The Varied Creations of Bruce Narbaitz

My body gets hungry for movement.
I have an appetite for activity.
For me to fully thrive, I need fuel;
Not just food and oxygen but the input of motion.
My body craves direction, purpose,
Opportunities to express its physicality.
My muscles have the munchies and I try my best to satisfy.

My body gets hungry, so I play soccer.
I love the teamwork taste of crisp passes and moving into empty space,
How the pace changes suddenly,
Switching from jogging and jockeying, walking to sprinting.
Oh, I love turning on the jets,
Surprising opponents with sudden acceleration.
I love interceptions, foiling the intentions of my foes
Cause my quick toes crossed a distance that they didn’t anticipate
It tastes great, like candy stolen straight from the mouth of a baby.
I love being a wall, a bipedal barrier that won’t let strikers past
And when I blast the ball out of our danger zone I am prone to feeling like a hero.
Whether we get 3 points, 1 or zero,
When the final whistle blows, I feel full, satisfied,
My movement hunger matched with a match full of motion.

My body gets hungry, so I dance.
I translate melody into motion and my pores start to salivate.
Can’t satiate this desire, I just want to dance all day.
So when the DJ Lays down a series of sick songs: “Betcha can’t dance for just one”
Can’t stop munching on this variety of motion, this wide open ocean of possibility
Where the only wrong choice is not to move at all.

I love the smiles I notice as people notice my moves,
And I know that they’re impressed not so much by my skill,
But my willingness to experiment, my confidence and joy.
I love how my delight invites others to participate more fully,
Cause they know they won’t be the craziest person on the dance floor.
I love how my passion brings about more,
Opens the door for others to explore the freedom of rhythm.
Mmmm, dance is delicious!

I love the moments of synchronicity, when our bodies move as copies to Y-M-C-A,
Or when we sway in harmony.
I love the wordless unity, whether it’s choreography or the chaotic free-for-all
of a crowd moving differently to the same beat.
My feet are up and your feet are down but we are bound together by a shared melody.
It’s like we’re ordering from the same menu,
Sharing space at the table of non-verbal connection.

Or as another option, I’m learning to love latin dance.
Salsa and Bachata, both new movement possibilities.
For me, they are brand new meals for two,
Pushing through the vulnerability and pressure of being the leader,
Connecting with a partner and practicing new steps.
It is similar to a squirmy exotic delicacy, a bit scary at first glance
But as I learn the dance, I earn both delight and pride.
I smile wide after I offer a good dance to a stranger,
And as my steps grow stronger so does my confidence.

My body gets hungry, so I climb.
Such a sublime kaleidoscope of kinesthetics,
It’s a massive cornucopia of motion,
A collection of crunchy moments, like morsels of meat on a barbecue skewer.

So chew on these memories,
Savoury seconds such as this:
The bliss when I channel my inner sloth,
Grabbing rock with my upturned toes,
Letting go with my hand cause it’s no longer a necessity;
All four limbs have gripping possibility.
I love the feel of heel hooks and toe hooks,
and not just cause they look cool…but they do!

Now let’s continue onto the next bite of this climbing kebab:
The joy of jumping, launching my body,
Exploding with the energy of a spider monkey.
The dyno, this daring act where I briefly have zero points of contact
Trusting the trajectory to bring me safely to the next hold.
It’s a bold flavour and there are other tastes that I prefer.

Like the feeling of stretching my limbs to their limit,
Swinging my big wingspan,
Knowing exactly how far my hands can reach.
I love my lack of surprise as my fingers grasp the next hold – just barely.
Cause I know my body’s specificities: my length, strength and abilities,
Knowledge practiced til it’s become instinctual,
This anatomical connection to Self and the space that I occupy.
I’ve learned to rely on my body, trusting my self-diagnostic:
I do mental arithmetic, calculate lactic acid as it builds up in my forearms,
Realize that my right arm needs a break, shake it out for several seconds
So it can handle the extra load of a left hand clip.

I love the sweet sensation when I re-envision the route,
Suddenly unlocking a new sequence of motion.
The proprioceptive puzzle previously felt impossible,
But now I pull new options out of the aether.
I manufacture mental maps with shortcuts that feel magical,
It’s creative cartography where I fluently flow from point A to B,
Problem-solving in 3D.
Laws of physics are the lock and my body is the key.

The victory over gravity comes from this weird alchemy,
This mix of mental agility and physical capability,
But my body isn’t merely a meat puppet for my mind,
It brings its own intellect, experience and intuition.
It’s a veteran with a mountain of muscle memory, formed over more than a decade.

I’ve made these motion recipes so often,
Cooked them so many times that some climbs I’m in flow state,
This meditative focus, full attention in the present,
Only aware of the current movement.
Moment by moment making instant decisions:
Body making the choices cause my mind’s not as fast.
Now we’re cooking with gas!
It makes me feel like a badass when my brain barely needs to supervise.
The motions so internalized,
I caramelize the onions almost automatically.
No need to read the recipe cause the concepts are within me.
Multiple limbs moving independently and in sync.
My mind thinks but often my body thinks better,
Intuitively ready with the right motion at the right time.
Oh the sweetness when I witness my own leg locking down unwanted momentum
And the command didn’t come from me –
Whether that be a subconscious back flag or an instinctual toe hook.

But beyond these succulent snapshots,
There are lots of ways that climbing meets my hunger.
It gets me out in nature,
An adventure to go higher, rewarded with a beautiful view.
I feel grounded when I leave the ground behind.
Finding my dear friend friction in the texture of the stone.
It’s also a context for community, the wall attracting high quality humans like a magnet,
There are wins and challenges and the need for grit,
Climbing sits so well in my stomach, satisfies at multiple levels.

My body gets hungry, so I stretch.
Tense muscles cathartically screaming their release,
Exquisite pain as I sink deep into the position.
My mission is expansion: lengthen and relax.
Relief humming through my hamstrings,
I can bring full attention to my body.
No alternate activity or action to distract,
Cause the intentional motion of muscles is the actual goal.
It’s motor control for its own sake.
I take delight in this delicious activity,
I don’t see it as an annoying necessity or a step I wish I could skip.
It’s like a sip of hot tea, a comforting ritual that centres me.

My body gets hungry, so I run on trails,
Risking failure in the form of a twisted ankle.
Each step requiring full attention,
No distraction, just confidence in my agility,
Trusting my ability to dodge, weave and clear whatever obstacles appear.
I love the feeling of intense focus.
I am a gazelle, nimble at a fast pace.
Or maybe I’m the hunter on the chase,
Crossing land, spear in hand,
Closing in for the kill.
Trail running tastes primal,
Raw and unprocessed:
It’s an earthy paleo-movement.

My body gets hungry, so I walk,
Gentle bipedal mobility, the staple of every diet.
It is quiet and calm,
Unimpressive only because of our excessive familiarity.
Our daily bread which contains more depth than meets the eye.
When I spy a baby struggling to take their first steps,
I get a glimpse of the complexity of this crucial carbohydrate.
Walking is great!
It doesn’t blast my taste buds but,
Like spuds or rice, it offers a warm satisfaction.
The slowness of the action leaves plenty of space for my brain to wander.
It lets me ponder, loosens the tension from muscles and mind.
I unwind and expand, especially in wild land,
Lungs filling with fresh air, breathing deep, I’m all there.
And nature is everywhere, even when I can’t escape the city,
I love walking through tiny parks and clusters of trees,
Listening for birds and squirrels and rustling leaves.
Walking is fundamental motion.
The foundation of almost every other movement meal,
It is the base starch upon which we build the best monuments of taste.
It’s not a race, just gentle enjoyment,
Like quinoa, corn or bread.
It keeps my body well fed and my well being high.

My body gets hungry, so I slack line,
I haven’t put enough time to really gain much expertise.
But it’s pleasing to put one foot in front of the other,
To hover more or less in the centre,
Eyes fixed firmly on the destination.
I feel deep satisfaction when I find my flow,
When I almost forget that there’s air below my feet–
Until the spell breaks and I teeter too far to the side:
It’s a slow motion fall that I can’t stop.
So I hop down safely, body salivating, waiting for my next turn.

My body gets hungry, so I swim,
My skin thirsts for water and when the temperature gets hot, I want to dive right in.
I crave immersion–but with control,
I practice the subtle art of not drowning:
Disappearing beneath the surface, only to reappear soon after.
I love exploring the different layers of a lake,
Swimming deeper and feeling the water pressure rise while the temperature drops.
And back up top, I love using my bladder to manufacture a warm patch.
Friends and family splashing each other,
Cannonballs and waterguns,
Cooling off and having fun.
I’m no expert in this watery domain but damn competency tastes delightful.

