moovmenthouse

I am wishing you well this morning, coffee in hand, rising early and noticing the signs that summer is here. I am well. I miss my mom of course, yet I am warmed by the growth of all of you.  Along with the bustle of the studio, I am spending time with my family and my dad.  My father is a little lost without his soulmate, my mother. Yet, he tells stories about her and laughs. He smiles about the wonderful life he has had. 

Meanwhile, May moves us on. The month has brought the scatteredness that prepares us for the wild uncertainty of summer, and to just go with it. Lean into it. Inside the studio the feeling of the young dancers is, “I am ready to tumble outside and venture into these longer days.” There is not much anyone can do about this innate feeling of summer we all have. 

At Moovment House, we follow the time of the earth, the sun and the moon which move in circles. We are much more like farmers. We are pretty invested in growth, the growth of humans and not just in an annual way but truly perennial. We are regenerative. We understand the importance of relationships, time, creation and movement, with intention on the circular path we can make together year after year. 

It is life giving.

Lately I have been giving many Ilan Lev treatments and having conversations about the work itself and how it fits into the life of Moovment House. The body also moves in circles. This delights me to find these patterns in humans to be the same as the earth, sun and moon. No matter who the person is, what language they speak, what they believe in or need to do, the bones inside of all of us innately move in circles. This is what connects us.  This is what creates ease and reciprocity. Every person inherently understands this, especially if they lean into it.  The method simply encourages the body to remember its natural sense to move and be happy. It is life giving. 

The world has gotten itself in quite a hurry. It does that. Technology moves faster than humans, yet the earth still moves in her time.  Your bones do too. People cannot grow any faster than they do. Childhood is still about eighteen to twenty-one years. Seasons move into each other year after year. Grief moves in waves. The sound of laughter falls in circles. 

So let's breathe in and out.

 Enjoy together what has grown this past year at Moovment House. 

Let’s celebrate time gone round before we all venture into summer.

with love & gratitude,

Mary Lynn

I hope you are well as we make our way into the end of April.  Moving this last week, spring seems to be peeking her head. We enjoy seeing the flowers as we walk into our beloved space and leaves budding all along the trees. It has been good to move together once again. My gratitude is abundant.  I feel blessed by the warmth and care of this community. Thank you for embracing me and my family in a time that has been unimaginable. =

These last few days, I am feeling better and even happy in simple ways. I am enjoying life itself and all that I get to do.   I am reflecting on the work of the Ilan Lev Method and how it brought my mother and I closer together. Three years ago when I was training, she became my “practice body” and I would practice on her every week. She loved the work. Somehow it became a beautiful bridge of care and love between us.  The Method works well as a remembering of the innate movement we are all born with. Evenmore, it teaches how to sit beside someone regardless of their pain or labor.   I can see how it prepared me to sit beside my mother no matter her condition.  It is the essence of this work that I am deeply moved by.  I feel the humanity and grace it taught me. I feel how it will continue to teach me.  I see how beautiful life goes round.

I am so excited about these next two months ahead as we make our way to all that will be summer. We have some fun things happening. Stay tuned.

Last night I got to walk amongst the stars and snow.  I found a kind of quiet I was really needing. I reflect on the silence of being very much in the middle of winter. Coyotes howled in the distance and you could hear a few twilight birds. I had been invited to a sweat lodge. Yesterday was my fifth time going for almost a year now. We stood over the fire as the rocks heated up. Entranced, I felt the power for fire to warm or burn. The first time I did a lodge, I wanted to immediately get out. It was hotter and darker than anything I had ever endured.  It took everything I had to stay. We sang, we sat next to each other, we offered prayers and somehow I made it through. The first time, I stumbled, no crawled out into the misty night after the experience. I watched as the rest of the people moved out into the darkness like ghosts.  We stared up at the sky and laid upon the earth as we collected what was left of ourselves. The quiet after is so beautiful, it is if you are hearing for the first time.  I wrote this poem after my initiatory experience:

fell into earth
into bone
& let my breath
heave against
all that dwells
and crawls
lifting
my eyes
i received
the sound
of stars

Meanwhile, buzz goes the world and it’s hard not to think its jittery pulse isn’t what is winning.  We seem to be craving stories and clamoring for the meaning of life.  What whizzes by are superficial scraps of bits of things that look like stories, but no depth really.   Still we hunger for a good one. Over the last weeks of our time together there is something I am noticing about, when we say, "once upon a time" or tell a story. There is a quality in the air, a reverence like we stepped on sacred ground. Story ground, that is, and it is as if all hearts stop and huddle in. It is as if the ancient part of us knows, this is the time to listen. Stories have a potency that creates togetherness and truth without even trying. I have never seen anything work so well. Are you huddling in? I wonder.

