Blog Posts

Day 11 - Clarity

2/23/2026

Beholding

I don’t put my hands on anyone as an Alexander Teacher without stopping to ask for permission first. In today’s world, it’s what you do. I’ve been doing it longer than that, however. There are certain people who, when I meet them in the context of a group Alexander workshop, make me wonder why they are there by their posture, their body language, their inability to look at me.

I’ve learned over the years that while I might assume the answer would be “no, please don’t touch me,” that that is not always the case. Asking is very important.

When I put my hands on someone, I am asking for a connection. It’s a deep connection, because my hands are asking that person to let me tap into their nervous system, to let me sense how they move into releasing tension, to meld my hands so that the touch is barely noticeable as to where I end and they begin. It’s vitally important that there be at least a sense of trust that I will do no harm.

My professional organization has, in plain English, an Ethical Code so that lines are not crossed in this kind of connection. There’s more to it, but here’s the Alexander Technique International (ATI) statement and the pertinent sections to what I’m talking about:

This Code of Ethics sets forth ethical principles for Alexander Technique Teachers. The public has the right to expect that all ATI Teaching Members are properly evaluated and qualified to teach the F.M. Alexander Technique. ATI Members act in a constructive, non-sectarian, non- discriminatory manner with colleagues, associates, students, and the public. Alexander Technique Teachers respect the fundamental rights and dignity of all people.

1. THE TEACHER–STUDENT RELATIONSHIP
1.1 It is the responsibility of the Alexander Technique Teacher to maintain a professional attitude throughout the period of time during which the Alexander Technique Teacher/student are working together.

1.2 An Alexander Technique Teacher does not use their authority for personal gain, whether that gain be cultural, emotional, political or religious in nature. An Alexander Technique Teacher does not enter into a sexual relationship with a student.

If I suspect that a person may have been abused in some way, I know that I have to be extra careful not to even approach that line in the sand. My goal is for everyone who enters my studio to feel safe, cared for, met where they are - seen.

When a person says “yes” to my putting my hands on, and I sense immediately that there is trauma involved, I draw in a deep breath, ground myself, and as much as possible, remove myself and my preconceptions about anything before I lift my hands.

As I touch someone, my hands ask a gentle question – what is the way in? Time after time, the answer with someone like this in the immediate moment is “There is no way in.” Patience is required. Just hanging out. Just us. You don’t feel anything? No worries.

I’m hoping for the slightest bit of letting go of tension in the neck or shoulders. I’m hoping I get to see them breathe. I’m sending them ground, and support, and freedom that comes from my body into theirs.

If I succeed, they might cry. They might soften for a second and then tense right back up. A succession of “maybes” and things to try runs through my head, because I want to help them. I remind myself to stay present, to pause, to observe. It’s not my job to fix them.

The difference between my teaching now and 20 years ago, when I qualified, is profound. I now understand there is no rush, nothing to solve. Even when I feel pushed away, refused, disconnected – that’s ok.

Sometimes just being with a person is enough.

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Clarity - Day 10

2/22/2026

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Warning Signs

An overwhelming feel of existential dread grips me. I feel my body tightening, my feet leaving the ground, such that there is. I clutch the wheel tightly.

I am on a bridge. A long bridge. Usually over troubled water, real or metaphorical. It doesn’t matter where it is, but it generally has two features that immediately put me into a fear state:

It goes up, and it goes down (all bridges do…) but it involves a curve. A highway exit overpass can do the same thing to me if it’s high enough and I can see down.
There’s a high wind warning sign. Seeing that is enough to make me stop the car.

Where in the world did this fear come from? I have no idea, honestly. My mother hated winding mountain roads, so do I, so does my daughter. But there, I’m ok if I’m driving the car. I’m on the ground while it’s twisting and turning. Not great, but it doesn’t produce that “OHMYGODWEAREALLGOINGTODIE” gut reaction that high twisty bridges do.

I think the worst I’ve ever felt was coming down from the Toronto area into Niagara Falls on the Canadian side. For miles, the road becomes a series of bridges over the Niagara River, its tributaries and wetlands. There’s a lot of wind currents off both Lake Ontario and Lake Erie, because you are sandwiched between them on a peninsula. I was warned. That sign again.

