On movement, making, listening, and the quiet art of noticing.
Lately, as many Pilates teachers do, I’ve had repeated conversations with my students about the practice of noticing, or paying attention.
And funnily enough, the topic of awareness made me aware that conversations about attention have been circulating throughout my life: among friends, about our attention spans, attention disorders, our children’s attention, what we pay attention to in the news.
Why has it become such a hot topic lately? I think it’s because there isn’t enough focused attention.
Most of our attention goes to our phones, our responsibilities, or the endless list of things we need to accomplish. We let our minds wander from one thing to the next, or even to more than two things at once. But the kind of awareness we tend to neglect is noticing what is happening right in front of us, or perhaps more specifically, inside of us. The way our bodies feel when we wake up. The amount of pressure we apply when holding something delicate. The change in someone’s expression as we speak. The moment we realize we’re tired, even though we’ve spent the entire day convincing ourselves that we’re fine.
These may seem like small, trivial moments, and they’re easy to overlook.
But the more I teach Pilates, work with clay, and allow those practices to move me through the seasons of my life, the more I recognize how important attention and awareness are.
It is a skill I continue to cultivate, and one that has quietly shaped how I approach almost everything I do.
Paying Attention to the Body
One of the things I appreciate most about Contrology is that it asks us to pay attention. And I’m not just talking about the exercises themselves, but about the body moving through them.
There is a difference between completing ten repetitions of an exercise and being present for all ten.
Ask yourself—Can you move through an entire workout while thinking about your grocery list, the conversation you had earlier that morning, or what you need to get done when you get home? You may finish feeling like you’ve exercised, but how much of that experience were you actually present for?
Contrology asks something more of us.
It requires us to observe, without judgment, how our bodies move, how different parts work together, and what changes as we continue to practice.
Perhaps you notice that one foot presses more firmly into the Reformer footbar than the other. Or that your shoulders begin to tense when an exercise becomes difficult. Maybe something that felt effortless last week suddenly requires more concentration or effort today.
These observations are not necessarily problems that need to be corrected immediately.
They’re information.
And the more familiar we become with our bodies, the more we begin to recognize the subtle differences between one day and the next.
Your body isn’t supposed to feel the same every day.
Some mornings, you may feel strong and energetic. Other days, you may feel stiff, distracted, or tired. Perhaps you slept poorly, spent hours sitting at your desk, or are simply carrying more stress than usual.
That doesn’t mean your body has forgotten how to move, or that you’ve somehow lost the progress you’ve made.
It means you’re human.
The exercises may remain the same, but the person doing them is constantly changing.
This is one of the reasons I value returning to the same exercises again and again. Familiarity gives us something to measure our experiences against—not to judge ourselves, but to notice.
When the exercise is familiar, we have more room to pay attention to what is different.
And over time, those small observations become a deeper understanding of ourselves.
Paying Attention to the Material
I experience something incredibly similar when I work with clay.
At first glance, Pilates and ceramics may seem like two entirely different practices. One involves moving the body; the other involves creating something with our hands.
But both require a relationship between intention and response.
When I’m throwing on the wheel, I can’t simply decide what I want the clay to become and force it into that shape.
Well, I can try. But the clay will usually have something to say about it.
Too much pressure and the walls may collapse. Too little and the form may not develop as intended. If I move too quickly, I may lose the center. If I wait too long, the material may become too dry to work with in the way I had imagined.
The clay responds to pressure, moisture, timing, and the movement of my hands.
And I have to respond to it.
When you first throw on the wheel, there is a particular routine you always follow. You cut the clay and wedge it—basically, work it into a spiral-like ball—and prepare each piece so it can be thrown onto the center of the wheel. Then, with some water, you start spinning the wheel and work the clay toward its center, lifting it up and pressing it down until it feels stable.
This whole process is called wedging and centering: the prep and the start. If you’ve ever tried pottery, you’ll know exactly what I mean. It’s not easy, though it looks incredibly simple. Paying attention to the clay is half the battle, because the more you try to force it, the more it falls apart. But when you learn to move with the clay, centering becomes easier with practice.
Once the clay is centered, you would think it would behave. But often there are moments when I begin with a particular form in mind, only to realize halfway through that the clay wants to move in another direction. Sometimes I coax it, guiding it gently to where I want it to go. But more often than not, I have to stop trying to impose my original idea and start paying attention to what is actually happening.
That doesn’t mean abandoning intention.
It means understanding that intention alone is not enough.
Making something requires both direction and the willingness to respond.
I think the same is true of movement.
As students, we may think we know how our bodies feel before we start, but as we begin to move, we notice what’s working and what isn’t, what’s tight, what feels weak, what feels strong. We can notice all of this without judging ourselves for not “doing it right” or “needing to do it better.” Sometimes simply allowing it to be is enough, and moving as best we can is what matters most.
