1. It’s The Thought That Counts
Mentally rehearsing movements you have done previously can give you a distinct advantage in your training. The process of imagining a movement activates exactly the same brain regions that become active during real play. This means that executed and imagined movements are almost identical as far as the brain is concerned. For example, researchers found out that the level of performance after five days of motor imagery is equivalent to three days of physical practice. Adding one day of physical practice to five days of motor imagery is equivalent to practicing for five full days!

Although mental practice plays a powerful role in skill acquisition, motor imagery can only be beneficial if you have a minimum level of competency at a skill. Motor imagery cannot be constantly substituted for physical practice but rather performed in addition to and in preparation for it.

2. Seeing Is Doing
You can benefit by paying close attention to your teacher, your peers and Bruce Lee. The process of watching someone else perform an action automatically simulates the action in your brain. The higher your level of expertise in an observed skill, the deeper your level of perception of a skilled performance you witness.

3. Breath To Connect Mind To Body
Taking six breaths a minute, rather than ten, can set your autonomic nervous system which answers for heart rates, oxygen consumption, etc. in balance, leading to structural changes in your brain. The authors quote a study showing that long hours of breathing and mindfulness lead to an enlarged right frontal insula and left prefrontal cortex associated with feelings of joy and happiness.

Four years later, at a Forum “Update on Central Asia: Security, Stability, and US Policy” held at the Central Asia-Caucasus Institute on September 23, Cohen along with his colleagues Alexandros Petersen, Atlantic Council and Ambassador Peirre Morel, EU Special Envoy for Central Asia lamented the absence of an official, formulated foreign policy and active engagement of the United States and the EU in Central Asia. How could a region that is so strategically and geopolitically important in relation to Russia, Afghanistan, China and Iran be continuously overlooked? The experts warned that passive and disengaged policy could lead to dangerous outcomes in Central Asia, which with Taliban take over, risks becoming the frontline of war on terror in post-conflict Afghanistan.

Policy experts also pointed out that U.S. policy is based on much ado about Russia. They encouraged “reimagining Eurasia” and approaching Central Asian countries based on merit, rather than their relationship with Russia.

In trying to formulate their recommendations, however, the experts made the same mistakes on which they called out policy-makers. In a two-hour presentation they failed to mention a single Central Asian merit, other than gas.

A FEW DAYS after Turkmenbashi’s sudden death Former Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin, Russian Prime Minister Mikhail Fradkov and Gazprom head, Alexei Miller attended the funeral in Ashgabad. The Chinese delegation to the funeral was, by far, the largest foreign contingent. Chinese policy-makers steer clear of touchy issues such as human rights and civil society development. Likewise, fellow counterparts in Russia have proved themselves ready to sell out on these issues. Perhaps, in advocating for a sincere relationship with Central Asian countries, experts should focus on ramifications and responsibilities that come with that kind of commitment, unless, of course, they want a policy in Central Asia that mirrors US policy towards Saudi Arabia.

Kuzminki Park

I watched poplar fur fall from the sky and pile up on the side of the pavement. Springtime has shaken the city like a little snowball, sending Russian poplar fairies in all directions at the whim of the wind. As I watched Moscow’s summer snow fall from the poplar tree, a young man sitting on the nearest bench walked over to the tree and relieved himself. Very casually. As if he were in his own house. As if I didn’t exist.

While I debated whether or not to stay seated or continue making my way home, an elderly woman approached my bench. She looked dazzled and out of breath. Sitting beside me, she whispered in a coarse voice. “I’m not feeling well!”

“Perhaps, I can get you some water,” I offered immediately.

But the elderly lady didn’t seem to pay attention. “My daughter is in the hospital. She’s giving birth.”

“That’s great! Congratulations!”

The old lady didn’t seem to be so pleased. “Will you be here for a while?” she said taking out her wallet.

“I was just leaving,” I said looking at her bag.  I noticed something heavy in it. She followed my gaze and took out a can of pickled tomatoes and cucumbers.

“Oh, I feel so awful! I need something to drink.” At this point, she looked like she was going to collapse – her face was pale, she spoke so slowly and quietly I could barely make out the words.  Her balding white head was slowly sinking.

I looked around for the nearest kiosk wondering where I could get some water.

“I bought this. It will help,” said the old lady taking out half a litter bottle of vodka and opening it immediately. She put the bottle right next to me. “I need to drink,” said the old lady still holding the can of pickles. I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the vodka or the rassol in her hand.

“Can you please open this?” she asked the poplar offender to my right.  “She hasn’t given birth in 10 years and now this! I feel sick,” she said as the poplar offender tried to open the can.

“I guess you’re gonna have to drink this without a chaser, grandma,” said the poplar offender giving her the can back.

“Take care!” I said leaping off the bench like a poplar fairy that got picked up by the fresh spring breeze and exited the stage.

“Wait! Where?! What the hell does this mean? I don’t get it!” I heard her yell as I disappeared into the light fairy filled air.

