There are times in our lives when we feel broken. Sometimes trauma is directly physical: A fractured bone, sprained ligament, torn muscle, or a slipped disk are all examples of physical trauma that might make us feel broken. Sometimes the feeling of being broken is more psychological or spiritual: We might find our curiosity or motivation missing, have a ‘broken heart,’ or feel anxiety that scatters focus and clarity. There is a strong desire to be fixed. As living beings we can be injured, traumatized, hurt, afraid, and even killed, but we can’t be broken. When we observe and analyze a machine we can perceive how and why it works. If a machine ceases to work as expected then we consider it broken. Then, we attempt to fix it. In the case of living beings such as ourselves the situation is more complex: For all of our scientific observation and analysis we don’t really know why we’re alive. We have ideas about parts of it, but we have to resort to the feeling (and dare I say faith) that we are alive. We’re self-organizing creative systems, and in the long run it seems possible to me that we can’t and won’t even know how or why we really exist. That’s sometimes called the ‘great mystery,’ right? It might even be more accurate to say that we are expressions of life than functions of it—this statement takes a step beyond whether we ‘work’ right at all. So, if we don’t know what our true function is, and we notice that we’re still alive, how could we possibly be broken?

The integrity of our physical, spiritual, or emotional expression can definitely sustain trauma. When this happens, we begin to heal. Our nature as self-organizing systems is that we find ways to keep on living using whatever means necessary. As we heal we may generate scars, take on a limp, or respond to things differently than we used to. We also may go looking for a way to be fixed—this too is part of the healing impulse. The irony is that because we can’t be broken, we can’t be fixed. Surgery may be an option to restore some function, but it also comes at a great cost because it is yet another trauma to a very complex and self-organizing system. The results of surgery are never guaranteed, and often come with side effects that we ignore in the face of wanting to be fixed. That said, I have seen times surgery has helped people immensely. I am alive because of surgery I had when I was born, and I’ve spent my life healing from it. Surgery or no, we will never be who we were yesterday, and when it comes down to it we don’t want to be: Yesterday set up how we got hurt in the first place.

Awareness is its own medicine. In awareness we interact with our own patterns as both the observer and the observed. As a movement therapist I see daily how much our physical (and psychological) patterns repeat in every movement we make. We get hurt because there’s always a weakest link in our imperfect beings; there’s always a part that ‘breaks’ first. We are all going to die. Yet, as living and self-organizing systems we can utilize our imperfect experience of vitality as edges for growth and healing. We may not even need to do anything except to stop doing what we’ve been doing and notice what’s going on. This is the basis of many somatic movement and healing techniques. Injuries and pain force us to stop, even when we don’t want to. By acknowledging that we can’t be broken even when we’re in pain and feeling broken, we have the opportunity to perceive and interact with the deeper patterns by which we became injured in the first place. We can allow ourselves to be afraid for a while without panic. We can participate in our healing as a practice, and just like with our breath, we aren’t entirely in charge of it.

In a recent meditation I had the privilege of perceiving myself as a tendril in the aliveness of the universe. Inside of that, I also recognized how much of my energy goes into managing the experience of my unrelenting aliveness. One minute I am present as pain; in another, pleasure. I often attempt to consciously control the nature of my being, yet these attempts seem only to keep me busy, and perhaps to enhancing my suffering. I can choose certain paths and actions, but even these apparently volitional practices come from deeper drives and desires that I observe and participate in more than direct. My parents used to tell me to find my intrinsic motivation: It’s a never-ending exploration that holds more meaning for me in the light of self-observation than it ever did in approaching schoolwork. The other day I bought a sticker that says “Don’t just do something, sit there!” I take home that in observing myself I can discern the deeper truth of my being, and in practicing such discernment the coordination of my intentions and actions will always be more vital. When we face our inner realities, I think, we can heal the deepest of wounds, whether at the level of movement patterning or life patterning (and they’re the same). This doesn’t mean we’ll be comfortable—life often isn’t—but I find that the deeper I go down the rabbit hole, the more grateful I am to be alive.

Of course I can’t prove any of this highly subjective stuff, but I see it like the light of day. And, I’m intrinsically drawn to share it.

In being,

Matthew

Definitions are boundaries. They give us edges to navigate. When we perceive an object we decode its shape by seeing (or feeling) its edges. I find language to be similar: We rely on the edges of meaning in order to define our communications with each other. We often have different understandings of the words we share; sometimes the edges can be blurry. At the very least, like objects, definitions of words can appear different depending on the perspectives from which we approach them. Yet the bulk and weight of a word’s meaning may still be perceivable even when we can’t quite determine its edges. I think the phrase “movement therapy” functions in this way. Every one of us reading those words has some idea of what they’re referring to, and yet the edges are unclear. Even my own perception of what I do as a movement therapist is constantly evolving. I’d like to share some of the edges I see, and the volume those edges contain.

