A Cascade of Epiphanies: in which I put my foot behind my head and end up writing about injury again

Recently I’ve been again in the strange and exquisite process of injury. I didn’t volunteer. I don’t always feel grateful. It’s almost a cliche that injury is a gift, but the gift is another of those bad-fairy ones: you-didn’t-want-to-sleep-for-a-hundred-years-but-in-the-end-you-get-the-prince kind of thing.

It feels like about a hundred years ­– easily – but despite a cascade of tender little epiphanies, I haven’t got the prince yet. And since I’m still in process with this one, I’m not going to write about particularities. Seeds need to germinate in the dark.

Practice without epiphany would be an odd kind of practice to me, but injury seems to act as a particular kind of awareness cluster – an escalation, an intensification, also often a redirection, a refocusing and re-envisioning. It’s a call to pay attention, an opportunity for a kind of meta realignment, which contains biomechanics – signposts for practical physical restructuring – but is also much bigger, carrying personal mythopoeic meanings with the potential to unravel, rewind and reorient. It speaks to the occluded histories of my body, to ways of being in the world so familar as to have become transparent to me, and through all of this to the potential for fuller human becoming.

My practice is cyclic. I’ve been fortunate in that hypermobility deprived me early on of any illusion of linearity in these things. There are times of more; there are times of less. Over-arching this one-step, two-step in the realm of performative physical capability, is a boader pattern of integration, enlargement, attunement on an increasingly subtle level. What seems to arise is on the one hand a more precise and intuitive faculty of discrimination ­– viveka – and on the other, the slow inexorable seepage of love.

A long time ago, I put myself in apprenticeship to my body; it’s the teachings that emerge from being a body, and from reflecting on and as that body, that really inform me. I have little interest in abstract yoga philosophy. I’m sceptical about enlightenment and the ‘higher’ states of awareness: samsara as something attainable, something ‘over there’. What’s happened to me is more like a slow settling, a sifting and shifting, like an old house on friable ground. The more it settles, the more the walls crack. The situation is essentially imperfectible. It’s the humanness of this that absorbs me.

After 33 years, I feel that my practice is really just beginning to get interesting. Maybe I”m a slow starter. Matthew Remski’s WAWADIA project has produced quite a bit of discussion of a kind of asana plateau, which happens, apparently, somewhere around three to five years into practice – like the yoga version of the seven-year itch. Maybe this has to do with the limited attention span of neurotypical people (a source of ongoing amazement to those of us on the spectrum). Autistic people are orientated to detail and pattern. We will happily do the same thing every day for years and years, because it never is the same thing. Repetition is revelation: my practice is always full of surprises.

I think it also has to do with an essential human resistance to change. Few of us embark on a yoga practice with a knowledge of how deep and thorough-going will be the transformation it requires of us. We expect yoga to be contained in the magic one hour or ninety minutes. We expect it to be pleasant and enlivening. We don’t expect it to crack out of stasis our old habituated patterns, or to surface deeply embodied historical trauma. The most commonly given reasons for coming to a yoga class by my beginning students are: to get fit, to increase flexibility, to lose weight and to relax. When practice starts to require of them much, much, very much more, they frequently slide silently out.

I know that many schools consider two years’ practice to be sufficient to embark on yoga teacher training, but to me, two, three or five years is scarcely a beginning. To me, a practice becomes a practice when it’s seen you through at least a couple of generations – through births, deaths and marriages, love and loss. It seems to be symptomatic of the Tesco superstore mentality afflicting our culture that we jump ship so readily. If there’s always another product on the shelf with another promise of youth, fitness and vitality, why bother to negotiate inconvenient and difficult obstacles? Why bother to learn anything at all?

Matthew reckons that most people enter yoga in search of some kind of therapeutic outcome. I’m not most people, so I don’t know whether this is true or not. I started practising yoga when I was eighteen, I didn’t have any physical parts in obvious need of fixing, and I couldn’t have told you why I was doing it. In retrospect, it’s clear to me that I was hungry for embodiment. I was autistic, anorexic and out of my depth, and everything was a last-ditch stand. No habitat I could locate felt vast or wild enough to reflect my internal experience. I was desperate for a sense of containment, of physical integration, of the parts adhering to the whole. I urgently needed to discover some kind of coherent centre. I suppose that, in a very broad sense, this could be seen as a therapeutic motivation, but really I viewed it more as an artistic mandate, in which I was both the art and the artist. I still do see it that way.