The End.

"Moscow is Mourning" screen at Kurskaya metro stop

Today felt much like September 11^th – confusion mixed with sadness, panic and fear. These feelings don’t come at once, but slowly sink in until you feel heavy and overladen with inanities. Can you comprehend murder?

All day I sat still in my empty office, in a quiet elektrichka cart, in front of the TV set, I sat shocked and paralyzed just as I did two months after I moved to the US. On September 11^th, I was in my history class at school. I heard a faint sound and could see the smoke from Pentagon, I cried with my classmates as they tried to reach their parents. It seems ever since that day, I desperately tried to understand the world we live in, but couldn’t.

I only knew that tragic events made me feel close to my classmates. I also felt that if something terrible like this happened in Washington, DC and New York, it could happen anywhere – Madrid, Islamabad, Moscow – and it did, again two months after I got off my plane.

Ukrainian flags bear black laces in mourning

I learned about the March 29^th attacks over breakfast, so I didn’t ride the metro, I took the elektrichka instead. On his way to school my cousin gets off at the Park Kultury metro stop, where one of the attacks occurred. Luckily for him, classes started late today. These escapes seem so narrow – if it happened in Park Kultury, it could happen in Kuzminki; if it happened to so many people, it could happen to you and me. Will it? Tell me it won’t! Tell me people will stop killing each other; tell her politicians will seize warmongering. Make these fratricidal and androphomaniac acts stop. Until then, I remain utterly stupefied, so full of it all, ready to explode from within.

So tonight I wonder if this is how these female suicide bombers feel. Unable to fathom and live in a world that would let their husbands and sons die. With nothing left to give, they take away.

It’s the easiest thing – to kill.  Try forgiveness…

The following action poetry short is our interpretation of The Black Man, perhaps the most famous of Sergey Yesenin’s poems. Below is an English translation for your convenience. I might add subtitles to the short, if anyone is interested.

My friend, my friend,
I am very sick. Nor do I know
Whence came this sickness.
Either the wind whistles
Over the desolate, uninhabited field,
Or as September strips a copse,
Alcohol strips my brain.

My head waves my ears
Like a bird its wings.
Unendurably it looms my neck
When I walk.
The black man,
The black, black,
Black man
Sits by me on the bed all night,
Won’t let me sleep.

This black man
Runs his fingers over a vile book,
And, twangling above me,
Like a sleepy monk over a corpse,
Reads a life
Of some drunken wretch,
Filling my heart with longing and despair.
The black man,
Oh black man.

“Listen, listen”–
He mutters to me –
The book is full of beautiful
Plans and resolutions.
This fellow lived
His life in a land of most repulsive
Thieves and charlatans.

And in that land the December snow
Is pure as the very devil,
And the snowstorms drive
Merry spinning-wheels.
This man was an adventurer,
Though of the highest
And the best quality.
Oh, he was elegant,
And a poet at that,
Albeit a slight
But useful gift.
And some woman,
Of forty or so,
He called his “naughty girl,”
His “love.”

Happiness–he said–
Is a quickness of hand and mind.
Slow fools are always
Known for being unhappy.
heartaches, we know,
Derive
From broken, lying gestures,

At thunder and tempest,
At the world’s coldheartedness,
During times of heavy loss
And when you’re sad
The greatest art on earth
Is to seem uncomplicatedly gay.

“Black man!
Don’t you dare!
You do not live as
A deep-sea diver.
What’s the life
Of a scandalous poet to me?
Please read this story
To someone else.”

The black man
Looks me straight in the eye
And his eyes are filled
With blue vomit–
As if he wants to say,
I’m a thief and rogue
Who’d robbed a man
Openly, without shame.

Ah friend, my friend,
I am very sick. Now do I know
Whence came this sickness.
Either the wind whistles
Over the desolate uninhabited field,
Or as September strips a copse,
Alcohol strips my brain.

The night is freezing
Still peace at the crossroads.
I am alone at the window,
Expecting neither visitor nor friend.
The whole plain is covered
With soft quick-lime,
And the trees, like horsemen,
Assembled in our garden.

Somewhere a night bird,
Ill-omened, is sobbing.
The wooden riders
Scatter hoofbeats.
And again the black
Man is sitting on my chair,
He lifts his top hat
And, casual, takes off his cape.

“Listen! listen!”–he croaks,
Eyes on my face,
Leaning closer and closer.
I never saw
Any scoundrel
Suffer so stupidly, pointlessly,
From insomnia.

Well, I could be wrong.
There is a moon tonight.
What else is needed
By your sleep-drunken world?
Perhaps, “She” will come,
With her fat thighs,
In secret, and you’ll read
Your languid, carrion
Verse to her.

Ah, how I love these poets!
A funny race!
I always find in them
A story known to my heart–
How a long-haired monster
Profusing sexual languor
Tells of worlds
To a pimply girl-student.

