Category Archives: dance

She is quickly…

dance 3

Here pulls a pulse, without and within you

harder than words and

softer than shadow in a warm, sun-day meadow.

There!

She stands, clothed in a smile

poised to unfurl like the newly made fern

Which springs with the speed

that a smile reaches heart

or jump-jewelweed’s gift to the world.

Soft as the touch of a warm summer night

Yet strong like the grip of cub’s mother jaws.

there is no north, south, east, neither west.

Nor have we up or down, day, night,. month or year.

There is a moment, stretched out in steps,

Pauses and pulses and gaps between notes.

Forwards and sidewards and on to tiptoes

Half seconds of gossamer iron

with thistledown drifting

And suddenly but

Slowly

she is quickly

she is pause

Then she is

The sum of everything

the universe around her

the music within her

She is, in this moment

All that does matter

circle, half circle,

sideward and forward

spinning and speaking

words without meaning

feel without feelings

All that does matter

Is she is and I am

Lost in a movement.

dance 2

Above lies an attempt to understand the way dancing makes me feel; or the way that dancing is experienced by me.

Everything stays, but lingers on the outside, like the encouraging circle of a birthday jam. So I may have a bill to pay, a friend to worry about, toxicity from elsewhere. These don’t vanish, but they step back, like a minor role in a play, lines spoken, lingering in the background, quietly susurrating, a part still to play in the seasoning of the drama.

Remains an understanding that, the circle serves to sweeten the dance in the middle.

Remains the knowledge that sweet would not be sweet if sour did not exist.

Remains the realisation that the moment of joy relies on normality to serve as a marker.

It’s taken me a long time to find my still point, this silly, funny, infuriatingly difficult dance that is lindy hop. I am glad that I found it, found the warm and smiling circles, throughout the country, that happily part ranks and embrace me, wherever or whenever I wander into a club or a dance hall. We need no words, just the sprung steel anticipatory connection. The journey changes with each and every dance, even if the song was the same one played on repeat.

How do I dance? Sometimes I mess it up, sometimes the pulse eludes me, sometimes it’s nerves when I dance with someone who I’m a bit in awe of. But it’s all worth it, and the dance muscle strengthens with each dance, each missed step, each acknowledged ‘reset’.

Now, I’ll not worry too much about what I’m going to do, it usually seems to happen. Every now and then my brain will go, “ooh! remember you know how to do ‘kick the dog’!”

And I’ll do that move, whilst accepting that another move will shuffle off the rolodex of my dance memory, for a short time.

What has it taught me? Well, it’s helped me to realise that, despite being introverted by nature, I can still jump around a public place and make mistakes; that I can blend into the background when I want; that I can forget, forget, forget, just for the phrase, the 32 beats of musical perfection. I can make new friends, wherever I go, regardless of age, sex, class, race, colour or creed. It levels me.

And the people, the amazing people. Thank you, each and every one of you, including the ones I’ve not met yet. dance

I used to be a railway…

I  used to be a railway

I used to be a railway...
I used to be a railway…

Down my gleaming silver ribbons

Dashed carriages and steamy, gleamy engines

Carrying dainty painted crockery

Sacks of sweetheart’s kisses on envelopes

Crates of polished apples

And sons off to war.

I used to be a railway

Past my gleaming silver ribbons

Toiled doughty men of clod and clay

Turning earth and tilling the day away

Waited those men of clod and clay

Willing the train to come and

Carry them off to war.

I used to be a railway

On my gleaming silver ribbons

Those powerful chugging engines worked and

Brought cloth to swaddle baby

Black lace to trim the clothes

Of the mothers and mourners

And the shrouded shells of sons home from war.

I went for a walk this morning, looking for something. Over the humpy bridge built by the original inhabitants of my cottage. Down the side, under the bridg I visited this liminal place. The tracks are gone but the ghosts remain. I was filled with thoughts of what had been carried up and down the line and the words above were there, waiting to be plucked out of the air like a ripe apple.

I found some wood for the fire too.

What have you found today?

At a real still point.

I awoke on Sunday not knowing that there would be a change.

I awoke on Sunday with a plan for the day. Simple chores and houseold tasks, followed by an evening of Lindy Hop.

Something changed and a conversation with a new friend lead to…

something

new

familiar

timely.

A walk in a place I knew well. The difference being that I was seeing it through someone else’s eyes and it completely changed the way I viewed the cobbled streets and wonky roads. I saw backyards and ginnels and places filled with treasure.

The sun was shining, the November sky shedding months, becoming an August or July. A walk up, through bosky woods, still damp from the morning dew, feet getting wet. Looking through the eyes of another helped me to climb the steep path.

And then. A still point. Nexus. Anchor. All of those and more.

This is my photograph of it. I took the photo with a click of my eyes and I’m showing it to you below. Here it is:

“Warmed by the smile of an unexpected sunday

The orchard behind us

Our futures before us.

The present hangs and waits,

While we inhale the moment.

The past sits and dimmers

While we exhale the torment.

The orchard behind us

Our futures before us.

Knelt by the side of a

door in a treeforest.

The orchard will find us

Our futures are for us…”

At the Still Point…

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshleIMG_20150308_231427ss;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood.