Rounding this corner from March into April is such a satisfying lap for us hearty northwest folks. It marks the waning of winter and the return of the light. We’ve crossed a threshold.
In years like this one, where I feel a heightened sense of urgency about the coming seasonal shift I appreciate the tools in my toolbox that get me through the dark, drizzle times. April showers will eventually bring beautiful May flowers, but any true northwest native would also warn us, “In the land of the Moisture Festival, it’s not over, til it’s over.” It could last through June. Be prepared.
During this finicky spring season of alternating light, dark, wet and dry, my personal movement practice is a lifesaver. The floor is my friend. It is the place where I shed my burdens the moment I turn my attention to the rise and fall of my breath. I surrender to gravity and my priorities change. This simple act of devotion reminds me that the ground and my relationship to it are primary. The difference between being "on the ground" and feeling "into the ground" is somatic not just semantic.
I emerge from this conversation feeling more spacious. My edges are softer. My vision is more precise and clear. In less than 10 minutes I have become a kinder, gentler version of myself. I realize that I have also developed a tolerance for the things I can’t control, like light and weather. It’s as if the ground comes with me when I stand.
In this day of hand held, shape shifting, time warping devices, slowing down, listening and moving without an agenda is a radical act of restoration. I invite you to the floor at your next opportunity, rain or shine. Roll around, stretch, rest or play in silence. No agenda. In the words of my dance teacher, Deborah Hay, the practice is this: “I kneel at the feet of my teacher. My body is my teacher.” Simple. Commit to the time and practice. Go where you are led. Be a rebel.