Wobble Wobble Release the Wiggle

Kateb-Nuri-Alim
13 hours ago
12 min read

Author’s Opening Note

Before yall even step into this reflection, let me tell you something right now. Some folks gon read this title and clutch they invisible pearls so hard they might sprain a spiritual finger. Soon as they see the words wobble and wiggle together, they already loading judgment into the chamber like they the holy police commissioner of movement. Calm down Cheryl. Drink some water. Loosen your neck a little. Your blood pressure fighting for its life over somebody shaking in peace.

See, that is part of the problem now. We done got so stiff emotionally, spiritually, mentally, physically and socially that anytime somebody move freely, laugh loudly, dance ugly, or celebrate life without apology, folks start acting like joy itself committed a felony. Whole room full of people carrying anxiety in they shoulders, heartbreak in they hips, stress in they jaws, and grief in they lower back, but soon as bounce music come on and somebody start moving, here come the judges. Here come the scale holders. Here come the professional spirit inspectors who secretly miserable but wearing church clothes and fake smiles like coupons for salvation.

Now let me say this carefully before somebody start typing angry comments with one eye twitching.

Everything loud is not evil.

Everything sensual is not sinful.

Everything joyful is not foolish.

And everything sacred do not always arrive whispering softly with violin music in the background smelling like lavender and old Bible pages.

Sometimes healing got bass.

Sometimes liberation got sweat on it.

Sometimes the Creator speak through rhythm before words.

And if you from New Orleans, baby, you know exactly what I mean.

This city dance through funerals.

Dance through storms.

Dance through heartbreak.

Dance through poverty.

Dance through loss.

Dance through abandonment.

Dance through grief.

People outside the city see bounce music and think chaos. We see survival with rhythm attached to it. We see people who refused to let suffering turn them cold. We see neighborhoods teaching each other how to laugh before pain swallow everybody whole.

I done seen old women with arthritis forget they knees hurting for three whole songs.

Seen people carrying enough stress to sink a ferry suddenly smiling while wobbling near a corner store speaker.

Seen strangers become cousins for four minutes because one beat connected everybody breathing in the same block.

That is spiritual whether people understand it or not.

This reflection right here is not about glorifying recklessness. It is about freedom. It is about release. It is about what happen when human beings stop performing perfection and finally exhale.

So come on.

Take off them judgment glasses for a little while.

Untighten your spirit.

And let us talk about the healing hidden inside the wiggle.

Wobble Wobble Release the Wiggle

When the Body Start Remembering What the Soul Been Trying to Say

Written by Kāteb Shunnar

The first thing people miss about New Orleans is they think this city runs on roads and traffic lights.

Nah baby.

This city run on rhythm.

The heartbeat of this place live under sidewalks, under brass horns, under second line feet, under gumbo steam floating through wet air after rain. New Orleans got a pulse. And if you stand still long enough downtown near the river late at night, after the tourists thin out and the moonlight start kissing the Mississippi, you can feel it.

You do not hear it.

You feel it.

See New Orleans breathe different.

This city inhale pain and exhale music.

That sound crazy until you live here.

Because around here people do not wait for perfect situations before dancing.

Baby we dance at funerals.

We dance in rain.

We dance after storms.

We dance after heartbreak.

We dance after bad news.

Matter fact somebody from New Orleans can lose a job at nine in the morning, cry until lunch, eat red beans by two, hear bounce music by seven, and be outside wobbling by eight thirty talking about the Creator still working.

Now some folks reading this probably saying This man done lost his mind.

No baby.

I think we lost ours.

Because somewhere along the way society started teaching people that suffering look holier than joy.

Like if you serious all the time you somehow deeper.

Folks walking around carrying enough tension in they bodies to crack concrete.

People carrying shame.

Fear.

Depression.

Anxiety.

Old heartbreak.

Broken trust.

Abandonment.

Stress.

And all that pain got storage space.

People think trauma live only in memories.

Nah.

Trauma got furniture.

Trauma move in.

Set up curtains.

Pay utilities.

Trauma sit in shoulders.

Live in backs.

Hide in jaws.

Settle in hips.

Sit cross legged in your nervous system paying rent with sorrow.

And the body remember what the mind try to forget.

That is why people cry randomly.

That is why certain songs hurt.

That is why smells unlock old memories.

