Category: Alexander

“I wish it to be understood that throughout my writings I use the term ‘conscious guidance and control’ to indicate primarily a plane to be reached rather than a method of reaching it”.

-FM Alexander

Thinking

Posted on by dod

Thinking about how we think, generally and during Alexander work.

It was suggested to me that:

“…the function of the mind is to think, think about something.”

This seems a bit hard on animals, who also have minds, but who presumably don’t have the capacity to “think about” matters in the way we do. Nor would I call the ability to string a series of thoughts together an unmitigated blessing.

Most of my time is spent “thinking about” things that have little or nothing to do with what is going on around me. This dulls my appreciation of life to a considerable extent. On those rare occasions when I stop “thinking about” anything, I become more rather than less conscious.

This raises the question of how useful “thinking about” things is in an Alexandrian context. The connection I have always made between the Technique and Eastern approaches like Zen Buddhism was that both emphasised the need to be in the present. The Technique may do so more obliquely; but without this as a prior requirement, inhibition and direction would be impossible.

The problem is that whereas the Eastern ideal requires a stillness of mind that suggests an absence of thought, the writings of Alexander specify we should be thinking in a very specific way.

I was initially confused by this, before coming to the conclusion that the sort of thinking required to apply the principles of the Technique to life had to specifically exclude “thinking about” those principles, or indeed, anything else, at the time of application. Otherwise, we would find ourselves anywhere but the present moment.

“Thinking about” something involves a complex series of imaginative processes that takes us away from where we are; “thinking of” it, by contrast, can include one or more of these same processes, but in conjunction rather than succession, allowing us to remain present. If, for example, we “think of” our front door, an image of it is all we are likely to be aware of; but as soon as we “think about” it, we may remember it lets in draughts, needs painting, squeaks on being opened, and is the entrance to a house we haven’t finished paying for.

This applies in much the same way to thinking “of”, as opposed to “about”, our neck, head and back.

Over the years, I’ve found the discipline involved in applying the Technique to life has as much to do with stopping “thinking about” things in order to be present as remembering, when present, to inhibit and direct. In fact, for a while now, I’ve harboured the suspicion that, by stopping thinking about whatever it is that prevents me paying attention, a form of inhibition and direction will have already taken place.

“Thinking about” things is both villain and saviour: the original cause of poor use, it lies behind all human achievement. Very little gets done by simply “thinking of” things. Unfortunately, Alexander’s belief that we could solve the problems of civilisation by attending to both means and end fails to take into account the difficulty involved when the majority of ends have to be “thought about” (often deeply) in order to be achieved.

The only way out of this impasse would be if we were able to think “of” one thing, at the same time as thinking “about” another, while remaining equally conscious of both. A simple example might be “thinking of” my head going forward and up, while “thinking about” my mortgage repayments. For my part, I can’t do this.

My conclusion is that “thinking about” things is not so much a function as a habit; it is incompatible with the application of the Technique; we over indulge in it at our peril; but that without it civilisation would grind to a halt.

 

I have often wondered about Alexander “attending to the means-whereby” while writing his books; and I assumed that either he didn’t, or else, if he did, he had an ability that few of us share.

Maybe I am being unduly pessimistic. After all, I can only know for sure how I think, which is that when I write anything original that requires a degree of reflective thought, I am unable to attend to my use at the same time.

Years ago, I made a list of activities I believed could be done “with attention to the means-whereby” and those that I thought couldn’t.

Predominantly physical activity – running, for example – whose intricacies had already been learned, tended to be in the first list; with predominantly mental activities – such as reading – which require imagination, in the second. I reckoned half my life was Alexanderable; but that it was probably the half that needed it least.

I imagine that “thinking of” and “thinking about” things are familiar patterns of behaviour to most people. What isn’t familiar is their conjunction; and what wasn’t familiar to me before learning the Technique was the conjunction of “thinking of” what I was doing with “thinking of” the way I was doing it. For me, that was the new, unfamiliar way of thinking Alexander and others described.

“Thinking of” one thing and “thinking about” another, however, I found, and find, impossible. It’s like trying to listen to two conversations at once. To me, thinking about something requires an imaginative shift that takes me away from myself, preventing me thinking of, or about, anything else. Simply put, thinking at more than one remove from reality takes me away from that reality.

So what happens if, to use my original example, I’m thinking of my head going forward and up when the thought of mortgage repayments floats into my mind?

Initially, my attention to the means-whereby needn’t be displaced by this new thought, since I am able to “think of” both ideas at the same time; but as soon as I consider or “think about” the mortgage repayment issue, anticipation and speculation based on remembered facts and figures flood in, and attention to the means-whereby goes out of the window.

As I said, I have heard people imply they thought it was possible for this anticipation and speculation to occur while still managing to attend to the means-whereby. I’d certainly like to know how.

It has also been pointed out that Alexander used his hands while chatting, etc, and that some form of thought would have been required to use the hands well, not to mention the thought required to talk at the same time.

Although special skills are obviously necessary, I don’t think the use of the hands is that different to any other predominantly physical activity. Once learned, it becomes largely subconscious, or hovers at the edge of consciousness, unless we chose to have it at centre stage. Some awareness is required, certainly, in order to think “of” what we are doing; but thinking “about” how the hands are being used, or what they are being used for, is likely to take us away from attending to our own use, and therefore detract from the quality of our hands – not to mention detracting from the line in chat.

Years back, when I taught evening classes, I used to see if I could attend to my use while talking; and the answer was, yes – so long as I didn’t think about what I was saying. That’s not as crazy as it sounds. So long as I talked “off the top of my head”, I was okay. As soon as I delved deeper and started “thinking about” the words I might use, I lost all sense of myself.

To reiterate, “thinking of” the use of the hands and “thinking of” whatever is being talked about can be done concurrently. However, should we need to think “about” the use of the hands, associated chat would be the first casualty. Conversely, should the flow of talk stumble, and the subject matter need to be thought “about”, for a time the hands would have to operate automatically.

The best way of describing what I mean is to use an analogy. Car driving straddles the lists I referred to earlier. It is a complex process that has to be learned consciously and then becomes semi automatic. Generally, if we are driving in easy traffic on known roads to a destination we are familiar with, we can get there while thinking about other things during the journey. There’s neither need to think “about” nor even to think “of” driving. Attending to the means-whereby would be relatively easy.

If, however, the traffic conditions are busy, or we are searching for the right road, or we have only a hazy idea of where we are going, thinking “about” or even “of” anything other than the task at hand is likely to prove impossible. We need to think exclusively of driving and of where we are going; occasionally interspersed with thoughts about how we are going to get there. Attending to the means-whereby is not a realistic option.

Remembering

Posted on by dod

It always amazes me that people don’t talk more about the crucial role of ‘remembering’ in Alexander work.

When I first read about the Technique, I thought the task of learning it would depend largely on application. After I had had some lessons, I still thought this, but I had become confused about what, exactly, was being ‘applied’. I felt okay about that, since a certain amount of confusion seemed part and parcel of the learning process.

We call the work we do, ‘attending to use’; and it can mean giving directions, or refraining from stiffening the neck, in a host of different ways. In other spheres of life, of course, ‘application’ of a discipline could mean anything from smiling in the face of adversity to taking care not to tread on insects.

Although the nature of ‘attention to use’ interests me, what intrigues me more is how we remember that we are following any discipline at all: what keeps us on track.

In my case, it was only after a considerable number of lessons that I realised the major requirement, in practical terms, was not how well I was able to ‘apply’ the Technique, but how often I remembered to do so.

We tend to forget, especially if we are busy as teachers, that each lesson we give is a reminder to ‘attend’. For our students, this is also the case; but whereas we may have many such reminders during an average week, they will only have one or two. Eventually, the time will come when they stop lessons, and are left with no external reminders at all.

How do they manage?

Remembering cuts both ways. If someone I’m close to is ill, I have difficulty forgetting about them. If I have a large tax bill, its repercussions are hard to ignore. In cases like these, what I ‘remember’ is not my conscious choice.

If I deliberately don a purple top hat and stroll around town with it on, I have little difficulty ‘remembering’ – in fact, I’m unable to forget – I have this weird appendage on my head. If I wear it for days on end, eventually I’ll lose consciousness of it being anything out of the ordinary.

In a sense, every Alexander student is asking him or herself to walk around with just such a top hat on, in the form of a constant, conscious attention to their use; but not to get so familiar with this, that they forget.

Whatever we want to ‘remember’ it seems to require, first and foremost, the act of ‘being present’.

‘Being present’ can mean different things to different people

In the early days of my interest in the Technique, I believed ‘being present’ was something that would come automatically as a result of a number of lessons. When it didn’t, I started looking around for devices to help me. I first bought a knitting counter – a small numbered cog that slips onto a knitting needle and can be turned to keep the knitter on track – and hung it round my neck. My reasoning was, each time I ‘remembered’ myself, and then went on to inhibit and direct, I would turn the dial. I reckoned that if I ‘remembered’ ten times the first day, that might stimulate me to remember more often the next day, and so on. What actually happened was, after a few days of increasing scores, a plateau was reached, along with a sort of blindness to the counter’s presence; whereupon my score tumbled as quickly as it had risen.

It was the purple top hat syndrome! I got too used to wearing it.

I followed this with purchases of a tally counter – much easier to click on – and a golfer’s wrist counter. Both suffered much the same fate. They were carried around or worn for varying periods of time, diligently, and then forgotten about.

Part of the trouble seemed to be that these devices required me to start the ball rolling; and when it stopped rolling – whether through boredom, bloody mindedness, or disinterest – I didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to start it up again.

I then thought that if I set my ordinary wrist watch alarm to beep every hour, I could reckon on at least 12 moments a day when I would be guaranteed to ‘remember’. This worked quite well; but it soon resulted in me hearing the bleep, stopping it sounding, and then saying to myself I would ‘attend to my use’ in a moment, when I had a bit of free time. Needless to say, the next thing I knew, the next hourly bleep was sounding .

Or, instead, I ‘attended’ in a very quick, slipshod fashion. I originally thought this was fine. Peripheral attention, is, I believe, of the essence; but there is a degree beyond which ‘peripheral’ becomes ‘distant’, to the point of invisibility; and I got slacker and slacker in recognising this.

What I needed, I decided, was a random alarm device, that I carried around and that sounded or vibrated at different intervals. I located a computer based ‘random alert’ program, but I found this didn’t work for the simple reason that whenever I am working at a keyboard, ‘remembering’ anything other than what I am doing is, frankly, impossible. Seeing and hearing a random alarm, I would kill it with the same alacrity I might a mosquito.

I had already tried reminder cards propped up in various parts of my house. Then, a knot in a handkerchief; the handkerchief carried in a different pocket; my wrist watch worn on a different arm, so every time I noticed these anomalies, they stimulated me to ‘remember’ myself.

All of these approaches worked, up to a point; but, invariably, familiarity meant I soon forgot about them again.

Eventually, I settled into a routine of accepting I would ‘remember’, as and when I did; that I would do my best; and that I shouldn’t expect miracles but rather normality.

Recently, I’ve been wondering what ‘normal’ is in this area. We start from absolute zero. Not, necessarily, as children, but certainly as adults, we begin with a brand new awareness of desiring to change an existing situation. So far as the Technique is concerned, we start the game the very first time we ‘remember’ to inhibit and direct. This then becomes either something dismissed, after a number of attempts, as a waste of time; or else a life sentence.

I wonder, as I have wondered at intervals over the years, how much ‘remembering’ constitutes progress; and how little remembering might mean regression. I know, personally, the ability to ‘remember’ fluctuates tremendously, from ‘remembering’ frequently, through the day, to ‘remembering’ hardly at all, for weeks on end.

I’m unsure this is an area that should be left to chance. Alexander talked of “Conscious constructive control of the individual”. I understand “constructive control” as being ‘what’ we apply to ourselves and our lives. It is the ‘way’ we ‘attend to our use’. In order to do this attending, we need to be “conscious”. A person is simply not conscious unless they have ‘remembered’ to be. To remain conscious for any length of time, they need to continually remember. Being conscious, whether for its own sake, or in order to ‘attend’ to something, effectively means self-remembering.

I believe Frank Pierce Jones suggested that if we were able to acquire a device that would alert us each time we pulled our heads back and down, although it might seem initially to be the answer to our prayers, very soon we would get irritated by it and turn it off.

My own experience would seem to bear this out; but I wonder if such a device could be used, not in an ‘always on’ or ‘always off’ fashion, but occasionally, judiciously, so as to bring about an increasing awareness of current conditions, without alienating our desire to know more.

Certainly, there are any number of areas of my life, besides application of the Technique, where I would welcome improvement in my capacity for ‘remembering’. What I’ve outlined above may seem laughable and even trite and unimportant – as if devices rather than will power were the answer – but I think it might pay us all to consider how we ‘remember’ to change our mode of reaction, how often we ‘remember’, and how we might learn to ‘remember’ more readily. I would love to hear how others address this issue; or even if they address it at all.

I have a fond memory of my training course director bringing into class a letter he had received from someone at an Australian university researching the application and effectiveness of Alexander work. The letter asked heaps of detailed, academic questions; the last of which was “What is the single most important aspect of the Alexander Technique?”

The director told us he planned to write back with the single word, ‘Remembering’.

Attention

Posted on by dod

How easy or hard or even possible is it for us to pay attention to the means-whereby?

Over the years, I’ve heard recurrent talk about how we might attend to all manner of things, including our use, at the same time; and how, conversely, we can concentrate on one thing, until we are aware of little else.

I suppose most of us would agree that the first state is what we are seeking; while the second is what we wish to avoid.

I remember making a list once of daily activities I believed it was possible to carry out while ‘attending’ to use; and a list where it seemed downright impossible.

The first list contained already learned, well rehearsed, predominantly ‘physical’ activities, such as walking, housework, gardening, bike riding, driving in light traffic, familiar sport or dance, reading known material aloud, making inconsequential small talk, etc.

The point where it became more difficult to attend to use during such ‘first list’ activities was when they required a certain amount of ‘ongoing modification’ from the norm I was used to, such as driving in severe traffic conditions, using dangerous tools in house or garden, talking in public on a difficult subject, trying something different during sport or recreation, etc.

The second list was made up partly of those ‘physical’ activities that required a greater degree of presence of mind to be accomplished; but predominantly it consisted of ‘mental’ activities, such as reading, writing, planning, listening, understanding different points of view, daydreaming – in effect, all forms of ‘speculative’ thinking.

My two lists obviously coincide during the times we are carrying out a relatively simple activity – such as sitting or walking – while engaged in something more complex – such as reconsidering what we did yesterday. This is both a ‘first list’ activity (sitting) and a ‘second list’ activity (speculative thinking) that effectively prevents ‘attention to use’.

It seems the activities that allow us to pay Alexandrian attention are limited to those we are sufficiently familiar with to not have to ‘watch out for ourselves’; whereas, during activities that require so much of us there is nothing left to speculate with, or during such speculation itself, this is impossible. It is as if we have an ‘allowance’ of attention that can be spread or narrowed, depending on circumstances, but that can only ‘take in’ so much.

Personal examples of this might include my inability to listen to two conversations simultaneously; the fact that when driving in ‘easy traffic’, I can follow the action of a talking book, or think of my neck and head, or consider my life, but that when traffic conditions change for the worse, I can’t; the extraordinary way in which watching TV, reading a novel, writing an email, or thinking about the past or future, simply cannot be done while paying conscious attention to anything else whatsoever.

I wonder how much this is an individual trait; and if it is general, how much it can be changed? Somewhere in his writings, Alexander alludes to the ability to do several things at once; and I have heard others suggesting something similar. However, although ‘thinking of’ more than one thing at a time is easily done, I have yet to meet anyone, in the ordinary line of events, who can consciously ‘think about’ one thing, while ‘thinking of’ something else; still less ‘think about’ two different things at the same time.

The conclusion I originally came to was that it was unrealistic to expect Alexander students to be able to ‘attend to use’ during any but ‘first list’ activities; and that it was as well to know that trying to apply the Technique to ‘second list’ activities was unlikely to be successful, might be counterproductive, and could even be dangerous.

What I’ve discovered since hasn’t invalidated my belief so much as confused it. I start from the premise that whenever I am ‘unconsciously’ engaged in a ‘first list’ activity, I am invariably ‘thinking about’ something else at the same time. Additionally, most ‘second list’ activities are dedicated to such thinking; so this ‘thinking about’ is going on the majority of my waking life.

It now seems to me that during such ‘first list’ activities, rather than try to supplant my thinking with ‘attention to use’, I could simply stop it altogether. What that brings about is a state of being incorporating a more complete consciousness of me as a whole than I appear to experience during deliberate ‘Alexandrian’ attentiveness. Precisely how I ‘stop thinking’ is another matter.

As for ‘second list’ activities, I now make a distinction between those that require ‘single mindedness’ of both body and mind to be carried out

– such as, say, galloping through a forest on horseback – and those requiring ‘split mindedness’ – such as, listening to, taking notes on and endeavouring to understand, a complex lecture.

In the latter, poor use (in its fullest sense) seems inevitable. I simply cannot carry these sorts of task out without completely abnegating myself to unconscious control. In the former, a state similar to that obtained when ceasing mental chatter during ‘first list’ activities appears to prevail, but by necessity, rather than choice. There is an acute awareness of self, including use, that excludes deliberate attention being paid to any particular part of that self – including the neck, head, and back.

For a while now, I’ve suspected that the thinking that goes on so much of our time is the original and prime cause of poor use; and that during its absence – which, for most people, probably amounts to minutes a day at most – good use is the likely consequence.

This is because, during ‘speculative’ thinking, we become temporarily blind to what is going on, in and around us, including what we are doing to ourselves. The more regularly and enthusiastically we speculate, the more we ignore what our senses are telling us. Eventually, what would once have been an easily recognised and heeded warning to ‘stop’, falls below the threshold of awareness.

Simply put, thinking ‘about’ other things obscures us to what is going on. To remedy this by ‘paying attention’ to what we are doing with our necks and heads, rather than stopping the thinking that prevented us from knowing what that was in the first place, strikes me as somewhat superfluous.

Breathing

Posted on by dod

Breathing is a deep subject. This barely scratches the surface of it.

The other night, I lay awake listening to my wife breathing. There was no doubt: hers was an effortful in breath, followed by a relaxed out breath.

I’ve noticed the same in children and animals.

I’ve only once in my life been in a situation – while meditating, which is not something I do regularly – of being able to ‘watch’ my own breathing, for a protracted period, without at the same time seeming to interfere with it. It appeared then that both in breath and out breath were happening by automatic reflex, with no discernible muscular effort on my part.

Recently, I came across the work of Ian Jackson, who teaches what he calls “the Rebound In-breath”.

Here is a quote from him:

“A similar rebound effect occurs with the insqueezing of the ribcage. You literally use muscle to bend bone here, and, like the bent wood of a bow when you release the arrow, the bone springs back when you release the insqueezing muscles. The rebound relaxing of the abdominal wall, the effortless flattening of the diaphragm, and the rebound release of the ribcage are all interconnected parts of the passive in-breath.

A reader, commenting on Ian Jackson’s work, said:

“These exercises are by far and away the most original and interesting that I have found in any book on breathing, and I’ve read multitudes. I particularly enjoyed ‘Upsidedown Breathing’ – actively pushing the air out of my lungs and then passively letting it in. Most breathwork teaches the reverse, i.e. to “take” one’s in-breath, and relax on one’s out breath. ‘Upsidedown Breathing’ is a lot more relaxing, and its result is that the in-breath becomes larger and easier.”

This put me in mind, inevitably, of the ‘whispered ah’.

I appreciate the ‘whispered ah’ is a great deal more subtle than the “Rebound In-breath”, as described (and “Upsidedown Breathing”, too); and it involves a lot besides breathing. However, I’ve always assumed that when I breathed out during a ‘whispered ah’ (particularly, a ‘silent whispered ah’), I was deliberately employing a degree (however small) of muscular effort to cause a contraction of my rib cage; and that when I stopped making this effort, my rib cage would ‘spring’ open again, allowing air to rush in. Any time I’ve listened to someone else’s ‘whispered ah’, it’s usually sounded like this: an effortful out breath, followed by a relaxed in breath.

In his writing, Ian Jackson suggests that evolution has somehow got it wrong, and that we are habitually breathing the less effective way around. Needing reminding what, in fact, the physiology of ‘normal’ breathing was, I did a cursory on line check and came up with the following:

“Breathing consists of two phases, inspiration and expiration. During inspiration, the diaphragm and the intercostal muscles contract. The diaphragm moves downwards increasing the volume of the thoracic (chest) cavity, and the intercostal muscles pull the ribs up expanding the rib cage and further increasing this volume. This increase of volume lowers the air pressure in the alveoli to below atmospheric pressure. Because air always flows from a region of high pressure to a region of lower pressure, it rushes in through the respiratory tract and into the alveoli. In contrast to inspiration, during expiration the diaphragm and intercostal muscles relax. This returns the thoracic cavity to it’s original volume, increasing the air pressure in the lungs, and forcing the air out.”

This suggested that during a ‘whispered ah’, when air flooded – seemingly effortlessly – into my lungs as I ceased to breathe out, it was actually being ‘drawn in’, indirectly, through unconsciously employed muscular contractions; and it also implied that when I breathed out, deliberately, far from requiring to make an effort to do this, I merely needed to relax those prior contractions and exhalation would take place automatically.

I saw how making a conscious effort (however small) to breath out, when no effort was required, and consciously discontinuing that effort while making no additional effort to breath in (other than ‘allowing’ the necessary reflex to occur) may, inadvertently, have created, in me, an understanding of optimal breathing, along the lines suggested by Ian Jackson.

Clearly, during a ‘whispered ah’, it is important to discriminate between innate and extraneous muscular effort when breathing in, eliminating the latter rather than the former; and to recognise that the only effort required in breathing out (so long as the necessary relaxation of contracted muscles occurs as it should) is in controlling the sound being made. In the case of a ‘silent whispered ah’, breathing out would be effortless.

For a long while, whenever I’ve had one of those moments when I realized (yet again) that, for no physiologically sound reason, I’d stopped breathing, rather than kick start the process through a deliberate effort, I’ve tried to ‘undo’ whatever it was that appeared to be preventing breathing from proceeding normally. I used to perceive this as the ‘closing down’ of my trunk, that required, rather as a dead man lever on a train, to be physically reactivated.

Recently, I started recognizing this ‘closing down’ had to do with a certain type of thinking – generally, the type that took me away from myself – and that if I stopped that thinking, breathing would resume automatically.

Belatedly, I saw that the ‘closing down’ wasn’t the cause, but the manifestation, of me ‘stopping breathing’; and both were due to my way of thinking.

Incidentally, by ‘stopping’ that ‘way of thinking’, I don’t mean to imply any particular Alexander connotation. The sort of skill I’m talking about here is that commonly employed by anyone emerging from mental abstraction in order to attend to whatever is going on.

I certainly find it worth remembering that however apparently good physical use may be, it is easy to be mentally absent; and that that mental absence is often accompanied by intermittent bouts of stopped breathing. It never ceases to amaze me how often I catch myself holding my breath.

This ‘evolution in understanding’ may seem paltry to those for whom the ‘whispered ah’ and breathing in general hold no mysteries; but I thought it was worth recording.

Directing and Ordering by Joe Armstrong

Posted on by dod

DIRECTING AND ORDERING: A Discussion of working on Yourself by Joe Armstrong.

Joe Armstrong deserves the thanks of the Alexander community for his willingness to consider the almost taboo question of how teachers work on themselves.

This knowledge is important. However much anyone might change as a result of lessons, if the Technique is to live up to its promise, they ought to know how to maintain whatever benefits they receive, and hopefully extend them in the future, through readily understandable means.

Unfortunately, Joe’s story is likely to be typical of many teachers, who despite having had the equivalent of several hundred lessons, find they are unable to progress on their own, or even stay their ground, and so resort to another teacher’s hands for further guidance. Anybody who has read the available Alexander literature could be forgiven for finding such dependence risible.

Directing non-verbally during everyday life was Joe’s initial understanding of what working on himself meant. In his booklet, he calls this Procedure 2, and in conjunction with inhibition, recommends it as the raison d’etre of the Technique. However, he admits to eventually finding, several years after training, that no amount of such thinking produced the type of changes he had got used to from lessons, or prevented the return of habits he thought he had long overcome.

Even though his early teachers had warned him against it, Joe decided to experiment with what he calls verbal ordering. As a result of this he experienced changes he believes could only otherwise have been obtained through skilled hands. His suggestion is that if we want to become independent of other teachers, and yet still maintain and improve our use, we should regularly spend twenty minutes, in a position or condition of relative inactivity, slowly and silently repeating Alexander’s original word-phrases. He calls this Procedure 1.

Most of us will be familiar with a variant of Procedure 2; many may think it is all there is to know. Procedure 1 is more problematic. Giving orders in this way seems on the surface to be a form of meditation, where the unhurried repetition of a string of words could be expected to blank out both thought and its physiological counterpart, producing the benefits of a calm and integrated mind and body. At the same time, it should elicit a conditioned response; though whether this would necessarily be based on the cumulative effect of ordering during past lessons rather than during subsequent periods of disequilibrium, is a moot point.

One question that springs to mind is the importance, or otherwise, of the words. Alexander is supposed to have said any nonsense would serve his purpose. Meditators have differing views on this subject. Certainly, with straightforward conditioning, when something from the past becomes recaptured by the use of key words in the present, the actual meaning of those words is irrelevant.

However, Joe suggests that by ordering we could be tapping into the wisdom of our unconscious on a far deeper level than straightforward conditioning can reach, and in a much more specific way than during meditation. The implication is that Alexander’s phrases, both because of their inherent meaning and the added significance they gain as a result of lessons, act on the primary control directly.

Joe emphasises that the effectiveness of this depends on the dissociation of the orders from whatever we might think they represent or hope they will achieve, and from our consciousness of the parts of us to which they refer. If this is the case, it may go some way to explaining why Procedure 2, despite years of application, should have failed to produce satisfactory results for him, since the intention behind non-verbal directing is largely conditional on an awareness of, and therefore close association with, the same sensory mechanism it is attempting to change.

This is as it should be. Unity, or full association, is what Procedure 2 represents. It is Alexander’s "plane to be reached"; whereas Procedure 1 appears to be Joe’s "method of reaching it". However, the process he describes hardly seems an adequate substitute for lessons, since it fails to address, other than incidentally, the question of inhibition.

A more appropriate way of filling the same twenty minutes might be to follow the instructions set out in The Use of the Self. Learning to work on ourselves in the way Alexander did, at the juncture between stimulus and response, rather than with what is, for all its undoubted benefits, hardly more than a series of affirmations, must be a worthwhile goal for anyone desiring a measure of autonomy. Whether ordering or directing would best help facilitate this, remains debatable.

Having re-discovered what he believes it means to work on himself, Joe freely acknowledges it is neither what he originally thought, nor what he was taught. It is so refreshing to read something by a teacher of the Technique querying what goes on during lessons and training courses that disagreeing with anything Joe says seems almost querulous. Hopefully, those who don’t feel this way will be sufficiently enthused after reading his booklet to explain why. If more people were prepared to describe the way they, as individuals, approach this issue, it would be to everyone’s benefit.

Before and after

Posted on by dod

This was written in response to a fellow teacher who disagreed with my thoughts concerning the timing of inhibition in Alexander work. It includes a description of the dramatic results of my first (and, for the next year, only) lesson.

Reading over J’s very reasonable last post ("words, getting closer"), it would seem that our major area of disagreement concerns the point in time that students of the Technique step in to stop or refrain from sending messages to stiffen their necks, along with the relative effectiveness of their intervention. I simply don’t think there is such a clear-cut beginning and end to the majority of stimuli affecting our lives as he evidently does, nor that there is much qualitative difference in when we act.

The notion we receive and respond to stimuli in isolation, and that in some way it is too late to ‘step in’ between one reaction and another, makes little sense to me. Possibly, in the case of "dead lifting a barbell", where there is a clear beginning and end, without much space for anything else, we can behave like this; and in ‘formal’ Alexander work, it may be necessary to simulate ideal conditions; but most of the instances and events that fill my life don’t lend themselves to such an approach.

In this connection, J emphasised:

"’Counteracting’ or ‘undoing’ neck tension AFTER you have unconsciously engaged it is too late to make a new reaction to the original stimulus… The old pattern has already been launched, and attempts to modify the results, even if partially successful, are worthless compared to the ability to refrain from starting."

He also said:

"Certainly being able to notice that your are bracing your neck and ceasing to do so is a worthwhile skill to develop. BUT I don’t think you can reach this point without having gained some previous experience of what it feels like to react to stimuli WITHOUT such bracing."

I thought about this as I cycled five miles to play tennis the other day, wondering where stimulus and response could be said to begin and end. There were some fairly clear moments of potential ‘bracing’, from the gestation of the idea during lunch, while humping the bike out of the garden shed, when negotiating initial traffic; but once I was well on my way the gaps between the myriad stimuli coming at me from all sides (including, of course, the overriding aim of getting to my destination) and my reactions to them seemed seamless. Where was an Alexander student supposed to ‘step in’?

Although most of the time I was careering along in a state of blithe unconsciousness, whenever I ‘surfaced’, I became aware of a degree of interference. I accept that my ability to perceive what J calls "bracing" is partly (though not exclusively) the result of earlier Alexander work; but I don’t agree with him that stopping it after the fact is "too late", nor that this should be in any way dependant on having previously learned to "react to stimuli without such bracing". In fact, I should say the opposite was the case, with any facility we may have for preventing interference from starting depending largely on our skill at recognising and stopping it while it is going on.

The difficulty of ‘getting in before the event’ in an Alexandrian context seems little different to stopping off any other deep seated habit at its source. If, for example, our temper tends to get the better of us, it strikes me as churlish to refuse to curtail it mid-reaction on the grounds we should have prevented it surging up in the first place. Obviously, prevention is better; but that is more likely to come about after rather than before curtailment; and if it turns out we are angry, in the way that our necks are stiff, most of the time, our best bet must be to cease being so occasionally, then (hopefully) more and more often, before aspiring to not become so in the first place – whenever that might be.

In the light of this, I would take J’s statement:

"Certainly being able to notice that you are bracing your neck and ceasing to do so is a worthwhile skill to develop. BUT I don’t think you can reach this point without having gained some previous experience of what it feels like to react to stimuli WITHOUT such bracing."

And rephrase it, thus:

"Certainly being able to react to stimuli WITHOUT such bracing is a worthwhile skill to develop. BUT I don’t think you can reach this point without having gained some previous experience of what it feels like to notice that you are bracing your neck and ceasing to do so."

In another post, J made this additional point:

"Trying to follow the advice; ‘just don’t stiffen your neck, and stop doing it if you do,’ would be as absurd as hoping to learn the Technique from page 174-5."

My experience is that sensory appreciation of what we are doing is not so much faulty as hidden, and that we can become aware of it quickly and effortlessly, if our attention is appropriately drawn in that direction. I think this requires insight and cleverness on the part of the teacher, but not necessarily any manual contact. I’ve known it happen in students I’ve taught and often when it hasn’t happened I’ve felt it would have if I’d said or done something different.

As an example from my own past, I had my first Alexander lesson in the early eighties. Initially, the teacher started leading me through what I later recognised as the traditional lesson format; but after a short time she stopped, moved away, and asked me, with my arms hanging by my side, to pretend I was carrying two heavy buckets. Almost immediately, my shoulders dropped about six inches. As they did so, an immense sigh escaped me. I realised I had been holding my shoulders up around my ears, pushing my head forward to good effect, for what I later worked out must have been nearly two decades, all without knowing it.

This trait had begun when I was at school during the time it was fashionable to have long hair. The school disallowed hair to touch the collar at the nape of the neck so I had learned to pull my shoulders as far back and away from the rest of me as possible and push my head in the opposite direction. This was a conscious effort and took some doing but eventually it became habitual. My mother and later my wife used to comment on what they saw as my deformed upper torso and try and reshape me but I laughed them off. I couldn’t relate to what they were saying; nor could I see in the mirror what they saw. So far as I was concerned, I felt, looked and was normal. Yet, ten minutes into my first Alexander lesson, a teacher had enabled me to recognise how wrong I had been.

I had that first lesson in London. Since I lived in Portugal, where there were no teachers, I wasn’t able to have another for more than a year. During the intervening months, I became increasingly conscious of what I was doing with my shoulders. Whenever I wasn’t thinking about them, they rose up and my head pushed forward. As soon as I did think about them, I became aware of an almighty tightening taking place. It staggered me I could be making so much effort without realising it. Each time I remembered, and thought of the ‘heavy buckets’, that effort ceased, my shoulders dropped, and my head righted itself. I used to see it happening in shop windows as I walked past. The pain of this release was extraordinary, like being strung up by meat hooks. I found it hard to believe simply stopping doing something should produce such torture.

By the end of that first year, the habit of jacking my shoulders up had more or less vanished, although vestiges remained. Throughout that time, I don’t remember ‘getting in before the event’ in the sense of ever finding myself in a balanced state and pre-empting the shoulder raising. Instead, I ‘undid’ it whenever I came across it, at first increasingly often, then with gradually decreasing frequency and amplitude, until eventually there was nothing to undo any more. Looking at old photographs at the time, I couldn’t believe how deformed I had been. My wife and mother remarked on the change and reminded me of how often they had chastised me in the past, to no avail.

The point of this story is not whether the single lesson I had or the approach I followed had anything much to do with the Alexander Technique, but to show that is is possible for an aspect of use that was deliberately conceived, became established, then became habitual, and that I was wholly unconscious of for many, many years – despite having it pointed out to me on numerous occasions – could suddenly become as obvious to me as it was to others; that the insight I gained was not only lasting but grew daily; and that my remedial approach had involved me saying ‘no’ while rather than before reacting to stimuli.

The notion that I might be doing other, similarly stupid things to myself without knowing about them made me determined to have more lessons as and when I could. I reasoned that if something so dramatic could be uncovered so swiftly, what wouldn’t happen if I had a full course? Something I particularly wanted to find out was what I was doing with my lower back, which often hurt. Unfortunately, though it was no less obvious, this took a lot longer (further lessons were with a ‘traditionalist’ in a different part of England), and it involved my training to become a teacher. It’s difficult now, looking back, to know whether I am justified in thinking if I had seen the right person at the right time what I later discovered might have been revealed much earlier.

