On writing, dancing.. being artfully attentive.    

Let’s talk about writing. It’s a long story hey? But we can’t tell it that way, or we’d wear ourselves out, and get lost along the way.
Writing is like the best lessons in life, simple, honest and like a parabola that begins with the smallest solitary detail, and takes a journey to find itself home again in the heart of the universe. 
Writing begins from a love affair with silence, and in there the voice you’ll hear dances with words.
Writing is a sanctuary that calls the soul back, to slow down thoughts on the darkest of days. It can craft the shadow into clear form; writing is an attention that shines light on space.
Can you trust that your reader is your most intimate companion? Their mystery is your blessing. Your voice addresses your fullest self, it dares to include the parts you never before knew, and the ‘Other’ out there (beautifully beyond your control is their response). It addresses the silence you hear after your words. 
There you will see in the full vulnerability of your expression to the world, there is nothing of yourself to defend, only expression that disappears into the vastness.
You have no purpose but to stay true.

Water Dancing    

The sea has churned grey. We met again today within the tumbling of waves. Swimming was a past-time of the calm lapping summer season but autumn is for playful diving, rolling, and the willingness to be knocked-down, only to be lifted up again by the same conqueror. 
One day I shall run a dance term that begins on the ocean shore. We will lie tuning breath as an offering to the ocean to roll us back and forth, and over and under. We will learn about gravity as the waves throw their natural force to ground, and in their release we’ll feel the soft rising. We’ll take refuge in being carried in all directions with the certainty of spiral force in our rebound. And we’ll discover how we can riff with the ocean’s motion and add our own moving tune, to see the water rush in to support every twist and turn.
There is an old Taoist tale of the man who plays with the force of a powerful waterfall. He is feared dead, seen from high above, beaten by the power of water. When he climbs out relaxed, a wise leader Confucius and his men rush to examine him. He tells them this, 
‘I learned to follow the nature of water. When force drives me down, I know the reverb will lift me up. I anticipate it. I don’t manipulate it, I let it have its way. It is a friend.’
Water dancing lessons for life.

Autumn’s Call    

Today the wind arrived, loudly. ‘I am autumn’ he called, ‘and here I am.’ The cows did not notice, their heads hung low chewing cud in fields still green.
I heard it. Plump from the summer heat I heard the calling to drop like a fig to the ground and prepare for seasons of lying low, roasting before night fires where sunsets once gleamed. 
My solitude loved summer passionately; the long cycling evenings, the wild camping and sea swimming. Even when shared with friends the silent embrace of nature was ours alone. A return to mother’s arms.
Tonight between the woodland path and hills I saw my daily cycle ride slipping away, as I raced the earlying nightfall, listening for summer in the air like a lover that left before I knew. Cycling has become my practice, dawn or dusk, a daily contemplation where pushing pedals turns creativity through my mind, and down the hills a still silence moves fast. 
Three glorious months of sunshine surprise have followed each other, and now for change. It was this time last year I clung to memories of California like a child refusing to take part in the game. But the intimate nature of life in this small town has invited me inwards, into a life where I ask myself questions less with doubt and more with courage. Questions where my edges can grow and life can be met. I used to write these posts alone, happy with creativity for my partner but tonight I complete this as  Adam arrives home to me.
I’m grateful that today I trust to welcome change. I greet and bow down to autumn, with his loud arrival and trust there are rich chapters to come.

Revolutions of the heart    

There is something in the texture of air on a warm summer’s night that reminds me, as I stand on my doorstep and we kiss goodbye, as one arm reaches up the tall door frame and then the other rises out into the space before to wave his car goodbye. A simple reminder. My eyes fall on the lights that move out into the darkness. My arm is still waving, now in tune with my sway against the doorframe and distant sight of the car. The reminders are playful in the warm air; freedom sings. Air beckons. I told you just last week of the sadness of a final farewell. Soon after, the curiosity arrived. Farewell to what? An old chapter, a redundant way of seeing. There is a certain space that can grow when we shed a layer, and to my surprise I found I could include the excluded. My capacity has become bigger than I knew. That night it was the heat in the parking lot that encouraged me; I tell you, trust the sensations and physical world. After the dance class the rising warmth of baked tarmac amidst sunset air reminded me to feel. Sit here and speak it invited. We sank to the ground, I remembered the hard and tiny perforations of tarmac texture from childhood playgrounds. It left its familiar marks on my skin, they were comforting and nearly distracting in that moment. There is a vulnerability in speaking up when it might be too late. But in an undeniable moment I saw a man clearly, who has taught me this last year with his love. I asked for the chance to offer that back, now that I am changed for it, apprenticed in new ways of sharing. I saw that every story needs to complete a full revolution, writing teaches me that. The beauty is, that as every story completes its revolution, the learning and growing has widened it a little, and there it becomes a spiral, with no end. Forever opening.

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