That is why sometimes your spirit tired and you cannot explain why.

Now stay with me.

Because this where bounce become bigger than music.

When rhythm hit your body something start happening.

Science call some of it entrainment.

Body synchronization.

Nervous system response.

But around New Orleans baby we call it finally letting go.

See the body respond to vibration.

The heartbeat sync.

The breathing shift.

The body loosen.

Walls come down.

People start releasing what they been dragging.

And maybe that explains something I saw with my own eyes.

My best friends own a golf cart called the Boosie Buggy

Lord have mercy.

This thing looked like joy itself got access to electricity and completely lost good sense.

Lights everywhere.

Flashing strobes.

Colors blinking.

Music system louder than family arguments during holiday dinners.

That thing looked like a second line parade and a spaceship had a baby.

My friends drive people around downtown at night playing bounce music and old New Orleans remixes.

One night they picked me up.

Now listen.

I thought I was getting on a golf cart.

I did not know I was climbing into a moving sermon.

We rolled downtown.

And as we drove something started happening.

Every person we passed started dancing.

Everybody.

Women.

Men.

Young.

Old.

Black.

White.

Asian.

Hispanic.

Locals.

Tourists.

Business people.

Street performers.

People carrying shopping bags.

People carrying invisible burdens.

Soon as that rhythm floated through the air something changed.

Shoulders dropped.

Faces softened.

Feet started moving before minds could interrupt.

I saw one older woman standing outside a restaurant with a cane.

Baby when that beat dropped she looked at that cane like hold yourself together old friend because we got company tonight.

And she started moving.

Not much.

But enough.

Then I saw a businessman dancing.

Bless his heart.

That man moved like somebody fighting invisible mosquitoes underwater.

But he danced.

And joy did not judge him.

Because joy do not ask if you talented.

Joy only ask if you willing.

And sitting there looking around downtown something hit me hard.

Music removed walls.

Nobody cared about money.

Nobody cared about politics.

Nobody cared about race.

Nobody cared about titles.

Nobody cared about religion.

Nobody cared who voted for who.

Everybody remembered one thing.

We human.

And suddenly everybody became weightless dancing in the womb of creation.

Because rhythm remind us we belong to something bigger than ourselves.

And maybe that is why working together matters.

Because healing was never designed to happen alone.

And old Louisiana storytellers used to tell a strange folklore about Miss Solange and Little Pierre...

And old Louisiana storytellers used to tell a strange folklore about Miss Solange and Little Pierre.

Now before I tell yall this story let me say something. Around Louisiana waters old folks had a way of telling stories where you never knew if they was teaching you, warning you, or quietly fixing something broken inside you. You could ask them for directions and somehow end up leaving with life advice, a biscuit recipe, and a spiritual lesson all before the mosquitoes even finished introducing themselves.

Miss Solange lived beyond the city near marshlands where the fog sat low over dark water and cypress trees bent over the bayou like old grandmothers leaning close trying to hear secrets.

Folks swore Miss Solange knew things before they happened.

Some said she could hear sadness before people spoke it.

Some said she could look in your eyes and tell if your spirit had been crying.

Others just called her strange.

Now let me pause right there.

Because every neighborhood got somebody people call strange.

Funny how folks call people strange right before finding out they wise.

Little Pierre loved her though.

Pierre followed Miss Solange everywhere.

That little boy asked questions about everything.

Why fish jump.

Why birds leave.

Why rain smell different.

Why grown people smile while hurting.

Baby that child asked so many questions a saint would have needed snacks and patience.

One evening they sat beside the water while dragonflies skimmed over the bayou.

Pierre looked up and asked, Miss Solange why people look happy but still feel heavy.

Miss Solange smiled.

Then she looked toward the water and said something Pierre never forgot.

Baby people carry weather inside themselves.

Pierre blinked.

Miss Solange continued.

Some people got thunderstorms in they shoulders.

Some got old heartbreak sitting in they chest.

Some got disappointment wrapped around they back.

Some got grief hiding in they knees.

And some carrying enough pain in they backside to sink a shrimp boat.

Pierre laughed so hard he nearly rolled into the water.

But Miss Solange never laughed.

She kept staring at the bayou.

Years passed.

Then sadness came to nearby towns.

Not regular sadness.

Heavy sadness.

