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.

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.

***[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.