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Dancer Dragon Slayer Prep

I join Dancer Dragon Slayer.
We choose a tree where we will prepare for our journey.

We close our eyes, We enter secret spaces, expansive kingdoms.
Here I will know the fullness of courage that will carry me
to the Dragon’s lair.

The moment my eyes close, my dance begins with movements so slight, I feel my eyes joining the tree quietly rustling with delicate breezes and also creating our own breezes simply with our hidden eyes.

I recall thousands of moments just before entering a dance. Silent. Absolutely still. Readiness becomes brightness.

My eyes relax and move calmly spreading to receive the life around me preparing to send waves of life that my eyes will precede and then follow.

My breath gives way to spreading and lifting brightness through me. My arms too give way to a weight as if they are falling into gravity in all directions at once.

We enter our secret kingdoms the two of us, Dancer Dragon Slayer and I.
Tim Hurst 07/09/18

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What’s a Tree to You?

I saw time lapse photography of a tree seed sprouting and growing into a seedling.

The roots spread down, then out the sides.
The sprout formed at the top of the seed and nudged its way through the earth’s crust.
Growing straight up, a curved frond formed and from that two leaves formed.

This is the moment that woke me up. The frond went into a waving motion to unfurl the leaves.

Wait a minute? Does this mean that the tree is waving while it is growing.

I thought of a tree as a tree. A standing and stationary thing that I looked at.
I know they change by changing color, losing leaves. I know that in Spring their new green is fresh and surprising.

But every moment a new tree? How could I have missed that?

Oh my, my. Do I think of myself and you like a tree? Something stationary.
If I really you were a fresh new group of cells every so many hours….how many hours is that?
Tim Hurst k05/13/18

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Tree One and Two Poem

Tree One
Does the tree nuzzle the breeze like the breeze nuzzles the tree?

Does the tree love me like I love the tree?

Tree Two
Does the fresh new sprout squeal like the child meeting the air for the first time?

Does the trunk of the tree celebrate each new branch?

Do I even know the branches I grow?
Tim Hurst 05/13/18

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Give My Heart

The prescription for every lifestyle is always to go beyond oneself. The Beatles say to find someone to love. For a parent the gift is giving to the child. For the entrepreneur the gift is creating something useful and desirable. For the financial life, gathering assets is to benefit a family or to participate in a group. For the universal mind, the gift is gratitude to a creator or awe in the face of the vastness of the universe.

For the performer, the gift is sharing a vision with one person in an audience or with a complete spectrum of groups. In the study of dance and music, building energy fields is a matter of changing focus and imagery to include a fellow dancer or musician and to invite a wider group to experience unique combinations of movement, emotion, and intention.

Each artist devises their own configurations that reveal surprises and more demands to give of themselves beyond their wildest imagination.
Tim Hurst 12/22/17

In a search to lower my stress and get my blood pressure under control, I have begun giving my heart to a source outside myself. From my perspective of shifting focus from a broad view to a narrow one, my broadest view is a creator of the universe. This is a poem I wrote exploring this experience:

Giving my heart to my creator releases my desire for proof that I am the author of my energy.

If my energy is beyond my desire to torque and to force, what freedom I have to allow rejuvenation to live within me.

All is beyond my imagination anyway. Why must I struggle so for an opinionated desire?

Where does the dance, the music come from then? What need to ask if my creator is the author of my energy?

How much more unique my energy must be than I can imagine?

Yes it is true I must now ask and continue to ask to give my heart to my creator?

How can I possibly ask for that?
Tim Hurst 12/21/17

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Movement Poems

4:44 am
Young man I see your aligned spine
Straight as the day is narrow.
Your step vibrant and strong.

To my fault I see your forgotten memories,
The childhood tilts as an airplane,
The spins that set your mind right.

I wish for you and me the play of the diving Crow, the Bear cub, the Dolphin.
We could at least prepare for the unexpected slight that one day takes our breath away.

