Pages

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Towards a Physical Practice of Zen


This is an article I wrote for Buddhadharma.
The editors rejected it without comment.

Towards a Physical Practice of Zen

Introduction

Zen is a simple direct teaching that points to the end of suffering.  The instruction changes it’s appearance according to the needs of the student and the characteristics of the culture.  The readers of Buddhadharma have enjoyed articles on the changing role of women in Buddhism, Zen and western psychology, and social activism in Buddhist sanghas.  Zen practice has also become more welcoming and supportive to those who are less physically robust or more tender emotionally.  Work is being done to include those from less privileged social groups and young people.  We have remote traditional monasteries and informal community based practice places to meet everyones needs.  We have spread Buddhist teaching to everyone with an internet connection.

In the process of making Zen more accessible, however, we have also lost something.   And, although there are many new spotlights illuminating the many doors of entry into Zen practice, there is still a doorway with no light overhead.  We do not have a robust teaching regarding how to practice Zen physically.

 There is no lack of material regarding how to practice with our emotions, fears, desires and aversion.   Wonderful articles have appeared on how to practice with mental illness, eating disorders, etc. in our individual and group practice.  Much has been written about how to refine our intentions.  But how do we practice with our bodies?  How do we physically sit zazen?  We hear about the importance of being upright, but how do we get there?  What does it mean to sit upright?  Can we do this without hurting ourselves?

Physical Practice

The Zen practice westerners inherited had a strongly physical dimension.  Meditation halls were cold or hot with little effort to make them more comfortable.  Clothing did not emphasize comfort or acknowledge seasonal changes.  There are lots of stories about hitting and slapping.  The "Forms" dictated nearly all activities.   The physicality of practice was central.

  But our modern Western practice has changed this quite a bit.  We have largely disregarded the strenuous physical aspects of Eastern Zen practice.  The kiosku is now mainly a ceremonial object, schedules are less strenuous, broad allowances are made in our wardrobe and sitting postures.  Westerners see the physicality of Asian Zen as rather extreme.  It is inappropriate if we want to make meditation halls welcoming to those who are physically or emotionally frail .

This leaves a gap in our Zen practice.  Now that we have abandoned the physicality of Asian Zen practice there is something missing.

Arguably, many of the ceremonial forms are still carefully studied and practiced.  But for the layperson these are studied only peripherally or observed from a distance.     The Forms as practiced by lay people in the community often devolved to being used only to distinguish “us” and “them”, or to judge “good strong” practice from “poor weak” practice.  At best the current practice of The Forms can connect us to our ancestors, create a beautiful supportive practice place and help us express ourselves to each other and to our teacher.   But we should ask much more from a robust physical practice of Zen.  

The question of using our physicality to further our zen practice has implications beyond simply advancing our personal spiritual practice.  In broader terms, these are dark and dangerous times.  Humanity is threatened by environmental, social and political storms.  For many of us, Zen practice is the bedrock of our efforts to heal the world.  Instructions on how to use our bodies during zazen are not enough.  These instructions on how to practice Zen physically must also support us in our social engagements.

 If we are going to make Zen practice fully robust we must have more to say about the physical aspects of Zen practice.

Features of a Physical Zen Practice

What would physical practice look like?  What should we ask of it?
-First, it should help us to become upright on a cushion, a chair or lying down.  The teaching on a physical practice should guide us to arrange our body in an upright, expansive posture - neither relaxed nor tense.
-Second, it should help with pain.  Too many zen students sit in pain.  Admittedly,  the concept of pain is complicated.  However, compassion dictates that zazen instruction, and continuing teaching in how to practice physically, should point a way that does not hurt unnecessarily.  Ideally, a physical practice should help us to find an easy and enjoyable way to sit.
-Third, we should ask a physical teaching of Zen to be in line with basic Zen teachings:  It should not be intellectual or based in concepts.  It should be “non-doing”.  It should not be caught in duality or non duality.  It should be characterized by immediacy as opposed to gradual improvement over time to obtain a future goal.
-Forth, it should help us in our social activism
-Fifth, it should breathe more life into The Forms.