Driving up the first leg of the bridge, a wind gust hit the car, lurching us sideways. I felt sick.
Fortunately, I was in the car surrounded by other Alexander Teachers visiting from all over the world. I was taking them (post-conference) to see Niagara Falls. At least, at this point in my life, I know how to ask for help.

“Please,” I said, “could someone put hands on me? I am not grounded and I feel terrified.” With that, I felt 4 pairs on hands on my shoulders, my back, my arms. And yes, I was in the driver’s seat. My dear German friend was in the seat next to me, and she talked me through a driving meditation of sensing my sit bones on the seat, connecting me to the floor of the car, to the tires, to the roadbed, to the giant concrete posts supporting the highway, to the ground deep under the water. Phew.

Four or five miles and an eternity later, we were off the series of bridges. Alive. Even me.
I now use that meditation every time I approach a bridge. I have found if I can get clarity on where the ground is before I start going up, it’s easier.

Just near my house, on the highway I use daily, three years of construction on a new flyover to get south of here is nearing completion. I get chills just looking up at it. It’s at least 100 feet off the ground at its highest point. And it has (get this) an S curve. I just don’t know. I suspect with the high walls that don’t let you look down that I’ll be fine.

This video shows both new flyovers. The scary one, not completed, is on the right, and is higher up than the one in green.

I wish I hadn’t had 3 years to think about it.

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Day 9 - Clarity

2/19/2026

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Strawberries

“Not like that, like this.”

The sickly-sweet smell of strawberries, grease and sugar perfume the air.

Regina takes the tip of her little paring knife, a groove for her finger worn into the top, and shows me yet again how to hull a strawberry. Quickly, sharply and precisely, she removes the green leaves and the white part just underneath them from the top of the strawberry, taking none of the red with her, making the hole as tiny as possible.

I take my knife and slowly try to imitate her movements. It’s no use, I’ve got the tiniest bit of red on the hull as I remove it from the knife. I know that I’m going to get a good tongue lashing – but seriously, this is the best I can do. And I’m so slow.

A few months into my first job working as a “bakery girl” in the local German Bakery, I have quickly learned this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life. Washing greasy baking sheets in the hottest possible water, with no soap to assist in getting the stuck-on stuff (or the finish) off the pans. Standing for 8-hour shifts – the bakers did, they expected no less from their girls. Waiting politely on customers for hours on a Saturday or Sunday morning. If there were no customers, wash the glass on the cases. “Make sure that you leave no streaks, now.”

Hulling strawberries was a relative privilege. It was the only time Regina ever sat down, perching herself on a stool. We stood next to her.

The need for perfection was to create the strawberries that sat on top of the tarts Klaus made. The biggest, most beautiful strawberries needed to stay that way – without any giant holes disfiguring them. I appreciated the detail (maybe even more now than then) but the work to get it “right” eluded me the entire year and a half that I worked there.

I knew that if Regina called me over to help her hull strawberries that it was because she was angry. At something. And she was going to take it out on me. This was a different twist on expecting me to be perfect than what I was used to at home. It felt dark, uncomfortable, not for my benefit. I hated being the baker’s scapegoat.

After I got my driver’s license, I quit that job and moved on to working for the town florist. She was demanding as well, but I knew I was loved and appreciated there.

To this day, when I hull strawberries (and yes, I can do it perfectly now) I hear Regina’s stern voice in my ear. “No! Do it this way.”

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Day 8 - Clarity

2/18/2026

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Seeing Clearly

When I trace in my body where my need for perfection lies, I realize it’s in my eyes. It’s always been in my eyes. I need to see clearly. Perfectly, even.

As a little girl, when my vision first started getting a bit fuzzy and I needed glasses to see the blackboard clearly (age 6? 7?) I remember the optometrist saying to my mother “Now, don’t let her wear those glasses all the time or she’ll need them all the time. She should just wear them to look at the board. Her vision is better than perfect with them on.” He might as well have told me not to open a banned book. Or not to put beans up my nose.

I loved seeing perfectly. Still do.

Post-cataract surgery has been kind of a nightmare, leaving me with perfect distance vision and the inability to see clearly up close. Readers correct the close stuff. From 5-10 feet is consistently blurry. “That’s no man’s land,” said the Ophthalmologist recently. “Don’t expect to see well there.”

Not ok. Not what you said initially. I’m frustrated. It might be the truth, but I sure didn't want to hear it. Or see it.

