(Recommended reading at the bottom of this article.) When I was a child, I used to sit on the floor, cross-legged, and, unintentionally, rock back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth. I would always wander off into a daydream whilst doing this, and I never knew I was rocking until I came back from the daydream and caught myself rocking. My mum would hate it. I remember her walking into my bedroom more than once, because I did not respond to her calling my name (I didn’t hear her – I was off dreaming), and she’d find me rocking. She’d exhale sharply, and say, “For goodness sake, stop rocking like that – you look like one of those neglected orphan children!” I suppose I had a sad look on my face? I never really knew what she meant, but it obviously pressed her buttons (more than once). For some reason she associated rocking with trauma. I never felt sad or lost (or traumatised) while rocking, or daydreaming. I felt calm and balanced. I rocked a lot, right up until my teena