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[post_content] => This Saturday is the beginning of the Chinese New Year. One year ago, I remember thinking about the approaching Year of the Fire Monkey and wondering how it would play out. The monkey, much like Curious George, is known for causing havoc. And given the particular elemental qualities at play, experts of feng shui and the Chinese zodiac predicted a year of strong personalities, violent clashes, craziness, trickery, and turning convention on its head. Just picture a couple of monkeys on fire running around in your house.
I don’t put a tremendous amount of stock into these predictions. In fact, I usually forget about them a few weeks into the year. But in 2016, I often found myself distracted by the political theatrics despite myself. It reminded me of the time a monkey jumped on me in Mexico and firmly latched onto my ear with its sharp little teeth. Not only was it uncomfortable, it was quite difficult for me to extract myself from the situation.
Of course, there’s no way to prove that the events of 2016 were caused by its Chinese zodiac attributes, but if the Fire Monkey helps us frame our understanding of the year in a useful way, I think it has served its purpose. Or at least it makes us curious about the next animal.
On January 28th, we enter the Year of the Fire Rooster. Each of the different animals is a symbol for a natural dynamic; some of the interpretations are intuitive and others are a bit of a stretch. In the case of the rooster, let’s start with the one thing everyone knows about roosters by the time they’re three years old. When they see the sun rise, they yell, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” I believe this translates roughly to, “Wake up!”
Second, they roost. That is, they sit up on something high and watch over several nests. From their roosting spot, they have a position of vision. In numerous spiritual traditions, the rooster is regarded as an intermediary of communication with the Divine; perhaps this notion comes from the high and watchful position the rooster occupies. When the roosting rooster sees something he doesn’t like (such as another rooster moving in), he yells some more.
Third, they fight. Roosters are naturally aggressive toward other roosters, a fact exploited around the world in cockfighting. Roosters are groomed and modified – sometimes with blades attached to their legs – where this blood sport is popular. In Bali, cockfighting is actually a religious ritual (“tabuh rah”) – the losing bird is considered a sacrifice to appease evil spirits – performed at every temple.
The element of the year combines with the animal to color its influence. This year it’s fire, and I think that’s a good sign. Fire’s nature is to illuminate. Its ability to shed light into the darkest corners heralds a time of transparency and clarity.
So, how can we interpret these characteristics as we look hopefully toward the coming year? Well, as I see it, there are two kinds of roosters: the evolved rooster and the base rooster. One proclaims the return of the light and tells everyone to wake up. The other sees only enemies and opportunities to assert his dominance. One roosts up high and views the big picture. The other struts around on the ground looking for a fight.
Each of us has the potential to embody the qualities of an evolved rooster or a base rooster, and I’m betting that we’re going to lean more toward evolution this year. It’s time to wake up.
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[post_content] => I grew up in the 1980s, when some of the most common insults we used were “homo,” “faggot,” “queer,” and “gay.” Clearly, we were deeply fearful of what we didn’t understand – and the ostracism that went with it. Even though I wasn’t gay, this uptight culture caused me to avoid doing anything that might be construed as gay – like touching other males. It wasn’t until college, when we all relaxed a bit, that I recognized how much I enjoyed casual touch.
Given my past, it didn’t come naturally to me. I knew warm people for whom touch was easy and comfortable. But anytime I was in contact with another human, my attention would be drawn to that point of contact. If we were talking I might just stop mid-sentence if the other person rested their hand on my shoulder (people tend to think that’s weird).
Maybe this inability to multitask with touch was a product of my American socialization. There was a fascinating study of touch done by a psychologist named Sydney Jourard in the 1960s. He watched friends in conversation in cafés in different countries. In England, there was zero touch over the course of an hour. In the United States, friends touched an average of two times. In France, there were 110 touches in an hour. And in Puerto Rico, friends touched an average of 180 times! Doesn't it seem like Americans and Brits are missing out?
In grad school, as I practiced physical exams and bodywork techniques, I had a forum to safely and thoroughly explore the potential of touch. I got a lot more comfortable with it, and for the first time in my life, people told me, “You have healing hands.” My professor of Zen Shiatsu (a Japanese form of massage) noticed this aptitude, too, but saw it merely as a prerequisite. “You’re pretty good at finding the jitsu,” she said. “Now you need to work on the kyo.”
She explained these words, jitsu and kyo, in terms of an amoeba. The amoeba, she said, departs from a state of balance through the emergence of a need – hunger, for instance. This is its kyo – an emptiness, weakness, instability, or deficiency. In response to this kyo, the creature bulges itself toward something it perceives to be edible. This bulging, the action of attempting to acquire and consume, becomes its primary focus and drive, its jitsu. Jitsu is also translated as hardness, protectiveness, fullness, or stagnation. When the amoeba’s bulge encompasses the food, its kyo – and the jitsu that arose in response – are resolved.
