I want my students to understand themselves as soft matter biological creatures whose very substance has properties that can incite effortless whole-body responses to circumstances. That is, our bodies know how to move on their own, but only if not inhibited by the prevailing view that they are machines whose levers and pulleys must strain to obey the brain’s directives.
While developing my outline for a workshop last summer, I woke up one night and dictated a “poem” into my phone. It was rough and incomplete, but I decided to share it with the group as a “nap time story”. My thought was that perhaps, after physical and intellectual exposure to my anti-mechanical message, it might sink in somatically if offered in a semi-hypnotic manner. So, everyone got comfortable and closed their eyes to listen. Below is a smoother version of the poem.
That machine you inhabit was assembled
in strenuous harmony with gravity’s plumb.
Where cement might solder bricks, or nails fasten wood,
Gravity is your body’s anchor.
Surely, you notice a downward pulling force!
Bones press on bones, laced by ligaments to form
A skeleton of struts that convert to levers.
The warp and weft of your sinews secures
A concrete and quantifiable structure.
You know your body when it moves;
Even more so when it refuses.
Your dance is one of will, exertion and leverage.
In time, hard matter must fatigue, collapse or rust,
But your parts are easily replaced.
For now, there is nothing you can’t intend.
But we are soft! our bodies say.
We are jelly, we whisper.
We are foaming bubbles and glistening fibers;
And dewdrops. Remember?
Acres of membrane and miles of meandering tributaries.
We birthed our bones by pushing and pulling them into being
within a sentient gel.
In our soft bodies, bones drift and yield, never colliding.
This “skeleton” is a union of forces that expand and compress,
Conversing with gravity so we can rise.
Omniscient fascia finds perfect tautness for wrapping our gentle bones
As they push ever outward into its silken embrace.
Our bodies are patterns and forces: not things, not assembled parts.
Each moment sculpts us anew to life’s beckoning.
We are cumulus billowing; we are anemones clasping.
Expansion grants strength and volume—
Space enough for radiance, the gift of atmosphere.
Then contracting, we empty, mellowing,
Receptive to shadowed offerings.
We continually shape and re-shape this template,
Mirroring the universal swirl.
*******
Rest deeply, then, dear beings of soft and sentient matter.
BREATHE.
Pull and push. Expand and yield. Fill and empty again.
With each cycle, earth draws you down while setting you free.
Your dance emerges from the breath of life,
From the rhythm of all that is.
Mary Bond, 2026