“You can’t push a river” Weaving Nature-Based Wisdom into Hands-On Therapy with specific reference to Biodynamic Massage & Myofascial Release*
Within Biodynamic massage and nature-based practices, the body’s ability to adapt, recover, and find balance is often present. Biodynamic Massage allows clients to witness these subtle movements and helps guide them to a place that feels harmonious rather than pursuing a fixed state of health. Like nature’s cycles, the body constantly shifts between phases of restriction and release, rest and activity. Biodynamic Massage supports this process, creating space for shifts and space for stillness.
**Embracing the Process of Change**
Similarly in myofascial release, is the idea that change in the body is gradual and requires space and time to unfold. Myofascial release works with the fascia, a connective tissue that surrounds muscles and organs, where restrictions can build over time due to restriction, emotional stress, or injury. When these restrictions are eased and given space to release, the body begins a subtle and complex process of adjustment. This transition, while sometimes uncomfortable, leads to new patterns of movement and functioning that can improve over time.
This post-treatment phase is not just a mechanical release; it’s a holistic process in which the body explores different ways of moving and realigns itself. Initially, these changes may feel unfamiliar or awkward, but this discomfort is part of the body’s adjustment to new possibilities. With time, these new movement patterns lead to greater freedom and ease, reflecting the body’s ability to adapt to new conditions.
Perhaps mirroring nature’s cycles of growth and adaptation. Just as a tree bends and sways with the wind, so too must the body find its own way to balance after a period of restriction. The process may be slow, but it is essential for ease of movement and flexibility.
**Dynamic Nature of Balance**
In my practice, I approach the body as a dynamic system, full of pendulations and shifts. I don’t aim for a fixed result. Instead, I work with the body’s natural rhythms and needs, which are always evolving. Every session is an opportunity to observe subtle shifts in the body, responding to its cues and allowing space for recovery and adjustment.
In Biodynamic massage, the focus is on recognizing and supporting the body’s life force as it moves toward equilibrium. Recovery doesn’t happen in dramatic leaps; it unfolds in small, sometimes almost imperceptible ways. This slow, gentle process for me mirrors how natural ecosystems recover from disturbances—gradually and steadily finding balance over time.
One of the most important areas where this balance is evident is in the autonomic nervous system. The body moves between sympathetic activation (fight-or-flight) and parasympathetic rest-and-digest responses. Often, clients come in stuck in a heightened state of alertness, where their bodies are restricted and overworked. Through hands-on techniques it can facilitate the shift toward a more relaxed state, allowing the body to release restriction and regain a sense of calm. This creates a healthier rhythm for the nervous system, fostering a more balanced state overall.
**Nature as a Guide for Recovery**
The rhythms of nature offer profound lessons in understanding how the body recovers. Natural cycles—such as the changing of seasons, the ebb and flow of tides, or the rise and fall of energy levels throughout the day—provide insights into how recovery occurs in the human body. In nature, there is no rush toward a specific end point; everything follows its own rhythm, adapting to the world around it… BUT…I get it, in this 21st century world it is proving difficult to live in line with nature and we have become a world of “end results” and quick fixes. Plus, we are perhaps not going to find a longevity elixir to live beyond a wise Oak (thank the stars), but we can learn from nature's approach and find ways of weaving our own experiences within it.
By integrating nature’s wisdom into my practice, I create a space where the body can explore and restore itself without pressure or force. Like a plant, without space the growth is stunted one way but in time perhaps finds another way to grow in a different direction. Recovery happens when the body is given the room to move through its cycles of rest, restoration, and renewal. This approach means that every client’s journey is unique, just as no two trees grow in exactly the same way.
When working with clients, I often explain that recovery is not linear. Like the natural world, the body undergoes shifts that may not always be immediately visible. Some changes happen deep beneath the surface, and it may take time for clients to notice the full effects of treatment. The beauty of this process is that it honors the body’s inherent intelligence, allowing it to recover in a way that is sustainable and long-lasting.
**Movement, Softness, and Flexibility**
Another key aspect of my work is encouraging softness and flexibility in the body’s movements. I often compare this to the way nature operates: a tree that is too rigid will break in a storm, while one that is flexible will bend and adapt to the force of the wind. Similarly, when the body becomes too restricted and rigid, movement becomes more difficult and stressful.
In myofascial release, we aim to release areas of restriction in the fascia, helping the body move more freely. This release allows the body to transition from stiffness to softness, from restriction to ease. As the fascia loosens, clients often feel their bodies becoming more responsive and adaptable and perhaps simply feel more. The freedom that comes from releasing restriction isn’t just physical; it affects the way people feel in their bodies and how they navigate their daily lives.