I don’t know, don’t remember,
In some village,
Kaluga perhaps, or
Maybe Ryazan,
There lived a boy
Of simple peasant stock,
Blond-haired
And angel-eyed…

And he grew up,
Grew up a poet
Of slight but
Useful talent,
And some woman,
Of forty or so,
He called his “naughty girl,”
His “love.”

“Black man!
Most odious guest!
Your fame has long resounded.”
I’m enraged, possessed,
Amd my cane flies
Straight across
The bridge of his nose.

The moon has died.
Dawn glimmers in the window.
Ah, night!
Look, night, what have you done?
I stand in a hat.
No one is with me.
I am alone…
And the mirror is broken.

If you answered yes then according to the latest scientific research you feel lack of control in your life. A research study called “Lacking Control Increases Illusory Pattern Perception” by Jennifer Whitson and Adam Galinsky reported in Scientific American, February 2010 issue describes how lack of control in our lives leads to an exerted effort to seek out patterns in a random set of stimuli to regain control, otherwise known as compensatory control. As the authors wrote: “We suggest that a lack of control provokes seeing and seeking patterns because pattern perception is a compensatory mechanism designed to restore feelings of control.” Moreover, the researchers claim that people who feel a lack of control are easily susceptible to superstition and conspiracy theories. In one of the six conducted experiments, people who had recalled an experience in which they lack control perceived a significantly greater connection between two unrelated events than those who recalled an experience where they felt in control.

Setting aside the controversial nature of research methods, I wonder about the extent to which one can interpret and push the results of the study. So to answer my own question in the beginning of this piece – all the time! I space out, I see a horse on the moon, a female face on my wooden door and dollar bills on toilet paper to mention just a few.  To be short, I’ve been “patternizing” as long as I can remember! Does that mean I’ve been feeling out of control all my life? Do people make art because they simply feel out of control? What about children who find hearts in the sky? Okay, I get the potheads and the religious freaks, although even these cases are somewhat debatable. But overall, I think its quite dangerous to make such sweeping generalizations about causality between lack of control and illusory pattern perception.

There is a concept in psychology called Gestalt from German “Gestalten” or complete pattern. According to this theory, our mind insists on finding patterns in things. This theory has been studied and applied to work with people and organizations to achieve personal growth and interpersonal awareness. If it is indeed in our nature to see patterns, I believe the authors are not the exception. I think I’ll stop writing now before I loose control.

Indeed, social work is not the most prestigious activity – you can’t boast about building an orphanage or helping disabled people, migrants, and youth at a cocktail party. But that is exactly the type of work our organization and many others strive to accomplish.

The concepts of volunteering, Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR), NGOs are slowly gaining momentum, but it’s painful to watch this process. The West uses NGOs as development tools, channeling loads of money into social projects in Russia. In addition, CSR is on the rise as Russia’s top oligarchs and corporations are forced to invest in social projects by Putin. As for the people – they have to trust the development process and although they may be unwilling and skeptical they will be forced to make a radical shift in ideology.

So esteemed colleagues and dear relatives, I finally have a good answer for you – Im here to help Mr. Putin.

I join the flow, carefully shuffling my feet on the slippery sidewalk. My gaze held on the pavement, I cling to my bag with both hands. The wind is picking up and it feels like -18 C, my thin grey coat is not enough to keep me warm. I can hear my grandma’s voice saying in my head: “Everyone wears fur coats and dublenkas in the winter time, your coat is good for the summer.” I can also hear my aunt saying: “Wear my fur coat!” I resist. I walk away, determined to wear my own clothes and not to borrow anything. You see, I was once told I look Soviet in my grey coat. That’s just what I need – a camouflage, a painless assimilation. Instead, I stand out in my thin, “summer” coat.

Walking past the restaurants and cafes without stopping is a challenge. In the morning there is always the sweet smell of dough – vareniki, pirozhki, blini – and in the evening it is replaced by strong, luring aroma of meat – kebobs and burgers. I want to follow the smell, like a stray dog, I salivate. A girl slips on the sidewalk just in front of me, and so I lower my eyes again and try to keep them on the pavement.

Inside the metro, no more pugnacious air or morning bumper car games, only slow mechanical movements. People, like robots walk home in rush hour. I clutch my bag on the ride to Kuzminki. From the metro I walk through the neighborhood to my aunt’s on Volzhskiy Blvd. Next to our apartment building and adjacent to the local school, an ice-skating rink full of little bundled up pupsik babies awkwardly trying themselves on skates. And parents – wary but vigilant, watching over like hawks. I walk past the rink and straight to my apartment.

So I go to the 3rd Cheesemeat Street past the wine factory, making sure I don’t accidently end up on 1st or 2nd Cheesemeat Street. I make sure to read the street names, afraid to end up on either the Upper Cheesemeat Street or the Lower Cheesemeat Street. Past the sleeping stray dogs, hungry ole crows and poor babushkas selling homemade sweets, I walk to my office on Cheesemeat Street.