Robbin L Marcus
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Slow Forward, Day 17 - Under the Surface

2/28/2023

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I went to see my surgeon for my 3-month checkup last week. It was the first time we’d been face to face since the operating room, the first time he’d seen me walk with my new knee. In short, everyone is pleased with the outcome. My knee is healing well, and I have more function now than I’ve had for the last year or so. 
 
Because I worry, I asked lots of questions. When I could expect more mobility? Why am I having cramping in the night occasionally in my calf? etc. Finally, I asked the question I was most concerned about. My scar is still quite hot to the touch. When leaving the hospital, the main thing that is impressed upon joint replacement recipients over and over is that if your incision gets hot and red, check in immediately, it’s an infection.  Even though nothing feels bad, I was concerned that perhaps this hotness of my healed scar meant that underneath I was not accepting the titanium implant. 
 
Fortunately, x-rays showed that that worry was unfounded. The surgeon assured me that everything was beautiful inside and out, and that the heat at this point simply meant that there was still healing going on under the surface. 
 
I’ve been thinking about the implications of healing going on under the surface for several days now. Healing that happens that we don’t see. In the systems of our body there are blood cells rushing to the scene to do their jobs in preventing infection and providing nourishment, bones to support us, ligaments to tie us together. That doesn’t begin to bring in the respiratory system and our healing breath, our digestive system providing nourishment for growth and removal of waste, or the nerves which regenerate and grow after surgery.  Our bodies are fantastic, and they are one system with the brain as well.
 
So often we want to divorce our brains from our bodies, to heal bodily trauma by withdrawing the mind, or to forget we have a body at all. Having surgery brings us into our bodies in a visceral way. During this recovery, I’ve worked to stay with myself, to not withdraw from pain, to have the experience as a unified whole. It hasn’t been easy, but I think in large part it’s why I recovered so quickly. I’ve done the work of healing, massaging the scar and my leg on the outside and doing PT exercises to heal on the inside. The energy work I’ve given myself and received from others finds holistic ways to reach what I can’t. I had a fabulous Alexander turn with my friend Sarah that reminded me to lengthen my torso before trying to stand after weeks of curling up in bed. All this work combined has me back at about 90% of my knee function. And yet…. there’s still more underneath. Slow Forward.
 
Where else in my life have I felt the heat of healing? Have I been afraid of what’s going on underneath, or have I done the work? Unanswered questions to ponder deeply for the next few months. 
 
I am reminded of a quote from Bruce Fertman. “Fear is a loss of contact and support. To decrease fear, increase contact and support.” More to ponder here, always. 
 
One day, the surgeon said, I’ll just wake up and notice my scar is not hot anymore. That will mean that the underlying healing is complete. That feeling, I think I know. 
 

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My beautiful scar. I'm holding my leg up in the air, here, to take a "leg selfie."
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Slow Forward, Day 16 - Stretching Across Generations

2/27/2023

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“Your grandmother is a hypochondriac!”
 
“You’re just like her.”
These two phrases amounted to the curse of the Wicked Fairy in my life. Primarily uttered by my mother, they were not usually said together. The first came after hanging up the kitchen phone, to which she’d reluctantly been tethered for at least 30 minutes while listening to my grandmother recite her litany of aches and pains and worries on a daily basis. The second came in arguments, when my mother most wanted to wound me. My grandmother had a notoriously sharp tongue, and I am sorry to say that I learned that lesson well when I was younger so that I could fight back. 
 
The work of generations in clearing out what came before. The work of my lifetime. Slow forward. 
 
I never had patience or respect for my grandmother’s manipulation, the pathetic searching for love through giving things with strings, the wounding. But the older I get, the more sympathy I have for my grandmother’s physical conditions.  We are, thanks to the Wicked Genetics Fairy, entirely too much alike. 
 
