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The Beginning…

Pages: 18-19
Dr. Ida Rolf Institute

Bulletin of Structural Integration Ida P. Rolf

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This is the first of four "allegorical" essays by Frank Wiedemann. They first appeared in United Fields published by Mr Wiedmann in Telluride, Colorado.

He squatted at the fire-pit. The small group watched him scatter the embers. Space of night and breathe of forest welded a tentative flame shoot, and again fire broke out. He glided back to his position in the circle. They had journeyed for four days seeking this man. The fire transformed their aches into reverie. He was settling himself to speak. The fire gathered them into a single ear. Carefully, he spoke:

“Like the ancient quest for the gold chalice, man has always thirsted after energy. Once sought in animal gut, herb, and ritual, now man stalks it in nuclear reactors, the weightless regions of nirvana, and the interstellar abysses. Entire people have pursued it, monuments erected, billions spent to reconnect with this pulse of life. Even so, each of us continues to attempt it. Aging — that moment we stoop to tie our boots a fraction more painfully – is the most frequent goad, but the search may arise from a different impulse: a philosophy or religion that suddenly “appears” at the time of need, an inner inspiration, a chance meeting with a truly healthy human being.

“When we are vaulted from our everyday affairs into a search for renewal, we strike out, all fire and eagerness. We see it over there. We gear up. We are even willing to lay down some commitment, as if barter. We push on. Eventually, we quit – in exhaustion or frustration. Like the mirage, we have searched ever forward, ever eluded.”

He paused to reach for the earthen jar laid beside him. He wet his throat and spat. The group shifted, Someone poked the fire. He looked at each in turn, and said, “Now I must tell you this. What the masters forgot to tell us is that WE are the energy. Each of us pulsing as blood, conceiving as mind, reaching as soul, moving as muscle. Ceaseless circulation. We are the crucible in which it occurs. Searching for it elsewhere is but the right hand groping for its right hand.

A wind cut through, fanning the flames in all directions from its core. Several tightened their wraps. He laughed. “If you are colt, draw breathe and open to it the warmth will come.” He paused; his voice changed: “And now, I must tell you something else. You did realize this … once. You remember: it was the moment you burst from the mountain stream you had so rashly dared yourself to swim. Or was it simply lying in the holiness of the sun that day? You sensed, however hard put to articulate it, that your energy had been liberated, your organic responses unsheathed, yourself drawn closer to the slow quick of life. You realized, did you not, that the richest soil for energy’s rise and tall was the very physicality which was you? You smiled: how simple it is: I change the state of my body and I change the state of my energy.”

This led you to try it again. But something failed. This time the stream was too cold; the sun too strong. Most of you cursed your new found secret and forgot it. However, a few of you held to, thinking it IS this simple; only … You reflected: something extraordinary happened that day that doesn’t happen every time I physically exert myself … there was a kind of merging of my thinking with my actions … there was a kind of spontaneous structure to my experience that balanced its parts … there was a kind of surrender to the process I can’t repeat by striving for it .. .”

And so you few, still holding to, sought guidance in these subtleties of the nature of energy. You tanned out to the various body disciplines. Two of you pulled a muscle in yoga class. Several got hoarse chanting. A group of you got sensory fatigue doing sensory awareness. Four of you decided dance had to be more than mindless exercise. Three, only three of you, found the guidance you sought. Each traveled a different direction, each had a different guide, each learned a different way. There is much I will tell you about these three paths. But you have come a long way and we must give our bodies a rest.”

He rose and turned to the out-laying darkness. Excepting the wind-fire, everything was still. He turned back to the group? Most of them had fallen asleep. He smiled, reached for the earthen jar laid beside him. He wet his throat and spat.

EDITORS’ NOTE: This is the first of four ‘allegorical-essays by Frank Wiedemann. They first appeared in Unified Fields published by Mr. Wiedenwnn in Telluride, Colorado.

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