During therapy, I realized my underlying perfectionism manifested in having everything look perfect for everyone else. My house, for company. My table at a holiday dinner. My writing. My music. And, most of all, my first marriage.

People have asked me why I stayed with him for so long. How was it possible for me not to see what was going on? How could I rationalize his destructive behavior? These are reasonable questions that left me with deep seated shame.

There are a lot of parallels that can be drawn with the state of our country today. How is it possible not to see what is going on? How can we rationalize the destruction of everything we hold dear as a democracy?

Here’s your answer:
You can work really hard at making things look perfect to the outside world. Enablers of narcissists fawn, pretending nothing is wrong, shielding the narcissist from hearing the truth to prevent yet another explosion. Inside, they’re crumbling under the strain of the illusion.

We are seeing these people struggle publicly every day now, on podiums, on talk shows, in the papers.

Knowing and accepting the truth about someone means throwing away your own preconceived notions of perfection. With a narcissist, it means understanding and admitting that things aren’t how they seem on the outside. It means not believing the stories that you’ve told yourself to carry on.

So next time you wonder why someone stays with a toxic spouse, or parent, or boss, and continues to try so hard to live a “perfect” life, this is why. Likewise, sycophants of charismatic leaders tend to stick around, even as the lies pile up.

Seeing clearly is simply too painful.

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Day 7 - Clarity

2/17/2026

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Preoccupations of a Body Sleuth

Back in 2023, I dedicated the bulk of a writing series, “Slow Forward,” to processing my total knee replacement. The story of my surgery and recovery is peppered throughout that series, but I describe the lead up and the surgery/recovery starting in Day 9

During the months after my total knee replacement surgery in 2022, I dedicated myself to recovery. PT every day, in the studio or at home. Walking daily. Massaging my scar. And, eventually, back to the gym and finally to dancing.

The first full dance I attended was 5 months after my surgery, and I was amazed to be able to dance mostly without pain. I fell into a pattern – go to a dance event and then dance one, sit one out. I did this as often as I could that spring of 2023, which was not a lot of often as I am one of the main dance musicians here in town and I’m more likely to be found behind the piano than on the dance floor.

I was working up to a full week of dancing that Dave and I had signed up for during August of that year. We were travelling to Pinewoods Camp, located on the lakes outside of Plymouth, Massachusetts, one of my favorite places in the world. First, we had to drive there over the course of several long days in the fully packed car. That was a challenge in itself. When the dancing started, we’d be potentially going from morning until night – doing as much or as little dancing as felt appropriate for me.

Dave grinning like the Cheshire Cat in front of our car packed for a 2 week trip north,

The main issue with the new knee was the swelling, which I could control with compression socks and wraps. Travel was the worst for that, and standing for long periods of time was a close second. I was concerned about my stamina.

I told you yesterday that I’m a self-certified Body Sleuth. Nothing prepared me for what was going to happen during my first workshop at Pinewoods.

The dancers at this camp, who come from all over the US, are uniformly at a high level of skill. People who are willing to travel far for this experience are generally the best dancers in their own communities, who are looking for a peak experience dance vacation.

The teaching was fast. The music was faster than we play at home. I was prepared for that.

During the dance, however, I discovered that a vital connection between my brain and my knee had not quite been restored yet. Knee replacement involves cutting through the nerves that run across the front of the knee, which is partly why the darn recovery is so painful. No one told me about those regenerated nerves needing to “connect back up.”
The dance leader would say “go right”, my brain would process that instantaneously, and then, there was a 1-2 second delay between that thought and the movement in my knee. I remember consciously standing there thinking “why am I not moving?” It was the oddest thing.

In the past I’ve also written about proprioception, the body’s ability to sense through an object. In this case, the object was me. Why was there an impenetrable block of wood somewhere between my brain and my ability to move my knee at speed?
It was a fascinating week, watching my body re-learn that connection. I found myself dancing at every opportunity, and doing a little less dance-one, sit-one out.

By the time that beautiful week of learning, fellowship and dance was over, I was back. Nerve pathway restored. I smiled broadly all day long on the day it happened.

I sometimes wonder if I weren’t a dancer or an athlete, would I have even noticed my nerves not firing up to speed?

These are the sorts of things that certified Body Sleuths spend their time pondering.

