.  Relationship.

When plating, what happens when we spread the meal's components out?  Keep them in groups, add a gesture component (like a few thin pieces of lemon rind to the plate juxtaposed without fuss).  It falls on a place of rightness in us that isn't about aesthetic or "artistry"-- it's very interesting.  The life of the food starts to engage with us, inform us.  It becomes a relationship.  We no longer act upon it.  We work WITH its life, and it works with us.  

Impressions feed us.  Why deny this when it benefits our bodies and spirits so beautifully?  Food can be a negligible impression or one that reaches the organism in an expansively spatial way. Choose a bigger life.

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.

Rest

"Rest is the conversation between what we love to do and how we love to be. Rest is the essence of giving and receiving. Rest is an act of remembering, imaginatively and intellectually but also physiologically and physically."*     --David Whyte

Out of the four stress management principles I advocate in my teaching to others and in my own practice, rest is the most difficult for me (and many of my clients) to grasp. (Maybe we should try NOT grasping...) Not being able to relate to rest must be an American thing.  Or maybe its a 21st century thing.  We have trouble not multi-tasking.  We resist sleep.  We struggle with stopping, not doing.  It might seem we are hard-wired to 'accomplish' or that our worth and value is seated in purposeful activities.


In my post, A Right Rest, I speak about the many varieties of rest that are available to us, that sleep or napping might not always be the right rest we are looking for.  It delights me that only a poet (Whyte) could so eloquently speak about rest being a conversation about loving and being.  It must be our tendencies to leave feeling out of our purposeful driven doing activity and the disinclination (due to discomfort?) to stay far from a closer connection to our being.

"We are rested when we are a living exchange between what lies inside and what lies outside, when we are an intriguing conversation between the potential that lies in our imagination and the possibilities for making that internal image real in the world; we are rested when we let things alone and let ourselves alone, to do what we do best, breathe as the body intended us to breathe."*

Whyte's quote above and in his excellent essay, Rest*, eludes to the play of outer and inner and the ability to let go, to be closer to our more whole selves through the influence of our breath.  Many of our indoctrinations have us resisting quiet or rest because it is a type of death; we have little to externally show for it; and that is unacceptable to the most of ourselves.  In short, we most likely have an attitude distortion about rest: what it looks like, feels like and what it does for us.

"To rest is to give up on the already exhausted will as the prime motivator of endeavor, with its endless outward need to reward itself through established goals. To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we are there to put it right; to rest is to fall back literally or figuratively from outer targets and shift the goal not to an inner bulls eye, an imagined state of perfect stillness, but to an inner state of natural exchange."*

*David Whyte, Essay #21 "Rest" 

Authentic Movement: Flying Solo

"When the movement was simple and inevitable, not to be changed no matter how limited or partial, it became what I called 'authentic' – it could be recognized as genuine, belonging to that person." 

-- Mary Whitehouse

Authentic Movement (AM) is a practice that has been used for over half a century to express the creative impulse, unwind the subliminal, subconscious material below ones external layers, and to inform.  AM as a practice is valuable because it is seated in sincerity.  This is possible because one has taken the risk of sensitizing and grounding the body enough for the (often hidden) authentic to surface. One's being senses an openness, a more whole and deeper listening quality; Self-trust ensues. These conditions allow for sincerity, authenticity to make its way to the surface of ourselves, a willingness to be exposed.

"The movement becomes 'authentic' when the individual is able to allow their intuitive impulses to freely express themselves without intellectual directive, as opposed to movement initiated by conscious decision making – a distinction which may appear clear, but practically a challenge. Individuals simply pay attention to what they feel at a sensory level, since "the core of the movement experience is the sensation of moving and being moved."*

With over twenty-five years of doing the practice, at present, there are two aspects of AM that are deeply intriguing to me.  1: This idea of using the form in relation to an intention, allowing the organism to be "informed" by a greater, more sensitized intelligence (a distinct probability in the AM form), and 2: the possibility of doing AM solo.

"In the Authentic Movement aspect of Whitehouse's approach, the moving participants (movers) are passively observed by a witness, who 'contains' the experience of the mover by witnessing their movements without judgement, projection or interpretation. In this way the witness is also an active participant, as witnessing is a practice in observing one's own sensations and impulses while observing the mover's. It's important to note that Whitehouse created many individual, dyadic and group experiences to create a context for moving from inner sensation and whole-body experience." *

In relation to #1 above, traditionally AM is not practiced with an intention looking for information or answers.  An intention in some ways is counter to the idea of being open to what is and most probably prone to "intellectual directive."  Traditionally or not, intention or not, material surfaces during an AM session which often clarifies.  When one is "ripe", internally holding something, these are "low hanging fruit" conditions; AM often brings it to the surface for plucking, like it or not.  I have explored using the form in relation to unfinished dreams in this way, very successfully.

