The Body Has Its Reasons

Self-Awareness Through Conscious Movement

Therese Bertherat, Carol Bernstein

• Publisher: Healing Arts Press
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9780892812981
• eBook ISBN: 9781620558928
• Topic: Medicine
• Subtopic: Alternative & Complementary Medicine

In this revolutionary and highly readable book, Thérèse Bertherat and Carol Bernstein shatter myths about traditional exercise and health. They introduce movement that is based on a profound selfawareness, freeing us from our limiting attitudes about ourselves and our bodies. Strangers to our own bodies, many of us spend our adult lives suffering from tensions and chronic aches and pains--problems that have no apparent genesis or solution. In repeating habitual patterns of movement, we ignore the range of possibilities available to us, so that the body suppresses and eventually forgets its natural grace and integration. Employing traditional exercises to alleviate the symptoms of a round stomach, a bad back, and muscles that ache after sports, we often force the body to act against itself and perpetuate our discomfort. A physical therapist and teacher of movement in Europe, Bertherat takes the reader through a series of precise, gentle, organic movements. These "anti-exercises" develop the body's range and freedom of movement, releasing constraints and reawakening dormant muscles. By using the appropriate energy for each gesture, they bring relief from a multitude of ills, at the same time awakening the senses and sharpening perceptions. The Body Has Its Reasons offers a realistic alternative to conventional body work that can help you become more efficient, creative, and self-confident. It can increase your intellectual capacity as well as your athletic ability and free you of sexual problems, including frigidity and impotence. No matter what your age, the information in these pages can help you release the beautiful and well-made individual that you were meant to be.

1

The House on the Dead-End Street

Until that day, I'd lived as a vagabond. There had never been a family home, a place to go back to. I'd married another wanderer, a medical student. Together we'd made the usual tour of furnished rooms and hospital quarters for resident medical students, and now we were entitled to a suburban apartment reserved for public officials, but where we couldn't paint a wall without the administration's permission. In the fall, we planned to move to Paris and settle at last.

More than a desire, living in my own house had become a pressing need. And I knew that for me to be happy in my house I would have to find it myself.

So I went to Paris with a list of streets where there might still be some private houses. A friend had given me the name of a woman—he thought that she gave exercise classes or something like that—who lived on a pleasant mews street in the 14th arrondissement where there were some small houses and artists' studios.

All day long I met people who seemed to boast about having found the last available house in Paris. My feet, my calves were very sore; my neck, my jaw were in knots; my morale was faltering. So I did what I'd grown accustomed to doing when I was displeased with the world and with myself. I bought my favorite women's magazine and, settled down in a comfortable bistro, I leafed through photographs of carefree models in fictitious situations.

There were also several pages of exercises designed to give me my choice of larger breasts, smaller breasts, legs like Dietrich's, buttocks like Bardot's. I flipped through those pages very quickly. The very idea of gymnastics wore me out beforehand and automatically reminded me of noisy, foul-smelling high school gyms. With greater interest, I took a look at the makeup recommended for that week.

When I left the bistro, I bought myself the eye shadow about whose benefits I had just read. I applied it right away, as well as a foundation cream that tanned me instantly. Hidden behind my new face, I decided to go and see Suze L.

There was a linden tree; there was even a peach tree! At the end of this dead-end street with its small, overgrown gardens, I saw a house with closed shutters. Could it be that nobody lived there?

Soft, low, the voice seemed to come from far away. I turned around and found myself face to face with a woman who was still beautiful. I would have expected to find coquettishness in the expression on her face, but there was only generosity.

"Sad-looking today, but beautiful when open."

"Who?"

"Why, the house you're looking at."

"Somebody lives there?"

"Yes."

To hide my disappointment, I couldn't think of anything better than to change the subject.

"Do you know Suze L.?"

The woman smiled slightly.

"Very well. At least, I think so."

"She gives gym classes, doesn't she?" I said, unable to control a slight grimace.

"Yes, it's a kind of gymnastics, but without grimaces." The sound of heels on the cobblestones; she turned around and waved to two young women who were going toward one of the houses.

