fong means to ‘let go’. It’s the word I remember most clearly from my last Cantonese lesson. It can be used to mean different things—to put, distribute, dismiss—but they all have the essence of release. fong dai, to put something down. fong sam, to let go of worries. fong also means ‘to come into bloom’. I like this image best, plants set free into bright blossoms.
—
I let go of my body.
Release, an element of contemporary dance, is a full-body exhale. It emerged from a collective spirit rather than a single pioneer, but when I think of it, I see the women who wanted dancers to be free: Joan Skinner, Martha Graham, Isadora Duncan, Doris Humphreys, and on. They encouraged us to breathe, feel, fall, heal. In dance, to release is to relax muscles, feel alignment, and tune into breath and momentum. Movement journeys through the body, not the other way around. Expression flows fluid and instinctual. When you surrender in a studio, the body is allowed to be a body. Emotions are acknowledged, limbs are liberated, and there’s a knowing in the sinews that lets you fall free and safe right into gravity’s arms.
I let go of my body, in dance and also somatic therapy. There, I roll through the lengths of my feet, socks stretching on the carpet, and push my open hands firm against my therapists’. Trapped emotions tremble, start to shake loose. Outwards, then, through the knuckles of my toes and my hot palms. There is something natural in these physical methods of release for me, someone who has spent too long in her head. Finding the tension—always there—then releasing it and observing as it vacates the body.
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It’s January and we announce intentions. My friend chooses a word at the start of each year, something to manifest into truth. Mired in the tradition of resolutions, I’ve been muddling between words that are built on moreness. Sow, show up, reap. The idea of acquisition always feels rich and enticing, but now I’m wondering about the act of letting go. Is it even possible to add more, something full and genuine, if no space has been made? Perhaps the focus could be on uncurling the fingers instead, opening the fist in earnest. My word is ‘release’.
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I let go of my body, but in a new way. I have to; there’s no room for love and contentment if I don’t. I am trying to take my hands off of myself. It doesn’t come to me as readily as dance or therapy, but I’m trying. I want to see the reality of my body, like
this skin is healthy / I am not an ornament / flesh is allowed to rest against flesh / this vessel works hard
Necessary mantras to undo what has been done to us. In Ways of Seeing, art writer John Berger discusses how women are born ‘into the keeping of men’:
‘A woman must continually watch herself. She is almost continually accompanied by her own image of herself.’
This, the truth I have never been able to articulate but have grasped for, desperate. My attempts at translating my experience were always frantic and nebulous, like: I only see myself from above and behind and below, look from the outside instead of the inside, am unable to change the perspective in the mirror or behind my eyes. Berger’s words have brought this into clarity, sharp and true, and I am now starting to comprehend the why of it all—‘born into the keeping of men’—and that the shame doesn’t belong to me. I am now starting to let myself comprehend, because suppression transforms belief into truth if it’s rooted deep enough. There is so much more to unearth in this space, but I will start here, knowing
seasons of the body are elegant and true / I can wear halter tops if I want to / there do not need to be gaps anywhere / fong,
I am coming into bloom.
—
Letting go, some joys:
Arms loose and wild above your head, at a concert or in the front seat of a rollercoaster.
Charity shop drops, black sacks filled with past.
When you pull gently at the stem of a wildflower and nature is ready, too, roots unearthing softly and with ease.
To open a window when the room feels stale, old energy sucked out clean.
My therapist calls it ‘hot potato’: physically releasing both hands when you’re having unhelpful thoughts, building a new brain response.
Waves rolling away from the shoreline and dissipating into the vastness.
Exhales. The loud kind you only do when someone gives you permission, in a dim yoga studio or in the middle of tears.
