Radio by the river    

I had no idea why, walking to the river at night. Cold air feels delicious in my lungs, winter will not hide me from nature. 
First there were benches; I climbed, I crawled, I span in crouched circles. Then growing tall into frosty air I sprang into dance, breath churning steam with vigour. Such freedom in dark night, disregarding of the office lights in view, the dog walkers passing on mobile phones. 
I bordered the river along its stone wall. The path blackened ahead of me and I imagined myself moving into the trees and their whispers ahead. But instead, as I passed the rowing club the surprise of radio pop took me and I burst into a wild dance beneath the high luminous window where machines huffed and puffed and rowers pulled and released. I danced like a child who knew only to be free and silly. As time passed the carefree tunes changed to the same, and above rose the steady sound of rowing machines. Like great industrial breath, or Darthvader. 
If you had caught glimpse of this scene, you would have seen tonight, the shadow of a curious figure traversing back and forth the underwall of the rowing club, casting huge circles of arms and spirals with each great huff and puff. (I saw it myself and fell in love with madness.) And with that you might have noticed the radio pop, and a little wider out the sacred trees in their darkness, while below the movement of the river beneath its surface so still. 
And there, we would have had to agree, it would be too serious a shame to not hear the call to play.

Morning eyes    

There is a remarkable difference in compassion for human existence if we take time to wake, to watch before we begin to assume our daily role. 
To notice ourselves before we have remembered what else we should be doing, to notice the world and the detail that lives in the assembled scene of any individual. By midday high sun conceals the freshness of each daily life remembering itself. By midday the revelation of waking has assumed itself normal. 
I love to sit in small street cafes at the early morning crossroads. I notice through the window the devoted mother as she trails two twins to school, the care to clothe them prettily; later I may see her alone behind the counter of the bookshop. I admire the young girl with a baby on her hip, whose loyal spaniel pauses, sits, turns its head and awaits cue to cross the road by her side. 
Colours, speeds, height, hats, my eyes glue to variety with admiration. I catch my own mind stray to assemble a list of tasks and I pull it back to center. Wait, look, listen. Empty moments of vast potential reveal what is already beautiful.

Life waking up    

Where does the silence at the core of our dance meet story? I’m curious if through feeling into past story we can grow backwards and feed it forwards. A poetic glance back at my young experience of 2005, cultural/media influence, and saving grace.
–  –  –  –  –  –  
I remember being that age.
The age of smalling with lightness, before the wide open doors.
The eyes in the cafes, in the glassed bistros, and the boutiques of held breath couldn’t help but drown themselves in shared envy of what is never-to-keep,
The age of wide open doors.

Behind the bright future,
Jeans suffocating thin thighs, the tall boots, a side of suede/a side of fur thrown around my clavicle.
On glossed-print blue-skied London winter days you could be fooled,
But life is of breath.
Remember life is of breath.

Shrinking cells do not even hope to fight behind the tight hug of enamored glory as denim edge cuts to the marrow of hips,
As the high street throws images from window people, down with their reflection upon your shadow,
Where comparison is taught to conquer.

But one day, hidden in the impoverished exchange between the ribs, across alveoli,
Between tight fitting absent appearances at weekend coffee and lunch, between the lost rigid questions of where will it begin, when will it end,
And who will ever find me,
A sharp slap of winter wind crossing the river bridge throws itself upon you like a merciless mother wanting only your very life.

Already gone, to the space behind,
While you linger in the still shock of love.
The skin-tight clavicle falls down resting back into the wings around your own spine,
And within, a living journey has entered,
Greeting every cell.
Breathe, breathe
Know me over and over
I am of life.
–  –  –  –  –  –  

A wider view    

The gift came yesterday, the zooming out of my own seriousness, as my chain fell off while cycling up a steep hill against the faultless blue sky of a Devonshire day. Just as my complaints tried to find some ethereal management with whom to reckon, the aerial view opened up within my mind. There I noticed, like a musical piece or a film scene, how the interruption in fact added a certain quality of entertainment. A pause, or a hiccup adds variety to the smooth running. How could I reject this? My grumbles turned to laughter and I even found enjoyment when it recurred several yards later.
It could be the ‘near’ nature of modern life; the screens, the walls, the importance of I, but I can’t help notice how serious life is when I’m contained to the top-upper portion of my body – my head. Yet to include the full perimeter to heels and back offers instant relaxation, and add to that the geographical perspective to see my reality as a dot cycling back and forth through country lanes of cows and sheep the story is a but visual work of art for my own amazement.
For my class tonight I had toyed earlier with including all aspects ourselves in dance. From today’s perspective, it seems that INclusion’s curious piece is to include the out. I think we’ll begin by taking a good soft focused look at the fields around us and find ourselves within the full frame.

Page 9 of 14« First...789101112...Last »
Workshops Soulmotion Accessories