When the building’s on fire, maybe the most skillful thing isn’t yelling “It’s burning!” louder than everyone else. Maybe it’s quietly picking up a bucket.
Reentry
Under the Big Sky: Notes from the Feathered Pipe
The Pivot
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.
