Ruth, the organizer of this workshop, worked with me for a little while. Compared to the scientific approach of some teachers, and the big, romantic, philosophical approach of others, Ruth's approach is one of extreme precision and care. She really directs in the spaces between nanometers, yet, the effect is huge. She doesn't say much, but her hands communicate everything.

The annoying thing of having to explain something in a language that you're not familiar with, is that you have a limited vocabulary. This forces you to speak in big words, with little room for details or finer shades of meaning.

But when talking about AT, this is not necessarily a bad thing. Because AT, like most major teachings, is about simplicity. It is about integration, unification, oneness, about truth. Progress in AT terms is leaving, letting, stripping away stuff until you find truth. And the more words you use, the more you take it apart. The more you disect it, the less you will find it.

This is quite contrary to almost any other concept of progress that we (or I, at least) have. When we go to school, progress is defined in terms of being able to solve more complex math problems, to read more complex literature, to explain things in a more complex (oops, I meant scientific) way. And it stays like this throughout our lives.

Perhaps we should all learn another language and use it for a while.

During the day, I was asked to sing something at the farewell-party for those who left early. At first, I said I'd rather not, but then I thought, why not, let's give it a try and see what happens. But as the party drew nearer, I started worrying, like I always do when I have to sing alone (what will it sound like, what will I look like, can I do this, wadiwadiwadiwa). At that point, I decided that I didn't want to sing, and that I wouldn't do it. Period.

In the afternoon, however, I met two people who had similar stories to mine: they enjoyed music very much, but at a certain point, they just couldn't any longer. Just couldn't. They were the first people I met so far that knew what I was going through, and that gave me such a sense of relief, that I wanted to give it a try.

So, when the particular evening came, and my turn was there, I stood up, explained to everybody that I'd rather not sing alone, and instead do something together. Then, I sung a little canon that I still know from childhood. I've always liked it a lot, and it used to come to me quite naturally. But there, it just didn't. I guess that to the rest, it sounded OK, a bit wobbly perhaps, but inside, it felt horrible, I felt so sad. Such a simple melody, and it just didn't work.

That's when I knew for sure: this is no longer what I want to do. I want to enjoy music, and that's not happening if I keep continuing what I do now. So, it's time to stop.

It's strange, but at points like these, a spare Maaike takes over. I put everybody in two groups, explained the song to them, rehearsed it, and off we went. It was fun in a way. Most of the fun for me was knowing that I just decided that I'm not doing this any longer.

So, there you have it. I stopped singing.

And no, I don't want to become an AT teacher. I think that I've had this conversation about 40 times in one weekend. And of course, that's fine, I didn't expect anything else, since I litterally was the only pupil around. And most people were fine with the idea, once they got used to it. Some teachers labelled me as 'just a pupil', and one even refused to work with me because she had 20 years of teaching experience (I couldn't really see the logic in that). And of course, that's also their right. But to those teachers, I want to say:

"I'm not just a pupil. I also do great pasta with salmon."

Just when I almost started to doze off, Yehuda offered to work with me. Since AT is what I came for, I decided to put my tiredness aside and work just a little. It felt great, but what really, really woke me up were his remarks:

On the neck: your neck is the bridge between your head and the rest of your body. It is there to prevent the head from flying away. The head is your spiritual part; it belongs to the heavens. The rest of your body is your physical part; it belongs to the ground. Tension arises when the head is forced up from the body; in a way, Alexander drafted a Lincolnian declaration of independence for the head. The neck need not interfere.

On touching: when you put your hand on my neck, realize that you are touching another human being who has a self [...] We must all act out of respect for the other.

This made me completely speechless; it's been such a long time since I heard remarks like this from an AT teacher! In fact, I already started thinking that this kind of approach was an idiosyncracy of my first teacher, and not part of the Alexander Technique, since I never encountered it since. No that's not true, I did encounter it, but only in Alexander's books.

I really don't care about *the* Alexander Technique, but that night I was very happy that I at least found *my* Alexander Technique again :-)

On my way to Engelberg, I had plenty of time to think, since I spent about 10 hours on and off in trains. I wondered what it'd be like, being surrounded by so many other AT enthusiasts, and most of them teachers. Would I fit in? Would people accept the fact that they could work with me, but I not with them? And what flavour of AT would I encounter up there in the mountains?

I arrived just before dinner, and people were busy with all kinds of things. I found my way to a big, spaceous attic where some thirty people were working, and it was such a lovely sight. I took a chair in a corner and simply watched and listened.

I still remember being completely knackered from the trip, that's probably why all the impressions from that evening are very strong. My notebook entry for that day reads:
- very touched by sight of so many AT in one room (ontroering)
- sort of homecoming, this is where I belong
- also estranged (vervreemding), like looking and listening from within a glass ball. What am I doing here?
- don't understand a single word of what people are saying (because of the Swiss German language).

After sitting for about 15 minutes, and declining three very sweet offers from people wanting to work with me (so far for the pupil-only problem, that more or less solved itself), my attention kept drifting to one person. That happens sometimes when I'm very tired, especially when I'm in a big crowd; certain people just stand out, they radiate a kind of special thing. He taught in a very...well...kind way, the first word that comes to my mind when I remember this is 'compassion'.

When I remarked this to someone sitting next to me, she said "O yes, but that's Yehuda". And here's where the blessing of being a beginner comes in, because that name didn't ring a bell at all :-)

Last weekend has been, well, overwhelming. I don't know where to start with describing everything that I've been through, but this is definitely one of these Moments That You Later Look Back On and Realise That It Was One Of These Moments.

Facts first:
I went to an Alexander Workshop in Engelberg, Switzerland.
I was the only pupil, the rest were all teachers and some students.
I lost myself, found myself, lost myself, found myself.
I stopped singing.
I sang.
I stopped singing again.
I discovered that I am Maaike, with two feet and a head.

And on top of that, my first teacher has -finally- decided to start teaching again.

Well, how much more turmoil do you want.

I'll try to capture some of the impressions in a number of short posts over the next weeks.