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I grew up in the 1980s, when some of the most common insults we used were “homo,” “faggot,” “queer,” and “gay.” Clearly, we were deeply fearful of what we didn’t understand – and the ostracism that went with it. Even though I wasn’t gay, this uptight culture caused me to avoid doing anything that might be construed as gay – like touching other males. It wasn’t until college, when we all relaxed a bit, that I recognized how much I enjoyed casual touch.
Given my past, it didn’t come naturally to me. I knew warm people for whom touch was easy and comfortable. But anytime I was in contact with another human, my attention would be drawn to that point of contact. If we were talking I might just stop mid-sentence if the other person rested their hand on my shoulder (people tend to think that’s weird).
Maybe this inability to multitask with touch was a product of my American socialization. There was a fascinating study of touch done by a psychologist named Sydney Jourard in the 1960s. He watched friends in conversation in cafés in different countries. In England, there was zero touch over the course of an hour. In the United States, friends touched an average of two times. In France, there were 110 touches in an hour. And in Puerto Rico, friends touched an average of 180 times! Doesn't it seem like Americans and Brits are missing out?
In grad school, as I practiced physical exams and bodywork techniques, I had a forum to safely and thoroughly explore the potential of touch. I got a lot more comfortable with it, and for the first time in my life, people told me, “You have healing hands.” My professor of Zen Shiatsu (a Japanese form of massage) noticed this aptitude, too, but saw it merely as a prerequisite. “You’re pretty good at finding the jitsu,” she said. “Now you need to work on the kyo.”
She explained these words, jitsu and kyo, in terms of an amoeba. The amoeba, she said, departs from a state of balance through the emergence of a need – hunger, for instance. This is its kyo – an emptiness, weakness, instability, or deficiency. In response to this kyo, the creature bulges itself toward something it perceives to be edible. This bulging, the action of attempting to acquire and consume, becomes its primary focus and drive, its jitsu. Jitsu is also translated as hardness, protectiveness, fullness, or stagnation. When the amoeba’s bulge encompasses the food, its kyo – and the jitsu that arose in response – are resolved.
Humans aren’t that different from amoebas, we just like to make things more complicated. We mostly see each other’s jitsus, which are the outward responses (tension, volition, drive, armor, etc.) to an inner kyo. At best, the things we're prompted to do are accurately connected to our kyo, and we achieve something that restores balance - at least temporarily. More often, we feel an urge (jitsu) without an understanding of the kyo beneath, and we deal with it in a misguided way that never truly heals the core issue.
In the context of massage, my professor was trying to convey that the places that are begging for attention – the knots, like the amoeba’s bulges – are expressions of jitsu, a hardening of the surface in response to an inner weakness. Pressing on them is a bit like pushing that bulge of the amoeba back inward. It makes things look more balanced from the outside for a little while, but it usually doesn’t get to the root cause.
If we’re exhausted from stress (kyo) we might mount tight shoulders (jitsu). When our lower back locks up (jitsu), it might stem from weak abdominal muscles (kyo). While most practitioners work exclusively on the jitsu – the tight shoulders or back – my professor emphasized the value of addressing both the jitsu and the kyo. When a shiatsu practitioner works on a patient’s kyo, specifically intending to fill it up and stabilize it, this causes an immediate softening and opening of the jitsu.
I went through a recalibration period as I learned to look deeper, and I saw that this dynamic goes way beyond massage. It could be expressed, for instance, as a relentless pursuit of money, food, or possessions due to a deep inner void. And of course, it might show up as boys perpetually attacking each other as “gay” because of their own insecurity.
This learning process affirmed my belief in the value of touch and humans’ need for it. And, despite my training, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting those shoulders or back massaged - even if the practitioner knows nothing of jitsu and kyo. But I would like to encourage you, the next time some part of your body is screaming for attention, to look inside and see if there’s an even deeper place that needs to be touched.
Stay tuned for more.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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Numerous members of the Dragontree community have told us they’re dealing with a lot of anxiety these days, and it happens to be something I’m very familiar with. I think my half-Jewish DNA blessed me with a substantial dose of fear and paranoia. Although there have been plenty of times I wished I weren’t wired this way, I’ve worked through it enough to recognize that many good things have come out of it – including that it has allowed me to help many others with anxiety.