Humans aren’t that different from amoebas, we just like to make things more complicated. We mostly see each other’s jitsus, which are the outward responses (tension, volition, drive, armor, etc.) to an inner kyo. At best, the things we're prompted to do are accurately connected to our kyo, and we achieve something that restores balance - at least temporarily. More often, we feel an urge (jitsu) without an understanding of the kyo beneath, and we deal with it in a misguided way that never truly heals the core issue.
In the context of massage, my professor was trying to convey that the places that are begging for attention – the knots, like the amoeba’s bulges – are expressions of jitsu, a hardening of the surface in response to an inner weakness. Pressing on them is a bit like pushing that bulge of the amoeba back inward. It makes things look more balanced from the outside for a little while, but it usually doesn’t get to the root cause.
If we’re exhausted from stress (kyo) we might mount tight shoulders (jitsu). When our lower back locks up (jitsu), it might stem from weak abdominal muscles (kyo). While most practitioners work exclusively on the jitsu – the tight shoulders or back – my professor emphasized the value of addressing both the jitsu and the kyo. When a shiatsu practitioner works on a patient’s kyo, specifically intending to fill it up and stabilize it, this causes an immediate softening and opening of the jitsu.
I went through a recalibration period as I learned to look deeper, and I saw that this dynamic goes way beyond massage. It could be expressed, for instance, as a relentless pursuit of money, food, or possessions due to a deep inner void. And of course, it might show up as boys perpetually attacking each other as “gay” because of their own insecurity.
This learning process affirmed my belief in the value of touch and humans’ need for it. And, despite my training, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting those shoulders or back massaged - even if the practitioner knows nothing of jitsu and kyo. But I would like to encourage you, the next time some part of your body is screaming for attention, to look inside and see if there’s an even deeper place that needs to be touched.
Stay tuned for more.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
[post_title] => How To Heal By Embracing Your Inner Amoeba
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[post_content] => I once took a required course in a subtle form of bodywork called Jin Shin Do. Rather than pressing, kneading, or stroking, the practitioner simply rests her fingers on specific combinations of acupuncture points and intends for healing to occur. During the first few classes, I thought, “I have all these other healing tools. Why would I waste my time on this? Who can even tell if anything is happening?!”
Yet, I was pleasantly surprised. This class gave me an appreciation for the power of subtlety in medicine. I now believe that subtle healing techniques often succeed where others fail, because there’s less potential for the recipient’s mind or body to object to the intervention, less potential to exacerbate an existing condition, plus an opportunity to “slip under the radar” and initiate a deeper healing.
Frequently, the professor broke us into pairs – a giver and a receiver – to try experiments. And there was one experiment that I’ll never forget.
While the givers’ hands rested on the receivers, she would circulate through the room whispering a variety of words into the givers’ ears. Some of the phrases I remember were, “I love you,” “You are safe,” “You are healed,” and “Everything is good.” The givers were instructed to hold each set of words in their consciousness without changing anything about what they were doing with their hands. Sometimes they were directed to think about what they were going to have for dinner or to ponder a current problem in their life. After a few minutes, both the giver and the receiver would report about what they experienced.
Nearly all the receivers, without knowing what the givers were focused on, reported feeling better when the givers were focused on a positive intention rather their own “stuff.” They weren’t always able to articulate what exactly felt better about it, but some felt more “held” by the giver, or more energy, or an alignment of their skeleton, or a reduction in pain.
There were minimal differences in the effect of the various positive intentions – except one. Everyone in the room reported that the best, most “connected” experience occurred when the giver held the phrase “I am here for you” in their mind. In fact, when the giver thought, “I am here for you,” there were sighs around the room from the receivers. Their breathing deepened and they relaxed more.
I’ve thought about this a lot in the years since. It reminds me of an anxious phase I went through as a tween. When I was 12 I had some panic attacks, and afterwards I always wanted one of my parents to be near me. That need for physical proximity eventually passed – I actually preferred to be alone much of the time – but as I got clearer about it, I realized that I what I really wanted was to know that someone would be available to give me their full presence if I ever needed it. (Kind of like the ease that comes from having a Xanax in your pocket, even if you never take it.)
This realization eventually led to the understanding that attention is an exceedingly valuable thing. We all know that “time is money” because there’s a finite amount of it in the workday. But attention (or presence) is even more precious. How often do you feel that you have someone’s complete, undivided attention?
Back in my angsty tweens and teens – before the Internet, and when it used to cost a lot to make a long-distance phone call – if there wasn’t someone nearby, it might be difficult or expensive to find a human connection. Today, it’s much easier and cheaper. We can Skype or Facetime with someone on the other side of the planet for free! We’ve made great gains in bridging distance with technology.
