The gently rolling, blue-green aquamarine waters are beckoning. Not surprising considering the attempt to induce a comatose state by having positioned a beach towel and my limp form in direct line with the blinding, sweltering rays of the West Coast Florida August sun. Beads of sweat are trickling down my forehead while the rest of me is being wrapped and mummified in an unmerciful heat and humidity index. Within ten minutes, I concede. What happened to the narcissistic, early 20s worshipper who would prayerfully commune with (okay, lazily luxuriate in the splendor of) the sun god for hours on end? And, of course, this idyllic, daylong meditation was only interrupted by nubile visions and shy flirtations, devouring those oil soaked yet crisp boardwalk fries along with body surfing in the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean off Long Island.

Alas, the quest for 20th sensory overload has "matured" into the search for sensual-serenity mode some decades later. Pushing my sweaty, gritty body off the towel I trudge toward the shoreline conscious of the beach entrance sign: beware stinging jellyfish. So the proverbial toe takes the plunge and a warm bath; the most expansive, soothing natural body of water ever encountered. And the gradient of the ocean floor inclines so slightly that wading out fifty yards only gets me waist deep.

Floating effortlessly on my back, the St. Petersburg-Gulf waters gently lapping my ear lobes and chin, I associate to the relaxation-visualization exercise employed in my Practice Safe Stress programs. (The visualization setting was originally inspired by a late-70s trip to the beaches of Destin on the Florida Panhandle.) I had recently used the exercise with a group of YMCA professionals after a 30-something male PR head announced that he had never been able to meditate: "I can't stop my thoughts from racing." So I had the group assume a relaxed position, closing their eyes, placing hands in their laps and taking several deep breaths. We then completed a top of the head to the tips of the toes progressive relaxation, for example, steps included having a partner place a warm compress over your eyes to soak up the tension and imagining this partner giving a brief neck and shoulder massage. Eventually, the participants visualize entering the Gulf lying on a rubber mattress. The shimmering, sparkling gently rising and falling Gulf waters have you, "Softly rolling up and down; up and down; up and down. Rocking oh so restfully and peacefully. You have found a wonderful haven for escape, for rejuvenation; for getting in touch with your inner essence." And then you see a SHARK!!. No, I'm kidding. Sometimes my mischievous self is uncontrollable.

Back To Reality

After ten minutes of blissful floating on my back, bobbing up an down, being spun around enough, momentary disorientation ensues upon standing upright. No doubt, under the influence of the kaleidoscopic Gulf, mind-body dancing the wave-light fantastic, I've been transported to an altered state. Finally, another ten minutes on the sparsely populated white sandy beach completes the relaxation through mind visualization and body vegetation.

And while I have definitely shed my Type A Washington, DC skin for the present, truth be told there's still a quiet gnawing within. In five hours it's show time: a Practicing Safe Stress after dinner keynote program for 120 CFOs and Comptrollers at a telecommunications and energy conference. So off to the hotel's Health Club for the paradoxical peace and relaxation through active exertion. A half hour on the Nautilus equipment (on a beginner's low weight setting), ten minutes on the treadmill and then the glow of the aerobic, biochemically induced natural endorphin "runner's calm" begins enveloping the mind-body system.

This afternoon has seen receptive and active paths to relaxation. And especially with active exercise, there's the added benefit of feeling virtuous. Perhaps most important, the vigorous workout and endorphin aftermath helps channel a state of "relaxed attention," a holistic integration conducive to peak performance.

Mastery, Miss-tery and Majesty

And later that evening, my peaceful and purposeful efforts are doubly rewarded by an enthusiastic audience response. And the next mind-body sequence: How to enjoy and come down off the performer' high? Well, tonight provides two uncommon opportunities man-made and "au natural." The first is discovering a piano bar. Actually, the bar is on one side of a large hotel foyer, the piano man and piano in the middle. On the far side is yours truly, ensconced in a comfy couch, sipping a Chablis Cassis. Heartwarming pop and soft rock strands waft my way, including an obvious request Billy Joel's "Piano Man." Mr. PM also indulges my second request: anything by Claude Debussy. Though not "classically trained," his rendition of "Claire de Lune" makes short shrift of the notion that sensuality and serenity require rays of sun and shimmering water for magical harmony. (I also encourage a discovery of Debussy's blissful, "Maid with Flaxen Hair.")

