Movement: The mimic of a bird, fluttering of arms to flight. One foot in front of the other and then the other, and then the other to reach no particular destination. A reach across the table toward your lover whom you are deciding to trust, or not to trust. A pet of the neck, a purse of the lips- no matter. Slow, decisive transformation of the composition of your body, and thereby your mind from a state of meltdown, to stand-up, by a simple raising of the hips. A whisk away, a stark jaunt toward, a slow curl of your eyes, to or fro, lifting the ground upward to meet the eyes of another, the sky, the air, sometimes filled with the essences of flowers, sometimes wrought with filth and stains marked, unwashed by humanity- each filled with their own irreverent, inequitable beauty. The nose that rises to meet the smell of a memory- fresh basil in the garden, sweat from your lovers pits, the stank of machines from which we are surrounded.
Movement: The act of swallowing- definitively ushering meaning to the word: palpable. The only, the sole- precursor to: Shifts of emotion, wellness of the body, alignment of self, aid to another, love, grace, recognition of beauty, acceptance of pain, the moments you can melt into and just feel, “I am so deeply taken.”
At times, I stubbornly resist the execution- however steady, reliable and measured the outcomes. I will fight what is trusted, inevitable and known- sitting in the muck of my emotion, curling my body inward, allowing the sometimes treacherous evolution of thought to wash over and command me- until by some great force I can override the inactivity and begin to slowly wiggle my way to feeling alive. I am brought back whole and well, with a stretch of the toes, arch of the back, opening of the jaw, expansion of the sternum. I can decide to move forward, to meet reality in all its crude delight and begin to shift into a grounded body, alive and in awe- in celebration of existence and the loves with whom I’m surrounded.
In my early 20’s, I discovered yoga. These strange acts of breath and posture- simple arms found to gather and direct all the energy I hold inside- or beautiful hands made to softy hold and sit with that which is important to feel at length.
I came to understand my emotional state of being, always so directly and clearly impacted by the ways in which I am or am not moving my body. I am overwhelmingly grateful for the thoughts and internal dialogue that come to process with each meeting of a movement-from the quickening of my heart, to a muscle sprawled against its edges. The sweet accomplishment and sensations of grace that accompany an override of an “I can’t,” or an “I’m not,” when they become an “I do,” or an “I am.”
I come to these understandings again and again- both when the days are hard to face and as well, when they are bright and full of ease. I carried them on our bike adventure and was reminded of them intimately- in the early mornings, while my lover was trying to desperately organize us to get on the road and I was melting with exhaustion in the wet and cold; in the afternoons, as we confronted the rolling hills, the surging traffic, the approaching sundown and there was charm and warmth; and in the evenings when we were very close to our destinations, but maybe not that close and there were short fuses and feelings of accomplishment- or sometimes not.
And upon our return- having ridden some hundreds of miles, from Bellingham, Washington to just past the California/Oregon border- the days which I imagined would be so relaxing, so much more physically at ease… aren’t. They aren’t harder either.. or that much different, really- except that we are surrounded by different people and an array of different businesses, parks, restaurants, trees, flowers and all around visual landscapes. And except that we are living our days mostly inside- quietly sneaking time to spend with the sky. But the rest of it- sometimes fighting through a morning to find movement, sometimes being so taken by the grace and love and smell of an afternoon- the differences are only marked by the effort taken or not taken- to move, or not to move.
If you move- you get up the hill.. however slowly. However many breaks you take and however many times you find, love, grace, pain or pleasure during the ride. If you don’t move- the day passes you by.. and the hill still lies before you.. and you will sooner or later, have to decide to face it.
This week, in the studio I am dedicating my practice to making pieces about movement. Stay tuned.
Sparkle Bam Pow! Jewelry, Metalsmithing, Art. 