This shift from rigidity to fluidity in movement reflects a deeper principle in recovery: softness allows for adaptability, and adaptability is key to growth and well-being. When clients experience this kind of change, they often find that not only do they move with more ease, but they also feel more at ease emotionally and mentally.
**Honouring the Body’s Natural Cycles**
The changing seasons provide a powerful metaphor for understanding the body’s recovery process. In colder months, people often feel the urge to slow down and conserve energy, much like nature itself. The winter season brings a quietness and stillness that mirrors the body’s need for rest and restoration. Similarly, in the body, there are times when rest is necessary to prepare for periods of growth and activity.
In sessions, I often speak about the importance of honouring these natural cycles within ourselves. Just as we cannot rush the seasons, we cannot force the body to recover on a predetermined timeline. Recovery requires patience, time, and a respect for the body’s rhythms.
At the heart of my practice is the belief that the body is a living, dynamic system that is constantly in motion. Recovery is not about reaching a final destination, but about supporting the body in its ongoing quest for balance. By creating a space for the body to breathe, move, and adjust, we allow it to return to its natural state of harmony and flow.
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If you want, I can refine it further so the repetition of “restriction” feels a bit more varied a
nd nuanced while still keeping your intention.
The Fear of Taking up Space
This is a continued reflection, really—something I often find myself returning to.
MONTHLY MUSINGS| APRIL 2026
I’ve always been interested in space and environment—how we move within it, how we relate to it, and how much of it we actually allow ourselves to experience.
This month’s musings feel a little different. Usually, this is something I send at the beginning of the month—a kind of welcome into what’s ahead, what’s on offer. But it’s nearing the end, and I’m only just sending it now. Not for any particular reason, other than I’ve found myself in a bit of a pause. A quiet. And that feels quite in line with what I’m exploring here.
In a world that feels like it’s constantly moving, constantly offering more information, more things to take in, I realised I didn’t want to add to that in the usual way this time. It felt more natural to slow down and stay with something, rather than move straight on. So this feels less like an update, and more like something that has been sitting with me.
There’s a moment I keep noticing. It tends to appear just before movement really begins—when something in the body wants to shift or reach, and then doesn’t. Not a full stop, just a slight holding. And it’s rarely because we don’t know what to do. Most of the time, the direction is already there, sensed somewhere quite clearly. It’s more that something interrupts it.
Sometimes that interruption comes from how we think we’ll be seen, or what might come back if we follow that movement through. Other times it’s much quieter than that—a kind of uncertainty, or a subtle need to keep things contained. Nothing dramatic, just enough to hesitate, just enough to not quite follow through.
What’s interesting is how quickly this becomes physical. The space around us can start to feel smaller, as though our attention narrows without us really noticing. We stop taking in what’s around us and instead stay on a kind of internal path. From the outside, it can look composed, but inside there’s often a sense of effort—breath a little tighter, the body holding a little more, movement becoming more measured.
I saw this very clearly when working in end-of-life care. There were times when fear of movement had become so familiar that it gradually led to movement stopping altogether. And without movement, the world itself can begin to feel smaller. As the senses change—sight, hearing, touch—the environment becomes harder to access, less certain, and the body often responds by withdrawing. Movement reduces, range narrows, not always because it has to, but because it no longer feels familiar to go beyond that.
And this isn’t just something that happens later in life. It shows up in quieter ways all the time.
There’s a lot of language used to describe what happens in the body. One phrase that comes up often is reciprocal inhibition—the idea that when one part of the body works, another releases. And yes, that’s something you can feel. But what I keep coming back to is what happens around that moment. Because something can soften, something can open, and still we don’t quite go there. We hover just before it, or pass through it too quickly to really register it.
It feels as though the body isn’t just mechanical—it responds to what feels known, what feels comfortable. Even the systems that regulate tension might be responding not only to stretch or load, but to a sense of “too much”—too unfamiliar, too soon. And so the body pauses. Not as a failure, but as a kind of intelligence. A way of pacing what it’s ready for.
I notice this often in practice. A space appears—something shifts, something softens—and for a moment there is more room. But it doesn’t always feel like somewhere to stay. There’s often a kind of in-between. Not quite where we were, not quite in the new space either. And often, we move away from it quite quickly. Not because we don’t want it, but because it doesn’t yet feel like ours.
