Things and Alternatives – #reverb10

#reverb10 – 11 Things.
What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life?
(Author: Sam Davidson@samdavidson)

11 things
to get rid of.
11 alternatives.
Insecurity Wholehearted vulnerability
Meekness Bold joy
Debt Chinking away
Tardiness Leaving 5 min earlier. Maybe.
Stagnation I’m going to pwn my thesis
Slouching Rebuilding my dancer’s posture
Neglect More phone calls, notes, texts to loved ones
Music Just those songs in iTunes that always get the FFW/skip click
Excuses Full spiritual life
Deafening moments Quiet time
Endurance 10 miles running/week. To start with.

It’s not always about getting rid of, then replacing with.

It’s not always about opposites.

It’s not always as simple as a thing.

I know this. And still, Sam’s prompt made me dig deep: what do I really want to rid my life of in 2011? This list is of things I truly believe I can get rid of (and in some cases, NEED to get rid of in order to be fully…me.)


I’m so often adding to my life. I add events and appointments to my calendar. I add new projects. I add books to my Amazon wish list. I add programs to my computer and apps to my phone.

I add people. I add conversations. I add loads of ideas.

These are all great additions. But I’m learning my own limitations in being able to juggle these…things. At some point, there are just too many things. A combination of positive, negative and neutral things. Tangible and intangible things. So, I have an alternative to things: paring down.


Like a sculptor, I’m firing, chipping away at, welding, carving, molding, casting. Daily—from moment to moment—I sculpt my life.

Saturated with Wind – #reverb10

#reverb10 – Body Integration.
This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn’t mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?
(Author: Patrick Reynolds@patrickcantype)

My first reaction to Patrick’s prompt: dance. Much like many other reverbers who have talked about yoga, or running, I feel absolutely…alive…when I dance.

It’s that intersection of thinking and doing: beginners experience it for a few seconds or one measure—and it’s that one magical measure that keeps them coming back for more. As a dancer moves on the path to mastery, those measures couple to form moments, to form entire songs. And then there is that one night when every. single. dance. is free. Or it’s that one rehearsal in an empty dance studio when you feel like you’ve grazed every slat of wood on the floor, and the reflections of your dancing body in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors create a double vision of art.

When I dance—when I’m free—I create art with my body.

But dancing was not my only moment of integration.

Glimmer of light

It was a late afternoon in November and I thought the wind gusts were going to strip the Rocky Mountains right off the map. Absolutely. Crazy. Wind.

Just outside of Boulder, I decided to take a walk on a trail. I figured I could brave the downslope Chinook winds.

I got out of the car, and in one gasp the wind rushed into my lungs. In those couple of seconds that the wind replaced my own breath, I was buoyant. It felt like every organ, every muscle, every tissue was saturated with the chilly, fierce wind.

My mind was saturated, too.

As I leaned into the wind, it dawned on me that my life, too, was (is) changing in swirling, forceful ways. November was am intense and tumultuous month.

And like those experiences of freedom on the dance floor, I’m dancing into a certain freedom of my life. I’m reminding myself to return to that buoyant intersection of thinking and doing.

Like Jazz – #reverb10

#reverb10 – Beautifully Different.
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
(Author: Karen Walrond@chookooloonks)

The booth we sat in was dimly lit, softening the tacky art prints and pre-fab decor on the walls. Dessert on its way, we were talking a million miles an hour. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I laughed so loudly that the sound echoed through the cavernous restaurant, the tail end bounding off tchotchkes and wood paneling, landing back at our table as I inhaled air to catch up with my breathing.


I believe in belly-laughing. Laughing so hard I gasp for air in unexpected, uncontrollable shrieks. That point when that little spot at the back of my jaw aches. When my fair skin turns an outrageous pink.

I laugh loudly.


He wrote poetry.

He left sealed envelopes on my doorstep. Or small poems tucked inside boxes of incense he’d bring back from his travels. Voicemail-poems that were 8 minutes long and that I’d listen to over and over and over again. He breathed—whispered—prose.

There was one poem in which he said my laughter was like jazz.

Like Rahsaan Rolland Kirk and Billy Holiday and Ben Webster and Abdullah Ibrahim. And every once in a while, a little like Ma Rainey.

Laughter like jazz.