Here’s what my maternal grandmother and I share:
  • A hyetal hernia 
  • Colon polyps
  • A shellfish allergy
  • Severe osteoarthritis at a relatively early age
  • Spinal pain
  • Osteoporosis
  • High blood pressure
  • Worrying about all of the above (i.e., anxiety)
 
What we don’t share are the aftereffects of horrendous cancer surgery that she underwent in the 50s, causing her to have a “big arm” for the rest of her life because she wouldn’t do the necessary lymph drainage to get rid of it.  She had scarring from the top to the bottom of her abdomen. I do believe she lived in constant pain. Ibuprofen hadn’t been invented until about a year before she died. Antidepressants consisted of Valium, which she rightly feared.
 
The Hypochondriac label haunts me. No one will ever say that about me. Instead of my grandmother’s constant need to complain about her aches and pains, Dave tells me I don’t communicate enough about them. I find this amusing. Most of my day is an internal struggle to forget how much various parts of me are hurting. Work helps. Walking in the woods helps. Having a hot tub and NSAIDs keeps me moving. 
 
It’s ironic. The work of the younger part of my adult life was in shedding my sharp tongue and learning to inhibit my worst thoughts. Someone the other day wrote about “the truth that doesn’t need to be told.” That’s it. That part of me now seldom sees the light of day, for which I’m very grateful. (I’m sure Dave and Anne are, too.)
 
Now, the primary work of my older adult life is in accepting what is, physically. In stretching every day.  In talking rationally about that which needs to be shared. In letting go of worry about the future and staying present. 
 
Generational work, from mothers to daughters to granddaughters.
 
And on it goes. Slowly, slowly stretching what we inherit, until we can shape it into something else and let it go. 
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Slow Forward, Day 15 - Let's Get Real

2/24/2023

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​Time for a reality check. 
 
Let’s be honest. I love being busy. I thrive on the rush of last-minute deadlines successfully achieved. I adore procrastination in the name of doing something else.  I get rewards for the looks on other people’s faces when I show them my calendar, and they say things like “I don’t know how you can do all of that.” I am a first class busy-ness junkie. Busy-ness is my identity and my addiction. 
 
At the start of this series, while I was extolling the virtues of Slow Forward and describing lapping up the expectations placed on young women of my generation, I got a note from my BFF Ariana. The two of us met when we were 12. As far as each other’s lives go, we’ve seen it all and been there for most of it.  Here’s what she said to my Day 3 post:
 
“I would agree with Dave you have been over scheduled. I do see a tempering of this habit with your knee surgery forcing you to SLOW DOWN. Remember that feeling as you come out of your recovery. Less is more my friend.”
 
Ouch. Et tu, Brute?
 
The physical pain is why I went for Alexander Technique lessons. The awareness, the slowed sense of time, the inner calm, is why I stayed. 
 
I’m not stupid. I know that slowing down is good for me. I also know how to create space for it when I want to. But that’s the rub. That old habitual behavior. If you love an addiction, it may go underground, but it won’t go away. Take it from me. 
 
2020 was a wakeup call for the entire world. Slowing down was not a choice, it was a necessity. Who were my busiest friends? Who continued working harder than they ever had before? The therapists, of course. I was living my best chill life while they were panicking on their time off from Zoom. 
 
Depression and anxiety were very real. I admit to being there by the end of 2020. Renting and painting my little office in 2021 was both an admission of hope and somewhere to be that wasn’t my house. I can only take about an hour of concertina music a day, friends. Dave can play all day and all night. He might stop for meals. 
 
I don’t recall another time in my adult life with a completely empty weekend calendar. It was astonishing and incredibly, confusingly different. 
 
Forward to 2022, and real life was slowly returning. Then, I slipped in the driveway. That’s when I got really, really depressed. My plans to travel to Germany last summer and walk everywhere? Cancelled. Gardening? Also cancelled. Don’t look at the weeds. Hiking? Nope. Dancing? Forget about it. 
 
I had a lot of time to sit and think. How could this become a positive situation? What lessons could I take from the last 3 years? That’s when the idea of Slow Forward evolved. I knew I wanted to write about it, but first I had to live it.
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Ariana and I a few days after my knee surgery. Photo credit, Dave Marcus
Ariana, I don’t think I’ll go fully back to that person who never stopped. I’m 63. Literally, I can’t do that anymore. Just working 3 days a week exhausts me now.
 
