Dance

A few years ago  ... I decided that I'd been told not to dance long enough. So I talked some friends into coming along for the ride and I began to dance. At first, free-style and fun ... then I decided I wanted to do some of the cool things I saw other people doing ... and signed up for lessons. I began slow ... with waltz and some social/ballroom kind of stuff. Then some country ... and then some Latin. There is a distinct hum in the background - the sound of dozens of people saying 'can't' or 'shouldn't' - the naysayers. But do you know how much fun I'm having? Do you realize that three or four nights a week I get a work-out that is not at all boring or unpleasant? Do you understand that I'm living life and squeezing every second of joy from it that I can? Do you see that I refuse to allow a moment of life pass by unlived? So I will never win a dance competition ... instead I'll laugh and make friends and treasure the moments. And, as they say ... "Dance like no one is watching." :)

"I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible. I choose to risk my significance. To live so that which comes to me as seed ... goes to the next as blossom. And that which comes to me as blossom, goes on as fruit." (Markova)

A Bit of Cloth

On a walk through one of the encampments, I noticed a little boy … maybe four or five years old … huddled back behind a pile of clothes, blankets and miscellaneous jumbled pieces of lives. He was crying … not the noisy sobs usually emanating from a child of that age … but silent tears pouring from big, lost eyes. From the evidence on his cheeks, tears had evidently been a part of his day for a good while. I reached out to touch one of the people in my group and quietly pointed to the little one and promised to catch up with them later.

In that place, there is no way to know what a child has been through … there seem to be no limits to the atrocities even the youngest have survived. So I simply went and tentatively sat next to him … saying nothing. I quickly did a cursory visual check … no evident injuries aside from a few scratches … much too thin … alert, but not overly skittish, all things considered. After a few minutes, his curiosity about this strange woman sitting in the dirt by him began to win out over the tears … and I scooted closer and held out my arms. In a blink, he was on my lap … those beautiful eyes looking straight into mine … looking farther still, into my heart. He didn’t seem to notice … or care … that my knowledge of his language was greatly lacking … we managed to share our names … he told me he didn’t know how old he was … and that he didn’t know his mama or his papa … or when he had last eaten. And somewhere in that exchange, his tears came to a halt and mine began. At first, he touched my cheek and tried to wipe them away … and then … when he realized the job was too big for his tiny hand … he began to twist the tattered cloth he held in his hand. I suppose that, at one time, it was a blanket ... although no one would have recognized it as anything more than a scrap at this point. I was angry with myself for burdening this child with my tears … frustrated that he was being met with my weakness instead of my strength. And then he stopped the turning of the cloth and began to purposefully work at pulling away one of the straggling pieces … using his child’s strength to tear away the worn cloth. With concern and gentleness, he took my hand in his … pulled open my fingers and slipped the small bit of cloth into my palm. Solemnly he told me it would “fè li pi bon” … “make it better”. Then, with each of us holding a bit of his blanket … he snuggled into my arms and fell asleep. And there we sat until he woke and we went in search of a healthy meal for him.

Leaving that little boy behind to return to life here has left my heart in pieces … and that stained, tattered bit of fabric has become one of my dearest possessions.

Still

Hello.

I love you.

I want you.

I need you.

Goodbye.

I love you still.

The Path

In his dream, the road was really simply a country lane, little more than a beaten path if the truth be told. It was lined here and there with the footprints and tears of those who had gone before, mile markers of life’s journey. A careless misstep or thoughtless detour could change the destination – the steps taken with fear leading one direction and those taken with determined courage leading another. Each reached marker filled the traveler with hope, bearing witness that others had passed this way, perhaps carrying similar burdens of regret and longing, but triumphantly reaching this place in which he now stood. As long as one foot landed in front of the other, as long as there was one more bend on the horizon, as long as the song whispered among the leaves, the traveler would continue on. The music in his heart blended with the melodies of those gone before, drawing the map that would bring rest at the end of the journey as he took one more step forward.