As for my flat feet, SI gave me arches. I never had a severe flat foot, but enough that when I was a 4 year old, I had have these orthodics put into my shoes that they called cookies. Of course, I had to open the shoe to see whether it was a chocolate chip or Oreo and was very disappointed to find out that the “cookie” was just a bunch of stuffing. My mom was just plain mad.

Anyway, I went through life with almost completely flat feet. I would look at my footprint around the pool and be disappointed that there was no graceful curve to it, embarrassed that it looked “fat.”  Then, about the time I turned 30, I went through two ten series, and since then, I’ve had arches in my feet. I still am shocked seeing the impression my foot makes when I get out of the pool.

My foot hardly ever cramps up any more, and I no longer wear orthodics. I can also finally hike without pain as well as walk on narrow paths on the side of a cliff without any terror as to whether I’ll fall. Before, I wouldn’t hike those trails out of my fears that I now see were related to my poor balance, which improved greatly. How much that has to do with my arches or whether it is more related to my freed sacrum is beyond me. All I know is, I’m happy that I have options I didn’t feel I had before.

That said, I wouldn’t promise anyone that I could give them arches. I definitely believe it could happen, but I wouldn’t say that there is a formula to make it happen. SI is a journey that unwinds the body to work better in gravity. That means something different for everyone. For me, it meant a straighter spine (I “grew” an inch), a sacrum that wasn’t frozen into stillness, and arches in my feet, among some other things. For others, it can mean feeling they are in their bodies for the first time, or are able to dance, or they can embrace a sense of power, beauty, strength  . . . the doors are open.

I say check out a session or two with someone you like if you’re curious about getting arches in your feet. If you like the work, go for it. Even if you don’t get the arches that you want, you will probably get relief, and some other good surprises, as well.

One of the first things I ask of my clients­—and in fact, I make it a rule—is not to “grin and bear it.” I explain that the last thing I want them to do while I’m trying to create length in their tissue is to shorten the tissue by cringing. I go on to explain that, of course, there is that hurts-so-good pain that is like a good stretch. It’s not quite pain, and it’s not quite what I would call comfortable, either. It’s more like the ahhh one gets from holding a stretch and then finally feeling the tissue let go. Yeah, that. It’s called lengthening. See the difference?

Of course, then there’s that vague area between “grin and bear it” and “hurts so good.” Even more tricky is the arena of “Tough. I know what’s best.”

But do I?

Yesterday, in the pool, I did a bunch of 50-yard sprints with a friend. I’d hurt my left arm earlier in the week (get this—from lying in bed with my sick cat) but the swimming didn’t engage the pain. Actually, the sprints felt great after what felt like months of mediocre, lazy workouts. I made certain to keep checking in with my body to be sure that I wasn’t pushing myself for competition’s sake.

This morning was another experience. My initial injury at the attachment of the teres major, latissimus dorsi and pec major had actually lessened. However, my delts were sore from the previous day’s sprints. I was someplace between “hurts so good” and “grin and bear it.” I decided to swim anyway.

I have a practice in which I ask my body if it’s okay to push a little. If I can get my head out of it, my body is often very clear about what it wants. Today, it said, “Sure, swim. But you better be well aware of your stroke.” It was one of those days where rote swimming wasn’t going to cut it. The body-mind connection needed to be used to its fullest extent. That’s what I find to be true about working out with an injury: If you combine body and mind, you can usually help. And I’m not talking about using the mind to block out the pain. No. This is where the mind uses its knowledge to help the body consciously move differently. There’s a big difference.

But what about those times when my mind insists it knows what’s best? That’s when I get into trouble. That’s when my mind says to hell with what my body needs. It’s like a cruel dictator, not caring that its people (the cells of the body) are suffering while asking for more, more, more! In those cases, the body will oblige—until it can’t.

After 60 minutes, I heard my shoulder muscles begin to plead. “Stop,” they were saying.

