Breathe In, Breathe Out

Cathedrals ribs.....people ribs. Somewhere in the dead of night I decided my next phase of enlightenment was buried in symbolism embedded in our bodies juxtaposed to architecture and other creations of men. Once upon a time I was a writer, but a few bouts of trauma sent my pen to the perpetual junk drawer in Life of Carolyn.

I hope blogging will exorcise some creative demons, and give me a medium to explore the idea that we stop our selves from reaching joy through the tensions and emotions we hold in our bodies. I might also just enjoy talking about the trials and tribulations of brewing a perfect batch of rhubarb wine.

I was once a writer by profession, and now I am a teacher of movement. I remember my first journalism teacher telling me that the best solution to writer's block was a cigarette outside the classroom door. 1991 seems like an awfully far gone year. He begged me to smoke; I resisted and got an A anyway. Cigarettes make me puke.

Writing turns me inward, and seems to be a break from my daily routine. The opposite of movement is stillness. Maybe in stillness, and the rhythm of tapping keys, I can find what I left, without leaving the path that I have found.