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Day 6 - Clarity

2/16/2026

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Body Sleuthing

I have spent more than half my life learning to be a Body Sleuth. As a card carrying, fully adult, highly trained Body Detective, here is the most important thing I have learned in all those years:

The amount of pain in my body correlates directly with my mental state.

You may scoff at this, but I would ask you to consider for yourself the following:

When you are happy, how do you feel physically?
What changes your mood? Is it physical pain changing your mood, or is your mood changing your physicality? Or both?
When you find yourself in acute physical pain, what do you notice about how you are carrying yourself? Are you able to notice anything other than the pain?

There are definitive exceptions to the mood/pain connection. Body parts can and do wear out, especially with age. People get physically devastating diseases whose ultimate outcomes they cannot alter, like MS and Parkinsons.

And yet, even in those situations, I contend – no – I am living proof - that changing your posture and releasing the pain cycle will make you feel better, lighter, more able to function in whatever state you find yourself today.

What, in my more than 30 years of exploration, has made me so confident of this connection?

We can start with living in a body with Ehlers Damlos Hypermobility Syndrome. (EDHS)
I spent much of my young life in a state of collapse, through no fault of my own. EDHS affects connective tissue in the body. Anything that is made of collagen is fair game for laxity – ligaments, connective tissue, even the digestive system from intestines to colon.
I slumped. I put all my weight on one leg or the other while locking my knees in an attempt to feel supported by my bones. I had horrible digestive issues (still do, from time to time.)

By the time I was approaching thirty and starting to experience some of the marriage challenges I’ve described, I was a complete and total physical wreck. My right shoulder was dislocating at the drop of a hat. I’d worn the cartilage off of my knees from years of locking them. My back went out so often during my pregnancy that I had to wear a large band (similar to the compression underwear popular today) to keep my back from dislocating. I was bent over like a C, from postural issues and from feeling so terrible about myself.

I have said frequently that finding Alexander Technique was what saved my life. Finding the mind/body connection, allowing myself to let my bones support me, finding out what being upright and not locked or tense actually felt like, allowing my head and neck to release upward for the first time in years – all these things gave me tremendous physical relief. I also started seeing differently. I would find after a good AT lesson that my field of vision would widen, that I was more present in the world. All of this was such a new, different and welcome place for me that I had to train as a teacher myself.

But my Body Sleuth training didn’t stop there. Oh, no. Let’s throw in years of Gluten Intolerance I was pretending I didn’t have. When the joint pain finally lessened, the gut pain began in earnest. It was another few years of realizing that letting go of gluten was a continuation of letting go of mental and physical pain. I stopped punishing myself and started feeling better.

My 50s were great. I was healthy, I was working out, Dave and I were embarking on happy times together. Physically I was the best I’d felt in years. That’s when I finally earned my Body Sleuth diploma.

Now, there’s aging to contend with. I’ve lived a full life in this body, and it shows. Those old injuries? They’ve resurfaced in the same places, disguised as arthritis and joint deterioration. It’s ok. Injections and somatic work help the acute pain. I know what to do in myself to find space in my joints and to feel supported.

Sense the ground.

Think up.

Let go.

Breathe.

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Day 5 - Clarity

2/15/2026

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The Middle of the End

When you live with a narcissist for long enough, your world view slowly changes. Of course you have no friends. You shouldn’t have friends that the narcissist doesn’t like. You’re not worthy of new friends. In fact, you’re not worthy of much.

Anything you do is wrong. You don’t know how to change a diaper or cook a decent meal. It’s your fault that sex isn’t any good. You should be able to work full time, grocery shop and keep up the house without any help. What’s wrong with you?

When you’re down there, being lied to and gaslit in the torture chamber of your safe space, your home, you start to believe it. Of course you didn’t do that correctly. And somewhere, the part of you that is still alive, still breathing, says, “I can fix this. I can make it better.” So, you lie, you cover for the narcissist, you pretend everything is ok. And it is, in public. Which is why they try to keep you at home.

When my daughter was two, I had the opportunity to go away for an international Kodaly conference in Canada. I applied for both the conference and the pre-week of solfege study with an eminent Hungarian. I got in to the pre-week, and my school agreed to help me pay for the trip and encouraged me to go for the additional training. This was a couple of years after the Beginning of the End. My first significant time away since Anne was born.