I’m writing this in part to suggest that the Alexander Technique describes how to practice Zen physically.

The Alexander Technique

The Alexander Technique was developed by F.M. Alexander 100 years ago.  It is an educational technique taught to students during individual lessons which are 30 to 60 minutes in length.  It is an interconnected set of principles combined with two concrete skills to help students improve the use of themselves.  The AT helps students meet the challenges of each moment by relying on conscious control of the use of themselves instead of reacting out of our habits.

Zen Teaching
The first of the two concrete skills that the AT teaches is "the inhibition of end-gaining".  “End-gaining” is being more interested in gaining some end rather than being concerned with the means whereby one gets there.   Some simply refer to “the inhibition of end gaining” as "stopping".  Although these terms "inhibition" and "stopping" sound negative, it is actually a positive activity because it disengages students from our striving and this gives us a chance to appreciate our present situation.  This does not mean that the AT student does not have preferences.  It is not the preferences but the craving or aversion that distracts us from the “means whereby”.  Caring deeply for a desired outcome while not allowing it to distract us from the “means whereby” is one the great challenges for the student of both Zen and the AT.
Most people have some difficulty grasping this concept of stopping, but a Zen student will be familiar with it.  Shikantaza is "just sitting".  Anything else that is going on while sitting is regarded as extra or end-gaining.  Shikantaza involves inhibiting this end-gaining, moment after moment.  Inhibition of end-gaining also describes how to practice in everyday activities: instead of being focused on getting the lunch soup done on time, Zen students inhibit the end-gaining.  This creates the opportunity to just chop the carrot.
It may seem that the AT concept of inhibition hold nothing new for the Zen student.  But actually it hints at something quite profound.  It suggests that there is nothing fundamentally wrong with the present condition.  Nothing save for our obsession with our likes and dislikes.  Alexander recommended continually setting them aside.  Dogen suggests that once this is done and not a hair's breadth deviation exists, one will see that the way is originally pure and undefiled.  Both AT and Zen suggest that there is nothing that needs to be done or changed.  But they are not "not doing" - shikantaza and continual inhibition seem to be quite challenging.  In contrast with “doing” and “not doing” AT and Zen are explicitly "non-doing".  We generally believe that peace and happiness can only be found by procrustean or sisyphean efforts but Zen and the AT suggest otherwise.  They are “good news” practices.
The "inhibition of end-gaining" also suggests that the focus of the AT is on the present moment, and not on the progressive improvement over time.  There is an emphasis on the immediacy of practicing in the present moment in both the AT and Zen.
It is curious that the term inhibition is never used when describing shikantaza.  Perhaps teachers feel that that the term is stained with notions of puritanical restrictions and psychological repression.  But saying "no" to end-gaining and clinging to desires and aversions is a basic starting place in both the AT and Zen practice.  For the AT student it opens up the opportunity to appreciate the moment as it actually is and to choose to respond in a more considered, conscious way.
Finally, the idea of the duality of body and mind underlies nearly all western thought.  Some students of the AT, impressed with the physical benefit, speak about the AT as physical practice.  But FM Alexander was quite clear that this is not a useful distinction.  He devotes the opening of his most popular book “The Use of the Self” to stating that nothing is purely physical or mental.  He was meticulous in his writing to avoid duality and instead refer to the “self” as a unity of body, mind and activity.  He was also clear that reaction to either mental or physical stimuli have both mental and physical components.  