Last night I stood barfoot upon the snow, warm skin steaming as it hit the cold air. I looked up into the sky and I received the sound of stars. When I looked down at my feet, bare and cold, there were star crystals in the snow reflecting back up into the night. 

wander in all, let's tell stories,

It was a cold morning for me as I am sure it was for all of you.  January has officially arrived.  Despite its temperature we made our way into the opening of Winter classes last week.  What a joyous time it was to reconnect and return to the warmth of our beloved Moovment House.  Dancers and friends filled the room as we began moving and creating together once again. 

Story is in the air and it seeps through the words and images laying the foundation of all that we will do.  Echoes of Pippi Longstocking and a Greedy Frost King filtered through our student classes.  On this past chilly Thursday evening, Darren Silver, told an old tale of a Selkie woman who lost her skin. We listened and discussed the story's meaning while we ate bread and drank hot tea. 

As we carry on through this truly winter time, gone are the lights and festivities of December.  I feel an emptiness that is unlike any other season.  There is an initiation in this time of year that gets us to spring.  I find a quiet grit comes allowing myself to be here.  I daresay a little suffering.  I can’t escape it.  It is cold and bareboned.   I remember a few years ago during pandemic life when we danced outside during January.  I can hardly believe we did it.  Last week those of us that were there, regaled our story of snow boots, frostbite and shoveling our outside studio floor.   We all smiled with the kind of courage that we really did something together. The process was an initiation for the world we are in now, and even shaped the life of Moovment House.

How often do we think about initiatory stages in our lives, our families or even in ourselves?  It sounds rather epic or mythical.  In the world that runs fast, and where everyone seems to be achieving and winning, do we erase or rescue the process itself?  Learning through lean times when you do not get it, or you are struggling or even bored is not at all easy.  However it is these harsher moments that help move us on to the next place. How often are we erasing or rescuing our own process or that of our childre

In the story of the Selkie woman told on Thursday night, it was not easy to find her skin again. In fact it took almost three harrowing tries and more than seven years to find it.  The first time she almost found it, it dissolved into thousands of pieces into the ocean. They say she fell to her knees and cried artesian tears, the kind of tears you cry only once or twice in your life.  Yet she got up again.  Her story stays with me still as I stare out the cold window this January morning.

 I am thinking about the children, the community and the Selkie woman. I am thinking about my family, my mother and my daughters. I hold steady in the developmental stages of life. I want our story to be epic and mythical.    Here is to making good stories!

I sit on the cusp of the new year. The tree is bone dry and the needles are sprung about the house. The presents have been opened and the cheer spread wide. Our girls are full of stories they have not had time to share. The feeling of family has been in the air. This kind of closeness always warms my courage to make way again.

My international travels have been postponed which has kept me home this December.  Because of this, I was able to spend time with my parents as they seem to need help more and more. This is both beautiful and tender.  My mom and dad have become more forgetful. This can bring great alarm to my five older siblings.  Some days we look too hard at how they are. Yesterday they were both down with an illness and seemed to be out of sorts without each other to lean into.  I made a stew to take to them and brought some friends with me.  When we walked in, both of my parents seemed hobbling and unable.  With the smell of good food and friendship, slowly they moved from their despair and began to set the table.  My mom even told us to bring out the Christmas plates and napkins, as if to say, “let's bring the cheer out once again.”  My parents are both storytellers as you might imagine. As the stew and conversation warmed their bones, they began to tell all the stories from the old days.  Some of these stories I have heard many, many times before.  With friends in the room, I welcomed the delight hearing them again as if it were the first time.  We laughed, we cried, we felt, we riffed, we remembered, and all the while Neil Diamond played in the background.  My parents seem to remember only the things that matter: the way they met and fell in love, the odds they were against them to be together, the family of six kids they struggled to love and raise, friends who have lasted the years and the moments that have touched their lives.  At the end of the night, my mom said, "I feel like myself again."

