A few days ago I went to The Springs in Idaho City. I spent two hours dancing in the warm pool. I have a history with dancing in public places: Over the past few years I have engaged with a form I call Guerrilla Dance Practice. In GDP I collapse the distinctions I learned as a professional dancer between practice and performance. I’m acutely aware that public dancing is not ‘normal’ in our culture. Guerrilla Dance Practice has been about normalizing dance in my own worldly experience, and sharing my experience with others. It is now relatively normal for me to dance in public, and I like people to know this about me. At The Springs I found the next step in my journey as a dancer, choreographer, and teacher of movement and dance: I intend to seek pleasure in my movement, and to support it in those who witness me.

I’ve long claimed the importance of sensation. The name I give my artistic work is BodySensate Contemporary Dance. Yet, I fully recognized a really old pattern in myself while dancing in the water: When I’m dancing in the presence of other people I am reluctant to truly enjoy sensations of pleasure in my body. Underneath my surface claims, it seems I’m ashamed of my ultimately hedonistic value system. It’s not that I believe pleasure should dominate all experience and motivations, but that a truly attuned ability to experience pleasure in movement is a key source of peace and goodness in the world. If we can collectively learn to find more pleasure in our movements—from dancing to the mundane—then we can likely release the need to be constantly entertained by overconsumption, addiction, interpersonal abuse patterns, and perhaps even Netflix. Movement can be generative meditation that connects us to ourselves, each other, and our world. Like other generative processes we humans engage in, its not only possible for moving to feel good, it’s also an act of generosity to share the experience of that pleasure!

In honor of this intention, I’m offering a Pleasure in Movement workshop this Saturday, Jan 30^th at 11:00am. We’ll explore methods for finding pleasure in our movements, whether through the grandiosity of dance, or the subtlety of rolling over. This workshop is for humans, whether professional dancers or people who take baths. (If you never bathe in any form it’d actually be better if you didn’t attend, thanks). My studio is small, so participation is limited to 6 people. Cost is $15. Online signup is essential through THIS LINK or just by going to www.matthewnelsonmovement.com and scrolling down. Call me at (208)985-0331 if the online stuff doesn’t work for you! Also let me know if you would like me to offer this workshop at/on a different day/time. I could offer it twice. It’d be a pleasure.

Workshops will replace my ongoing classes for now—I’ll be trying new things every week as I learn what is alive for all of us. Of course private movement and bodywork sessions are always available, both through the online scheduling portal at www.matthewnelsonmovement.com and by calling me at (208)985-0331. I do offer free open studio hours where anything can happen. That’s also on the online calendar. Next week I’ve got Tuesday at 2:30pm. Also sometimes available by request!

I am fascinated by the power of vision to pattern movement, and its prominence in my own embodied experience. So often in sessions with clients, classes, or in my own practice, I find myself cuing, choreographing, or simply bringing awareness to the eyes. More specifically, I’m acutely aware of the connections between the motions of the eyes and the motions of the spine.

This is easy to observe in posture. Posture is the position of the body in any moment in time, and generally refers to positions that are maintained over longer periods of time. When I spend a lot of time looking at my computer screen, or better yet the miniscule do-everything screen of my ‘smart’ phone, my eyes reach to the device and thereby pull my head forward. It’s as if my eyes are reaching for the light. Light moves really quickly, so it would seem unnecessary to do this—the light will get to me faster than I can even imagine, but I crank my head forward anyway.

Reaching from the eyes isn’t always a bad thing—there are times that genuine strength, excitement, and/or directness might be expressed by this reaching. If I’m giving a lecture I might reach my eyes out to the people I’m speaking to, or I might express love through the reach of my eyes to a friend. I can similarly reach my hand out to be direct with my intention. And what about the head? Is it useful to crank my head forward on my spine? In most situations I find that my head advances forward of my torso because I’m somewhat anxious: I’m not ready to bring my whole body forward, but I want more information and I am reaching out to it. On the one hand this is natural—I’m protecting myself by retreating my torso at the same time that I advance my skull. Yet, if I would prefer not to live in a state of panic (and I do), then another method is probably worth practicing. My suggestion, for myself and others, is to practice imagining and allowing that light will come to the back of the eye. Our lives move quickly, but not faster than the speed of light. When I allow myself to receive the light I can better meet it with my breath, my spine, and the support of the earth. Simply put, I’m more at ease.

I’m working with a graphic designer on a logo for Matthew Nelson Movement. We decided on a squirrel, because they’re so wonderfully bouncy, resilient, and easy in their movements. I was having trouble with the picture because I couldn’t figure out how the eye she had drawn related to the rest of the squirrel’s body. Eyes are so expressive! I erased the eye my designer had created and started making my own. When I connected the eye to the rest of the squirrel’s spine–a spring–suddenly it all made sense! Our eyes connect the space we inhabit all the way into our support at our feet.

Today I worked with a client experiencing pain deep in her hip.  I assisted her once in the past by taking five minutes to help her  soften her hip flexor at the front of the painful hip.  This worked for a few hours.  Today we had the chance to work more deeply, and something both surprising and quite common came up–the other hip is the tighter one.  What?

My last blog entry was about support.  We are always navigating a relationship between stability and mobility, and both are created by utilizing our connection to the earth through gravity.  If one hip joint is held more tightly than the other (and you can replace ‘hip joint’ with just about any body part), then it acts as a fulcrum by which the other side has to move more, and usually with less control over its own fate.  To simplify the situation, imagine a see-saw with its fulcrum, or support, in the middle.  Each side moves equally with two kiddos of equal weight.  Now imagine if the fulcrum is moved more toward one end of the see-saw.  Now we can put a kiddo on one end, and an adult on the other. This is great for a while, but eventually the adult moves too fast, or gets distracted by his/her iPhone, and the kiddo, way out on the end of a long lever, gets dropped or catapulted!  When one side is tighter than the other in our hips, shoulders, or even our organs, our connective tissue network automatically adjusts our support:  Our use of leverage and fulcrums inside our body compensates.  However, this puts undue stress on the most mobile parts of our bodies!  The hip that hurts, goes into spasm, and otherwise complains, is usually being abused by a silent, less willing, or less aware partner.  It’s a bit like internal whiplash!  Surprising in the moment, but absolutely the norm.

I worked with a client today for whom making meaning of life is primary.  We began with my hearing the story of where things are at in my client’s life–on many more levels than just body.  This led us to experiment with different ways of connecting to the support of the ground, and of finding how these different configurations were or weren’t effectively accomplished.  We did some difficult balances with resistance from a Pilates piece called the MOTR.

I almost always send my clients home with some sort of record of what we did.  Usually these are quite literal…like a movement prescription for practice.  This one was both simple and abstract, and speaks to how much movement and meaning were woven in this session.  This is what I wrote, with my client’s help, at the end of the session:

I connect my pelvis to support; I connect support through my heart.

One side supports, the other utilizes that support.  (This was in a body-half movement where this is exactly the situation)

I am strong, and I support myself.

The focus of this blog will be practices I create with and for my clients.  Without naming or deeply describing my clients, I will share the most interesting things that we do with the hope that we all learn from each other!