Ephemeral Movement

Tag: motherhood

  • Respite: Little Doorways of Awareness

    Summer heat waves.

    Wildfire smoke.

    Late nights, early mornings.

    The never-ending to-do’s.

    I am tired. I can barely drag myself out of bed in the morning and conjure up a snack for the toddler. It takes all of me to pour a cup of coffee that I can barely even sip.

    I slowly gain speed through the morning, hitting dips of lethargy and then wondrous moments of energy that are notable due to their rarity. Like how I rally to make breakfast or get out the door for an errand or adventure. I feel like a heavy, water-logged and sunken canoe.

    So far, it seems like some of the most nourishing moments are those spent at the river. We pack snacks and gear up in the cart and find a nice spot with a sandy beach and plenty of rocks to toss. I dunk myself into the cold waters and the little one wades and keeps testing how close he can throw the biggest rocks.

    When I dunk myself in the water, it wakes me up and clears away the stagnant energy. It makes me feel supple and young again. I feel connected to source, a timeless giving energy. When I dunk myself, I ask the river to take away my worries, my illness, my fatigue. I feel embraced by the river banks, the grasses and willows and sand and wind.

    Being in nature, the more untouched and wild bits, is rejuvenating. It resets something in my brain and soul. Even though I’m still tired, I don’t feel as heavy. I feel purified.

    And of course, the river is great because it’s a perfect playmate. It tuckers the little one out for nap time. And then I can escape to the basement and find my way to embodied play and exploration. I often only dance for 10-20 minutes, the latter being more rare and exceptional.

    Lately, my body pulls me downward and I’m trying to dance the dance of air, of levity, of wakefulness. Grace feels far from me as I lumber and heave myself through space seeking respite from gravity. This postpartum mom bod is heavy. I love her, me, that is. I do by best to take care of myself through remembering to eat or trying to do vigorous dance videos or yoga flows on youtube in the living room.

    But, the play and practice in the basement brings me somewhere the youtube exercise videos cannot. It brings me into the wild nature of my own animal body and allows me the spaciousness to practice letting it be how it pleases. Like a cat that stretches and plays when the time feels right, I expand and contract exploring movement that fills the corners and crevices of my being.

    How often do we leave whole zones of our body out-of-touch? How tender it is to notice and fill the space with presence. I lend these places my compassion, my witnessing. “I see you, let me hold you close”.

    Sometimes, this dance feels like taking myself by the hand and unconditionally loving all the little bits of myself. The invisible, the uncomfortable, the ashamed, the tender places of fresh growth.

    These little moments, at the river, in the basement, on walks to the park, sitting out front eating homemade popsicles: life-giving. I aim for them, seek them out, magnetize my awareness to the fleeting glimmers. Each one an opportunity to arrive anew.

  • Practices in Love

    Vulnerability.

    I like this word partly because it can feel hard to do, difficult to be.

    It’s also, impossible not to be; can truly be so easy.

    As a mother, vulnerability is many things. I feel so much love I could spill over and often do. Sometimes, I’m brought to tears when I watch my son sleep or do really anything at all. How is it possible to love this much? I expand and fill space like never before, my supple form a soft pillow to the sharp edges of the world. My heart never-ending. My arms more encompassing. My capacities widening and deepening like water seeping into porous spaces.

    I feel thin, fragile, like I could shatter when my toddler screeches and screams; decibels that grate through my spine. Or when he throws his body around and thwacks my head just perfectly to elicit the sharpest pain and the quickest tears. In these moments, I try to remember to breathe, to get down on his level, to become supple again for him to lean into and for myself to fill.

    Fleshy, penetrable, perceiving, we can’t not feel, react, respond. Maybe sometimes it’s with more skill and composure than others, but all interaction is a series of action. The more I lean into my capability to be vulnerable, the more supple and receiving to life I feel, the more connected, thoughtfully responsive, generative and patient I can be.

    My son teaches me about relationship. His requests are so clear if I slow to listen and they are always about connection. We work together to solve whatever arises. I take those moments of the simplicity of request of my toddler into my life with others, or try to. How can I be more patient, listen and really hear my partner or family or friends? I try to ask clarifying questions and repeat back what I hear, to gather information with receptive eyes, body language, and intuition, just like I would in a client session. It makes me laugh a little at the simplicity of skills in theory and the gravity of them in practice. Listening truly is a skill. I often find I have more patience for my son than I do for anyone else. So I reflect, practice, and try again.

    I take these reflections into my movement practice. I slow, listen internally, listen to the space around me, watch the wind. I respond to any felt sense, follow the kinesthetic delight, wait for whatever tugs me forward. What is it to truly be somewhere, to listen with all of the body and be moved by the presence of other in the more-than-human world. Taking off the tunnel-vision visor of human to human seeing and peering beyond into the vibrant world that surrounds. The glowing coffee mug, the sparkling leaves, the angle of the light.

    External stimuli can be just as informative to our state of being as the more inward check-ins of body scans and internal sensing. A magical relationship unfolds when we slow to listen and respond with care. The gentler we are with ourselves and others the more impossible it is to not feel how connected we are. Which doesn’t necessarily mean we have control over all the feelings and reactions, but it does allow us to at least name them and move through them.

    Being vulnerable means being receptive, responsive, open to authenticity. We allow ourselves to be moved by the world around us and ultimately feel more at one with everything in a simple yet profound way. Offering our attention to our space, the people around us, and ourselves cultivates a sacredness even in the mundane. In the end, it’s venerable to practice vulnerability.