Welcome to Field Notes. Here, you’ll find short reflections and questions to support your intentional life. Please comment to share your experiences of living with attention.
A few days ago, in a moment of inspired despair, I wrote out a list of all the things that make me anxious. I tried to stick to the larger topics. To detail the minutiae would have taken me all day and left me unable to move afterwards. I grouped the items in five main categories: health, world events, climate, kids/partner, and what people think of me. I stared at the list, wondering what to do with it. Eventually, I reasoned that having these details would help me label my fears as they arose. As distinct entities rather than unbound shadows, they could at least be named, and the ability to name a heretofore anonymous darkness as “fear of dying” brings some relief and a subject with which to work. But more importantly, this reasoning helped me work my way to a more substantial revelation. Anxiety always takes me away from myself. Yes, the anxious, fearful feelings exist in me, and I should acknowledge them. But anxiety’s movement is always out toward an indefinite and fraught future, rather than in and toward the now. In order to feel anxious about the presidential election, I have to think about the events and then undoubtedly, imagine the possibilities. I have to leave my very present self, who is sitting at her keyboard on a cloudy January day, typing these words to you, and follow the trail of my worry into the future. In doing so, I abandon myself to inevitable suffering, that I must then duly label and acknowledge as a way of returning to myself. I would like to spend less time leaving myself. I’m happier and more content here, writing to you, in the place my list led me.
When do you abandon yourself? Leave the present and venture somewhere less tangible? What are the effects of this leaving? What methods do you have for return?
Anytime a part of my body stops working due to an injury, I have a chance to tend my relationship with embodiment. Over the last 25 years, I’ve lived with various and chronic pain, mostly due to knots in my fascia, which has tried desperately to create a hard shell of protection around its sensitive and traumatized occupant. Only recently have I begun the slow, gentle process of convincing my fascia that it can relax, that I am safe. Since I broke my wrist I have watched my hour to two hour a day exercise routine disappear and then gradually return in the form of some midday QiGong and 30 minutes of stretching and leg strengthening in the evening. In the absence of movement, I have noticed a certain kindness and desire for softness towards my corporeal self appear. For many years, I fought my body, its pain, its “deficiencies.” I also wore it out, running hard, swimming until I felt nauseous, doing the hardest of whatever a workout class offered. The fight kept my body moving and the exhausting pace waylaid my mental illness and trauma. But as I’ve healed, I find that I do not need this driven response, and neither does my body. So while my bone cells build a bridge between my broken parts, I wonder about how my body can be both strong and soft, grounded and supple. What would happen if these new intentions informed my movement? My body’s response to that question is one of delicious ease and delight, like savoring an ice cream on a hot day. As movement slowly returns in the next weeks and my stamina increases, I want to look for and cultivate openness and receptivity in my muscles and joints. I am very grateful for my strong, capable body and look forward to its return, but I am also curious about this new infusion of softness and how that will change the way I live and move in me.
What is your experience of being embodied? Has it changed over time?
Here are the questions again:
When do you abandon yourself? Leave the present and venture somewhere less tangible? What are the effects of this leaving? What methods do you have for return?
What is your experience of being embodied? Has it changed over time?
Like you, anxiety also takes me away from myself and the present moment. I find breath prayers and walking in nature help me to return to myself. Thanks for your reflection!