So the question becomes less about how to create space, and more about how to stay in it. How that space becomes somewhere we can actually be. It doesn’t feel like something to force. More like something that grows slowly—through returning to it, noticing it again, letting it become familiar over time. Sometimes that’s as simple as letting the eyes move, noticing the room, sensing where you are so it doesn’t feel like an empty drop but something held. Sometimes it’s just not rushing away.
And somewhere in all of this, another question keeps surfacing—how do we inhabit, rather than inhibit?
Inhibition can be very subtle. A slight holding, a narrowing, a tendency to stay within what’s known. Inhabiting feels different. Not bigger, not more forceful—just more present. It might be letting a movement complete itself, allowing the breath to settle, or remaining in something just a little longer than feels immediately comfortable. Over time, what felt unfamiliar can begin to feel accessible.
I see this in class, in those moments where movement could travel further but doesn’t quite. Often it comes back to space—what feels available around you, what you’ve actually registered. When that shifts, movement often does too. And I notice it in clinic through touch, when a body that has been holding begins, slowly, to soften. There’s often a small moment—a breath, a change in quality—and then space appears. Even then, it can take time for that space to feel inhabitable.
I often think about this through the work of Marina Abramović. In The Artist Is Present, first performed at the Museum of Modern Art in 2010—the image at the top of this piece comes from that work—very little happens on the surface. She sits, she stays, she meets whoever comes to sit opposite her. But something shifts, not through action, but through the quality of her presence.
She isn’t trying to take space or assert anything into it. She simply remains. And in that staying, the space begins to change. Time stretches, the distance between people softens or tightens and you begin to feel yourself inside it too. She inhabits the space fully—not hovering, not passing through, just there—and in doing so, the environment seems to organise itself around her.
There’s something in that which feels very familiar. Not as performance, but as a kind of practice. A reminder that space isn’t something we need to claim, but something we meet, and gradually allow ourselves to be within.
And perhaps that’s the work.
Not forcing ourselves to arrive, or to take up more space than feels true, but staying long enough—for the body to recognise what’s already there. To let it land. To let it become somewhere we can be.
Not all at once, but over time.
Not by pushing into it—
but by remaining, until something shifts.
Why Touch Matters: Reflections from My Work as a Massage Therapist
I haven’t just worked with people experiencing poor mental health — I’ve lived it myself.
I know how it can pull you out of your body or get you stuck in it. How everything can feel heavy, dull, slow. How starting movement — whether that’s physically or in life — can feel almost impossible. That sense of numbness, or being disconnected from yourself, often shows up in the body long before words are ever found.
Sometimes the world feels black and white. Like everything is fixed on one thing — one feeling — that has been present in your life for so long it’s almost a weight you carry everywhere. And that weight doesn’t just live in your mind. It shows up in your body.
It can appear as a physical ailment, a stubborn skin condition, or a shift in your body’s natural regulatory patterns — the rhythms of sleep, digestion, tension, or breath. The body speaks its own language ,and often, touch is one of the ways to gently listen and respond to that message.
This is why I started to offer my low-income treatments, I want to reach those who might not have access to lots of support or even have the energy and confidence to come for a treatment, but whose bodies are quietly asking for something very simple: connection.
I’m not a mental health specialist. And I’m very clear about that.
But I bring with me is many thousands hours experiencing people and bodies and 2 decades of working hands-on with people — through biodynamic massage, remedial massage, biodynamic psychotherapeutic training, eco-psychology, and end-of-life care. I’ve sat with people whose physical symptoms are deeply intertwined with emotional discontent or imbalance. And I’ve witnessed, time and time again, how powerful intentional, respectful touch can be.
What Touch Can Do
It’s extraordinary to watch someone walk into my space with their head low, feet shuffling, body dragging itself forward, sometimes non- verbal— and then to simply make contact. To meet them as a whole person.
Sometimes it’s not even about “doing” much at all. It’s about reassuring the body that it exists. Helping someone feel their edges again — feeling where their physical body ends and the outside world begins. Helping them experience what’s going on inside with curiousity.
Science is beginning to catch up with what many of us working with touch have known for a long time. Large-scale research has shown that human touch can significantly reduce anxiety, depression, pain, and stress, while supporting the nervous system to shift toward a state of safety and regulation. Touch has been shown to lower cortisol (the stress hormone) and increase chemicals like oxytocin and serotonin, which are linked to calm, connection, and wellbeing.
The Wellcome Trust, among others, has invested heavily in mental health research that looks at how the brain, body, and environment interact — acknowledging that mental health is not just something happening in the mind, but in the whole human system.