Becoming Upright

As opposed to all other meditation practices Zen students invariably strive to be upright.  But students struggle to find this posture.  Observe meditators during sitting:  nearly all will be leaning over, twisted, pulled down or contracted in some areas of their bodies.   A Zen teaching on how to sit physically must help answer “How do we go about arranging our bodies to sit upright?”
Neuroscience suggest that we were been born with various reflexes that are encoded in conservative areas of our brain.  Human beings would not do well if we could easily interfere with these reflexes.  But we can obscure them by developing habits.
How did we come to obscure them?  Perhaps at school we were forced to sit in an unnatural fashion until it began to feel normal.  Perhaps we consciously copied the posture of a childhood hero.  Perhaps we grew to believe we were unworthy of being upright.    The physical aspect of sitting is thus going against the current of these habits.
One of Alexanders discoveries is that we don’t have to unearth the cause of our habit and deal with them directly.  Alexander, ever practical, was much more interested in applying tools to free ourselves from habit directly.
It is possible to illustrate this with a simple example.  As part of the physical examination of the nervous system, a physician will tap the patellar tendon with a rubber mallet.  This briefly stretches the quadriceps muscle in the leg.  The stretch receptors in the muscle send a message to the central nervous system which responds by reflexly contracting the same muscle.  Most people know it as “knee jerk reflex”.  But some patients, who recall having the test before, worry a bit and tense up.  This stiffening of the quadriceps can obscure the test.  Experienced clinicians will ask the patient to perform some unrelated trivial task to distract the patient.  Once distracted the clinician taps the knee and elicits the unencumbered reflex.  One way of looking at the AT is that it provide student with the tools to consciously stop interfering with natural inbred reflexes.
Another illustration is to compare humans with other species.  Insects, for example, are 100% reflexive in their response to stimuli.  They have no neuroplasticity and can not be trained.  Household pets and primates have quite a bit of ability to change.  But humans have the greatest ability to re-pattern reflexive behaviour and quickly learn new tasks.  No doubt this is the key to our survival as a species as we dispersed into diverse environments.  This neuroplasticity served us well within slowly changing environments.  But modern life provides us with rapidly changing environmental requirements.  We adapt new patterns of response to stimuli unconsciously and we have limited tools to undo these changes.  Alexander felt that humanities next evolutionary step is to develop the skills to undo dysfunctional patterns of response.  We can then consciously acquire new provisional habits that can be re-examined and changed as we wish.
This may sound like a lot of work, but once the tools are grasped and applied, it is not difficult.   A common sayings in the AT is “If one stops doing the wrong thing, the right thing will do itself.”  Again, the AT does not teach us to do anything well, not even to sit well.  Students learn how to stop interfering with inherent abilities to do any task, including zazen, well.

The AT has two tools that are taught to help students correct their habits.  The first is ‘inhibition’.  The second is ‘direction’.
Alexander was a professional reciter.  At the peak of his career he began to lose his voice.  His doctors suggested rest which helped initially.  However, once he resumed stage performances the problem returned.  He reasoned that the problem must lie in what he was doing while performing.  He set up mirrors and observed himself.  He found that, with the first impulse to speak, he pulled his head back and down.  Yet he was not otherwise aware that he did this and could not simply will himself to stop.   After much experimentation, he found that he was only able to stop this harmful activity when he set aside the impulse to speak (“inhibition”) and sent himself clear directions to allow the head to go forward and up.  This ‘direction’ is not ‘doing’.  It is not adding to muscle tension.  It is a focused intention.  It is the conscious direction of energy to prevent an old habit.  Ultimately, his technique involved directing to all areas of the body but the primary importance remained with the relationship of the head/neck/back.
Learning ‘direction’ is the new skill that the AT offers to Zen students.  One of the pitfalls in practicing the AT is relying on sensations.
I’d like to focus a bit more on an insight that Alexander had when watching himself with mirrors.  Again, he noted that he was not aware of his tendency to pull his head back and down, and could not stop himself from doing it once he began to speak.  He generalized this in the statement that we all suffer from “unreliable sensory appreciation”.
I can think of many instances where I noted my interpretation of my senses while sitting to be far from reality.  Yet I persisted on adjusting my posture during sitting based on how I felt.  As a small example, I recall many years ago that I was having a rather sluggish period of zazen in the midst of a seven day sitting.  I figured that if I slumped forward when I was drowsy then if I picked my chest up I would be more awake.  Well it worked!  The next period I did the same thing, and then forgot all about it.  Many years later, a perceptive teacher mentioned to me a lack of resonance during my chanting.  I realized that I did not have much sensation in my chest.  The area felt dead, wooden, stuck.  I was very much surprised to find that I had been holding my chest up for many years without knowledge of doing so.  At this point I finally and fully realized that I could not rely on my senses to find an upright and expansive posture.  I was devastated because I did not have any guidance other than my senses.
Perhaps if I had paid more attention to the “Heart Sutra” I would not have been so surprised.  This sutra is a central teaching in Zen, and a brief english version is chanted daily.  It is a simple and blunt denunciation of the reality of everything.  It pulls the rug out of all our conceptual frameworks.  It destroys belief systems.
As a Zen student I tend to look at teachings not as something to be believed but as tools to use in practice.  As a concept, “unreliable sensory appreciation” is a bit odd: after all, what else do I have but my senses to guide me?  But as a tool, the idea that my senses do not provide me with a reliable basis upon which to act is very helpful.   As a tool, “unreliable sensory appreciation” reminds me to set aside my beliefs about what my senses are telling me and instead rely upon ‘inhibition’ and ‘direction’ in the response to stimuli.  AT teachers suggest using these tools persistently and energetically.  But, again, energetically does not mean making a physical effort.  It is a conscious, thought based intention directed towards a body area, and a clear spatial direction.  It’s practice does not involve mental imagery or beliefs and can be done continually.

