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“Come into my lap and sit in the center of your soul. Drink the living waters of memory and give birth to yourself. What you unearth with stun you. You will paint the walls of this cave in thanksgiving."
Meinrad Craighead
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Hello dear ones,
Slowly but surely, Winter is loosening its grip on the land, and Spring’s promise of new life is quietly emerging from underneath the cold, dark blanket of a long Winter’s slumber.
As Winter prepares to give way to Spring this year, I find myself daydreaming of scenes in the natural world that highlight this theme of birthing new life into existence at this turn of the seasons. I think of the does I see nearly every day out here, wondering when they will leave the herd to find a quiet, safe place to be alone as they give birth to their fawns. Passing by the dead, dried out Arrowleaf Balsamroot plants that dot the woods, I imagine how bright their blossoms will be in a couple month’s time. A buck’s antlers will soon shed, scattering this part of himself upon the land before the process begins all over again. Will they scatter any on our land? I envision myself searching the woods high and low this Spring in hopes of being so lucky to find this gift. The mama black bear nurses her newly born cubs in their den, preparing to emerge from hibernation when the time is right. I remember the soft, small tufts of fresh Yarrow springing up outside and feel comforted by this sign of new growth.
As all of these scenes play out around me, new life is quite literally stirring within my own body, which is also a part of the natural world. Us humans often forget that we, too, are animals.
A tiny kick, a sweet little roll, the shifting of positions as I shift my own. This promise of new life felt from deep within my body almost always elicits a soft grin or gentle giggle.
Last week, I visited a friend who was then about 2 weeks out from the birth of her second child. After hearing the empowering birth story recounted by her and her partner, I held her sweetly sleeping newborn baby boy in my arms as she nourished herself with the food I brought over. We chatted about all kinds of things, most of them centered around pregnancy, birth, and motherhood, but one particular thing she said really struck a chord with me…and the funny thing is, I don’t even think she meant it in a deep or profoundly meaningful way.
I was telling her about how I’m feeling more and more movement coming from my little guy, and she calmly stated with a smile, “He’s painting his cave.”
The imagery of my baby boy, but a pound in weight, gently sweeping his hands and feet across the inner walls of my womb, creating art in his cave, is such a sweet, and powerful scene that my friend helped me paint in my own mind. It truly does feel like he’s painting strokes of movement within my body, making his imprint on me physically, and emotionally, with each brush stroke of tiny fingers and toes.
We all painted our own caves once. Held in the dark, protective space of our mother’s womb, we explored our first movements, our first expressions of artistry, months before we landed in our parent’s arms after birth. We are learning about ourselves, discovering our individual nature, and relating to the world around us before we are even born into it, all through movement. As a lifelong lover of movement through both functional and artistic forms of the body’s innate need to self-express, I find this realization about a baby’s cave painting dance quite endearing.
This sincere curiosity, and a sense of exploration or research through movement, is something I find most adult humans lose touch with over time. Somewhere from infant to adolescent to adult, many once inquisitive movers become less and less connected to the subtle magic available to us through our body’s pure expression of movements. I wonder if I hadn’t spent nearly all of my life in a conscious relationship with an artistic movement form such as dance, would I, too, have lost this desire to play with the subtle magic of my body?
My movement journey has taken me on a long, winding, intricate weaving of paths (and plenty of off-roading) that have gracefully landed me in deep relation with my own body as a part of nature. Time and time again, I thank movement for my ability to stay grounded in what it means to be a human being; to be able to access and harmoniously work with my instinctual nature, my animal body.
Is my instinct to have an unmedicated home birth not dissimilar to the doe’s instinct to seek refuge in a protective feature among the landscape where she can safely give birth? I lean into the guidance of the natural world, of evolutionary biology, and my instinctual nature for most aspects of my life. This personal compass hasn’t faltered yet, for like an actual compass, it works with the Earth’s magnetic field. When we align our lives in a way that work with, rather than against, the natural world, our physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health thrives.
The way I work with others through holistic movement and wellness guidance encompasses this sentiment. I help people remember what it’s like to be engaging with the world in a way that sparks curiosity and hones in on one’s instinctual nature. I support people in meeting their bodies in ways that will ultimately support them far beyond the physical flesh and bone, viscera and soft tissue. I walk alongside them, as they weave their own way of being in this world, gently holding back the lush foliage that was obscuring another possible path for them to take.
This work takes on many forms, many faces, and many expressions of body, mind and spirit, but always, there is an emphasis on movement. Conscious, curious movement is the portal through which we meet ourselves fully. We better understand the patterns, the layers, the many facets of our animal bodies when we directly relate to them. And when we move from an embodied place, the subtle magic returns. Once again, we are painting our caves, making our imprint on the world, as the world in turn, imprints itself onto us. This dance is mutual, constant, and happening whether we realize it our not.
Are you ready to actively engage with reclaiming your birthright to thrive in your body?
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May you move from Winter to Spring with subtle magic, fellow cave painter.
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P.S. please share this Letter with someone who will find delight in these movement musings.
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