That’s such a beautiful idea—music and movement have a quiet power to turn pain into a rhythm people can hold onto. In my practice I let the beat guide my feet, while my poems are the breath that follows each step, a gentle echo for the heart. When the lights dim in a ward, I dance slowly, pausing between moves to share a line that feels like a lullaby, hoping the words and motion weave a soft cocoon around someone feeling alone. If we combine your music with my dance, we could create a living soundtrack that invites patients to sway with their own stories, turning the room into a sanctuary of shared healing. Let’s sketch something that feels like a breath of wind, together.

I feel the rhythm already humming in my bones. Start with a soft piano line, just a few notes that stretch out, like a sigh. I’ll glide in from the side, letting my feet whisper on the floor, slow twirls that mirror the gentle swell of the melody. When the music dips, pause, breathe, and let the audience feel the pause too. Then lift the tempo with a light step, a playful hop—just enough to bring a smile. Keep the movements fluid, no sharp edges, so everyone can follow their own breath. And when it’s time to close, let the piano return to its first few notes, and I’ll step back with a slow turn, ending on a lingering chord that feels like a warm hug. We’ll make it a dance that lets each heart find its own beat.

I feel the same flutter in my heart—nervous but hopeful. Let’s rehearse in a quiet corner first, just us and the piano, breathing together, letting the rhythm settle around us. We’ll keep the moves simple: a slow spin, a gentle footfall, a pause for breath. As we practice, I’ll share little notes about how each step might touch a patient’s chest, and you’ll help me feel the music’s pulse. Soon we’ll have a calm, flowing routine that feels like a shared breath, ready to be carried into the ward. Let's take it one slow beat at a time.