Movement, for me, is a form of sacred (sacral - rooted) communion with the world where the edges of personal experience blur with (an) Other(s).
I’m not moving so much as being moved by place and peoples.
Tree's presence in-forms my shape - from the smells that subtly arouse memory to the oxygen sourced by a collaboration between my lungs and atmospheric pressure. From the contours of the ground underfoot articulating my muscles in distinct ways to the branches sweeping low, governing how I shift my limbs directionally.
The impressions left by my moving body equally in-form the movement of other peoples. Fox picks up my scent at the tree that lives along the path of their daily migration. Ants adjust to ravines my feet have left in their dancing wake. Birds sift through the upturned compost for disturbed insects.
Movement is one of the ways we story-with the world - mattering patterns of change and adaptation.
The spark of that initial breath (following us as long as our bodies are capable of receiving) invites our co-participation.
Movement, from its subtlest articulations to its grandest expressions, feels like such a holy rebellion, these days. A way to say yes to transformative forces embedded within our precarious existence. Forces like joy and grief; rage and fear.
How we move with and are moved by the world matters. Movement is an ancient agent of creation dwelling in the fallow ground of fecund becomings.
From heartbeats and shifting gazes to stomping feet and serpentine-ing spines, movement sings songs of futuristic ancestry prophesied by the dead that imbue our cells with life.
Photo by my love Matt modified with the app Prisma