It took a long time for me to call myself a movement artist.
To fully accept that title, I felt like I needed to be really committed. All in, you know?
It was similar to calling myself a writer or a martial artist. I didn't claim those badges until at least a year into working daily on the craft. Even then I felt butterflies in my stomach.
Movement has been different for me though, a more serious love. I feel more drawn to taking my time with the relationship, and not rushing all in. I know this is a lifelong affair, not simply a weekend fling at a random workshop.
No. This is a slow kind of burn.
Don't misunderstand me, it has feverish uproars -- fits of obsession with reaching a milestone in a handstand or excitement over a new flavor of movement. There are lulls as well: patterns and routine set in, or frustration builds, and I question what the hell I'm doing this for.
But beneath these waves is an ocean of depth. The exploration of it will not end before I die.
This is why I choose movement as my art.
Movement, I confess: You had me at hello. Thank you for finding me.
PS: To my beautiful wife, I hope you understand.