In relation to #2, the traditional form of AM always includes the basic role of witness and mover.  But as Whitehead says in the above quotes,  it is truly a dual action.  In the AM process, mover becomes witness and witness becomes her own mover (through her sensations of what is seen, energetically received and her own impulses).  If one is practiced at holding this dual space for oneself and another, has routinely a strong inner witness while moving, then experiencing the form solo might be very rich.

So, with the threat of breaking the rules of this beloved form, I set out to make an experiment.  I have an intention to understand something I've been ruminating about as of late and want to use AM to shed some light.  At the moment, I don't have the benefit of others to support me as witnesses.  I wish to try this premise of setting an intention and buoying up my own inner witness to do the holding-the-container job, simultaneously.

My impromptu moving space is private; an unused tennis court in the middle of the woods.  With a tip of my hat to the external witness role, I place my water bottle on a bench as a witness figurehead and find my place in the space in relation to it.  What ensues is a sublime experience of moving in and out, an experience of levels going deeper and moving closer to the surface and then back again. Left hand perpendicular to the ground moves in circles, smoothing the way.  Right hand/arm gently opening, closing, a love energy moving toward my heart, a gathering.  I experience an "intellectual directive" in myself.  Move forward!  Move forward!  Why are you only going side to side?! Move forward! or "Ugh oh. I'm moving in circles, oh dear, please don't let me move in circles!"  She walks with the one that isn't interested in directive, but needing to respond from a deeper impulse. I will move as I move.  Everything in its own time. There is a parlay, an exchange, a finding one's place in that. An acknowledged relationship between them exists.  Even the external environment becomes part of the process, not to be excluded nor seen as a happenstance, but an integral part of the whole. Rotating my torso, my eye catches a cloud of mosquitoes ready to land on me.  I start swatting at them and become momentarily disengaged from my depth.  Yes! Distractions are forever at the ready! I laugh.  Off balance, awkward, ungainly movements... all the tripping that is necessary before a transformation.

Everyone that comes to Authentic Movement should have that incredible experience of being held, seen, and witnessed by others.  There is nothing like it.  It makes possible entry into deep (dark) places.  It makes it safe for aspects of the self, often hidden and buried, to resurface and become visible. It builds and supports ones own inner witness.  But with enough practice, is it possible to do both simultaneously, go solo?

This experience on the tennis court was not a "traditional" experience of AM.  But for the place I am in my life, in my practice, this was exactly right.  It is required of me, where I sit in myself at this moment in time, to experience the dualities and how they sing and move together, and even how they transform each other or at least the consciousness around them.  I need the formerly invisible to walk with that intellectual directive, neither one to take charge, but live in a proximity that allows and encourages the other to exist.  

The truth is, I'm not young (relatively).  I'm not a newbie.  I am seasoned.  I am mature.  Another possibility for use of the form is necessary at this time.

The Edge

photo credit:  Cornel Pufan

As we move through our continuums, even on a daily basis, we come into contact with personal edges.  Energetic edges happen when a vibration becomes a challenge in us, usually brought on by ambivalence, two opposites occurring at once, or a deep seated fear or challenge to a belief system.  Often, one or two aspects of our self meets this “crisis” and more often than not, there is no reconciliation factor to transform the edge.  A common example could be, our physicality reaches an edge (ie: exhaustion) and the mind and or the heart meet it (with “I can’t go on.” or “I must go on.”).  The edge is tenuous, it could go either way depending on the supporting/non-supporting aspects.  A strong motivated mind or emotion could be the factor that gets us past the physical edge.  And a non-committal or unengaged mental or emotional stance will do otherwise.  Another example could be a fatigued mind can’t get through a mental problem it faces, and the emotional center of ourselves is of no help as it despised the problem to begin with and the body, weakened by the mind’s momentary fatigue collapses as well.

photo credit:  Michael Karcz

We don’t recognize our edges.  They are uncomfortable and frequently downright scary (as said, they often are a challenge to a deep seated belief).  A common response to meeting an unconscious edge in ourselves is to get reactive, confused and ultimately turn away from the friction (vibration) created.  So the edge remains latent in us until the next surfacing. 

The power of edges is of course the energy generated there.  The transformation of an edge is the awareness we are there and the courage not to turn away.