I’ve found that there’s no single approach that works for everyone, so I like to give people a few things to try together, and I’ll share some of these today. A good place to start is with an understanding of how our survival mechanisms work – and malfunction.
Most of us had our first taste of intense fear in childhood and it made a strong impression on us. The feeling itself is often as memorable as whatever it was trying to warn us about. After a few incidents in which a strong feeling of fear accompanied a situation in which we had a strong desire to avoid an unpleasant outcome – e.g., getting hurt or losing something or someone, perhaps our own life – we began to trust fear.
“Why would I be feeling this way,” the mind rationalizes, “if there weren’t something bad about to happen?” Fear is the emotional mechanism our survival instinct uses to get our attention and to cause us to prioritize security above all else. It makes sense that fear feels bad, that it jars us, that it causes us to react without thinking – and that, since it arises when big things seem to be at stake, it’s trustworthy. It’s not.
Our trust in fear began at an age when we didn’t know how to discern whether or not it was legitimate. It turns out much of the time that fear is aroused by our survival mechanisms, it’s misinformed and exaggerated. Just think of all the times you’ve gotten scared about something that turned out to be nothing. We even feel fear while sitting safely on our couch, reading or watching a story in which a fictional character is threatened.
For most people with anxiety, fear is an error nearly 100% of the time. We just got into the bad habit of letting it take over whenever it arises. Breaking a habit takes work, but anyone can do it. When it comes to anxiety this means, as often as possible, doing something different than usual when you feel fearful.
1) Slow down and deepen your breathing. The mind follows the breath, so slower, deeper breathing – especially with a long exhale – will slow down your mind and open up space in your consciousness so you can notice and question this feeling without being at its mercy. Let your inhale go all the way down to fill up your pelvic bowl, and let the edgy feeling pour out of you on the exhale.
2) Turn toward it with curiosity and bravery. Fear goes hand-in-hand with the fight-flight-freeze reaction. That is, we tend to fight it (resist it, hate it, throw everything at it, spend all our savings on toilet paper, etc.), run away from it (any of various avoidance mechanisms, including getting on our devices or moving to a bunker), or freeze (become physically and/or mentally immobilized). These are all animalistic reactions; we can be smarter and braver. Instead of letting the feeling run you, get interested in it. It’s just a feeling. Examine it. What is this thing? What triggered it? What does it look like? What does it feel like? What does it sound like?
3) Don’t resist it. While meeting the feeling with bravery and curiosity, can you soften yourself in relation to it? What if you just let the feeling be here without fighting it? What if you even invite it to stay? What if you allow yourself to feel it with total willingness? Resistance makes fear stronger. You’ve probably heard “What you resist persists,” but maybe you haven’t heard the corollary: “A feeling fully felt finally fades.” The moment you say, “Bring it on,” it changes.
4) Turn the relationship around. When you have one or more intensely anxious experiences it’s easy to develop an aversion to fear. You may find yourself experiencing it as a monster that’s chasing you, which you need to destroy or run away from. But as soon as you run, you define the relationship. You make fear bad. You make yourself a victim. You relinquish your power.
When you start chasing it instead, it stops controlling you. Tell it, “I will find you. I will learn all of your appearances, all of your hiding places,” and you’ll stop fearing fear.
I know these are uncertain times. No one knows what tomorrow will bring. But I promise you, whatever happens, certain things will still be here. Love will still be here. Grace will still be here. Kindness will still be here. Peace will still be here.
I hope these different ways of relating to anxiety are helpful for you. Next time we’ll look at broader self-care strategies for “down-regulating” your nervous system.
I’m honored to help however I can,
Dr. Peter Borten
P.S
If you need extra support, I've crafted our
Anxiety-Relief tincture to do just that.