The one thing my ex didn’t ever seem to mind was me going away to study. It was my lifeline, and he knew it. That August, I went to Canada.

Almost two weeks out of that house. Out of that marriage. Suddenly, people were telling me I was smart, that I knew things. A man found me attractive enough to flirt madly with me. Who, me? I don’t deserve these things, I said to myself. Yet over and over, during that time away, I was told I did deserve the praise, the pleasure, the support of new friends. I leaned into it, hard. I felt like I could breathe again for the first time in years.

Returning home, spouse picked me up at the airport and immediately launched into a litany of the things I should have done while I was away, and all the things he had done better while I was gone. From deep down, in a place I had forgotten existed, my anger rose. I turned and looked at him in the driver’s seat. With more clarity than I’d felt in years, I said, “I want a divorce.”

He begged, he pleaded, he cried. We went into therapy with the first of 3 different therapists over 8 years. We were not the children of divorce, and we both believed we could work it through. We tried, God knows we tried.

By the time we entered into round 3, the only thing we could agree on was how we could learn to be different in our next relationships.

I often wonder what would have been different if we’d given up sooner, if we’d divorced immediately when I asked for it. I don’t think either of us would have grown up.

I know I wouldn’t have had the support of the women I gathered around me in those final years. I needed that, badly.

And I suspect I wouldn’t have heard those glowing words at his funeral, either.

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Clarity - Day 4

2/12/2026

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Dark Chocolate

“And, oh,” our teacher said, “Don’t forget to bring dark chocolate with you next week. We’re all going to need it.”

We’d been training for our level one Reiki certification for 6 weeks, in a course far more intense and deep than most 1-day Reiki classes. The following week would be our attunement, our initiation into the world of energy work.

I was nervous. I’d never done anything quite like this before. Alexander Training was long and hard and had taken me over three years, but we were consistently reminded that it “wasn’t energy work” (wink, wink, nudge, nudge.) I was pretty sure it was. I knew I had some serious heat emanating out of my hands when I put them on someone. I thought it would be a good idea to get some training and be able to turn that energy on and off when I needed to.

My friend Christin recommended Reiki training. She had just gone through the same intensive course and was assisting the instructors. It seemed like as good a time as any to make the leap.

Every week we worked on putting our hands on each other, encouraging the energy in our hands to flow. We worked on grounding ourselves by going barefoot in the grass outside and using sage to cleanse before beginning. We had a lot of tools in our toolkit.

What we didn’t know was what the attunement would be like. Would it work? Was I ready? Did I have to do anything?

I knew just 2 things – wear white and bring chocolate. Check and check.

I can’t say what happens in an attunement – you’ll have to experience that for yourself. (There are no drugs involved, only energy.) Afterward I remember feeling intensely high, a little shaky, and in no position to drive home for a while.

We walked out of the attunement space and were greeted with glasses of water and pieces of dark chocolate. “Here, eat this. It will ground you.” And oh, yes, it did. In 15 minutes or so we were all ready to leave for home.

This is no coincidence, as dark chocolate has been used in sacred ceremonies for centuries throughout the western world. Think of the Incan/Peruvian Cacao ceremony. Dark chocolate contains magnesium, the mineral that induces relaxation and sleep, making chocolate naturally calming. The small amount of caffeine allows someone to come back to themselves from a trance-like state.

Now, as a Reiki Master, I’m pretty good at turning that energy on and off. I appreciate the clarity that Reiki study brought to my hands. I do believe it has improved the quality of my Alexander work.

Ever since my Reiki training, honoring the three separate attunements, I eat a small piece of 85-90% pure dark chocolate every evening. Nothing sweeter, or I will crave the sugar instead of the calming effect. I eat it slowly, savoring the melting chocolate on my tongue.

It’s my evening ritual, my time to come back to myself.

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Clarity - Day 3

2/11/2026

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The Beginning of the End

Sometimes clarity arrives when you least expect it to.

Picking up clothes that were strewn around the bed for the laundry, I lifted my husband’s white dress shirt to discover a big, fat, lipstick lip print on the collar. Blood red. Definitely not mine.

Where the hell had that come from?