Like most things of importance, meeting and transforming an edge takes practice.  We have to come up to it and turn away umpteen times, priming an inner awareness of it.  Breaking that cycle (because it occurs so frequently with a particular edge) is an exercise of patience for an inner life.  Knowing I ultimately have to bring other aspects of myself to the edge besides the one that gets me there is useful.

So, I start out doing an “impossible” task, one I’ve never done, have no familiarity or seeming aptitude for and hence feel supremely uncomfortable in the approach.  It’s a task I have never attempted out of decades of deep seated fear and layers of complex beliefs.  But, my mind knows it has to be done, there is no not doing it.  My body is sort of curious about this new never-been-done-before quest and is somewhat willing because it is supported by the determined mind.  The emotional center of myself is fully crazed about the prospect, has dug in her heels and can be heard whining about it almost constantly, nay-saying and dooms-daying as we start to move through the steps of the task.  Normally, all the ruckus the emotions create would stop the rest of me in my tracks.  But the methodical mind is on a roll.  And wisely, she hasn’t taken her usual imperious stance, dominating the rest of me.  She takes a wise-parent approach and this makes all the difference.  She keeps moving forward doing the laid out steps (with the help of the able and curious body), while cajoling the emotional part.  “We’re just going to do this for three hours today, it might be sort of fun. We’ll make no determinations, we’re just trying an experiment.”  

photo credit: Sterni

The three hours experience could be likened to dragging a full cart with no wheels.  It is like a flailing child on my left hip, causing me to do a sort of Igor/Frankenstein walk, dragging this besides-herself-little-one clinging, kicking and screaming.  There is a general feeling of supreme discomfort, even pain.  Confusion sets in in increments and I have an impression of being on the deck of a boat on a rolling ocean. Something in me knows the confusions and overwhelm are part and parcel of the effort and not to spend too much time trying to unravel them. Parts of myself are internally cowering, pretending they are stupid and don’t know anything.  This “I don’t know anything!” drama I find is actually helpful; my past indoctrination says, when you are a rank novice at something, mistakes are allowed, mercy is shown, the boom doesn’t get lowered.  Wow! It’s ok not to know. 

The three hours are up, I pack ‘us’ into the car.  There is a visceral sensation I am all in pieces, kind of shredded, and the main impression I have of myself.  I do a lot of inner cooing and reassuring on the way home, actually talking aloud:  “Ok. THATS over.  We’re done for the day, on our way home now.  We did great! We’ll have some nice tea when we get there and take the rest of the day off.  We won’t think or do anything else about this for now.”  Something in me is dutiful to this; faintly tempted to consider doing some thinking work on the process, she just lets it go.  There would be time for this action in awhile when most of me was feeling more settled, less shredded.

photo credit:  Barbara Corvine

There are a lot of edges in this.  Not only the ‘impossible’ task at the center, but experiencing the emotional dramas of the small child that still lives and her bounty of extreme impressions and reactions.  Also, the benevolent parent who somehow doesn’t marginalize the wailing child, but just keeps moving forward with a type of empathy for the fear-ridden.  That there were beginnings, middles and definite ends in the steps was enormously helpful; it provided lampposts (a short term goal) to get to and complete.  The practice of doing this exercise multiple times was great for the whole, because they all came to know it was survivable.  We would get through this, we did it before.  Each time, a new step became a bit more detailed and “serious”.  Each time newish terrors would surface, the intimidation factor would become more heightened.  And each time the benevolent parent would rise to the occasion, “It’s ok. We can do this.  It is terrifying.  We’re in this together.”

Part of meeting and transforming this edge was not getting bogged down in the smokescreens other parts of the self would create (the usual “turn away” factor).  They were noted, sometimes momentarily overwhelming, but not distracting enough to derail the intention set.  The presence of someone compassionate and benevolent, not willing to annihilate the ruckus-causing parts for her own purposes was also very unifying.  A sense even the disruptive have a place in the process, a voice to be recognized, a value-- significantly diffuses the power of the ensuing polarized anarchy. It was a joint effort, no Lone Ranger in sight.

Possibly, the transformation of an edge is a rite of passage.  There is no doubt it is entering a crucible of sorts; there is a combustible incineration process, pain and suffering is guaranteed.  But the sense of liberation and the infusion of a clear, bright energy once one has stepped through that door is an experience of tasting the magnificence of being Alive.  Once done, the possibility of navigating the course of an edge undeniably exists. It is also gives a perspective that illusions abound and confirms I may be living much of my life behind a veil.