The same could be said for teachers. We may have an exercise in mind for a student, but once the student continues moving, we have to observe what is actually happening rather than insist on what we were taught to teach.
Sometimes, the body tells us something different.
And if we’re paying attention, we have an opportunity to learn from it.
Paying Attention to What We Need
I’ve also been thinking about how attention relates to the way we care for ourselves.
We live in a time when information about health and wellness is constantly available. There is no shortage of advice about what to eat, how to exercise, when to sleep, how many steps to take, or what our morning routines should look like.
And while some of this information can be helpful, I think it can also make it easy to mistake following a routine for understanding what we actually need.
We begin doing things because we’ve been told they’re good for us, rather than considering how they fit into our own lives.
Maybe you’ve committed to waking up at five every morning because someone said successful people wake up early. Or perhaps you’ve convinced yourself that every workout needs to leave you exhausted to be worthwhile.
But what happens when your body needs more sleep? When your schedule changes? When you now have pets or kids? When the routine that once served you no longer feels appropriate?
I don’t think the answer is to abandon structure or discipline.
In fact, I think structure can make us more attentive.
Having a consistent practice gives us an opportunity to recognize when something changes. It allows us to distinguish between the discomfort of doing something challenging and the feeling that something genuinely needs our attention.
There is a difference between not wanting to exercise because we’d rather stay comfortable and recognizing that our bodies need rest or a different quality of movement.
Learning to recognize that difference takes practice.
And sometimes, it requires us to be honest with ourselves in ways that aren’t particularly convenient.
Paying attention is not always about doing more. Sometimes, it means recognizing when we’re capable of doing more with less, without feeling the need to justify it.
At other times, it means pushing ourselves and challenging our limitations to go beyond what we thought we could.
The point is not to create a perfect routine.
It’s to develop a relationship with ourselves that allows us to make more informed choices.
Paying Attention to the People Around Us
During my recent trip to Korea, I found myself thinking about attention in another context: language.
Korean was actually my first language, but having grown up in Hawaiʻi, English naturally became the primary language I use in my everyday life.
Whenever I return to Korea, though, I’m reminded that knowing a language and moving comfortably within it are not always the same thing.
There are expressions I understand but wouldn’t naturally think to use. Words that carry slightly different meanings depending on the situation. Subtle changes in tone that communicate something beyond what is being said.
And, of course, the occasional moment when I realize I’ve misunderstood something entirely.
Speaking Korean requires me to listen a little differently.
I find myself paying closer attention to how people phrase their thoughts, when they pause, how they respond, and what they choose not to say.
Sometimes I have to resist the urge to respond immediately and allow myself a moment to understand what someone actually intends—and, in turn, to find what I’m actually trying to say.
It’s a different kind of concentration from the one I practice in Pilates or ceramics, but I think the underlying chord is similar.
We can become so accustomed to moving through familiar environments that we stop noticing the details.
When something requires more effort from us—whether it’s speaking another language, learning a new exercise, or working with an unfamiliar material—we’re reminded to pay attention again.
And perhaps that is one of the gifts of placing ourselves in situations where we aren’t entirely comfortable.
We become more curious.
We listen more carefully.
We remember that there is always something we don’t yet understand.
Attention as a Form of Care
The more I think about it, the more I realize that paying attention is one of the ways we demonstrate care.
As a teacher, it means observing the person in front of me and offering appropriate exercises and guidance when needed, rather than simply instructing bodies and teaching exercises for the sake of performing and progressing them.
It’s about knowing the why behind the what. And that deeper level of thinking can’t happen without paying attention to my own teachers and the lessons they teach me.
As a ceramic artist, it means respecting the material and allowing the process to inform the finished piece.
In my own health, it means recognizing what my mind and body needs rather than blindly following what I think I should be doing, or what I see online.
And in my relationships, it means listening to understand, not simply waiting for my turn to speak or trying to prove my point.
And guess what? None of these things require us to be perfect.
Just remember, perfection is an illusion, one that can never be attained.
In fact, I think attention becomes more valuable when we allow ourselves to be imperfect.
There will be days when I rush through my practice, become frustrated with a piece of clay, misunderstand someone’s words, or ignore the signs that I need to slow down.
But the beautiful thing about attention is that we can always return to it.
We can notice that we’ve become distracted and begin again.
Perhaps that’s what I appreciate most about having practices like Pilates and ceramics in my life. They give me opportunities to return to the present, to become curious about something familiar, and to recognize that even the smallest details can teach me something.
The more I practice, the more I understand that paying attention isn’t about controlling every outcome.
It’s about developing the ability to respond without friction to what is actually happening.
And sometimes, the most meaningful thing we can do for ourselves, our work, or the people around us is simply to notice.