Somatic movement begins with the act of sensing. It asks us to feel before deciding, to notice before acting. The form is no longer the goal; it’s simply the trail left by the trip there.
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.
If you’ve ever been on a retreat — a week of moving your body, breathing mountain air, looking up from your phone long enough to notice the shape of the clouds, and eating meals cooked by loving hands — then you know that going home can feel like stepping off a warm rock into cold water.
Geographers say “geography is destiny,” usually in reference to power and politics. But what if it's also true inwardly? What if our inner geography — our capacity to perceive and to hold many truths at once — is shaped by the land we walk, the sky we live under?
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.
