This landed in such a strangely perfect moment. Hawtorn and I have been discussing whether healing ever really finishes, or if it just changes shape as we move. And here you are, answering the question without trying to, by reminding us that the body learns the steps long before the mind trusts the music.
There’s something deeply comforting in that: that we don’t have to think our way through every flash of memory, every quiet ache. Sometimes our feet remember the path back to ourselves. Sometimes silence is where we reconnect.
If time is a dance, and our body has memory to lead the dance, what is it the body knows about time we don’t. That we exist in all places at all times? Or our memories stretch across time?
Not looking for answers. Just reflecting out loud. Great poem as always Dorie.
It’s like you handed time a tiny sparkly skirt and said, “Alright then — show me what you’ve got.” And suddenly the whole poem starts doing that soft, stubborn choreography only the body seems to remember.
I love the mischievous wisdom of it — mind wandering off stage left, and your feet just going, don’t worry, babe, we’ve got this. And that last line? Sitting in silence like you’re backstage catching your breath before the next number — perfect.
Your poems always feel like they sneak in a wink between the lines.
Asuka you see this in its purest form. The dance we do to keep moments in time, our time, but life has an end and we can only quietly exit stage left hopefully without regret.
you make our little time-dance sound so elegant, when we both know we’d be the ones doing one last twirl, whispering “just one more moment,” before slipping off stage left.
If I see the dance clearly, it’s only because your poems leave tiny footprints in the wings, showing me where time tried to escape.
I will hold that in my heart. I may ask for it on a little note I can put on my wall by the lantern and flower picture. “Your poems leave tiny footprints in the wings…”
I have experienced this - the body having memory. Sometimes I don't even remember how I have gotten to a place but I am there.
Perhaps that is the opposite of meditation - being fully present. But I reserve that type of presence for doing the things I truly enjoy.
A beautiful piece.
Thank you for reading and sharing your experience!
What stays with me is the patience of it.
When thought loosens and words thin, the poem doesn’t rush to resolve —
it lets the body carry what needs to be felt,
one movement at a time.
Thank you so very much for your sincerity and thoughtful comment. I appreciate your time and presence. 🩷
You are welcome. Thank you for your kind and generous words.
This landed in such a strangely perfect moment. Hawtorn and I have been discussing whether healing ever really finishes, or if it just changes shape as we move. And here you are, answering the question without trying to, by reminding us that the body learns the steps long before the mind trusts the music.
There’s something deeply comforting in that: that we don’t have to think our way through every flash of memory, every quiet ache. Sometimes our feet remember the path back to ourselves. Sometimes silence is where we reconnect.
Thank you for this. 💗
If time is a dance, and our body has memory to lead the dance, what is it the body knows about time we don’t. That we exist in all places at all times? Or our memories stretch across time?
Not looking for answers. Just reflecting out loud. Great poem as always Dorie.
Thank you Saif 🩷
Beautifully written, Dorie! Your words remind us that even when the mind falters, our body and spirit can still keep the dance of life alive.
Thank you Dawn
Dorie, this one twirls.
It really does.
It’s like you handed time a tiny sparkly skirt and said, “Alright then — show me what you’ve got.” And suddenly the whole poem starts doing that soft, stubborn choreography only the body seems to remember.
I love the mischievous wisdom of it — mind wandering off stage left, and your feet just going, don’t worry, babe, we’ve got this. And that last line? Sitting in silence like you’re backstage catching your breath before the next number — perfect.
Your poems always feel like they sneak in a wink between the lines.
Asuka you see this in its purest form. The dance we do to keep moments in time, our time, but life has an end and we can only quietly exit stage left hopefully without regret.
you make our little time-dance sound so elegant, when we both know we’d be the ones doing one last twirl, whispering “just one more moment,” before slipping off stage left.
If I see the dance clearly, it’s only because your poems leave tiny footprints in the wings, showing me where time tried to escape.
I will hold that in my heart. I may ask for it on a little note I can put on my wall by the lantern and flower picture. “Your poems leave tiny footprints in the wings…”
I love this. The whole concept of muscle memory. That the body remembers.