My main worry concerns those who take a course of lessons in the Technique and decide not to go on to either become teachers or perpetual students. In other words, the vast majority. I remember my own confusion and disappointment at this stage of learning with my apparent lack of progress, particularly in inhibition. It was only after more lessons that I could count, and being present at two years of a three year training course, studying and thinking about the Technique many hours of the day, that my mortification at hardly ever ‘getting in before the event’ became gradually overshadowed by the dawning realisation I didn’t have to.

It was as if I had travelled full circle. It was only then, when I became comfortable again with the idea of ‘getting in’ whenever I remembered, that I allowed myself to stop doing with my neck and back what I had grown to believe I was always too far advanced in my reactions to usefully inhibit. This led to not only a massive reduction in interference, but, as a consequence of an expanding kinesthetic familiarity with what I was doing wrong, a gradually increasing ability not to start interfering in the first place, a dual endeavour I’m working on to this day.

What is inhibition?

Posted on by dod

An investigation into what we are saying ‘no’ to when we inhibit, and why an increased knowledge of this might be useful.

There seems to be some reluctance among teachers of the Alexander technique to clarify what they mean by inhibition, even while claiming it as the cornerstone of their work. Usually it is explained as ‘stopping’, or ‘refusing to respond’ to a stimulus to act. But is that all it is? In his last book, Alexander suggested:

“By this initial inhibition change becomes possible, and we pass on to consider what should be our next procedure.”

Often, the “next procedure” would be a general injunction to give ‘directions’ – in other words, the purely mental projection of desired physical conditions, with no particular reference to what current conditions actually are. But since the purpose of the Alexander Technique is to encourage a person to use more appropriate ‘means’, a prior need would seem to be for an active sensory awareness by them of what their present means are. Alexander goes on to say:

“Primarily our concern must be to find out in what way we are interfering with the right employment of the primary control, and decide to prevent this interference by consciously refusing to project the messages which habitually bring it about.”

This article is based on the belief that recognising how we ‘interfere’ with ‘the right employment of the primary control’ is essential if we want to know how to avoid doing it. The formal learning process, as I understand it, involves experiencing an intention to move, and, ultimately, the carrying out of that intention, while receiving trustworthy feedback that is is possible for this to happen, without what would normally be felt to be a vital part of the impulse-to-action taking place. As soon as even a small measure of interference has been kinesthetically perceived in this way, iot can be inhibited.

Interference takes many forms and is not going to be discovered easily. But we do have guidelines in our search. We know more or less that what we are looking for will be in direct contradiction to the directions as they are expressed verbally – in other words, a tendancy for our neck muscles to pull our heads ‘backwards and down’ onto our ‘shortening’ spines and ‘narrowing’ backs. But for inhibitory purposes they do not need to be actually expressed, so much as their preventative intention known. As Alexander continued:

“Only secondarily are we interested in the projection of the new messages which will in time lead us indirectly, that is, through a change in the employment of the primary control of our use, to the change we desire in our habitual reflex activity.”

 

Remembering

I find it helpful to think of the inhibitory process beginning with ‘remembering’. Quite where on the stimulus/response cycle this initial remembering takes place would determine the next step. While it is obviously important to try and remember beforereacting to a stimulus-to-action, it certainly isn’t too late if we remember afterwards, so long as we are able to achieve something of a balanced state here and now.

As an example, we could imagine our phone ringing while we are at the breakfast table. If we are honest, few of us, out of a beginning condition of unconscious activity, are likely to register such an unexpected stimulus in time to prevent ourselves from reacting automatically.

However, even if we do manage, all we will have achieved is an ‘initial’ inhibition’. Not only does the main stimulus remain with us, but other stimuli – abandoning toast, coffee and an interesting conversation, negotiating the cluttered passageway, anticipating who is on the phone – will also be present. And as soon as we pick up the phone, a new group of stimuli will announce themselves. Each and every stimulus brings with it the threat of potential interference.

There is also the question of the interference – the result of already forgotten stimuli – that was present as an unnpticed part of our ‘beginning condition’. This will also be present for those of us who remember only after having reacted to the sound of the phone – perhaps mid-way out of our chair. We will be carrying, in addition, the interference associated with that reaction. What do we do about such existing interference?

Assuming we haven’t lapsed back into our prior state of relative unconsciousness, it is hardly necessary for us to ‘stop’ – en route to the hall – in order to ‘refuse to respond’ to the stimulus to continue walking, before the opportunity arises to inhibit interference. The opportunity is already there. Our inhibitory task is simply to cease or refrain from doing whatever we recognise as ‘unnecessary’.

So long as we remain ‘present’, we can go on to fulfill various ‘ends’, including terminating the conversation and returning to our breakfast, while simultaneously attending to our means. Although our ability to do this usefully will ultimately depend on whatever level of interference we have learned to recognise, it is still necessary for us to remember – in other words, to become ‘conscious’ – before we can change anything for ourselves, and to continue to remember if we want to go on influencing the manner of our use. It is this conscious, inhibitory Alexander ‘work’, which can only be done on our own, that I think can help determine the nature and quality of our lives.

 

Working on our own

Since it is doubtful if many of us could work innovatively in the way that Alexander set out in The Use of the Self, lessons will be our only means of obtaining ‘objective’ feedback. The more objective feedback we have, the better our sensory appreciation is likely to become. But we need to be careful not to confuse the formal learning process, when we try to hold existing sensory appreciation in abeyance, in order to experience something that would be impossible on our own, with the remainder of our time, when we have little choice but to rely on it.

The majority of this time is spent in relative unconsciousness, during which we are wholly reliant on ‘automatic’ proprioception. When we remember ourselves, we will often become aware, through ‘conscious’ proprioception, that we are ‘interfering with the right employment of the primary control’.

The degree to which we can ‘prevent this interference by consciously refusing to project the messages which habitually bring it about’, will depend on how much of the unnecessary behaviour we have learned to recognise lies within our control. This, in turn, will depend on the overall acuity of our proprioceptive sense. Assuming we are able to perceive, kinesthetically, some tendency to stiffen our necks and shorten our spines, then we only need to avoid doing this – and to the extent that we have already indulged the tendency, to cease doing it – in order to experience a change in our condition.

However, as soon as we ‘forget’ ourselves again, any such inhibited behaviour will pass out of our control and we will revert to our habitual state. This reversal will reflect the extent to which our proprioceptive sense, schooled through ‘formal’ work to recognise interference, is keener and sharper when it is conscious than when it is automatic.

It is precisely this differential that enables us to work on ourselves independently of objective feedback. As a general rule, each time we go through the process of remembering and forgetting, our habitual state and the kinesthetic sense that determines it will be subjected to an ‘improving’ influence. How often, and what, we remember will directly determine the cumulative effect of this influence. Initially, and for as long as any interference is indistinguishable from our normal state, we can make no progress at all. Clear recognition of what we are doing wrong is essential if we are to learn how to avoid it. It will need to be avoided repeatedly before it can become habitually absent, to the extent that that absence comes to feel normal.