The kind that move into communities and unpack furniture.

People stopped gathering.

Stopped laughing.

Stopped dancing.

Stopped visiting one another.

Neighbors stopped sitting outside.

Music disappeared.

Children stopped playing.

Folks walked around like ghosts carrying groceries.

Alive.

But not living.

Now let me tell yall something.

That kind of sadness dangerous.

Because when people stop gathering they start drowning quietly.

People think loneliness scream.

Nah.

Loneliness whisper.

Loneliness sit beside you and slowly convince you nobody notice.

Slowly convince you nobody care.

Slowly convince you to stay disconnected.

And disconnected people start forgetting who they are.

Miss Solange saw what was happening.

Then one evening she disappeared.

Gone.

No goodbye.

No explanation.

Nothing.

One day passed.

Two days passed.

Three days passed.

People started worrying.

Pierre searched everywhere.

The marsh.

The river edge.

Old fishing spots.

Nothing.

Then on the fourth night while fog rolled low over the water somebody saw lights moving through the swamp.

Not lantern lights.

Not flashlight lights.

Strange lights.

Dancing lights.

Pierre ran toward them.

And slowly through the fog Miss Solange appeared.

But she was carrying something.

An old drum wrapped in cloth.

Pierre asked where she found it.

Miss Solange smiled.

Then she said the swamp remembers things people forget.

Now baby I know somebody reading this thinking Kāteb what kind of folklore is this.

Relax.

You know Louisiana stories do not explain themselves right away.

Miss Solange gathered everybody into town.

People came confused.

Tired.

Heavy.

Broken.

Some came only because they had nothing left inside them.

Miss Solange sat in the middle of everybody.

Then she unwrapped that drum.

And she started playing.

Boom.

Slow at first.

Soft.

Steady.

Like a heartbeat.

Nobody moved.

Boom.

Then louder.

Stronger.

Faster.

And old storytellers said something strange happened.

Folks started moving.

One person first.

Then another.

Feet tapping.

Shoulders swaying.

Heads nodding.

Then crying started.

Then laughing.

Then dancing.

Somebody shouted.

Then somebody screamed with joy.

Children started running.

Old folks started smiling.

Neighbors hugged.

And for the first time in months life returned.

Pierre looked around confused.

Then he asked Miss Solange what happened.

Miss Solange smiled and said something people repeated for generations.

Sometimes the soul sweat too.

Baby.

Sit with that.

Sometimes the soul sweat too.

Because maybe healing is not always sitting still.

Maybe healing dance.

Maybe healing shake.

Maybe healing wobble.

Maybe healing release.

Maybe the Creator put rhythm in our bones for reasons bigger than entertainment.

See people judge bounce because they only looking with they eyes.

But everything sacred cannot be understood through eyesight.

Some things require feeling.

And if you wear judgment glasses too long you start measuring things with scales instead of spirit.

You start deciding what holy supposed to look like.

You start deciding joy got dress codes.

Start deciding healing got rules.

But life do not work like that.

Because the Creator been using unusual things forever.

Mud.

Water.

Wind.

Fire.

Silence.

Storms.

Strangers.

Grandmothers.

Music.

So who are we to say rhythm cannot heal too.

And maybe that Boosie Buggy ride taught me more than I realized.

Because what I saw downtown was not people dancing.

I saw people becoming lighter.

I saw burdens loosening.

I saw invisible chains slipping.

I saw loneliness losing ground.

I saw strangers becoming community.

And for a few moments I saw humanity remembering itself.

I saw humanity remembering itself.

And maybe that right there is the miracle people keep overlooking.

Because we live in a world that train us to separate before it teach us how to connect.

You too old.

You too young.

You too rich.

You too poor.

You from over there.

You worship different.

You vote different.

You speak different.

You look different.

Baby society hand out labels like somebody standing on Claiborne tossing beads during Mardi Gras.

And after a while people start believing those labels.

Start building walls.

Start building distance.

Start forgetting that underneath all the titles and categories we all carrying the same invisible stuff.

Everybody know what grief feel like.

Everybody know disappointment.

Everybody know fear.

Everybody know heartbreak.

Everybody know what it feel like to stare at the ceiling at night and wonder if life gon ever get lighter.

Pain do not discriminate.

So maybe healing should not discriminate either.