"A class starts in ten minutes. Do you want to try it?"

All I could think of saying was, "But I don't have the proper clothing."

"I'll lend you some tights," she said and turned away.

So I followed her to a brick house nearly hidden behind trees and bushes.

A large, square room lined with books, paintings, and photographs. On the floor several wicker baskets filled with tennis balls and brightly colored balls. A high stool of pale wood. I found myself with the two young women whom I had just seen, a man whom I took at first for Bourvil,^*1 and a plump, smiling woman who was at least seventy. All in footless tights, they were seated on the floor, looking glad to be there.

As for me, in baggy tights, with a splitting headache and my toes tense and sore, I wasn't glad at all. I wanted to rest, not to do gymnastics. Gymnastics. A word to chew on, a word for the mouth but not for the body. Certainly not for mine. I consoled myself with the thought that Suze L. was not very young any more and that half her students were even older than she. So maybe she wouldn't make us go through too many contortions.

She came in, she too in tights and a full, sand-colored blouse. "Everything all right?"

Everyone nodded.

She picked up one of the baskets and distributed the balls. She handed me a green one. "Since you like trees," she said with a smile. Then she sat down on her stool.

"You are going to stand up, feet parallel. Place the ball on the ground. Now roll the ball under your right foot. Imagine that there is ink on the ball and that you want to ink your whole foot—under the toes, under the sole, around the edges. Ink it well. Everywhere. Take your time."

She speaks slowly, softly. Her voice penetrates the silence of the room without breaking it.

"That's it. Now let the ball go and shake the foot that was supporting you. Good. Put your two feet side by side. Very good. Tell me what you feel."

"I feel as though my right foot were sinking into the ground a little bit, as though I were walking on sand," said the elderly lady.

"I feel the toes of my right foot have become wider."

"I have the feeling that my right foot is my real foot and that my left one is made out of wood."

I don't say anything. I'm looking at my feet as though I'd never seen them before. I find the right foot prettier than the left, with its pathetic, squashed-together toes.

"Now lean over without bending your legs and let your arms hang down in front."

I look at my arms. My left hand is four inches from the floor. My right hand touches it!

"You can stand up now."

Everybody stands up.

"Do you know why your right arm goes down lower than your left arm?"

"Because of the ball," says one of the young women.

"Yes. The ball helped you relax the muscles of your foot. And since the body is a whole, all the muscles of your leg and your back have loosened up, too. They no longer act as a brake."

Next she asks us to roll the ball under the left foot. When I bend over, my two hands touch the floor.

"Now you're going to lie flat on your back, your arms close to your body. Where are your body's points of contact with the floor?"

I am balanced on the back of my skull, the tips of my shoulder blades, and my buttocks.

"How many vertebrae are resting on the floor?"

None of my vertebrae are touching the floor. I don't see how they could.

"Bend your knees. You'll be more comfortable."

But what kind of exercise is this that's concerned with my comfort? I thought the more you made the body suffer, the more good you did it.

"Is that better? Is your waist resting on the floor?"

You could have rolled those miniature cars my son plays with through the hollow under my waist.

"Now press the soles of your feet and all your toes firmly on the floor and lift up the lower part of your buttocks a little. Not too much, just enough to be able to pass your fist through. Let yourselves down. Lift up and let yourselves down several times. Gently. Find a rhythm that's suited to you. You're not forgetting to breathe, are you?"

Concentrating on the movement of my pelvis, I had, of course, forgotten.

"All right. Place the lower part of your back on the floor while trying to aim your coccyx toward the ceiling. Is your waist touching the floor now?"

I still have my tunnel. Suze L. rolls toward me a rubber ball, as large and soft as a grapefruit.

"Place the ball at the bottom of your spinal column."

With a furtive gesture, I slide the ball under my behind.

"That's all. Just stay like that and breathe. Put your hands on your ribs so that you can better feel how they move when you breathe. There is no relationship at all, though, between your waist and your jaw. No use clenching it. That's better. Now imagine that you're sinking your finger lightly into your navel. It's going down toward the floor and your stomach's going with it."