Inevitably, a robust physical practice of Zen, will eventually investigate if all our emotions, ideas and beliefs have a physical component.   One might find that there is no useful distinction between emotional, mental or physical response to the stimuli that life provides.   In his writing, FM was quite clear that there is no useful separation between the mind and the body.  He even provocatively suggested that our beliefs are nothing more than bits of physical tension.   The Heart Sutra supports the mindful attention to the changing nature of all things by undercutting beliefs and making it easier to set them aside.  The AT supports us to set aside our habits of body/mind and provides an opportunity to improve the use of ourselves.  These are parallel practices within one unified self.


Pain and Suffering

A framework for a physical practice of Zen should also open a discussion on the role of pain in sitting.  Given that much of our time on the cushion is spent surrounded by pain it seems curious that the Zen bookshelf in my local bookstore has little material to help sit comfortably.  Isn’t the focus of Buddhism the relief of suffering?
Some might claim there is value in sitting in pain.  Admittedly, observing pain can broaden our compassion, provide lessons on impermanence, and can highlight the role that attachment to aversion plays in the creation of suffering.  But observing any phenomena can teach us about impermanence.  And we do not need to have pain in sitting to see the consequences of attachment to aversion.
It seems an a priori conclusion that we should try to minimize pain on our cushion.  We’ve heated and cooled our zendo, allowed everyone to wear warm socks, left the kiysoku to collect dust and provided a big closet containing all manners of sitting cushions.  Likewise, zazen instructions should contain instructions about how to sit without pain.  Since even experienced student have pain while sitting, teaching how to practice physically needs to be ongoing.
That said, the perception of pain is not simple.  It is worth a diversion to define ‘pain’ and comment on it’s origin.  Medical scientists used to believe pain was generated simply by damage or inflammation in the peripheral tissue, and the sensation went to a pain receptor in the brain where it was directly experienced.  But no such receptor has been found: pain processing is widely distributed in the brain.  There is also a huge variation in response to peripheral stimulation.  In response to this, pain theorists suggest the brain and spinal cord moderate the transmission of pain up the spinal cord.  But theories have a way of highlighting their margins where unexplained phenomena lurk.  In this case, researchers noted pain in the non existent limbs of amputees, and even in those who were born without the limb.
There is a very interesting theory called the body-self neuromatrix that has been developed to explain this phantom pain.   This theory supposes we have a neuromatrix in our brain that actually creates the sensation of pain.   Very briefly, the theory suggest that we are born with a very complex matrix, or scaffolding, called a neuromatrix that is widely distributed in our brain.  The matrix was genetically determined but can be modified during our life.    The matrix allows inputs not only from our peripheral sensory nerves but from many other sources including our belief structure, our history, our culture, the tonic (slowly changing) state of our body and mind, the present (phasic) state of our body and mind and our endocrine milieu (our hormone balance).  The matrix includes all these myriad inputs and then processes them through multiple, parallel pathways that interact multiple times.
Where the input and processing is very complex, the role of the matrix is fairly simple.  The body-self neuromatrix decides if homeostasis is lost.  Homeostasis is a very basic theory that suggests that living beings seek to maintain a narrow operating range.   If the body-self neuromatrix decides that we have lost homeostasis it will trigger a variety of changes aimed at re-establishing homeostasis.  These include changes to our behavior and thought processes, our endocrine system, and our pain perception.  This output from the body-self neuromatrix is enormously complex and deserves a much fuller discussion, but I would like to highlight four aspects.