Lets begin with the more common phrase “physical therapy.” These words are defined not only by physical therapists, but also by a whole system that includes doctors, insurance companies, and universities. I expect certain behaviors and approaches from physical therapists, including the measurement, diagnosis, and treatment of physical injuries and diseases. In order to participate in a standardized system, such injuries, diseases, and disabilities are strictly categorized. I have met many physical therapists who appear to genuinely perceive their patients this way—as representations of defined problems and diagnoses.   I have also met many physical therapists who seem to be working with something much more alive—human beings. Thomas Hanna labels this whole-systems view of a person a soma, complete with their emotions, behaviors, and patterns. Such a view makes a dis-ease much more difficult to define. I have heard this complaint from many somatically-oriented physical therapists as they attempt to fit their well-rounded practices into the square holes of insurance paperwork.

As a movement therapist, I come from the world of art. I am a dancer and choreographer. I engage with aesthetics. To define aesthetics, perhaps we do best to begin with anesthetics. Anesthetics—take asprin for example (try 2)—help us to not feel. To consider aesthetics is to pay attention to the subjectivity of sensation, emotion, and the individuality of our aliveness. Even pain is a vital resource from an aesthetic perspective. To become a movement therapist I learned to consider movement as something that is both discretely physical, and as something filled with meaning. The language system of Laban Movement Analysis (LMA) provides me with ways to define the edges of what I see in my clients’ movements and bodies. Within the framework of LMA, Pilates, and myofascial bodywork I do many of the same things that physical therapists do: I use touch to engage the relationships between my clients’ nervous, fascial, bone, and muscular systems. I have equipment to help create dynamic resistance in specific planes of motion as I help my clients retrain their movement patterns. I observe and speak about my observations. I do not diagnose. Instead, I interact with the whole of the living phenomenon in front of me. There are things that are similar about my work with different clients, but in order to attune to what is meaningful I approach every person and every session as a unique piece of art. In some cases my clients literally end up dancing, although their dances might not be recognizable as such on So You Think You Can Dance.

I have struggled a bit with the difference between the words “therapist,” and “educator.” The International Somatic Movement Education and Therapy Association, of which I’m a member, offers certifications as a therapist or educator based on the same qualifications. I think a good therapist is an educator. I do not fix or heal my clients. People heal themselves when the conditions are right. I help people learn—in their bodies as well as their minds—how to move with greater efficiency, diversity, resilience, and ease. I help people align themselves in space and time to better function and express their vitality. I’ll use any tool through which we can artfully engage in that task together. To me, that’s movement therapy.

Criticality and Compassion
I have always been good at critical thinking. I ask questions, look for holes in logic, and question assumptions. As an academic I was proud of my abilities. Then, at a somatics conference a few years ago, a colleague provided me with a new view of my criticality. He suggested that a critical situation is one in which our life is at stake—it’s about life and death. Suddenly my critical abilities turned on themselves: If I’m always behaving like I’m in a life or death situation, then no wonder I have tended to feel a bit anxious and uncomfortable! Heck, I’ll give myself a heart attack! Ever since that realization I’ve been actively seeking a new balance. I value my criticality: I’m good at keeping myself safe. Yet when I AM safe, then what?
The dictionary definition of compassion revolves around concern for the suffering of others. I use the word compassion to suggest love and generosity. Compassion is a balancing force in relationship to criticality. Ultimately, we will each die, and no level of critical thought will be able to prevent that. Compassion allows me to meet whatever in myself or someone else is not perfect and to find love and acceptance. As a bodyworker and teacher of movement, my ability to be both compassionate and critical at the same time is essential. My goal is not to ‘fix’ clients—we are not machines—but rather to help people in their healing process. We often have the opportunity to find a way of being and moving that brings us greater vitality. Healing requires acceptance of what is so that new paths can be discovered. The more I learn about compassion the more honest and accepting I am.
My wife Kendy and I are teaching Embodying Compassion at Sage Yoga this Saturday in Boise, ID. We began teaching workshops together last summer while traveling the country that combine permaculture, somatics, communication, and even nutrition to better our relationships with each other, our selves, and our live Earth. We call our work Embodied Ecology, and you can find us at www.wearelivingsystems.org. If you’re in Boise, please join us this Saturday from 2-4pm by registering at www.sageyogaboise.com. You can also find additional upcoming events below. If you’re not local, we’re starting to plan an Embodied Ecology tour for next summer—let us know if you’d be interested in hosting or working with us!

Body Flow at Yoga Tree begins Sunday Sept. 25th at 4pm and will run weekly!
Come home to your body with somatic practices melding Pilates, Bartenieff Fundamentals, Feldenkrais, and yoga. We’ll explore the functional connectivity of our fascia along with the expressive connectivity of dance through compassionate non-judgement. We’ll learn the feeling of our own anatomy so that our intentions can be revealed in our actions. We’ll move gently and fully so that when we’re done, we feel like we just got a massage: Connected, in love, and alive. 75min.

Moving Beyond Pain is a therapeutic curriculum launching at Matthew Nelson Movement this fall. The premise of the program is that pain is a valuable signal from our bodies that the ways we’ve been doing things aren’t working anymore. When we learn to listen to the language of our own bodies we can literally move into new possibilities. You can attend a free introductory workshop on Wedsnesday September 21st or Saturday September 24th. Space is limited—sign up now at www.matthewnelsonmovement.com, where you can also find a fuller description of the program!