Most of my life I’ve lived to move, not moved to live. I tumbled head first into astanga vinyasa because I was enthralled by the movement and captivated by the preoccupation with edge. I wasn’t all that interested in what it could do for my health and wellbeing. It turned out that many of the arrows pointed in both directions, but I can’t in honesty say that all of them do. The ongoing challenge is to nudge the situation into some form of do-ability. As I’ve tipped over onto the descending flank of the hill, my orientation has shifted – a little bit. The materials are in slow metamorphosis. They are gradually producing a different kind of art and a different kind of artist. At 51, I know that each day of astanga vinyasa is a day of grace. I know that one day the practice will spit me out – not, I hope, before I’ve been thoroughly chewed up by it. I’m going for complete mastication. I’m giving it my all.

Foot behind head


It takes a village to keep a hypermobile body in something like working order. I would like to thank Darren Higgins at Vanbrugh Physio. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been looking for a physio I can actually work with – found one! I would also like to thank 
my wonderful osteopaths and much – very much – loved companions on the path of the dance Indi Ajimal and Cyprian Londt. And where would I be without Scott Johnson and Andy Gill at Stillpoint Yoga London? Lots of love, guys.

 

 

Hacking off the Plaster

I’m told that my grandfather had a reputation for being the best plasterer in Portsmouth. I’ve inherited his talent for making smooth surfaces. Unfortunately, while it’s a gift, it’s also a curse. I’ve several times smoothed myself out so thoroughly I’ve almost obliterated myself.

Recently, my friend and sister in autism the poet Joanne Limburg brought to my attention the work of Ralph Savarese, writer, academic, (dis)ability activist and adoptive father of an autistic son. In his essay ‘The Lobes of Autobiography: Poetry and Autism’, Ralph Savarese discusses ‘Autie-type’, which he describes as ‘a highly poetic language that many non-verbal Auties produce spontaneously on their computers, whether in conversation or in actual poems’. I would suggest that it is not only nonverbal autistics for whom Autie-type is a first language, but all of us who are hyperlexic: i.e. for whom writing is easier and more natural than speaking; who have a better than average ability with the read and written word, but who struggle with processing and producing the spoken word, and sometimes experience mutism; and who express ourselves more effectively in writing than in speaking.

Some examples of Autie-type:

‘When I was little everyone thought I was retarded. The very hurtful easy lessons I attended were time spent away from the real world. Addition, subtraction, multiplication and division were subarctic activities. Treated as autistic, retarded, and sedated, I saw myself suspended. Ashamed, I seasoned this mind of mine. Wasting time beasts inhabited my very much lost, very sad boy’s head. Attempts to freshly respond to humans were terrifying quests through killer trees. Where I sent my real self, reasonable, easy breathing, satisfying humans never could find me.’

‘It’s practically getting possible to create satisfying life, interesting and meaningful nowadays because really institutions’ popularity slides towards storage underground at a pace faster than police chasing stepping for escaped prisoners … Nothing apartheids you like the insensitive world of institutional existence. Tapping well of silence with painting permitted songs of hurt to be meted with creativity … Without art, wafting smells of earth’s pleasures would kite away to land of inanimate objects, so it’s past point of personal hobby.’

‘The wave breaks, the bone splinters, and I roll like a planet, like a perfect pearl from the conduit into the shiny vista of my life. I am afraid of the sea. At night in the one-tooth domino house she breathes my susurrating dream. I am the spray on her curling tongue, the loose knot her fingers untie. Help! I have no edges. My atoms scatter on the wave; my cells disperse like seeds. And yet I also yearn for this dissemination, the webbing of the flesh unwrapped, the rags unpinned from the bones. Torn between desire and fear, I think I will forget I am the waves, and the incoming tide is the advent of my soul. I think I will exclude this difficult sea.’

‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

The first passage is by Ralph Savarese’s son DJ, who I think was about thirteen when he wrote it (US ninth grade – Americans, let me know) and is quoted in ‘The Lobes of Autobiography’. The second, also quoted in ‘Lobes’, is by an autistic artist who had been institutionalised for many years. The third is by me, and comes from a longer prose poetry piece called ‘The Rib Cage’, about my experience of anorexia. I wrote it in my early thirties. The fourth is a poem by Emily Dickinson, whom many people consider to have been autistic.

