Relaxation

Inviting The Mind-Body Connection
The OREGONIAN has an article (derived from NEWSWEEK) in its March 1 edition titled "Frazzled, Fried and Fatigued".  I read it avidly, since I feel that way sometimes and I see many people who feel that way quite often.  The toughest , most stressful occupation, it states, is that of the working mom.  Im not surprised.   Many of us have suspected that was true for years.  It was in the mid-80s that I first heard that the toughest thing a woman does all day is leave her house, pointing to how much responsibility we women take for the condition of the house.  (The OREGONIAN article cleverly says why that is stressful for women:  "Many women who are bringing home the bacon still are expected to fry and serve it, too").   Bur fatigue hits all people, all ages.  It is reported to be among the top five reasons people call the doctor.  And the newspaper quotes the "Annals of Internal Medicine" report that a recent survey had 24% of people who complained of fatigue saying it lasted longer than two weeks.

It seems the boom of micro-technology is turning us all into workaholics, that is if you believe what is being reported in today's media.  What can be done if any of this applies to you?  Have you thought about an answer?  Is it to exercise more?  Take more vacations?  Get another job?  Move to the country?

Enter the possibility of forgetting the to-do lists, faxes, cellular phones and computers.  Enter the possibility of  moving  quickly into the Alpha state, blocking out the clattering, demanding world and letting in Inner Peace.  Enter the possibility of a class that invites you to use your mind to listen to the autonomic system in your body.

We all have natural rhythms we've long neglected that would tell us how to recognize fatigue and stress in its early stages.  Ernest Rossi in his book THE 20 MINUTE BREAK names those "Ultradian Rhythms", and says they occur every 90 to 120 minutes.  Our physical systems run on Activity........Rest, Activity..........Rest, Activity.........Rest, all day long.  The rest period is necessary to catch up on inner housekeeping (involving oxygen, nutrients and cells that need to be replenished) in order that our complex systems can continue to function smoothly.  When we ignore the rest periods (and who among us does not?) the inner housekeeping does not get done.  Result, depletion of betaendorphins which leads first to feelings of fatigue, and eventually psychosomatic illnesses.

Listening to your body's messages of health or dis-ease can be accomplished  many ways.  The Autogenic Training classes I teach offers a method that is 63 years old and has helped many people.  It is applicable for those troubled with symptoms that are identified as correlates of stress, such as chronic headaches, back pain, insomnia, asthma, generalized anxiety.  Participants learn to attain a heightened awareness of internal body sensations; control of autonomic processes (breathing, heartbeat, coolness, warmth); and deep relaxation. They learn a technique that takes them into a time-suspended waking state, free from tension.  Then they take this home and use it when they want to  rest.  Once finished with the class, participants do want to rest.  All it takes is a little perseverence.  For information on ordering my audio tape, "After The Storm, Self Healing with Autogenic Training", click on the Mind-Body Connection link to your left.

Songs From The Woods
Late July.  I am sitting on a dock that threatens to tip me into this Montana lake if I lean too heavily on its edge.  One leg in the surprisingly warm water, I lift it to shove back the boat that swings toward me every few minutes.  My dog Oliver lies beside me, half wet, still too citified to leap off the dock with carefree abandon and take a swim.  His panting is somehow reassuring, as it blends with the sounds I hear:  breeze whooshing high in the tall pines, birds chirping and twittering and whistling, a chipmunk scolding.  A lone loon’s raucous cry  overtakes the ever-present sounds of nature.  The wind in trees overhead becomes stereophonic.  The breeze has turned into a gentle wind now, so I no longer see a mirror image of mountains in the water.  Instead, patterns of ruffles turn its surface into zigzags of moving rivulets.  This is the kind of breeze eagles and osprey wait to ride upon.  The Big Sky testifies to the name of every kind of cloud I learned in the high school I attended forty miles away.  That place is a high school no more, but the town remains, still sleepy and still quaint.

There is a splash to my right.  I turn my head in time to see the fish break water for a second time.