The truth is out. I guess we’ll see what’s next.

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Slow Forward, Day 14 - Kindred Spirits

2/23/2023

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My neighbor Deb called with some exciting news last week. She’s about to be certified in teaching Japanese forest bathing. Deb and I share the same 3500-acre nature preserve “backyard,” and she wanted to know if she could end her first walk on our actual property. Of course! 
 
Deb and I have a lot in common, the least of which is a strong belief in Slow Forward. Our husbands are good friends. We love healthy food. We're passionate about where we live. We’re both female small business owners of a certain age who’ve had other successful careers. My business is microscopic and makes enough to keep me in shoes and pay for our vacations. Deb, on the other hand, is a black female entrepreneur. She runs a plant-based food business called Walnut Life that has the potential to explode any day now, especially since she was able to install a commercial kitchen in her home last summer.  She does a good business selling her products to vegan restaurants and selling to consumers at New Black Wall Street, our mall for local vendors and small black businesses here in town. 
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Celebrating the installation of the new commercial kitchen. Photo credit, Sheldon Fleming
During the pandemic, we both seriously slowed down. There was a lot of time for porch sitting, for talking about our dreams and business philosophies, for walking in the woods. One of the things I love about Deb is that walking in the woods with her means we stop to look at everything. I generally drive people crazy because I don’t make a lot of progress on a “hike” very quickly. There’s always something to see. It’s so nice to not have to negotiate that and just be.  We both love hunting for mushrooms and edible plants, and hanging out with the animals with whom we share our forest homes. 
 
We haven’t seen as much of each other since 2022 as we’re both back at work now, especially Deb with her growing business. I’m delighted that Forest Bathing will be her new side gig. Deb innately understands that slowing down is what keeps you healthy. She takes one day off a week to spend out in the woods, a huge commitment for someone trying to build a business. There isn’t anyone who would be better at promoting Forest Bathing here at Arabia Mountain. Forest Bathing is a physical manifestation of Slow Forward in the natural world. I’m still longingly looking out my window at the steep hill down to the dry creek, one of my favorite spots in spring. Give me another few weeks and I’ll be out there, too, hopefully in time for her first class. 

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Looking up from the dry creek with ferns and jack in the pulpit in spring. Photo credit, Robbin Marcus
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Slow Forward, Day 13 - Opening to Trust

2/22/2023

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Due to having Ehlers Damlos Hypermobility Syndrome (EDHS), I’ve had 4 different joint surgeries in my adult life. Three of them were related to dislocations - first in my right shoulder, and then each knee in turn. The last was my knee replacement, caused by “profound osteoarthritis” that was exacerbated by having had the arthroscopic surgery earlier in my life.  
 
None of my recoveries were the same in my body or in my brain. The physical recovery hasn’t necessarily gotten easier (in fact it’s harder now that I’m older) but the mental recovery certainly has improved.  Some of it is knowing what to expect, but far more than that, in my journey I have gradually learned to trust my body. 
 
Without a doubt, surgery is a form of trauma. First, they drug you so you’re out of your mind. After that, someone comes for you with a knife to cut you open. Even if the mind is prepared and calm, the body still needs to process trauma afterward. Some people never do.  
 
I was thinking about writing this piece, and last night this Twitter quote popped up on my Facebook feed:
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While I realize that Ebonee is speaking about deep, systemic societal trauma here, this quote also applies well to a number of people in the years after surgery. 
 
In my personal experience, trauma around my right shoulder was deep and profound. I lost count of the number of times I’d dislocated it in the 23 years from the first time to surgical repair. I protected that shoulder for all I was worth. My life and activities narrowed. I held the shoulder in close and kept my arm resting against my body. I rounded my shoulders and back to keep it tightly in. I had constant neck and back pain related to how I used myself.   
 