1. One of the outputs from the body-self neuromatrix goes to a part of the brain called the sentient neural hub.  This an area where the stream of output from the body-self neuromatrix is converted into a continually changing stream of awareness.  The means that our experience of ourselves is actually far removed from our actual sensory apparatus.   It would suggest that we look for some other guidance when responding to stimuli.
2.  Chronic pain is very bad for both the body and mind.  For example, pain is associated with several endocrine disorders, and the remodeling of our personality is deep and disastrous.
3. Pain does not exist in isolation.  When homeostasis is lost the body self neuromatrix generates a host of outputs including the sensation of pain, endocrine changes, a shortened contracted physique, wild tormented thoughts, and emotional grief.  Pain is only one aspect of this state of suffering and never exists independently.
4.  The inputs into body-self neuromatrix are not only from the peripheral sensory apparatus, but include the inputs from many parts of our mind and body.  But just as a high tonic (slowly changing) state of the mind (such as post traumatic stress disorder) predisposes us to chronic pain, these same inputs from the body/mind can moderate the effects of the sensory input on the body self neuromatrix.  The more reassuring inputs into the body self neuromatrix the greater sensory input can be tolerated before before the body self neuromatrix decides that homeostasis is lost.

We can now begin to understand how the AT can help with pain during sitting.  The AT improves the use of the self through learning the tenets of the technique and applying the tools of direction and inhibition.  
      These will change our physical use in two ways.  First, we will physically use our bodies during sitting with greater ease and efficiency.  In common terms, the posture improves and there is less stress.  In terms of the body self neuromatrix, the AT student will have improved visceral and phasic (quicker changing) somatic inputs.   In AT terms, these improvements are referred to as improvements in our ‘manner of use’.   The second way the AT helps with pain during sitting is by changing the underlying tone of the body/mind.  Tone is an alert activated state of the musculature; a state of readiness that can be measured with surface myelography.  There have been interesting studies done by TW Cacciatore in Oregon and the UK that have demonstrated improved, coordinated tone of those who study the AT.
So changing the ‘manner of use’ improves posture and ease in functioning and thus decreases the phasic musculoskeletal sensory input.  The AT also improves the phasic and tonic inputs from the mind.
          Of course, experienced meditators have a higher capacity to endure phasic inputs from the body (e.g. can sit longer with sore knees) without triggering the body self neuromatrix into loss of homeostasis.  But it can take years and many hours of sitting.  A scientific study suggests that the Alexander Technique can be helpful in as little as 6 lessons.  
Here I am referring to a study published in the prestigious, peer reviewed, British Medical Journal in May 2008.  This was a large, randomized, prospective study of the highest quality studying chronic back pain.  The primary outcome, days in pain, decreased in the group who had 24 AT lessons by 84%.  And this outcome was measured a full year after the interventions.   Although more studies need to be done, the size, quality and very significant outcome suggests that AT is highly effective in providing long term relief from common back pain.  In addition, 6 lessons plus a prescription for exercise provided nearly all the benefit of 24 lessons.
Looking at our “manner of use” as a cause of back pain is unusual.  It is more common to attribute back pain to an imbalance or weakness, a discoordination, or bound up facia that is preventing people from using a better posture.  We can call these concrete limitations our “conditions of use”.  From this perspective we might assume that yoga, pilates, bodywork, etc.  are required to address back pain.  If it was true that some underlying defect is the cause of back pain, then the AT - which  is only concerned with the “manner of use” - would not be helpful.  However, this BMJ study suggests pain is a result of the “manner of use” and not, in fact, the “conditions of use”.
It is unclear if the underlying mechanism causing pain while sitting is the same as that  which causes back pain in the larger population.  However, it is notable that in studies of the AT there has never been an adverse event associated with the AT.

