Where the Wild Things Are: Monsters and Angels are Made So by Words

360 Wild Thing

360 Wild Thing (Photo credit: John Brownlow)

I write from doing, not from thinking. Words come out my fingers, but for that to happen the rest of my body has to have moved. When I’m stuck it’s probably because I’m trying to know: to find that certainty that will bring everything under control; to find the naming that will put life in its place; to let me return to previously scheduled programming. I have appointments and projects and deadlines, don’t you know. Oh, you do. And you don’t care. I see.

When I need to know, I go to my mat. Well, really my yoga room. It’s true, I’ll start on my mat, but there’s no guarantee I’ll stay or end up there. I’m more a choreographer than a researcher. More applied than theoretical. I move to find stillness and close my mouth to find words that are true.

I know that when I sit to write and am overwhelmed with by the enormity of the abyss, my place is not writing: it’s on the mat. I know that when every time I open my mouth gooey, difficult, sticky, hang-in-the-air-and-wish-I-could-reel-back words come out (words like cry and death and sad and how) it’s time to go in, close the door and find out what happens next.

It doesn’t mean that the abyss and the gooey words retreat right away, or even soon. But jumping in makes the abyss less other and strangely allows its native stickiness to permeate and nourish my tissues so I don’t have to pin it down in words. The words that will come later will be truer for this foray into the void.

Yoga is my version of “Where the Wild Things Are.” They are here, all around, waiting for us to shut up and see that they don’t care about our schedules because they care so much about what we have to give.

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