movement

To move is to be alive. Even the smallest breath sweeping through the body reflects a wave of movement. It means that we are still here.

Gina Greenlee said ‘let your body move. It will give voice to a language that can heal’. Just saying that sentence makes magic in your body. It makes you want to dance with movement. Dance to a sweet soulful song. Ready to soothe you whenever needed.

Our bodies were designed to move. And even when it’s impossible to move, through whatever reason, we must still move. If we don’t, we become stuck and if we become stuck we offer ourselves nothing. There will be times in our lives, however, when we physically can’t move. I can still remember lying in bed one day, night, they were all the same thing back then, wanting my bedside lamp to be off. I looked at my right arm, desperately imploring it to move. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t. It lay limp at my side. I did not have the ability to raise my arm off my bed and turn my bedside lamp off. Such a raw and real memory that is still held within my right arm. I can feel it as I write this. It seems like a lifetime ago and yet it’s acutely apart of me. It’s in moments like this that we must remember to let our breath at least keep us moving. Breathing in and out, and in and out.

Movement is essential. Blood must circulate to heal. Oxygen must reach our cells for strength. Nutrients must be absorbed to create life. And heavy mass, that we don’t need, must pass out of us (through sweat or bowel movements or tears or whatever exit point you can think of) for lightness. It keeps us going.

Let an old car sit in front of your house without turning the engine over and it will not start. The body is the same. Even at our weakest we must do what we can. Even if it’s purely through the innate knowing of our breath. As difficult as that can sometimes be as well. Baby steps. Full movement will return when we keep putting one foot in front of the other.

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