That night riding through downtown in the Boosie Buggy I remember passing near the river. Air felt thick the way New Orleans air always do. Baby New Orleans humidity do not walk into a room politely. Nah. It kick the door open and move in with luggage. Humidity around here hug you without permission.

But something happened near the Moonwalk by the Mississippi.

Music still playing.

Lights still flashing.

People still dancing.

And for a moment I just looked around.

I saw strangers smiling at strangers.

People cheering for people they never met.

Nobody performing.

Nobody pretending.

Nobody trying to prove they important.

And suddenly I thought about my grandmother.

See I remember being younger, watching her move around the house humming while cooking, cleaning, straightening things up. She always seemed to understand something I was too young to grasp.

Joy is maintenance.

Baby write that down somewhere.

Joy is maintenance.

Because life got a way of throwing dirt on your spirit.

Bills.

Loss.

Stress.

Bad news.

Disappointment.

Heartbreak.

People acting foolish.

And Lord knows people wake up committed to foolishness sometimes.

Some folks wake up with chaos already packed for lunch.

You ever meet people like that?

Baby they wake up at seven thirty and decide everybody else deserve problems too.

Some folks got enough confusion inside them to qualify as natural disasters.

But my grandmother understood something.

You cannot keep carrying everything.

You got to release.

You got to laugh.

You got to gather.

You got to dance.

You got to sit with people who remind you how to breathe.

You got to let your spirit stretch.

Because bodies were not designed to become storage units for suffering.

And maybe that is what wobbling really mean.

Maybe wobbling is not losing control.

Maybe wobbling is releasing control.

Maybe releasing your wiggle means trusting life enough to unclench your spirit.

Maybe wobbling means giving your soul permission to breathe again.

See somewhere along the journey many of us became professionals at survival.

Oh baby we good at surviving.

Elite level.

Gold medal survival.

We know how to keep moving while hurting.

Keep smiling while breaking.

Keep showing up while exhausted.

Keep functioning while drowning.

We become experts at carrying things.

But carrying and healing are not always the same thing.

And eventually the body say enough.

Eventually your nervous system start whispering things.

Eventually your spirit start tapping on windows.

Eventually your soul say baby please put some of this down.

And maybe that is why movement matters.

Not because movement solves everything.

But because movement reminds us we still alive.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Still connected.

Still human.

Still capable of joy.

Because sometimes all healing really says is this.

You still here baby.

You still here.

And if you still here then maybe the story not finished.

Maybe there still music left.

Maybe there still dancing left.

Maybe there still love left.

Maybe there still laughter waiting around some corner you have not reached yet.

Maybe there still healing you have not felt.

Maybe there still people assigned to your journey.

Maybe there still life ahead of you.

So wobble.

Release the wiggle.

Not because life perfect.

Not because pain gone.

Not because problems disappeared.

Wobble because your soul deserve room.

Wobble because joy need somewhere to sit.

Wobble because grief do not deserve permanent residency.

Wobble because freedom require movement.

Wobble because maybe somewhere deep inside your bones your ancestors already knew what your spirit trying to remember.

That healing and rhythm been dancing together long before we arrived.

And maybe old Miss Solange was right all along.

Sometimes the soul sweat too.

Author’s Closing Words

If you made it all the way here, thank you.

No really.

Thank you.

Because these words come from somewhere deeper than thought. They come from life. They come from memory. They come from struggle. They come from laughter. They come from New Orleans streets, old voices, family lessons, quiet moments, and a spirit trying to understand what it means to stay soft in a hard world.

If this reflection touched your heart, made you laugh, made you pause, made you think, or helped your spirit breathe a little easier, I ask you humbly to share it by any positive means. Share it with friends. Share it with family. Share it with somebody carrying heavy weather inside themselves.

And if my words continue feeding your spirit, please consider supporting the writer and the blog.

Your support helps keep these reflections alive.

Your support helps keep stories breathing.

Your support helps me continue building this dream and continue this journey toward putting more of these writings into the world.

Because truthfully, writers need encouragement too baby.

We out here surviving on faith, prayer, inspiration, and sometimes refrigerator light at two in the morning.

I appreciate yall more than words can say.

Until next time, loosen your shoulders.

Untighten your spirit.

And if life get heavy...

Wobble Wobble.

Release the Wiggle.