I have recently had occasion to spend a bit of time on trains. Because of this, I now completely understand why our forbears were so in love with them.
Traveling by train is a much more immediate mode of travel than flying. The verdant abundance of the newly-wakened earth was nearly pressing itself against the outside of the windows. I saw hidden lakes and trees and bodies of water that I'm sure I would have missed if I had driven, and that would have been reduced to dots and glossy near-circles from the distance provided by flying. It was a beautiful way to be reminded that, for each one of us, our well-being is ultimately tied to the cycles and the secret doings of the earth.
Of all the things I learned, I was surprised to note that the bridges were among my favorite things. Those moments when the train slowed, and I could feel it moving ponderously forward, as a large creature attempting to perform a delicate act, in the style of Indiana Jones on a ledge that would crumble after four steps had been taken on its surface.
The bridges were my favorite because it became clear what the train's movement was, as it moved in the space that attached one place to another place. And that shift created a greater understanding of the automatic movement of the train overall.
Thomas Myers, in his brilliant Anatomy Trains series, creates a study of the body, and the role of connective tissue in attaching one part to the next in a manner so seamless that all of the parts are attached to, and can communicate with, all of the other parts.
I am awed by the brilliant machine of the body; its elegant complexity presented as seeming simplicity. Our body's "bridges", places where the purpose shifts, or a new movement becomes possible, are laden with meaning. Certainly, there is a lot to learn about the tissue of the body itself.
But in addition to that, our inner work lies in considering how and where our forward motion changes because we are moving to a new area: whether that is a new area conceptually (e.g., we are exploring a new concept or experience, or focusing on the expression thereof in our lives) or physically (e.g., we are relocating).
We are the same organism all of the time. How do we change ourselves when we are approaching something that looks like a bridge? Do we slow down? Try to make ourselves smaller? Try to look bigger, in case the bridge (or change) itself represents a threat? Or do we, mindfully, joyfully, find a way to keep dancing our dance as we move on to this new thing?
Here's to dancing your dance, no matter what lies ahead.
Traveling by train is a much more immediate mode of travel than flying. The verdant abundance of the newly-wakened earth was nearly pressing itself against the outside of the windows. I saw hidden lakes and trees and bodies of water that I'm sure I would have missed if I had driven, and that would have been reduced to dots and glossy near-circles from the distance provided by flying. It was a beautiful way to be reminded that, for each one of us, our well-being is ultimately tied to the cycles and the secret doings of the earth.
Of all the things I learned, I was surprised to note that the bridges were among my favorite things. Those moments when the train slowed, and I could feel it moving ponderously forward, as a large creature attempting to perform a delicate act, in the style of Indiana Jones on a ledge that would crumble after four steps had been taken on its surface.
The bridges were my favorite because it became clear what the train's movement was, as it moved in the space that attached one place to another place. And that shift created a greater understanding of the automatic movement of the train overall.
Thomas Myers, in his brilliant Anatomy Trains series, creates a study of the body, and the role of connective tissue in attaching one part to the next in a manner so seamless that all of the parts are attached to, and can communicate with, all of the other parts.
I am awed by the brilliant machine of the body; its elegant complexity presented as seeming simplicity. Our body's "bridges", places where the purpose shifts, or a new movement becomes possible, are laden with meaning. Certainly, there is a lot to learn about the tissue of the body itself.
But in addition to that, our inner work lies in considering how and where our forward motion changes because we are moving to a new area: whether that is a new area conceptually (e.g., we are exploring a new concept or experience, or focusing on the expression thereof in our lives) or physically (e.g., we are relocating).
We are the same organism all of the time. How do we change ourselves when we are approaching something that looks like a bridge? Do we slow down? Try to make ourselves smaller? Try to look bigger, in case the bridge (or change) itself represents a threat? Or do we, mindfully, joyfully, find a way to keep dancing our dance as we move on to this new thing?
Here's to dancing your dance, no matter what lies ahead.
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