Muscle Memory

So last week I wrote about this instantaneous Aha moment that comes when the shift is fast and, whoa, ok, here I am now in this new thing.  
 
And today I want to talk about the opposite of this.  Because this, this happens too.  
 
The thought came to me while I was in my ballet class this last weekend. I was watching myself dance at the bar and was friggin’ blown away, because really, look at my body’s ability to retain the structure and movements, the grace and intention, the totality of this dance modality without my brain even having to think about it.
 
The essence of ballet and the structural manifestation that goes along with this is so deeply ingrained in my body that it is my nature.
 
I can go for years without taking a class, and when I step back into this studio space, everything drops in and shows up in alignment and in a beautiful, beautiful way. 
 
My heart truly sings along with the music and movement of this class.  Not just because of my body’s ability to remember so deeply, though this certainly is just a wondrous and fulfilling piece of this dance puzzle— 
 
But the joy that I feel to be able to take these movements, and to be able to fulfill this desire to dance in this beautiful and profound way… My eyes fill with tears as my arms move in unison with the combination of my feet.
 
And so I’m in this ballet class and moving in this way and feeling my heart soar along with my Grand Jeté across the floor, and this thought drops in about these deeply ingrained patterns we have that maybe don’t serve ourselves in this beautiful way. 
 
These deeply ingrained patterns we have that have layered into our muscle memory nervous system activation, as this dance practice is for me, and yet they no longer are supportive, but rather are constricting and limiting and perpetuating of a story that is old. And then what do we do?
 
I have this. 
 
Layers and layers that smell of old sweaters and feel so comfortable and so familiar on my body, even though they are now too worn to keep me nurtured and cocooned the way they used to.
 
These layers are hard to peel away. They are sticky. They are facia-like in their ability to hold tight to the bones that are my true being. And they are confusing.  Because some of these sweaters, oh god, I love them. 
 
How do I give them up?
 
I am in the practice these days of rewriting my stories. These narratives in my mind that play in the background and come front in a moment they think I need them.  
 
“Thank you,” I say, when they drop in. “Thank you for showing up and let me take a look at you.  Can I try you on for a sec before I let you dress me in this moment? Can I make sure that you still fit just right.”
 
And I ask, “Who is wearing you?” “Am I five, or eight. Ten, fifteen, twenty-eight, or forty-five?”
 
And then I wait for the answers to drop in.