The cabin behind me is a rent-free gift from a dear friend.  Its underpinnings come alive with packrats in the middle of the night.  Oliver whined last night to be rescued from their clatter.  Its attic teems with tree bats; several of their young have fallen to the deck during this week I am here.  They are frightening creatures, but only because of our cultural myths.  In reality, they are soft,  and have a hook at the end of their wings, a set of tiny toes on their feet.  They skitter up the rough-hewn stilts in a blind but instinctive attempt to gain access to the attic after their fall.  At first I recoil, then later inspect them and even pull one off Oliver’s nose.  He is mostly confused about this place.  So many smells, so many trees.

Clouds are long stretches of wispy, lazy gauze that bump into sudden puffs of cotton.  I lie back to see what they present:  A polar bear on my right stretches her neck upward.  A peacock and a duck have a conversation along the horizon.  There’s a cougar, ears alert, ready to pounce on a fleeing ram.  As the therapist in me wonders at my seeing only animals, I am reminded of my favorite Peanuts cartoon, where Lucy and Schroeder describe cloud shapes to each other as Prometheus chained to his rock and Minerva springing forth from the head of Jupiter.  When they ask Charlie Brown what he sees, he replies, “I was going to say ‘duckies and horsies’”.    A large spider ambles across my thigh.  A week ago I would have brushed it quickly away.  Now I am merely bemused.  It seems the peace of this place has me in its gentle hand, allowing new pathways of creation and recreation.  Good for my soul.

Time in a Bottle
I stand over an archaic cast iron washtub.  It is divided into two sections.  On the right side is a deep sink; on the left, a washboard. There is no water faucet here, but one end of a sawed-off garden hose lies near my feet.  I look at it, my gaze following its passage across the sunlit brick patio to a faucet thirty steps away.  On a ledge in front of me an empty coffee can is meant to transfer water from the sink to the washboard.  In a pale blue plastic grocery bag beside the can are the soap granules.  I take all this in with one glance. I was not expecting a Maytag; on the other hand, would hot water be too much to ask?
I heave a deep sigh, duck my head under the staircase that threatens – if I’m not careful --  to interrupt this clothes-washing ritual I’m about to begin. If I straighten up too quickly, I risk banging my head on the back side of these stairs leading to second floor apartments. In another time, another country, I might have cursed the engineering plan of placing the laundry room outside and under the stairs.  Today, my task is to wash the clothes.  I decide to keep on task, and leave off the cursing.  My pile of dirty clothes is small.  (I brought only one suitcase.)   I take three items,spread them across the washboard, dip water from the tub to the clothes, sprinkle them with soap, then begin the slow and methodical up-and-down scrubbing motion that will render them clean.  I put them in a plastic pail to await rinsing when the washing phase is complete.  As I continue,  my hands develop a rhythm that echoes a song already in my head.  If I could put time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do…Pick up more clothes.  Dip water from the tub.  Sprinkle the soap.  Scrub, scrub, scrub.  Wring.  Drop in bucket.  Is to save every day till eternity passes away, just to spend them with you…  The  slowness of this chore makes me aware of how these motions are enhancing my senses.  From the corner of my eye I watch a red bird who stares at me from a dead tree.  I feel the hot sun on my bare feet, the chill of the water up to my elbows.  I hear the backyard gossip of four canaries as they call to each other from their cages against the patio walls.  More clothes.  Dip the water.  Sprinkle soap.  Scrub, scrub, scrub.  Wring, wring.   Drop in bucket..  If I could make days last forever, If words could make wishes come true, I’d save every day like a treasure and then, again,  I would spend them with you….The depth of meaning in this ritual only begins to become apparent to me when I get to the next words:  But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them…Now the clothes are ready for rinsing.  I cross the patio past the flower garden, say a few words to the canaries, then turn on the water to fill the now-empty tub.  I almost forget to stuff the drain with the wadded up fabric that serves as a plug.  Crossing again to the faucet, I turn it off so the tub will not run over.  Swish the water over the clothes on the washboard.  Wring, wring, wring.  Shake.  Start a new pile of clean clothes, and when the task is finally complete, grab the bucket, heavy by now, and climb the two stories to the clothesline on the roof .    If I had a box just for wishes and dreams that would never come true….Instinctively I know  that this is one of those rare elongated moments where time waits outside.  I know I will remember and cherish this clothes washing ritual forever.  Thanks, Jim Croce!

- Back To Articles Page -