The Boat as Teacher
by Sara Ellison, Diamond Approach Student in the California Diamond Heart 7/8 group
Recently, upon waking, I have been aware of an unnamed anxiety. A low–level turbulence is present that rocks my soul, bringing a shudder just as I rise out of sleep, but before full consciousness. It’s a panic that grips me from unseen depths. There is no name for this fear; all words lose traction here. It’s visceral, yet subtle; unequivocal, yet defying scrutiny. As soon as I am fully awake, it disappears, like a fish darting back into the depths. I wake, make tea, move into my day and forget about it. Until yesterday. We were practicing rowing on sliders. These are dynamic rowing machines attached to ergometers that we use when we’re not rowing our eight-person shell on the river. Something happened in that clumsy, disconcerting metal contraption that opened my eyes, not just to rowing, but to my dream-like state and to that elusive darting fish.
I’ve been rowing for just about a year now. I row in an eight-person shell with a changing group of other novice rowers on the Petaluma River. When I first started out, we never rowed all eight at once. It was always in twos or fours. While a pair or a quad rowed, the others laid their paddles flat across the water to stabilize the boat. This allowed us to focus on our stroke, our technical development and to learn to follow the rhythm of the other rowers. The day we tried rowing all eight at once, a whole new challenge arose as we experienced how incredibly unstable a racing boat is on the water. It’s the long, narrow, semi-circular hull with its limited lateral stability along its longer axis that makes the boat tippy. But this shape also allows it to be fast in the water. Interestingly, it’s perfectly engineered to balance on the water if the rowers in the boat learn to respect the larger physics operating between the boat, the water and the rowers themselves. For novice rowers however, with no intuitive grasp of these physics and wanting desperately to right a tipping boat, there is instantly a lot of reactivity and a huge amount of efforting. Each rower tends to lose contact with his or her body and also with the boat as they react to the instability. Racing to the catch, pulling harder on the oars, forgetting to drive with the legs, and leaning left and right they vainly attempt to straighten the boat. But the boat stubbornly resists, pulling oars into the water, stalling and stuttering, the bow repeatedly burying itself in the water. The boat has things to teach us.
A rowing shell is exquisitely sensitive. The boat is acutely attuned to our body posture, stroke shape, blade extraction, crew timing, and foot pressure. Needless to say, we pay a lot of attention to all of these as we row. Some of our practice happens on land where it’s easier to pay attention to each of these skills in greater depth. To do this we often practice on sliders. Sliders are not stationary like ergometers. They mimic the feel of a boat. They can be operated solo, or joined with others for additional realism. On the connected sliders we are suddenly very much aware of our movement in the “boat” and how it affects glide and balance. The beginner’s impulse is to rush getting the blade in the water. This racing the seat forward results in banging into the person in front or in back of us. On the water such movement throws off the entire balance of the boat.
To overcome this tendency to race forward to the catch the coach suggest I completely relax and allow the “boat” to come back to me. On water, this subtle concept is difficult to grasp at first, but on the sliders I could actually feel the truth of the “boat” returning to me! This simple, irreducible truth brings with it the magical realization that there is nothing to do! This offered a new kind of freedom. The boat would naturally meet me when I entirely relaxed and released into the next drive rather than pushing. Not only was there nothing for me to do, there was only one thing happening. It was all one movement. Allowing the boat to come to me and “receiving” the drive with the power of my legs was one, not two things happening. The boat, the water, and the rower are now one presence.
It dawned on me that this is true personal will, not the will of the personality. It is my personal will that surrenders into the release and uses the quality of the experience itself to guide the next movement. It’s not effort and intention but ease and attunement. In the beginning, we believe it’s all about ourselves, my strength and my effort which is responsible for rowing the boat and to some degree, as with our practices in the Work, this is true. We need to practice and obtain information early on. In time a greater physics or universal wisdom emerges that our bodies learn to trust. We begin to know viscerally that there is no separation between ourselves, the other rowers, the boat, and the water. With this felt sense of oneness, I feel the boat returning to me after each drive, and sometimes I no longer know who is driving the catch.
Which brings me back to my early morning panic. My old will wants back in the boat, to climb into my life, direct my day, and be the One In Charge. My nervous system is ramping up. At the same time another will is surfacing. I allow my breath to steady me and I hear myself whisper, “Rest and be taken.” Another, truer will is surfacing. I relax into the release, allowing the day to come to me.