Her voice seems far away, hushed. I feel all alone with my navel.

"Take the ball away. Lay your back down. Lay your entire back down on the floor."

I obey. I feel calm, absorbed; a pleasant warmth spreads throughout my body.

"What about your waist?"

Slowly I slide my hand. The tips of my fingers barely enter the hollow.

"It's coming along," says Suze L., as satisfied as I am. "Now I'm going to ask you to do something which you may not have done for a very long time. Keep your back on the floor. Bend your legs. Stretch your arms out in front of you and grab your toes in your hands."

When my eighteen-month-old daughter does this, I think she's adorable. But when I myself do it, I feel absolutely ridiculous.

"It's funny," says the old lady.

"You have your toes securely in your hands? Now you're going to try to unbend your legs. But don't strain yourself."

My legs unbend a little, very little. I roll from one side to the other. I feel stupid and vulnerable.

"It's not working," says Bourvil's stand-in.

"You'll see," says Suze L. "Sit down. Feel behind your right knee. What do you find?"

"A bone on each side," says one of the young women.

"Those aren't bones. Those are the tendons of your muscles and they can be made more supple. You can do it yourselves. Take hold of them and play with them as though you were jazz musicians and they were strings of a bass violin. Take your time."

I play "Blue Moon" at a slow tempo with no conviction whatsoever.

"All right? Now lie down flat on your back again. Grab the toes of your right foot. Try to unbend your leg a little, then bend it back again. Then start again. Do that several times without straining yourself. Wait for your body to grant you permission to go further."

My leg unbends a little more each time. But I'm shaky. I roll from one side to the other.

"You roll like that because you're not breathing."

I expel a hearty gust of air from my mouth and make a lot of noise doing it.

"Not through your mouth! The mouth has many pleasant uses, but inhaling and exhaling are not among them. You must always breathe through the nose."

One more theory on the proper way to breathe, I say to myself. Nevertheless, I breathe through my nose. And my body is immediately stabilized!

"Very good. Unbend, bend again, gently. Are you making progress?"

"I've done it!" shouts one of the young women. She's holding on to her toes and her leg is perfectly straight.

"Good. What about the rest of you?"

I unbend. I bend again. I breathe through my nose. I start to discover a certain pleasure that I can't quite account for. And then, there it is. There's my leg straightening out almost completely.

"Very good," says Suze L. "Do you understand what's happened? By making your tendons more supple, by relaxing the back of your leg, you've loosened up your back too, stretched it out. The body is a complete work; you can't know what it's about through selected extracts. Now we'll work on our left side."

We did that with the same results and then we stood up. I was standing as I'd never stood before: my heels sank into the floor, my entire foot, the sole and all the toes were firmly planted. I felt stable, sure of myself.

Then Suze L. had us do several other movements without using balls. My confident body followed the voice that was guiding it. I knew that it was Suze L.'s voice, but it seemed to be coming from inside myself, expressing my body's needs and helping it to satisfy them.

After a little while, Suze L. distributed some balls, about as big as apples. They were fairly heavy, about a pound.

"Place the ball to your right. Lie down on your back again, your arms the length of your body, your fingers stretched out as well. Touch the ball with your fingertips. Push it a little toward your feet, then bring it back a little bit toward ...

Table of contents

• Cover Image
• Title Page
• Table of Contents
• Introduction
• Chapter 1. The House on the Dead-End Street
• Chapter 2. The Fortress
• Chapter 3. The Music Room
• Chapter 4. The Haunted House
• Chapter 5. Françoise Mézières: A Revolution
• Chapter 6. Ancient Foundations
• Chapter 7. Keys, Locks, Armored Doors
• Chapter 8. The Hospitable House
• Postscript
• Preliminaries
• Footnotes
• Bibliography
• About the Authors
• About Inner Traditions • Bear & Company
• Books of Related Interest
• Copyright & Permissions