When I was a music student, playing the trumpet was mostly about good company, good music, good fun. I hadn’t had much experience playing solos, and when the time came at the end of my first year, suddenly I had the stage to myself with a brilliant one‑handed pianist. I was literally scared stiff.
My eyes were glued to the dots on the page, the audience a blur. When I tried to turn and look at the pianist, my neck wouldn’t move. It was rigid, stuck. My fingers were crimped with fear, unable to open and close easily – quite a problem when trumpet valves need to move freely for every note.
After the ordeal of my first solo recital, a few kind friends hugged me, and one of the teachers on the panel came over with advice. “Your nerves clearly got the better of you, Lucy. Either take some beta blockers or get some Alexander Technique lessons.” Tough love. I barely even took aspirin, so off I went in search of this Alexander thing.
Fortunately, there was a teacher‑training school down the road in Dartington with wonderful teachers, Jan Haar and Danny McGowan. The third‑year trainees came up to the college daily, and we music, art, and theatre students sat in a circle. One after another a nervous student placed their hands gently under my chin and behind my head. Suddenly I was standing – not in my usual way. Odd and lovely. And I was seeing differently too.
My line of sight was higher, somehow wider. The leaves on the trees popped into 3D, with shades of green I’d never noticed. When I got into my car afterwards, I had to adjust the rear‑view mirror and the angle of my seat. In the space of an hour, something fundamental had changed, and I had no idea how or quite what had ocurred. The teacher’s touch was so light and gentle; they hadn’t made anything happen. And yet, without that guiding touch, I would never have experienced myself so differently. What a puzzle.
This was my first real encounter with one of Alexander’s central discoveries: that when interference drops away, the whole system reorganises itself – nature does its thing.
As I returned to these groups day after day, it was as if my body were asking for more of this experience. My conscious brain didn’t understand what was going on, but I loved it. Looking across the circle at my friends, I saw them sitting taller without trying, calmer without being sleepy, moving easily in ways I’d never seen before. I was fascinated. Bewildered. Intrigued. I wanted to understand more, and I wanted more of that experience.
Nowadays, when people walk into my teaching room, I can sense something immediately. I can’t always articulate it, but part of me trusts that inner knowing – seeing, perceiving, receiving something about the way they think, move, and what they carry. Another of Alexander’s discoveries: that how we use ourselves is the way function. Somehow visible, even when we don’t realise we’re showing it. If you know how to perceive it.
So this month of March 2026, I’m going to write every weekday to clarify what it is that I see, and whether my words can catch it. I’m excited, nervous, and curious to see what emerges.