Back home, I am turning out the lights and letting it all seep in. I look around.  With the timings of everyone and the mood of the world, our tree never got decorated. The lights were on and we were there, but no decorations.  The echoes of my parents rattle around inside me, inside the things I believe in.  I feel like myself again.  I reflect on what happened. There were no couches or therapists or fancy workouts or specialized ways to get moving right again.  We were the medicine.   Perhaps that is the only thing that matters.  

As I prepare for 2024, I say this: let's tell stories, yours, mine and the one we have together. It links us to where we have been and kindles the fire to carry us forward.

Onward all…

with love,

Mary Lynn

The other day, I took a walk with my good friend and photographer, Shea Kluender.  It was the kind of day where everything seemed to be falling into place.  We walked against the December sky, catching up as friends do and thinking about the deeper meaning of things.  Something I said inspired Shea to share these lines from Mary Oliver’s poem, “you do not have to walk on your knees.”  Just as she said that, wild geese really flew over our heads. We stood there in awe of true things.  Later, we wandered inside a general store filled with homemade bread and handmade goods. There were tables and real books for conversations to spill around.  I asked Shea to read Oliver’s whole poem out loud, twice even. I saw that others around the room huddle closer to hear her clear voice.  The ease of simple ways and times was in the air.  We were all caught up in the current moment.  

 After we parted, I wandered into an antique shop, and an old man with a long beard struck up a conversation.  He thought I was a famous singer.  When he found out I was not, it did not matter.  He had something he wanted to show me.  He had found a watch without a face on it.  Immediately I said, “a timeless watch, I love it. “  Delighted that I understood, he went to the counter, ready to pay anything for it.  The owner of the shop said, “ I am not sure it's worth much, how about $3.00?”  The man was tickled, even better.  We continued to talk about small towns, finding treasures and even peace on the earth.  As I was walking out the door he said, “my name is Gil, be sure to find me next time you are in town.”

The experiences of this day linger along with the lines of Oliver’s poem. I wonder about things as I do. I realize some things will never grow old.  A life filled with love, friendship and fellowship, nature and time, movement and story will never be outdated.  No matter how fast the world spins in its crazy directions, we humans will always huddle close to these things. I find peace in that.   These December days have been quieter for me. It was not long ago I wrote about stillness being a movement. Somehow this day beckoned me to getting moving again. I am a believer in signs as you know, so I will take mine. If all of these experiences of the day were not enough, as I was driving back home that day, I stopped the car to witness this most glorious display of wild geese.

The other night I had a dream. I was dancing outside in the snow, the sky was pink and the moon was so large, it was almost touching the ground. There was speaking coming from somewhere on the radio and I noticed these birds flying in time with it.  I stood there, still, watching the synchronization. The birds would move with the breath of the words spoken, and then land in the quiet space between. Fly, land, fly, land.  This splendor was interrupted by two crazy coyotes chasing each other.  And then they began chasing me.  So I ran too.   At some point in the running, I realized if I stood still the chasing would stop.  And it did.  Slowly, slowly, in the stillness, the animals began pouring out of the forest, seemingly waiting for this kind of quiet.  

The next day and the days that have come to now, I have been wondering what the dream meant. Something I keep saying to myself is, stillness is a movement. What I know about deep learning is that we need time to be focused and time to rest. Many of you witnessed an example of this in our open/close hand gesture at our FALL Demonstration. There is time to be stretched out into the world focused and forward moving, and there is time to close in, gather resources, make connections and rest. The farmers know this too. It is a circular path, a rhythm inherent in being human. I think there is a song about this.  WAIT! There is a song! The band is the Byrds! Oh my goodness, maybe that was what my dream was telling me. Anyway, all of this is to say, it is ok to rest. 

A week ago I was greeting the morning with quiet and reflection. It was 7:08 am exactly when this dear fox walked across the morning.  I sat in disbelief of what I was seeing as it sniffed and drank from the water on my porch. As soon as I had the presence, I snapped a picture catching just a hint of this creature.  I wonder if it was truly there. I followed it into my backyard, and finally saw it disappear in the corner of my fence. 

The moment felt like I stepped inside a fairytale. As world events zoomed past my screen,  I stumbled upon simple magic in the morning.  I am one to believe in signs and symbols and looked up the meaning of seeing a fox. It said the qualities of the fox are to be skillful, sly and protective. It can handle any situation or environment.  The fox is mischievous, and got its name “sly as fox” for its sensitive and dynamic prowess. Seeing a fox, the article assures, can pass on its wisdom and passion.  