“But we’re just warming up,” I replied. I was swimming between two jocks and was loving the incentive to push myself. Last week some super tri-athlete left me in his wake using the kick board as I did the crawl. Hey, I’m nowhere near a world-class athlete, but I like to pretend that I could at least keep up with someone using a kickboard. Today, I soothed my hurt ego as I enjoyed feeling like I could almost keep up with these two buff dudes. I was close to the zone, but not quite there—yet. I made myself pause after swimming every 50 yards or so to check in. “One more?” I would ask, judging myself for taking the breaks, sure that they were keeping me out of the zone.

 “Okay,” my body replied.

After ten more minutes, I could tell my mind was trying to override the body, trick me into staying in the pool longer. And maybe other parts of my body were pushing for that, too. But my shoulders were definitely saying, “Stop.” That’s the message behind pain: Stop!

I advise my clients to rest when they’re injured. If they insist on working out even though they hurt, I caution them to really check in with their bodies. I’d rather they give themselves a rest, but I don’t pretend to be an expert on anyone else’s pain or comfort. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get upset with them when their injuries worsen or return. Then again, it’s their journey, not mine.

But what about my own journey? I so did not want to get out of the pool today. I was close to completing my usual ninety minutes, I didn’t want to be a failure, I wasn’t in that much pain (I forgot that as I became tired, my stroke got lazy and therefore more painful), the pool had emptied out and was quiet, there was a cute guy in the lane next to mine . . . . I was at that point of pushing mind over matter. Was I going to be a cruel dictator or respect my body’s needs? I thought about writing this blog. Which way would it turn out?

Reluctantly, I got out. I felt like the child who is told to get out of the pool by her parents for no good reason except that “It was time.” But, for me, today, there was a good reason: It was time.

For a long while I had seen myself as someone who didn’t struggle with taking a break when sick or injured. Actually, I often believe that I enjoy them a little too much. I really don’t believe in grinning and bearing it. Sometimes I’ve been overly cautious. For example, I didn’t join track in high school when the coach asked me to try out because I didn’t want injury to deter me for the rest of my life.

But today I realized that I do struggle with the desire to go on when my body wants a rest. I’m not as lazy as I think I am. Probably never have been. I may have moved from back East, but I’ve still got that Type A personality lurking behind my claim to non-competitiveness.

That’s why it’s so important to stop. Stop and listen. I could have pushed it today. Sure. But you know what? Right now, I can lift my arms over my head and there’s no pain. Just that ahhh of a good stretch.

I think my body knows best.

How wonderful that the snow is gone and the birds are singing and my yard is turning into a beautiful field of dandelions, crabgrass, and bindweed! I realized today that I should have been out there Sunday pulling weeds while the ground was still soft from all that moisture we got. Two and a half days of precipitation–it was like living back East.

But, unfortunately, the ground is already drying, turning into that cracked, arid rock that has pained me in so many ways. Why is it that this hard, Colorado clay clings to the roots of the weeds, yet seems to spit out the plants I want to keep? In the past, it has resisted the strength of my arms until they were literally writhing in pain. Often I’ve wondered, why do I fight it?

I’ve given up on the dandelions. They’ve strategized against me by sprouting their flowers so close to the ground I can hardly pinch them off. That was after I strained my body trying to pull them up by the roots and resorted to–this organic gal is ashamed to say–chemical weed killer. I suppose it was instant karma to go against my beliefs like that, but this gal needs her arms to make a living! 

So, what is it that I look for when I select plants to pull and those to keep? Am I looking for perfection, or is the journey about getting my hands in the dirt and expanding on what’s already there? Or am I trying to create something new?

Working with a human body in Structural Integration brings up similar questions. Who am I to decide what patterns someone needs to let go of? Why is it that I can help relieve pain in one shoulder but find it intractable in another?  Yes, of course, I can say that all bodies are different and there are no pat solutions, no formulae that will heal everything. But how does that help anyone?

Then I have to ask: Is the journey with our bodies about avoiding pain or about listening to that pain as if to a trusted friend?

What is your body telling you? Is there pain? Is the pain there to tell you that you need to rest, or is it trying to draw your attention to how you can shift your body, your life, or a perspective to accommodate a new way of being in the world?

