Dance Slippers

Water the Dance: The Evolution of Holosync

Every morning, for the space of an hour, I am immersed in water. At present, I slandered to the sounds of Holosync of rain, water, the waves, a liquid playing the drum that rolls beyond the pulse to a deeper source. Of a manner or of another during this hour, my breathing becomes more formed, done more regulate, done more climb in a train, as a pair of dance of the legs that found the rhythm and could well allow at last to be taken itself by a bigger deeper strength.

Every morning as I rule in water, I await to be taken and I rarely am disappointed. The interesting thing is that after almost 6 months of daily meditation to the water sounds (I lacked only 2 meetings), my entire body was cared for to take it even before I put my ear telephones. And to take it is as a grandiose dive in the put to bed different of the oneself, only this oneself (for the lack of a better picture) is as a dance of huge pieuvre in the depths of the water of ocean. All my tentacles turn savagely far center and nevertheless I can feel their rhythm perfectly to the center, all the incongruities are sensible finally in this center. Strong to put to say that this picture means, but this is the description the more viable of how I feel at the end of the hourae” a dancer reconciled to the new beginnings, the steps of a choredgraphied, a think about dancer on the points of its slippers of dance. It is a very subtle process -- this growing direction of interconnectedness, a deep direction that even the most perverse one has its roots in the most plausible one. I am a pieuvre that wants to enter 20 different directions, feeling the force in outside -- towards the intedrieurae”un feels peace in the agitation, the softness in the cacophony.

After the bands, I get up and in the morning them of a manner or of another falls miraculously to his placeae”chaque e-mail, every telephone call that takes a final place as a written dance in advance. I am converged to the work, in my writing. The occasions unfold before me. The words that I had fought before doing to droiteae”solide perfects in their resistance. All is not medlodique, but all that emerging are poedsieae”cru, cacophonous, do not totally understand or totally cohedsifae”mais perfectly in the step.

When I fall on something that would have torn me previously to party, I look at indifferent. I begin more and more to see than the dead end as the party of the enigma of which beauty is than the final piece does not come to the end, but to the beginning.

I am less and less interested in to look for the final truth that justifies, but more and more of happy one with the millions of truths that all fills every space and every fragment of time. And the irony is that of a manner or of another this cacophony does me the body: I am more than the one. I am infiniae”les pieces infinite, infinite reflections of an only piece or of a maybe infinite pieces broke of an only picture. It does not have any importance more, you see.

"Attentiveness all is," says Hamlet. And the immersion in these bands seems to care for me for this attentiveness. The attentiveness for that? For nothing and for all.

More and more of I feel that the entire process of survival -- living, work, the writing, mate, aimerae”tout these are part of a water dance, in what the game is the thing, not to take the conscience of the king, but to be appreciated and to be cherished as the last waltz. .. Before the next one.