Like a Grey Heron I have a slow flight. My main periods of hunting are around dawn and dusk, but I may also be active at other times of day. I may lie motionless on a soft living room rag, or on my bed, waiting for movement to stir up from the depths of phylogenetic history, to surface to actionable sensation. And when it hits, I swim, I surf, I follow the currents; I move and let me be moved, I feel, I sense, I think; I repeat, I relate, I identify, sort, categorise and file, and after that corner of the great veil has fallen once again I might even scribble down some notes.

It’s not a question of changing.
It’s a question of becoming.

Don’t ask,
How can I teach this lesson?

Ask,
What excites your kinaesthetic senses?
What words and movements create comfort?
What makes you fill with wonder?
In which movements can you find meaning?
What sparks your creativity?
When do you need stimulation and when do you need rest?

It’s a great idea
truly well intended
to have everyone flow together
in harmony.

But then
there’s always parts that
can’t or won’t or don’t want
so it seems, how can we make them fit?

Aren’t we all part of the same river?
Why do some think that
they are the rocks of the river bed,
the willow trees alongside the overbank flows,
the birds in the sky,
the bisons in the plains,
a cabin in the mountains,
why won’t they accept that they
are just drops of water in one of my rivers?

I sit pretty
like I was told
with my feet down on the floor
under the table.

But sometimes
I round my back
and slouch a bit forwards
and lean my elbows on the table
and roll my hands into fists
and point my fork and my knife
towards the ceiling
and I make a grim face
to show how angry I am
inside.

That’s already more than
most other kids dare to do.
I’m a rebel.

branches and leaves
birds and bees
fruit and moss
a trunk with roots

what do I draw
what do you draw

bend the legs
extend the legs
what do I move
what do you move

how do we feel
and look at each other