Dandelions are medicinal. Is their prevalence in my yard trying to tell me that I need their healing powers? Or is the message to dig them out, and by doing so, get dirt under my nails to remind me of the power and abundance of mother nature?  Or maybe I’m supposed to take a moment to enjoy the incredible beauty and vitality found in every flower. Maybe each season simply brings a new lesson.

One year I used weeding as a lesson in discernment; I was giving myself permission to be selective, to weed out things I no longer had use for in my life. Another year, I pulled the roots and dried them. (Please do your own research before trying this; I am NOT suggesting this as a remedy. And definitely don’t use plants in areas that have been poisoned.) Another year, I reveled in nature’s abundance. I felt that by following nature, I had no need to rid my yard of part of its ecology, and subsequently, by not weeding, I had no pain. Granted, I didn’t like the ugly stalks left after the poofs flew with the wind, yet I found it very satisfying to know I’d helped to feed countless bees and deer.

There is a journey in everything we go through and nothing happens in a vacuum. What is the best way to make the most of our lives? Do we give ourselves the time to explore?

I don’t have the answers. I am certainly one to be frustrated and even downright angry when I feel I’ve learned my lesson, changed my swim stroke, adjusted the seat on my bike, stopped playing cello, and yet still feel the pain. I want to throw my head back and shout at the universe, I got the lesson. Can we move on now? Please! But then I have to look at the possibilities. Maybe I need to consult with someone else or do another adjustment or not be so serious about my activity. Or maybe I simply need to accept what is. With no blame. There is no fault. I’m not saying I want anyone to live with pain. But sometimes I wonder if sometimes we have to, as part of the process of this experience we call life.

This year, I don’t know what I’ll do with my yard. The thing is, even though the dirt is hard as rock, nothing is in stone. I can change my approach, I can do nothing, or I can weed.  Or try something else. Some things I will be sure to do: Observe. Communicate. Live. Explore. 

For example, today, I spent hours making pysanky (pee-sah-n-key), those lovely Easter eggs created with dye and bees wax.

The darker, multi-color ones are over 40 years old!

Unlike my relatives in Europe, however, I don’t blow out the eggs and start making them in January. No. I wait until a few days before Easter to crank out dozens as quickly as possible. And it shows. Both in my skill (I have little) as well as in my back and shoulders. Ow. 

The egg contains new life.

So what does one do with an activity that happens maybe once a year but stresses out the body to the max? For me, it’s easy. I take breaks. I eat, stretch and dance between eggs. There are two benefits to this: not only do the eggs get to sit in the dye longer and thus become rich with color, but I get to play and have fun while relaxing my body. 

That’s probably why I don’t like to dance in bars. For me, dance is about stretching away the cobwebs that make my bones creak and ache. Dancing like that in a bar will bring the looks. Believe me, I know. And it’s not desirable. The looks, I mean. But there’s nothing uncomfortable in cranking up some good tunes at home and using the music to inspire extension. I start slowly at first, with long smooth movements that sometimes extend for several beats. Once I open up the tissue, I start moving more to the beat. It’s a wonderful way to be creative and expressive while celebrating the joy of being in a body. And, it allows me to decorate more eggs.

Of course, it’s important that I watch my posture while applying the wax. Unfortunately, that isn’t so easy. As much as I work at keeping my shoulders wide and open, I’m working on a stool at the stove. I don’t have the option to sit up straight because the wax would dry before it got to the egg. I end up hunching over to get as close to the burner and pot of wax as possible. Sure, yeah, I could rearrange everything to be ergonomically correct, but what’s Easter without carrying the weight of a few dozen eggs in my shoulders? Besides, I like the breaks. 

The multi-color ones on the right were made by relatives from Europe. Mine are the simpler, asymmetrical ones.

I’m hoping to have some good weather over the next few days so that I can share the eggs I made this year with passers-by while I work on the 14th block of the Pearl Street Mall. You can follow my whereabouts on my blog in the lower right column, or you can follow me on http://twitter.com/debbiemihal.

I hope to see you!

To find out when I’m down there, either follow the link on this blog in the lower right column, or you can follow me directly at http://twitter.com/debbiemihal.