My Alexander Technique studies coincided with the last few years of this. In learning to open and soften my front, I had to start letting my arm release. I was terrified for anyone to pick it up. I resisted or I “helped.” Heaven forbid anyone tried to lift it over my head. Even after surgery, even after PT, I didn’t trust my shoulder not to dislocate again.
 
It took years of working with gentle Alexander teachers, skilled massage therapists and a Therapist or two to learn to let go of that trauma. Through all that work, I started listening to the messages my body was sending. I started to let go of fear and of my habitual patterns. As I said here, this important work now forms the basis of my Alexander teaching. I hope to reach people before those patterns of holding set in after PT. 
 
Today’s recovery from my knee replacement is informed by all that work I’ve done in the past with myself and others. I do trust that my new titanium knee was ready from day 1 – it was just the rest of me that has had to heal around it. Early on I took myself on an energetic journey through my surgery to process the pain and fear. I moved my body into the position I imagined it was during the surgery due to the clamping bruises. My body told me I’d found it. I cried profoundly as I let the trauma go through Reiki. 
 
Later, the temptation to limp on the cane was pulling me. I paused and reminded myself to walk the way I’d taught so many people to do it, rolling though my foot. I made sure my arms were strong enough before surgery to push myself up from a chair, and I used the hip hinging I teach people to make getting up with the head leading easier. I remind myself daily that the pain, twinges and leg cramps I feel are all part of healing. And when I get concerned or fearful that something else might be going on, I send a note to my doctor in the portal. Let’s stay in the now. 
 
This opening to healing while opening to trust is the deep philosophy of Slow Forward. It’s not quick. It’s not supposed to be if we’re processing trauma. Someday, I’m just going to hurry down the stairs without noticing my knee first. That will be fun. We’re not there yet and that’s ok. 

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Slow Forward, Day 12 - Opening to Healing

2/21/2023

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The first weeks after my knee replacement were a blur. I slept fitfully in between getting up to move every hour and being woken up by pain. I followed directions with my pills and tried to “stay ahead” of the pain. Being on morphine for about 2 weeks meant I simply did whatever I was told. The effect of the drug was relatively pleasant, but it dulled my emotions. I just existed in what I can only describe as a soft place. 
 
My friend Debbie described this time to me by relating it to having a new baby. You never know when the baby is going to wake you up, you’re exhausted, you’re in pain, and frankly, you don’t know yet what to do with the baby to make it happy or get it to stop crying. Bingo. The slightest move in the wrong direction was insanely painful. And most of those moves unsurprisingly happened during sleep. I felt like I was relearning everything.
 
When the nerve block wore off, I cried. I can’t imagine what the first 4 days would have been without it. It was a long, hard month. I pulled up all my warrior reserves at Physical Therapy and then came home and collapsed. 
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I spent a lot of time in this old recliner.
I did everything I could to make things easy for Dave by organizing prior to the surgery. After the surgery, I simply had to cede control of anything but myself and my healing. Initially, the drugs made it easier, but still – me, not in control? In some ways, it was rather pleasant being cared for like a small child. My every whim was taken care of – tea at 4 am? Sure, honey. Dave started asking lovely questions like “What do you need that you haven’t asked for?” He knows me well. 
 
During an argument last year, Dave accused me of not trusting him. I was shocked. I didn’t think that was true, but it certainly made me ponder it. I came to see, eventually, that he was right. I didn’t deeply believe he’d be there to catch me if I fell off a cliff. Trust is a scary thing when you’ve been in a narcissistic relationship. Those scars heal a lot more slowly than my knee. 
 
Now, for the first time in our almost 20-year relationship, I had to trust him fully. He showed me I could depend on him to care for me, keep the house running, and keep us both fed with delicious meals. I simply closed my eyes to anything I might criticize and said “thank you” often. 
 
Our relationship is different now. Stronger. Slower. Deeper. More vulnerable on both sides. 
 
