October Dance

I’d been having such a hard couple of days. October is always that way now, you know. The grief surges up and chokes me, drags me down into the depths.

And then I danced. In spite of that part of me that was whispering that I’d rather curl up in bed, read poetry and cry, in spite of October, I danced.

Dancing reconnects me with my joy, with my sensuality, with my spontaneity, with play. It connects me with the other dancers and to the world at large. My heart opens. How quickly dance has once again become essential to my being. How did I ever stop? My Sunday mornings are now reserved for dance. It is my church. My spiritual communion with myself, with my body, with my community.

For me, every dance is a memento mori. I walk out onto the dance floor every single week mindful of the fact that I can dance, that I am healthy enough to move my body on the dance floor. That this is not a given, not to be taken for granted, ever. Every week, I walk out into the sunshine afterwards so grateful that I was there, that I danced, that I am well, that I am alive.

Yesterday, as I was dancing, I remembered all those I’ve loved who will never dance again, especially my two lovers who are now gone. I sent my love out to them. In that moment, I did not dwell on my grief at their passing, but rather the lives they lived. When we laughed together. Times of bliss and lovemaking and splashing in the ocean and dancing and joy.

The grief is still there, still gnawing at the inside of my ribcage, but now it is back in balance with my joy, with my love of life. This is the way of October.

2015-10-19

“Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.”

- Rumi