An Ode to Movement:

It is time to sing. From weary days and restless nights, from lost deserts to thriving forests, from insight and blunder, it is time to sing. From the jewels in my belly and the bird in my heart whose feathers flutter when I breathe, it is time to sing. As we age, there seems to be more and more to regret, to recover, and to mourn. As we make space to mourn, we grow younger, we grow ancient, we grow to die, and die to be reborn. Trees, friends, and urns come crashing down like Medusas tears breaking from stone as we witness, in the final throes, how passion is a dirge, and a dirge is a ritual, and the ego is the fire born of the first spark an instinct that is yoked by body to mind like, the language of god. Do you hear me? It is time to sing. Nabokov says Average reality begins to rot and stink as soon as the act of individual creation ceases to animate a subjectively perceived texture, and yet, this unique infusion is exactly what is lost when our sense of belonging goes missing. But, where has it gone? Is it hiding in the woods or in the after thought of the waterfall? Is it wound up within the taboo or imprisoned in the labyrinth? Can we find it in myth, in mystery, or in mother earth? Is it the strength of Shakti that shakes us up, or the destruction of Shiva, which wakes us up? All I know is that is it time to sing and time to listen to hear the beautiful voices rising, harmonizing, praying, and celebrating the force and shape of love.

By Sofiya Hyder