A Reminder That The Boring Stuff Matters

(Originally written October 2020 and still relevant)

As we head onwards into having a majority of the year defined by pandemic and social unrest here in the US, I’m compelled to be an advocate for the boring stuff. In this case I’m talking about Constructive Resting Position.

Most reading this will be familiar, but just in case: CRP is when you lie on your back, perhaps with a small amount of support beneath the back of your head, with knees bent so that the soles of your feet can rest on the floor. In this position you do nothing in particular, and that’s precisely the point.

Physically speaking, this position allows the musculature of the back to have a break from supporting you in the upright position. The extra support of the ground provides a clear signal that there’s no longer a need for so much tension. Gravity does the work in this case.

A consistent practice of 5–15 minutes per day goes a long way in cleaning the slate of habitual tension, at least partially offsetting the hours spent in a chair.

However, I find that people have a very difficult time with CRP. It isn’t physically challenging although it can be uncomfortable at first. The challenge is rather more of a psychological one.

People rarely know how to be still.

Over the years we’ve come to identify ourselves with a sense of strain and busy-ness. We define ourselves by our doing, and in the absence of that frenetic activity a feeling of groundlessness can emerge.

People are quick to fill the empty space with fidgeting or racing thoughts. They’ll squeeze their abdominals to flatten their backs to the ground, hoping to get the position “right.” They’ll do any and everything except nothing because doing nothing proves to be incredibly anxiety-provoking.

Perhaps it brings into focus the existential fundamental, our being-unto-death. It clearly reminds us that, although we are now, we once weren’t, and soon enough we again won’t be. Far easier to distract away from that bleak realization. It’s a problem after all, and it’s a problem that doesn’t lend itself to short, snappy answers or quick fixes. It’s a problem with which we must wrestle all the way up to the end.

Personally I like the practice.

I find that it’s an incredibly helpful outline around tasks. After I finish a Zoom meeting I feel the creeping urge to blur into the next task. I sense the motor plan unfold through me as I reach to open up my email or click over to the other tab. Instead I inhibit the mad dash onwards. I slow the transition from one task to the next. I make my way down to the ground for a minute, maybe two. I seek a clean moment in between this task and the next.

Without those interruptions we’re hard-pressed to adjust course as we make our way through the day. No wonder it begins to feel as if the day slips by us, and the next, and the next.

We’re in the midst of a big blur, and we must not forget that we are the animal that draws lines. We are the animal that creates outlines. Sure, we get a little drunk on our power and over-compartmentalize from time to time (looking at you, Descartes), but we mustn’t squander this capacity.

A pause between one task and the next gives us a bit of breathing room. The lines we draw between this task and that allow us not to get ahead of ourselves, and that tendency to get ahead of ourselves is a messy thing indeed. As we crane our necks and race into the future, we carry the head farther and farther in front of the spine. Our bodies suffer because of it, and yet we persist.

I’d encourage you to consider a return to the basics.

A body that works well is a body that allows presence. It’s a body that allows strength. It’s a body that allows a very different fullness of being.

When it feels like you’re being carried along fartherfasteronward, remember that you can draw a box around this task and the next. Remember that you don’t have to work at alignment. Gravity can do the work for you. It simply requires a change in perspective, quite literally in this case.

Notice when you’re fatigued. Notice when you’re slumped. Notice when you collapse into your structure, and in a small way — as your own private ritual — give up. Find your way onto the ground for a few minutes and wait for the internal awareness that you’re ready to begin again.

It’s not sexy, but you’ll thank me for it later.

Originally published on The Ecosomatics Institute Blog