Fone Bone: “Why didn’t you just breathe fire on them?”
The Great Red Dragon: “That’s right, kid. Never play an ace if a two will do.”
– Jeff Smith, Out from Boneville (Volume 1)

I read the comic “Bone” as a kid, and there’s a good chance I’ve lived by the Great Red Dragon’s wisdom for much of my life. Perhaps to my own disadvantage?

But oftentimes it actually played into my hands. As a Feldenkrais practitioner of somatic education, when teaching movement-based lessons, one principle is this: Cross the threshold to evoke self-organization, but don’t overpower the system. Add embellishments (auxiliary movements) only if they move the plot forward.

However, even if you live by the way of the Great Red Dragon, sometimes you need to play that ace. For example, when a client like Mr. Yu schedules a session:

Mr. Yu had stopped his motorbike at a red light, his left foot on the ground to support him, when a car hit him from behind, crushing his knee and lower leg. A severe traffic accident. The resulting surgery required several plates and screws, yet remarkably, no ligaments were torn. “Oh really! How lucky you were!” I exclaimed in surprise. Mr. Yu agreed, cracking a wee smile.

When I saw Mr. Yu, a single chance appointment long after his surgery and formal rehabilitation, his bones had united and the soft tissue had healed. Yet his knee still didn’t bend well and remained swollen. His walking and standing looked burdened, his discomfort and caution were obvious.

But what caught my attention was something else: his ankle.

Despite the injury being centered on his knee and lower leg, his ankle barely flexed, and his foot didn’t roll through a stride. His ankle appeared to be locked at a right angle, stiff as a garden hoe. Yet, he didn’t mention his ankle at all, nor did he ask me to work on it.

Just like a card player looking at the whole board, I immediately saw it: this was my inroad, my opening, my pathway. Over two decades, I’ve helped hundreds of clients restore function to their feet and ankles. And I was bold enough to assume that restoring his ankle mobility–and integrating it–would quite immediately improve his knee, his hips, his gait, his upright stance, everything. This was where I would play my ace.

You know, working independently as a movement teacher of somatic education—outside medical institutions, universities, and major clinics—is both a curse and a blessing. I even chose to work outside the Feldenkrais training framework. This choice provided me with something very dear to me: freedom of thought. But it also means I don’t have institutional authority to lean on. My work has to demonstrate immediate, felt value. And if I fail at that, I may never see that client again. And I won’t get testimonials or referrals either.

But in this case, I got the testimonial. Let’s hear it from Mr. Yu himself. He wrote the following, detailed account (translated from his original Traditional Chinese):

“Every time I finish a Feldenkrais session, it feels like a rebirth.”

We began with a short chat about my physical condition and how my bone fracture was healing. Then, Alfons started his exploration. He asked me to perform a few simple movements while lying on my stomach and back—so simple that I can’t even recall what they all were.

At the start, I had assumed that a male practitioner might use a heavy hand. To my surprise, his touch was remarkably gentle and soft. That was wonderful; my body didn’t feel the need to immediately brace itself or feel unsafe. My expectation was formed in hospital physical therapy, where male therapists often use intense force that can leave you feeling quite anxious.

From there, Alfons’ work was like assembling building blocks—gradually adjusting my body’s balance. I remember him using many rollers and cushions to support my position, gently lengthening my legs, pressing through my shoulders, allowing my body to feel lighter and lighter. With each subtle adjustment, my breathing opened up, growing deeper. Eventually, I was resting in a position that felt quite unusual, yet incredibly stable and comfortable. By that point, my mind had settled into a deeply peaceful state.

What amazed me most was that when he fully entered the work, his first point of contact was my left ankle. Lately, whenever I walked, that ankle felt blurry and disoriented—I could clearly feel a difference between my right and left ankles, and often the exact moment my foot planted on or lifted off the ground was just a hazy blur. I couldn’t track his exact technique, only that he kept working with my soles, ankles, and lower legs, continuously alternating between the left and right sides.

One specific dynamic stands out: with my left knee bent and foot standing on the table, Alfons tested oscillating my knee forward, backward, left, and right. When he gently pushed toward my head, he must have felt my instinctive defense—my hip contracted and my back arched immediately. This was a habit from hospital physical therapy, where the therapist used that exact same setup to stretch my quads down to my knee, applying intense pain for long holds until I tapped out on the table to stop. Alfons simply observed this, then continued his work without forcing anything. After a few passes, that defensive reaction completely dissolved.

A few movements remained vivid in my memory because Alfons repeated them with rhythm until my body simply integrated them:

• With knees bent and feet standing on the table, he anchored my heel while gently lifting and releasing the forefoot at varied speeds and angles.
• Next, anchoring the toes, he lifted and released the heel, again changing tempos, alternating between left and right.
• In another variation, he held my ankle, letting the weight of my thigh slide toward the table under gravity. Holding the ankle lightly, he slid the side of the entire leg along the table through different angles and degrees of flexion.

These movements repeated and alternated from side to side. After a while, I noticed my left leg began to mirror the ease of the right, and its range of motion expanded rapidly.

By the end of the session, standing up felt so effortless. When I walked, my left foot could visibly articulate and roll through the stride—I immediately turned to Alfons to share that miraculous moment with him.

Ultimately, the Feldenkrais Method never fails to fill me with admiration. Though every practitioner is unique, the feeling they bring me is consistently joyful:

• Every time I finish an FI session, it feels like a rebirth.
• My mind feels quiet and serene.
• My body undeniably feels lighter, and specific areas feel far more mobile and fluid than before.

I understand the clinical reasoning behind hospital physical therapy, and how it seeks to break up scar tissue and adhesions. But why can’t care be delivered so that people don’t have to walk in feeling terrified, walk out completely exhausted, or go home just to ice down and recover?