Massage research also suggests that intentional touch can reduce symptoms of anxiety and depression, sometimes quite quickly. I see this in my practice all the time — someone walking out with their head held just a little higher, making eye contact where there was not before, breath a little deeper, able to talk a little more freely about what’s going on for them.
These moments can be subtle, but they matter.
Not a Cure — But a Place to Arrive
Massage isn’t for everyone. And it’s never a replacement for mental health support when that’s needed. I always make sure that people who are struggling have someone to talk to outside of the treatment space if it feels appropriate to suggest.
But massage doesn’t have to be heavy.
It doesn’t have to involve analysing or fixing.
Sometimes it can simply be a place to arrive, receive, and leave and take with you what feels useful and available in that moment.
A place where the body remembers has time and space enough to feel — even for a moment.
Where This Began for Me
This takes me back to when I was 21, before I’d even qualified as a massage therapist. I was studying choreography and living in a strange old boarding-school-style building — cell-like rooms with single beds, a window, a sink.
There was a man I knew through university who I later learned was Asperger’s. He used to knock on my door, head down, arms hanging heavy, eyes on the floor, and simply say,
“Hi Miranda. Can I have a massage?”
No niceties. No explanation.
And I would welcome him in and then he would often leave with a soft handshake.
He’d lie down, and I’d offer some sort of hands-on treatment — intuitive simple, present. Looking back, maybe it wouldn’t have felt safe or appropriate to everyone. But I know those moments meant something to him. He knew what his body needed when he felt overwhelmed or disconnected — and it was connection through touch.
I don’t know where he is now. The last I heard, he was living in Japan. But I often think about him, and how clearly he trusted his body’s wisdom.
Why I Keep Doing This Work
I make it my mission to bring more awareness of this work into the wider conversation — including Western medicine and systems like the NHS, where touch-based therapies are still rarely suggested as support for depression or mental health struggles. While other avenues of care, especially for those with insurance, may be claimable or supported by certain funding, massage and body-based therapies are rarely funded, though this is starting to change slowly.
And it's not because touch is a miracle cure — but because it’s human. Because it reminds people they are here. That they exist. That their body is not something to fear.
Even the smallest spark — a warmth, a breath, a moment of ease — can be the beginning of something shifting.
And that’s why I do this work.
That’s why access matters so much to me.
And that’s why I believe touch deserves a place in how we care for one another.
How I Keep My Energy Steady: A Little About Daydreaming
People often ask how I look after myself with the kind of work I do — seeing several clients a day, teaching classes, managing different people, different ailments, different moods, and all the shifts that come with that. It’s a kind question, and it usually makes me stop for a second, because I don’t really have a big answer.
When someone asked me recently, the only thing that came out was,
“I daydream.”
And it’s true. I’ve always been a daydreamer. I used to drift off at the wrong times — in class, mid-conversation, sometimes right when someone was asking me something important. I still do it now and then. Family, partners, friends — not everyone has found it endearing. It can look like I’m not listening, but it’s not that at all. My mind just slips away for a moment, softens a little, and I go somewhere else for a breath.
That small habit has followed me through my adult life and, without realising it, has become one of the ways I reset myself.
A Quiet Way to Rest
Between clients, or when there’s a bit of space in the day, I find myself going there — not asleep, not meditating, just letting thoughts move around. Sometimes it’s a dream of something I’d like to do or see or feel. Sometimes it’s just a colour, or a soft, fuzzy sort of space.
It doesn’t last long. A few seconds maybe, a few minutes if I’m lucky.
For a long time, I thought I should be able to meditate properly — sit still, breathe, focus — but it never felt like me. Finding out that daydreaming can be its own kind of meditation made sense. It’s my way of finding quiet.
Staying Emotionally Steady
As part of the type of massage I practice, I’m required to have regular supervision and therapy. At first, it was simply part of meeting professional requirements, but over time it has become something I value personally as well. These sessions help me stay grounded, reflect on how I respond to others — their moods, their energy, their stories — and make sure I’m able to give each person my best.
I also believe that anyone who works in caring, therapeutic, or wellbeing roles — giving their energy and sharing themselves with others — can benefit from some kind of support. Supervision, therapy, or even just moments of reflection and quiet consideration with peers can be a useful way to stay steady, present, and able to give without wearing yourself out.
Combined with those small daydreaming moments, this support helps me feel balanced and ready, even on the busiest days.
