A catch. Under the pink.

Yes. It's there. Funny as it seems.

I am so joyous these days. So happy. So full. With dancing and Autumn...

...and the excitement of things changing, moving. And the fear. But all good.


But there it is. Still.

Underneath.
I had almost forgotten it was there, in all this happiness. But it is. It would be cliche to say so, but it's true: once it felt heavy....but now. It feels like...a cut...a wound....a scar, that keeps re-opening...tiny...small, yet....unmistakeably there.

Underneath the pink.

I had forgotten. The little sting is something that dulls, that you get used to......you learn to live with it there. Forgetting, but it hinders...and opens, every time you take a breath, or turn your head the wrong way....it re-opens. Never quite healing. And ignoring or growing accustomed to it....does not mean it goes away.

It will surprise you, when you least expect it - go to reach for something new. There it is.

I can marvel at it now, though....like someone watching the hurt. The little ache. That catches my breath....that comes upon me, suddenly and quietly in the car. When I cry.

Sudden. And soft...and deeply still.

I will go dance tonight....and as much as I want you out, you will be there with me...part of my anatomy now.

The hurt. That's all I remember now. Most days.

But there s a softness, too. A sad understanding sweetness, knowing that I will never have it sweet again, like that. Knowing that I don't want it anymore. But still wishing I could feel it again. It would be.....so sweet. Something new.

The only way to heal is to move on....but I cannot move on denying what is still there.

Saying it is gone, when it's all too clear....

...some part of me is still there. Underneath.

With the warmth of that first summer....and all the winters that passed.

To dance...

If you look closely, when I dance, you can see every part of me.

My best friend said once, "you have very few secrets...but many layers."

When I dance, they are there: you can see them: every memory, every feeling, every nuance, unfolding one by one, til I am stripped bare.

It is not a choice. But, rather, the only time I feel fully alive and all of me...on purpose.

There are moments when we wake or step outside...hear the wind...the trees...smell the air or baking bread....or taste the freshest apple...deep red wine...honey...another's lips....moment's when life rushes into you. And for an instant, a breath...a day if you are so lucky...we are like gods. Full of life and ecstasy and wonder.

But dancing....dancing is the only time I come close to that...on purpose. On my own. Even that is a step away...is lacking something of the fire....more....as though I would rush the life right out of me: sing it, scream it, bathe in it and...pour it into the world. It is the exhale...

But it is what I do.

If I could have anything else....I would fly. Short of flying...I must dance.


"Jongleur"

We sing. Speak with our limbs,
Our voices echoing our hands
And the stories pour forth
To drench the world in
Fire; in the melody of
thoughts and hearts
Of hurts and hopes
(Long stifled, smothered, suffocated
Beneath
the Numbness; Muteness of
'Every. Day. Life.')
Aching to be set free
To be made flesh...
Now
Speak the speech, I pray you...
Trippingly, as it were
Upon these boards
And I will show you
- in silent singing-
What a heart is truly made of
And all the world's great longing.


* (When I have a company...this will be our mission statement...or something close to it. Hmh-hmh).