I could say that reading ‘Lobes’ has been epiphanic for me, but that sounds too cool and white. When I first read DJ’s words, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or jump up and down. I was drowning in recognition. I couldn’t breathe. It exploded and landed on my chest. I walked around and around my house and banged the walls to let off some of the froth. The first coherent thought to bubble to the surface was, this is just how my first drafts read. And the second one was, no-o-o-o! When did I ever allow native speech like that to materialise on paper? It would be suicide. It would be inviting the sharks right in and saying, ‘Eat me now!’ No, this is the secret misty way words rise off images in the early morning of my mind. No one, but no one, sees my autistic speaking. I make too-damn sure it’s all joined up and in good neurotypical syntax before it gets anywhere near a page. Even a private one.

Ralph Savarese notes that autists are highly metaphorical – you don’t say! I know that in my case this is because I think in images. When I verbalise, I’m not creating metaphors; I’m doing my best to language as fully and accurately as possible (not very possible) the visual thoughts arising in my head. The doing is not in the metaphor but in the translation of the imagery into acceptable neurotypical-speak.

As Savarese explains, broadly speaking, metaphor arises from the right brain; broadly speaking, grammar and syntax arise from the left. (And it is broad, because there is enormous variation among individual brains, with some people having functions on the ‘wrong’ side.) In those online right brain / left brain tests, it’s no suprise to me that I always score as very predominantly right-brained. This is a fit with the hypothesis of the 1977 study cited in ‘Lobes’ which suggests that ‘autistic children process information predominantly by strategies of the right hemisphere from birth and, unless unusual events occur, continue to be right hemisphere processors throughout their life.’ Unlike DJ, though, I am definitely not also good at left-brain activities. Maths? Forget it. I float in a mythopoeic world, tethered by a fine thread to consensus reality. I pretend to go along with it a lot more than I really do. The sharks again.

Interestingly, word production is also lateralised to the left brain, which would explain why (although superficially I appear highly articulate) vocabulary retrieval is so difficult for me. It’s like one of those palm-sized perspex puzzles we had in the seventies, in which you have to shuttle the little silver ball through a series of shelves and ledges and out the other end. It’s fiddly and frustrating and it takes a lot of time.

I used to mask this difficulty – the way a stutterer covers for themselves by finding alternative words for those with their stutter trigger. I did it very skilfully. I don’t do it any more. I hate those cover-words with their lack of specificity and circumlocutions. I prefer to allow the little gaps and hiatuses; I prefer to let the wrong word come: a pet is a parrot; a parrot is a carrot; agriculture is agrimony (have to google that one – it may be a fully accredited word) … is acrimony, is crimson … Colours tend to leave me speechless – they’re so intense. In truth this is the stuff of poetry, of associative and out-of-the box thinking. And this is the way I don’t erase myself, the way I don’t deface the native beauty of my own arising but simply let myself be. Because actually, I’m no better than I ought to be, but I’m as good as you.

It’s easy to deface and erase yourself if you’re autistic, and hard to stand up and be who and what you actually are – all one hundred and extra 42 per cent of it (1). It takes a lot of courage and a lot of practice. Autism is a gift, but it’s the kind of gift bestowed by a bad fairy (always the best kind in the end). It’s like being given a dozen wild and furious horses to hitch to your carriage. You can break them if you like – if you want them to end up mean and bridled and dispirited. It’s taken me half a lifetime to whisper my horses, and it requires a huge amount of skill, experience and mindful attention to keep the carriage moving forward without rattling, jostling, spooked and hell-for-leather horses, and generally pitching everyone into a rut.

I’m really committed these days to disrupting surfaces. I want to know what we’re all made of. I want the materiality of lumps and bumps, coarseness and sticking out bits. I want the old bones, coins and broken tea-cups. I want what presses up out of the pores of the earth. I’m no longer willing to small myself down and fold it up in a box because I think it might offend you. I want to be full of myself. And there’s a place in being in which it’s all possible. A place of fluidity, in which we flow into and through and among one another without snagging and hitching, in which we roll off one another’s idiosyncracies, and it’s delightful. I know this because I learnt it on the dancefloor (another story), it flooded out into my life, and mostly I live in it now. It feels limitless and full of potential. It feels like the essence of love. It feels like the place where we can all truly meet. It feels like a dreamed of sea.

