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Dancing a Concussion

Struck my head again, a repetition I seem to lean in to.
Ice and arnica soothe a space of hope.

I can only think of loving the Centrum housing my third eye, pineal, and fourth ventricle all poised at the brink of tranquillity.

And yet as a practitioner of Craniosacral Therapy, I know my conversation can not push its way into the precious lung like sponges of my inner self. These seemingly unspeaking sparkles within me, these cells, can they lead me to the source of my concussion?

Like a conversationalist of any persuasion, I ask first what questions we share within these depths that reflect to the surfaces in my tottering movement.

I walk into the trees allowing my apertures to play among the nearest and the fartherest, among the subtle and the bright, the yellowing and the greening. Behind my eyes, I fall into a lovely hovering space.

It is here where I can counter my movements side and side, around and through, back and forwards. I can allow my eyes to spin ahead or behind me, tottering in the first steps it seems of my mind to pass a thought of myself from brow to resting point at the back of my head, which happens to lie just above my spine as it enters my brain.

And it is here that I can gulp enough to ask about the question I share with this light bounding amongst the tree sprigs. I can now admit that the grape vine leaf is like me, tittering at the end of a spindly twig. We both balance in ongoing movement shared with the breeze, with the sound of creek water below us, and perhaps with the warmth of our shared energies.

In this delicate shared space , I need not ask what life we hold in common. Going beyond the huge question, I must brave a glimpse of our clarity. What cells do we share and what wishes do we create as we discard and reshape phase upon phase?

To surrender the question and its journey through me, I ask to see life passing through my brain’s Centrum. I ask for the presence with my cells to inquire of their life.

And as if waiting for a distant breeze to return through the trees of an immense gorge, I move through my asking toward receiving a surprise worthy of the immensity on which I am delicately perched.

And yet I am not a grape leaf attached to a vine strangling the trees around it. I lift ankle and foot prancing in place as I spin on my precipice with a joy beyond anything I could imagine. My Centrum and I arrive at a moment of balance.

Yes my eyes ask only to grasp at a stare that will slow the turning. Yet my Centrum spreads a smile through me and I have no choice but to love the arriving moment.

My concussion registers my tottering around and through a stare, through a frozen landscape to a lush receiving of many versions of light and glimmering shape in resonant sounds that each of my cells can taste. My concussion is in conversation now and I can lay this dance of myself to rest to welcome waters of cleansing and gratitude to wash over me.
Tim Hurst 10/02/17

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Who Move I Poem

Who do I Move? The I of Nature do I move?
Everything a curve that returns to myself? A replica of every curve of my thoughts, my motion, my direction, and my hope.
Everything a rejuvenating wave creating space beyond itself?
Every fractal a varying upon a simplicity? A simplicity taking centuries to unearth?

Who do I Move? The I of tranquility do I move?
Every move a suspension of harmony and disharmony? An extension of myself echoing in a vastness beyond my encased storage space.
Everything a heart rending recognition of every cell of life regenerating every other cell of life.

Who do I Move? The I of my imprint do I move?
Every move a seal of my full and complete spectrum of life?
Every collapse of my fear blossoming an anticipation beyond any human trust?

Who do I Move? The I of my stillness do I move?
Every curve continues for me to follow? Standing alone reflecting my replicas, my unities of life upon life, my crumpled wishes speaking in my ears.

Who do I Move? The I of love do I move?
This love of every move, is this the life I join as the fastest roaring river?
This love of every life, is this the vastness I refuse to understand?
Tim Hurst 09/27/17

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Fractal Dance Poems

Fractals of my heart, I have many questions of you.
I have been dancing with you all these years. My mentor Deborah Hay guided me to you. We experienced you as the intelligence of every cell. I know myself as you, with our masterful curves forming beauty and ugliness beyond my imagination, beyond my ability to consciously create or imitate. Oh yes, my questions.

How is it that we know each other this well?
Are you the art of my life?
Are you instead the integral, the essence, the endless and simplest replication of myself?

What must it be for you to vary my kaliedascope every moment?
Am I that recognizable in any form? Or is it I that recognize?

I have wanted to ask for so long.
Do I send you the lines of chaos and the filigree of delight?
Rather is it that I open my gates to relished addictions that conflict my curved lines and you register them?

And finally for today at least, how is it that a simple addition or subtraction takes me a life time and yet you form my images long before a batting of my eye.
Tim Hurst 03/18/17

My Dear Fractal,
You can surely teach me of your filigree,
winding the hidden wave lengths of life.

I want to live as you live with minute variations
of spiral and helix and double helix in to “n” infinity.

I want to shape minute configurations into myself
willingly welcomed and cherished.

You know well my mind, a master at switching wave lengths yet
a known trickster in the realm of story telling.

You surely can teach me to live with unpremeditated conciseness
while monitoring for the nurture insisted for life.

Yes I suppose I will need to practice diligent courage to ride above the fresh challenges of each wave. And I may well need to consult with life itself for assistance.

Can you? Surely you can teach me.

Poem to My Fractals
If I took a curve with a deviation by loop or spiral,
And if I repeated a deviation on every edge of the remaining curves,
Then the melody would be a filigree
Worthy of any mosque or scroll, any India quarter-tone sonority.

For my self, a flight through the trees would bathe my eyes
In deviations of intimate and distant flickerings of light
From leaf edges large and small.

My cells would bathe in the multiplying fractals refreshing love beyond my only hopes.
Tim Hurst. 07/13/17

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Sourcing Dance

The source of life is the source of dance. I can only ask to participate in either. The joy and the fire are gifts that recreate me every moment.

The correctness of my movement does not matter as much as where the movement came from and how much of an echo the movement sends back into me as a human system.

The echoes of my dancing collaborate with my freshest creation of myself to become more than I can imagine.

I want to say that dance is the doorway.
Yet If I do not approach the doorway with humility and awe, distraction and addiction replace both the joy and the fire that dance offers.

The source of life is the source of dance. I can only ask to participate in either. The joy and the fire are gifts that recreate me every moment.
Tim Hurst 07/01/17