Stories rise up, bidden and unbidden, shaped or unshaped, requested or driven away. When we work with them as art, speaking them, opening them up and cradling the words, we have so many choices.

Why do we meditate before inviting these stories into the ensemble? It is to cleanse the palate of the mind, and give the story space.

Memory is constantly recreated. Time itself is not linear. We have heard this before. Time is a construct so that we mortals may make sense of our experience, but there is another vantage point, even for us.

When we work with text, we invite sacred language into our midst, and ask it to work its shaping power into the raw material of our movement and sound. By distilling the words in the quiet room where perfumes and medicines are brought forth, a transmutation takes place. The story has lost its authority as fact that we may construct an identity upon, and acts as a prompt to something else instead.

Identity is far greater and less, than we thought of it. Identity is not these stories we retrieve, trim and play with. These stories are ephemeral appearances which rise and fall like our breath itself, or like a musical phrase.

Stories are artefacts in the space of our minds, come upon like prehistoric art and work-womanship. When we play with them in the studio in a spacious state, it may be possible for our encounter to open a glimpse of the essence which lies beneath.