A nice side effect is that Dave wants to keep cooking most nights of the week. I have no idea why that was so hard to let go of – I’ve been cooking dinner for 40-some years now, and someone who is a good cook wants to do that for me? And grocery shop, too?  Why would I say “no?”  
 
Recently, I said “yes.” Wow. What a life. I work, I come home, dinner is on the way to the table. I feel like a 1950s husband, except he doesn’t greet me at the door in an apron with a cocktail. 
 
The most important thing I’ve deeply learned since my surgery is that letting go (of fear, distrust, control) does means having more. This recovery process is still unfolding, slowly moving forward. I wonder what’s next? 
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Slow Forward, Day 11 - Zero Hour, part 2

2/20/2023

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Photo credit: The Boneflake Collection by Phillip Wiecherm
​I awoke in a velvet cloud. I felt absolutely nothing when I expected to feel excruciating pain. I thought about how lovely this liminal place was, how I wanted to stay right here. It was dark, and warm, and 
 
“Mrs. Marcus? Mrs. Marcus? Are you with us?” 
 
I opened my eyes, groggily. Yeah, I’m here, I thought. The light was blinding. I closed my eyes again.
 
“You’re in the recovery room, you came through just fine. The anesthesiologist is coming to see you in a couple of minutes, so try to wake up.”
 
F*** you.  
 
(I don’t think I said that aloud. My friend Judie the surgical nurse tells me people say the most awful things in these moments.)
 
Ok… ok.. 
 
I sat up a little. The nurse handed me ice chips. That was nice.
 
I couldn’t feel my feet.  Oh, right, epidural. I gingerly tapped the side of my knee. Wood. Great! I wondered how long that was going to last. 
 
The anesthesiologist breezed in, accompanied by a young woman. He introduced her and said she was studying with him and if I didn’t mind, he’d be teaching her the nerve blocking procedure. I asked him to explain in clear enough English for me, too.  
 
For the next 10 minutes the 2 of them, using an ultrasound screen I also got to watch and a wand, found the main nerve over my knee, injected the fascia with saline to get it out of the way, and then inserted a needle for my nerve block. The nerve block was about to be my best friend for the next 4 days. Having it there and working allowed me to walk around, climb stairs and move, move, move my leg at least once an hour. I found the whole process fascinating. He was a good teacher!
 
Once that was inserted, it wasn’t long before the feeling slowly came back from my toes up. I still didn’t feel knee pain due to the additional surgical block, which was perfect. They moved me to a room, fed me, and then it was time to work with the PT/OT. It was really kind of funny – she asked to see me get out of bed, which I did by rolling on my side and pushing up. That was great by her. She asked me to walk to the bathroom and sit down/get up from the john by myself. No problem. We walked down the hall to her office to practice on a short flight of stairs. No issues there, either. I passed with flying colors. I expected at least a tip or two but got nada. Dave and I were laughing by the end each time we caught each other’s eyes. I guess it pays to teach people to do this stuff for a living.
 
It was a very long day. Eventually they let me go home. I was shocked to see it was 6 pm when we got in the door. We’d left at dawn. 
 
I was exhausted. Pain was nibbling at my knee. Where was that ice wrap machine?




 TRIGGER WARNING -

​Clicking Read More below will take you to a photo of my knee less than a week after surgery. 

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Slow Forward, Day 10 - Zero Hour, part 1

2/17/2023

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Arriving at the orthopedic hospital for my knee replacement surgery, I was the calmest I’ve ever been in a surgical situation. My blood pressure clocked in at 134/90. “Hmm,” said the nurse, “that’s pretty great.” You have no idea, I thought. Generally, in a hospital situation, my BP is in the vicinity of 150+/120+. The results that morning were a credit to my cardiologist as well as an indicator of how ready I was to be there.
 
