Discovering the fire of our boundaries

Photo: Roger Bygott

For much of my life—perhaps in common with many—I shied away from anger.  

Buried deep in my cultural conditioning was the belief that anger was wrong; for me, it was inextricably linked to fear and shame. I was afraid of the subversive edges of anger, of its excess and power. I was afraid it would repel those close to me. I was afraid that if I showed anger or expressed it explicitly, I’d be rejected.

But—dramatic though it might sound—in that avoidance and suppression, I was rejecting myself. Or, at least, a part of myself.

It was on a dance floor, in the middle of a workshop exploring movement and the emotions, that I had my first breakthrough with anger. We were invited to dance with a specific experience that had made us angry. When I witnessed my physical sensations and the emotions they provoked, I was amazed. I felt clear, passionate and alive. At the same time, I felt grounded and calm. It not only felt acceptable it was pleasurable to experience anger and express it with my body, to allow its sounds to come, uncensored, out of my mouth—as a scream, as a shout, as a curse.  

The pleasure, I worked out later, was partly release—a letting go of held-back feelings. It was also connected with fully experiencing my emotional truth, rather than shove it below the surface, pretending it didn’t exist.  As Gabrielle Roth (the late founder of the conscious movement practice 5Rhythms) puts it: ‘Anger is an integrity-producing response to the invasion of your personal boundaries.’ 

If we can engage with anger in a healthy way, one that comes from the core of own truth, then these fiery boundaries keep us safe. We allow ourselves to feel and speak our anger, knowing that we have the right to express our opinion, our position, our disagreement—without having to explain or justify—simultaneously respecting the rights of the other person to own their experience. Anger (the blaming, critical, harmful kind) when reframed (as a clean expression of needs, preferences and limits), is a vehicle for respecting ourselves and others.

In the movement ‘maps’ of the 5 Rhythms practice, anger is associated with the rhythm of Staccato—characterised by clear, angular movements that are unambiguous and expressive: a karate-like movement with the arm, the trajectory of elbows or knees or forearms through the air: chop, chop, chop.  If you are someone for whom boundaries can be fuzzy, Staccato movements are an excellent practice. In that rhythm, our ‘no’ is clear: defined, energetic and forward moving.  But you don’t have to get onto a dance floor to practice the rhythm of Staccato, or to express the limits of your boundaries or anger.  The joy of ‘no’, I have discovered, is that it preserves my integrity and makes my ‘yes’ even more precious. Saying no, feeling that fiery protectiveness, is a way of honouring what I stand for and who I am. 

Years on from that dance workshop experience, I still have a way to go.  I have to work hard, even now, to stay conscious of my conditioning. But, for all that, I am reconfiguring my relationship with anger. What I have realised is that to accept and express anger is to live life more fully; and that to integrate anger (when appropriately expressed) is to fully feel alive:

Staccato is about not only getting in touch with your energies and passions, but expressing them to others, projecting yourself into the outside world. Staccato is about doing, not just being; taking action, not just thinking about it.  

Gabrielle Roth, Sweat Your Prayers: Movement as Spiritual Practice.

These days, I’m more in touch with the connection—in my heart as well as in my body—between the energy of anger and the joy of articulating who I am. I also feel that I am more readily truthful to who I am. Rather than being tinged with shame or fear, anger has become a doorway: an opportunity to step over a threshold and into the passion of expression, to be integrated, fully human and whole.