And yet, it seems even more uncommon to find someone who can give you their presence in a sustained way. Based on my conversations with patients, people feel busier and more distracted than a few decades ago. We have shorter attention spans and less ability to focus. (I believe the phenomenon I’ve dubbed the Human Data Stream – that massive flow of information in the form of texts, calls, videos, social media, emails, etc., and the devices that transmit it – is largely to blame.) You could be sitting across the table from someone, engaged in a conversation, and still feel that they’re not really “here for you.”
HERE. FOR. YOU.
Think about what it means to really be present for someone you care about. As in, I offer you my total presence. And consider how good it would feel if you could allow yourself to fully trust and relax in the presence of a loved one who’s holding the space for you. What a gift! I encourage all of us to practice offering our presence to others – setting aside our personal agendas and giving our full attention to the one in front of us.
Now, there’s a little more to the story. So, I realized that I didn’t need someone always holding my hand, but I wanted to know I had a support system in my family and community. I gathered folks who would be here for me if I needed it (and I for them). And I will always prioritize family and community for the rest of my life.
However, I came to understand that even that level of support was still external in a way. I don’t mean to diminish its value, but I recognized that there was a deeper or closer trust available, a closer presence, that wouldn’t require calling a friend.
I saw that I rarely offered myself my own total presence, choosing instead, almost incessantly, to give my attention to my mind’s constant stream of thoughts. I saw that I rarely told myself, I AM HERE FOR YOU! (By “I” in this phrase, I mean my Authentic Self, my Divine Self, my Absolute Self, or what many people simply call a Oneness with God.) It’s at once tragic and glorious to recognize this self-deprivation.
Sometimes I have difficulty remembering it or accessing it, but I know it’s always there. That is, I am always here. And, because you and I are one, I am always here for you, and you are always here for me. Let’s remember together, and dispel the illusions of separation that cloud our vision.
Be well my friend,
Peter
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[post_content] => This Saturday is the beginning of the Chinese New Year. One year ago, I remember thinking about the approaching Year of the Fire Monkey and wondering how it would play out. The monkey, much like Curious George, is known for causing havoc. And given the particular elemental qualities at play, experts of feng shui and the Chinese zodiac predicted a year of strong personalities, violent clashes, craziness, trickery, and turning convention on its head. Just picture a couple of monkeys on fire running around in your house.
I don’t put a tremendous amount of stock into these predictions. In fact, I usually forget about them a few weeks into the year. But in 2016, I often found myself distracted by the political theatrics despite myself. It reminded me of the time a monkey jumped on me in Mexico and firmly latched onto my ear with its sharp little teeth. Not only was it uncomfortable, it was quite difficult for me to extract myself from the situation.
Of course, there’s no way to prove that the events of 2016 were caused by its Chinese zodiac attributes, but if the Fire Monkey helps us frame our understanding of the year in a useful way, I think it has served its purpose. Or at least it makes us curious about the next animal.
On January 28th, we enter the Year of the Fire Rooster. Each of the different animals is a symbol for a natural dynamic; some of the interpretations are intuitive and others are a bit of a stretch. In the case of the rooster, let’s start with the one thing everyone knows about roosters by the time they’re three years old. When they see the sun rise, they yell, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” I believe this translates roughly to, “Wake up!”
Second, they roost. That is, they sit up on something high and watch over several nests. From their roosting spot, they have a position of vision. In numerous spiritual traditions, the rooster is regarded as an intermediary of communication with the Divine; perhaps this notion comes from the high and watchful position the rooster occupies. When the roosting rooster sees something he doesn’t like (such as another rooster moving in), he yells some more.
Third, they fight. Roosters are naturally aggressive toward other roosters, a fact exploited around the world in cockfighting. Roosters are groomed and modified – sometimes with blades attached to their legs – where this blood sport is popular. In Bali, cockfighting is actually a religious ritual (“tabuh rah”) – the losing bird is considered a sacrifice to appease evil spirits – performed at every temple.
The element of the year combines with the animal to color its influence. This year it’s fire, and I think that’s a good sign. Fire’s nature is to illuminate. Its ability to shed light into the darkest corners heralds a time of transparency and clarity.
So, how can we interpret these characteristics as we look hopefully toward the coming year? Well, as I see it, there are two kinds of roosters: the evolved rooster and the base rooster. One proclaims the return of the light and tells everyone to wake up. The other sees only enemies and opportunities to assert his dominance. One roosts up high and views the big picture. The other struts around on the ground looking for a fight.
Each of us has the potential to embody the qualities of an evolved rooster or a base rooster, and I’m betting that we’re going to lean more toward evolution this year. It’s time to wake up.
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Great tips! I will be implementing several of these in my daily routine.
Thanks, Dana. I hope they help.
I feel nurtured by a good friend this morning. Thank you.
I’m glad to hear it! Be well.