Social Engagement
          In these dark times, where the very existence of humanity is being challenged by political, social, economic and environmental problems, a physical Zen practice must improve our abilities to bring our fundamental intention to every moment of our work off the cushion.
Some might argue that one will not be effective in healing the world unless one has achieved and fully incorporated deep insights into the nature of the self.  Perhaps so, but many of us feel the ills of the world are so pressing that we must act now.  No reader of this Journal needs to be reminded of the importance of meditation practice, but we must also be able to marshal all available tools when we are off the cushion to avoid being distracted from our vows.
The emphasis of Zen is on what is going on now.  A socially engaged Zen student is passionately interested in healing the world from within this present moment.   A physical practice of Zen needs to help us bring our fundamental intention to every act, every day, whether we are escorting civilians to safety in a war zone or changing the diaper of a crying child.
 Common thinking is that everyday life is inherently fear inducing and that we need various practices to help us manage these stressful situations.  But the AT is radically different in two ways.  First, Alexander did not find modern life to be inherently stressful.  He believed that the problem is that we respond to life with an undue fear response.  Secondly, AT teachers are not very interested in why we respond with fear.    Yes, Zen shows us how to pluck out the roots of our fear, and psychotherapy helps to resolve our neuroses.  But the AT is fundamentally practical and always focused on the present moment.  The AT suggests that much of our fear is simply habit - it is simply an ill considered response to the stimuli of everyday life.  
 In physical terms, fear is manifested as a predictable physical response which starts in the head/neck relationship (the “primary control’) and then is relayed throughout the entire body.  This can be seen in slow motion photos of the startle response.  The AT gives the student tools to inhibit this reaction and direct all the body parts in a way that opposes the physical manifestation of fear.   In more mental terms, the AT gives us the tools to use conscious reasoning in response to stimuli as opposed to unconscious unreasoned habit of becoming fearful.
During a lesson, the instructor touches the student lightly in ways to suggest a more expansive and upright way of sitting, standing, lying down or moving.  At the end of a lesson, the student typically feels a peculiar blend of lightness, ease, expansiveness and freedom.  After the lesson, inevitably, some difficulty occurs and the student will have an uncomfortable sensation which is the manifestation of fear.  The variance between their “bodyfeel” after a lesson and the emerging old habit will alert the student to practice the tools of inhibition and direction.   With practice, the student learns to continually use the tools of inhibition and direction to prevent the first manifestation of fear.  This has the feel of being continually anchored in the present.  
  In contrast, the mindfulness meditator will become accustomed to an expansive, open, relaxed mind.  When one leaves the hall some stimuli will prompt a stress or fear response.  The practitioner will experience a change in “mind-feel” and this will prompt an effort to return to mindfulness.
When the stakes are low, such as working quietly in a supportive group, mindfulness practices are sufficient to allow ones heartfelt intentions to be expressed.  However, in difficult or terrifying situations, mindfulness is a rather impotent tool.  But the bodys response to fear is more gross, more substantial.  Preventing or intervening in the physical manifestation of fear with the tools that the AT provides, can augment the practice of mindfulness to help us express our fundamental intention (compassion, equanimity) as opposed to selfish, fearful or habitual responses.  