Letting Go of the “Shoulds”
There’s a lot out there about how we should look after ourselves — the walks, the yoga, the baths, the time in nature. All good things. But they don’t always fit into my days, and I’ve stopped feeling bad about that.
My quiet comes in smaller pieces — those little moments in between things, when I can just drift for a bit and breathe.
It doesn’t look like much, but it gives me back some space, helps me come back to myself, ready for whoever’s next.
And it’s not only that people come in with their world — they step into mine too. We share time and space, and that has its own weight. It can be meaningful, but it can also be a lot to carry. So those quiet moments after, when I drift a little, help me find where I end and they begin again.
So if you ever see me drift off, or notice I’ve disappeared for a moment, just give me a second.
I’m not gone — I’m just recharging my internal battery.
When Words Escape Us, Dance Says It All
Lately, I’ve been revisiting an idea I started exploring two years ago — and the more I return to it, the more I feel something stirring around it. It’s as though the moment I begin to manifest it again, small signs start to appear — reminders, conversations, even questions from people asking if I’m still running my BIOFORM movement sessions. Then I came across a post titled “Why dancing can be more powerful than an antidepressant,” and it felt like a quiet nudge from the universe.
As a former dancer, I know how profoundly movement can shape and save a person. There was a time in my life when things were heavy, and dance became the one place where I could still breathe, still feel. It anchored me. It gave me a place to belong. Within that community, I found a kind of language that required no translation — a way of communicating through shapes, breath, energy, and rhythm. There’s a particular feeling that comes after a movement — a pulse that lingers long after the body stills — and an even deeper joy in seeing your creation embodied by others, spoken through their movement.
When life feels hard these days, dance is still what I return to. It’s the most tangible way I know to reconnect with myself — a felt sense that lives deep in the body. The moment I begin to move, something stirs that’s both grounding and liberating. It’s vivid, immediate, alive. Even the memory of movement — not necessarily the act itself, but the trace it leaves behind — can bring me back to that feeling. It’s as though my body carries its own archive of freedom and spaciousness, waiting to be remembered. I can call on it when I need to breathe again, to soften, to remember that movement doesn’t always need to be seen to be felt.
“Dance is the hidden language of the soul,” wrote Martha Graham, one of the greatest dancers and choreographers to have ever lived. I’ve always loved that line because it captures exactly what I’ve come to understand through my own experience — that dance speaks in ways words never can. It moves through us, quietly revealing what we feel, what we long for, and what we might not even know how to say.
What I’ve always loved about dance is its inclusivity. It’s for everyone. I don’t just mean the trained or the technically skilled, but all forms of movement — the small gestures, the inner shifts that happen when we hear music, or when emotion rises before words can catch it. That internal dance — the quiet sway of thought, memory, or emotion — is as powerful as any performance. Dance exists in the subtle as much as in the spectacular.
Everyone can move. Everyone has rhythm, whether it’s visible or buried deep within. I remember a powerful moment during my training in massage for dementia care, when we were shown a video demonstrating how music and rhythm could awaken something in people who appeared completely closed off to the world. Even when the body seemed still, something within responded. That inner rhythm — that pulse of being — can’t be erased. It reminded me that movement begins before the body even acts; it begins in the spirit.
That’s what draws me back now — this understanding that dance and touch both reach places words can’t. They are ways of remembering who we are beneath language, beyond roles and labels. This inner rhythm has been calling me again, quietly but insistently, urging me to bring BIOFORM back to life — to create spaces where people can reconnect with movement, with each other, and with themselves.
Because when words escape us, movement — like touch — says everything that needs to be said.
If you’re curious to see what inspired me, I invite you to watch this short but deeply moving video: Music and Memory – Henry’s Story. It’s a beautiful reminder of how rhythm and movement can awaken something deeply human — something that never truly fades.
The Dance Chronicles 03:What is the relationship between fatigue and injury in dance?
Fatigue can manifest both mentally and physically, and although these forms are distinct, they are closely interconnected and often influence one another. Fatigue refers to a state of the body and mind commonly associated with tiredness, weakness, and a general sense of malaise. When the body becomes fatigued, its natural cellular response is to rest and slow down. This can result in a feeling of heaviness and reduced speed— a sensory and somatic signal that encourages us to pause.
For dancers, whose performance and stamina are under constant pressure, fatigue can evoke anxiety and worry. In response, dancers may feel compelled to push through exhaustion—what Peter Levine describes as a state of hyperarousal. This pushing can destabilize the body, making cells more susceptible to damage. Cortisol imbalances caused by chronic stress can lead to inflammation, increasing the risk of illness and injury.
