“You write so beautifully, how do you make the time for it?” The same way I make the time to breathe. For writing has become breath, allowing me to take in all of my reality and oxygenize it, harnessing it into something that fuels me. “Your writing has such cadence. I hear a lyrical song in your words.” The keyboard has become my instrument, allowing me to express the world around me in the way I choose. This creative agency I used to have, when I was a dancer, before my body became my prison.
For movement used to be my meditation. Dance was breath. I took in the world and moved through it in my body, in command of my response to the music. Reality was my interpretation and my body could make art. “Maybe if you stopped eating bread your body wouldn’t look like that,” said a dance teacher. So I stopped. Stopped eating. Stopped dancing. No longer did I have a way of taking in the world and moving through it in my body. My body became a prison. I took in the whole world, and vomited it out. No more dance, no more movement.
And then yoga found me. “Move your body exactly how you want to move,” my teacher said. I laid on the floor. “Take the world in through your nose, and push it out your mouth.” Cleansing breath. Through the flows I began to feel the world come into me and then move through me, as I relearned to breathe. My body no longer a prison, but a bridge. Not using yoga to get into my body, but rather, my body to get into yoga. The movement taught me how to breathe again. As I lay drenched in sweat, gasping for air, I learned how to exhale. Let go.
Yoga led me to write, for the moments of silence and stillness brought my thoughts to surface. Shoved away for years, in the space yoga created, words bubbled to the top of my consciousness. These pearls, now too heavy for me to hold within me, roll off my tongue onto the page. I write because I breathe.