On Gratitude (Not Just Acting “As If”)

Those following my writing over the past two months know I broke my arm. The good news is—it’s healing well. Still, the journey hasn’t been easy. Preparing my book for publication, doing too much with the uninjured arm, picking up my guitar too soon… Rest and stillness aren’t easy for me. So much I want to do and I love, love, love playing music. It’s my God, my source, my sanity. It saddened me terribly that the playing music made me so much worse. What could I do?

Here in Greece, I knew I needed someone else’s help recovering. Some people along the way told me, “Just figure it out and you’ll heal yourself.” I teach the Alexander Technique, a wonderful method that has helped many people recover from injuries and bad habits. But I helped them get better. So I know sometimes you can’t do it alone… 

We went on a wild goose chase trying to find someone, anyone, to work with. Eventually, I contacted two recommended practitioners in Corfu Town (an island where we’ve lived from time to time), a physical therapist and an orthopedic specialist, and made the appointments.

It took us a few days to get there, traveling through the beautiful Peloponnese to Igoumenitsa and then crossing to Corfu by ferry. We stayed the night in our camper along a quiet beach in the northern part of the island, looking out at the high mountains of Albania. I practiced my tools: acceptance and gratitude—even if only the “acting as if” kind (which still has its value). And I breathed deeply with all that fresh sea air filling my lungs.

I was very early for my appointment, which reminded me of my mother. She was always early for everything. Wanting so much to heal, I gave myself oceans of time.

The therapist was still with another client, so I quietly entered the extra room. I began some gentle movements—what we call in the Alexander work “deep listening” and “conscious rest.” I invited my limbs to soften into gravity. I imagined my muscles smiling and yawning.

When it was time, we first sat discussing my injury—how I had fallen, where the fracture was, and why I believed my other thumb was so unhappy. When we began the treatment, it was clear that months of over-cautious protection and pain had left my shoulders tight and compressed. I appreciated his holistic approach: starting not at the site of injury, but at the deeper sources of tension.

It hurt—but I trusted his hands. I breathed into the pain, step by step. His English was very good, and he had that charming Greek way of saying “Bravo!” with warmth and enthusiasm. It really does encourage you. Each time I let go a little more, I got another “Bravo!” He said, “Now I can begin to get more mobility in your fractured arm. It will hurt—but let it hurt. I will be listening.”

I know this well. It’s what I tell my students. When he began moving my fractured arm, I received more and more bravos. “This arm is going very well,” he said. “Now let’s have a look at your thumb.”

I told him what others had said: that I should be able to do this on my own. But he knew better. And so did I. He gently placed one hand on one part of my thumb and the other elsewhere. “You see what I’m doing?” he said. “I’m slowly moving these parts away from each other. You can’t do this to yourself.”

It was gentle and powerful. Not really painful—but I had been afraid it would be. As the session went on, I trusted him more and more. And then came a sudden, overwhelming surge of tears. Reaching and releasing that deep well of grief, fear and stored negative energy is never easy. But once you’re there, once the body releases it—oh my is it healing!

Someone dear to me passed away recently. I hadn’t let myself fully feel the grief. But in that session, I sobbed—for him, for the swift passage of time, for the fragility of the body, for what’s happening in my home country, for how powerless I often feel.

He kept working gently on my thumb. “Bravo! You are going to get well,” he said. “Maybe not as fast as you’d like. But you will get well.”

When the session ended, I felt a powerful sense of release. I was exhausted. And starving. But very, very happy.

We’re back now in Arillas, in northwestern Corfu, a place we’ve often stayed in. I’m writing this from the little café where I’ve played many concerts. The moment we walked in, both owners wrapped me in a hug. “As soon as you’re better,” they said, “you’ll have a concert here!”

And now—I feel real gratitude.
Not the acting “as if” kind.
The kind that rises up and fills your whole body.
The genuine kind that bursts from every cell in your body.