While dancers are often taught to listen to their bodies, the demands of performance, financial necessity, and professional commitment can lead them to override these internal signals. Rather than resting, they continue pushing through fatigue. However, when the body is no longer capable of supporting this effort, performance may suffer. A missed landing or poorly executed movement can foster negative self-perceptions such as “I’m not good enough,” compounding emotional distress and increasing the risk of injury.
If the body lacks adequate nourishment and strength to support the physical demands placed upon it, it becomes more vulnerable. This not only affects performance but can also lead to long-term physical and emotional consequences.
The Dance Chronicles 01-What is proprioception and how does it relate to dance learning?
Imagine standing at the edge of an unknown space, unaware that solid ground lies just ahead—how do we find the courage to take that first step forward? What changes within us when we do? Our breath may catch, our posture may shift, and our movement may become tentative or instinctive. This act of stepping into uncertainty reveals something fundamental about proprioception and the dancer.
Proprioception is not only the awareness of space around us, but also a deep sense of how our bodies exist, move, and relate within that space. It is what allows dancers to move with clarity, confidence, and conviction—whether in motion or stillness. Often framed in terms of spatial navigation, proprioceptive awareness goes further: it enriches the dancer’s capacity to be present and responsive, even in moments of stillness. It transforms stillness from absence of movement into a powerful state of listening and readiness.
To me, dance and movement are not only about taking up space by moving through it, but about the profound experience of being moved—by the space itself, by energy, by others. This reciprocal relationship between the dancer and space challenges traditional notions of agency in movement.
I am particularly inspired by the work of Marina Abramović, whose live performances often rely on the heightened spatial awareness shared between performer and audience. In her pieces, the body becomes a vessel—a dancer—not through choreographed steps, but through her acute sensitivity to the environment and the people within it. Her presence and awareness allow the performance to come into being. It is this kind of embodied spatial intelligence that I believe is central to the dancer’s art.
The Dance Chronicles 02:What is the difference between flexibility and hypermobility, and which challenges do these concepts bring to dance training?
Flexibility is a term commonly used in dance training to describe a dancer who moves with ease—executing motions across all planes with grace and fluidity, without compromising their overall physical health. In my own approach, I incorporate fascial knowledge to view flexibility not just as a physical capability, but as a quality of movement that supports balance, adaptability, and optimal function.
However, this perspective hasn't always been part of the conversation. Flexibility is still often viewed as the “holy grail” of dance success—suggesting that if a dancer can do the splits, they will excel. This perception can be misleading. The ability to slide effortlessly into the splits or lift a leg to the head while seated is frequently equated with flexibility, but in many cases, it may actually be a sign of hypermobility.
Hypermobility refers to joints that move beyond the typical range—commonly described as being “double-jointed.” While a hypermobile dancer may display high leg extensions with apparent ease, a closer examination often reveals challenges with control, stability, and support. These deficiencies can increase the risk of injury over time.
For dancers, the challenges of flexibility are both mental and physiological. Hypermobile dancers, in particular, may face a long process of retraining and stabilization. Although extreme flexibility is often celebrated for its aesthetic appeal, there is a delicate balance between what is visually impressive and what is functionally sustainable.
If you could have one super power…
“If you could have one super -power, what would it be?”…
most of us have been asked that question in their lifetime and the answers are often endless and hilarious. One often contemplates a special power they would choose if given the chance. For me, that power has always been the ability to pause time. It's a whimsical desire that I've carried since childhood—a curiosity about the frozen moments and the freedom they could offer. Imagining the world suspended, I wondered about the profound stillness and the untouched possibilities: the places I could explore, the improbable feats I could accomplish (maybe even a cheeky bank heist!) or perhaps my perpetual but unknown need and want to slow down. Yet, beneath the fanciful musings lay deeper questions: would time's halt freeze aging, halt growth, arrest the sun's course, and silence the bustling dynamics of life?
This fascination persisted into adulthood, influencing my academic writings at university and even my creative pursuits Inspired by Michael Ende's "Momo," my hand made candles—MimiMomo Candles—that symbolized the essence of time reclaimed. Each candle, adorned with a compass charm, served as a reminder to cherish every moment while it burns. Created during the solitude of lockdown, these candles became a poignant reflection of our collective pause, a time to reclaim what's sacred, even as production eventually ceased. But the essence of MimiMomo persists, awaiting its resurgence.
