Lungs

“Breathe, woman. Breathe,” she exclaims. More and more, these three words drip from her mouth. Each time they are accompanied by a deep embrace, with which we are each engaged. She can feel the lack of expansion in my ribcage, in my gut, at my diaphragm, and in my mid-torso. The discipline of her Kundalini yoga practice makes me feel as though I am riding a giant air balloon. With my arms gently placed around her shoulders, back, neck or waist, I ride her warm air currents of deep affection and maternal attention. Up, up, up…
Devi’s words ring in my ears.
A chime of soft bells,
A ding of forks on plates,
A caress of the follicles in my eardrums.
Tonight, I entered into our communal dance space with all of this
re v e r b erating, -
the sound of sage advice and the feel of a gentle nudge,
a friendly reminder.

“Just breathe,” I encouraged myself.
In through the nose, - a deep inhalation,
out through the nose, - stale air.
In through the nose, - new energy,
out through the nose, - the stagnant repose of control and reason.
In.
Out.
In, out.
In, in, in, in.
Out out ouuuuttttttttttt.
Innnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn……….
With each person I greeted, I breathed deeply while opening my arms. First it was Kirk, a Tango dancer who applies what he learns from us, and our shared contact dances, to his performance troupe. Next, I embraced Mel, who had just returned stateside after having spent six glorious weeks in Thailand.
For years, Mel had held this communal, healing space on his own. We taught him to believe that a community of people can sustain this weekly event. With some reluctance, he took a long-overdue vacation. Now, he looked, and felt, rested. The dark lines of tension and stress that usually surround his eyes were gone, and his hair was cut back to an easy-to-manage, no-maintenance-required length. He had removed years from his short, broad frame.
Charlene, a Bu’toh dancer and performer, was the fourth member of our circle on this particular evening. Just over one month ago, Charlene was bitten by a rattlesnake. It took eight vials of anti-venom to reverse the effects of the reptile’s poison. Her lower leg ballooned up. She was swollen and sick for weeks, yet here she was, - ready to once again engage.
While we were waiting, Kirk shared with me that he went into his rehearsal, the weekend before, as he never has before. “Usually,” he said, “my energy is just-got-out-of-bed dragging and my teacher always reprimands me for my lack of vigor.” Last week, however, he said that he was still so high from the experience of the night before that his teacher was moved to tears. He described the dances from that evening, and the fleeting sensation encased in those moments of time, as being “bliss.” I contracted at the comment. “Bliss,” – my mind drums up a hippie-dippy, esoteric image when it hears this overly used term that attempts to describe something that is, perhaps, beyond definition. “Language is where the difficulty lies,” I responded after giving voice to my discomfort over the word choice.
At five past eight, we moved into a circle in order to share a group warm-up. In my mind’s eye, I vividly saw the way that I wanted to begin the class. I was moments from speaking my desire when I breathed in, and looked around.
Sitting on the floor,
facing each other,
Charlene and Mel’s legs were already spread
wide,
and in a V. Their toes were reaching for one another’s. The momentum had already begun. My job
now
was to follow it.
I breathed in.
“How about we spend the next forty-five minutes together,
without language?” I asked.
Silent, furtive glances and eager nods gave way. We stretched our limbs, while looking to one another for a cue as to what would come next. From sitting to standing, we evolved. Together, we swayed. The rustling branches of one growing tree reached out. We came together, and then we separated, - first into two groups of two, and then, as individual entities. Stepping out to look in. Looking out, to step back in. We paused in our moments of reflection, sparks of time when our minds once again clicked in and we wondered, “what am I doing” and “where do I go from here?” The constriction of breath was just as palpable as the release of it.
We fumbled around one another’s bodies. Grasping at legs, rolling onto bellies, and tucking over an extended thigh, back, or shoulder. The airy room, at times, alternated, between rolling with us, and then also providing hard planes with which to push off of and leap from. Hands clapping and feet padding created a soft, muddled soundscape. Together, our collaborative breath grew to include hissing, shushing, laughing, and other imperceptible noises. All of which communicated effectively the moment at hand, yet refrained from narrowly placing it within a stifling box of labels and descriptions. 2/3 of the way through our time, our moments of deep engagement and reverence, our seconds of disengagement and personal autonomy, we arrived at the place where I had initially wanted to begin. Sitting back to back to back to back, and
shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder,
I laughed, quick and brief,
deep and guttural,
mimicked and sought after,
at her words which I knew were soon to come.
“If you follow the breath, you’ll end up where you want to go.
This is prana, Cara. This is the life force.”

Outtttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

A Place to Move From: On Locational Identity

“The sense of place, as the phrase suggests, does indeed emerge from the senses. The land, and even the spirit of the place, can be experienced kinetically, or kinesthetically, as well as visually.”