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[post_content] => The other day, my 81-year-old neighbor told me that he was taking a shower when, over the sound of the rushing water, he suddenly heard a combination of yelping and snarling noises. He immediately knew what it was: coyotes attacking his little dog. He ran outside, scared the coyotes away, and started tending to his dog’s wounds. Then his wife came outside. “She tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Honey, you’re standing naked in the front yard.’ Oops! So I was!”
A few months ago we moved to a rural area. It’s the farthest I’ve ever lived from other people. While I looked forward to having more land to do things like raise chickens and grow our own food, I was also concerned that I would feel isolated and lonely. Then I met this gentleman. A few days after we moved in, he introduced himself with an armload of tomatoes and zucchini from his garden. He noticed that we hadn’t mowed our lawn yet, so a few hours later he returned on his tractor and mowed it for us. He’s a master gardener and woodworker, and offered unlimited horticultural advice and the use of his tools.
Many times I’ve said to myself, “What an absolute treasure.” The same goes for many of my other neighbors, most of whom are at least a generation older than me. I’m reminded of my earliest studies in psychology, when I was attracted to the developmental theory of Erik Erikson.
Erikson theorized that humans move through eight stages of psychosocial development. At each stage, he said, we are presented with a challenge or “crisis” between two conflicting qualities. One of these qualities supports our growth and evolution while the other thwarts it. If we choose to adopt the former, we develop a
virtue associated with that stage.
In the first stage (Oral-Sensory), roughly from birth to age two, all of our basic needs are met by our parents and other caregivers. We are utterly dependent on others, and we are faced with the crisis of Trust versus Mistrust, which Erikson characterized with the question, “Can I trust the world?” If our parents are consistent, kind, dependable, and loving, we are likely to develop trust in others and a fundamental trust in ourselves. This leads to the virtue of hope, which helps us navigate the upcoming stages. If not, we are likely to become mistrustful of the world – seeing it as undependable and unpredictable.
For the sake of space, I’m just going to give you the nutshell versions of the next handful – until we get to the elder years. The ages given for the following can vary somewhat.
• Stage 2. From ages 2 through 4, the crisis is between
autonomy versus
shame and
doubt. The existential question is, “Is it okay to be me?” And the virtue presented is
will.
• Stage 3. From ages 4 through 5, the crisis is between
initiative versus
guilt. The existential question is, “Is it okay for me to do, move, and act?” And the virtue presented is
purpose.
• Stage 4. From age 5 through 12, the crisis is between
industry versus
inferiority. The existential question is, “Can I make it in the world of people and things?” And the virtue presented is
competence.
• Stage 5. From ages 13 through 19, the crisis is between
identity versus
role confusion. The existential question is, “Who am I and what can I be?” And the virtue presented is
fidelity.
• Stage 6. From age 20 through 39, the crisis is between
intimacy versus
isolation. The existential question is, “Can I love?” And the virtue presented is
love.
Now we come to the age ranges of my amazing neighbors. From age 40 through 64, the crisis is between
generativity versus
stagnation. The existential question is, “Can I make my life count?” The virtue presented is
care. Erikson felt that during middle adulthood, the main task is to contribute to society and help guide and support future generations. Embracing this mantle makes us
generative whereas a self-centered life leads to
stagnation.
From age 65 to death, we face the crisis of
integrity versus
despair. The existential question is, “Is it okay to have been me?” As we become less productive and perhaps feel less useful to society, it’s possible to slip into despair, especially if we look back at our life through a lens of negativity, regret, or criticism. Alternatively, if we’re able to look back at the goodness we’ve enjoyed and shared, the ways we have served and accomplished, we experience
integrity and the virtue of
wisdom emerges.
Several years ago, as I witnessed the decline of some older patients who became bitter and sad, I began to recognize one of the primary fears of the elderly: to have nothing that the rest of the world values – being useless, wrinkled, irrelevant, confused, and a burden on others. And I thought, “What a horrible way to end life.”
But as I enjoy the company of my new neighbors, feeling anything but isolated, grateful to have healthy
elders as friends, I know such a course isn’t inevitable. These folks have clearly chosen
generativity and
integrity. They share their wisdom and worth with the world. And I believe they would continue to do so even if they were disabled and unable to help out, because it’s a state of mind, really. It’s inspiring and encouraging to know that such choices are available to me as I age, and that such individuals are available to help us navigate the way.
