Destruction. A Love Story.
When I dance I want to be fully in it.
Fully in my being.
I want to stomp and shake and work my process on that floor like a champion.
I want to be in the flow and find stillness when it rises.
My Self adores it. Craves it. Loves it.
And…there is a part of me, that wants to make a point.
Because I am often the fattest one in the room and I want it known, to my Self and to any judgments that flow, that I can fucking dance.
That I can and will show up for the whole thing, even if all I really want is to be soft, gentle and quiet.
I want it known that I can do it. No matter what I or anybody else may think about my body.
I have a new tattoo…less than a week old.
I was told not to exercise. To let the tissue rest and not push it.
But I wanted to dance. I needed to dance.
So I went to dance this morning, with the inner promise that I would take it easy. Very easy.
And that should have been simple.
But it wasn’t.
The music started and I tried to be mindful.
I tried let my Self move in a way that wouldn’t cause any harm to the gorgeous work of art on my leg.
In just a few breaths, I felt the push. To go harder. Do more. That how I was showing up was certainly not enough.
First came the justification…the near constant reminder that there is a reason I am slow and gentle today…and that it was ok this time.
Then came the defiant reassurances… I can dance as hard as anyone else in that room if I wanted to.
Finally the voice broke through…the one that is so afraid to be seen as lazy. The one that so wants to prove her point to no one in particular, or to people that aren’t even in the room. The voice that was so uncomfortable with the comfort that was needed.
I found my Self wrestling. Struggling. Trying to stay on task and losing time to the stories I couldn’t stop spinning.
So, as the music began its descent into stillness, I sat.
I always want to sit at dance and let the music flow around me…but unless I am in pain, I rarely do.
In that moment though, sitting was the beginning of destruction.
Sitting was stopping. Sitting was listening to a knowing that lived beyond the whirlwind in my mind.
I took my Self out of the dialogue that was swirling around in my mind.
I watched the tizzy.
I saw the part that was pushing. The part that was afraid of judgment. Thepart that held on the the story that I was lazy, that I didn’t do enough, that I needed to move more or else.
I could feel her shame. Her anger. Her righteousness.
So I loved her.
As she is.
Just as she is.
Tizzy, fear, shame and all.
Because she is fine. Stuck in her shit.
We are all stuck in something.
I didn’t engage her. I didn’t talk to her. I didn’t try and understand her side of the story.
I didn’t baby my Self. I didn’t run from my Self.
I loved like a fucking warrior, because that is what I do.
Because love is a force of destruction as much as it is a force of creation.
And then I listen. To the truth that rises when we, all at once, become the Lover and the Beloved.
I felt the truth rise up from my roots.
Truth about my body and its sovereignty. It’s knowing. It’s divine right to do as it pleases.
I felt the stories stretch beyond their capacity, until they couldn’t hold the breath it took to keep them alive.
I acknowledge the origins…the spaces where the story took hold and all the cracks it has made its way into.
Then I loved some more.
I allowed for destruction to happen. And there is more to happen still…that is the good news.
That part…the one with fear and point…she is there.
She is fine.
She is loved.
She is me.
Her stories…they get the pleasure of being dismantled. Bone by bone.
Until all that is left is the wild Truth of who I am.