And to continue in the theme of aquatic imperfection,
My body gets hungry, so I water ski.
I’ve only done it twice, but what a beautiful novelty.
The struggle of standing awkwardly,
Then suddenly I’m gliding, flying, crashing, laughing.
What a rare treat!
Too rich to eat on repeat,
But such a lovely bolt out of the blue.
Besides, our H20 is too cold for too much of the year around here,

My body gets hungry, so I skate.
I take advantage of cold weather, make the most of winter,
When my body would prefer to hide inside.
I choose to fly, glide across the ice.
I slice my way forward, increasing the pace as the wind bites my face.
Agility replaces caution cause I don’t know how to stop.
I love to hop on the frozen Rideau canal, crossing kilometres without needing to turn,
Surrounded by thousands of tourists and residents determined to enjoy the cold season.
Another reason is obviously the victory snack: a Beavertail from a shack on the ice.
Going skating is like a brainfreeze-inducing treat, lovely and sweet despite the theft of heat.
Plus, I appreciate warmth so much more after some frosty bites.

My body gets hungry, so I shovel snow,
I know what you’re thinking
And no, I won’t shovel your laneway.
It isn’t play, per se, but it comes with a certain satisfaction.
And in this season of action, of battle, my weapon is a shovel:
Push, scoop, throw, push, scoop, throw.
It’s less pleasant when the snow is heavy or falls in overwhelming quantities,
But the activity comes with a defiant edge of survival,
A refusal to die or hide or hibernate.
Though it might take some back ache,
I can shake off what traps me.
I liberate my chariot from the weight of the white blanket,
Then I ride off heroically to buy groceries or have tea with a friend.

My body gets hungry, so I work out
I’ve tasted just a kernel of a gym rat’s motivation,
Sampled the sweet sensation of forcing myself to exhaustion,
I’ve savoured the empirical pushing of boundaries,
Not counting calories but counting my victories.
It feels good to measure the metrics of getting stronger:
Pulling five more pounds or pushing ten seconds longer.
It’s the never-ending quest to collect more sets, more reps, more intensity.
But honestly, I should share that I only work out medium-rarely:
Not very often.
And while it’s a tasty steak to take stock of strength statistics,
It’s not enough of a meal for me.
There needs to be other movements on my plate,
Other reasons to lift weights or more often lift myself.
My sporadic stints of working out are always driven by other movement desires:
Like wanting to climb higher and harder,
Strengthening my fingers on smaller edges for longer periods of time.
Or on the other side of the coin: the intentional prevention of injuries:
Strengthening my glutes and knees for pain-free hiking or safer soccer.
I enjoy the taste of numbers,
And can see why others keep on crunching.
But I see statistics more as seasoning,
Enhancing the flavour of my other activities.
Working out doesn’t inherently fill me up,
But it ups the level of joy in my different movement domains,
Like a plain meal made perfect with a pinch of salt or spice.
It’s a nice addition that I wish I did more often.

My body gets hungry so I go biking,
Legs pumping pedals, propelling me forward.
A beautiful harmony, A sweaty synchronicity.
Like salty and sweet, or sweet and sour.
Biological power paired with metal multiplication.
Is this recreation or transportation?
Yes and Yes!
Biking is a boundary-blurring both/and meal,
Like a smoothie, simultaneously a way to eat healthy and a sweet-tasting snack.
It’s a salad AND a dessert.
My body has to work, it’s not like a car,
But the gears help me go farther than my legs could go solo.

And though I dread the exhaustion of climbing up hill,
I find it fulfilling when I finally reach the top.
Then if the path is well-behaved, well paved,
And I’m feeling brave, I’ll race down the other side:
High speed with low effort.

I hurt myself as a child, flipping wildly over my handlebars,
And this accident scarred me mentally.
I stubbornly refused to bike for more than 15 years,
Til I finally decided to push through those fears.
Now every time I ride, it’s a victory,
A declaration of possibility.
It’s like a tasty food that I refused to try until recently,
The recency giving more appreciation for the motion.
So special because I spent so long avoiding it.

There are plenty of other movements that I have yet to try,
So I may add some more stanzas in the years to come.
But – for now – that sums up quite a number of my movement highlights.
And all this rhyming has worked up my appetite
I can’t write about motion without wanting a real bite.
The delight is physical, tied to my body
And verbal imaginings don’t really satisfy.
I am grateful for the opportunity to inhabit these muscles and bones that I call home.
And I hope – that in your own way – whether through ballet, tai chi or brazilian ju-jitsu
I hope that you too can taste the Joy of Movement.