Waking Energy 7 Timeless Practices Designed to Reboot Your Body and Unleash Your Potential
1 the way of ways Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I have found a truth.” Say not, “I have found the path of the soul.” Say rather, “I have met the soul walking upon my path.” For the soul walks upon all paths. The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals. —KAHLIL GIBRAN I stood in the wings of the grand stage at London’s Royal Festival Hall, on the South Bank of the River Thames, where in just a few hours I would perform for the queen. At eighteen, I was a gifted professional dancer who, having guested with a few internationally acclaimed companies, was by all accounts a star in the making. I had thrown myself into the rigors of ballet, practicing and perfecting my craft for grueling hours on end, because I loved it, and also because the moment I stepped on stage, I had wings. I was a prisoner no more. I was beautiful. I was transcendent. I was free. Out in the world, I was accomplished, mature beyond my years, poised, articulate, reserved, and appropriately outgoing with everything under control. My inner life, however, was anything but what it appeared to be. At home, I was not okay. I was leading a double life. Dance gave me an outlet, a way to escape my demons—my parents’ acrimonious divorce a few years before and the stress of a volatile relationship I soon found myself in. I was as powerless to escape their clutches as I was powerful on the stage. As the pain got worse in my personal life, so did my repressed rage. With nobody to speak with to process what I was experiencing, I started to become overwhelmed by my frustration and pain, though I wasn’t entirely conscious of it then. I danced with more intensity, my deep-seated anger erupting through my movements, a force that daily required more and more energy to control and direct. Like a mutant weed, it was taking over, choking everything else inside. So on this fateful day of the royal performance, long past impatience and bigger than the container that restrained it, my anger, like a heat-seeking missile, was aimed at its target. My psyche had had enough, and my body found itself at its mercy. Having quickly finished my sixth cup of strong British tea (I had just recently discovered
caffeine), I was wired—like a rocket with enough firepower to blast the roof off the theater. I watched from the wings as the boys performed allegros, the big jumps, launching their bodies into the air, weightless. I felt the familiar pull to join them, to playfully compete with them as I so often did. I was blessed with something called exceptional ballon, meaning I could catch air very easily and gain nearly as much height as my male counterparts. I loved to soar through the air from the time I was a little girl, and I was always trying to fly higher. Adorned in my usual attire—a jewel-toned leotard, black leg warmers over sheer pink tights, a pair of sweatpants fashioned into a shawl, and a well-worn pair of pointe shoes—with a light sweat glistening on my forehead, I took the stage for warm-up. I ran over to stage right to join two of my strongest male counterparts right after they started the short phrase that was preparation for a grand sissone, a jump where the legs went ecarte, splitting apart completely in midair, forming a 180- degree angle parallel with the floor. Effortlessly, I launched my body into space, rising to a height equal to that of one of my friends and higher than that of the other. After this first flight, vibrating with an explosive energy that I could barely contain (not to mention the caffeine coursing through my veins), I prepared to repeat the jump stage left with the other two. Charged with even greater intensity, I knew in advance that I was going to jump higher than both of them. With an “I’ll show you” kind of attitude, I powered into the preparatory plie that propelled my body skyward. I used more sheer force than ever before. I went soaring into space, instantly transported with my legs split apart in midair and my ego riding on the rise of my body, gleefully aware of the other two bodies now slightly beneath mine. I ascended ever upward in a state of heavenly, floating bliss . . . And then, two nanoseconds later, just as my top leg reached its maximum extension, a red-hot searing pain ricocheted through my left hip. I fell as if in slow motion toward the stage, crashing into a heap, writhing in agony. I lay in a crumpled pile, like a smoking aircraft fuselage, with flames lapping at my body. I moaned and rocked back and forth, holding my left leg, hot tears running down my cheeks, choking in my attempts to articulate what I was feeling to the boys who were kneeling down, huddled around me. The team of osteopaths who examined me said that I had torn the tensor fasciae latae, a vital stabilizing muscle in the upper leg connected to the front of the hip bone, which assists primarily in forward locomotion. Sidelined and devastated, I watched as a girl who competed with me took the part I had worked so hard to secure. The doctors said it would be months before I would recover. Confronted by