4:53 am
Young child I see your memory fade away.
There was a time when we all danced and sang with you hours upon hours
Our camping fires flickering the night with delight.
Our joy burst from us and joined on a path that knew no bounds.

So much harder it is now for you to touch the precious in yourself
And even harder to say, yes life is for living and I am life.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

4:56 am
Young dancer I see you moment by moment opening memory,
Memory of the curious, asking of the moment to open.
I am inspired by each surprise you find behind each asking.

I wish for you and for me to move in agility until all our memories open.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

5:02am
Young worker sitting at your arduousness, I see you.
Yes your body complains year after year kindergarten or CEO.
Sitting may as well be called stilling because we and even our meditators
Instill a force upon ourselves to sit still.

Of course there is a purpose of stillness, to move our thoughts, or our fingers.

To my fault I see the cascading memories of movement fade away each moment. Gone is the memory of our selves as continuous and agile movement like music, like a dance.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

5:15 am
The breath of the singer is a study of agility.
Wish that I and we could open in like anticipation
Of the beauty we can find within.

Our bodies would know the memory of a yawn
That opens every cell in preparation for so much oxygen.
We would again welcome a lifting of ourselves
While spreading our ribs and wings to make space for breath.
We would remember that each breath awakens toes and nose.

We would remember the thankfulness of heart and chest rising like meeting the sun.
Our throats would open as would all the openings surrounded by our collar bone.

All the breath we have welcomed will rush through raising soft palates, bringing a surprise Ah to our throats. Our backs become new born freshness with breath expanding our edges.

At the top of breath we peak at what the next moment can be, rollercoaster or glider. At these moments all cells speak with movement, nasal passages quiver, third eye’s nurture, cranium bones prepare to release geysers of life from their top most joints.

All this is the life of one breath for the singer. We sit and wait for a rendering of sound vibrations revealing this one singer.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

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Crystal Dancer

My dear dancer forming as a crystal
Molecular brilliance responding reforming
Each moment a creation revealing itself.

Yet you, crystal brilliance, touch the cosmos with your eyes.
Opening and closing eyes gifting self and every self with something beyond yourself..
You are eyes nurturing every formation within you.
You are eyes with a reach into the worlds of person and leaf and star and night.

Yet you, only you are the crystal forming your unity of person on person into infinity.
You and your eyes make union with your self or not, with other crystals or not.

You crystal dancer can stare as if you do not exist or wish it so.
Or every cell of you can offer to join you in celebration of yet another crystal.

Yet you crystal dancer and your eyes are the gate to an intimacy with life as it forms in your every move.
And your eyes may nourish your every cell and reveal each one to us your fellow dancers.

For you see my dear crystal dancer, I grow as you grow, crystal upon brilliant crystal.
Tim Hurst 11/14/17

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Trauma Poem

If every one of my precious traumas were a glitch along my spine,

I would have to skip or hop to travel top to bottom.

And I would fly fast over each treasured ill so as not to see too much.

For if my eye were to hover in slowest content tears may have to create a river to mine the canal of this my soul.

Yet one ancestral movement passes through all that. The seeing so intricate, the knowing so molten, any trauma nurtured and unmoored.
Tim Hurst 11/13/17

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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

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Like a Dancer

I Join the creation of myself, the delight, the balance, the reach.

I Join the love of the moment that is creating me with you, all of you.

I Join the subtle rise and fall of life becoming more and then less.

I Join the building of strength that is me in perpetual motion.

I Join the nuance of qualities carrying me into worlds of never ending surprise.

I Join my listening cells for every opportunity to catch a wind into more life.

I Join my alternating focus between building my know how and exploding the moment beyond everything I know.

I Join myself in assembling a focus that recognizes the variation between joy and distraction.

I Join the rhythm of my trillions of waves hoping in the rise and riding the pauses of flight.

I Join my millions of counter spirals to my closest and nearest destinations.

I Join my dearest melodies to experience the echoes of myself amongst friends and foes.
Tim Hurst 07/01/1