In times like these, the practice of presence can feel almost impossible—or at least insufficient. And yet, even in the swirl of uncertainty, there are moments when something simpler emerges.
Bones, Breath, and Beginning Again
In movement there is poetry. There is impulse and order and disorder. And within it, a deep remembering: that we are not held together by sheer effort alone. That balance, ease, and rhythm are not ideals, but birthrights. The bones know. The breath knows. And when we trust that, even in chaos—we move with more grace. We rest into a structure that doesn’t collapse. We are held.
