Sweat dripping. Quickened breath.
Ripped skin. Blisters forming. Muscles aching.
And I am loving every minute of it.
My body once again MOVING. LEARNING. DANCING.
It’s been so long and we have such a short amount of time. We have a certain level of trust that only comes in this line of work – something unspoken that comes from knowing how and where and why one moves.
She just back from baby number three, me back from what is now going on a four year leave from the dancing world.
My muscle memory took over and I was once again dancing like the adolescent bun-head I used to be.
And that was just the problem.
The movement felt forced, anxious, small. I knew this, but I knew not how to fix it. I kept apologizing. Promising her – and me – that I would have it perfected by tomorrow.
Finally, at the end of day two of rehearsal (with one more to go before I perform the piece for the first time) my longtime colleague, friend, fellow dancer gently urged me to dance like the thirty one year old that I am.
It just, simply, had not occurred to me.
To dance with the maturity and wisdom and acceptance of my own body that can only come with time and age.
To take up space – not apologize for it.
To be sexy – not pretend to know how to be.
To own the movement – not try to dance as someone else would.
To move and enjoy and cherish.
If this is what it means to start acting my age, well, I’m all in.
Here’s to another day of creativity…