A million Fifteen years ago (when did we all get so old?), I was a professional modern dancer in New York. A hundred thousand ten years ago, I got injured, and the injury — two herniated discs in my lower back — eventually ended my career.
I did everything shy of seeing a Shaman I could think of to heal, but nothing worked, until —
I went to Versailles saw a brilliant but terrifying yogini/witch in Paris, who taught me how to sit (see above) and stand (see below) anew. She also taught me how to dress like a real Parisian woman.
I just wrote about it for Racked. I’d be delighted if you took a peek.
I’ve been so absent! The piece I’m working on has taken over my life. So I’ve seen little of Paris. But I have seen a bit. Here are a few of my only trips out of the apartment my favorite moments. More real posts next week, when we’re back in Munich, otherwise known as the place where I don’t understand a word anyone is saying to me home!
PS: I tried to insert captions, but let’s just say that trying to make sense of HTML might give me an ulcer is not my forte. Finally I figured out that if you click on the photo, the caption will appear. You probably think I’m a moron already knew that. Many involve drinking — I was trying to avoid a nervous breakdown channel Hemingway. And I have a few stellar photos that involve Noelle, the spine whisperer, but I’ll save those for a proper post next week. I know you’re dying to know all about her. xox
Seriously, don’t even bother getting jealous, because here’s all I’ve seen: the inside of an apartment; my computer screen; the rain. The timing of this trip is a little wonky due to a tight deadline for a piece I’m super excited about—news on this later—but suffice it to say, one doesn’t come to Paris to see one’s own words being written and then deleted on a screen.
In the span of three days, I have managed to eat one croissant and a sort of embarrassing amount of paté, so things are looking up.
Also, today I saw this insane osteopath, which is what I’m here to tell you about.
When I came to Paris three years ago in an enormous amount of pain and completely desperate for someone to heal me, the first thing I told Noelle was that I had had surgery and that it had been a failure.
“Don’t you have peasants back in the U.S.?” she asked. She said “paysan” because this whole conversation was being conducted in French, so this might not actually translate as peasant, but suffice it to say, I took her to mean someone with miraculous hands, but no medical training. In other words, someone who would be arrested for touching you back in New York.
Her “paysan”—who turned out to be an osteopath—came highly recommended, so even though I had been traumatized by a particularly bad one in New York who shoved his fingers where they shouldn’t have gone botched my X-Rays, charged me $500 and called me “sweetie,” I went.
M. Balard wore a loose-fitting blue silk shirt and black slacks. His brown hair flopped on either side of his head like a puppy’s ears. Like Noëlle, he didn’t care about MRIs or X-Rays.
The office windows that faced the bustling street were slightly ajar. I stripped down to my bra and underwear—the French don’t believe in gowns—and positioned myself on his table.
His approach was positively acrobatic: He twisted me into positions I was convinced would land me in the ER; he shook my pelvis in a way that even the most adventurous sex never had. One of the most scandalous maneuvers involved me sitting with my legs straddling the table while he stood behind me with his arms wrapped around my torso in a giant, backwards bear hug. Together we would curve to the right, forward and then to the left in a quick, rolling motion, like I was back in a modern dance class. I basically spent the whole session hoping he wouldn’t paralyze me.
He did five or six different crazy things, collected my money, and sent me on my way.
But slowly, I started to feel better, so I returned several times for more.
A week before leaving Paris—I spent two months working with Noëlle—I went for a visit. By then things were on the up—hours or a full day would open up before me uninterrupted by pain. I credited Noëlle and M. Balard in equal measure. My life—or, a life, for this didn’t resemble any life I had had before—was coming back to me. Happiness doesn’t begin to touch the surface of what I felt. Free at last was more like it.
“I need to see you one more time,” I said, opening up my datebook.
“No,” he replied. “We’re done.”
In all my years of forking over enormous sums of cash—and a little piece of my hopeful heart—to healers, never had one of them refused my money.
“Everything is in its right place now,” he said. “Now your body has to teach your mind how to not be in pain anymore.”
My pain pathways, he explained, were overdeveloped, so they would scream at the slightest disturbance. But when these pathways started to understand that there was nothing wrong—the bones and ligaments were now finally where they should be; I was no longer technically “injured”—they would learn to quiet down, and the pain would slowly recede. I literally just had to believe it, to convince my brain that that was true.
It turned out he was right.
So every time I come back to Paris, I go see him and we do our weird acrobatics. Today he told me, with a huge roll of the eyes and this funny “bof” sound the French make, that everything felt so much better than it had three years ago.
This doesn’t mean I’m never in pain—I’m lying in bed as I type this—but it doesn’t last, and I tend to still panic panic less. There’s hope.
See the old lady pictured above, in the tacky, collared shirt, adjusting the guy in green in what looks like a Catholic (see cross) yoga class for old people (see all the grey hair)? My dear friends, I present to you: NoëlleChristiaens-Perez. On Monday, I am off to Paris to pay her a visit.
The story of Noëlle will emerge over the next few weeks and months here, but suffice it to say, she tortured me and made me cry is one of the people who miraculouslycured me of four years of chronic back pain. As many of you know, at age 27, while working as a professional dancer and yoga teacher, I herniated two discs in my lumbar spine, which caused crazy amounts of sciatic (or nerve) pain down my leg, and made even the simplest things — carrying groceries, sex, sitting through movies — super challenging. For four years, I did everything I could think of to fix my body: physical therapy, acupuncture, eating less pork and more Omega-3s, drugs, modified yoga, meditation, wishing on stray eyelashes. Finally I broke down and had surgery, but it was ultimately deemed a failure. All in all, I took my clothes off for more healers than lovers, which was nothing short of depressing, considering I was a single, twenty-something New Yorker. I did, however, discover one perk of undressing in an office rather than in a bedroom: you were happy when the examiner told you what was wrong with your body.
(This is the part where I’d roll my eyes, but this is all true, so just hold on a sec.)
A wonderful friend who had also had a back injury derail her life in her twenties pulled B.K.S. Iyengar’s iconic book, Light on Yoga, off my bookshelf. She turned to p. 170. (Dear reader: Go ahead, open yours, I’ll wait.) I didn’t know that anyone other than B.K.S. Iyengar — in nothing but his skivvies and his thick unibrow — was pictured, but there was Noëlle, at age 30, in Paschimottanasana, seated forward bend. Her face is being crushed into her thighs, because Mr. Iyengar is balancing in a quasi-handstand on her back, his hands scooping around her ribs.
They looked like a Chinese circus act.
Noëlle, I found out, was B.K.S. Iyengar’s first Western yoga student. We’re talking 1959 here, people.
When I met her in 2009 in Paris, she was 84 and living in a tiny flat near the Eiffel Tower, running the Institut Superieur d’Aplomb. (Have I mentioned that she’s French?) The whole thing was beyond strange — for now, I’ll just say that she was eccentric — but I was desperate. The kind of desperate that only comes after years and years of wishing you lived in a different body.
But after two months of intensive postural work, Noëlle got me out of pain. How? We didn’t do a single yoga pose. Instead, she re-taught me how sit, stand, and walk, and I felt like I had been reborn. On Monday, I’m going back for a tune-up and to conduct some interviews with her for my thesis-slash-book on the subject.
One day soon I’ll tell you all about it, because don’t we all want to live without pain?