As an intuitive practitioner of body-based arts like Pilates and Biodynamic massage, I've found that true richness emerges when we honor time's natural flow. In sessions, I've learned not to rush the process, allowing space for subtle shifts and deep revelations. Sometimes, in our haste, we unintentionally disrupt this natural unfolding, caught up in the modern frenzy of time. When this happens in sessions, I return to a place of presence—after a redirecting talk with myself I start reconnecting with my breath and attuning to my client's rhythm. This return allows the session to unfold organically, honoring each individual's unique journey within the boundless expanse of time.
One of my favorite concepts of time, not surprisingly, comes from the Japanese with their concept of MA, which is a pause in time, an interval or emptiness in space. Ma is the time and space life needs to breathe, to feel, and to connect. If we have no time, if our space is restricted, we cannot grow. This universal principle applies to every aspect of life and the natural world. I often aim to bring this concept into my work within Pilates, massage, and movement.
In the context of body-based practices, freezing time within a time-space mirrors the biodynamic approach to the vasomotoric cycle* and the autonomic nervous system. Just as pausing time externally brings everything to a halt, freezing in breath or within the nervous system interrupts the flow of growth and movement within the body. It is a reminder that our physiological processes require uninterrupted cycles to maintain health and vitality. When we freeze these cycles, we impede natural progress and transformation.
*The vasomotoric cycle is a term that comes from biodynamic psychology. Gerda Boyesen identified that energy moves through cycles and our ability to complete the cycle represents healthy self regulation. The cycle has four phases; charging, action/expression, winding down and relaxation.
…why I never always felt free with “free flow”…
17th century poet John Dryden wrote a quote that often sticks in my mind time and time again in all aspects of my life.
"stiffling the urge to dance is bad for your health, it rusts your spirit and your hips"
Reassuring to know that this idea still deemed important back before the age Instagram and the fitness explosion.
We know deeply in our souls that movement helps us move but many of us find this a hard prospect to imagine implementing into life. I know when I have periods of reduced movement or exercise I find the hardest thing is to get back into it. We all know that inner gulp through gritted teeth when someone suggests “go and do some light exercise” after feeling like the only thing you feel capable of is doing a days work and cooking an evening meal.
For me, these moments often occur when I am overworked, prioritising earning money and emotionally strained, my confidence reduces and my body stiffens up with both will power and physiologically, a vicious cycle really. My partner who is a dedicated meditator and tai chi practitioner who I watch how they practice these in their life, whilst I know that they often battle with resistance too, I am often in awe of their consistency, even when gently encouraged to join them, the stubborn nature in me dismisses it. The mere suggestion of engaging in light exercise often triggers an instinctual resistance, prompting reflection on whether this resistance originates from my mental state or my physical condition.
Currently, however my movement practice is much more in flow than it was, after making the time. I am moving my body in new ways and finding that other systems are moving better in me. Though my energy may be the same as before but my energy or focus in the things that I had a passion for are returning and the passion in me is also returning. This is manifesting in a different way than I expected. I am not energised to do 20k runs, surf everyday or complete 100 skips a day, this new energy is creative and is quietly guiding me. This is that part of me perhaps I needed and I was missing for a bit.
Inner Rhythm
I must admit, I've never been particularly drawn to 5 Rhythms or ecstatic dance. While I appreciate the concept, as someone with a background in classical based dance training I've found the idea of ecstatic dance-based practices somewhat off-putting in the past. However, I recognize that my perspective may be influenced by the framework I've placed upon myself. It's interesting to consider how our conditioning, especially through formal dance training, can limit our openness to alternative movement practices. The different techniques and styles we're taught often become ingrained as the "right" or "only" way to move. Similarly, this conditioning exists in our daily practices and routines, where certain actions are deemed acceptable or expected. Despite this conditioning, when I have attended these sessions, I've noticed a shift in how I feel and have found enjoyment in the release it offers me.
The reminiscence of my first ecstatic 5 rhythms dance class, two decades ago in Boston, Massachusetts, remains vivid in my memory. Not really aware of what I was going to, I found myself swept into the swirling energy of the class, guided by my uncle, now in his mid-70s, whose vibrant spirit seemed to defy age.
After two hours of tentative participation, the class began to come together or so I thought. Initially unsure, I couldn't help but chuckle as I watched my uncle twirl about with these enormous, rainbow-hued ribbons, revealing a playful, inner hippy that had been hiding in plain sight. Yet, amidst the chuckles and my typical 18 year old teenager sense of perhaps feeling a little ‘uncool’ in it all, there was a sense of wonder—a recognition of the sheer joy radiating from his every move and really my first introduction to what dance is and what it can be and more importantly what it can do! Despite a decade of classical ballet and professional contemporary dance training, I realized that true mastery of movement transcends technique—it resides in the pulsating rhythm of one's own being.
