Dragon
"In Moving”
By Camille Maurine
The Elmwood Newsletter, Winter, 1990
Issue on Art and Spirit


Passionate and patient, this lover, awareness.
It wants all of us. It wants us all.

Awareness, movement, breath, inseparably intertwined.
You bring us to life.
This movement, your touch, gently pressing, probing,
awakening response. Calling; answering the call.
You will take any shape to reach us.

Sometimes mother, father, friend; always there.
Compassionate, delicate as a baby's breath
Listening, attending, with piercing tenderness.

Ache deep within the breast, heart anxious, fluttering
like a fledgling bird fallen from the nest.
Skin of palm on skin of chest, waiting, warm: Come nestle into
this home of fragrant twigs, be safe and rest. I am here.
Breathing into this contact, tiny movements to feel, sensations to follow
like silken threads unravelling, revealing
a subtle dance of color, texture, unfolding form.
Contractions easing, moving into tears: Oh abandoned one,
you are no longer alone.

Hands of the lover scanning, sensing searching for secrets:
Show me who you are. Sensations calling, attention focussing:
Yes yes, listen; painful wails, whispers harsh and faint.
Let the movement tell each tale, set free the long unfelt. That energy,
expression, trapped in isolation, now remembered, recognized, released.
Images of self arise and fade, honored, seen and heard.
I am the mirror. I am that, and that, and that.

Neck and shoulders tense, taut. Who are you? What do you want?
He appears - tall, gaunt, cruel wizard of thought: Stop your sniveling,
disgusting child. Don't move, don't feel, don't speak.
You shall not exist, except in my control.
Movement, breath, accept this too in your soft embrace, no struggling
to change. So much effort held, so much will. I offer these to you.

Mouth opens wide, head tilts back: soundless scream.

The journey continues, the ages pass. Such relentless honesty.
Diaphragm pulsing, burning, churning.
She rises from the flames, chthonic jealous rage,
a Medea, hands bloody with her deed.
Ride the movement, turbulent, fierce, elemental power of a fiery sea.
The image passes, the movement remains: silent streaming,
vitalizing surge. Aflame, awake. Breathing primordial, down and in.

Belly constricted, umbilical cry, abdominals gnarled and snarled
against a chaotic world.
Too much to feel.
I won't, I can't, too much, don't force me, no!
Simple presence, awareness alert.
Beneath the navel, behind the eyes, a minute movement,
an opening to see. The ocean voice: Come unto me.
A slow yes, dilating gently to receive, to perceive
the Other, each other,
to take in the mystery and magnificence of being.
And the seeing becomes appreciation, rising in response,
wanting to give back, in passionate participation.
This is our nature, this engagement, this movement of love.
The ocean embraces the stream; the stream cries yes.
Waves welling, swelling to feel.

You speak of the world, the world crying to be felt.
Teach us to tolerate so much feeling.
Tell us of community, where the disowned can emerge from the shadows,
reclaimed, their woes and wisdom informing the whole.
Awareness, you want us, all of us. Fleeting forms rise and dissolve,
each expression a testament of love. We are your nature.
We are your dance.