The process feeds itself. Once something that has always seemed a vital part of us is perceived as unnecessary, and is inhibited sufficiently often for our habitual state to have begun to reflect this, it will start to fade from conscious awareness. As it does so, some other tendency – or the same tendency on a deeper level – having itself seemed equally inseparable from our essential self, will become recognisable as further interference.

In this way, the differential between conscious and automatic proprioception is maintained, or even increased, and a continuing process of change can take place. This would tend to happen by small increments, so that what feels normal today may not seem that different to yesterday or last week but would probably have felt unprotective a year ago and might feel imprisoning in a year’s time.

Such a changing appreciation of what constitutes interference would operate rather like the improving ability of a mechanic to recognise the appropriate torques and tolerances pertaining to his work; or a musician’s growing awareness of how best to play her instrument; or a rider’s recognition of more subtle ways of communicating with a particular horse. Time and a certain quality of application seem to be the common denominators. It is as well to remember that although this process offers the potential for improvement, it is not necessarily going to do much more than simply lessen or arrest our ‘natural’ inclination to stay the way we are, unless we give it considerable attention. It is, after all, only the inverse of the same process, operating on an unconscious level, that caused us to lose our innate good use in the first place, and pulls most of us in that direction still.

 

Zombyism

Working on ourselves in this way can begin at any level of expertise. As soon as we have recognised, kinesthetically, some form of interference, we are no longer totally reliant on a mirror or a teacher’s instruction to tell us where we are going wrong. Until then, our ability to stop our automatic behaviour will remain limited, since our knowledge of what we arc doing as we decide to move or act, and as we actually do move or act, will hardly exist.

How could this be otherwise? Without mirrors, and knowledge of how to use them, or a teacher’s assistance, effective inhibition depends on kinesthetic appreciation of potential and actual interference. The only trouble with such an emphasis is when it gets wrongly interpreted – at all levels – as a suggestion to ‘feel things out’. Teachers warn, rightly, of becoming “Alexandroids”. Patrick Macdonald, in his book, The Alexander Technique As I See It, includes, under Z, in his index the entry: “Zombyism – to be abhorred.” Becoming increasingly aware of ourselves sensorily is not a question of memorising the feeling of what seemed ‘right’ and trying to ‘do’ it: it is rather a matter of recognising what is unnecessary and endeavouring not to do it. Perhaps Alexander should have the last word:

“The employment of inhibition calls for the exercise of memory and awareness, the former for remembering the procedures involved in the technique and the proper sequence in which they should be used, and the latter in the recognition of what is happening”.

 

 

More on ‘droidism’

Posted on by dod

I’ve always believed one measure of success in ‘applying’ the Alexander Technique to life is not to look as though you are.

A couple of years ago on British TV there was a two part drama called “The Tribe” about a disaffected group of relatively well-to-do oddballs who lived in a converted warehouse, had some sort of business in drug production or dealing, and regularly make the journey across town, en masse, sweeping through parks, down side streets, and across wasteland, to see their connections.

Their trips across town were something of a set piece. The group strode rather than ambled, wrapped up in either leather gear or swirling greatcoats. None smiled; most wore an intense scowl. Without exception, they had well squared shoulders, and moved rather woodenly, their heads appearing to turn only in conjunction with their shoulders. Often they would stop, gazing out ahead, looking into mid distance.

They stood out like a separate race from the general populace, who were clearly intimidated by them; until, at the denouement of the film, cracks in their armour appeared and they disintegrated into a disorganised rabble, at which point they looked almost normal.

After watching this, I read a damning review in the following week’s Sunday newspaper, and was amused by the writer’s description of the group crossing the town as “looking like Alexander teachers on an outing”.

Inhibition and ‘droidism’

Posted on by dod

Why the two so often go hand in hand.

J made this observation:

“I have seen people involved in what they call ‘inhibiting’ and I wonder what the conceptual framework for their practise involves – in practise it produces an ‘Alexandroid’ condition. It looks like they are ‘inhibiting’ their freedom.”

I would say the conceptual framework for this is largely one of trying to inhibit a thought pattern whose theoretical nature is more apparent than its actual presence or effect.

At every stage of learning the Technique, the degree to which we are able to kinesthetically notice ourselves pulling backwards and down will be limited by, and will itself limit, the degree to which we are conscious of our intention to do so. The two go hand in hand.

However, since, in all of us, a varying amount of misdirection will remain subconscious, there will always be the temptation to ‘deal’ with this, by stopping doing as much as we can in the area concerned – the neck, head and back region – in the hope of successfully inhibiting what we aren’t aware of.

Hence, the familiar appearance of having swallowed a coathanger that is so prevalent amongst Alexander students.

In a nutshell, I would say Alexandroid behaviour is a result of trying to consciously inhibit more than we know we are doing.

In the zone

Posted on by dod

I wrote this after reading a newspaper report proclaiming how rarely even highly accomplished sportsmen and women experienced the sublimity of life “in the zone”

I talk to them, and find that they want nothing to make them the happiest people in the world, but the knowledge that they are so.

From the (seventeenth-century) letters of Dorothy Osborne.

I first came across this expression when I read a newspaper report of a tennis match during which the contestants, for short periods, played so sublimely they were considered to be "in the zone". This was described as a state of mind and body that few ordinary mortals could aspire to, during which the play, and the interaction between the two players, flowed so apparently effortlessly, and yet so flawlessly, it defied analysis.

Strangely enough, I felt I recognised an approximation of this state, not only from my own casual and infrequent tennis games, but other activities too. Far from being a phenomenon limited to sport professionals, it seemed to me it was available to anyone, anytime, since it was so clearly dependent on a particular balance of attention.

The state is widely recognised, but is generally considered to occur haphazardly, in unusual circumstances, when certain conditions are right conditions which supposedly can’t be forecast. It would seem at its most prevalent when events conspire to flood the senses, creating an acute awareness of what is going on, with at its centre ourselves, but leaving no spare attention for extraneous thought.

Presumably, this is why finding ourselves in the zone is relatively common during sport or adventure, when extremes are the norm; or else in unique circumstances, which demand our full attention. In semiautomatic living, which is what we are engaged in most of the time, awareness of ourselves and our surroundings is minimal and our minds are largely on other questions. For complex matters, we tend to concentrate, narrowing our attention and excluding even more from awareness. Only on special occasions or for truly demanding tasks, it seems, do we really come alive.

Although we will recognise when we are in this state, which is essentially one of direct sensory perception, and enjoy it while it lasts, we can only reflect on it and consider what it means once it is over. This is because, in order for it to happen at all, our normal train of thought must first have stopped. Most times, the condition ends prematurely, as soon as we start wondering how long it will go on for.

The exceptional nature of these experiences for humans is directly related to their infrequency and short duration. Unfortunately, the more out of the ordinary they seem, the more paltry by comparison we have to admit the rest of our lives are. If we were able to spend more of our time like this, it might be less immediately thrilling, but there would be a sense of heightened awareness overall.