Lucy Lippard

Below towering pines, on a high bluff overlooking Puget Sound, and within the echoing chambers of Fort Worden, a historic outpost built by the American military, the time immemorial debate of “What is art?” raged on. Present within the debate were the voices of two-dozen visual and performance artists, each clamoring to be both heard and seen. Susan, a muralist and social activist, led the conversation during which a multitude of viewpoints were expressed. Deb, a photographer, felt that skill, which is derived only from years spent honing one’s craft, defined art. The painter, Ale, asserted that art is a form of documentation that moves along to a flowing soundscape. While I suggested that art is when others within the greater macrocosm are affected and moved to inquire, “What is this?” and “How can I take part?”
Notions of what art is not were also illuminated. “It is not the objectification of the body,” I opined. “It isn’t just social activism. Or is it?” Sequoia queried. “And, surely, it isn’t taking a dump.” Deb stated emphatically. Apparently, we could more readily agree upon what art is not while we were left searching for words that would qualitatively define as well as definitively detail exactly what art is.
We knew when we experienced art, yet each of our own unique experiences had been tainted by the construction of language and culture, as well as by the privilege of access and exposure. There simply was no easy answer. Yet, at the conversation’s conclusion, it was not the lack of a clear solution that was most poignant but, rather, it was the rigorous questioning that served as both a focal point and a platform from which to launch oneself into another semester of graduate school study.
However, my head was spinning, - and not simply because of the free flowing, fermented grapes. Along with Laiwan, an interdisciplinary artist who explores ‘machine-being,’ and her advising group, I had spent two hours on that dreary Thursday morning deconstructing Derridian thought and, although a litany of intellectual nouns and verbs ran through my hyperactive, busy mind, I was at a loss for coherently strumming up any concrete ideas.
Thank god for Friday, - it appeared magnificently bright and crystal clear, lighting up an ambling coastline that begged to be strolled upon. I eagerly took up the task as I did so often that week, and as I had done with all those weeks that had come before. Repeatedly finding my thoughts being led away from the present moment, I was brought back into my bodily being as the vibrations of my feet on the sand sent grunions running for cover, as the exoskeletons of vanquished crabs lay strewn about, and as withered trunks of beached trees beckoned to be climbed and swung upon. Across the still sound, Mt. Baker sat stoic and serene. Snow and ice sat perched upon the 10,778-foot volcano. I breathed in the millennia with which this ancient art form had been built.
I meandered into Port Townsend, where I crossed paths with a housemate from the previous semester. Whitney and I had intended on strolling back to the fort in time for a program-wide event, but we were sidetracked by a simple offer from a community member. “Hey ladies,” he said. “My friends and I are heading out to dinner and we haven’t finished our bottle of wine. Would you like to?”
By the time we made it up artillery hill and above the cistern where the sound of John Cage’s “Atlas Eclipticalis” was being amplified, our hearts were beating, our blood was warm, and dusk had fallen. David was like a beacon at the back of the grassy lawn. Immediately, I wandered up to him and he led us through the hundreds of bodies that lay strewn about absorbing the sight of a cloudy cauldron overhead, the feel of the cool ground below, and the sound of reverberating strings and shrill chords. We took our place amongst the gathered crowd, snuggling up against the chill of a damp earth. The clouds dispersed and a night sky, pockmarked by brilliant stars and a myriad of constellations, appeared. Again, I breathed in, willing warmth to permeate. As the moments flowed from one note into silence, a vibrating heat radiated in the space between: the cistern, the earth, and the body; the instruments, the speakers, and the ears; and Whitney, myself, and David, as we lay together like sardines in a cool, tin can. Again, I breathed in the millennia with which this ancient art form had been built.
In the end, our tardiness allowed for us to remain in a stationary repose until the very last reverberation of Cage’s electrifyingly curious score. In the end, we three made our way past the established concert grounds where we stumbled around century old batteries. On the top of a twenty-foot high bunker, we waxed poetically over the millennia old stories that accompany those great nightlights in the sky. I shared the Native American myth of Revolving Man, Revolving Woman, and the never-ending dance they perform around that eternal fire in the sky.
We then returned to that same building where the debate had raged on only a day before and where we found our cohorts tumbling around one another in fitful games of play. Cynthia suggested a friendly round of ‘Charades,’ in which she began by miming out a Shakespearean quote that even had Bonnie stumped. Corey pumped up the bass on the boom box, as Jess’ musical selections serenaded our ears. It was not long before we were sashaying, grinding, perspiring, and twisting, to the lyrics of Manu Chao, Macy Gray, and Madonna.
In the end, what it came down to wasn’t about critical theory, rational thought, or academic scholarship. In the end, what it came down to wasn’t about a humanist philosophy, a dialogic lexicon, or a rebellious constitution. In the end, what it all came down to was a mystery, - the mystery of why we are here, and for what our purpose is; the mystery of why we hurt , and for why we choose to love; the mystery of life as we know it, and the art that we create in attempting to understand, shape, and define it.
For the mystery is beyond the subcutaneous. The mystery cannot be thought, let alone defined. It can only be felt, sensed, deeply experienced, and embodied. Sometimes, some of us tune in to this pulsating beat and pen, photograph, paint, and even dance that which cannot be rationally understood. Other times, most of us simply attempt to understand it through the processes of our own messy, creative practices. Most times, however, it is a mystery what any one of us, in any given moment, is attempting to relay. Nonetheless, the mystery remains. And this, my beloved community, is the nature of art and life at its finest.






“I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer’s beginning to give up her fight
When every thought is a possibility
Voices are heard but nothing is seen
Why do you spend this time with me?
Maybe an equal mystery.”

The Indigo Girls