I just came back from a bike ride around Boulder Reservoir and am shocked to see that according to NOAA, the wind is blowing at only 39mph. That has got to be wrong–the wells on the lake were at least 2 to 3 feet; it looked like low tide at the Jersey shore! The spray was coming up and over the banks and there was more than one time where the wind actually pushed me six feet over on the road. 

At one point, where the path is only a narrow road that is about fifteen to twenty feet above the water on one side and at the top of longer hill on the other, the crosswind was so strong I had to walk my bike. I couldn’t get on for fear of being blown down the hill! When my friend picked his bike  up, it looked as if it was a piece of flapping material and would be carried down into the prairie. It was that intense. I’m thinking way more than 39 mph. Way.

I think if I had another bike, I could have got on and tackled the crosswind. But unfortunately my foot hits the fender when I turn my wheel hard. It’s an inconvenience that I’ve learned to live with in normal conditions, but in wind like that where it grabs and turns the wheel at any moment, it’s downright dangerous. I couldn’t get control of the bike without putting my foot down, which didn’t get me far at all. I bought the bike for its price and because without the fender, this wasn’t a problem. When I get my touring bike, I will be sure that isn’t an issue.

But why I’m writing about this on my bodywork blog is because it is during these extreme conditions when it is easy to forget about our bodies. We are so busy tackling the conditions and/or our equipment, we don’t even realize how intensely we’re bucking up against whatever it is that we’re struggling with. Today, as I walked and rode my bike, I was deeply angled into the wind the whole time. It was like pushing up against a big, heavy load for ninety minutes straight.

Although I was aware of what I was up against, I wasn’t aware of the specific stresses on my body until the wind was behind me and I noticed my shoulder screaming into my ear. I also noticed I hadn’t been sitting optimally, either. Or, should I say, I was sitting optimally for the conditions, but not optimally for my body. Normally, I would become aware of these discomforts long before they became issues. But today, it was enough to keep myself from falling over.

It’s important to use equipment that’s right for the conditions: a good-fitting bicycle, skis with edges or skins, clothes that protect you from the elements. (We shiver to generate heat, and that takes energy. We also tend to clench against the cold, which not only uses muscles that perhaps should be at rest, but changes our posture.) If the right equipment isn’t available, then it becomes even more important to remember to give ourselves breaks, especially when we are distracted by extreme conditions. Unfortunately, today, I wasn’t able to because if I set my bike down, it would have literally gone flying. But once I was aware of the strain, I at least did some shoulder rolls and shrugs to keep me from cramping up completely. Afterwards, a hot shower was another welcome way to relax after some deep stretching.

Life is like that, though. It builds and builds until we’re juggling so much we don’t even know we’re distracted. That’s why it’s important to accommodate good habits into our schedules, such as stretching or meditation, so that if we are too distracted to notice our holding, we’re at least addressing it in the midst of our daily grind. And stretching doesn’t have to be some intense pretzel gym workout, either. Try a simple but yummy cat stretch, the kind that gets so deep you almost have to let out a squeak. If you notice you start to cramp up, simply back off and relax before trying again with less intensity. Reach with some extension when you grab a sweater off the closet shelf. Do shoulder rolls and shrugs. Drop a pencil and pick it up with one arm extended behind you. And when you are pursuing your sport, don’t forget to play! 

Don’t just do a sport, be a sport. It doesn’t have to be serious.

I’d rather not define perfection as a static goal, but as the process of obtaining that goal. My experience is that by doing so, the journey becomes my joy, offering so much more diversity and spontaneity than the little, possibly unachievable, pinnacle at the top.  The sense of passion, wonder, awe, or simple attentiveness that I feel when I pursue my greatest loves are my driving forces, not one moment of perfection. 

I think of my writing. There are days it feels stuck and gooey, and other days it flies. But a child finds wonder in both a mud pie and a dragonfly. Why should it be any different for an adult?

