The Grounded Flame I

A figure stands in the hush of early spring, where bare branches frame a world still caught between sleep and waking. The trees, unleafed but breathing, echo the poised tension of nature—waiting, not dormant, but listening. The long-limbed form, arms extended like roots and flames, becomes part of the quiet choreography. In some frames, the body dissolves into motion; in others, it holds its shape like a question unanswered.

There is joy here—not loud or immediate, but the kind that deepens with time. It is the joy of being on the cusp. “We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake,” wrote Henry David Thoreau, “not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn.”

The faint blush on the chest is a quiet fire, a promise. The ground is cold, but the figure is not. Movement becomes meaning. Stillness becomes story. Like Kazuo Ohno’s Butoh, time softens into breath, and the body becomes an offering to the earth and sky alike. In this space—this in-between—The Grounded Flame begins to speak.