The Lesson
Would you love to know what an Alexander Technique lesson feels like? Perhaps you’ve had physio, osteo, chiropractic, or massage. Perhaps a Yoga or Pilates instructor has made adjustments before. Well, it’s not exactly like any of them.
I remember the first time I put my hands on Alan’s head and neck in his first lesson. As a grandad, he longed to play with his grandchildren, but even sitting in an armchair his left hand would go numb. Pins and needles in his fingers. Sometimes shooting pains from his neck all the way down his arm – hot, sharp, searing, like lightning. He’d seen a surgeon and was seriously considering neck surgery. I’d only been teaching a few months, but I knew his wife a little, and he was getting desperate.
I asked him to sit on a dining chair and gently placed my hands around his head at the top of his neck, from behind, just under his ears. I noticed a coldness and stiffness. I kept thinking about myself – my head, my spine, my back – as I’d been trained. My hands were there 100% for him, receiving information, guiding him, there with him. From the wrists back, I was attending to myself and my own coordination.
His head gave a little twitch. His neck a small shudder. Then a sigh. Something was happening.
I was aware of the high stakes, but if I focused only on trying to “fix him,” I wouldn’t see him as the full human being he was – his history, his emotions, his hopes. First, I needed to keep looking after myself and “listen” to him with my hands. My attention was wide and specific at the same time: the flowers in the window box, someone walking past outside, and the subtle responses under my fingertips.
His right arm felt heavy and responsive. I could gently lift his hand and his whole arm followed. On the left side, it was different: light, but reluctant. Protective. Guarded. I brought my hands back to his neck, very gently, accompanying the muscles around the whole girth of his neck. No pressure, no ambition, no plan. Just looking after myself – like polishing a mirror so I could reflect him back to himself more clearly.
His left arm had been protecting itself from pain, from surprises, but also from being fully supported. When we suppress movement in one part of ourselves, it affects everything – we can’t selectively shut down. The numbness in his fingers eased. His hand warmed. The pins and needles intensified briefly; he squeezed his hand open and shut, shook his arm, and then the pain was gone. He noticed immediately. And I noticed a sudden fluidity in myself.
It’s a bit chicken and egg. I look after myself, and that transmits through my nervous system to his—through touch, voice, and approach. My touch is non‑demanding, receptive, guiding, supportive, calming, enlivening. One at a time, and all at once.
He left with a sense of hope. He’d had a new experience of himself, where a new possibility became real. We worked together for another six months. There was no more talk of surgery – only a whole lot of Lego building with his grandkids.
Now this, to me, is priceless.