Learning to Respond to Life
Week 4: Day 21 – Completion
“The experience you want is in the process of getting it…” FM Alexander
After four weeks of writing, and after decades of teaching and practising, I keep returning to one simple truth. There is something in this work that never changes. Something that remains steady no matter how I feel, whatever the weather, or how much I have in my calendar.
For me, the constant is this: the ability to respond. Not react. Not repeat. Respond. With choice. With more of me, ideally my whole embodied self.
These weeks of writing have reminded me of the stance I take toward life. Not a position, not a technique, but more an internal orientation. A way of meeting the world with curiosity, a little ease and a willingness to be surprised.
I sometimes think that if I were truly successful, I would live like my mentor with 20 classes a week, 13 staff and 100s of people in a class. I have some favourite teachers and business personalities who seem to have it all figured out. But when I check in with myself, I realise their dreams are not mine. I try them on as if they should fit, borrow them for a while but they don’t fit me well. What I actually want is a meaningful life, not a performative one or a grand one.
And meaning, for me, is found in the smallest movements.
I can enjoy washing up. The warmth of the water. The look of the bubbles. The satisfaction of helping the dirt lift off the plate and swirl down the drain. I enjoy the movement of it. The dish moving from counter to hand to water. My fingers, wrists and arms doing their quiet work. My knees softening, my hips hinging, my back long and strong. A little dance of it all that is partly chosen, partly improvised and partly happening through me.
This is the stance I keep rediscovering. A way of being that is unified, elastic, responsive.
Even picking up the kettle can be a moment of discovery. I never know how much water is left, so I meet it as if for the first time. I am open to surprise. I use just enough effort. The same is true when I chop my daily kale and lettuce. The texture, the sound, the rhythm of the knife. These tiny moments are where my life actually happens. It is the quality of how I am breathing, chopping and being.
Over the years I’ve shaped a life I don’t want to escape from. I don’t dread Monday mornings. I don’t spend Sundays resisting the week ahead. Each term I place the things I love first into my calendar. Tai Chi twice a week. My work in Hathersage on Tuesdays. Time with my son, taking him climbing, being there for him with pancakes after school. These are the big stones. Everything else fits around them. Work, friends, theatre, concerts. Daily walks in the woods, with friends, a jog or alone. A balance of rest and activity that feels deeply satisfying.
When I’m working, I don’t feel like I’m working. I remember jobs where I sold my time and counted the hours until Friday. That was work. This is different. This time I spend with clients, writing, and groups is alive.
What has not changed, through all the years and all the learning, is the joy of meeting someone as they are. Beginners mind. This person, on this day, in this moment. Touching them, observing them, welcoming their whole self. Making space inside myself to invite kindness and curiosity. Helping them reconnect with themselves, by helping them inhabit the present more fully.
Humans can remember and reflect. We can plan and dream. But when we do these things from an embodied place, there is energy for life to emerge. There is room for integration. There is space for the nervous system to update itself. There is a beauty in being with another human mammal as they rediscover their natural coordination, release strain, and integrate something old in the safety of now.
So what is constant? What does not change? What happens no matter what?
For me, it is this: the work keeps inviting us back to ourselves. To presence. To choice. To the ability to respond. To the quiet miracle of being alive in this moment, with this breath, in this body.
Life is like my Tai Chi practice, every time is a little different. The speed, the tone, the rhythm – its a creative process for me,
Thank you for reading, for walking through these four weeks with me, and for witnessing the unfolding of my thoughts and memories of wonderful clients and this work I live and love.
Although this writing challenge comes to an end, the exploration continues. If something in these reflections stirs a curiosity in you or touches a place that wants attention, you’re welcome to let me know. I look forward to seeing you.