Reprints
Will you play now?
Daily I read stories about decisions and actions that impact the lives of billions of people. I am outraged, saddened and often dismayed. On occasion I feel vindicated, righteous and arrogant, but to no avail. In this lifetime of increasing complexity, the globe seems to spin in ever-smaller circles as if closing in on me. I find it threatening. Indeed, I am confronted by the impact of the decisions and actions of a few global personalities on my life and on the lives of others.
In a moment of fear, I panic. I give in to being a helpless victim and feel powerless to make a difference. I hear the chorus of voices, crying out and raging with me in disbelief at the wrongs done, the pain endured and the damage inflicted.
From a distant corner of my awareness comes a small voice, “Will you play now?” Angry, noisy voices break in to push the small voice aside and quickly gain my agreement for past wrongs and vengeful thoughts. Paralyzed by my own anger, rage and resentment, I withdraw stunned and silenced.
Will you play now? My breath stops short as I hear the words. This time I am stung with irritation at the interruption. Shaking my head forcefully, I demand of noone in particular, “Who could play in the middle of this?” I am upset and at the point of breaking. A profound sadness washes over me.
“Will you play now?’ the voice echoes once again in the silence. Suddenly, my outrage, the chorus of voices, my irritation, unspoken disappointment and my sadness vanish without a trace. I take a deep breath and consider playing.
Closing my eyes, I remember
As a client and Intern of Rosen Method bodywork, I have come to appreciate my childhood fascination with water. Treading water was a survival skill that we all had to learn at the local swimming pool. However, I also spent countless, unexplained hours playing with the buoyancy of the water, weighing the heaviness of my legs and arms against the clear pool water.
I was fascinated. The water was there, and yet, not there. I could move swiftly through the water when I wanted and it gave way easily. I could lie back to gaze at the endless sky confident that the water would keep me afloat.
For me, the water was non-invasive and supportive like Rosen Method. It gave me wholehearted support for what I was up to, recognized my limitations and allowed me to learn what I needed to learn to play life. Without question the water matched my movements one for one with playful resistance – giving way at times and pressing in on me at other times It was the resistence itself that informed me and helped me locate myself in space and time. In those moments of play, I discovered movement and the possibility of moving any direction I chose at a moment’s notice. It was my choice. I had the power. No matter what, the water was there to support me.
I also discovered my limitations. Dream as I might that I was a fish – reality, and my lungpower put a limit on how long could I stay under water. Fear, and the urgency to breathe brought me quickly to the surface. From there, I could dive, flip, float, swim away, or… tread water.
Away from the local swimming pool and in the cold, turbulent waters of the Pacific Ocean, the rough waves and powerful undertow always reminded me of my responsibility in playing the game. I knew I could rely on treading water when the unexpected brought forth fear. Relaxed and confident, I explored the unknown and unfamiliar for new possibilities.
Pam Seawell, September 2003
Life is good
A carved figurine of an African elephant came into view as I followed the words of my Rosen practitioner. “Open your eyes slowly and look around,” he said. “Take in where you are. Notice the sensations occurring in your body.”
I focused in on the elephant. The peaceful, playful images inspired by the silhouetted elephant on the shelf were rudely displaced by the churning, angry sensation in the left side of my body. I felt myself recoil in horror as the two began to merge. I shut my eyes to stop the action.
In the darkness, I easily found my way to the familiar numb space deep within and I looked around. The elephant was gone. The sensation was gone. The elephant appeared instantly.
I became aware of my practitioner’s hands cradling my left shoulder and neck and remembered his words, “open your eyes slowly”. I opened my eyes again – a tiny slit. The elephant appeared instantly in-between the blur of my eyelashes. It was magical. I could disappear the elephant and have him reappear in the blink of an eye. I liked the elephant. I scanned the other figurines on the shelf above me. I noted the sunlight and relaxed into an echo in my mind, “life is good.” I felt my breath change.
My practitioner’s touch brought my attention to the sensation still nagging at me from the inside. I resisted. I knew it was a nasty, tangled, destructive feeling and now I wanted to protect the elephant from its impact. I stiffened. The practitioner’s steady hands matched my resistance and I let go. I felt my breath change. As I surrendered to the feelings, a warm tear formed at the corner of each eye and I felt a wash of emotion coursing through my upper body. I took a breath just to make sure I could.
The elephant figurine had become a symbol of what is possible in life. As I lay there, I could almost see the conflict in my body working itself into consciousness. I let it be. My newfound desire to nurture the elephant – and all of life – gave me the courage to recognize the heavy feelings that had been trapped unconsciously in my body.
Pam Seawell, June 2003
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