my fragility, I felt a new kind of fear—the fear of losing something that I loved and made my life worth living. After my injury, my body no longer responded as it always had. Now even the most basic movements were painful, if not impossible. I had been catapulted from a false safety, a kind of naive and egotistical omnipotence in which I took my body for granted, into an abyss where I feared my body would be taken away from me, where I might never recover or dance again. I could not let that happen. It was a fate worse than death. I was sufficiently incentivized to recover quickly and found my way to the Pilates Centre at the Pineapple Dance Studios on Langley Street in Covent Garden for rehabilitation. Involuntarily initiated suddenly into a harsh new reality, I had to learn patience, courage, determination, and hope. Surrounded by the warmth and support of the English team of osteopaths, I started to understand through each modicum of progress I made in my rehabilitation that positive encouragement went
- Page 3 and 4: Dedication For my mother, Jane, who
- Page 5 and 6: About the Publisher
- Page 7 and 8: away any last trace of the pain. In
- Page 9 and 10: true essence, to beauty, love, stre
- Page 11 and 12: you. If you’re tired and depleted
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- Page 19 and 20: inside your own sacred vessel. And
- Page 21 and 22: alancing our emotions and cultivati
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- Page 25 and 26: interpretations of our inner energy
- Page 27 and 28: and tumbling down the side of a hil
- Page 29 and 30: Through this sacred union of opposi
- Page 31 and 32: literally moving into and through t
- Page 33 and 34: inside your associated neural pathw
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- Page 39 and 40: can do this, know that you’ve arr
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- Page 47 and 48: PRACTICE ONE: Awaken and Play: Qigo
- Page 49 and 50: The Way of the World Unseen: By bec
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- Page 53 and 54: We meet ourselves over and over aga
- Page 55 and 56: 4 awaken and play: qigong In 1999,
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- Page 59 and 60: Waking the Roots Eyebrow Press Jaw
- Page 61 and 62: of Life. The Root: The Root is loca
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1<br />
the way of ways<br />
Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I have found a truth.” Say not, “I have found the<br />
path of the soul.” Say rather, “I have met the soul walking upon my path.” For the soul walks upon<br />
all paths. The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself,<br />
like a lotus of countless petals.<br />
—KAHLIL GIBRAN<br />
I s<strong>to</strong>od in the wings of the gr<strong>and</strong> stage at London’s Royal Festival Hall, on the South Bank of the<br />
River Thames, where in just a few hours I would perform for the queen. At eighteen, I was a gifted<br />
professional dancer who, having guested with a few internationally acclaimed companies, was by all<br />
accounts a star in the making. I had thrown myself in<strong>to</strong> the rigors of ballet, practicing <strong>and</strong> perfecting<br />
my craft for grueling hours on end, because I loved it, <strong>and</strong> also because the moment I stepped on<br />
stage, I had wings. I was a prisoner no more. I was beautiful. I was transcendent. I was free.<br />
Out in the world, I was accomplished, mature beyond my years, poised, articulate, reserved, <strong>and</strong><br />
appropriately outgoing with everything under control. My inner life, however, was anything but what<br />
it appeared <strong>to</strong> be. At home, I was not okay. I was leading a double life.<br />
Dance gave me an outlet, a way <strong>to</strong> escape my demons—my parents’ acrimonious divorce a few<br />
years before <strong>and</strong> the stress of a volatile relationship I soon found myself in. I was as powerless <strong>to</strong><br />
escape their clutches as I was powerful on the stage.<br />
As the pain got worse in my personal life, so did my repressed rage. With nobody <strong>to</strong> speak with <strong>to</strong><br />
process what I was experiencing, I started <strong>to</strong> become overwhelmed by my frustration <strong>and</strong> pain, though<br />
I wasn’t entirely conscious of it then. I danced with more intensity, my deep-seated anger erupting<br />
through my movements, a force that daily required more <strong>and</strong> more energy <strong>to</strong> control <strong>and</strong> direct. Like a<br />
mutant weed, it was taking over, choking everything else inside. So on this fateful day of the royal<br />
performance, long past impatience <strong>and</strong> bigger than the container that restrained it, my anger, like a<br />
heat-seeking missile, was aimed at its target. My psyche had had enough, <strong>and</strong> my body found itself at<br />
its mercy.<br />
Having quickly finished my sixth cup of strong British tea (I had just recently discovered
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