The Habit of Holding

My sister recently left me a message about something that had happened while she was driving.

She had pulled over to let another driver pass. Instead of a wave or a thank you, the other driver stopped, wound down the window and made a rude comment before driving away.

What stayed with her was not so much the interaction itself. It was what happened within her.

Almost immediately, there was a tightening.

Perhaps you know that feeling.

A comment from somebody at work.

An unexpected email.

A message that goes unanswered.

A look across a room.

A driver sounding their horn.

For a brief moment something shifts. The body responds before we have had time to think much about it. The stomach tightens. The shoulders lift a little. The breath changes. The jaw firms. Something prepares.

Most of us have experienced this many times. Yet because it happens so quickly, we rarely stop to notice it.

Over time these small moments can become part of everyday life. We become accustomed to them. They seem ordinary. We may not even think of them as tension. They simply feel like the way things are.

Nearly one hundred years ago, a physician named Edmund Jacobson became interested in this very thing. He spent years studying muscular tension and discovered that people who believed they were resting were often still making effort. The body remained active long after the need for action had passed.

What interested him was not relaxation. It was awareness.

How much effort are we making without realising it?

It is an interesting question.

Not because there is something wrong with us.

Not because we need fixing.

But because many of us spend our lives carrying small amounts of effort that have become so familiar we no longer recognise them.

The shoulders that never quite settle.

The jaw that remains slightly engaged.

The stomach that continues preparing.

The eyes that keep searching.

The body that remains ready.

Ready for what is not always clear.

As I have been exploring Jacobson's work, I find myself less interested in relaxation and more interested in noticing. What happens when we begin to recognise these moments? What happens when we notice the tightening as it appears?

Not with the intention of getting rid of it.

Not with the intention of becoming calm.

Simply noticing.

Perhaps the invitation is not to ask, "How do I relax?"

Perhaps it begins with a different question:

What am I doing right now that no longer needs to be done?

There may not be an answer straight away.

There may only be a small moment of recognition.

A shoulder softening.

A breath completing itself.

A jaw no longer working quite so hard.

Not because we made it happen.

Simply because it was finally noticed.