I have a crazy hobby of working on automobiles. I recently took on head replacement on a 2002 Volkswagen Passat V6 that I bought with a snapped timing belt. It’s the most complex vehicle that I’ve ever worked on. It kept my busy and somewhat terrified for a number of weeks. While not perfect yet, I drove it out of the garage under its own power. Cars either work right or they don’t. They don’t have fears, pains, desires, or unexpressed needs. I do, and so in working with them I take on the challenge of my own patterns and emotions. It’s a bit like running a marathon.

My deeper work is with people. Like cars, we are complex. Like cars, there are times we are not functioning optimally. Yet unlike cars our tissues are dynamic. Our nature as living organic systems means that it DOES matter how we feel about things and what we express. It is completely normal for me to work with someone on a physical and functional issue—scar tissue, movement patterning, flexibility, or strength building—and simultaneously support deep emotional processing. We all have stories of our lives, our pasts, and our dreams. These stories live in our bodies at least as much as in our minds. Our stories affect how we move and how we feel. We are not objects, like automobiles. We are subjects, and the edges of our beings lack the clear definitions of shiny metal objects. I work with cars because they’re simple and predictable. I work with people because it’s the most powerful way I know to be in service, and it’s a joy to be in lively relationship.

We are living systems, made up of living systems, and participating in living systems. The study of how living systems interact is ecology, and my wife Kendy and I like to engage with people from this ecological perspective. We call our work from this viewpoint—a mix of movement, awareness, and relationship building—embodied ecology. On Saturday Sept. 10^th from 2-4pm we’d love to share our new workshop, Embodying Compassion with you at Boise’s Sage Yoga. The flier, with more information, is attached below.

This fall I’m launching a new curriculum, Moving Beyond Pain. My training and experience as a dancer, choreographer, and somatic therapist has given me some clear tools for understanding the language of the body. Like ratchets, torque wrenches, and screwdrivers, these tools can be applied to a wide range of possible situations. I understand pain as a communication from our bodies that the things we’ve been doing aren’t working anymore. If pain is like a check-engine light, Moving Beyond Pain offers a diagnostic tool that can help us move forward in our lives and do the things we love. In Moving Beyond Pain we will look at the basics of how we move, how we build awareness, and how we apply that mindfulness back to our movement. Like working on cars, experience has shown me that it’s never as scary as it seems before we begin. More details will be forthcoming. In the meantime, I will be presenting two free Moving Beyond Pain introductory workshops on Wednesday September 21^st from 7-8:15pm and Saturday September 24th from 10-11:15am at my studio at 760 E. Warm Springs, Boise. There will only be 10 slots available for each of these dates. Please email me at thewnelson@gmail.com to reserve a spot!

Finally, if you’re ready to dance, come jam with me this Saturday for Dance, Play, Love at 10am at my studio. That flier is also attached below!

In my teaching, my therapeutic work, and my own personal practices I value generativity. As living systems we generate vitality. In opposition to entropy—the supposed law of the universe by which concentrated energy disperses—living systems organize and focus energy. We can generate aliveness and share it with others generously when we move together, whether that be through dancing or just conversation. Generativity and generosity are rooted in our embodied experience. For example, it’s very difficult to be generous when in significant pain. And, simultaneously, I often hear and experience that being generous with others is a key part of healing my own wounds. The word love fits in here somewhere, and it’s a significant force for healing! If we take a step deeper we find that making love, a terminology not to be ignored, results in future generations. When we procreate we send the life force we generate forward into the future.

As a parent I am constantly challenged by what I feel I should be doing for my son and my partner. I have ideas about what is and is not generous, and moral dilemmas arise for me as I consider how to best share my energy. I need to be functioning well as a generative being to share the energy I generate with others. If I share energy that I’m not generating sustainably, I will burn out and be unable to share much of worth. I just installed a solar power system in my vanagon that has similar limitations: If I draw more power than I’m generating I will eventually run the batteries down far enough that they get damaged.

Deep patterns are passed through generations. We inherit structures and behaviors from our parents that become us. Psychologists debate back and forth between how nature (genetics) and nurture (environment) create our behavior. The most important understanding to come out of this dualist exploration is that both nature and nurture have their effects, and both are provided to us by our families. I often hear clients speak of ‘congenital’ issues in their bodies that they consider inevitable. I tell the story about how learning new behaviors—including movement patterns—can prevent us from having the injuries and pains so often hopelessly ascribed to genetics. Just as we can inherit the dis-ease of previous generations, we can also heal it. To heal the past is a form of the generosity we send into future generations.

I recognize that my son faces an uncertain future in a world where we are not paying attention to how we generate and utilize energy of all sorts. As a culture we abuse fossil fuels just as we abuse ourselves: We so often use our energy up faster than we’re generating it. From climate change to depression, the results aren’t hard to see. With awareness we can learn how to generate energy in our bodies—I know this because it has been my life’s path. I believe the same is true for the larger living systems of culture and planet. That said, we live first and foremost as the living systems of our embodied selves. It is for this reason that I care so deeply for the study of movement: In our bodies we know how to take care of future generations. We’ve been doing it for longer than we can imagine.