Ready. So Ready. My copy of the hospital surgical guide was worn, dogeared, scribbled on, underlined. I knew exactly what was going to happen in each step of this procedure. Afterward, waiting at home were an ice-chilled leg cuff machine and our newly purchased adjustable bed frame. Meals were arriving for the next three weeks, so Dave just had to take care of me. I had a long list of things to watch. The furniture was re-arranged and scatter rugs picked up out of the way. I had a cool designer cane. My walker was here at the hospital with me. PT was set up for the next month. The only things left on the list were picking up the drugs (Dave’s job) and passing the PT/OT test at the hospital so I could go home. 
 
It was a long wait back in the prep area for the OR. There was apparently a delay in cleaning the room (one does not ask why) after the last surgery. Dave came to sit with me for a few minutes until they made him leave. I meditated when I could and they mostly left me alone. Finally a chatty surgical nurse came in. She wanted to make sure I knew exactly what to do for the epidural they were about to give me when we got to the OR, so she made me practice hugging a pillow. Not exactly rocket science, but, ok. We bonded over past surgeries. She wished me luck and wheeled me in.
 
I liked the anesthesiologist immediately. He said they were going to put something in my IV to relax me, and then numb me up to ßgive me the epidural. I sat on the side of the table, as instructed, and bent over the pillow. At that moment, what flashed through my mind was “Holy Shit! I wouldn’t let them give me one of these when I was in the delivery room. Why am I doing this now?”, but before my monkey mind could take that one and run with it, the whole team burst into applause. Say what? 
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(Not me)

Suddenly there was a chorus of
“That’s beautiful!”
“Textbook position!”  
“Wow!”
One person even asked, “Can we use you if we make a training film of how people are supposed to do this for us?” 
 
My nose still in the pillow, I said a muffled “sure….” And then I remember picking up my head and saying, “Hypermobility for the win!”

​FADE TO BLACK...

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Slow Forward - Day 9 - Stage 3, Bargaining

2/17/2023

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The week prior to my knee replacement surgery, my knee stopped hurting. Completely. What was going on? Apparently, all the pre-PT I’d done was working. My legs were strong, my muscles toned. And now, no pain? 
 
The question hung heavily in the air. Am I doing the right thing? Why am I having surgery?
 
Fortunately, I’d experienced this questioning before with more minor surgeries. My body was bargaining with my mind. 
 
“See, Robbin, I can be just fine for you. You don’t need to do anything to get this fixed.”
 
The only way I can think to describe this is to compare it to putting down a loving pet. You make all the hard decisions – you set up the appointment with the vet. And that morning, the pet rallies. Deep inside, you know that ending your pet’s pain is the best thing, but it’s so hard to keep that appointment. Vets say they see this all the time. 
 
I thought about putting my beloved dog down a few years ago. I realized that I needed a little private goodbye ceremony, just for me and my knee, the way I had done with my dog, to let it go.
 
I intentionally worked up until the day before my surgery. I know better than to give myself too much time to think. I spent several days stroking my knee gently from time to time and thanking it, getting ready for just what I wanted to say and do.
 
It was a beautiful fall evening. I went out on the back porch and lit a candle. I cradled my knee lovingly in my hands, sent it Reiki like a thousand times before, and began.

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“Knee, thank you. Thank you for 63 good years together. We’ve seen and done a lot. Do you remember when we kneeled on the potholder loom? There’s your scar! But you got better. And over the years, no matter what has happened, you’ve been there for me. I’m going to miss you, terribly.”
 
“Robbin, I don’t want to go. I’m scared.”
 
“I’m scared too.”
 
“I can try, really, I can.”
 
“Knee, it’s time. It’s time to let you go before we can’t walk at all. I have a lot of life to live, and we can’t do it together anymore.”
 
“Oh… I’ve failed you.”
 
There it was. 
 
“NO, no you haven’t. You’ve done everything I’ve asked, and more.”
 
“But what will become of me? Can you bring me home and bury me?”
 
(Serious question – we inquired.) “No, I’m afraid you’ll be headed to a bucket of medical waste. They won’t let me have you. So, this is really goodbye, now.”
 
“Oh. I see. But kneecap is coming back, right?”
 
“Yes, she’s getting a new surface and coming right back where she belongs.”
 
Long silence.
 
