The blog is still for the moment. I will be back in the New Year, maybe sooner. In the meantime, there is this:
Burning the Old Year
The blog is still for the moment. I will be back in the New Year, maybe sooner. In the meantime, there is this:
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for writing.
Thank you
for taking the time
to sing, to dance.
Thank you for sharing
your hopes, your dreams.
Thank you for finding
new ways of loving,
and being.
Thank you.
What I have noticed lately in myself is a strange stillness, an absence of movement. Once I noticed it, I began to feel it everywhere. At the computer, watching a movie, driving. It didn’t felt still, it felt frozen. I realized that certain activities take me into a state where even breathing is minimal, and the little postural shifts and breath related movement that Laban movement analysts identify as “shape flow” were not there.
Shape flow movements mean the body moving in relationship to the body itself. This could be amoebic movement or mundane habitual actions, like shrugging, shivering, rubbing an injured shoulder, little shifts and adjustments in a chair or standing etc. It includes breathing. It is a kind of baseline of aliveness, of life. Shape flow movements are also recuperative. They renew the body at the cellular level and keep us “in the flow” of life and liveliness. When shape flow is absent, the body has begun to atrophy. That is what I noticed.I was feeling a deadening, like cellular lockdown. Is that something that happens with aging, I wondered.
So I have started flowing, little movements, bigger breaths salted in with the smaller. Like a continual little improvisational dance with myself. Try it. See what happens.
My friend, the poet Carol Dine, sent me this poem.
Rock Me, Mercy: A Poem Written In Mourning
by Yusef Komunyakaa
The river stones are listening,
Because we have something to say.
The trees lean closer today.
The singing in the electrical woods has gone down.
It looks like rain, because it is too warm to snow.
Guardian angels, wherever you’re hiding,
We know you can’t be everywhere at once.
Have you corralled all the pretty, wild horses?
The memory of ants asleep,
And day lilies, roses, holly, and larkspur?
The magpies gaze at us,
Still waiting.
River stones are listening
But all we can say now is,
Mercy, please rock me.