My best days are when I don’t think of the results, when I’m not concerned about completion as defined by the one perfect way. It’s when I’m in the moment, tending to my creative garden, pulling weeds or planting seeds, that I sense the beauty of accomplishment as it is defined not by the end product, but by action. That sense of wonder, often disguised in something as banal as the effort to find the right word, is a gift. It’s the exploration into possibility. 

Possibility. It sounds open-ended, full of hope, as compared to perfection, which to me at this moment, seems limited. Or out of reach. Possibility, on the other hand, seems boundless.

It isn’t unusual when I coach my clients in movement that they strive to “get it right,” whether to please me, cure themselves of pain, or simply get me to stop talking. However, my goal is to encourage them to go beyond the static rightness of what should be and play with what can be. I want them to explore, to get in touch with their bodies and find out what is possible. 

Sure, with my training and study, I can make educated guesses about where the kinks are, where the possible causes for pain might be hidden, or wow my clients with names of muscles and fancy words. But like perfection, such descriptions and words would be static, snapshots of a moment that limit a dynamic life into a moment in time. And I don’t want that for my clients. I want to teach them to discover what works for them, their unique bodies, their individuality. I want my guidance and suggestions to be doors to boundless options in their box of life tools, not edicts about how to behave in certain circumstances. 

Life is about flow and adaptability. If I can teach my clients to trust in that and their own perceptions as experienced in their bodies, then their potential can be unbounded by perfection and move into the divine.

***[This post is repeated on the Page, "SI, Artists, Athletes & Everyone Else"]***

Sometimes performance has reached a plateau and needs more than a push. Sometimes old injuries decrease flexibility or even prevent us from practicing our sport. Structural Integration can help the athlete by freeing up range of motion, creating better body alignment and balance, relieving chronic strain, and fine-tuning specific movements to improve performance.

In most sports, the results of Structural Integration—length, flexibility, balance, and more efficient use of the body—are assets. Strength is improved because muscles that are no longer stiff, contracted and/or held have greater range of motion and therefore greater power. Length and flexibility are increased for the same reasons. Balance is better because Structural Integration helps to unwind rotations in the joints and allows muscles to do their job without being held back by other tissues.

Every body is different, and the theories behind Structural Integration provide the flexibility to cater each session to the client’s individual needs while reaching toward the goal of alignment with gravity. The basic “recipe” of Structural Integration is comprised of ten sessions called the Ten Series. Because each body is unique, every session is catered to the individual, meaning no two series are ever alike. As a matter of fact, because the body is not perfectly symmetrical, how each side of the same body is worked is unique. That means no two runners will ever get the same rote strokes, nor will all swimmers or all cyclists, for that matter. During our sessions, the client’s sport will be integrated into the work with the intention of creating healthier movement patterns for that individual. As a practitioner, I work with each athlete to create a customized strategy in order to encourage the healthiest performance.

***[This post is repeated on the Page, "SI, Artists, Athletes & Everyone Else"]***

Sometimes  artists become so engrossed in their creativity that they forget their bodies. For example, writers may be bent over laptops for hours, musicians may repeatedly practice the same bars, and dancers may tire and resort to bad habits learned at a younger age. Add that to the everyday stresses of making a living, raising families, uncomfortable sleep positions…and the body can become a burden even to those who don’t believe they use it for their creative process.

Structural Integration can help ease the artist’s body so that rather than be a pain to be ignored, it can be a comfort to be celebrated. Whether you’re a performance artist, writer, musician, filmmaker, painter, sculptor, master craftsman…whether you are a professional or hobbiest, Structural Integration can help you relax, reducing the body discomforts that can drive your muse to distraction.

The basic “recipe” of Structural Integration is comprised of ten sessions called the Ten Series. Because each body is different, every session is catered to the unique individual, meaning no two series are ever alike. As a matter of fact, because the body is not perfectly symmetrical, how each side of the same body is worked is unique. That means no two tuba players will ever get the same rote strokes, nor will all writers or all pianists, for that matter. During our sessions, how one plays, writes, sculpts, or holds the camera will be integrated into the work with the intention of creating healthier movement patterns for that individual. As a practitioner, I see and treat each artist as a customized miracle here to bring something special to the world.