Andrew

My teacher Ray Castellino referred a family to me in the early part of 2000. Six month old baby Andrew had been diagnosed with “failure to thrive.” His mother had plenty of milk, and had attended La Leche League meetings while pregnant so as to be prepared for the lovely journey of nourishing her babe, yet Andrew was the size of a two or three month old. Lethargic, with little or no muscle tone, and eyes mostly closed or at half mast. He was not much interested in nursing. Not emaciated scrawny, but thin, with legs curled like a newborn. He was not tracking his surround, engaging with his parents, moving around, or making sounds of any kind - except an occasional whimper.  As compared to typical behaviors of a healthy six month old, Andrew had reached few if any milestones. 

I set up my treatment table between the family's dining room and living room, invited the mother and father to sit, and asked if the dad would continue to hold Andrew. Talking to the baby and the parents, I told them there was nothing here anyone had to do. If anything was going on that didn’t feel right for any reason, any one of the four of us could just say or motion pause or stop, and we would re-evaluate what we were doing. Maybe we would continue in that same direction after discussing what was going on, or maybe we would do something else. I spoke directly to Andrew, telling him that his mom and dad loved him and had asked me to come today because they were worried he wasn’t growing as fast and as strong as he could be. I was here to listen to his being with my hands. I told them all that Andrew was an important part of the conversation, and that I would always ask before making contact.

By way of modeling that, I asked the mom’s permission to put hands on her first, so she could know what that was like before offering to listen to Andrew's system. She was agreeable, even eager. While his dad held him on his lap, Andrew seemed to be in a sleep cycle with random twitches throughout his body and face. I put my hands on the mom’s shoulders and, after a few moments, felt the rock-hard bracing there soften ever so slightly. After a few more breaths, and a huge sigh from the mother, I asked to move my hands - one to the back of her head and one to her forehead. She nodded. Another deep sigh after a few minutes, and I acknowledged that all three of them had a right to feel overwhelmed by the stress of these past few months.

Can you imagine wanting to become parents and doing all that was in your power to make sure there was a plan for success, only to have a mysterious malady descend on your newborn, robbing him of his ability to thrive? There was no other diagnosis. From a medical perspective, they were told some kids make it, some don’t.

Now, it was time to put hands on Andrew. Usually, I find it best to work with nursing babies while they are nursing, but Andrew’s lack of interest in the breast led us to Plan B.  Dad lay his “sleepy” son on the table, face up. 

Sitting at the side of the table and speaking softly to him, I told Andrew I’d like to put my hand on his back. I paused so that idea could sink in, then slipped the palm of my hand under his tiny lower back. This tipped him slightly to his right side - facing the living room window which was shuttered. My finger tips nearly reached his shoulder blades. As I listened, Andrew became my teacher that moment.

Every culture has a word for what animates us all life long. Prana in India, Chi in China, Ki in Japan, Miwi in the language of Aboriginals of Australia; life force, spirit, or soul essence in English. There is a vitality, a stuffness to the tactile feel of that essence - similar to the invisible force you feel when trying to push the South poles of two magnets together. 

First, I listened to Andrew’s essence. He did not protest. His life force was thready, dry, a whisper. As if part of him was elsewhere. I wondered where. I asked silently if he wanted to stay. Could he not for some reason? 

Of course, there was no verbal response from him, but rather a deeper breath as he too shifted to a more relaxed yet more present state - as had his mother. From pale and inert, his cheeks colored a bit. His eyes moved beneath nearly translucent blueish lids. A smile flickered on his lips, then quivery chin and protruding lower lip. After three very quick breaths, a sigh. We three adults watched the play of emotions across this tiny being’s face and body as if transfixed by beautiful cloud formations in a sunset sky. 

The light outside had shifted and a beam came from between the shutters over their front window, streaking right to the side of the sheet-covered table where Andrew continued to rest with my hand under his back.

After a few moments, I asked to make contact with his feet. Parents nodded. I told Andrew I would be moving my hand from his back. He stretched his legs out as I slipped my hand out from under him. His lips pursed and one arm went out to his side in a mini stretch. “Here comes my hand, Andrew.” I gathered his tiny heels into one hand and placed the other just about two inches away from the crown of his head. I could feel more than warmth at his crown. While still thready, there was slightly more organization in the field. I could feel that “stuffness” of his essence coming into a coherent directional flow between feet and crown. 

When listening to the fluid tide that bathes the entire spinal cord and brain from tailbone to crown, a trained practitioner can generally tune into one of several different cranio-sacral rhythms - not unlike tuning a radio to a frequency or station you want to listen to. 

“The shortest distance between any two points is an intention,” said John Upledger, a Doctor of Osteopathy from the United States who, among other teachers, began to train non-DO students in the use of osteopathic cranial techniques. With practice, Cranio-Sacral practitioners learn to tune-in. 

Most of us humans are in tune with the subtle energies of our family members or intimates whether we talk about it or not. Maybe you’ve been at a party and opened a door to what you thought was a bathroom only to sense the couple beyond that door did not want to be disturbed. Without knowing why exactly, you closed the door quickly. That was their energy field expanding hugely. All of us do that unconsciously to warn others to keep out. Our language reflects the movements of our subtle body: He turned a cold shoulder; she seemed to shrink like a morning glory at sunset.

With no thought on our part, our breath of life moves. Some of our energetic flows go from top of the head to the bottom of the body and back again; up and down the spine in a rhythm that is distinct from our heart beat or our lung’s breath, which is created by the rhythm of our respiratory diaphragm. Other patterns go side to side; left-right, left-right. Some are so slow - like the Long Tide - that they seem to be ever expanding, never reaching an edge and contracting back, but ultimately, they do - if we're not on our way out of life. Some rhythms are very steady, open, close, open, close. What I felt from Andrew’s small system that day was unlike anything I’d felt before. 

Expansion similar to the Long Tide, but with silent crackling as if cellophane were being crumpled and disturbing the field but there was no sound component to the experience. It felt electrical and tingly to my palm above his head. His feet cooled. As they did, they became weightless as feathers. Silently, I asked where he was going. No definitive answer, but the shaft of light from the front window that had been at the side of the table came up onto the table top as the sun sank lower. There was a beam touching his right ear. His whole right side looked to be glowing.

After a while, darkness descended and we let it, the four of us sitting in silent sacred space.

Andrew died ten days after our meeting.