(1) According to a recent study, the resting brains of autistic children produce 42 per cent more information than those of non-autistic controls.

 

Threads of Yoga: a response to Matthew Remski’s book

Threads of Yoga is definitely the most erotic book of yoga philosophy I’ve ever read. And that’s sort of the point. One of its foremost intentions is to reinsert the body as a felt organism with interoception and messy biological needs into the clean white envelope of the Yoga Sutras. In this sense, it groove-joins the old text to contemporary asana practice, in which a dominant paradigm is somatic connection:

While multiple streams of inquiry are now breathlessly searching for the ‘mindbody connection’, many yoga practitioners carry the feeling that this ‘connection’ does not need to be found or forged – it was simply never missing.

Threads of Yoga also sutures the dissevered limb of the solitary meditative seeker back onto the body of the environment. In scenes of graphic intersubjectivity, it peoples the lonely cathedral spaces of the Yoga Sutras with grass, sex, children, flowers, birds; its hard edges are replaced by a kind of porosity that soaks us all into each other. What was high, holy, vaulted and up there becomes immediate, tactile, equally holy and down here. For we are not lonely monks wandering in the forest, desert fathers, saints clinging to a windy skellig (1), but we are inter-related subjects living in a sensory world of mingled flesh and tangled relationship. We are all in it together, and we need soft-bodied texts that breathe us into our togetherness.

Threads of Yoga also punctures the Emperor’s new clothes conceit / deceit of omniscient authorship. The constructed Patanjali identity, presumed to have reached full awakening, to have surpassed the ordinary things of ordinary human beings, and to be here to tell us how we can do it too, is nudged off the shelf and replaced by someone who hasn’t. If, like me, you’re not wholly convinced by enlightenment, the horizontality of Threads of Yoga is a lot more relateable. It speaks to my personal experience of practice and integration, which is real and immediate, not particularly pristine, and tends to bed me more into the everyday here-and-now compost of dirty human being.

Some of what I love about Matthew is that he’s a radical deconstructor. This appeals to my autistic soul. Because, to an autistic person, the cultural constructions ‘we’ invest with a socially agreed thing-ness, actually appear pretty arbitrary, so it’s a relief when someone knocks them down and there’s just a great big pile of lego pieces lying on the floor. Now we have creative potential. Not that I necessarily go along with everything Matthew makes with the lego. Some of it seems to me fairly off-the-wall. I’m not very keen on psychoanalytic theories. I find many of them over-determined and hetero-normalising. And I’m fairly sure I don’t feel traumatised by axial and pre-axial age practices of infanticide. Or even that convinced that they were widely prevalent. But, anyway, I’m glad we have reappropriated the lego and we can build strange stuff.

Another thing I love about Matthew is that his vocabulary so choice. Y’all know me as a mover and a shaker, but my background is also in poetry and the written word. One of the reasons I got into Buddhism ten or so years ago was actually that the writing was so much better than anything the contemporary yoga world had to offer. So much yoga writing was drab, pedestrian and totally lacking in the capacity for original thought. Hallellujah, this is finally changing, and Matthew is part of that. Threads of Yoga is touched by poetry. It has that necessary quality of scintillation and surprise, and sentences with musical phrasing. Gosh, a yoga book written by a writer! But if it was about fishing or gardening, I’d probably still read it, because the prose delights me.

Those who have taken exception to Threads of Yoga seem largely not to have read the subtitle. You can’t really object to a book for being an inaccurate translation when it describes itself as ‘remix’ and ‘reverie’. Really, it does exactly what it says on the tin. It samples Patanjali, drops some unexpected and eclectic beats, and give us all the chance to dance like lunatics. You can’t say fairer than that.

Threads of Yoga: A remix of Patanjali’s sutras with commentary and reverieMatthew Remski, 2012.

(1) Even if that’s a favourite landscape of mine: https://movingprayer.wordpress.com/2013/07/21/whose-practice-is-it-anyway/.