In conclusion, there is a new opportunity that has been created as Zen has emerged in Western society.  There are new opportunities for Zen students to sit more comfortably, new avenues to understanding practice, and new tools that can help us be more effective in our social engagement.  I am hoping that these preliminary thoughts will begin a discussion on how to practice Zen physically.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

On Being Stiff

The AT student and the Zen student have something in common.  The nattering nabobs will call us names.  Zen students are referred to as Zendroids and AT students as Alexandroids.

I'm not quite sure what this means, but I think we can look odd, make people feel uncomfortable, so they call us names.  I have been a student of both, and I do wonder if I appear stiff to some people.  A woman who knows me well has said I can look like I have "a stick up my butt".   A few years ago a small child poked me while I was at a bus station: apparently he thought I might be a mannequin   

For the life of me I do not get it.  Since starting my AT teacher training program I am increasingly delighted to move.  Simple movements feel devine: relaxed, effortless.  I feel happy and graceful when I move.  The simplest tasks: walking, standing up, picking something up are fun and easy to do.  So why do some look at me as stiff?

I do know something about being stiff.  I have hurt myself in the past and with muscles in spasm I would barely move.   I have been in a state where I was sure movement would cause considerable pain.  In both situations my range of movement was dramatically curtailed and I'm sure I would appear stiff to anyone.    But nowadays I do not experience myself as stiff.  Quite the opposite.

Then I watched a video of a first generation AT teacher: Marjory Barlow.  When I first saw this I was struck by how upright she appears.  And at first she appeared stiff.  But as I watched the video it became clear that she is not stiff at all.  Her movements are both subtle and dramatic but she does not fidget or squirm or writhe or pull her self down.  Her movements accentuate the points that she is making in the interview.  There is ease in all her movements.

She is extraordinary.  What makes her amazing is that she is peaceful and healthy.  And that is extremely rare.  Most of us will see a person like this only once or twice in our lifetime.

A close relative suffers from intermittent back pain.  When I visited him last he was in pain.  I recommended the AT creative rest: put a paperback under your head, lie flat on a carpet and bend his knees to let his feet lie flat on the floor.  While there, try to do as little as possible, and do that for 10 minutes.  The next day he said he could only do this for 5 minutes.  He said he did not like it.  He found it "boring" and would not do it again.

"Boring"?  What is that?  It's the inability to be with his life just as it is.  How pitiful!   How terrible!  It must be hell to always have to make effort to get away from yourself, to never be able to find peace and contentment.

But he is not alone.  Go to any movie theater and watch people as they stand in line or classroom and watch people sit.  Everyone holds a static posture for a few seconds at best.  They are all pulled down, hunched over, constantly squirming.   Why do they do this?  Because their muscles complain about being misused and their minds can not tolerate a lack of diversion.  They're not in pain, quite, but as soon as the pain comes on they move their body and divert their mind.  The amount of happiness that can be found always dodging the devils pitchforks must be quite limited indeed.

But there are a few people in the crowd who are not moving.  They are the ones who have just undergone surgery, or are suffering from a whiplash injury, or have had their spinal column fused.  They are quite sure that if they move they will have even worse pain than they have currently.  And there are those who have had terribly hardened idea and opinions (sexual repression for starters) and they are afraid to move should their armor buckle.  Or perhaps their hardened ideas prevent them from moving at all.    All these people are stiff and are clearly identified as such.    

So, it is quite natural to assume everyone who is not moving is stiff.  We simply can not conceive of meeting someone who is content just to stand of sit still.  We can't imaging that someone would love to move but also loves to be still - who moves when there is some reason or desire to move but is otherwise still.

I wonder if I appear like this.  But I would not say that I am still.  Really there is always some movement, breathing, muscles twitching in my shoulders that accompany my thoughts, slight changes to the tonic state of the muscles in my trunk to stay upright.  There is always plenty going on.  I suppose I might appear still to ignorant people.  

But there is less and less about me that is stiff.   

Peace can not be found while moving to avoid pain.  Nor is stillness compatable with life.   I feel the breeze and sway with it and I smile.  To do this, and to appropriately respond to the stimuli, I need to continually "inhibit" and "direct".