My uncle and aunt stand as living testaments to the vitality of movement. Both in their 70s now, they embody the belief that staying active is synonymous with staying alive. Recently, my uncle pursued a new passion, qualifying as a yoga teacher—a testament to the fact that time and age does not defy our ability to move.
In conversation with my aunt about the transformative power of movement, she expressed a sentiment that resonated deeply with me:
"yes I think it is crucial to move one's body. Sometimes only moving my body changes my perspective on life. Once I move, I feel better"
When discussing the concept of transitioning from regular movement to dancing, many individuals initially express hesitation. They often mention their ability to perform structured exercises like the grapevine or participate in aerobic classes with music, but the prospect of dancing seems daunting to them. In response, I emphasize that they are already engaging in choreography without realizing it. Whether it's following a set routine in an aerobic class or executing specific movements to music, they are essentially following a prescribed way of moving.
In my teaching approach, I aim to expand this perspective. Instead of teaching a singular "correct" way to move, I offer a variety of movement vocabularies. By presenting different approaches, I provide a framework that allows for individual expression and interpretation. This approach creates a supportive environment for those who may feel apprehensive about dancing, offering them the freedom to explore movement in their own unique way.
Through this process, individuals can discover their personal style and develop confidence in their movement abilities. It's about finding "a way" that resonates with them, rather than conforming to a predefined notion of how to move. Ultimately, this personalized approach enables individuals to experience the transformative power of movement in a way that feels authentic and meaningful to them.
In conclusion, the journey from simply moving to confidently dancing is not about conforming to a singular way of expression. It's about embracing the freedom to explore movement in a way that resonates with each individual. By offering a variety of movement vocabularies and guiding individuals through their own unique paths, we can unlock the transformative potential of movement. So, whether you're taking your first steps onto the dance floor or refining your technique, remember that there's no one "right" way to dance. Embrace your own way, and let the joy of movement lead you forward.
Miranda
x
A thank you to my Uncle Tad and Auntie Claudyne for inspiring this blog entry!
For information on my latest movement workshops please click on link below
“sometimes we just don’t feel like the plan we made”
“sometimes we just don’t feel like the plan we made”
I am always navigating myself in this world, every day I try to trust what the day will bring but often it brings in the unpredictable moments despite the planning. The word navigate seems overused in my vocabulary at the moment. I use it to refer to how I feel my way through my career, relationships and health choices. It seems like a word that I can really make use of and that can adapt to anything and any challenges in my life.
Sure, navigating used to be about getting from one place to another. But nowadays, it's more about going with the flow, exploring new horizons, and seeing where life takes you.
Conventionally, there's a common belief in the linear progression of life, marked by a clear beginning and end. Yet, our journey spans far beyond mere points of origin and conclusion, offering continuous opportunities for learning and personal development. This destination we seek may not adhere to traditional solidity; rather, it may take on fluid, intangible forms. Perhaps, it's a journey without a fixed endpoint, where the pursuit of growth becomes the destination itself.
What I'm aiming to convey here might not be crystal clear, but as I was exchanging messages with a close friend, both of us employed in caregiving roles, the topic of energy levels emerged, as it often does. We frequently discuss the challenge of preserving energy for ourselves while fulfilling our caregiving duties. It's an ongoing process, one I aspire to improve upon. At the end of her message she wrote:
“sometimes we just don’t feel like the plan we made”
We often plan to experience life fully, but sometimes our plans don't align with reality. Despite our expectations, plans often change, leading us in unexpected directions.
So….the journey of life is a constant navigation through the unpredictable waters of existence. While we may try to chart our course and stick to our plans, we inevitably encounter unexpected challenges and detours along the way. However, it is in these moments of uncertainty that we truly learn to navigate - to adapt, to explore new horizons, and to embrace the fluidity of our experiences.
As we reflect on our personal journeys, it becomes evident that life is not a linear path with a clear beginning and end, but rather a continuous voyage of growth and discovery. We must learn to let go of rigid expectations and embrace the inherent unpredictability of life.
In our quest for balance and fulfillment, it is essential to recognize the importance of self-care and flexibility. Just as sailors must know when to set sail and when to drop anchor, we too must learn when to forge ahead and when to pause, replenishing our energy and reassessing our direction.