And then my couch corner attracts a crowd. Actually, a clan, including a mid-40s, somewhat overweight yet still voluptuous Las Vegas hostess with a punk rock blonde cut who has flown in to help celebrate her mother's 50th high school reunion. An animated non-stop talker (only slightly more loquacious with alcohol) upon discovering my psychotherapy background, this Las Vegas live wire bombards me with her metaphysical speculations. Alas, she gave up on her Catholic upbringing and now she's proselytizing her new faith (while lighting one cigarette after another). While this faithful flirtation has some edginess, I'm starting to come down. Sorry, will have to hold the "life after death" debate in abeyance. Wanting to savor this triumphal, biochemical and musical confluence, I tactfully excuse myself. With the post-workshop adrenaline flow mixing with the iridescent ivories, the alcohol and a little testosterone/ego spike, I'm definitely enjoying a mellow buzz.

Heading back to my room, which is a few blocks from the main building, I'm ready to call it a day, but mother nature has other plans. White lightning is rhythmically streaking across the night sky. Hints of thunder rumble in the distance. And I'm headed for the beach for my inaugural black heat lightning over gulf waters light show. There's a beached sailboat with a canvas cover just right for lying down, I put my hands behind my head and let the primal fireworks do their mesmerizing magic. With the seemingly endless expanse of horizon it's a three ring circuit. Alternating bursts of lightning appear in my direct line of vision (let's call this due North) and also in the Northwest and Northeast skies. Some of the electric streaks appear to directly strike the Gulf Waters. There's enough cloud cover so that with little effort one can envision Zeus atop Olympus jolting post triumphal Earthlings back into a state of humility. ("Don't get too big on yourself, boy!" Now where did that voice come from?)

Okay, enough of the psychic stuff, Stress Doc, get back to the visualization: ¦Zigzagging flashes burst off that heavenly black canvas behind a large puffy formation. Suddenly, aglow in the night sky is the dull gray cloud mass now transformed into an electric gold-white hot neon charcoal luminescence. And now, in truly metaphysical and spiritual space beyond words, I am genuinely ready to contemplate the big picture. And I am even more ready than I know.

Stress Doc Heal Thyself

The timing is especially apt for me to reflect upon "Relaxation - Meditation," one of the six boxes of my States of Arousal - Activation Matrix that has been featured in the past three articles. Maybe it was just time to shut down, as much of the DC world does in mid-August. The passion for writing my essays was decidedly feeling more ebb than flow. Even the Tea House, the usual setting for dipping into the primal wellspring, appeared to have a warning sign posted over my favorite table: "Writer's Well Dry Until Further Notice!"

How often have I commiserated with readers grappling with a case of the "brain strain" or with one of the stages of burnout? (Naturally, one of the "wise guy" members of our AOL/Digital City Tuesday night "Shrink Rap and Group Chat" reminded me of "The Four Stages" upon sharing my malaise.) Yes, when passion ebbs, nurture comes before nature and compassion must overflow.

Of course, this axiom is grasped belatedly. What's my first step? To build on the Tampa startup, to begin a Nautilus regimen at the local Y. Push those weights, pump up the endorphins; rebuild that fire. Gradual, Mark. Begin with low weights, only thirty minutes; resist being impatient or macho. You've hurt yourself before with this equipment. And for the first week my body feels good, though my mind still seems in a fog.

So at the 11th hour I decide to get out of town and head for the hills; actually, for the mountains surrounding Asheville, NC. Why Asheville? First, I've been devouring Thomas Wolfe, a native son who, in the late1920s and 1930s, penned such opuses as Look Homeward Angel, Of Time and the River and You Can't Go Home Again. I've also recently consumed his letters and three biographies as well as a lengthy essay, The Writing of a Novel. It's the centennial of his birth; this trip is part pilgrimage. There are many points of connection with Wolfe: a) his lush, expansive prose-poetry style of writing, b) a need to uproot and travel for extended periods, c) his quest to plumb the depths of the human spirit, d) an incredible capacity for focused work along with cycles of exhaustion and depression, e) a ravenous appetite for life and food and an addictive propensity for alcohol when needing to numb his pain (fortunately we part company on the alcohol) and f) extensive writing in his autobiographical novels about his sometimes mad, often maddeningly lovable, intensely individualistic and dizzyingly dysfunctional family. A near manic-depressive nature (my diagnosis), and an obsessive temperament compel pursuing his genius and talent wherever, including breaking many rules of conventional novel writing. Ok, so I'm a Tom Wolfe wannabe. (But I'm in good company. See Prince of Tides author, Pat Conroy's introductory paean to Wolfe in the new edition of, Of Time and the River.)

And the other reason for my itinerary is hiking the lushly forested trails in the Great Smoky or Blue Ridge Mountains. Again, relaxation through active recreation and a natural-spiritual connection with the big picture is the script for rejuvenation.

11/03/00

Mark Gorkin is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, speaker, trainer and "Online Psychohumorist," known throughout the web, AOL, and the nation as "The Stress Doc." Specialty areas: organizational change and conflict, team building, creativity and humor. (1616 18th Street, NW #312, Washington, DC 20009-2530, (202) 232-8662).