I take that in. These days, these things soothe me. I turn the page. I look up. I remember to stay here and now, the time of play and light. This last week was a joy to move with all of you. The children are bringing gentleness and care with great notice of the changing light and seasons. The adult dancers have brought a vulnerability and necessity to being together, creating and moving.  Not everything makes sense except for this. Maybe that was what the fox was telling me before it disappeared. 

Good morning everyone!

I look forward to seeing you this week.

Wander in...

The light has sprung ahead; it really feels like we are coming to the end of winter. There are all the signs around the studio announcing this beautiful change: snow boots being exchanged for sockless shoes, heavy coats replaced with easy sweat-shirts, and the light that has been hiding in our westward windows has found its way back in.

All this happened in the quiet exchange of time and ever so present in our change of movement. Movement is our first language. It doesn't matter who you are, where you are from, what circumstances are yours, this is true. I feel massively in awe of this.  This is what we all know and what connects us. If we can not speak, our actions become our language.  Absolutely there are fancy steps and high kicks that are great acts of being evocative dance artists and storytellers. There are also simple acts of movement that transcend powerfully. A smile, a touch of hand, an open door, a heart beating and the way one moves across their own time are movements that belong to all of us. This is what unites our humanity.

 When there is clarity in the body, there is exquisite truth in expression.  This is why we steadfastly work and play week after week detailing the infinite possibilities and expanding our human virtuosity. This makes such beautiful dancers and humans. I am so grateful to everyone for the joyful way you have wandered in contributing your movement to all that we do here.

It truly matters.

When my daughter Sydney Rae was very young she traced a circle in my hand and told me, "mama I love you like a circle & my love goes round and round and never stops." It was a profound thing for such a small human to say and it has stuck with me in a deep way. This became our way of describing our love for each other and even our search for circle people and situations.  

At the threshold of this year, one of my teachers asked me to choose a word to focus my heart and vision for the year. She gave me an elaborate list of questions to get to one word but I already knew it was of course “circle”.  Just to be sure, I investigated more deeply asking myself in every situation I am in, am I standing in a circle?   Am I being a circle?  It has been a wandering these last few months through processes and practices that resonate and do not resonate with mine. It has been a bit like standing in the wind listening to what deeply matters.

I realized it's been a long while since I have gotten local and so I put myself on a bit of a quest connecting to people and places that feel like they are being regenerative by design. It has become a massive research of truth.  I have been listening to storytellers Martin Shaw and Darren Silver,  and visited the work of Modern Folklore and  Birdsong Bespoke.  I dove into the practices of Circling, The Threshold Collective and welcomed Fara Tolno with Kissidugu Foundation and his drummers to fill our space with sound and movement. I even deepened my understanding and love in the Ilan Lev Method.

What is common in all of these practices? They feel like a circle. Evenmore, amongst all these experiences I have deepened my understanding of truth, protection, safety, love, time and belonging when learning and creating.

Effort culture points us to hierarchies, systems and answers. A linear line for getting there, as if getting there is somehow winning. As a woman, a dance artist and a mother there have been many times where I thought I was winning if somehow I was efforting the most, eating the least and running the farthest. Under these kinds of conditions not only did I break but I felt lonely too. 

Ilan Lev says true learning happens in totality, a sort of happy chaos.  Like a baby, we learn everything, everywhere all at once.  Also like a baby we need to be touched and held with others to survive. Leaning into the earth, into others and into the world is how we all found ourselves standing.  Our entire body is a receptor of information, stimulus, touch, emotions and of course joy.  This is the genius of Ilan Lev's work: its efficiency in design is like a circle with the ability to receive and send infinite possibilities and imaginations. For me it changed the quality of my heart, flesh and bones creating a longevity for moving within and with others.

 It’s been seven years since I turned the dance mirrors away and stepped inside the circle with all my students, wee and wise, beginner and professional. We have connected and created at times under imperfect and impoverished conditions and somehow made the most beautiful moments come to life. 

The body loves happiness, movement and belonging. It is medicine for our hearts and our communities, ancient, now and for those that come after.   Under the condition of circles there becomes a citizenship to the most imaginative, beautiful, impossible and crazy things that can happen.

I always say wander in and I say this truly.  It does not matter when or how you come. When you step into the circle with us it improves the quality of the way things go round and round. 

with love,

Mary Lynn