Spring
Unashamed flamboyant
The cacophony of everything's beginnings
Decorated with the unmistakable smell of
A million flowers
Wet mud
The first warm rays of sun
I'm awash with sensations
Overwhelmed
My blood rushes and I
sigh
into the realisation that
My body instinctively knows
There is no escaping
This love affair
With sprouting hope
I have procrastinated wildly in starting to share something here. In fact that has been another of these thresholds I seem to relish. But I sense a meaning with the waiting, the pregnancy of becoming ripe with something, even if they are 'merely' words.
Today I started to read Ulla Rung Weeke and she writes in the beginning of her book 'At danse med nervesystemet' [translates into To Dance with the Nervous System] that she wants it to be a felt book, that if she can actually feel what she writes then the reader may also and the small miracle of the sensous, the bodily felt wisdom, may emerge. This will be my hope for the words that I share here. That somehow, I will not enthrall you with endless paraphrasing, quotations and name dropping(bar the above) but stay in the less academic but more....sensational. To nourish not only the intellect but also the heartspace, the fingertips, the hairs on the back of your neck. The less 'safe' but more delicious. Not less intelligent for the ways of the body are infinitely more intelligent than our brains give them credit for. (I sense another blog post being conceived right here). So I apologise to the intellectual parts of you that were expecting to 'learn' something from my musings. I hope for 'resonance' or simply amusement and that maybe a small window into your own felt sense gets to be seen.
With hope, Signe