“… Robbin, I love you. I hope I’ve served you well.”
 
“Knee, you’ve gone over and above what knees are asked to do. I love you too, very much.”
 
We sat quietly then and watched the candle burn low. 
 

The morning would soon be here. I was ready.
 

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Slow Forward Day 8 - Forced Slowdown

2/15/2023

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I consider myself a creative educator. Every facet of my career as a music classroom teacher, piano teacher, Alexander Technique teacher, musician or dance leader has been based on creative and artistic ways to lead people to knowledge. 
 
I’m not a businessperson. Have never been. In my little world, people hire me because they want something I can offer them. It pays me money, that’s wonderful. Build it and they will come. 
 
That worked for my entire career until I launched out on my own to teach Alexander Technique. After a very short amount of time I realized I had no skills, zero, in marketing myself. I was in a new city. How in the world was I to reach people? 
 
I hated shameless self-promotion. What do you mean people won’t just come find me? I thought the studio I hired on to would market for me. No. Not at all. At a loss, I tried all the standard marketing ploys that I saw in ads that came to me. Nothing appealed to me, and my business was stalling. I added piano teaching to my roster and realized that that steady income would pay my studio rent, taking some of the pressure of the Alexander Technique side of the business.
 
In 2016, I heard about Megan Macedo, who was talking about new ways to sell your business creatively and authentically through writing. I did several workshops with Megan, stopped worrying about building my business and started blog writing instead.
 
2019 was the best year my business has ever had. I was often working four weekdays a week instead of my stated 3. My regular AT class for actors at lunchtime was pulling people in and I had a waiting list. I had between 3-4 AT private clients a week in addition to my piano students. I was moving steadily forward. The heck with slow! 
 
I turned 60 that year, and there was a part of me who was thinking “now or never.” I said “yes” to way too much. Dave was retiring and he started saying “yes” to a lot more music gigs on top of all the other things I had going on, and my calendar looked like this:
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In celebration of Dave’s retirement, we took off January 2020 and went to India for two weeks. It was a memorable and wonderful trip. I came home thinking “I’ve got to get back to work!” By mid-February I had a new class series starting, I was handing out recital music for May to my students, people were cashing in Christmas gift certificates for AT lessons. 
 
Then came March 2020. The world came to a crashing halt. My in person, hands-on business effectively collapsed. There was no “forward” for a while, there was only “slow.” There was only go outside and be in nature. Hang with the birds and squirrels. Find mushrooms. Identify trees. Vibrate with the boulders.
 
The whole world seemed to be in collective shock. 
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Arabia Mountain, our "backyard." Photo credit, Dave Marcus
Suddenly my calendar was empty, for the foreseeable future. 
 
During the next two years, I spent a lot of time evaluating where I was and what I wanted. I wrote a blog series about it to try to process what was happening inside and outside during lockdown. Working online from home made me realize how many hours a week I spent in the car. Maybe slowing down would not be that bad. I let go of running the summer Kodaly program I founded in Virginia. I made an exit plan. 
 
I moved my office to a smaller location, fully reopening in 2022. I have more piano students and less Alexander students, and I’m firm about those 3 days a week now. I don’t advertise, I let my website and blogs do it for me. I’m as busy as I want to be. I taught 3 university workshops for musicians this school year. Life is good. I may never earn what I did in 2019 again, but that’s ok. 
 
Retirement is in view. I’ve said for years I’d never do it, but after my knee surgery I realize I can enjoy going forward even more slowly than I am now. 
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    Robbin Marcus

    A new 21 weekday blog series on Slow Forward - gentleness with myself -  will begin on Monday, February 5, 2023
    ​Sign up on the 2/2/2023 post to receive it daily in your email.
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    An occasional post from me, about stuff that interests me.

    2023 blog series:
    Slow Forward 

    2020 blog series:
    1) Processing - Experience, Thought, Action
    ​2) Diving for Light - Shedding 
    light on a dark time

    2019 blog series: 
    Exploring the Power of Habit 

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