It must be assumed that animals live in a version of the zone most of the time. Clearly, they neither enjoy the reflective pleasure we do in considering it exceptional, which for them it is not, nor suffer the problem of this knowledge precipitating its end. We are almost certainly born that way, too; but we quickly learn to leave the world of sensory experience behind, relegating it to relative unawareness, in order to concentrate on other aspects of our growing and evolving minds.

Although we call this process "becoming conscious", without its distracting influence it is difficult to imagine any animal behaving with less consciousness than us. All too often we are consumed with reflections and abstractions that are far removed from what we are doing, leaving us functioning like automatons. A horse grazing in a field is unlikely to be wishing it was somewhere else, or planning tomorrow; it knows where it is and what it is about, in the absence of any convincing reason not to.

Whether we subscribe to the view that animals are conscious in a way we once were but now can only aspire to, or we are conscious in a way animals can never be, the human faculty for higher forms of thought is what separates us from their world absolutely. These higher forms are essentially language based. Without the ability to conceptualise linguistically, we would find it as difficult as animals undoubtedly do to string more than two or three consecutive thoughts together.

Animals certainly think, very probably in the same predominantly pictorial, auditory, tactile ways we do; but they lack an inner voice to put these imaginings into context. Consequently, they cannot think about things in the abstract fashion we are used to; only of them, in the sense of something beyond their immediate perception becoming the focus of their attention. We call the animal inability to function at our multifarious level mindlessness, and deplore it, while at the same time hankering after the tranquility we believe it brings and commiserating with ourselves for having lost that.

If we accept evolution, this ability of ours must have been acquired gradually, enabling us to leave the animal world by stages; so that any rare instances of it in the earliest days will have seemed as extraordinary, because so vastly different, as their absence does now. The continuation of this learning process would probably have found us, at some point in time, uniformly at home both in our ability to consider ourselves and our world separately, and to experience them directly.

If today we were able to stop such thinking at will, for as long as we wanted, in order to enter more fully into whatever we were doing, and then start it again when we needed to, in order to consider and manipulate our environment, we might find we were not only happier and healthier, but also, being less neurotic, considering and manipulating that environment differently. As a result, our world could be a more pleasant place to live in.

Unfortunately, we seem to have managed to progress from the animal state, with its complete absence of what we understand as conscious thought, to our present day human state, where it is practically unceasing, without remembering how we got there. This blanket weight of cognition doesn’t alter the fact that a blueprint for living in the realm of direct sensory experience remains as much at our centre as it ever did, just as it does for all sentient creatures.

Accidental entry to this realm, which is what most humans have to rely on, seems to hinge on the creation and filling of a momentary vacuum, either when demanding circumstances silence our internal voice sufficiently to force a more immediate attention upon us; or when circumstances are so unusual we are transported by a radically changed perception.

What appears to happen at such moments is that one or more of our senses is suddenly overwhelmed and our questioning brain stops in its tracks, impressions flood in through every other sense and we become vibrantly alive. What triggers this is often something we are used to but suddenly see, hear, taste, smell or feel, as if for the first time. Standing in a garden on a beautiful day can organise our attention for us in this fashion. Bob sleighing, mountaineering, anything with an element of danger to it, will do the same, as will more prosaic activities requiring, or being given, our unconditional attention, just so long as we are sufficiently competent at them to avoid the necessity of having to consider, or think about, what we are doing.

It is in this state that cricketers are said to see the ball like a football and racing drivers claim if they were to reflect on their actions they would crash. Of course, they would need to have honed their inborn or acquired skill before any experience of it could be expected to be sublime; but they would also need to know how not to let undue reliance on technique prevent that sublimity from occuring.

Although such moments usually occur haphazardly, they should be more open to conscious emulation for most of us, even in stable circumstances, than a continual search for new or increasingly demanding challenges. One obvious way of experiencing life more fully is to behave as though each moment is our first, or last. This is what animals do, unknowingly, since they have little conception of a linear past or future; and it need be no pretence for us to do the same. All that is needed is for us to stop serial thought, even if only momentarily.

Unfortunately, trying to do this by an effort of will can amount to a severer repression of underlying sentience than that caused by such thinking itself. The alternative is for us to work directly at reopening our senses. Sensory perception, including proprioception, is what ultimately determines responses to stimuli, and is our interface with the world. In this case, there is no need to do anything, other than take in what is already present. It is unnecessary for us to try and stop our train of thought when that happens: it simply ceases to exist.

Knowing how to reopen our senses may seem a problem, but a far greater one lies in remembering to do so. Most of us would be astounded if we took the trouble to try this. Naturally, we would have difficulty getting through our days if we did not continue to exclude vast quantities of information from consciousness. It is only when we do this all the time, even while wanting not to, that it becomes inappropriate.

Wanting to stop thinking might seem to be in opposition to the spirit of Alexander work; but there is an essential difference between the sort of thought that enables us to organise our lives through the forming of intentions and the sort that allows us to experience life while holding those intentions in mind.

Thinking about something involves a complex series of imaginative processes; thinking of it can include one or more of these same processes, but in conjunction rather than succession. If, for example, we think of our front door, an image of it is all we are likely to be aware of; but as soon as we think about it, we may remember it lets in draughts, needs painting, squeaks on being opened, and is the entrance to a house we haven’t finished paying for.

Any intention to deal with these problems, or to behave in a particular way in another area of life, would itself be a thought of, rather than about, a plan of action. Although we can fulfill an intention while thinking about it – or of or about something else – it will be at the expense of our awareness, and probably the effectiveness, of what we are doing. If we want to maintain consciousness of our actions, which in its fullest sense would include consciousness of both where (our environment) and how (the "means whereby") we are carrying them out, we must avoid superfluous thought.

The same principle applies if we want to prevent the Alexandrian intent behind "thinking in activity" detracting from our enjoyment of that activity. As soon as we find ourselves considering, rather than experiencing, the process of inhibition and direction as it relates to life, it will no longer be a beneficial influence on our use so much as the cause of our lapsed attention.

For as long as that attention remains constant, and sufficiently widespread for us to be conscious of both where and how we are as well as what we are doing, we can expect a sharpening of perception generally. Because our senses are a unified whole rather than isolated mechanisms, the validity of what we feel kinesthetically will be matched by whatever we see, hear or touch. This should enable us, regardless of the actual state of our sensory appreciation, to enjoy an integrated consciousness. In other words, we will find ourselves in the zone

For those of us unfamiliar with Alexander work it is probable that by emphasising the direct experience of life through all our senses their gradual rehabilitation – including that of proprioception – will happen naturally. It would be unsuprising if this was the case, since a tendency towards homeostasis must exist; and if thinking about life is what has so disabled us for a proper appreciation of it, stopping that by returning our senses to consciousness should cause their reliablity to fall back into line.

Since such a process would also work in reverse, anyone enjoying the improving kinesthesia Alexander lessons promote could expect a commensurate quickening of their other senses. Even without lessons, by virtue of its insistence on our paying attention now, to as much that is going on as possible, the Technique would still constitute an invaluable discipline for anyone wanting to spend more of their time "in the zone".