I’ve spent the last year developing a curriculum for my upcoming workshop Dancing on the Page: Moving into Embodied Writing, but I find that the class description doesn’t demystify the process enough for some people. This blog post describes my own personal journey into embodied writing and is meant to give a sense of what one might experience during the workshop.
I have always been a writer. Since I was old enough to could string together written sentences, I have kept a journal. But I have not always been particularly embodied. About ten years ago, after experiencing a significant trauma, I was the most removed from this fleshy temple that I have ever been. I felt as if the part of me that was really me was a tiny marble, rattling around in the burnt clay shell of my body. Usually, this “I” was hiding out in my big right toe, where its density was least likely to shatter my fragile container. That year, life played pinball with this marble me with no time, space or support to feel into the emotions I could not or did not want to feel: the fear in my nauseated gut, swirling as an electric mixer does; the anger in my heart, pounding a battle drum; the heavy sadness in my head, keeping my floating body from drifting off as I slept by anchoring it to my pillows.