What has your experience of elderhood been? Are you an elder? What are your struggles and triumphs? Share your wisdom with our community!
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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I grew up in the 1980s, when some of the most common insults we used were “homo,” “faggot,” “queer,” and “gay.” Clearly, we were deeply fearful of what we didn’t understand – and the ostracism that went with it. Even though I wasn’t gay, this uptight culture caused me to avoid doing anything that might be construed as gay – like touching other males. It wasn’t until college, when we all relaxed a bit, that I recognized how much I enjoyed casual touch.
Given my past, it didn’t come naturally to me. I knew warm people for whom touch was easy and comfortable. But anytime I was in contact with another human, my attention would be drawn to that point of contact. If we were talking I might just stop mid-sentence if the other person rested their hand on my shoulder (people tend to think that’s weird).
Maybe this inability to multitask with touch was a product of my American socialization. There was a fascinating study of touch done by a psychologist named Sydney Jourard in the 1960s. He watched friends in conversation in cafés in different countries. In England, there was zero touch over the course of an hour. In the United States, friends touched an average of two times. In France, there were 110 touches in an hour. And in Puerto Rico, friends touched an average of 180 times! Doesn't it seem like Americans and Brits are missing out?
In grad school, as I practiced physical exams and bodywork techniques, I had a forum to safely and thoroughly explore the potential of touch. I got a lot more comfortable with it, and for the first time in my life, people told me, “You have healing hands.” My professor of Zen Shiatsu (a Japanese form of massage) noticed this aptitude, too, but saw it merely as a prerequisite. “You’re pretty good at finding the jitsu,” she said. “Now you need to work on the kyo.”
She explained these words, jitsu and kyo, in terms of an amoeba. The amoeba, she said, departs from a state of balance through the emergence of a need – hunger, for instance. This is its kyo – an emptiness, weakness, instability, or deficiency. In response to this kyo, the creature bulges itself toward something it perceives to be edible. This bulging, the action of attempting to acquire and consume, becomes its primary focus and drive, its jitsu. Jitsu is also translated as hardness, protectiveness, fullness, or stagnation. When the amoeba’s bulge encompasses the food, its kyo – and the jitsu that arose in response – are resolved.
Humans aren’t that different from amoebas, we just like to make things more complicated. We mostly see each other’s jitsus, which are the outward responses (tension, volition, drive, armor, etc.) to an inner kyo. At best, the things we're prompted to do are accurately connected to our kyo, and we achieve something that restores balance - at least temporarily. More often, we feel an urge (jitsu) without an understanding of the kyo beneath, and we deal with it in a misguided way that never truly heals the core issue.
In the context of massage, my professor was trying to convey that the places that are begging for attention – the knots, like the amoeba’s bulges – are expressions of jitsu, a hardening of the surface in response to an inner weakness. Pressing on them is a bit like pushing that bulge of the amoeba back inward. It makes things look more balanced from the outside for a little while, but it usually doesn’t get to the root cause.
If we’re exhausted from stress (kyo) we might mount tight shoulders (jitsu). When our lower back locks up (jitsu), it might stem from weak abdominal muscles (kyo). While most practitioners work exclusively on the jitsu – the tight shoulders or back – my professor emphasized the value of addressing both the jitsu and the kyo. When a shiatsu practitioner works on a patient’s kyo, specifically intending to fill it up and stabilize it, this causes an immediate softening and opening of the jitsu.
I went through a recalibration period as I learned to look deeper, and I saw that this dynamic goes way beyond massage. It could be expressed, for instance, as a relentless pursuit of money, food, or possessions due to a deep inner void. And of course, it might show up as boys perpetually attacking each other as “gay” because of their own insecurity.
This learning process affirmed my belief in the value of touch and humans’ need for it. And, despite my training, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting those shoulders or back massaged - even if the practitioner knows nothing of jitsu and kyo. But I would like to encourage you, the next time some part of your body is screaming for attention, to look inside and see if there’s an even deeper place that needs to be touched.
Stay tuned for more.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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