The musician's body - pain and panic

In Hercules (the 1997 Disney film, not the Greek myth) there are two characters called Pain and Panic. They act as Hades’ sidekicks - assisting him in all his dastardly deeds, with hilarious ineffectuality (or at least, so I thought in 1997).  In the film, Pain and Panic come as a pair.  In real life, it’s the same way - when it comes to the Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum of anxiety, one is inextricable from the other. 

As a musician, when I experience pain, it makes me panic. Not all pain of course - gnawing headaches or the wild agony of a stubbed toe don’t drive me to distraction. But a glowing lower back, a twinge in the thumb, aching forearms… Immediate anxiety. I’ve had back issues, hyper-mobile joints and tendonitis on-and-off for a long time. I try to live by the wise old adage, ‘when it hurts - stop’, but as a jobbing musician, that’s not always possible. Stress and strain, wear and tear - it happens. I try to avoid carrying my harp up several flights of stairs by myself, but sometimes you just have to grin and bear it.* ‘Lift with your legs, not with your back.’  

But here’s the rub: so often our minds dictate how our body responds. And this is especially true in performance. Tension in the mind is made manifest in the body. Every time. How can you be physically relaxed, poised, focused, spontaneous, or communicative with an anxious mind? With half a lifetime of stage anxiety behind me (more than, probably) I’ve yet to crack that one. 

But this works the other way too! There’s that pesky, inextricable mind-body connection again. The way I hold my body affects the quality of my thoughts. Indubitably. (I love that word! Any excuse..)  The one positive aspect of the physical niggles that I experience is that I’m always mindful of my posture - I don’t slouch, and I tend to walk tall.  Though I’m not graceful at all in real life, when I play, it’s within my reach. The rest of the time, at least my head’s held high (while I’m tripping over my feet). 

*Like when you play for the ladies-only reception of an orthodox muslim wedding, up three flights of stairs, and the male concierge team aren’t allowed upstairs because the women aren’t wearing burqas. And the women won’t help because they don’t want to spoil their beautiful dresses - so rarely seen as they are. And the strap for your harp trolley is broken. I feel like the last two lines of Tennyson’s Ulysses could have been written about harpists faced with just such a dilemma (maybe):

‘Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’