4 False Faces of the Body Pattern of Cope
And the secret to unmasking them
1.
My ways are different than anyone else's.
My ways of learning are personal.
In the San Francisco airport with $350 in my pocket from giving lessons in Sebastopol, I’m heading home, not only with cash, but I have a new resolve as well:
I’m going to give at least one hands-on lesson per day, even if I don’t have a paying client, because every artist needs a practice whether or not they’re getting paid.
My teacher in Sebastopol, Sylvia, has perfect technique. Effortless. She also has lots of clients, like an old master. She elicits potent, realistic images of action. In contrast, my work is less precise, sometimes off kilter.
So a thought occurs to me, and it’s probably cope. But maybe I'm a different kind of artist than Sylvia. Maybe my art isn’t so realistic. Maybe I make abstract art.
Cope is a way to avoid the pain. In my case, the pain of having bad technique. I have to psychologically deal with the fact that I still have so much room for improvement. That’s why I need to practice every day.
But less-than-perfect technique doesn't mean I don't make my art. I make MY art. Maybe it’s “bad” or dumb, but I don't need to make other people's art.
My work doesn't have to be technically flawless, but it does have to be personal.
2.
Back in Colorado, I do a session with Marlowe in the afternoon at Colorado Movement Lab, and I have a clearer idea of the task at hand. Things are getting clearer.
He doesn't use his pelvis to shift weight. He shifts weight from his chest, but doesn't know use his lower back (really).
So I work with him
Turning to the door (and pointing).
Turning back towards Mommy (and pointing).
It’s like that famous Feldenkrais lesson, Dead Bird. Basic message is, you have to feel. If you change your attention, if you gesture with your hand, your pelvis can (and should) come along.
We switch his legs from side to side. We do variations.
If he had flawless technique, his lower back could do flexion when he comes through the middle, and he could extend his back when he's sitting to each side, but we’re not looking for perfect, we’re looking for progress.
Things do get clearer.
3.
Then I wake up early to write down a dream, but I can't get back to sleep.
Maybe recording is fending off death. Because recording is definitely not living. Recording is remembering. Trying to hold on.
I have this new phrase for an old idea, something I'm calling the body pattern of cope. I’m sure everyone has a body pattern of cope. In my case, it conceals a deep twisted-ness.
I was once the demo subject in a workshop with a senior Feldenkrais teacher (DZB) who connected with me using his hands and immediately perceived:
"Oh, you're twisted."
It was one of those multivalent utterances that landed deeper than I remembered was there. You know the kind. I heard him talking about my physical structure—“Oh, you’re twisted”—but I also heard him saying "oh, you're not straight." As in, you're queer.1
A simple, open, clear communication was enough to imply everything about me all at once. It was exhilarating and scary to be perceived as I am.
But how could he see the wholeness I mostly don’t recognize myself? Why can't I feel my own deep twisted-ness? I mostly walk around feeling straight. Why can't I remember the things about me that are the most TRUE?
That’s how the body pattern of cope works.
He says it’s because we learn from a very early age how to ignore ourselves. We learn how to NOT feel. We shy away from things that threaten our sense of being supported, and we live around our fears instead of going through them.
After a while the detours feel normal. Our crookedness feels straight. False verticals seem true. And when we come up against anything that would unmask the body pattern of cope, the cope says,
"This is too much.
Forget about it.
Go around.
Maybe it will go away."
But…
4.
Touch is the great hope. Touch is the Ur communication of support, because it’s the deepest. Touch came first of all.
Beforehand in the womb, there was all-around support. Touch from all sides. Every need was taken care of. No need to deal with gravity or anything really. Nourishment provided. Favorable temps.
But when you come out, all of a sudden, you can’t take anything for granted (except earth’s gravity), and you aren't sure where the support went. And where does it come from now?
Touch can communicate. Not all touch does, but the best touch communicates. Some significant other touches you, and you know: It's okay. There it is. There is the good old support.
(the touch-giver sometimes mixes their ego in too—you have my support—
but, as a baby, you just experience the support).
It's okay.
You're okay.
You have my support.
(this is a great song about being twisted)