When I first started learning Feldenkrais in a so-called professional training program, some of the teachers kept mentioning breathing with the lower abdomen. And one of the senior teachers went somewhat overboard by taking Moshé Feldenkrais a bit too literally, at least in my opinion: he said we should be able to flip a coin placed on the lower abdomen—by controlling the muscles in that area.
As a software engineer, I wanted to know what that was all about, and if I might be able to learn it. This led me on a journey of browsing through many medical books about breathing, function and rehabilitation; and the vastly larger linguistic corpus of New Age and Yoga-inspired books on breathing.
It also led me on a 2-year long journey of playing the didgeridoo, an Australian wind instrument. I practiced almost daily, for an hour at least, booming away, circular breathing, and using all sorts of breathing explorations, like belly, back, sides, pelvic floor and full chest breathing techniques. What a time it was to be alive! As for the didgeridoos themselves, at first I just cut some from various PVC pipes, adding mouthpieces made of beeswax. Later, I invested in more pricier originals. I still have two beautifully painted, naturally termite-hollowed eucalyptus tree didgeridoos from Australia in my storage. At this point though, I’m not sure if they’re cherished keepsakes or just dust collectors.
The passion for playing the didgeridoo seemed to happen all by itself, without me needing to motivate myself to practice. Nothing of that sort happened in the New Age breathwork section, though I did visit and attend satsangs with some famous Indian Yogis, Paramahansas, and monks. However, some of the more exciting practices I tried were all from the Western hemisphere, like Holotropic breathing (Stanislav Grof) and Rebirthing breathwork (Leonard Orr).
And then there was the Buteyko breathing technique from Russia, which took me a while to figure out. Proper resources were scarce at that time. I then practiced twice daily for about a year, and filled almost an entire notebook with numbers and tables recording my progress. I can’t say that I enjoyed it too much, but it did give me the means to keep the mild Asthma in check, which I had since a child.
And then, at some point, my passion for breathwork started to fade. I didn’t go to the Apnoe diving breathing workshop in the Maldive Islands, which my younger brother attended and loved, but for me– my journey into breathwork had already ended.
I did learn a lot, though. The experience and knowledge I gathered is still helping me with my Feldenkrais client work, up to today, in quite a few ways.
Regarding the lower-belly coin flip, supposedly done with the rectus abdominis muscles—which, from a biomechanical perspective, don’t work in isolation but primarily aid in flexing the torso and stabilizing the trunk—I felt confident enough to place that coin-flip where it belongs: in the realm of New Age fiction, Yoga-lore, or perhaps even old-school male fantasies. ;)
As for excelling at breathwork itself, I don’t think I have the talent for it. After all the work I’ve put in, in the long run I still can’t hold my breath for longer than the recommended minimum of 20 seconds control pause in Buteyko breathing. Quite embarrasing, in a way.
But then, I fondly remember the fun singing lessons I took, which cured me of getting overly hoarse from teaching all day. I also fondly remember the following paragraphs from Lilli Lehmann’s book, How to Sing. It’s one of the books I read during the time I was into breathwork, and I particularly like the ending of a particular section. It always helps me put things into perspective and acknowledge how far I’ve come in many of my own journeys, despite my lack of talent in some areas, or the late callings I’ve encountered. Here’s the quote:
Lili Lehman, How to Sing
(Original Title: Meine Gesangskunst, Publication Date: 1924, Translator: Richard Aldrich)
Nevertheless, there are fortunately gifted geniuses in whom are already united all the qualities needed to attain greatness and perfection, and whose circumstances in life are equally fortunate; who can reach the goal earlier, without devoting their whole lives to it. Thus, for instance, in Adelina Patti everything was united—the splendid voice, paired with great talent for singing, and the long oversight of her studies by her distinguished teacher, Strakosch. She never sang roles that did not suit her voice; in her earlier years she sang only arias and duets or single solos, never taking part in ensembles. She never sang even her limited repertory when she was indisposed. She never attended rehearsals, but came to the theatre in the evening and sang triumphantly, without ever having seen the persons who sang and acted with her. She spared herself rehearsals which, on the day of the performance, or the day before, exhaust all singers, because of the excitement of all kinds attending them, and which contribute neither to the freshness of the voice nor to the joy of the profession.
Although she was a Spaniard by birth and an American by early adoption, she was, so to speak, the greatest Italian singer of my time. All was absolutely good, correct, and flawless, the voice like a bell that you seemed to hear long after its singing had ceased.
Yet she could give no explanation of her art, and answered all her colleagues’ questions concerning it with an “Ah, je n’en sais rien!”
She possessed, unconsciously, as a gift of nature, a union of all those qualities that all other singers must attain and possess consciously. Her vocal organs stood in the most favorable relations to each other. Her talent, and her remarkably trained ear, maintained control over the beauty of her singing and of her voice. The fortunate circumstances of her life preserved her from all injury. The purity and flawlessness of her tone, the beautiful equalization of her whole voice, constituted the magic by which she held her listeners entranced. Moreover, she was beautiful and gracious in appearance.
The accent of great dramatic power she did not possess.
