Life is liquid, in it's underlying essence. Careening, cascading, and taking the endless shapes of the containers we create for it.
Even in stillness there's soft, subtle change.
The question to ask then might be: What shapes are the containers I've built for my life to flow through?
Some of these shapes are narrow, thin strips where life flows hesitantly: built up by safety banks that have buffered disappointment.
A sliver of life moves here where once a quixotic torrent of open hearted feeling carved it's hollows.
We might funnel the flow into feedback loops, a figure eight that seems to turn a corner only to find itself treading territory we've coursed over
and over again.
Sometimes we keep life's substance frozen in tiny pools where we can (seemingly) control is contents. We anchor what we love in cautious ponds of the familiar and fixed.
It undoubtedly feels safer that way.
Life may conform to it's containers and shift to the shapes, but it is not that.
Life will only stay frozen for so long without freezing our flexibility and then evaporating in the sun; stay sealed so long until it cultivates claustrophobia.
Life will only stay thin and restricted without, too, making us closed off and brittle.
There's freedom in knowing that we can usher our circumstances without constructing dams.
Allowing life to dart and vacillate, live through us.
Resonant, vivid, dynamic.
Nothing stays put here in the current of creation.
Even -- unspeakably-- ourselves.
We simply move with it. Arms out, hips steady, rocking back and forth from our centerline of gravity.
Careening, cascading, and taking endless shapes.