My dance has grown slower. My heart and body have grown bigger.
My dance has shrunk. Instead of flailing around, stomping my feed, growling, swinging, swaying and moving energy through me with wild abandon, I have brought it all in.
My movements have become micro, my staccato kicks have become fluid waves. I’m no longer breaking a sweat. S l o w motion is not my natural speed.
But there is so much tenderness in here, I can’t believe it. Rather than having the explosive catharsis that feels so damn good, I’m leaning into the gentle melt, the raw heart break.
And it also feels so damn good.
I’m so touched by so many things: people’s suffering, the smiles of those I love, my son’s freckles, the wind though the trees, and so much more. The fierceness of the love I feel keeps knocking me over. And I’m crying all the time, in the good way. Not the “oh shit my life sucks” way. Ok sometimes I cry that way. But only when I’ve been home for too many days in a row.
My body has gotten bigger. I’m rounder and softer, with less angles and bones sticking out. I’m taking up more space- in a good way. I’m feeling more grounded, more here.
Do I struggle with not fitting my jeans? Hell yes. It’s not an easy process, but a necessary one. As I form a sweet friendship with my ever-changing self, I hope this will serve my work with women.
Here’s the invitation: How can you slow down? How can you take the time to let your heart break as you watch the clouds race by? How can you come into relationship with the impermanence of our life and our bodies? I have no answer, only an invitation. But don’t wait until you fall down the stairs and break your back to try.