I stood, staring, as other recent memories I had buried came flooding back.
The pile of Penthouses (not even Playboy, Penthouse!) buried in the back of his closet that I’d found looking for some shoes he was missing. “Oh, I just read those for the articles…” What articles? Penthouse was not known as quality reading.

Brain said, “Stuff it down.”

He’d come home late from work and had missed dinner several times in the last month. I’d gotten phone calls. “I’m going out with the guys for a couple of beers after work. I’ll be late.” You never go out with the guys. What’s that about?

Brain said. “Trust him.”

The long scratches, clearly from fingernails, down his back last week. “A secretary at work was giving me a back rub because my shoulders were tight. I must have looked tense. I guess her nails were really long?”

Brain said, “Stuff it down. NOW.”

More and more excuses came rushing back, up into the cold light of morning.

Slowly, still clutching the shirt, I started to slide down the edge of the bed toward the floor. By the time I got to the ground, I was shaking from head to toe. I felt like throwing up.

He’d lied to me before, early in our marriage, about dropping out of school. He’d promised he’d never lie like that to me again. And yet, here was unmistakable evidence that he’d done just that.

Brain said, “Quick! Emergency! Not happening! Stuff it down.”

Heart and Courage and what was left of my inner Strength said, “NO.”

His footsteps bounded up the steps. “Hi honey, is that laundry ready to go downstairs, yet?”

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Clarity - Day 2

2/10/2026

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Once a Bully....

“Four-eyes!”
“Teacher’s pet!”
“Smarty-Pants”
“Wuss!”

RRRIIINNNGGG……

Saved by the bell. Literally. Again.

Fourth grade was hell for me. If there really is a hell after death, and I get sent to it, that’s where you’ll find me. Fourth grade. With all my bullies lined up in front of me, pressed into the school wall on the playground, praying for the bell to ring.

In 1968-69, the US was in racial turmoil. Assassinations. Anger. Cities in flames. New York City was no exception. Blocks of Harlem and the Bronx simply disappeared into rubble. White flight to the suburbs was a huge thing.

My parents had lived in suburbia since their marriage in 1956. Suddenly, our small town became one of the “safe” places to be if you were white. An easy commute back to the city for work on train or bus. Good schools. Places for kids to safely free-range.

My elementary school doubled in population between grades three and four. We were bursting out of the seams. The kids that moved up from the city to join us were streetwise, tough, and quite used to being mean to survive. They were also behind in schoolwork.

I was small, terrible at sports and uncoordinated due to my hypermobility. I wore glasses. I was an only child. I loved school. I was at the top of my class. I was also an easy target.

Recess was terrifying. If I could get on the top of the monkey bars fast enough, they’d ignore me. But playing group games? Oh no.

Our teacher was brand new and not cut out for education. She let them bully me, even in the classroom. A year later she quit to become a computer programmer, where she got to sit alone and punch holes in cards. Perfect.

It’s more than 50 years later now. I long ago learned how to handle being called names by insecure, not-well-educated people who are trying to find and hold their place in society. On that, I do have understanding and even some compassion. No born teacher like me could think any differently.

But there are so many ways to resolve things other than resorting to name calling and physical bullying. I learned that on the playground in 4th grade.

If “Snowflake” had existed in 1969, they’d have called me that, too.

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Robbin Marcus

An occasional post from me, about stuff that interests me.

2025 blog series:
Cleaning Out the Old

2024 blog selections: Resistance

2023 blog series:
Slow Forward

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

Day 11 - Clarity

Beholding

Clarity - Day 10

Warning Signs

Day 9 - Clarity

Strawberries

Day 8 - Clarity

Seeing Clearly

Day 7 - Clarity

Preoccupations of a Body Sleuth

Day 6 - Clarity

Body Sleuthing

Day 5 - Clarity

The Middle of the End

Clarity - Day 4

Dark Chocolate

Clarity - Day 3

The Beginning of the End

Clarity - Day 2

Once a Bully....

Robbin Marcus

2019 blog series:
Exploring the Power of Habit

Archives

Beholding

Warning Signs

Strawberries

Seeing Clearly

Preoccupations of a Body Sleuth

Body Sleuthing

​The Middle of the End

Dark Chocolate

The Beginning of the End

Once a Bully....

Robbin Marcus

2019 blog series: Exploring the Power of Habit

Archives

The Middle of the End

2019 blog series:
Exploring the Power of Habit